Travelers Guide to How Not to Do a Big Bend Vacation, or Memoirs on How I Finally Found the Edge of My Husbands Patience

I find there are two types of people in this world – I call them Planners and Wingers. I am decidedly a member of the Winger clan, taking life as it comes at me, with a slight bend in my knees. I also have a love of travel though, which requires some level of planning on my part. Honestly, I have not found it to be totally overwhelming – I generally get the general gyst planned out – a place to stay, something to drive, a few things I would like to do – and then let the rest happen in Winger fashion. 

This does lead to some unfortunate events – like arriving at the San Jose Airport at 4 am with a husband and two children and all of our luggage, and discovering, after dropping the rental car keys into the unmanned box, that we were really supposed to be at the San Francisco Airport. Whoops. My husband is amazingly patient in this (as he should be, since he doesn’t plan these trips either). I was blown away in San Jose when he just said, well, call the Uber. I had braced myself for a tongue lashing at least – that’s what I’m used to in past relationships – but it never came. I married a saint.

So Big Bend. I’ve taken the kid(s) to all these national parks all over this beautiful country of ours – Glacier, Yellowstone, Rushmore, Denali, Yosemite, Joshua Tree, etc, but we never visited the ones in our backyard. It seems a shame. Edith and I had camped on the back side of Big Bend with my Rotary group when we went on a mission trip to Mexico a few years ago, and it was indeed beautiful, in a desolate cowboy sort of way.

We actually know the head park ranger (Keith) at Big Bend and his wife. I asked her about coming out a couple years ago, and she said not to come in the summer – it’s just too hot. So Thanksgiving came around this year, and I thought to myself, let’s go. I contacted her again to try to get the low down. This is how I discovered that there is a Big Bend State Park and a Big Bend National Park – who knew? But no worries, I pulled out the map, and they actually touch – like, overlap even. The National Park camping was all full, but Keith found us the very last spot at the State Park and we I booked it. He was super excited about the location. He did warn me it was primitive  there wasn’t any water or electricity at the site, but he said we could schlep in some water. I laughed in the face of primitive. He laughed at me when I said we were going to pack everything into the Jeep – he insisted we would want a trailer. I insisted we didn’t need a trailer, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought I should trust the Park Ranger over my naïve self who has never been to Big Bend nor ever done primitive camping. I rented a U-Haul.

I ran a half marathon on Saturday. That should have some foreshadowing all of it’s own – nothing good ever happens after running a half marathon. We spent all day Saturday getting the trailer and packing. I asked Alice’s little friend Ellie if she wanted to go with us – she had never been camping at all in her entire short life. Since we had the trailer we threw in everything – and still only used about 1/3 of that trailer. We even took the dog, against Cory’s better judgment. We meant to leave at 7 am on Sunday, and left by 8. Which really isn’t too shabby, with all these people I live with that have no concept of time.

I had always heard Big Bend was 8 hours from us. Well Big Bend STATE Park is more like 10. It is southwest of us, and both of our map programs took us in the west entrance of the state park (all the way around). I always think the map knows something we don’t know, so I don’t worry about it too much, nor did I give it much thought. The trip was pretty okay – fun even – and our spirits were joyous as we got closer and closer to our destination. I wondered if we’d have time for a hike before dinner? At 5 pm, our map and all the signs took us down a gravel road. This was the first sign of discontent, as Cory mutters to me, “You are shitting me, right?” I was a little shocked. According to the map and various Google searches, we were now going to travel 60-90 minutes to get to the park entrance on what was indeed, a gravel road. All there is to do is to forge ahead at this point. And 60-90 minutes while annoying with gravel fog surrounding your vehicle and your tires crunching so loudly you can hardly think, is not the end of the world. I think at this point I realized there would be no hike before dinner. During this 60-90 minutes we lost cell service, which we had expected. I occupied myself with following our little dot on the map program and very much looking forward to the entrance popping up on the horizon any moment now, that never seemed to come.

We came to a sign on the right hand side – a map - at about 5:45. It was not grand – it was not what I thought we were driving toward. No ranger station. We just sat there for a few minutes, befuddled. Finally, with an impending sense of doom, I got out of the car and studied this map. Apparently, the park ranger station was another 45 minutes or so in front of us, and closed at 6:00. Two other stations closed at 4:00. If we wanted to, we could camp here for the night, but we could not have a fire. I prayed for a bar of service and dug in my email and found out our camp site was named “Panther Javelin.” Staring at the map, south of the ranger station, I found an area that said Panther Creek and some camp sites with the name Javelin in them. I didn’t see “Panther Javelin” per se, but I was pretty sure, after scanning the rest of the map with no relevant names, that that must be our destination. I took a picture of the map. (THANK GOD, as we soon lost all service entirely).

Cory was not pleased when I cheerily informed him that I had found the camp site, the ranger station was closed, and it was for sure another hour of driving. At this point, we were racing the clock of the sun going down, and knew we still had to set up camp.

As we drove, the road conditions deteriorated. It really wasn’t a big deal with the Jeep, but the U-Haul trailer had an estimated 5” of clearance at the axle. Somewhere along this road I discovered with my one bar of service that it really is not recommended to come to the park at this time of year and that there was no guarantee at all of the road condition. I decided to keep this nugget to myself. I also think it was along this road that Cory first started mentioning leaving first thing in the morning. Leaving???? We had not even gotten there yet, and he’s talking about leaving? I ignore that, and focus on the task at hand – arriving.

The drive was pretty. The sun was setting, against our wishes, and it set off a beautiful display of lights, shimmering through rock formations that were unlike anything I had ever seen. I refrained from asking to stop to take pictures. The car was pretty quiet – tension was brewing. But we were almost there and all of this would soon be behind us. I also remembered Keith warning me it was primitive, but I shooed those thoughts from my mind. 

At 6:30 pm or so we came to a fork in the road where the ranger station should be. According to my calculations, at this fork we should hang a right. The issue was there were two “roads” to the right – or a dry creek bed and a road – or two dry creek beds. By taking a left we went around and found the now closed ranger station. We were ready to be done. It didn’t help any that there are cabins and bunk beds at this location – that were not for us. We drove back around to the creek bed road enigma. Cory parked the car and we walked down both for about 100 yards. It looked pretty sketchy. We were not speaking at this point, unless we had to. I was of the fake it till you break it mentality – everything always works out in the end Pollyanna mode - and Cory was in the what the hell was I thinking when I married this girl mentality. We were definitely in different places. The biggest concern, aside from getting stuck or flipping the car or being held at knife point by drug smugglers or something crazy like that, was just taking the wrong road and then having to drive in reverse with that trailer on. Impossible. So we stood at the impasse. I didn’t think it looked that bad. Cory thought I’d lost my mind.

Suddenly, a couple pulls up in a white truck. They needed fire wood – we informed them the ranger station was closed. We told them our predicament about the roads. The husband offered to drive Cory down a ways in his truck to see how bad it was. I was relieved. For what seemed like an eternity, I waited with the wife and three girls in the jeep, in the middle of nowhere, trying not to think about serial killers and illegal immigrants that might be creeping through the bushes. Finally, the guys returned, with the prognosis that it was indeed a road (the one I thought, for the record) (I love being right) – and it wasn’t that bad. I was so relieved! We only had to go 5 miles down this road, and we’d be at the camp – maybe – if I was right about that being our camp. I kept my uncertainty to myself as much as I could. You have to say a little in case it turns out to be a disaster later.

The first couple of miles were okay. Not great. Okay. After two miles we came to a set of camp sites, and this was about half way. In hind sight, we should have camped here. But we were so close at this point, and the road wasn’t that bad – we both thought so. So we plodded along. It was now 8 pm and completely pitch black. I was beginning to see that there would be no dinner.

The road turned into what I can only describe as hell. I can still see it in my mind – but I don’t know if I have the words to tell you how bad it was. Without the trailer, it would have been terrible. With the trailer, it was absolutely ridiculous. And we were now committed – we could not go in reverse. There were ruts the size of the Grand Canyon – okay, I’m exaggerating with that – but they were gihugic. I am now seeing my husband truly angry for the first time in our marriage. He’s not really saying much, but there’s this glow coming off of him, and not a happy glow either. I’m clutching the Oh Shit Handle and praying quietly but fervently with white cramping knuckles – “Please Lord, let this be over. Please Lord, keep us safe. Please Lord let us get out of this alive. Please Lord, don’t let him kill me in front of the kids.” 

Ellie had had to pee for two hours now, on the bumpiest “not roads” in America. There was no convincing her to pee outside – she never had, and she was not starting now. She was insistent she would wait for the camp site, which we feel fairly strongly about it should have at least an outhouse. Even Alice was saying, "Ellie, you might as well just pee. We won't look." But Ellie was not having it.

OH I forgot to mention about two hours ago those three darlings were listening to Hamilton for the 16,849^th time, and Cory had told them to turn that shit off. You can only take so much “1776” and “Eliza” while back roading in what is not Big Bend National Park. The kids are at this point pretty quiet – you could almost forget they are back there. Cory and I are talking in bullet points now. “I think that’s the road.” “No, it isn’t.” “We’re leaving in the morning.” “Can we talk about that later?” “We’re leaving.” “We’ll talk about it later.” “We’re leaving.” SILENCE. And suddenly Alice says, “Are we going to die? I want to go home!”

I think we both realized at that point we needed to stop fighting. It was a weird fighting. Full of silence and tension with a smattering of rifle shots, I mean conversation. We were at a junction where we didn’t know which of two choices was the road again. We reassured Alice we were almost there and everything was going to be okay, and then both exited the Jeep with flashlights (one flashlight, one phone) and decided to again walk down these two road creek bed thingies to see which one looked more likely. I was a little scared for my life – a little – I don’t think my husband appreciated my presence or existence even at all in these moments. I truly felt awful – I had not done any of this on purpose. At all. I thought I had even got sound advice.

Outhouse or no outhouse, I decide that the next wide spot in the road, we are camping. I cannot take any more of this. The road splits all out again – this time there seem to be roads in every direction. I take my flashlight to the right, C

ory goes left. It’s not “our camp site” but it is A camp site. I tell him I think we should just camp. He tells me we are leaving first thing in the morning. I am starting to want to choke him. I announce to the children that we have arrived! I hand them some paper towels and wish Ellie good luck on her adventure of peeing outside for the first time ever.

It goes on. That was the worst of it, but not the end of it. We set up camp, we cooked. My foil packets actually did work, which was a huge win, but the girls were pretty asleep when dinner was ready. And we did, indeed, leave first thing in the morning. Not to go home, but to another camp site, and another dirt road, at dark. Also, at some point I realized that while the state park and the national park do all but overlap, the only entrance and exit for the state park is out the west side, down 60-90 minutes of gravel, and the national park is to the east. They are about as close to each other in reality as New York is to Delaware.

But I was happy, in hindsight, to find the edge of my husband’s patience. Boundaries, even ones out in the great deserts of Texas, are good to establish and know. Ellie hates camping now, but she still comes over to play from time to time. The kids let me know it was the worst trip ever, and it really hurt my feelings. I teared up. Cory said, “Don’t listen to them. I had a great time,” as he grabbed my hand and squeezed it reassuringly (we were on a paved road when this happened).

Oh, and the view I had at 6 am one morning, when I’d climbed a little hill to pee in peace, was absolutely fantastic. I don’t typically think of deserts as amazing or beautiful, but that morning it was simply glorious.

And in that moment, I was glad we came.

Help! My Magnum Opus Is Eating Me Alive!

I don’t usually lose it, but when I lose it, I lose it. I was sitting in J’s office, destroying his Kleenex supply. “I feel like I’ve created a monster. I keep trying to feed it whatever I can to satisfy it, and it only seems to get bigger, and demand larger feedings. I’ve given it everything I have – my retirement, my relationships, my home equity, and it eats everything and wants more.”

“And now it’s eating you.”

Yes. Now it’s eating - destroying - me.

Exactly.

Is it me? Am I not good enough? Smart enough? Strong enough? I ask these questions aloud, not falling on deaf ears. He says I’ve let this thing I created define who I am – and I need to step back, and remember who I am, apart from what I’ve built. I understand conceptually, and I actually have thought of this before, but I struggle with separating myself from my business. My self-worth rides the roller coaster of our accounts payable and accounts receivable. When it’s good, I’m queen of the mountain, when it’s bad, I’m a failure.

August is historically the worst month of the year in Texas for the roofing industry, and by the end of August I was a puddle of goo. And not good goo, either. This was now mid-September.

Who am I without it? Who am I? These are the questions I left needing to answer. J strongly encouraged me to try to put some space between myself and my business. But first I had to meet an insurance adjuster.

I didn’t know where to go, after I finally got off the roof 3 hours later with the Slowest Insurance Adjuster Alive. He was an analytic with a torn meniscus, communication through an All State desk agent, using an overheating phone. The good news was, he covered the roof and I finally could go to find a bathroom. I wanted to drink, but instead I found myself, with my dog, laying on an abandoned concrete staircase behind the AA building.

I cried. I blew threw the napkins in my glove box, pun intended. My dog didn’t seem to be concerned – she just waited very patiently for three hours until I finally told her it was time to go.

Who am I? How do I separate that from what I’ve built?

I walked into church two days later, without any answers really. The good news is, I was at a good place for answers, if I can just make myself pay attention. The music soothes me. I close my eyes and fall into it, trying to forget - forget where I am, how I feel, I lose myself in order to find who I am.

“I’ve heard a thousand stories of what they think you’re like

But I’ve heard the tender whispers of love in the dead of night

And you tell me that you’re pleased

And that I’m never alone

“You’re a good, good father

It’s who you are, it’s who you are, it’s who you are

And I’m loved by you

It’s who I am, it’s who I am, it’s who I am.”

The tears cascade down my cheeks. I turn away so that my husband can’t see, not caring who else does. I’m listening, I’m listening with all I have.

The pastor opens with talking about the Mona Lisa being DaVinci’s life work and East of Eden being Steinbeck’s. I really liked East of Eden – I start trying to remember what it’s about – I read it a long time ago – I should reread it. I would think Grapes of Wrath was the Magnus Opus…. I forcibly bring my mind off the rabbit trail and back to the pastor’s voice. These are their Magnum Opus – their life’s work. I always thought I’d be a writer – I had hoped a novel would be my Magnum Opus – but instead it’s a roofing company, and it’s apparently eating me alive.

I again reach out and drive my brain back to the sanctuary, back to his voice. We, mankind, are God’s Magnum Opus. I make a wisecrack in my brain, but then I focus on what he said instead of my own self-deprecating puns. That’s who I am – I’m a creation of God. An On-Purpose-Creation of The Force That Created the Entire Universe. That’s a pretty big thing to be, really.

A verse comes on the overhead projector – I know this verse! I wrote a poem about it that I never finished. I fish out my phone, searching my notes file. There it is, there’s the poem. This has to be important, I think, but I don’t see how. My mind fades in and out and up and down for the rest of the sermon.

We are Jars of Clay, May 2019

I read a verse that says

We are jars of clay

I thought of a mason jar

With clay inside.

The clay is soft and malleable

Easily beaten down by outward forces

Easily dried out

The glass jar, while almost invisible

Protects the clay

I felt protected suddenly

But it means the opposite

The jar is made of clay

And we are the jar

Shaped from the earth

Of the dust

Fragile, very

Easily broken

Not permanent

And we house a treasure

That is eternal and perfect

And will last long after

The jar returns to its dusty state.

Me, it reminds me of an old album cover

The Jar of Flies

I remember it had little flies

That slid about inside the plastic CD cover

I used to wonder how they put them in there.

I am a Jar of Flies

When I am in a panic

I exhale slowly

And I see little gnats come out

Of my soul

I’m in the Green Mile

And the demons are exiting my lungs

It is not a holy image, my Jar of Flies.

That I am the opposite of holy.

I breath the flies out, the demons I house.

It is now a week later, and I am finally writing this out. I lack the bow for the top of this writing. The accounts payable and the accounts receivable have both decreased, and thus with them so has the crisis of my soul. While I should feel better, I somehow feel even more exposed and vulnerable. Maybe like Jonah, hiding under a withered plant leaf, smelling like whale barf.

My company is not my Magnum Opus. I’ve made it that, but it isn’t that. My brain keeps nagging, whispering that I’ve made a False Magnus Opus. That’s likely the take away from all of this, although I am certain it is a vital part of my life work and where I am meant to be, right now. It is not a mistake. It’s not a misguided mission. I am not in the wrong place, and my story is not over. It is not time to give up, but rather it’s time to dust myself off, once again, and move forward into the next chapter.

And I should stop feeding my Magnus Opus Monster.

The End of the Symphony

Sometimes my phone rings and it isn’t you.
You didn’t call again today.
For a few moments, it hurt more than it hurt in the moment just before;
I didn’t know that was possible.

I saw you recently.
Your eyes looked through me like I either wasn’t there, or like I was too there.
One of those.
I didn’t know what to do
So I didn’t do anything
My eyes hit the floor and my entire being felt uncomfortable.
Even with the benefit of hindsight now
It isn’t any clearer, what I should have done

I thought our love was deeper than this insurmountable abyss.
I thought it was stronger than an apology or the lack of one.
While we never said vows, they were written on my heart.

My love is not something I can simply erase.
Even anger and betrayal don’t mask it for very long.

So it mostly just sits, and waits.
Pathetic, I suppose. A pathetic picture I’ve written in prose.

I recently looked at pictures of the wedding.
Everything was picture perfect.
That day.
Your shockingly wonderful laugh. Your victory.
You remind me of a string conductor in an orchestra.
Your part in my play.
My little opera.
Or my B rated Lifetime Television movie.

It seems you loved me when I was whole,
But not when I was broken.
I think, in ways, I’m more beautiful broken.
Honestly.
But not to you.
Maybe you think me useless.
Perhaps I make you uncomfortable.
I may have struck an old chord.

I don’t know.

Ugly things have twisted around us.
What started as mere wisps of an ominous song has now grown bark and choked everything out.
The music is gone.
The garden is dead.
We’re different now.
It’s over.

I know.

I considered trying to edit you out of the photo album.
It isn’t possible.
Even if I removed every picture.
Often I look at pictures (not just these)
And I see the things that are not there more than the things that are.

Like that seemingly perfect picture of me holding the baby on a sunny summer day.

I was hungover and heartbroken that day.
My skin was clammy.
The sun was hot.
I didn’t want to go home. I knew I had to.

Yes, you’d still be there.
Even if you weren’t there.

I miss you, anyway.
And I pray for you.
Every day.

I’ll keep trying to say goodbye.

Until one day,
When it will finally be

The Last Time.

One Teacher: Game Changer

My Kindergarten through 5^th grade years were spent at a super strict Baptist private school. When I say “super strict,” whatever image comes to mind pales in comparison to our reality. It was not plaid skirts and memory verses. I have very few memories, if any, of my teachers being nurturing. My kindergarten teacher was along the lines of one of the nuns in The Sound of Music – well, except she was Baptist, and the Catholics were going to hell. Teachers were one step down from God, and God was not loving or kind. He was watching your every movement, knowing your every intent, and reading your every evil thought. To even think about sinning was a sin. As a child I tried very hard not to think thoughts that I was not supposed to think, but it seemed the harder I tried not to think them, the harder and faster and more sinful they became. My thoughts mocked me, and I often despaired for my soul.

We ended up leaving the Christian school because my middle trouble brother got kicked out. He was in sixth and I was in fifth, which meant we shared a classroom. I remember I sat in the middle front, and he sat in the back-left corner. The teacher started ridiculing him, and then teasing him when she was able to make him cry – telling the entire class to turn around and look at the big baby in the back. He turned redder than red, stood up, balled his fists, and screamed “Fuck you!” at the lady. In that moment, I was proud of him. She deserved it. And he said what many others had mumbled quietly for years.

In sixth grade I went to public school for the first time. I was certain my eternal fate was hopeless – they taught about sex ed, science, and PE. Boys tried to snap a bra I didn’t have. I begged my mother to send me back, but they couldn’t. I’m sure it broke her heart too, but the private school was behind us, and the public school was before us. I floated in the hallways, feeling invisible, backwards, and small.

My homeroom teacher was Mr. Peleck. I had never had a male teacher ever, so in and of itself, that was pretty strange. He was also my reading teacher, and he seemed really nice. I tried to become a flower on the wall, do my work, get good grades, and mind my own business. I remember in reading class I sat pretty much right in the middle of the classroom of probably 30 or so.

Every day during reading we would have 30 minutes of quiet time to read. I know this is the class where I fell head over heels in love with the book Bridge to Terabithia. One day during the silent reading time, I had the hiccups. I learned how to hold in sneezes and make them silent during elementary to avoid getting into trouble, and I was doing a fairly good job with the hiccups, but the classroom was so quiet, it was impossible. I peacefully kept reading, hiccupping softly every now and then.

Suddenly, Mr. Peleck slammed his own reading material down onto his desk, to which we all jumped and turned and looked. He was staring right at me, and he was mad. “That’s it Feller! Go to the office!”

I turned 100 shades of red as only blondes and red-heads can, as 30 eyes turned on me. I was mortified. I tried to explain. “But, Mr….”

“You heard me. Get your things and go to the office.”

“But-“

“No buts. I am tired of you interrupting my class.”

I knew I could not argue and I picked up my things and headed for the door, filled with shame. I had never, ever been sent to the principal's office (I made up for that in my later years). As I reached the door, he said, “Wait, Amy.”

I turned around and his eyes were merry and bright and dancing with joy - he had this big smile on his face. “Do you have the hiccups anymore?”

I was so relieved. And I did not have the hiccups anymore. I stared at him for what seemed like an eternity where thoughts and emotions were crashing around my brain, but it was likely only five seconds, and I laughed. I laughed. He laughed. The entire class laughed. It was funny. Something funny happened in school! My teacher was funny!

Mr. Peleck taught me that learning can be fun – not just in this scenario, but over a year. I have never, ever forgotten him. This weekend I attended a retreat and a speaker asked us to think of our favorite teacher ever. Instantly, it is Mr. Peleck. The speaker then asked us to think of why that teacher made a difference – what did they do to reach you? What did they change in your world? How did they communicate with you specifically? How did they tailor a life lesson for you?

Mr. Peleck taught me about joy.

I think it’s a good reminder for me even now. I am quick from my younger years to introduce guilt and shame into my thought process immediately when something goes askew. It is my go-to - it is my demon I battle. I would like to say I always will battle it, but recently I’ve seen that maybe I might be able to slay that monster. A friend told me I could skip from the problem straight to the solution and skip the shame – that idea blows my ever-loving mind. I stared at him like he had a chicken on his head when he said it. Yet remembering this scenario of Mr. Peleck gives me a renewed sense of purpose. It would do me good to remember that life is fun – that learning is fun.

…that somehow shame can be morphed into joy. 

A Memoir on Urine

My day started at about 2 am. It started with dreams – I’ve been having dreams lately that are getting more and more realistic – they seem like reality – and so when I wake up I am very confused about what is real and what is not real. This reality was a simple one. Picture Day was today, and Edith’s jeans were still in the washer and needed to be moved into the dryer. So I awoke, transferred the laundry, put the dog outside because she was whining, turned off a couple of lights (always a thing here), and then went back to sleep. Only to awaken to have to pee moments later. As I begrudgingly awoke I was proud of myself that the clothes were already transferred, and then slowly I started to doubt if that was true or not true. I made my way to the laundry room, noting the dog was in her cage. I transferred the clothes. Hoping this time it was for real, and fell back into bed. Oddly discombobulated.

At 3 am Edith woke up. Edith never wakes up. She told me she had woken up at 2 am and had been awake ever since, which I knew was not true. I told her to go back to sleep. She had to pee. I said then pee and go back to sleep. I fell back asleep. Time danced in and out of consciousness, me trying to sleep, and Edith seemingly peeing every 15 to 30 minutes, and singing in between. At 4:28 am I told her to get out of there and just go watch TV and leave me alone. I knew she had a UTI. I could not miss work the next day, but what else was I to do? My appointment setter was going to be completely distraught – we are slammed. I tried to sleep, but it was rough, with the TV blaring, the dog whining, and my thoughts swirling.

6 am came. 6:10 am came. 6:20 am came. Edith is singing at this point, happy as a lark. I mention she’s sick, but that it is also Picture Day. She made it clear she had no intention of missing Picture Day. We had a follow up appointment today anyway from her UTI two weeks ago, so I had assurance that she’d be medically taken care of. We showered, packed for the day, and got on it. I told her I’d pick her up at 10:30 from school. I had 3 appointments to run before then so I hit the road running.

My first appointment, I met the couple, connected with them on a personal level, gave them a sales folder, got on the roof, measured it, assessed the damage, climbed back down, and then proceeded to give them my analysis and part of my presentation. All the while with my right foot firmly imbedded in a fire ant pile. The climbed all up my leg and in my shoe before blowing the universal whistle that fire ants have to “CHOMP! NOW” I peeled off my sock and my shoe and threw them in the driveway and finished my presentation like My Little Dumpling My Son John. Fortunately, it’s Texas, and everyone here knows about fire ants, and my customers were completely nonplussed. And I’m also not overly allergic to fire ants, after the initial sting.

After my second appointment, I forgot to tie my ladder in. I’ve been in the roofing industry for 10+ years and I have never, ever, ever forgotten to tie my ladder in.  As I was confidently driving down San Antonio Street, I heard a loud crash, looked in my rear view, and noticed my ladder wasn’t there. My heart sank. But fortunately for me, there was hardly anyone out. One truck gently drove around my ladder in the middle of the street. Two construction guys in hard hats kind of smirked. And me? I didn’t even blush. Just picked it up like this was everyday business, strapped it back in, and drove off with a wave, but shaken that I’d forgotten.

Fortunately, my third appointment went pretty quickly, even though it was a double pull (I had to use two ladders to get to the top of the house – you carry a second ladder up the first ladder, plant it, pray to Jesus, and climb to the second story). I got to Edith’s school at 10:20, a full 40 minutes before her doctor’s appointment, which was 20-25 away. Plenty of time.

They cannot find my kid. I’m not kidding. And this is the 2^nd time I’ve had this happen in a week, but this time, we had a deadline. I’m in the lobby for 5 minutes. She must be in Music. 10 minutes. I think she’s outside. 15 minutes. At this point I say out loud to no one in particular (meaning the other lady working in the office that is not trying to find my kid), “We have a doctor’s appointment at 11:00 in San Marcos.” Do you know what she says to me????? “Wow, you are cutting it close!” Sometimes it is good that I get so dumbfounded that I can only hear my reaction in my own brain and it doesn’t completely spill out of my mouth. But I did say, “Well, I wasn’t cutting it close when I came in here, but we are now.” Apparently, I didn’t say it loud enough, because she didn’t hear me, apparently. 20 minutes later – they found my kid. Now it’s 10:40; we’re late.

When I’m late, my armpits start stinging.  My forehead starts sweating. My heart starts pounding out of my chest. I cannot handle it. I am not OCD, but I might be OCD in this circumstance. Very European in this regard. I call the doctor’s office, tell them the school lost my child, and we are on our way. The inform me if we are more than 15 minutes late we have to reschedule. We cannot reschedule. It’s Friday, and my child has a UTI. I tell Edith to start slamming water, because she is going to have to pee in a cup. She’s been peeing all day though, so I’m not overly sweating it.

We get there, we make it, we check in. They take us back and we go through everything, and then finally they bring us The Cup.  We did this just two weeks ago with this UTI, so we know what we are doing. My job is to catch. As Edith is sitting on the toilet, and I have the cup, and my job function is to catch her urine because she’s not sure she can, I have a great moment of humility. I own a company, I am an expert in my field, I am smart and capable and pretty even, and here I am, hovering over a toilet, catching urine. And while she pees often, she pees also little because of the infection. She got out 12 drops and I caught maybe 4. I could obviously improve in this department of my new-found humility.

But the nurse says it’s enough! I feel elated for a bit. But come to find out, it’s only enough to tell that she yes, has a UTI. It’s not enough for a culture to send to the lab. So we need more. And the girl that’s been peeing for 9 hours straight amazingly dries up, despite drinking Dixie Cup after Dixie Cup of water. We go through one more Session of Humiliation that yields 4 drops out of 12.

We are there two hours. I’ve missed two more appointments. At one point I lay on the tile floor in the bathroom, staring up to Heaven, despairing over my day. This is Friday. Friday is supposed to be great. Edith asks if I’m mad at her, because she can see I’m stressed to the max. No, I’m not mad at you. This isn’t your fault. “Is it my fault I got a UTI?” No, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry I’m so stressed out. It’s nothing you can control.

I tell her about the time I accidentally dropped the collection cup into the toilet and failed the test and had to hang out for two hours until I could pee again or I would not get the job I was interviewing for.

Finally, they come in and say, sorry, this is over. It’s our lunch time. It was my lunchtime two hours ago!!!!! I beg Edith to please pee in the cup, but she very assuredly assures all of us that the reservoir is dry. The doctor proceeds to tell me I’m going to have to collect a sample and return it their office within 10-15 minutes of taking it, but mind you, they are closed for the next hour for lunch, and we live 20-25 minutes away. My day is over. I agree. I have no choice. I have instructions to immediately refrigerate the sample, and then when I am ready or whomever is ready to drive it to San Marcos, to pack it in ice.

I often feel like I overstep my bounds with my employees between business and my personal life (like picking her up from school when I’m stuck somewhere). Driving a urine sample packed on ice to the next town really seems way further across the line than something like picking up my dry cleaning, which I have never ever done. But we are just skipping dry cleaning and going straight to urine samples!

We leave, and go through the drive through at Chick Fil A. I’m dying starving. I probably have not had a soda in 6 weeks, but when I realize they have fountain Cherry Coke, I decide I deserve it. I also tell Edith she can have ANYTHING to drink so long as she drinks it. And for the first time ever, I pushed her to fill up on her drink before eating her food. I need this girl to pee! While in the drive-thru the doctor calls and says we can take the specimen directly to the lab in our own hometown and thus skip the drip back to San Marcos. I’m skeptical about the lab accepting the sample, but she assures me she’ll call ahead and it will be okay.

We get on the interstate, I’m trying to drive and eat. There’s sweat tea, honey mustard sauce and cherry coke sliding all over the place. I-35 runs all the way from northern Minnesota to Mexico, and I swear, there are only 6 miles on that entire interstate that have no bathrooms - it’s between exit 199 and 193 in Texas. We hit exit 197 and Edith announces, “I have to pee!” I state there’s no bathroom for at least 3 miles. Can she make it, or shall we pee in the woods? She claims she can make it the bathroom, quickly followed 20 seconds later by, I HAVE TO PEE RIGHT NOW. I don’t know if you have ever had a UTI, but urgency is a big thing. I’m yelling at her not to pee. I don’t really care about it being all over the truck and her clothes, but I need it to be in this stupid cup I have. So, she’s yelling she has to, I’m screaming not to, honey mustard sauce is all over my hand, cherry coke sloshing between my legs, I pull off onto the shoulder, still screaming not to pee, grab the cup, race around the truck, and meet her on the other side, with a wonderful, full front view of Interstate Highway I-35 traffic. I have the cup. “Ignore the traffic. Pee.” Normally she would have never, ever, but she had no choice, and I actually caught it – a beautiful 4 ounces instead of drops. Mid-process she says, “Mom, is this illegal?” And I acquiesced that it kind of was.

I never saw myself on the side of an interstate highway catching urine. #humility

And my truck isn’t exactly incognito if you’ve ever seen it.

We got back in the truck. Edith had the biggest look of relief on her face. I was explaining that if a police man did pull us over and we explained the circumstances, while it was technically illegal, we’d probably get a high five. But also explained that if they caught a drunk person doing the same thing, it would not turn out so well. And while I’m explaining I’m panicking, because I’m supposed to refrigerate this sample. I’m on the side of the highway in the first day of fall in Texas, which means it’s 95 degrees, instead of the 96 it was yesterday. I want to cry. I find a red solo cup, make sure the lid is firmly attached to the specimen, drop it in there, and scoop all my beautiful soft crushed ice out of my hard-earned fountain Cherry Coke into the cup. Defeated.

I called the lab and got directions and we drove in. At least my nightmare was finally over. We found the lab, walked in with the solo cup, and I told the lady, I’m here, I’m the one that called. I hold up the cup. I have the sample. I felt a triumphant. She looked at me like I was crazy. “I can’t take that.”

“What do you mean, you can’t take it? Her doctor said you’d take it.” She repeats, looking at me like I’m insane, “I can’t take that.” And I break – she sees it – I know she sees it. “Her doctor PROMISED me that you would take this. Do you know how long it took us to get this? Do you know what I went through to get this? And you won’t take it???” I was tottering between bawling and collapsing and insanity and killing her in front of my only born. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’ll take it.” But she said it in such a way that I knew as soon as we walked out the door she was going to dump it down the sink and she was only appeasing me because I was obviously insane. I did all I could do, took a deep breath, realized my defeat, and agreed to her false scheme, or else I would lose my shit and my pride.

“Okay.”

She handed me a specimen cup and said she needed me to pour it into that. When I said it was already in a specimen cup, her eyes lit up like Christmas! She thought I was bringing her pee in a Solo Cup. The skies parted. I laughed. She laughed. I proceeded to explain it was buried in Cherry Coke Ice, but that I sealed it real well first. She laughed more, gave me gloves, and had me clean it all and pour it from my cup into her cup.

I took Edith back to school. She made one class, and I made one appointment. Anyway. There’s that.

I picked her up then we went to the airport with one of her best friends and one of mine, and someone amazing took us both up into the sky, far, far away from all of that and everywhere. We were up in the sky with the wind in our hair and the entire earth below us. The best best ending to the worst worst day.

It wasn't the literal end - we were 40 minutes late to the first play practice we were told we should never, ever be late to. I  also accidentally left the dog in the car alone with the Taco Bell because we missed dinner. But somehow having wind beneath your wings makes it so all that doesn't really even matter. Being up in the air, above all of it, ended the chaos and reminded me to laugh, love, live, and let go.

Breathe.

A Project In Process

Today I got a call from Edith’s school nurse – this is never a good thing and my heart sank. She has said she did not feel well last night. I thought she was just tired. I had a day packed with appointments, and I was actually training her old youth pastor from a few years back. The school nurse said, “She says it hurts when she pees and there is blood in her urine. Do you want me to send her back to class?”

Uh. No. (Do parents really say yes?)

I point my truck toward the school and call the doctor office all in one fluid motion. They can get us in in 30 minutes – it’s close, but I think it’s doable. I message my office to cancel my next appointment and put the next one on standby, turn to Kerry and say, “Guess what your training involves today? We’re going to see the pediatrician. I have no time to drop you off, so you’re going.”

I run into the school and get Edith. She hops into the back seat, greets Kerry (who she may or may not remember, but likely does remember to some extent), and then starts to poor out her physical ailment woes in detail. The pain, the blood, the pee, the urgent need to go to the bathroom. We openly discuss peeing in a cup and if we need to drink water or not drink water.

We get to the doctor’s office and there is a lot more talk about all these same things, plus introducing the horrible requirement of having to pee in a 3 oz cup. This is a feat she has never done before, and she is clearly intimidated. I will not get into details, but I helped, and we got through it, in a fashion. I explained to the nurse in the open office with probably 10 other witnesses, holding up The Cup, that the specimen collection did not go as planned; but there was pee in the cup, and the whole room seemed pleased with the course of events, including Edith.

It hit me somewhere between Reverend Kerry and the semi-successful urine sample that Edith is not ashamed of her body or of what it does. To her, a urinary tract infection is about as interesting and as private as the solar eclipse we had 3 weeks ago.  And even more bizarre, a man of God bears no more weight in her reaction and words than her mother or the nurse or a complete stranger or the bubblegum machine in the corner.

My world felt severely tilted. I almost felt like I’d been hit, by a safe foam object, but really whacked pretty hard. Yet I was also holding the urine sample, I had more appointments to run, and Kerry was sitting in the waiting room reading Highlights for Children earning $15/hour.

I could not process it completely until later. I put one step in front of the other and tabled it. Later, it flooded me. It started slowly - I had to actually ask myself, what happened today that buried me emotionally? At first it was a blank – just the recollection of a terrible feeling. Then I grabbed a straw – it was about Edith and being sick. I carefully excavated the afternoon and pulled everything aside slowly that I knew that was not it. It was like trying to remember a dream two hours after you wake up, or 30 years into the past at 3 Am. As I worked out today, I really focused on remembering instead of watching the treadmill time clock, and then I remembered.

Remembering just 4 hours in the past required deep resources.

I don’t ever remember not being ashamed of my body. I have always been ashamed of what it looks like and what it does. I have been ashamed of every fluid or solid that comes out of it, where it comes out of it, why it comes out of it, how it comes out of it, when it comes out of it, and what it looks like. I have been ashamed of any feeling or emotion it evoked – either good or bad. I have held all of these things a hostage in my mind attic, locked the door, and turned off the lights.

If this same scenario that happened to Edith had happened to me at 9, I would have been mortified. I actually had moments where I was mortified. I had moments where I had no idea what was happening to me, or knowing it was happening to me and being ashamed of it. I buried it.

I rejoice that Edith is not ashamed. And it makes my heart cry out for Lucy. It makes Lucy twist grotesquely in the wind of the past.

Six Times Seven, Seventy Times Seven, Whilst Other Contemplations

Some years come and some years go, and life trods on, and it’s almost monotonous. And then other years, everything shifts entirely. I am closing in on a year where it seems like everything in its entirety was the top layer of sand on a beach that gets completely skimmed off, stirred up, and parts of it resettled, but the landscape itself shifted entirely. It’s a time of reflection, in which I don’t really have a great epiphany to share necessarily, but yet I find it’s a milestone that is of enough significance in itself that it is worth stopping for and examining.

My life has changed. A very huge part of my soul wants to sob and grieve and maybe even entirely stop, whilst another part is like a small child discovering a magical land they never knew existed right in their own back yard. Afraid to breath. Afraid to speak. Afraid to acknowledge.

I find I do not know what to say. I am afraid of the power of my own words. I am cognizant of the fact that my words have the ability to hurt others. I realize that while I feel I am just speaking my own truth, that truth is sharp like a razor blade. I am afraid of my own voice.

I am a warrior. I am a warrior because I carry on – because when defeat stares me in the eyes, I cry and I grieve – but yet I also battle. I am not a warrior merely because I take others in my wake – that is not what makes me a warrior. I have a heart that is full of compassion and understanding – but I am also strong and refuse to be defeated. It’s a balance that wobbles precariously.

A year ago I was a different person. I just was. I really think if that Ami met this Ami, we’d be fast friends assuredly, but one could learn from the other. Many of the relationships that were the most precious to me in this life have faded, others became stronger like I layered them in epoxy on both sides many times over maybe just to make sure they would stay, and still others sprang from the dust at my feet and rooted like a magical bean stalk that I could climb and even rest in.

The sense of loss is overwhelming sometimes. I grieve people that are still very much alive. It shreds me many a day, many a moment within a day; if I let my mind wander, deep tears of loss are ever below my surface. I can touch it, I can dip my hand in those waters on demand at any moment, and trail my fingers and my heart in it. I do not understand. Yes, I know I have a role in it, do not let me say that I do not. But it is beyond my ability to resolve or to heal. I can only give it over to the Great Physician.

I have to learn to set boundaries. That sounds like a great therapy 101 session – but in reality it is a never ending struggle to a person who never had them.  One day I have the most beautiful boundary you ever saw – made out of strong medieval timbers stained a deep walnut color reinforced with 20 gauge nickel brackets and bolts – and then the next day I convince myself I am indeed an asshole, and the boundaries are being used for firewood and swing sets and whatever someone feigns they need on Single Mom of New Braunfels.

I am learning to forgive. Forgiving is not an easy feat. I am learning.

I have learned what victory is – I have learned what it feels like to shout from what I thought was the ashes and realize it’s actually developed into a mountain. I have looked down upon what I’m standing on, and wondered if it is not imaginary. I expected it to vanish at any moment – or still yet expect myself to make a gross mistake – like a life defeating move in the game of Pick Up Sticks. I am learning to accept that mountain and to stand on it – and to plant my territorial flag 4 feet deep into it. Even plant daffodils and spaghetti squash in it.

The friendships I have cultivated defy my sense of reason. I have hired a rank stranger and known that that person would lie down in front of a tank army for me. The same for others, who a year ago were only mere acquaintances, if that. It is humbling. I have personally experienced a friend who was pretty much literally willing to lay down her life for me – and did; I have seen Christ in a human who does not frequent church. I do not know if you have ever had anyone do that – I think it must be extremely rare in this world – but I learned way more from experiencing receiving that than any Bible study I ever attended. I have learned that people are indeed God’s feet and hands.

I have learned that mothers and fathers are the best marrow of life, and also that being a mother means being a human. I have learned this past year to show my child my hurts and my struggles and my victories. I have learned to cry in front of her, and that that does not make me weak or wrong or treacherous.

I have learned that love means praying you don’t hurt the other person – it means at communion asking Jesus to remove yourself from that person if that’s His Will, before you hurt that person. Love means putting another person before yourself. How precious that I am allowed to pray that prayer and feel that feeling. I am learning to love selflessly. And it’s scary as shit.

I have learned I am strong. I have learned I have integrity. I have learned I am a good friend. I have always known these things about myself, and then I doubted them because others questioned them; this season of walking through fire shows me more so than ever that I am the person I am and who God made me to be all along. I have learned my transparency is not a weakness and my pain is not something to be ashamed of or hidden – and nor is my victory. I have learned that He provides – He is My Provider.

I have my voice. And my voice was created with a purpose. It is powerful. It commands respect, like any firearm. But like a firearm, it should not be taken from me.

I have also learned how to cook green beans and kale. With butter and bacon, of course. And it was actually pretty damn good.