Glo Blog

  You would think hitting a wall, literally,head on, in October would have been a big indication I needed to slow down, sit still, process, proceed with caution.  But no.  I did not. I stitched up the broken places and kept going.  Next.  I kept going.

You would think the spinning,spinning in my brain and the sleepless nights throughout would have been an indication to slow down.  Be still.  But no.  I kept going.  I lit the match on the incense-and let it burn down to the nub-as my little Buddha patiently waited for me to come to a halt for just a moment,please, in the pause, and sit.  But no.

It is not in my nature. Never has been. To slow down goes against the grain. Perhaps that is why I loved running marathons so much. I just had to keep going.  2 miles turn into 4, 4 turn into 8, 8 into 16 and then the home stretch and suddenly, in a given amount of time, 26.2 was completed.  I could stop, for just a moment. Next.

And then,recently, when the still voice, that one honed so well on past mistakes and shoulda’s, coulda’s, woulda’s.  That voice, well fed on earned wisdom and courage, was not so still and screamed at me to stop, to slow down to, let it all go.  I did not listen.  I kept going. I was keeping grief at bay.  Not realizing I had to give it time to breathe and be part of who I was, at least for a little while.

“Four seasons.” A dear friend recently said to me.  “You have to get through four seasons.”

And then what?  I am a woman who has always known what to do.  My default is continual motion.  I do the right thing.  No matter what. I work hard.  I see things through.

Oldest child syndrome?  Or just a child raised to achieve?  To pursue?  To plow through?  No rest stops along the way.  I can not remember a time, ever, when I quit.  If one job was over, it was time to find another.  If one crisis was on the mend, I dealt with it and moved on to, well, sometimes another crisis and maybe then a bit of calm.  Life and all that. Failure, for lack of a better word, has never been an option.  And while, these default modes have served me well, I have come to realize, these modes of , what? Survival?  Perfection?  Also have become a hindrance.  I listened more to the cares and wants of others and not to the ones of myself. I stopped listening to that still voice.  She has always been right.  And I tuned her out. Muted her but good. Funny how that happens.  It is not so obvious in the midst of turmoil, but there in the aftermath, I have been the one left the most depleted.  The one not being most true to me.  I thought I knew better.  I though I learned that lesson.  Many, many times over.  But grief is a funny thing.  It hovers.  It lingers.  It shifts and changes.  And then, without warning, at least in my case, it whacks you upside the head and heart and leaves you motionless.  Forced still.  But not the good kind.  Not the calm kind of still.  Nope, in  my case, the still came with doubt and uncertainty.  It crept along behind me, annoyingly so and would not leave me be.  I cried.  A lot. I slept- very little. I cried-even more. I got angry. Judgemental. I held things in for fear I would say the wrong thing-or worse, say what I really felt.  I went overboard.  I got involved in projects I had no business being involved in, whatsoever.  I did not listen and I kept going.But I was going nowhere.  2 miles did not turn into 4, 4 did not turn into 8.  I was stuck and nothing was working.  My tricks-the ones that always got me through, well-they just were useless.

I don’t remember ever being as exhausted as I was. As I am.  In the bones and in my being.  I am reminded when, after the second year of caring for my mom, with all that goes with caring for a parent, turned into the third year and more of her mind started to go, and I started to grieve then for the mom I knew and for the mom I knew was never coming back- a longtime mentor reminded me to not fool myself into thinking the grief I was feeling at the time would not resurface again on that day, whenever that day, or night it would be mom passed away. Grief will resurface, she said.  And it did. There was no running away from this one.

“Don’t kid yourself”, she said.

But I did.  I am sure I did.

There was so much to do at the time. The travel back and forth.  The tending to, the caring of, the paperwork, the checking in, the things we do when someone we love is dying and we want to do things right, as we should. Making sure health care and insurance allow her to die the way she wants.  Bending the rules, begging.  Watching a mother hold on to her mind and find the ease to breathe is not for the faint of heart and soul.  Not one bit.  I thought that was grieving.  And I kept going.  There was no time to stop. I was raising a child and being a wife and somewhere in there trying to find some iota of something for myself.  Wanna guess which went first?

But then, in the very quiet of a mid December 3am, when the house and all her contents were at rest, and I was sitting by a waning fire, that still voice spoke. I thought at first, it was the sound of my own muffled cries-you know when you cry quietly so no one else will hear. Those sounds we all make when we weep from the soul.  When all you want to do is cry.  I thought at first, it was the ramblings of my thoughts, trying to figure it all out-to find the solution.  To find the way. To keep going. To not disappoint.  To not let others down.  What to do?  And then again, from the deepest, softest squishy parts of my inner self-that still voice got louder.

Stop.

Just stop.

Be still.

Be. Still.

And for the first time in a long time, I  listened.  I heard.  I stopped.

I made decisions that served me and all that I am.  Others did not like that so much.  But I am okay with that.  I wasn’t at first to be truthful, but it settled into a knowing.

I slept.  I cried some more.  I hugged my child.  I kissed my husband.

I sat still.

I grieved.  I am grieving.

I found strength.

I found my still.  I found my voice.

One candle more.  A look back at a year that propelled me one step closer to where ever it is I am supposed to be-provided me with more opportunities to learn, to grow, to gain more wisdom, strength and courage. It was a year of challenges- not just the kind that leave us wondering how, in the course of life, are we to get from point A to point B; but more about how we survive point A to get to point B-so we can continue down the path.   It was a year of side roads, bumps, pot holes and dangerous curves ahead. Forget A to B.  I just wanted to get in the car and go.

There are things, those pot holes and dangerous curves mostly that I think about the most. For I am certain, very certain now, with each candle added through the years, my  life has been shaped more by dangerous curves and pot holes than anything else.  Not because circumstance put them there-but because I chose to keep going-never mind the cost of repair. Things were demanding. I was pushed to the limit. I was wiped out by disappointments-disappointed by realizations and things you can not turn away from-if you are one of those women who sees-who does not shut out the light-who not only calls out the elephant in the room-but refuses, finally, to clean up after it.There in the muck of life-I found more of myself than I imagined.

People let me down.People imploded in front of me and took others down with them- but this year, instead of making excuses for them, I let them go. It was a tremendous gift to myself. I learned to shut my mouth.  No, really.  I learned, most importantly, when to just shut up and keep going and when to speak.  I got louder.  In the silence as much as in the speak. It made a huge difference in my  life.

I learned to value the process of death and accept when it arrives. And there in the process of death and staying true to someone else’s wishes and wants in the course of living while dying-I found the very presence of life.  I found what matters most and there in found what will  never matter. It is true- unconditional love is the richest and most treasured-and when death takes away that one last breath-it is the unconditional presence of love that will remain. It is the few unexpected moments you will remember in the tears.  It is the moments that made me her daughter, her first child, the woman I came to be because she gently nudged me and I got to do it differently than the way she did-and sometimes-exactly the way she did. Sometimes, even in the darkest moments, I got to be her voice-a gift she gave me without even knowing it.   It matters to stay true-no matter the challenges.  It matters to be honest.  It matters to stay the course-no matter what. No matter what.

I found peace.  In the most unexpected places. In the quiet of dawn-clutching my mothers hand when the hiss and pump of a machine overpowers the ebb and flow of an ocean, in the middle of the night, just us two, mother and daughter when the end is too near and no one else is around. When all she gave me, taught me is put to the test. She got it right-my mom, there in her hours of the end-she got it right.  I learned that at that exact time, that moment-when someone you love breathes the last breath, you will want to continue breathing and be grateful and be kind and continue on with the business of living.  I found peace in the grace of each moment. It was not talent, it was not beauty, it was not the unwrinkled brow that got me there.  It was every nook and cranny of life-every wrinkle of what’s if’s and why not’s.  It was the potholes, the dangerous curves and the destination unknown that got me there. None of it was easy. Ever. I learned to pick up the phone and ask for help, gratitude and guidance.  I learned in the deepest parts of the unexpected we find the things we never expected.

I learned that I don’t “have to” anymore.  I earned it and I am okay with it.  I don’t have to put up with people I no longer respect, agree with, or for that matter, don’t even like all that much. I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to act one way to please another group of people who act another way.  I don’t have to.  I don’t have to be anyone but who I am-with all the imperfections, with all the heartache, with all the stuff I am made of from the stuff I survived.

I learned I can survive anything thrown at me.  Anything-but if you attempt to humiliate my child, in all her goodness and light, I will never forgive and I will fight the urge to unleash a motherly anger that only a mother can understand.  I learned parenting gets harder, not easier.  And yes, it is okay to be one of those mom’s who drives your child to school in her pajamas.

Finally, I learned brilliance is overrated as is genius-and it is never an excuse for bad behavior.  Ever.  In this road map of life, we all have things that have left a mark, a scar-but at some point, we move on-we grow on-we get on with the mending and the healing and we navigate a different way.  Or else, we get on another road and leave the rest behind.  I learned, finally, I am okay with that.-leaving the rest behind.  It’s my own road. Potholes, dangerous curves and roadblocks.

Hattie used to say “ya’ll point ya’lls finger at someone they’ll be three point’in right back at cha”.   She would say this when after a terribly fun time in the family room-the den we called it-we would get to playing and playing turned to something getting broken.  Hattie would run in from the kitchen, leaving the fried bologna in the pan and look at us-quiet now, looking down at the floor-never at the broken object-and she’d say:

“Alright now, who did it?”

I would point at my brother, my brother would point at me and the kid from down the street would shrug his shoulders.

Silence.  Nothing but fingers.  And shoulders.  Stuck up right by his ears.  Frozen.

“I told ya’ll not to be horse’in round. Now who did it?”

Fingers and shoulders stay where they are.

Frying bologna beckons

Hattie leaves the room throwing the dishtowel over her shoulder along with her finger pointing quote.

“Ya’ll keep point’in.  Ya’ll got one finger in someones face and three pointing right back at you.  Hmmmmmmmp.”

I think about it every time I find myself pointing-literally or figuratively.  That one powerful finger pointing at someone else-and those three pointing right back at me. AS we navigate human error-community issues and worldly turbulence, it is easy to point the finger.  That one defiant moment when blame goes right away-up and out through the very tip of the pointer.  Mr. Pointer.  And yet, and yet, what is held in the those three pointing back?  Guilt?  Weakness?  Ignorance?  More defiance?  Times 3?  So there in my quest to shift and be brighter, lighter and more Buddha like.  There in those moments I am back on the road to a well lived life, I look a little more closer not at Mr. Pointer-but at those other three fingers that fold down and point back.  And one by one I name them:  Acceptance, and it unfolds. Courage, and it unfolds. Love, and it unfolds.  I am now looking at an open hand-palm up-open.  Mr. Pointer is now part of the pack-the whole hand. The whole.

Sun up, covers off, feet down, robe on,down the stairs leaving one snoring behind. Lights on, dogs fed, coffee on, laundry sorted, check the list. Computer on, journal opened,bills splayed, which one first? Dogs out, dogs in, coffee poured, smell the cream, cream poured, coffee stirred, brain stirring.  Quiet house. For now. Journal open, journal open. journal open to the page I have yet to finish, need to finish. Check face.  Sigh. Age.  What to do? Start laundry, the darks.  Coffee cup is, where? It’s Monday. It’s Monday. It’s Monday. Check this, start that, sit down. No. Get up. And what about?  Foot steps, snorer up, quiet is gone, dogs welcome another riser.  Kiss, kiss, love, love, dogs jumping. Little footsteps now, grumpy start for a nine year old’s day.  No, no, we won’t have this.  Kiss, kiss, love,love. Breakfast?  Darks out, whites in.  Dryer started. creaking, creaking, creaking, a dryer complains with every turn of the drum. Thump, squeal, thump squeal.  How much is a new dryer? Oh. and new tires. Before winter. How much are new tires?  Coffee.  New cup. Is there anything worse than cold coffee?  One leaves, kiss, kiss, love, love, the other goes up stairs,to change,now, right now,there is no way you are wearing that to schoo, because I said so. Off she goes hitting each stair with defiance. Lunch packed, teeth brushed, pass by journal open on the desk,get in the car, drive.  Wait.  For the line of cars to go. Kiss, kiss, not in front of everyone, mooooom!, door slammed, drive. Coffee. is. cold. again. House is quiet. Again. Except for the dryer. That damn dryer.  Dog throws up. Hmmmm? Ham bone not a good idea. Bone fragments and ham bits blended into a semi wool shag.  Journal open.  Sit.  Write. Phone rings, insurance questions.  Am I dressed for today? Will this do?  How vocal do I want to be today?  Do I care?  Really?  Breathe.  Journal open. Write.

If, way back long ago, I’d have given up I would miss out on these days of reflection.  I would not have been able to know, deep in the knowing, I got through it; in tact and whole- maybe even more so than I ever imagined.  Not that there weren’t any scars mind you.

Way back when, maybe even the first week of college, certainly the first semester when I was loving autumn but not my life in autumn.  When I was feeling lost in a sea of perfect girls, from perfect worlds, who had been on the perfect track to perfection.  I felt like the lost sock in a dryer of freshly laundered madras.  Anyway, somehow I landed in the threshold of an office outfitted with a beautiful big desk, making the woman sitting behind it appear even more petite than she was-an office cluttered with the droppings of somehow who very clearly loved adventure, learning and life.  I was standing in the midst of someone who would change my life forever and all I  could do was cry.

I am looking for Dr. Shearburn.  Dr. Dudley Shearburn.  ( a stodgy, pipe smoking old man, professorial looking in the same suit he wears everyday- a brown bag lunch even? with a thermos of black coffee-grading papers? )

Yes?  Dear?  The sound of southern, real southern,female, warm blanket southern from behind a stack of books.  Lots and lots of books.  There were books everywhere.  And art.  Lots of art of all kinds.

I was told, ( not now, you can’t cry now) to see Dr. Shearburn.  My advisor.  I am looking for Dr. Shearburn. ( I am quite certain if I am not pointed in the direction of where I am supposed to go, this poor women, with the warm blanket southern voice, is going to see me breakdown and sob.)

She stood up and walked from behind the desk-outfitted in colors and big jewelry.  Artsy jewelry.  She was alive.  Lively.  A little impish.  She sized me up in a second.

Uh huh.  What have we here?

Silence.

Sugah, I am Dr. Shearburn.  You are supposed to see me.  Warm blanket southern with as warm of a smile.

And that was that.

Let’s walk.

And for the next two hours we did.  Up and around a beautiful campus decked out in a stellar Piedmont North Carolina Fall.  Through the historic graveyards, past the bakery and up and down hills.  It was a walk ,to coin a phrase, to remember.  And I always have.

I cried.  Expressed my fear of being in a place where it appeared everyone else had it all figured out-and I was no where near the questions, never mind the answers. I hated my classes, hated feeling trapped and hated the fact we had to sing, yes, sing about virgin trees.  Yes.  Virgin trees.  Which were about the only things on campus NOT screwing around. Not that it bothered me.  Just seemed a little hypocritical, that’s all.

It seemed so easy for everyone else.  Prepared from years in a prep school or boarding school.  My learning curve was way off,well the curve.

Dr. Shearburn listened and walked.  Walked and listened. She would giggle.  She would nod from time to time, offer an insight here and there.  She held my hand, grabbed my shoulder, and called me sugah.  A lot.

It’s not fair I said.  It’s just  not fair.

She stopped walking-turned and looked at me, straight on with a smile and said:

Life is not fair.  Whoever told you life is fair?  Remove that word from your vocabulary.  Right here and now.  You get to choose. You get to reinvent.  You get to chart the course.  You get to get a life….and make it whatever you want.  But, life is not fair and it never will be.  So get over it and move on.

And that was that.

The next week, I changed some classes around, got a job off campus, and began the art of creating my life. It is advice that has never failed me.  Not once.  These are the words I share( quite often) with my daughter when she lets it be known that, indeed, life is not fair.

No, it is not. I tell her.  It never will be. But you get to create your own life-your own words for your own world.  You get to choose.

Dr. Shearburn stayed with me the entire four years of college life-and years later, she is with me as I reach milestones.  In life and in art.

  There, there.  It is all going to be alright.  It is all going to be alright.

Maybe.

You know what is wrong with you gal?

Well, as a matter of fact- I could go through a whole litney of what is wrong with me.  And then I start to cry-tears welling.  Holding back-not gonna do it.

Looky here gal, she said.

I did. Every inch of her life was right there on her face.  Not hidden, not smoothed out and inflated.  Life in every crease and crevice.  She earned every one.

You are looking for a there, there, she said.

  Your there, there.  Someone to come along and tap you gently on the shoulder, look you right in the eye, pull you close into a deep hug and whisper,

there,there. 

I cried even more.

She was right. 

The last four years have been an emotional boat load of heaves and ho’s.  From one destination to another-coming across things not on the map-circumstances that needed to be dealt with in the here and now-except the here and now kept going on and on so much I found myself lost in the sensation of any kind of feeling.Void.  There was no time.  The here and now was robbing me of the genuine- because everything was requiring me to participate on a level of  deep impact. I just kept moving.  I just keep moving.  It is the remedy.  It is the solution. It is what keeps me, oddly enough in the present.  How ironic.

If you are one of those women who is so inclined to fix, on all kinds of multi levels, and if you choose to see and be aware-I am not sure there will always be a there, there-waiting in the wings when you decide to slow down long enough.  Items don’t have to be checked off the list of life. Just about anything can wait-and your child will not dissolve into a heaping pile of emotional distress if you can not do everything-all the time.  Children need to know they are loved and safe. That covers a great deal.  Marriages require work and compromise and partners need to know they are loved and that they too are safe-even from things that have been there long before you ever entered the picture.  There, there’s are hard to come by these days.The there, theres in the every day are not where you think you will find them-but sometimes, on a day when the weight of the world is right there between my heart and soul and sleep has not been my friend-when circumstance is not working in my favor and my wish list is running longer than usual- I find my own there, there.  A whisper to  my self, filled with the knowing of self preservation and skill- with a solid hug of perseverance and the assurance that righteousness brings.

There,there.

This is how it started.  One day in late spring, 2007-my mother traveled up to New England to see my daughter play a flying monkey in a production of The Wizard of Oz.  My mother has traveled by herself for years-lived by herself for years.  She was always fond of getting up and going-by car-by plane-and a few times-by boat.  She loved to travel to see her children. And then her grandchildren.  And for the many years I lived in New York-my mother became part of the fabric  there as much as anything.  We had our rituals, our stomping grounds and she would always frequent the (many!) restaurants where I either waited tables or hosted.  She knew her way around the city and my neighborhood-and if she did not-she made the most of getting lost.  She would jsut stop and ask someone-anyone- to show her the way. But that was years ago.  Though even in recent years, she had no problem hoping on a plane to come visit me-or driving for several hours to visit my brothers. She knew how to find her way-my mom.  Even after the cancer.  She got up and went.  But that was then.

Don’t forget your phone mom. Don’t leave it in the charger.  You might need it if your flight is cancelled or delayed.

 Yes. It’s charging now, she said.  But I never use the darn thing anyway.

Mom, just bring your phone….  And call me at work if there is any trouble.  See you tomorrow.

And just like always, she complained about having to get up so early. “o’dark thirty” she would say.

And then the next day:

The phone kept ringing at work.  My phone was registering a number I did not recognize.  I went back to teaching-and the phone kept ringing.  On the fourth attempt, I answered.

Uh, hi, uh, is this Gloria?

Yes, this is Gloria.

You don’t know me, but I am here in Philadelphia with your mother.  She asked that I call.  She, uh, doesn’t have her phone- she , uh, left it in the charger.  Anyway, our flight to Providence was cancelled and , uh, your mom is here, with me.  She’s really frazzled..she seems disoriented.

  He sounded young.  Maybe they talked college basketball on the flight.  Maybe she just flat out introduced herself-full name and all- and then began a conversation about the many things she loved.

No,I’m not.  I heard her say in the background.  I am just fine.

Uh, he said, your mom wants to talk to you.

  Gloria I am fine.  I am fine!( in her everything is not alright voice but I am going to Pollyanna my way through this so you don’t think anything is wrong with me, because there is nothing wrong)

Well, it seems US Air has cancelled the flight so we are being rerouted and, well, no one can tell us when we will get to Providence, but we will at some point.

But mom ( as 15 kids with anger issues are staring at me).

I’m fine! , she said. I have a book. I always bring a book.  I don’t know this nice man’s name but he let me use his phone.  He has to go now. And that was that.

Dammit Pollyanna. 

Uh, should I call you when we know more, Uh, so you won’t worry about your mom?, the young man said.

What is your name?  How old are you? What do you do?  ( because I know my mother, and she never meets a stranger and within minutes said stranger will know too much and she will not care one bit…I mean, mom….she’s, well, she is just too trusting.

Information jotted down- I can’t get back to class because now I am distracted by how I going to get my mother from Philly to Providence-my mom-with no cell phone. I am on the phone to US Air at once-demanding-at once-and trying very hard to be nice because-someone once said to me to imagine rainbows shooting from your mouth when you are upset with the other person on the phone-especially when the other person is being difficult.

Could you, please( rainbow one) let me speak to a supervisor.  I have a problem.

How can I direct your problem?  (USAIR voice from somewhere in a call center)

Well, it involves a flight that was canceled-in Philly-without warning- and, well, my mother is stranded there-by herself…and I need to get her-

Flight number? ( call center voice interrupted)

Ummmm, I don’t know.  (rainbow #2)  Can you look it up by name?

I am not on the page.  (pause) Last name?

I gave the name-with a double shot of rainbow-because now I am thinking of too many things that are not making sense to me about mother.

Can you just tell me what time the flight is expected to leave, so I can be sure to meet my mother beca-

 Young man stuck in Philly with my mother dials in-I click over

Hey Glor!  We are going over to Gate 5- we should be in Providence at 4:45pm.  And this nice man let me use his phone.  I think he is a college student.  Very nice kid.  Yes, very nice.

and before I know it she hangs up the phone-

I click back over to US Air. We have been disconnected.

So much for spewing  fucking rainbows.

It’s the birthday blog.  A year in the life of.     In the George Bailey moments I visit from time to time…I go back to what it would be like if.  Don’t we all?  Even the people I would deem as content as could be- with all that is good and true in their lives- must have a reflective  thought or two and ponder a scenario the current life choice has pushed back into the recesses of that part of the brain that burys things that should,well, just be left in there-way in the back of the recesses of the brain.

Over coffee with a friend who seemingly is content began to cry when I asked how she was.  It was not a sob fest mind you, but that simple question brought about a stream of tears. 

“Oh my God,” she said, “I thought I had dealt with this…”

Not knowing if I said something wrong-as I am known to do at the mostly wrong of times, I sat there silent and watched as she wiped away tear after tear with her coffee stained napkin.

“I am having a hard time turning forty,” she said.  “I thought I would be further along than I am, I thought I would not be bogged down with the things I don’t really want to do that are getting in the way of things I want to.”

 I was silent.  She went on.

“For some reason, I thought I would be in a different place…..with a different set of rules. Not that I hate my life, I just thought it would be different at this point.”

 I was hesitant, but there is only so much silence one can offer sitting across a two top in a crowded coffee shop.

 Oh what the hell.

“When did you turn forty?”  I asked with an offering of a clean napkin.

“Almost a year ago.”  And then the tears again.  No sobs.  Sad tears.  Reflective tears.  Transitional tears.

I know them well.  Tears of the what if.  The reflective salty tears of not knowing where you really are-but knowing this ain’t it.  The determined tears of frustration when nothing is going right and you want so much for the wrong to be done with.  AND, you are not even sure what the right is.  But this ain’t it.  The tears of a woman who knows where she has been and is thank-ful for the road map and the miles that show.  Tears of knowing that reflect the purpose of a chosen path-and sometimes the lack of courage to take another. Tears of the unknown.  There is no Clarence who will swoop down and save us from drowning in the cold waters of what if.  There is no Kodachrome playback of what would be if we were not around.  There is no crystal ball eeking out a fuzzy picture of the future.  There are the footprints of surviving the past-of making the most of what is given.  These are the battle wounds of a warrioress- the tears of strength and determination.  The focus of knowing-regardless if the outcome is not clear or the end result not what we thought it was going to be.  These are the moments that play back on rewind and remind us we can, we have and we will continue to move.  Even if the transitions are hard.  Even if the future is fuzzy.  We will cry and hurt- and love and want more.  And we just might get it.

There he was.  Belly up in the bowl; with a smidgen of his new claw just forming.   Just as dead as dead could be.  So much for the shrimp pellets. 

Dreading the news I would have to share with my daughter- who was certain, Yoshi aka Bob the crayfish, was sure to live forever, we made a few stops on the way home from school.

And then:

Ava, I have some bad news to tell you.

Yeah, mom, what is it?

Yoshi is dead. 

Is Swimmy dead too?

Swimmy is the blue Beta fish who has been with us for two years now. He was in his own bowl, complete with a faux rock castle.

No, Swimmy is fine.  Swimmy is alive and swimming.

Oh.  Okay. 

And with a shrug of the shoulders, that was that.

The moral of the story?  There are more things I should shrug my shoulders at and get on with it.

You  know you are a mom when you roam the aisles of Pet Co looking for the right kind of seaweed to feed a temperamental one pinchered crayfish; rescued from the third grade-you purchase filtered water for the blue Beta fish, and unknowingly carry around shrimp pellets in your purse.  For three weeks.