The Day the Swallows Came Home

The tree swallows are here already.  They arrived January 30 much to my dismay.  Swooping and calling and chirping their merry song over my pastures while reacquainting themselves with the nesting boxes mounted on the corner posts of the fields.  For all intents and purposes they should not be here.  For the 20 years I've been hosting these migratory species they have not shown up till late March for breeding, at the earliest one year they were here in late February.  But they are here now.  Their happy, perky squeaks and pips should cheer me but instead I worry.  Deep worry about how fast the change in our environment is moving.  Six weeks early, eight weeks early?  Wump World has come true with startling accuracy.

Nature's plasticity allows it to prevail in the rapidly changing environment.  The range of adaptations that some species have will make them victors while others will crash.  Evolution will rage again with human going extinct and a new apex predator rising from what ever survives.  This series of events should occur on a scale of thousands of years not two or three decades.

Meanwhile, while while our national "empire" collapses just like all the other historical overreaches from the Egyptians to the Romans to the English, we trudge on within our personal narratives of familial regularity.

For example, I dislike dogs.  I don't like dog barking.  I don't like wet dog noses.  I don't like dogs sniffing my hands, legs, or any other body part.  I don't like dogs chewing.  I don't like dogs sneaking off to kill chickens.  And I really don't like dogs who role in nasty, decomposing dead things or in other animals pee or fecal matter, then trot around proud of their new scent.

We unfortunately have two dogs.  They are about four years old, so I figure I have another 8-10 years of them.  I am required, for my own peace of mind, to consider them therapy animals for my husband and tolerate them while cringing, holding back that spine singing annoyance at their disgusting doggy ways.  In effort to not let the dogs consume my subconscious hate sub-programming, I have to find something good about them to survive.  Mike loves the dogs.  And since he finds them so redeeming I have to squint at them through the lens of doggy goggles my husband wears.  I suppose it is a worthy sacrifice on my behalf.  Ugh...  If they make him happy I will endeavor to ignore the dogs antics and conduct a myriad of mindful breaths.  These days lots of slow breathing.

Maybe that is what we all need in this time of multi-crisis, overexposure to the regime, and generalized hyper stimulation from all media sources.  Slow time down.  Just breathe.

The Phoenix Awakens to Combat Ancient Foes

Rising from the ashes of five years toil on a new house and property is a mom with more to write regarding the primitive survival skills acquired through parenthood and the sometimes nauseating suffering known as the human condition.  This phoenix dragging it's wing along the burning sands of life like an injured killdeer thinks she mostly resembles a molting chicken rather than the sleek aforementioned predator, but is probably harder on herself than necessary. Regardless, here I am.

This journal will reopen and spill fourth kids, cursing, horses, agony, mountain bikes, pandemonium, and the odd ball cousin.  Who really knows what will pop out of this box of fun.  Pandora should really run.

So to kick start what's been happening, I'm jumping in first with the current state of affairs of the 13 year old who has been suffering from various levels of harassment at school.  He's still small, he's awkward, he's impulsive or in other words he's pretty normal . . .  Wyatt's feet and hands resemble that of a hobbit minus the hairy toes and he falls just shy of 5 feet tall.  I comfort myself knowing he will grow at some point, but his currently petite size leads to little dude syndrome.  Big dudes pick on little guys.  Bullying weaves it's time old tale with the same stupid story since humans crawled out of the primordial soup.  Nothing changes in human interaction.  Absolutely nothing.  The big dude in this case is pushing 150 pounds.  Wy-guy is barely 90 pounds.  This particular bully has his posse who cheer him on and/or join in gleefully like the hyenas they are.  And the big dude body checks Wyatt - for which I had to escalate the event to the administrative staff. 

They call him "Wang Wang."  This was revealed over dinner resulting in my husband nearly launching his teriyaki chicken across the table in a barely concealed laughing fit.  Among other things, "wang wang" is slang for the male genitalia according to the urban dictionary.  Warning: never look at the urban dictionary unless absolutely necessary as you can not unblock what you read there.  After recovering from his laughter and telling my son that he needs to turn the tables on the bully, my spouse of many years devised a devious plot involving stickers of Wyatt doing a wheelie with the text WangWang superimposed over it.  Then, armed with stickers, Wyatt can apply them all over campus and claim ignorance.  See who gets the last laugh on that one.  I just don't know if there are cameras at school.  Hmmm.  But I sure know that the bully can't even begin to compete with Wyatt for bike skilz!!! Got to work on this sticker but here's a prototype.  Need some new pix of Wyatt doing his perpetual wheelie to make the final product.  Ha! 

       
Ok... So relaunch of blog accomplished. Bye for now!