Intel on the Enemy

I have been studying up on the destroyers of all things green, deer.

They are hoofed pests capable of upsetting the balance of an environment by drastically depleting the diversity of the area. They are also able to upset and offset the balance of any amateur farmer, one day so proud of their baby greens and the next day, in mourning over their loss.

Baby greens that are gone today, but with hopes for new growth tomorrow.

Deer have a high nutritional requirement that grass is unable to satisfy, like with cows or sheep, so they munch on easily digestible shoots and young leaves, or everything in one’s tiny, raised garden.

They are described as neophobic or holding an extreme and irrational fear of the unknown. At the slightest noise, they spook; freezing or running and leaping into the tall weeds. Apparently, they know me well enough to lack any fear associated with devouring my garden.  

They rummage and munch and paw the ground before running away at an impossibly fast speed into forest that is shrinking at what seems to be an even more impossible speed because of the growth of new housing developments and stores and a hospital.

I suppose my small, raised garden is like a soup kitchen for these majestic animals who have been displaced and herded into a new territory without the resources to support so many creatures at once. I know I should have more compassion for these animals that live to eat and eat to live, but I am an animal, too.

And lately, it feels like a savage world.

Honeybee Pile Up

Part 1

Snow and ice covered everything, turning our yard into a magical, glittering world.

With each step, we broke through the ice crust with a satisfying crunch. Little Legs was up to his knees in the snow, red cheeked and happy, despite the cold.

“Let’s check out the bees,” Daddy Longlegs suggested and with no better options, we followed him around the house.  

It was like taking a Sunday drive, one goes along not expecting to see anything but with the secret hope of spotting a loose cow or a car accident, of course, the kind where no one gets hurt.

Where I prepared to see an empty landing board on the beehive, I found a pile of fresh honeybee bodies.

“Oh God,” I cried out for divine help.

They were not yet frozen or covered in snow, so this event, whatever it was, had just happened.

A buzzing pulled me closer, a lone bee made his way out. It pushed past the bodies, stopped at the edge of the mound, and buzzed his last buzz before succumbing to the same fate as his brethren.  

There were more bodies just below the pile-up that made me think of a buffalo herd going over a cliff, one after another. What could have caused this much seemingly senseless loss of life?

After an extensive review of the bee-keeping wisdom on the internet, we concluded that we did not know why they died. The colony may have removed the weaker bees that died of the cold, dysentery from waste build-up, starvation, or mites. There was a reason, but what it was, we would never know.

Nature was cruel and mysterious in her ways.

Part 2

I returned the next day, with Little Legs in tow, to show our respects and clear the ledge on front of the entrance to allow for proper ventilation.

Another surprise awaited us.

The mound was already cleared with just a few bee butts remaining, crumbs that fell from some wild animal’s mouth as it devoured part of the colony.    

I took comfort that an animal was able to survive the cold snap a little longer with this unexpected snack.

Sad to say, that was not the last nor was it the biggest surprise of the season.

Part 3

Just yesterday, we returned with Daddy Longlegs when the weather improved, and the temperature soared to fifty degrees.

Little Legs stomped about, splashing in ice puddles while his parents hovered around the hive.

“Let’s just take a look in here,” Daddy Longlegs said.

“Do you need the smoker?” I asked.

“Not for these sweet bees,” he explained, confident in their relationship.

He was eager to check on them after the disturbing event of the honey-bee pile up, concerned and worried as any bee-daddy might feel.

Carefully, he removed the bricks keeping the lid in place and then the lid. He pulled up a frame that should have been vibrating with life and instead discovered the absence of movement, a waxy void of noise and movement.

The bees were there, clinging to the comb and to one another in lifeless fuzzy masses on frame after frame.

The colony did not survive.

Our world felt sadder and soggier than before as the snow continued to melt.

Little Legs splashed over and surveyed the situation with a knowing nod, “Honey-bees nap.”

Yes, the honeybees nap. All of them.

For a very, long time.

A King Without His Crown

We stood outside, watching our toddler race down the hill, trip and roll forward through the grass. The boy sat up with a confused look at ending up on the ground. Laughter burst from both of us, unstoppable and refreshing, on an otherwise bleak day.

Suddenly, Daddy Longlegs gasped and put his hand to his mouth.

Instinctively, I looked to Little Legs, happily rolling on his back in the grass, ensuring another complete outfit change. Certain that the boy was safe, I looked in question at his father.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My tooth, something is wrong with it. It’s actually my crown,” he mumbled.

I stood up on tiptoes to peer uninvited into his mouth. Since having my boys, there is nothing about the human body that bothers me, except for blood. The sight of it makes me woozy.

“I think it is loose.”

“Let me see,” I said.

He pulled his lip back like he was caught by a fishhook and wiggled the tooth in question with his tongue.

It was not only loose; it was no longer connected to anything in his mouth. A free-floating bit of resin impersonating Daddy Longlegs’ tooth came off onto his tongue.

“Oh God,” I said feeling queasy.

“It is bad?”

“Well, as you may already know, the crown is no longer connected to your tooth nub and you are going to swallow that very expensive crown if you don’t take it out and store it until you can get to the dentist.”

Daddy Longlegs thought about this information with a closed mouth to keep his little treasure in place.

“Do you know what the dentist who put this in told me to do if it came off?” he asked.

I felt concerned that the dentist gave him a back-up plan for the crown and wondered about the credentials of this so-called dentist.

“He told me to get some superglue and stick it right back in place.”

It was my turn to gasp.

The horror.

Then, instead of calling the so-called dentist for an emergency appointment, he situated his crown next to the bathroom sink, where it remains.

“It is where people keep their teeth,” he explained.

Or in this case, his tooth. We are in Tennessee, after all. 

Screen Time Woes

“Oh no, Baby. Oh no.”

Little Legs stared intently at the small screen in his hands; he hit all the buttons and shook the monitor with one hand and then with both hands. It was like watching a monkey trying to shake coins from a piggy bank. With each unsuccessful attempt, he grew more frustrated.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Baby gone.”

He handed the monitor off to me in tag-team style, his duty done, and returned to Daniel Tiger, his occasional babysitter/constant friend.

“He’s gone!” I said with a gasp, trying to get a rise from my fellow couch-potato.

Staring straight ahead, Little Legs said in agreement, “Baby all gone.”

Apparently, learning about Snow-Flake day was more interesting than the sudden disappearance of his only sibling.

There is a terrible transformation that takes place in Little Legs every time the tv is on; his eyes turn gooey, his jaw drops open and his brain melts into mush. A silvery trail of drool escapes from the corner of his mouth every so often, an indication that he all but forgets to breath when in the presence of a glowing television.

It is no wonder that the AACAP recommends only one hour of non-educational programming per weekday for this age group, here I will paraphrase, to prevent/reduce toddler brain rot.

I readjusted the camera from the floor to the crib.

“He’s not gone, the camera was just out of focus, silly.”

Still, no sign of concern or active life, just a little drool and the wave of his hand.

The Brother Project has a very, very long way to go and in the meantime, I have to figure out what to do about the zombification of screen time.


We snuggled on the couch, exhausted from another week with two naughty little boys who delight in taking each other’s toys, bopping one another on the head, making messes, and jointly terrorizing the cat.

While the boys are awake, we must remain on high alert to intervene in dangerous situations like the toddler base jumping from the back of the couch or the baby latching onto an electrical cord and pulling it from the wall.

When both bedroom doors are closed and silence falls over the house, it is only then that we can take a deep breath, relax and sink into the couch. Two bags of rocks would not fall to the bottom of a lake faster than we ease into our weekend at that point.

“It’s time,” I said.

“Time for what?” Daddy Longlegs said, the whites of his blue eyes wide and alarmed, not expecting anything other than Netflix and a bottle of wine.  

“To set our New Year’s resolutions, silly.”

He let out a visible sigh of relief and settled deeper into the comfort of the evening.

“Ok, I want to start jogging,” he declared.

“And for us to take a vacation, a real vacation with the boys. And to start eating better. And…” he trailed off.

“What about you?” he asked.

I drew an absolute blank. My mind was free and clear of any meaningful thought.  

“I guess, I guess I want to…clean all the blinds and windows.”

“No,” he said. “Something for you, not us.”

And still, there was nothing, which gave me plenty to consider for a week.

I thought about my lack of goals with a fresh awareness that I need to be a person, outside of being a mom and a wife. I am starting with a few easy ones like learn chess and make more friends, more goals will follow once I build up steam with these.

So it is for me, myself and I that I have to do at least one more thing in the next days, weeks and months.

Coronavirus Confessional

I did a bad thing. Or I almost did.

I would have gone through with it, too, if it hadn’t been for some jerk doing their job in a complete and efficient manner.  

One way or another, I ended up on a list that indicated I should get the Covid-19 vaccine. I received an email inviting me to make an appointment for the first of two shots. The potential side effects were included with the number to call in the event of a severe allergic reaction and a warning of people who should not get vaccinated.   

While the possibilities of swelling at the injection site, fatigue, body aches and a low grade fever were not something to anticipate with pleasure, it all seemed better than contracting the actual virus or worse yet, spreading it unbeknownst to me, to someone without the ability to fight it, like my baby or sweet Granny.

At first, I was concerned that I didn’t meet the requirements. Then the thought took over that I could return to public without the constant fear of getting and spreading the virus and felt my anxiety drastically decrease. It was like someone just sliced open a big emotional lipoma. I felt the anxiety drain out, thick and clumpy, and was surprised at the emptiness left behind as I had held it in for so long, nearly a year of worry and uncertainty.

Now, I could take back my life. I wanted to be a linejumper. I was going to face my fear that the vaccine had been rushed through the trials and offered to the public prematurely, I was willing to deal with the side effects, and least of all was concerned that I didn’t exactly check all of the boxes for this early vax phase.

It was selfish, I know.

Still, I told my family and friends about my opportunity and encouraged them to sign up as soon as possible, as well. It became my duty to spread the word and get others on board, to sway those who were undecided as a means to end the madness of 2020 instead of letting it, quite literally, infect 2021. I was an unofficial vaccination soldier.

Until I wasn’t.

Apparently, someone was actually reviewing the sign-up forms which required information like name, address and employer. And apparently being self-employed was not an acceptable answer to move forward to the big poke. 

My anxiety wasn’t worse or bigger than anyone else’s monsters, it just seemed like the vaccine would offer a bit of breathing room in this world that is otherwise suffocating with massive problems like global warming, political discord and the unchecked pandemic. I saw my chance for a little peace, and I took it.  

Needless to say, my appointment was cancelled and here I am, a penitent linejumper to-be, still unvaccinated, and back in queue, just after prisoners and homeless people.

Egg Salad

“Do you want to talk to your grandpa?” the woman asked her daughter.

The woman sat next to her aging father, recently discharged from the hospital. His once-grey hair flowed from one side of his head to the other in a sea of white waves.  

He peered into the screen of the phone with bleary eyes. Deep lines around his mouth and eyes gave away his sickness. His heart was broken. He was broken. Without the woman who made up his other half, he was not long for the world.

Obviously, saying no was not an option.

The woman’s only daughter hated when her mother asked her a question with an obvious, single answer. She had just called to verify the ingredients of her egg salad recipe.  

What could be more New Years-ish than a slurry of hardboiled egg and mayonnaise?

“How are you, Grandpa?” the granddaughter asked with an immediate sense of regret.

“Not good, not good.”

This was moving day; the day he was to leave his house, his independence and the place where he spent the past sixty years with his wife, from whom the recipe for egg salad originated.   

It was eggs and mayonnaise with a pinch of salt.

Just a pinch with the extra tossed over one’s shoulder.

For flavor, for luck, forever unmeasured and never forgotten.

Was it really ever just a pinch?   

The Smoky Babysitter

“I didn’t tell her that rattlesnakes don’t hibernate,” the man whispered.

The couple watched from the window as Grandma stomped down weeds and pulled out branches to add to the already raging fire. She was supposed to tend to the flames and keep them under control, instead, she continued to make the fire bigger and bigger.

Flames licked the sky as dark smoke billowed over the house. It was only a matter of time before the fire department arrived, tipped off by an angry neighbor or two.

“Good thing we dropped off those cookies,” the woman said.

Last week, they took a family outing to the nearby fire station. The woman put on a mask and carried a tin of cookies to the front door. A German Shephard guarded the entrance until its master, a gigantic man with messy hair, lumbered to the door and collected the cookies with a grunt.

Service with a smile was for other people.

Delivering the cookies was like buying an insurance policy. They hoped it was an investment on which they never needed to rely. However, with the ever-growing fire, they were glad that they were paid in full.

Grandma dragged another load of branches towards the fire. She dropped the contents of her arms and gleefully rubbed her hands together like a mad scientist about to give life to a monster before adding more fuel to the flames.  

Her goal was clear.

Burn everything. It was therapeutic to work with fire, watching branches, limbs and leaves go up in smoke and dwindle down to a pile of grey-white ashes. She felt control in the destruction, a power seemingly denied to her from the recent loss of her mother and failing health of her father. Here she had access to an entire wood and was limited only by the clock, ticking away the minutes until her grandsons were up from their naps.

The Last Music Class

Music class.

It is supposed to be a joyful celebration of time together, just the two of us, snuggling, clapping, singing and dancing in a half-circle with other moms and their babes. Instead, it has become a battle ground of the wills with boundary pushing and general naughtiness unique to the toddler demographic.

Last Tuesday, Little Legs sat in my lap for half a second before bouncing up and into the center of the group to start twirling into a dizzy delirium. Then he dashed off for the Christmas tree in the corner to pull the ornaments off, one by one.

“Grabby,” he explained.

I whispered, “No, no,” into his ear as I ushered him back to our spot to shake a tambourine while another toddler boy got loose and ran behind the curtain that separated the room into two.

Inspired by the dash of freedom, Little Legs undertook the same trip. He sprang to his feet from my lap and darted for the curtain, wrapping himself in it.

“Mama, hide.”

“I can see you baby, and this is not the time to hide.”

He peeked out with one eye to see the other toddler boy race across the room, with his mama in hot pursuit and of course, he made the same mad sprint.

This repeated itself no less than twelve times.

Another mother tried to intervene on my behalf by grabbing Little Legs, he escaped, and she said, to my horror, “I’ll get him next time for you.”

The threat of time-out beaded up and dropped away like rain on the wing of a bird. Spanking was not an option and yelling would reveal my true nature as a crazy, stressed out mother which would not do anyone any good.

I chased my Wilding around the room until the end of class. At the end of that long hour, I gathered Little Legs up in my arms and gave him a big squeeze because last Tuesday was the last music class.

We are going back into lockdown and will figure out how to act in public once we re-emerge, hopefully sometime in Spring.

Baby Up At Night

The monitor lights up, glowing red and green, sensing activity and noise where there should be neither.

I drag my head out from underneath of a pillow and hold the monitor close to one open eye, hopeful to quickly return to the Land of Nod.

It is only recently that I have started to dream again, after five long months of multiple interruptions, we are down to just one or two nightly meetings and my brain can actually complete an entire REM cycle every few nights. I assume this is unhealthy in the long term but manageable for now.  

The monitor reveals a shell-less turtle stuck on his back, with all four appendages waving in the air, crying for help or company or milk. With both eyes open, I glance at Daddy Longlegs in amazement that he is still sleeping through the wails coming from the next room.

His cries are loud enough that they come through the air and the monitor simultaneously, a double request for room service from a patron who is certain not to tip.

On this night, I have a tip for him, I whisper, “Sleep! Please, for the love of your mother, sleep.”

The crying only intensifies, the tip is not taken well. 

As much as I love sleep, I love that my baby needs me, just me. Soon there will be no one crying for me at night. Unless it is me, crying over the loss of our special time as my baby becomes a boy and then a man. So, I won’t grumble as I crawl out of bed and shuffle to the nursery where a bright-eyed third shift worker awaits my visit because I know it is just for a little bit longer.