My mattress was getting a little geriatric. It was the first new mattress I’d ever bought, and one of the first things I bought when I got divorced and moved to this house. I didn’t have a lot of money then, so it wasn’t particularly fancy, but it suited me fine. I had a memory foam topper on it and some nice smooth sheets.

I slept in the middle of that thing, 99.9% of the time by myself, for nine years, and it was beginning to show its age. With the two of us in it, it was really starting to feel like a hammock. We’d roll to the middle together in the night, which is fine in theory, but in practice makes for sore backs and nowhere to put the suddenly too many arms waving around. It was really getting to Junior’s back, but it was sneaking up on mine too. I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable here, so I’ve been waffling on getting a new one for the last couple of months.

Junior sleeps in a Tempurpedic when he’s not with me, but it’s borrowed and he can’t bring it with him when he moves. I’ve slept in it a few times, and it’s different than a regular mattress. He says people either love it or hate it, but I guess I fall somewhere in the middle. When the room is cold, it felt like sleeping on wet sand to me, but now that the seasons have warmed up a little bit, it’s a little cushier on the surface. I need that surface squishiness or I throw my bottom shoulder out if I’m on my side, but Junior needs the firmness for his back.

So we researched the hell out of it, and when we’d finally had enough on Saturday, we went shopping. We poked and we laid on demos and felt foolish, and eventually negotiated ourselves a mattress and two of those pillows made out of the stuff too.

 

They delivered it on Sunday, so we cleared all of the long stuff out from under the bed and stripped the old one. I’m in decluttering mode (less to move) so off the old one went with the delivery guys.

And in came this giant monstrosity. We got a King size, so of course, I didn’t have any sheets or blankets to fit it, but we’re not terribly small people and it will be nice to have room to get away from each other when it’s a hundred degrees in the house at night. I got crisp new sheets and a nice brown comforter set that fits with both of our ideas of nice-looking.

Poor Junior had to work that night, so I got first crack at it by myself. It’s OK; for that kind of money, I’d better learn to like it. It’ll relax a little with use, but for now it’s oddly hard. It’s very weird to sit down on it and not feel a little bounce; with a spring mattress, you get so used to that motion that you don’t really feel it, but once it’s gone, the absence is strange. People say they’re hard to turn over in while you’re sleeping, but I didn’t find that so last night. Possibly because it’s not broken in enough to sink down into it. I’m quite sure that I’ll come to love it, but my jury’s still out on the pillows. That’s OK though; I have other pillows.

It was a big purchase and put us back a little on the house-buying thing, but I think it was worth it. So we have to save for a couple more months; at least nobody’s back is screaming at them the whole time.

On Friday night, Junior and his Dad took me to do something that I’ve always wanted to do, and that is in fact required to graduate with a Redneck major.

Yes, they took me frog gigging.

And of course, during a prime goofy-picture activity, I was having flash issues, and none of my photos came out.

We left the house about sundown, which is almost my bedtime, and drove out to the canals on the Westside. Once we pulled off the road and onto a canal bank, we all piled out to listen to the bullfrogs sing to see if there were any around. Didn’t hear much, but went on anyway.

One person drives, right up against the edge so another person freaks about falling into the canal. The person in the passenger seat shines a spotlight along the edge of the water, looking for beady little eyes to shine back and keeping her mouth carefully shut to keep the swarms of bugs out. The third person rides on the tailgate with the spear in hand, waiting for the truck to stop, or else sits screwed around sideways to see what’s going on.

When someone spots a frog, he stops the truck, and the spotter tells you where to go - from the front or the back, depending on which way the frog is facing. Then you sneak up on it, hovering the gig tines about six inches above the frog’s back, and then whammo. Shove that gig all the way down to the mud, and hold it there for the other person to get one if there’s another right there.

Then comes the tricky part. The little bastards are tough, and once you pull them out of the water, they’ll take their back legs and push themselves right off the tines, if you’re not careful. So you have to hurry up and yank him off, and toss him in the cooler. You better open that lid carefully though, or all of them will come bailing out, and then you’ve got a rodeo on your hands, chasing bullfrogs in the dark. Sometimes they do get off the gig, and then there’s a lot of hopping around, on both parts. Two full-grown men might be scrambling to re-catch one wounded frog, while someone’s girlfriend giggles helplessly from the sidelines and desperately wishes for the camera.

Junior outdid himself at one point, nailing two at once. They were getting it on and stacked vertically, like frogs do, and he ruined their whole night. They got him back though, and squirted nasty black eggs all over his pants, stinking up the truck to the point where my stomach was revolting. It was either sit on a sweatshirt or take the pants clean off; he sat on a shirt so he could keep gigging without tearing his knees up.

But after a couple of hours and a really good night, that cooler was full and I was having a hard time staying upright. We dropped Dad off, who’d volunteered to clean them, and rolled in home around 2 AM. Somehow, 2 AM is a lot easier to see when you’ve been drinking, and we hadn’t, although I thought that was also a traditional part of frog gigging. That must be in the advanced course.

Those frogs were meaty. A big bullfrog’s got at least as much meat on his legs as a hot wing. Dad cooked up a mess for lunch on Sunday and we ate ourselves silly, and he’s still got two or three good meals’ worth left in the freezer. It’s great meat too; sort of reminds me of clam, but stringier. Maybe a clam-chicken cross? It doesn’t taste at all like canal water smells, as you might expect, seeing where they come from.

I really had a good time too. It’s like hunting, but much faster paced, and you don’t have to be terribly quiet. It’s one of the few things that’s legal to spotlight in this state, and I realy enjoyed being the spotter the most. Gigging was fun too, but getting them off the prongs was a little bit on the gross side. Oh, I did it anyway, because gross don’t stop me, but it wasn’t my favorite part.

One more thing on my resume; frog gigging. Awesome.

Six months.

It sounds so ridiculously short on paper, but this last six months has been more than enough to turn my entire life around.

Six months ago, I was fairly happy with who I was, except for one key thing: I was lonely. I had just about become resigned to thinking that I was going to spend the rest of my life alone, and I was preparing to learn to deal with that.

I’d spent the previous nine years getting my heart broken badly, twice, and trying to recover from those. I felt happy enough on the surface six months ago, but deep down where I didn’t let myself think much, I felt that I was too scarred and broken; that no one would ever want me and that I wasn’t capable of loving wholly anyway.

Six months ago I had been completely independent of anyone else’s actions for almost nine years. I was used to being in charge of all of the decisions, and if I made them with any thought to anyone else in the long term, it was the kids. And the kids were bound to grow up and move away at some point, and weren’t really a part of any decision-making. I was the one who decided where and how we lived, how money was invested, who earned every penny that went through our household, and who even decided what we we going to have for dinner every single night. It was all mine, all of the responsibility and all of the weight of keeping two other people alive and fed, and I never got to share it. I was used to carrying that load by myself, so I hardly ever noticed it, but it was there, slowly breaking my back.

It wasn’t all bad; I like being in charge, and I like having things done my way. I liked not having to report to someone else, not having to fight about money, not having to worry if someone else liked what I cooked for dinner. The kids could eat it or shut up about it.

Six months ago I met a man who made me rethink the benefits of being in charge all the time. It wasn’t overnight, and he certainly didn’t set out to do that. I slowly and sometimes painfully went from being the unquestionable head of the household to remembering how to consider someone else’s opinion, and to respect their input. I’ve been alone a long time, and had forgotten some of the little things about living with someone else, and even though we’re not technically living together yet, I’ve come to see that doing so won’t be such a disaster as it would have been when we first met. Then, adjusting was painful, and I am stubborn, and trying to do things, even little things, a way other than mine would have brought out the mule in me, and that wouldn’t have worked well for a relationship.

I slowly relearned the art of give and take, and that things aren’t always on my terms, but they’re good anyway. I learned to fight the controlling streak in me that grew over the last nine years. It’s not all gone, not yet, but it’s sure better than it was six months ago, and I’m a better person for it. Besides being happier in general, I’m more relaxed about lots of things, things that he doesn’t have anything to do with, and he’s the one that taught me that.

I didn’t think I’d be able to love again either, not wholeheartedly, six months ago. It never occurred to me that I also didn’t know how to be loved, as I’ve never known what I was missing there. But he taught me that too, and patiently let me round the corners off of my own heart and learn to be whole again. They say that welds are stronger than the metal they’re bonding, and I think that might be true for hearts too. I hope so anyway.

So, six months ago I was sort of a broken human being, just trying to get along the best way I could, and mostly succeeding. Today, I feel so much more whole. I would have said I was fine then, but looking back from here, I see that I wasn’t, not really. I’m getting there now though, and he’s the one giving me that. And he doesn’t even know that’s what he’s given me, I don’t think. I think he’s just doing what I’m doing; walking along one step at a time, becoming better in the process, and certainly happier. Fortunately, we’re doing it together and in the same direction.

I feel unbroken. And this six months is just the first of many half-years to come. They’re all laid out ahead of us and I couldn’t be happier about walking that way with this man.

edited to add, after I thought about it some more: I didn’t mean to suggest that he changed me. No, it was being faced with the prospect of this kind of love, which I hadn’t ever even dared wish for, that made me want to adjust my ways of being in order to be successful at it.

The parent to child ratio is wildly off this weekend, if only for a day. Junior’s at a big shoot, and this is our weekend for the kids. A civilized pair of exes, which I am alarmed to see that I am part of, if only by comparison, would simply switch weekends, no?

We are not dealing with a rational person on his side, however, and she refused to switch weekends purely out of spite. No, really, she said she wasn’t going to go out of her way to help him. She did offer to take them this weekend, but wouldn’t have given up one of hers in exchange, and with the power plays that have been going on, that would be a stupid move on Junior’s part.

So he fell to his next option; having his mother watch them, as she often does when he’s at work or otherwise tied up. But she had to work a day this weekend too, so here it is that I have all four children.

Oh man. This was more than a little intimidating. I’m fine as a parent, but I’ve never been much of a babysitter. They frazzle my nerves when they’re all together even with Junior around to spread the parenting out a little thinner. But what am I going to do? I love that man and would do anything for him, and these kids and I need to develop a relationship on our own anyway, if we’re going to become a family.

And except for a bizarre start in which a deputy called to verify my information and reassure me that I was in fact in the right having these kids (what the hell? Who calls the police on the babysitter?), everything’s been kind of fine. They’re minding me and playing nicely with each other, and we have a game to go to for Seamus in a little while, which will keep people occupied.

I can see that once we get a little more used to each other and have our own spaces that belong to all of us, we’ll be fine. They’re learning the rules at my house, but it will be nice for them to have their own room to escape to and their own things to play with. They’re even getting better about cleaning up the disaster areas that three kids on the loose invariably create (John’s minding his own business seperately - can’t blame him.) At the moment, my incredibly tolerant dogs are keeping the herd busy, which has the advantages of wearing the dogs out too.

So, it’s OK now, and I can see that it will be fine in the future, but man. I can also see that this is a little overwhelming. Good thing Junior comes home tomorrow.

I go somewhere, for work or play, about twice a year. Usually for work, because I’m cheap like that.

And I always like it, I like to be away, to follow my nose driving somewhere new. I like to find places to eat that are more interesting than home, which isn’t at all hard. I like to read a book or do homework in my hotel room without everything else that should be done around the house hanging over my head. I don’t generally even mind eating out by myself. I ignore the stares and order what I feel like, and sometimes read the paper for a strange place.

I’m doing that now, for the second time this year. I’m off to school for some training, to collect me another license for my business. My mind’s alert enough to follow the class, and it seems to go pretty quickly.

I miss Junior though, which is silly; I wouldn’t be with him on a Tuesday night anyway, and especially not this week, as he’s off doing something else too. There’s something about this hotel, or maybe this class, that’s really reminding me of one about three years ago though, one right before I got dumped, when I felt the pull of home just as badly. There will be no dumping this time, but I really crave being with him and I can’t put my finger on why it’s more than normal. Most likely because he is off doing something fun, that I could have gone to with him if it weren’t for this class. I’d like to go have fun with him instead of being stuck (at my own choice) in a stuffy cold classroom learning about disinfection byproducts. I’d like to cheer him on, and go try new restaurants with him, or just curl up with him in the evening. The more time we spend together, the harder it is to be apart, it seems.

Love’s turning me into a homebody, and I like it. He’d be at work now anyway, but I’d sure like to hear him come in when he got off. I’d love to have to quietly crawl out of bed so as not to wake him up when he just got to sleep. I’d rather be doing the dishes and feeding the dogs and sorting laundry and shopping for a new mattress online and a hundred other things than sitting here with my mind free to miss him, and worry just the slightest that he’ll be OK on the road. Of course he will, but I’m just the slightest bit unsettled. I swear, my heart feels the distance. It’s only a mountain range and an hour and a half more than usual, but it’s there like the pull of the tide. I want to go home to my man.

I swear, kids bring more germs into a household than and entire herd of pigs would.

Last weekend both Seamus and Alyssa were sick. Seamus wasn’t too bad, so we went up to Junior’s to help him move something heavy while the kids played a little. When he started to wind down and just sit there, I figured it was time to take him home.

On Monday, Alyssa was diagnosed with Strep throat, and Seamus was getting worse. The doc said he didn’t have it though, so he got to spend a couple of days home from school, recuperating.

I sent him back on Thursday, and by Friday morning, it had hit me too. And the school called and said that John wanted to come home; he’d turned in all of his assignments and fallen asleep in History class. You know that kid’s sick if he’s being thoughtful about homework, or maybe he’s just turned the responsible corner, finally.

Since I was being anti-productive and probably contagious, I sent myself home too. And banished Junior from the house, as he’s still healthy and has a big shoot to go to next week. He doesn’t need to be coughing himself silly on the firing line.

Me, I’m being a schlep in bed. I feel OK until I get up and move around, so it feels like an oddly lazy weekend. I need to pull out of this by Monday night though, as I’m leaving for a class in Sacramento. And I already postponed it once, when I had the flu last fall. This is my last chance to get my Treatment License this year, and I really should have that one for my business.

But at least the cat’s delighted to have someone to keep him company while napping on the bed all day. He’s hardly left my side.