the happiness project

for Memorial Day weekend we went to Concan, Texas, which is about five hours south of where we live. I spent so much time packing for the weekend I sort of forgot to look at a map, so I thought it was closer to two, maybe two and a half hours away. Then we got in the car and I was like, ‘Cool, so the baby will take a nap and we’ll essentially be there, right?’ And Andrew was like, ‘You have no idea where we are going, do you?’

He was right on so, so, so many levels, I had no idea what we were heading into.

I thought most people traveled to Concan because it’s located on the Frio River. The Frio is gorgeous and clear and the rim that runs alongside the river is breathtaking—it’s so beautiful that it’s on the cover of Texas Monthly this month.

What I learned is that most people travel to Concan because they want to drink beer and sit in innertubes all day and get so drunk that they take neon styrofoam swimming cylinders and swat at each others asses with them in clear view of the entire crowd.  They want to pull their bathing suit tops down and expose their breasts to strangers and they would also like to play Kid Rock at extraordinarily high volumes. And so that nobody has to drink and drive they’d like to pile twenty people in the back of their pickup trucks so that they can all get home ‘safely’.

When I first saw what was going down on the river, I expected to be kind of repulsed. After all, I’m a mom now. It’s like, in my freaking job description to be repulsed by irresponsibility. But after a couple minutes I remembered that deep down, buried somewhere under there, is a person who used to be able to have a reasonable amount of fun. And I realized that maybe this vacation was exactly what I needed in order to reclaim a little bit of that person.

I absolutely needed to drive an unexpected distance to get jarred out of my everyday world and then get out of the car—cranky and achy from sitting for so long — and carry my child down to the river on one hip with a bag of sunscreen and hats and other protective paraphernalia on the other hip and pulling behind us a freaking wagon full of snacks to see that there are still people out there who don’t give a damn about sunscreen or hats. Who have not spent the last month thinking far too much about the ‘next stage’ of food for their infants. People who are having a good time, dammit. At any cost, dammit. And just because it isn’t spring break and we’re not on South Padre Island and everyone is in their thirties instead of their late teens is no reason to keep from acting however you damn well please. Because it’s a long weekend and you’re on a beautiful river and what is there to get bent out of shape about anyway?

Even now that we’re home after the fabulous weekend with friends and everything is unpacked and it’s back to our usual routine, I’m trying to remember that in the larger scheme of things, there isn’t that much to be bent out of shape about. The difference between how those people were living and all the stress I was hauling was just so large. I’m not saying I want to start sipping Keystone Light from a sippy cup or playing the little one Kid Rock lullabies, but there’s got to be some space in the middle that’s more comfortable, happy and relaxed—a better way to live every day.

I never thought I’d be taught that lesson from a woman in a g-string spanking the ass of a guy whose hair gel defied rules of gravity and water to survive a day of floating down a river, but hey, I guess you have to take life lessons where you can get them. And when it comes down to it, I would always prefer to pick them out of the Frio River than a bowl of chicken soup.

Happy Summer.

i am sad to report that Louis and Vuitton, our new pair of baby chicks, are no longer with us. At first we thought that either some wild country cats or maybe even a chickensnake came up to the house during the night and did the deed. Andrew had suspicions because he said Isabella was acting especially guilty but I held onto the other theories for quite a long time. The fact that I was even thinking about a chickensnake being so close to my house without losing my shit is a testament to the amount of love I freaking have for that dog. But then we got some new chicks and as soon as Isabella caught a whiff of them she went bat shit crazy and you could actually see drops of drool pooling in the corners of her mouth.

Now she just creeps around their cage and when we let them out to run around the yard we put her inside and she keeps her nose pressed up against the glass—so there is no denying that Isabella was the culprit. We’ve told four or five people who live out here in the country that our dog killed the first two chicks and the response we’ve gotten has been the exact same every time. They sort of shake their heads and click their tongues against the roofs of their mouths. Then they say variations on the same theme, which is ‘Once a dog gets a taste of chicken blood, it’ll be a chicken killer forever.’

I realize these people know a lot more about animals and poultry (not to mention how to maximize condescension through the clicking of one’s tongue against the roof of one’s mouth) than I could hope to know even after a couple more years of living out here—but I just don’t understand this ‘chicken killer forever’ business. I mean, don’t these people watch Dr. Phil? Were they not inspired by the final day of Oprah? Do they not realize the incredible capacity all creatures (big and small) have for change?

After the first two chicks were gone we went to buy two new chicks at Tractor Supply, which is sort of a catch all place for feed and farming and ranching supplies.  Imagine a smaller version of Target but instead of cute plastic plates and glasses for your patio table this place sells troughs where cattle eat. Tractor Supply does actually have a clothing section but it’s pretty much just cowboy boots and then some basic jeans and shirts etc. When we were shopping for the chicks I actually got distracted by one of the clothing displays and Andrew was like, ‘What are you doing?’ And I was like, ‘Well this might actually be a good shirt to have on the river next weekend.’ It was the perfect shirt for wearing at a river—snap buttons so that it easily comes on and off over your bathing suit and it also had cap sleeves to shield your shoulders from the sun.

He just stood there, staring at me and completely ignoring the shirt. ‘I don’t know which is more strange,’ he said. ‘That you’re considering buying clothes here or that you’re commenting on the effectiveness of clothing versus how cute you think something is.’

I haven’t completely gone off the deep end. We’re keeping the whole fashion house theme with naming our baby chicks so two new ones are called Coco and Chanel. If I ever name two of these birds Tractor and Supply then we’ll know I’ve taken change just a little too far and that some actual intervention by a talk show psychologist/host/bestselling New York Times author is probably required.

For now I’m going to start telling this story to the country people who think Isabella will be a chicken killer forever. That damn dog is going to learn to love these chickens if I have to wrap her up in my new river shirt and force her to LOVE EVERY FREAKING MEMBER OF THE FAMILY WHETHER SHE WANTS TO OR NOT.  If I can become a Tractor Supply clothes shopper, then trust me, anything can happen.

last weekend our baby turned one year old and instead of the usual ‘rent a clown’ thing, to celebrate I chose to get kind of weepy and emotional. Andrew was like, ‘Maybe some cake would make you feel better?’ To which I answered, ‘Do you remember the time we had cake for his one-month birthday and he was so small and cute and….and…and….’

And then Andrew walked out of the room.

What got to me even more than the birthday was the year anniversary of having gone into labor. By definition, going into labor is the moment at which your child starts the journey into the world. And obviously I knew that, but what I didn’t understand is that it’s also the moment at which your life starts on a trajectory that is completely out of your control. To that point, I had control over everything in my life. And once my body took over, it was a precursor to the child taking over, and now ‘control’ is this distant, far-away place that feels like a vacation destination I remember fondly, but know I won’t be returning to for a long, long time.

Almost exactly one year after Andrew and I got in the car to drive to the hospital, we got in the car to drive to a concert. And as we were winding along the roads that lead from the country to the city—doing the same drive we’d done the year before but in a much more comfortable way, at least for me—I was talking about how crazy it was that so much had changed in the last year. He was totally zoning out but of course that wasn’t going to stop me—I was in full-on Lifetime Movie narration mode. Until the moment I looked over at him and realized there was something very familiar about the view. ‘Isn’t that the shirt you were wearing last year when we were driving to the hospital?’ I asked. He looked down and laughed. ‘That’s funny,’ he said, ‘It definitely is the same shirt.’

Of course I was going to use that as further evidence of the deep connection this day had to the larger patterns of our life but then he was all, ‘I suppose you think I never should have washed this shirt after wearing it for your delivery. Just in case there was splattered placenta worth saving.’

In a year lots can change. But thankfully there is also a lot that stays the same.

so today I pulled my first actual plant out of the garden. There is a ton of lettuce that’s ready to go, but I figured I’d start slow with one bunch.

I decided to use the lettuce for my lunch and since there was so much of it, the obvious choice was to make a salad. The whole time I was putting together the salad I was thinking to myself that this is where all the satisfaction of growing a garden comes from. And wasn’t it cool that I had actually grown the food I was going to put in my belly? But then I sat down to eat the salad and that’s when the problems started because at that moment I remembered I don’t actually like eating salads very much. I often plan to eat them but usually get sidetracked by a turkey sandwich or maybe a hamburger, and the only time I actually walk away from a salad feeling satisfied is if it is served alongside something else like, well, like a steak.

The crazy part about this is that I was a vegetarian for nine years and actually ate quite a lot of salads during that time. All I can really say about that is I spent a large portion of those years being unsatisfied and angsty and even though I blamed a lot of that angst on the fact that there was no good man in my life, it now occurs to me if I’d just chomped down on a cheesesteak sooner, maybe some of that stress would have been easier to handle. Obviously Andrew wouldn’t have come into my life any more quickly, but at least I wouldn’t have been so hungry while I was waiting on him.

Anyway I was having all these thoughts and sort of pushing the lettuce around on my plate when Andrew came in from working. He immediately asked what was wrong and I told him that I was bummed out because I would much prefer to be eating a pizza. He agreed that yes that was a total bummer because the last time he checked there were no pepperonis growing in my garden and the nearest pizza place is also over thirty minutes away. There was no denying the truth in those facts and once I really evaluated the situation it became clear that Louis and Vuitton have become my only hope for getting through mealtimes in the coming month. If they would just take a liking to lettuce then it means I wouldn’t be responsible for eating every bit of green stuff growing in my garden. In case you didn’t put two and two together on that one, it means I’d rather clean up chicken shit then exist on salads. Not to be cheesy, but it is sort of a chicken and egg situation. Which came first, the girl in the country or the obsession with fried foods.

for the last month, every time we’ve gone to the feed store in town the baby has gotten obsessed with the chickens they sell there. He likes us to lift him up so he can hold the top silver bar of the cage, poke his head over the edge, and cackle at the baby chicks hopping around. When this happens, Andrew and I always talk about getting some chickens but then we leave the store and usually forget about it within 2.2 seconds.

It’s kind of like how every time I’m at Hobby Lobby I’m just sure I’m going to take up knitting or stenciling or maybe even scrapbooking because there, in the store, the supplies look so inviting and fun. But then I get distracted by the idea of lunch and leave without purchasing anything and thank God for that, because I really suck at hobbies.

This morning Andrew went to get some feed for the cattle and when he came back he popped his head into my study (the baby was napping) to tell me he’d brought back a surprise. I was sort of thinking Louis Vuitton wallet but then I was like—silly, Anna, they don’t sell those at the feed store—and so I got kind of interested in what he possibly could have found. A scarf in John Deere Green? But it was even better than that because when I went outside I saw these two totally adorable chickens waiting in the yard.

Immediately I got up really close to them to take a picture and as I was snapping it I said to Andrew, ‘These chickens are so cute, why did we wait so long to get some?’ Then when I looked at a big version of the picture on my computer I saw why—in the two seconds the chickens had been out of the box the yellow one (Louis) had already shat on the front lawn. And that is just exactly what I needed around here, right? Another couple of small creatures who aren’t capable of cleaning up their own feces.

last Friday evening we decided to go for a hike on the ranch. I was still just a couple days away from the rattlesnake encounter on the road so I was sure to lace up my snake boots and I also spent the first fifty yards clicking sticks together like the stepmom in Parent Trap when she was trying to keep the bears away while camping. Clicking sticks is ineffective for bears and it’s even more ridiculous for snakes but it totally makes Andrew crazy when I do pointless things on the ranch so I figured at least it was good for some laughs.

In return—you know, for some laughs—he stopped about ten minutes into the hike and was like, ‘Hey, look at this.’ And of course I ran up thinking it was going to be a cute little bunny or maybe a beautiful wildflower but sure enough, it was a snake spread across the trail. The snake was a harmless green grass snake but still my heart was pounding and Andrew was like, ‘Maybe it will help kill your fear if you take a picture of it.’

This is about as logical as clicking sticks together but I figure if snakes are a part of life out here then I need to reach in any available corner for some courage.  So I take out my camera to get the picture and as I’m clicking away he reaches over and picks up the snake. He’s got the baby on his back so I’m like, ‘What are you doing?’

But in a much more stressed-out and high-pitched voice than italics can properly communicate.

His voice is totally even when he answers, cool as a cucumber, because to him a snake is like a mosquito bite or eating at a random taqueria on the side of the road—there’s always a chance of disaster but with proper precautions you’re probably going to be perfectly okay. ‘Anna,’ he says, ‘The baby is going to have to learn how to handle snakes.’

Of course I’m the opposite of a cool cucumber at that comment. I’m a jalapeno pepper because all I can think is Oh really? He’s going to have to learn how to handle snakes? Well then maybe we should change our plans and have a second and third baby in quick succession? One who can be a belly dancer and the other who will swallow fire sticks and then when they hang out with their brother, the snake handler, we’ll be more than a fun family people like to invite over for dinner parties—we’ll be a freaking carnival.

The harmless green grass snake before the clock struck ‘time to pick it up and play’ and I turned into a hot mess of jalapeno peppers.

my mother has never asked for a specific present for Mother’s Day. We always get her something, of course, but it’s the sort of holiday where we try and show how well we know her without her having to spell it out for us. I’m sure sometimes we succeed at that task and maybe sometimes we have failed, but that’s the thing with mothers, they always make you think that you’ve performed well even when inside they’re wondering why the hell you got them a macramé plant holder…..because don’t these kids know that I effing hate indoor plants and now I have to buy another effing indoor plant to go in this effing holder and God knows this will be the one plant that lives forever and I’ll be stuck with it after they go off to college and have their own kids and I’m pushing my walker over to water it…. ‘Oh but really, it’s so perfect, how did you know that I absolutely adore macramé?’

For my first Mother’s Day as a mother I broke this tradition and asked for exactly what I wanted because I knew there was no way in hell Andrew would guess that I have been dreaming about a DustBuster. I know that is totally lame, but it’s true. Not even our dog can get the hard-to-reach cracks where the Cheerios live and the baby is scared of the noise the vacuum cleaner makes, so that means if I want the floors clean I have to use his naptimes to vacuum. When obviously, his naptimes should be used for procrastination of my writing and eating Blue Bell ice cream sandwiches and talking on the phone with my feet up.

I decided the DustBuster was the solution to this problem and so I asked him to get me one because I sort of felt like it would cushion the blow of being a total dork when at least I didn’t have to buy the DustBuster for myself. But this morning I found the blow wasn’t cushioned at all, when I opened the DustBuster it screamed total dork and I checked my jeans to make sure they didn’t have a Talbots label yet because there’s no denying I’m on some kind of slippery slope of motherhood here. But while I thought Oh my gosh what does this mean that I’m opening a DustBuster for a major holiday, am I ever going to return to the days of designer purses and frivolous clothes and trips to fun locations I said  ‘Oh, but really, it’s so perfect, and a model that has three speeds and a brush? This is everything I wanted and more.’

And maybe that little white lie to cover up my inner panic wasn’t a bad thing, maybe it was actually a huge step forward. Maybe after a year of running around this ranch like a discombobulated donkey at a circus, I’m finally getting parts of this motherhood thing right.

this morning the baby and I were out for a walk on the county road with Isabella when she suddenly took off running in the direction of a stick. For some reason I started to call her back and it’s a damn good thing I did because when we got up closer to that stick, I saw the stick was moving and that there were a collection of small shell-like structures wrapped around the end of it. This was no stick, it was a rattlesnake and I wasn’t close enough for it to strike but I saw its slimy snake tongue shoot out and scissor around and that was enough to turn my walk into a run home, where I promptly carried the baby inside the house, pulled my snake boots out of the closet, put them on and then ate a slice of cake.

I realize the cake won’t keep the snakes away. But it did make me feel a hell of a lot better.  And I figured since I ran all the way home I deserved it.

Andrew had seen us run back in the house from where he was working in the vineyard so he came in to make sure things were okay. He found me on the kitchen floor, playing with the baby, snake boots on and empty cake plate with crumbs at my side. He asked what happened and I told him about our up close and personal encounter with the rattlesnake. In reality the encounter wasn’t that up close and personal, but I figure a little embellishment is allowed when it comes to poisonous reptiles.

To say he was nonplussed is no embellishment. He takes snakes as a fact of life on the ranch and though that’s the truth, it’s simply a hard one for me to swallow. His point is that there are dangers wherever you live, in all shapes and sizes. My point is that this particular danger slithers around on its belly in the high grass and can kill my able, seventy-pound dog with one well-placed bite. I refuse to type out what it could do to a baby because there is not enough wine in the county to soothe the case of nerves I would get from actually saying those words out loud. (Or typing them, you get my point.)

‘Well,’ he asked. ‘Are you going to stay inside now for the rest of the summer?’

To which I said, ‘Of course not, that’s ridiculous.’

‘What about the rest of the day?’ he wanted to know.

I told him that would all depend on how long the cake lasts.