“Record me, Mama!”

She knows I’m going to post it, and has not a smidgen of self-consciousness. I’d like a helping of that, please.

Last night I logged on to my web host and decided it was time to upgrade my Wordpress software. Lo and behold, I get to that part of the labyrinth of menus, and it looks like I am running two versions at the same time. Who on earth would want to do that? So I clicked on the older version and hit delete.

“Are you really, totally, seriously sure you want to do that? Or would you rather go have a nice cup of tea?” (To paraphrase the big, ugly, red warning button.)

Of course! Who needs clutter? Not me.

*Click*

And that, friends and neighbors, is how you delete an entire blog in one second. Poof! The database was history. Five years of writing (yes, I missed my big blogoversary again this year) was history in the blink of an eye.

Of course, I didn’t know that yet. Wordpress was telling me that I was missing a crucial file. I needed passwords, I needed to know mySQL and lots of other jumbles of letters that code writers make up to confuse sane people. But in the end what I needed to know most was the phone number to tech support at Bluehost. So I told the young man on the phone what I had done. He looked through my files.

“Whoa. You’re whole database is gone.”

!

“I can get the backup for you. But it will only go back to the twenty-second.”

Five minutes later I was back. I had lost one post, but it was only me whining and the wonderful, encouraging comments were more of a loss than the post. I promised the tech guy that I would back away from any red warning buttons in the future and would stick to the occasional template coding. He laughed and said to have a nice day.

Which is how I got right here. Whew.

(It’s been forever since I picked this up. If you’ve lost track, click here.)

I had made it from Alamosa, Colorado to Sedona, Arizona in record time. I had seen wide miles of country pass under my feet while riding with strangers and I was tired out from being constantly alert for two days.

I had planned very carefully how to get here. I had given a lot of thought as to how to stay safe. And then I cheerfully left the rest up in the air. I had no one in town to stay with; I didn’t even have a map with me. To this day I can not explain why I didn’t think of what I was going to do once I got to where I was going. I had a vague notion that there might be a hostel nearby, even a homeless shelter. And though I wasn’t Catholic, I wasn’t above mooching a little from the church that is so famous for taking in the destitute.

So I used some of my precious change to call the church office from the Circle K pay phone. A man’s voice greeted me on the other end and I explained my situation.

“Hi! I’ve been hitching, and my last ride just dropped me off here in Sedona. I was wondering if there was any place I could stay for the night and get my bearings.”

Long pause.

“Little girl, you came to the wrong town.”

I stood there in disbelief. Basically, the good Father was not just saying no, but no way. I asked if, please, there was any place at all and he assured me that no, there was nowhere and goodbye. I hung up and stared out the window into the darkening parking lot. I took a deep breath, picked up my pack and bedroll and went outside to assess the situation.

I was exhausted. I was lonely. I was broke. And I was in for a long night. I started walking down the road past tourist shops and signs with coyotes wearing bandannas and turned right on the first street I came to. Down the hill was an RV park full of actual happy campers. By now it was completely dark and since I couldn’t find a bridge or culvert to dig into until morning, I snuck to a camping spot in the back of the park and laid out my sleeping bag there. I hoped no one would see me and report me. And I hoped that if I did get caught, they would just make me leave and not call the police. But it was nice to hear friendly voices close by.

It was not the arrival I had hoped for, not by a long shot. I snuggled down into my bag and thought about what I would do the next day. I would have to get out before the sun was up so I wouldn’t be seen. After that, who could say?

I know that some day I am going to look back and laugh at these days. Some day far, far from now.

It all started with a cat. Our cat, Emma – out of nowhere, it seems – decided that the litter boxes were the only place her poop did not belong. For about three or four weeks now, she has nailed any number of rooms, although always on the first floor. It is a real downer to wake up every day and clean up after the shtupid cat. (Before I even get any coffee.)

I tried spanking. That didn’t change anything. I tried different litter, taking the lids off of the boxes, and giving her a different water source. None of it made any difference. So Monday I packed her off to the vet.

We have a great vet’s office. Their one fault is that they love to sell. They offer tons of high-tech procedures and tons of products. And they look at you in an expectant way that makes you feel like a clod if you refuse. So after a thorough exam it was determined that Emma…

…has a little tiny bit of tartar build up. Everything else looked fabulous. They offered to test her poo for parasites and to  test her blood for a bazillion different problems. They offered to sell me herbs to sprinkle on the litter to attract kitties to visit more often and a Glade Plug-in-type thing that smells like mama kitty nipples so that cats won’t poo in any room near it. (I am totally serious, people.) I said yes to the poo screening and herbs, no to the $150 blood screening and nipple pheromones, and paid for my visit and stomped home.

I dropped off the cat at home and we went to National Night Out. Great fun. Upon returning, we found multiple piles of cat diarrhea, one truly scary, gigantic, hot dog-sized fur ball in another pile of poo, and a newly chipper kitteh. Aha! we said. Fur balls are the problem. Emma has luxuriously thick, gorgeous tortoise shell fur. And she sheds like a maniac. So we decided to give her a lion cut. (We had long ago tried brushing and brushing and brushing. No luck.) 

Yesterday, newly purchased clippers in hand, I took her in the bathroom and clipped her. She loved it most of the time. But when I cooed at her and tried to get her to calm down as I buzz cut her furry little armpits I thought, I really need to examine my life. This is not my beautiful house…this is not my beautiful cat.

It turned out okay. She feels pretty embarrassed to be so naked, but if it helps with the fur balls I don’t care how she feels. I want clean carpets.

So.

Today I woke up and guess what? Piles of runny kitty poo everywhere. Cleaning up is pretty much all I have done all day. I finally crated her just to have a little peace. (Funny enough, she is staying very clean in there. My guess as to why? No carpet.)

What can I do? I can’t take her back to the vet! She will take one look at my ticked off, dyspeptic, bald feline and probably have me arrested.

Like I said…all this will be funny. Someday.

That’s what Moo shouted as she watched her brother climb down into the water.

When the Bear was just a baby and I was awash with new (again) mama hormones, I also happened to be reading up on Calvinism. I went through a huge crisis of doctrine. What if predestination is true? How could a loving God create people who are only doomed to damnation? And – more to the point – what about their mothers?

Then I read up some more, the hormones settled down, and I got back to the business of life.

From that overwhelming period of feeling so vulnerable as a parent to today… Today the Bear doesn’t just walk with God, he plays Star Wars with Him. He frets to Him. He looks at the world around him and measures it with a God ruler.

Today, after months of begging, the Bear was baptised by his daddy. One father giving his kid to his heavenly father. It was awesome to see.