Being at the cabin always seems to spark spiritual conversations, big gooey “what do you think” chats about where we came from and where we are headed. Shaun and I also just did our wills and advanced medical directives and all that icky paperwork that has to be done. (Note: we drove very gingerly home over the mountains, because although we have done all the paperwork? We have yet to sign it).

So in this conversation, I was dead, and Shaun was (or wasn’t) remarrying. He said he would probably remarry because he would be a dork about all the girl stuff. I contested, thinking that he’s pretty good about understanding women’s bodies and being able to articulate all that beautiful stuff that happens.

We started a little role-play, with me as Ruby. “Daddy,” I asked, “what’s a period?”

He muddled through something about the lining of her uterus shedding (it’s all natural!) and that having cramps and discovering blood coming out of her vagina was nothing to be scared of.

Then he added, with complete confidence, “And if you have sex with boys too early, it’ll start coming out your eyeballs.”

My light is under a bushel, as they say. Meaning, I don’t scream and yell about Easter and how incredibly excited I get inside about it. The Easter Bunny bringing baskets is groovy, and Cadbury Cream Eggs certainly get a vote, but I really do get into the meaning of the day. It’s the day that God keeps a promise to me, each year. Simple as that. You won’t hear me talking about it much, but if you asked me, that’s what I would say.

And, whether or not God created them, lets me keep them, looks after them, helps me be good to them, or simply listens to my gratitude for them in my prayerful times — I can’t help but believe that something all-powerful and magnificent had everything to do with these three:

Ruby…

and Shaun…

and Moose.

I know I’ll probably hear about it via a strict finger-wagging from St. Peter, but when I am at a party or gathering and there are atheists about, I just listen to them and smile. I like a good scientific argument as much as the next person, and I understand how organized religion can severely screw people up. At the same time, I just get something from it. From Easter. Something quiet and consuming and mine.

“That’s okay, Jesus,” I think to myself, “you can just stay here with me.”

We’re heading for the cabin in the morning. Three whole big fat days with Shaun and Ruby and Moose and the woodstove and the big bed and the lake and the trees and the sky. Bliss.

We’re taking the first season of “24″ with us on DVD. Neither of us has seen it, but we’ve been assured that it’s “like crack.” Of all the people who have told us that, I am sure not one of them has ever even seen crack. In this circumstance, though, crack is used to describe a good thing. In my recent experience, I would hardly recommend something based on its similarity to crack cocaine. Can’t say I ever heard a wistful, happy story about it. Most of the stories followed a formula like: “I was at this party and there was this stuff and I smoked it and angels sang and all of a sudden my spouse was gone with the kids, I’m missing some crucial teeth, I’m broke, I can’t find my car, and my skin’s not so great.”

I heard “24″ was like crack and my first thought was, “Well, hell, I can’t watch that!” Crack has never been on my list of “things Amy has to quit,” but I am smart enough to know that’s probably because I’ve never done it.

So I’m glad there are only a few seasons of this show available on DVD, otherwise I would completely whack out on it somehow. First, I would upgrade our membership so that Netflix would send us 4 videos at a time instead of 3. Then, I’d sneak in another two. Hell, ten! Whatever they would allow. Charge it up! Shaun would come home from work to find Ruby in a six-pound diaper, covered with crusty yogurt and sleep boogers in her crib, slack-jawed and dazed, murmuring “Mooooommmmy” while I slumped pie-eyed in front of the television with huge noise-reducing headphones on. “Just one more episode,” I would plead, as he wrestled the remote from my cold, grizzled hand.

Wow. Sounds like a great weekend, doesn’t it? Maybe I should just go down the block in the morning and get some crack instead. Why? Because I don’t want to have to QUIT NETFLIX. I’m not quitting another thing. Not one.

Happy Easter, Bunnies.

So I hear this chopper-worthy buzzing in my office and turn to see that I am sharing space with a bee that’s about the size of my thumb. Euw. After minutes of trying to steer it back outside with strategically swatted air (I suppose we could replace the holey screen, but then there wouldn’t be all this bug-drama to think about), I start to aim the swatter at the bee. Mind you, all day (it’s spring!) I have been smearing the life out of tiny ants that are making their way across my desk, without hearing any of their screams. This bee is different, though, because it is practically looking me in the eye.

One swat sort of clips it (it’s dazed, quick!) and I try the “scoop and toss,” taught to me by no one in particular — again trying to set the bee free. Instead of hitting the open air, however, he does a cannonball onto my desktop and sproings back behind the desk….buzzing (and DYING) the entire time. I failed, grasshopper, at what I feel was an important lesson. Can’t put my finger on the lesson — but right now I can’t find the damn bee carcass either. The buzzing stopped a minute ago. Ugh. I’ll find that bug when I move the desk someday, its eyes pleading in death as it begs me to get the cookie sheet and the bowl (the cookie sheet and the bowl!) instead of the swatter.

Perhaps this is how Buddhists feel — the ones that walk bugs outside instead of killing them (read: my brother). What if a bumblebee was life-size (my size) and I had to actually stab it in the heart with a letter opener to get it out of my office? How would that be different from running around like a lunatic trying to smack the thing to death? Or, running outside and strangling the loud junior high-schoolers in the alley because they are bugging me too? Bugging me. Ha. Damn Bee.

I don’t feel like a Buddhist right now, though. I just sort of feel like a crazy killin’ dirtbag.  I’ve tasted blood, man.  Look out.

“I love you
You bug me.
You’re not nice (and you should be)!
With a great big hug and kiss(off) from me to you…
[Client of our company], eat my poo.”

That’s the way you really want to feel after dinner with a friend. You show up all dull and road-dirted, with tales of woe or malaise to share, and you leave all shiny and spiffed up for Round 2. For tomorrow.

Wendy’s always buffing my rough edges away — she listens to me prattle on about every-little-thing, then sends me home in a jewelry box instead of a paper bag.

Intimacy and laughter are such tremendous gifts. So, I must say, is B. Smith’s Bourbon St. Bread Pudding. Thanks for all, Ms. H.

In the inspired words of the bard Pat O’Brien, “You are so fucking hot.”

I went to my therapy group last night. I see a woman named Grace (even her name is part of a Higher Plan, as I have indeed experienced grace since meeting her).  She has gotten me involved in a group where we talk about the minutiae of recovery and life every day, but also the enormity of spirituality and how we can use faith (in whatever you choose) to help us stumble down the road. If I refer to folks in the group, I’m going to call them all Mary. There aren’t any Marys in the group, and it’s men and women — but I suppose if anyone ever reads this blog I don’t want them to see things that identify them or call them out. Threaten their anonymity, as those program folks say.

So, last night, Mary talked about her completely absent and narcissistic mother who treated her like a doll instead of a human. She was potty trained and in undies by 10 months. Can you imagine the trauma gettting to that point?

Mary talked about being a gay man and how his early rejection of his sexuality ruined any sense of self that he had, since he had to pretend to be someone or something he wasn’t into adulthood.

Mary talked about having crippling migraines since age 6 and the years and years of folks either not believing her, overmedicating her, or dismissing her.

Mary talked about the death of her mother and the general falling apart of her son, and her white-knuckle struggle to hold it together.

I talked about making sausage out of my daughter.

As I left, I thought “Well, the humiliation of that is nothing that a handful of percocet and a bottle of wine won’t fix,” and therein lies the rub.

I guess I’ll go back next week. And just keep talking.

Little Lucas at Ruby’s daycare ran enthusiastically into his dad’s arms and melted. “Daddy, park! Daddy, park!” I spy Ruby out of the corner of my eye, skulking towards me. “HI HONEY!” I say in my happiest Mom voice. “LUCAAAAS” she cries, and immediately (and with fee-wing) throws herself on the floor. I wonder, in a flash, if I could send her home with Lucas. For dinner? Perhaps an overnight. Maybe the summer.

“Would you like to push the stroller?” No.

“Would you like to ride in the stroller?” No.

“Would you like to walk?” Nonono.

“Would you like me to carry you?” No.

Run? No. Skip? No. Prance like a stallion? Waddle like a penguin? Slither like a snake? No. No. No.

At this point, we have moved to the sidewalk outside daycare.

“Would you like to stay here while I run screaming into the nearest bar? I’ll be back soon, I promise.” No.

The walk home took more than 30 minutes. We live 2 blocks away. I alternately carried Ruby, the stroller, her “homework” papers, her jacket, her shoes and socks (which she took off en route), all while she was screaming and crying about something unintelligible that we clearly couldn’t discuss.

About halfway home I decided that rather than stroll or walk or carry or cajole or bribe Ruby home, I would instead shove her into a meat grinder and make little Ruby-sausages. Then I figured I better not blog about that, because I had to be the only person who would actually consider making sausage out of their child. That is, until I realized if I added fancy things to her like lemongrass and edible tulips that I could probably sell my Ruby-sausages at Eastern Market and make enough money to buy an entirely NEW child. Maybe I’ll get one of those Basenji kinds, the ones that don’t make any noise.

I could advertise the sausages on the MoTH listserv and women would stop by clucking “Aww, those Fannings just couldn’t make it with little Ruby. She was really cute too. I bet she’s tasty!”

Ruby Sausages. They SCREAM all the way through dinner!

She’s having pasta with Daddy now. He walked in and the sun shone a different way somehow. Gone is troll-Momma, Daddy’s here! Little does he know that we’re having Ruby sausage for breakfast. If he’s not careful we’ll have a side of Shaun.

Family fun with Photo Booth…

My little Henry Rollins!

Imagine that hangover… Oh, I know you’ve been there.

This is who Ruby sees when he says “That’s enough cottage cheese, let’s clean up.”

Have you seen this? Everyone in the world has but me, it seems. It’s the third most popular blog on the planet! I love that Frank Warren links to Hopeline for those who have a secret that’s eating them up.

I don’t have any juicy secrets! I seem to have a “Don’t ask, tell tell tell!” policy at work in my life, as you are welcome to know whatever you want to about me. If I do come up with a secret that I’ve forgotten (read: buried), I’ll post it, and end the torture. Yours and mine.