I didn’t like it. At least not very much.

My mom said she kept reading it because she wanted to find out what happened. That’s something, I suppose, but I was about a quarter of the way through the book before I let go of the fact that I didn’t really care what happened and started to like Adam just a little a bit. He should be at the top of the world with hit songs, and world tours, and PR managers and fans who ask for his autograph at every turn. But his world is falling apart around him as he struggles to find his place in the world after Mia broke up with him. Fame and fortune and even a famous actress live in girlfriend isn’t enough to fill the vaccuum she left behind.

And then they meet.

And then the dialog starts. The backstory unfolds and it is handled reasonably well until the climax when they are able to walk away from each other and Adam realizes he can be OK.

The book should have ended there.

If it had ended there, I would have forgiven it some of the unnecessary length of explanations as Mia and Adam go on and on, filling in the blanks of the last three years. But instead, all the loose ends are tied up a little too neatly, they get back together, the band finishes its tour and Adam goes on to write independently and with less anger.

I liked the idea of these characters that had to be separated in order to heal from their separate hurts so that they could truly be together. But it was a little too wordy and a little too neat.

And I’m probably the only person in the world who reads a romance novel and hopes the couple doesn’t end up getting back together in the end.

“This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.”

Micah begins to fuss. For as much as he wants to nurse, he is also hungry.

“Do you want some kefir?” I ask.

And he drops down off my bed and runs to the kitchen. He dances and claps as I prepare the kefir for the morning and hand him a glass. He drinks it and smiles up at me with a kefir mustache and a kefir beard and kefir dribbling down his stomach . . .

Micah looks in a box of peeping, fuzzy goslings and squeals with delight. He leans close to look, holding his hands together. He is trying hard to not touch while he waits for someone to hold one close to him and help him pet. He leans his cheek against the top of the goslings head and his eyes sparkle . . .

Micah stands in the middle of the gym floor, watching the mass of children run and play. He’s a little overwhelmed with all the activity, but curious, too, and he wants to explore. I watch as he walks a little further away. Someone smiles at him and he turns to look for me. I am there and his whole face lights up as he runs back to me, arms held high, waiting to be swept back up in my arms . . .

Micah climbs up behind his sister on the computer chair while everyone is getting ready to watch Lost in Space. He doesn’t really get the whole show watching thing. He’d rather be redistributing my dishes about the house. Except he wants to do whatever they are doing and right now they are getting ready to watch a show. He gobbles his sister’s back and she laughs.

“You shouldn’t eat your sister!” Bug says.

And then everyone is laughing and Micah is laughing so hard he is having a hard time gobbling . . .

Micah looks at me . . . and he smiles.

And every smile is a treasured gift. A ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. A breath of fresh air on a hot summer’s afternoon.

Because last year, I was so scared. I was scared that I cried too much and laughed too seldom. I was scared of the effect so much grief would have on such a young baby. I was scared of what he would go through growing up in the shadow of a brother he barely met and never really knew.

I was scared I was going to ruin him.

But when he looks at me, he smiles.

And I’m not so scared anymore.

Because that is when we gave up on Pepper and had her rehomed.

But as I screw on the little metal knobs that actually deliver the shock, I hesitate. Jake is napping peacefully in the corner. He lives to please me. I was already harsh with him and even now, a few days later, he approaches me submissively with his shoulders low, his wagging tail sweeping the ground, and those great big eyes that just say, “Do you still love me, Mommy?”

The first thing I ever read about remote shock collars, or e-collars as their proponents prefer to call them, was about training dogs to leave chickens alone.

“Set the shock high and walk away. You don’t want the dog to know you are delivering the shock. You want her to think it is the chicken. When she goes for the chicken, the shock should knock her off her feet.”

That recommendation from a total stranger soured me on the use of a collar and actually was the first thing that made me seriously consider giving up Pepper. Because a new home away from chickens was surely better than treating her that way just so she could stay here.

But Jake isn’t Pepper. At least not yet.

So I call him over and fit him for his new collar. I read a little more about just exactly how I am supposed to do this and finally take him outside. With the remote in my pocket, I watch him sniff around the front yard and deliver the first shock.

Nothing.

I increase it. Still nothing. I’m looking for that point when he takes notice, but nothing more. I increase it more. And more. And I start to think maybe the shock cannot penetrate his thick coat but then finally he stops sniffing to scratch his neck. He resumes sniffing, as if it were only a bothersome fly. I try once again, in case it was just a fly. Same response.

And now it is time to introduce chickens.

We walk down to the henhouse to release the chickens and start our morning chores. Because right then, when the door is first opened and the chickens come racing out, right then it is the hardest for any dog to remember that they aren’t allowed to chase chickens.

He’s immediately alert as the tension gathers in his shoulders for a possible strike. I tap the remote in my pocket with no effect. I increase it by one and see the reaction in his eyebrows and ears as they make a slight jump. His gaze never leaves the chickens, but I decide to work with him at this level. I tap the remote again, his ears lift and he runs to my side.

“Hey, Jake!”

I rub under his ear and continue chores as if I didn’t notice what just happened. On the way to get water, he notices the pullets, small females still only half the size of the hens. Before ordering the collar, he killed one, lunged at one and caught yet another I rescued from his jaws. These are the ones that get him excited.

And yet it takes only one little tap on the remote in my pocket and he is back at my side, enjoying scritches behind the ear and the sound of my voice as I tell him about my plans for the day. He trots back down to the henhouse with me and lays down when I start to walk toward the garden. I leave him surrounded by chickens.

As I fill the five gallon waterer for the goslings, he gets up and walks around the barn. He’s out of sight, but through the open door, I can see the chickens coming around the opposite side. They aren’t running, but they are nervous, so I walk slowly to where I can get a view of Jake. He’s just standing there, staring at a chicken perched on the water dish. I’m not sure what to make of his stance. I’m not actually sure whether he wants to go after the chicken or if he just wants a drink of water.

I give him one more tap and that is it. For the rest of the day, I can’t get him to pay any attention to the chickens no matter how hard I try. Whether I sit on the porch or watch through a window inside, he goes about his business as if the chickens aren’t even there.

And I couldn’t be happier with his new little e-collar. Not just because he is learning (and quickly!) but because I was able to relax while doing chores with him. He went after the chickens three times and yet I didn’t have to scold him once. All he heard from me was praise.

And I really think this is going to work.

It was a hard day and then Jake killed a chicken.

Bug saw it and brought me the dead pullet. I was angry, unsure of what to do, so I smothered it in hot sauce with a bit of wasabi intending to feed it to him and knowing it wouldn’t work but feeling like I had to do something. I walked up to him, a chicken walked by and I saw him change from overgrown teddy bear to lightning fast predator in an instant.

And I threw the dead chicken at him as I yelled that I was taking him to the pound.

Though he has killed before, I had never seen him do it. When he is with me, he doesn’t pay that much attention to the chickens.  Sometimes he pricks his ears and sometimes he shows more interest than I like and once, the day before, he charged one but not with that kind of intensity.

And now, after locking up the barn, I look back at the house and the day isn’t over. I still have the dinner dishes. I still have a list of things I know I should do and I know I probably won’t. I think about pushing it all aside and just going to bed because I want the day to be over and I’m just done with it all.

I look up at the stars and think how they once filled me with wonder. That night . . . the night Tiggy died . . . there were stars. The most spectacular shooting star streaked across the sky as we lost sight of the ambulance on Highway 2 on the way to the trauma center at Bryan LGH in Lincoln.

It was beautiful.

My husband saw it as a sign that God was in control. No matter what happened, He was there. I have had difficulty even looking at the stars ever since. They are still beautiful. Out here, the night sky can be breathtaking. But to open myself to that kind of awe, I have to open myself to the fountain of grief that boils alongside it and it is easier not to take notice.

And it is eleven at night and I don’t want to go inside so I sit in the grass by the barn and stare at the sky. I find Orion on the western horizon. Leo is further to the north. I find the Milky Way playing peekaboo behind wispy strands of clouds and part of a song runs through my mind.

“. . . the stars are his handiwork, too . . . “

Jake leaves the porch to come lay down next to me. He puts his big head in my lap and I hold him there, stroking his fur. It is warm and silky in spots and rough in others. He needs brushed out, but I run my fingers through the dirt and bits of grass and hold my big puppy Jake as I watch the stars.

“Oh, Jake, what am I going to do with you?”

We’ve sat like this before, on my front porch looking out at the cedar trees that mark the northern edge of the cemetary where my son is buried. His fur has caught too many tears to simply give up and give him away. And it catches them even now as I hope that I am not forced to choose between him and the poultry that plays such a strong part in our plans for this property.

And Jake has no idea why I am sitting out here in the dark but he knows I need something to hold onto so he chooses to lie here with his head in my lap rather than returning to the pot of left over oatmeal sitting on the porch.

And I’m sorry I got so angry at him, but I know it was partly fear. Fear of the problem getting worse. Fear of losing him. Fear of having to make a choice.

And the day ends more challenging than it began.

“I hate bees!” she yells.

The tears have stopped but are replaced by anger.

“I’m never going outside again!”

And I’m not sure whether she is really upset about the sting, or the betrayal. Last year, she visited our little apiary almost every day. She sat amongst the bees, petted them and waited patiently at the entrance for one to climb on her finger. She watched for workers carrying pollen and reported to me how hard they were working.

She wanted that again.

But then she got stung right on the nose.

Ouch.

And it hurts me as well, because I want these hives to be a learning experience for my children. I want them to learn about the fascinating life of the honeybee, I want them to learn the flavors of the seasons and experience the “soul of the flower” as honey was once called.

But there are lessons in their sting as well.

Perserverence

There is pain in so many things we want. It hurts to fall off a bike. It hurts to crash on roller blades. It hurts to lose when you’ve worked so hard. It hurts to get stung by a bee when all you wanted to do was watch it fly. And sometimes it seems like all the scrapes and bruises aren’t worth it, but then you learn to ride that bike. Or taste that first drop of honey.

Good things are worth working for and the pain of the journey is oft forgotten when the goal is finally achieved.

Perspective

The little bee didn’t know why we were there, why we dumped her out of her home, why we didn’t leave when she buzzed her angry buzz. She didn’t know we had bought a home for her, made to her exact preferences, and put out a feeder of sugar syrup to help her have enough to eat while she got oriented in her new surroundings. She didn’t know that we would only take her extra honey and would always leave her hive with enough to get through winter. She only knew that she was scared and we had something to do with it all.

Wonder

Have you ever really looked at a stinger? It is so small, it doesn’t really seem like it could hurt . . . and hurt . . . . and hurt. But the real pain comes from that little venom sac. Have you ever watched it pulsate as it pumps more and more venom into the sting? Have you ever considered how amazing it is that something so small can defend a hive full of something so incredibly sweet?

Compassion

Bug’s nose still hurt, but that bee gave her life to defend her hive.

It didn’t take Bug long to go back outside. After all, that’s where all her favorite things are. And her curiosity gradually drew her closer to the hives.

Because she really does love the bees.

Thank you to everyone who entered and supported our etsy shop and our mission to raise money to build a children’s home for the children of Nepal. Don’t forget you can still get free shipping through the end of May with the coupon code, “MOTHERS DAY”!

And my apologies for the premature posting. A couple of comments got held by my spam filter so I had to let those go through and redraw.

“Peep peep peep!”

I call as I unlock the henhouse door. The goslings come waddling and peeping as fast as they can.

Right over the bodies of two of the ducklings. My breath catches in my throat as I unlatch the bottom half of the door and step in.

“No,” I whisper softly as I pick up the first limp body. “No.”

“Peep peep peep!” Call the geese excitedly. But I scarcely notice them. Seven ducklings sit huddled under the heat lamp. There should be eleven. I tear apart the henhouse looking for the other two but come up with nothing.

“Why?” I cry out as I sit in the litter amidst my peeping goslings, all jostling for my attention. “WHY?!”

The anger and the hurt and the despair begin to well up in my chest. I want to scream. I want to walk away and give up. I can’t do this again. I can’t keep trying and failing at everything.

I pick up the second body and feel as if I am looking at the death of a dream. Here in my hands lies my vision for what I want our property to someday be and it is dead and I cannot revive it.

I am giving up.

But this duckling looks different than the other. This one is missing its bill and its feet. I spot tiny gnaw marks on what is left of the bill and I realize my ducklings were probably attacked by a rat. A rat that will be back. I need to protect them.

I drag down the rabbit cage from the garage and make my seven survivors a nest in it. Nothing should be able to attack them in the cage. I look at my goslings. I can’t even bear to think how I will react if something happens to them, but there isn’t room in the cage for them. I look at the chicks on the other side of my makeshift nursery. I am not as worried about them. Most of them sleep on the roost now and with the light on in the henhouse, they are pretty active through the night. I think they are fast enough to get away from a rat.

But I’m not so sure about the goslings.

And I know the rat will be back.

Because really I never quite accepted that Geneen Roth, author of Lost and Found, had really lost anything of value. Money, yes. A lot of it. But it was money invested with Bernie Madoff, not money she was really using for anything at that moment. She didn’t lose her house and really, worrying over a mortgage is not the same. She still had food on the table and really, shopping at Costco isn’t that bad. She still had opportunities to go to New York and stay in hotels for speaking engagements and really, forgoing that $1000 pair of glasses is hardly suffering.

And I suppose it didn’t help that I knew from the start that she got it all back within a year and a half.

Or maybe it was just because she didn’t really spend that much time on the loss itself. There was a moment there when she is on the satellite phone with her husband to tell him what happened and he says they are no longer the kind of people who can afford to talk on a phone that costs $10 a minute — there I felt a sense of the loss. But she moves on rather quickly to the lessons learned from her tailspin that lasted a couple of weeks and to her analysis of her (and our culture’s) desire for more.

But I lost a child. There are no get togethers where people ask questions like, “If you could choose between getting it all back or keeping the lessons you have learned through the loss, which would you choose?”

Because questions like that only make sense when you are talking about losing material things. Things which only have the value you affix to them.

And while I identified with her sense of living “in the moment,” the need to pull her thoughts back to the here and now where they did not run wild with panic and fear for the future, it has neither been freeing nor beautiful for me. I do not stop and appreciate the beauty of the rose, drink in the smell of springtime before a rain, nor find comfort in the abundance I already have.

Those, rather, are the things I have lost, “. . . for all is vanity and a striving after wind.”

There is only one source of comfort for this longing in my heart and it isn’t here in the present for not all that I treasure is here. It isn’t in the many little gifts I sometimes barely perceive for they are as fleeting as the flower before it fades. It isn’t in myself for I have not the power to bring back my little boy.

Instead, I rest in the promise of the one who created him. Who said that life is not what we are living for and death is not the end. And in the glimpses I catch between the tears, I see something so brilliant that it leaves this world looking as pale and empty as it did the day Tiggy died.

And I remember that this is not the world we were created for.

_____________________________________________________________

This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.

To enter, simply leave a comment sharing something you love about a mother in your life. A winner will be selected at random April 20, 2012 and notified via email.

In the meantime, we have this and many other lovely items in our etsy shop. Between now and Mother’s Day, you can get free dometic shipping on all orders by using the coupon code “MOTHERSDAY”. And as always, all profits are donated to Tiggy’s House, a children’s home in Nepal to rescue children from sex trafficking.

But I get it. With a dozen (or two) layers, you see that every day. And I have children, too. Children who don’t actually remember ever dyeing eggs. Somehow, that suddenly didn’t seem quite right, so we embarked on an egg coloring adventure to show you some ways you can decorate your already colorful eggs this Easter. If nothing else, it helps you remember which ones are boiled and which ones aren’t when you open the refrigerator.

For starters, you can color them just like any old white egg. You know how the yolks of those farm fresh, pastured poultry are just a richer, deeper, more satisfying color than the store bought eggs? Well, it’s kind of like that when you compare dyed white eggs to dyed brown eggs. The eggs in the top row were originally white. The eggs in the bottom row were brown eggs dyed in the same dyes for the same amount of time to show the color difference.

Those were dyed using the directions on the back of the food coloring box: one half cup water, one teaspoon vinegar and 20 drops of food coloring, in varying combinations.

If you have young children, stickers are always a treat. And can even usually be picked up for a dollar or two.

A little crayon allows for interesting designs. The egg will pick up the dye everywhere the crayon is not, allowing children to draw pictures, write their names, or sketch the Japanese symbols for love and long life.

This one didn’t turn out quite so well as we had hoped because, well, farm fresh eggs don’t always peel as nicely as store bought eggs. They take some aging and sometimes some refrigeration after boiling for the shell to come off cleanly. But we tried our version of Chinese tea eggs. Simply crack the shell of the boiled egg and then dip it in the dye. When peeled, you will have something like this.

Provided your egg white doesn’t come off with your egg shell as the whites of fresh eggs are wont to do.

And should you try that, do not throw away all that egg shell. Instead, put it in a bowl and crunch it up into little pieces. A little glue and Voila! You have a lovely selection of colors for a beautiful mosaic. My daughter isn’t finished with hers, yet, but you can see the beginnings of a very eye catching egg. As well as a nice project for the older children while the younger ones are simply slapping stickers on theirs.

And finally, there is the silk wrapped egg. I first saw this done with silk scarves, but who has a ton of silk scarves lying around? That they want to cut up and boil? Not me. But I do have scraps of recycled silk sari yarn, so I thought I’d try that to see what would happen.

First, you wrap the uncooked egg in your silk yarn. Or scarf.

Then you tie it in a sock. The only real purpose of the sock is to keep the yarn from falling off. The best way I found to do this was to stick my hand in the sock, grab hold of the egg and slowly turn the sock inside out over the egg so the yarn wouldn’t be rubbed off. Then tie it so it stays tight.

Set it in a pot to boil for ten minutes. It may take some creativity to get it to sink if your sock wants to float. I laid a pair of tongs on mine. When it finishes, you will have a lovely bit of abstract art created by the silk dyes rubbing off on your egg.

And with those few tools and a couple of hours, your children can create a few dozen masterpieces to share with friends, hide and of course eat.

How do you normally decorate your eggs?