I've been doing holiday baking this weekend, because this is when I can get it done, and I just hope it lasts.
I suppose that's problem #1.
Today, I made a staple around here, but tried it this time with gluten-free flour, something I've never had to do before. This is my first Christmas season being gluten free, and I wasn't sure all my favorites would hack it.
Yesterday's peppermint meltaways handled the gluten free measure-for-measure flour I use just fine. But they're delicate to begin with and don't travel well, so I don't think I'll be taking them in for the office cookie exchange, despite my plans. And yesterday's buckeyes were naturally gluten free (small favors), and so was the fudge (of course).
Today I tackled a box mix for lemon bars (new to me and I still haven't tried them; they need to chill awhile longer before I can cut them) and the perennial favorite around here: Peppermint Snowy Bars.
They'd finally cooled completely and I was able to dust them with powdered sugar a little bit ago. They're a bar cookie, so I cut both pans and then proceeded to taste-test both (an important step). I was thrilled when they tasted just like the real thing, and even the texture was right! (This is not always the case in GF baking.)
I was putting the cookies away when I realized I had a problem.
I'd bought six new goodie storage bins when I was at Walmart earlier, but as usually happens, they're even smaller than the ones I bought last year. A single batch of fudge won't fit in one of these bad boys, as I discovered. There was no way one was going to hold an entire 9x13 pan of bar cookies.
Well, first step: get rid of cookies. I took three upstairs to offer to the girls.
Youngest actually moaned over how good the cookie was. Medium echoed the sentiment around a mouthful of confection.
"These are awesome, Mom."
"Gluten free," I said to Medium.
"Really?"
"That's the good news," I said. "The bad news is we have a cookie storage problem."
"No, we have my stomach," Middle fired back.
This kid.
I don't think her stomach can hold an entire pan of cookies, but I shouldn't ask.
She might try.
In the end, I used up all but one of my remaining goodie bins for the Peppermint Snowy Bars.
I honestly don't know what I'll do with the next rounds of fudge (I need to make at least two more vanilla mint) or the lemon bars chilling in the fridge.
Get more bins, I guess.
It's sure not fair for Middle's stomach to hold all the cookies.
Me, coming back into the kitchen: Put 'em back in for a little longer?
Youngest is taking Christmas pinwheel cookies out of the oven for the second time.
Youngest: Yeah, they didn't look right.
I'd had a similar experience the other night with my first attempt at peppermint meltaways.
Me: Maybe there's something wrong with the oven.
Middle, who has been spectating and taste-testing but not actually baking: Yeah, I had to ovenate something the other day, and . . .
I just looked at her.
My word kid.
Ovenate.
Middle: Ovenate. I'm just making up words now.
Me: You mean cook. Bake.
Middle: Yeah. Ovenate. I'm telling you, I'm losing it.
Maybe, maybe not.
She's given me two blog posts in one day.
Auntie Jlwrites, I can hear you saying to me, why are you telling us all of this stuff? It can't be just catharsis.
Well, there's that for sure.
And this is a family blog, which chronicles the events of my family. These have been some pretty big events, if I don't mind saying so myself. They've forever altered what our family looks like. Someday my kids may want to know what happened in a fuller way than our conversations have said, and they'll have this record to look at.
It also shows that even what looks like perfection on the outside can turn ugly when sin sinks its claws into it.
This kind of stuff is everywhere, and it needs to be talked about. It hid in my home, behind a man wearing the mask of a Christian. The more it gets talked about--that it happens, that it's real, that pornography is a threat and an addiction that claims lives in an altering way and rips families apart--the more light comes in and kills it.
This happened to us.
I think, in some ways, we are stronger for having lived through it.
He's sentenced. His projected release date is more than eight years out, with credit for time served and time knocked off for good behavior.
I am, however, still fighting for my total release from this nightmare. It's not quite over.
September 2022
Hubby and I had been chatting (sort of) via the texting app that he has access to while incarcerated in BigTown County Jail. We don't need lawyers, he'd written. He cited that we've been together twenty-six years and ought to be able to figure out a way to amicably split the marital property ourselves, without any attorneys in the mix (to muck it up).
So we hammered out an agreement. He'd wanted to boot me out of the house after the last kid had flown the coop, sell it then, and split the profits. That was his first offer that he'd sent my attorney. He asked now what my plans were for the house. I said I planned to live in it. The house was the biggest thing in contention. He was willing to agree to everything else and said he'd only asked for 10% ownership of my writing (which, I'll point out here, predated my relationship with him) because he desperately felt he needed it as a bargaining tool. I had no problem with most of what he'd asked for in return, and in the end, we'd messaged back and forth until we'd hammered out an agreement that was agreeable to both of us.
Or so I thought.
I forwarded the screenshots of our conversations to my attorney so she could draw up the Marital Settlement Agreement from those. She sent it off to Hubby for review, with the instructions to let her know as soon as possible if there were changes he wanted to make.
And we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Mid-December 2022
And waited.
Prison mail is slow, but this is ridiculous. I messaged him about something else entirely, but tacked on a post-script: "Are you going to do anything about the settlement paperwork, or do I have to make other plans?"
When I heard back from him via the app a few days later, he responded angrily about the first thing I'd mentioned, and then said he was going to do something about the settlement paperwork "soon."
Right. I'd seen his "soon." The last time he'd said he would do something soon, it took him 8 weeks to do it.
March 2023
It was finally "soon." Hubby wrote to my attorney, saying he was going back to his original counteroffer (the one in which he wanted 10% ownership of my writing) to settle the marital assets and debts.
And one more thing.
He wanted my wedding and engagement rings returned to him, as part of his personal property, as they were "contingent upon a continued marriage."
I almost came unglued at work when I read that. I messaged SnarkyDad, who did some fast research for me, and determined that my state's law already has precedent for that: the rings belong to me from the moment of marriage. They are legally mine and I do not have to give them back to him. Whew.
I told my attorney I was not willing to accept his (ridiculous) proposal, and said I was not willing to attempt negotiating with him again, when he can take as much time as he wants to respond. I want this divorce over. Let's go to trial.
Scary words.
She prepared the necessary filings and I sent in the money--$350--for the filing fees for a Divorce Master to be appointed.
Hubby, meanwhile, had written to the Court without copying my attorney, something she had asked him not to do. He complained that I am controlling all the marital assets and not releasing any marital funds to him (what marital funds? any money that was ours was long gone, in taking care of us before I found a job; also I had no way of releasing money to him anyway, but that's beside the point). He had no way of getting legal representation, he said; his calls to the PA Bar Association are disconnected before he had a chance to talk to someone. His criminal attorney had told him he would not likely get free representation because we have real estate involved (hey, I didn't qualify for Legal Aid, either). He wrote that I refused to communicate with him (not entirely true; I just wouldn't speak on the phone with him). He begged the judge for help.
Twenty days later, as she went to file the next round of paperwork, she discovered that the certified mail return postcard didn't have the date of receipt written on it. The clerk at the prison had neglected to put that on. Further investigation showed that even the tracking number had been improperly scanned, so we couldn't even prove delivery that way. With no proof of service, we couldn't do the next filing. We had to start all over. Argh.
June 2023
We received word that Hubby has an attorney now. No idea who is funding her, and I'm not asking. My lawyer thinks this is a good thing. We may be able to avoid a costly trial and settle now that he has an attorney.
Hahahahahahanotsomuch.
July 2023
Maybe it's August now? I don't remember. We'll call it late July. All I really remember at this point is that my attorney wanted to hear from his attorney by June 30, and his attorney wanted mortgage statements on June 28 while the girls and I were in Virginia Beach (sorry about your luck) and so she didn't get them until July 5 after we got back, and it was at least another month before we heard his attorney's proposal. So...
August 2023
We got Hubby's attorney's proposal.
Oh, he agreed to everything else on the list (including me waiving child/spousal support and alimony), but he wanted me to buy him out of the house to the tune of $65,000...or sell the house now, and give him half the profits. I admit I was also a little surprised when his lawyer indicated that "It is my understanding the parties have come to an agreement" about personal property, because last I knew, he still wanted my rings, and I wasn't budging on that.
The whole point of me waiving support was so that I would get the full value of the house, and he wouldn't have more debt hanging over his head when he got out of jail. I'm nice like that.
Plus, there was the matter of the lien on the property. You know, the one on his half of the equity. To secure potential payment for his restitution for his crimes.
The proposal was preposterous.
I told my attorney, after some thought, some discussion with my mother and SnarkyDad, and some prayer, that we needed to move forward with trial. Mom and I had done some rough calculations and figured out that, should Hubby actually be paying child support and alimony pende lite and alimony, he'd be looking at owing me nearly $90,000 for everything. That far exceeded what he wanted from me for the house. I paid yet another $350 for Divorce Master fees (the first sat in an account and slowly been whittled away at).
My attorney wrote a brilliant letter to his, declining the offer, stating that the lien on the property because of his crimes thus forfeited Hubby's rights to the equity in his name. And, of course, further that what he would owe in various supports exceeded his equity, and that we would proceed with a filing for a Divorce Master.
And the paperwork finally got filed for a Divorce Master.
October 2023
The Court has appointed a Divorce Master. Next up is the Pre-Trial Conference, which is just for the attorneys and the Divorce Master, where they present evidence, go over things, and learn when the trial will be. My attorney has advised that this will likely not be until after the first of the year.
Present
The Pre-Trial Conference is now set for December 11. My lawyer has told me not to expect a trial date until spring. I would love to simply have this settled and move on, but Hubby is not of that mind. He wants his half of the house and his cake too.
My lawyer is good, but she is not cheap.
I have a good job, but it covers our regular expenses. It doesn't cover...this.
SnarkyDad set up a GoFundMe for me, because he's a gem like that. It is, however, running low since I took that last $350 out of it to pay for Divorce Master fees. I am blessed to have so many people--friends, family, outright strangers--who have contributed to the cause of helping me manage to pay for thousands of dollars of legal fees I could not otherwise afford, all to get me out of a marriage I cannot, in good conscience, stay in for the sake of my kids.
Ahhhh, here you are, Auntie Jlwrites. You're shilling for cash.
Consider it an investment.
An opportunity.
A way to change the world for that one starfish you throw back into the sea so it doesn't suffocate.
My kids and I need out of this. We're suffocating.
So if our story has moved you at all, I'd consider it a huge blessing if you'd hit that link up there and donate.
Thanks for listening in. May the season bring you joy.
...that Youngest's dinner tonight was nothing more than a big bowl of chocolate pudding and half a dozen or so of those Pillsbury Reindeer cookies.
You know, the presliced ones?
My kids love those. I bought a couple boxes of those and a couple boxes of the Christmas trees. Came home from work today to find Youngest had just taken a bunch of reindeer cookies out of the oven.
Do I care that she had pudding and cookies for dinner?
I suppose I should.
But tonight I don't.
Sometimes, you've just got to live and let live.
April 26, 2023
The Federal Courthouse at BigTown is an imposing building, but then, it's supposed to be. After circling the block where it was located in downtown BigTown several times, I found a place to park (what a racket courthouse parking was, let me tell you), grateful I'd arrived early. It wasn't yet 9, when I was to meet with Pastor Stick, my mother's pastor, who had agreed to accompany me. Not that my own pastor wouldn't, but when you're part of a flock that's more than 2000 strong...well, I preferred the company of Pastor Stick for this. He'd preached my father's memorial service. I was comfortable with him being present for this...event.
I passed through security without a blip; there were no lines. Just me and four security guards, who directed me to the Clerk of Court's office, so I could find out where to go in the massive building. Even PACER last night still reflected "courtroom TBD." It was an interminable five-minute wait to finally hear where I needed to go: Courtroom 2, seventh floor.
The courthouse was named for the judge presiding over Hubby's case, so I stopped to read a bit about her on my way back towards the elevators. Judge Stallone--her name amused me--had been appointed by President Carter, so she's been doing this a long time, and she had a decorated career.
I was coming out of the ladies' room (I had the time) when I saw Pastor Stick clearing through security, and was that SIL? Yep, and there was also Bro, at the security station.
I hadn't known they were coming.
We took the elevator to the seventh floor and ended up meeting up with Agent Fist, the one who'd led the investigation and subsequent raid on my home. He was a nice, humble man, and I liked him well enough, but it still gave me the jitters to see his name pop up on my phone. We exchanged pleasantries, and then the Assistant US Attorney arrived.
Now there was a man who did not match my mental picture of him. His name made him sound very Clark Kent, tall and strong and very much the picture of American justice. The AUSA was short, rotund, and balding. If I hadn't felt so overwhelmed by other emotions, I would have laughed. Agent Fist and AUSA Kent entered Courtroom 2, and the rest of us stood out there and chatted until it was almost 9:30, and then we entered the courtroom.
I was immediately proverbially smacked in the face with the sight of my in-laws; I had only been half-expecting them: my mother-in-law (whom I still adore), my husband's brother, and his wife. They sat on what had to be the defense's side of the room with a pretty strawberry blonde, who was probably some kind of coordinator for families of the defendant. I mentally shook myself. It's all wrong, I thought. Nothing is like Law & Order's courtrooms. My in-laws didn't greet me; I didn't say anything to them. I couldn't blame any of us.
"Let's sit over here," I said, gesturing to the second wooden pew on the prosecution's side. I filed in, and everyone followed me--Bro, SIL, and Pastor Stick.
I had never felt so alone in my life.
I sat and stared at the Great Seal of the United States on the wall behind the judge's bench, and wondered how on earth my life had come to this.
9:30 came and went, and I overheard the marshals asking for "a twenty on Stallone's 9:30." Thanks, Dukes of Hazzard, for teaching me the terminology to know that they were wondering where Hubby was. They must have gotten a satisfactory answer, because the court clerk nodded and went back to the judge's chambers.
Then Hubby came in, shackles on his hands and feet. He didn't acknowledge me at all, but smiled at his family.
Judge Stallone entered, and the bailiff called, "All rise."
The case was called, and Hubby's attorney spoke first. She said she did not wish to disrespect the terms of the plea deal, but she did want to call Her Honor's attention to the fact that Hubby's family was here to support him today when they had previously been unable to do so at the Change of Plea hearing. That being said, Defense requested that the Defendant be placed at the FCI Caribou, that he might be closer to his family. Then Hubby's attorney sat.
AUSA Kent stood up to speak next. He spent several minutes detailing observations from the report submitted by the psychiatrist who'd evaluated Hubby, having spent a total of 90 minutes with him: that Hubby had "accidentally fallen into" child pornography; that he was "unlikely to reoffend"; that he had suffered from a pornography addiction for a long time, due to periods of depression which could be traced back to several things. I frowned as Kent listed those things; I had expected Hubby to try to blame me, and he had, right there. Sigh. And now everyone in open court had heard him use me as an excuse. He'd had this problem for longer than he'd even known me! Kent went on to say that he disagreed with the psychiatrist's report (I stopped myself from shouting, "Thank you!"), based on the fact that Hubby had shared 2,411 images and 20-some videos. 2,411! I almost fell off my seat. That's way more than 600! This was not, Kent concluded, the actions of a man who "fell into" finding child pornography. It was clear, Kent stated, with Hubby's history of distribution, that he was a dangerous man. I was glad somebody besides me recognized it.
The judge nodded--not so much in agreement as in consideration. Then she asked if Hubby had anything he wished to say to the Court.
I have no idea if it was scripted and rehearsed, or if he spoke off the cuff. What I did do was pay very close attention to everything he said. He said he'd learned a lot about the things he'd done and how hurtful they can be. He said he'd embarrassed and shamed his family--his mother, his brother, his sisters. (That's it. No mention of his wife--which I understood--but no mention of the shame, embarrassment, and pain he's brought to his children.) He went on to talk about the hurt he caused the children he victimized, and added that he'd lost his relationship with his own children. It was more of a poor-me statement than it was an "I'm so sorry I've caused this." He finished up by saying he was sorry, but not what for, and he never once said "I was wrong."
I watched the judge more than I did Hubby during the sentencing, so I have no idea if he looked shell-shocked or not. I knew from earlier in the hearing that the sentence range recommendation was 151 months to 188 months (12.6 years to 15.5 years; I did the math right there in the courtroom). The judge imposed a sentence of 151 months. She announced there would be no fine, as the Court had found the defendant had no ability to pay; there was, however, a $100 assessment that was due immediately (a standard fee). She also imposed 10 years supervised release and everything that goes with it; registration as a sex offender and everything that goes with that (including that he was not to have communication with his own minor children); and he was ordered to pay $33,000 in reparations to 11 named victims--whose names she then read into the record. The judge finished by saying she would recommend FCI Caribou, but where Hubby would ultimately end up was the determination of the Bureau of Prisons.
The judge departed, we all stood, and it was all over.
Afterwards, he was led out, and I watched him mouth "I love you" to his mom, brother, and sister-in-law before he left.
"I don't know if I should believe anything he said," I commented quietly after my in-laws had left the courtroom without a backward glance.
"Oh, I wouldn't believe a word of it," Pastor Stick said.
SIL was angry. "He wasn't sorry at all."
Well, no, he wasn't. I pointed out that he hadn't mentioned us at all, and he'd never once looked over at me.
SIL shook her head. "He looked at you once."
I hadn't seen him even glance my way.
The victim relations specialist I had been in email conversation with came over to meet me in person when the hearing was over. She answered my many questions, but the ugly reality remained: he was sentenced, and we were not yet divorced. He had fought any settlement opportunity and had reneged on the deal we had come to back in September of '22. This meant, the specialist explained, that the government could put a lien on my home to secure his debt. But she was not the person to ask for sure, and she gave me a name and a number to call.
Pastor Stick departed for some other business in BigTown, and I now had the whole day ahead of me to do...whatever I wanted.
Bro, SIL, and I ended up going to a nearby Burger King and having a very early lunch. We sat and talked for several hours.
It would be six weeks before a random check online showed that Hubby had left the BigTown County Prison and was now in BOP custody at FCI Caribou.
It's been a Monday. Can I get a witness?
I messaged SnarkyDad and told him I needed a mood boost and went looking through my phone for stuff to amuse me while I waited for him to respond and for Youngest to finish cooking dinner.
So, over dinner, I told the girls the same thing: I'm feeling kinda down. Tell me something happy, something that will make me laugh.
They tossed around a few things.
Oldest has finished a show she's been watching, and that made her happy.
Middle giggled.
Oh no. I know that giggle.
"I nibbled a banana down to a penis shape and threw it at Youngest. Then it broke."
"It broke because you fell on it!" Youngest shouted.
I just sat there and blinked.
Mid-October 2022
I received a call on my cell phone while at work, and I picked it up--unusual; I mostly let my voicemail pick up because I'm, y'know, at work. They can leave me a message. I'm dealing with patients and doing my job. But my mom has been in the hospital and her hospitalist has been calling me daily. I thought that's who I was getting on the other end of the line.
Not even close.
A very nice lady introduced herself as working for the Court and asked if I had a few minutes to talk about my husband. She was working on the Pre-Sentence Report and had some questions.
I called to my partner that I was going to be a few minutes and took the call upstairs.
The lady asked me to confirm Hubby's date and place of birth (after twenty-six years of marriage, I ought to know those), how many siblings he had, where he grew up, and what kind of childhood he had. She also wanted to know if Hubby had ever been physically or sexually abused. Not to my knowledge, I said. He'd never mentioned anything of the kind. I also confirmed when and where we married and that, yes, I was seeking a divorce neither of us wanted but was the best course of action, based on his grooming activities. No, I said, I had no idea when those began, but law enforcement, social services, and the FBI were aware of his behavior. Middle had by then undergone three forensic interviews, as more and more information came out.
Yes, we have children: four of them. Three adopted, fourth of the heart. It works. Please don't ask me to explain that further.
No, I have no idea why he did these terrible things. Increased levels of addiction always wanting more? That's all I've got.
Her final question was to ask if there was anything I wanted to share with the Court. What a loaded question. I settled on saying that the children he violated deserve justice. So do his own children. I want justice for them all. This is not the Hubby I married. I don't know who this Hubby is.
The conversation left me off-kilter for the rest of the day.
I had figured, with the sentencing report due by the 19th or whatever of October, that sentencing wouldn't be far behind, and we could close this chapter of our lives.
I was wrong. It was still many months away.
January 31, 2023
I was checking PACER, just for kicks. You know, to see if anything new had popped up since the last time I was there.
And there it was.
Sentencing Hearing.
I opened the file and carefully read the brief information.
They'd set a date: April 26, 2023, at 9:30 a.m. at the Federal Courthouse in BigTown, courtroom to be determined.
I blinked. My eyes did not deceive me. That really said April 26, 2023--exactly two years to the day of his arrest. Huh.
I waffled for the longest time on whether or not to attend the hearing. On the one hand, it was going to tear me to pieces to watch him come in, dressed in prison garb, and see him be sentenced. The whole thing just screamed DIFFICULT. On the other hand...I really wanted to see and hear for myself what would actually take place in the courtroom. I wanted to know if he was going to try to blame me for his crimes.
In the end, I went. But I didn't go alone.
I mentioned in a previous post that we went to Virginia Beach this summer for vacation.
I know, it's kind of late to be doing a summer vacation post, but hey, at least it's here.
We went to Virginia Beach last year for vacation after our plans to go to SeaTown again with Special Edition and Mr. Nurse never were able to materialize. In conversation with my dear friend Netta on one of our many monthly get-togethers, she had mentioned how much her family loved Virginia Beach, and I decided last year it sounded like a nice place to go. We'd never been, and the drive was no worse than to SeaTown. We had a lovely time last year, and decided to go back this year.
This year our hotel was much closer to the beach; we were a whole block away, which was super nice. Also super nice was that the price was a couple hundred dollars less than what I'd paid last year.
We arrived on a Sunday night, and got settled into our tiny little suite.
The next day we hit the beach. The girls played in the waves while I sat in the shade of the beach umbrella (I am the sort who needs SPF Bulletproof) and pulled out my book to read. This is how I like to enjoy my beach vacation.
Wednesday was more beach fun, and then meeting up with Ms. Sunshine and Mr. W for dinner. Ms. Sunshine is a college friend, and her husband is an editing client of mine.
Thursday and Friday were both the same; we went to the beach. How boring, I know. But this was a beach vacation. I got to enjoy reading three books over the course of the week and the girls all turned deeper shades of tan than they already are. I found myself missing the days when they were little and loved making sand castles and digging holes and doing general little-kid stuff, but then, I also enjoy now, when I can let them go play in the waves and not have to be out there myself. (I still did a head count often.)
We had an excellent time, and hopefully we'll be able to go back next year.
For this momentous occasion, celebrating 1000 of my little scribbles here on this blog, I'm going to indulge myself in sharing another earworm (or three) with you.
Allow me to introduce my favorite pianist.
I listened to that on repeat tonight as I was folding laundry. It's just so merry, and the very best version I've ever heard of an oft-ignored carol, "Ding Dong Merrily on High."
This was a blend I wasn't expecting here. Gorgeous.
I cannot describe the chills I got as he played this. Three carols, blended seamlessly.
This one is best watched on a big screen in a dark room. It's a favorite.
And this one is where you might know this guy from. He's the piano guy of The Piano Guys. (The first three songs are all his earlier work, from his solo career.)
Let's hear it for the Geoff Castellucci Quartet.
And this is on my playlist.
It is by far the best rendition of this carol that I've ever heard. (And it's the only one I like.)
It makes my music-loving soul happy.
April 26, 2021
The hardest part in all of this became the need to tell selected people what had transpired at our home that April morning. Who do you tell this? How do you tell something of this magnitude?
My counselor had made half an hour available to me, so I took it. We got back to the house about 15 minutes before I needed to be there, and the girls were old enough that me being gone for the grand total of 45 minutes for that wouldn't be a big deal. I told them I wasn't going to make them go to school for a whopping two and a half hours. We were all still reeling from the morning's events. I'd call it a family emergency when I wrote the excuse out for school. They got lunch; I drove to the counselor's a whole 7 minutes away.
I've been seeing my counselor since 2015. We have a long and established relationship and an excellent rapport. But she was still in just as much shock as she'd been in when I first emailed her. This was mind-boggling. I used the half hour to process as much as I could with her, and drove home.
I stood in the kitchen and faced reality. I needed to call Special Edition. I needed to call my mother. I ... I needed support. I'd have to get a full-time job. There was no way my work at the grocery store where I was employed part-time (I worked maybe 12 hours a week) would carry us through, and I couldn't hack 8-10 hours a day on my feet full-time there. I would have to tell my boss.
Everything was falling to me now.
The enormity of that was overwhelming.
First things first.
I called Special Edition. She was on the phone with her BFF, whom I adore, but when I only offered a curt apology for interrupting their call and didn't say Special could just call me back later, Special dropped the call with her BFF and came back on the line with me.
"What's wrong, Momma?"
So I told her. "Dad was arrested today on counts of possession and distribution of child pornography."
There was a hasty conversation between her and her fiance, Mr. Nurse, and before the day was out, Special Edition came home for an extended stay.
I got a text. "How are you doing, neighbor?" I almost cried. One of my pastors lives in my neighborhood, and he walks his kids to the school right across the street from my house. There was no missing the activity at our place this morning. The text was from him. I texted him back, asking if he might be home that afternoon so I could bend his ear. We agreed to meet at 4.
I called my mother. I can't even remember how long we were on the phone. She was shocked and devastated.
I met with my pastor. I felt somewhat better, knowing I had that support.
I got on Facebook Messenger, swallowed my pride, and messaged SnarkyDad, who is one of my closest friends. We've known each other for decades. Not only would he let me tell the story again and process it out the way it had happened, he would listen with sympathy. And he did, while being flabbergasted that I was telling him any of this.
The next day, I spoke with Hubby's court-appointed attorney. The charges, she advised me, were so serious they meant an automatic not-guilty plea would be filed when he was formally arraigned later in the week. And it would take time to come to court, with all the motions and counter-motions and discovery and the ongoing investigation.
"So this could take a year?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Oy.
The best he could hope for was about five years, she said. I struggled to wrap my mind around that being good news.
I learned quickly that the prison system--at least our county prison system here--is quite a racket. I had to sign up for all sorts of stuff to be able to communicate with my husband, who I still trusted. Sort of. Letters were a cheap form of communication, but thanks to Forever stamps, nobody knows how much a stamp is anymore. But I'd have to pay for my stamp and his, by depositing money into his commissary account. Which was different from his tablet account, where he was able to send and receive instant messages for 10 cents apiece. That was by far the cheapest form of communication. All that was different from the phone account, which was what enabled him to call me. Phone calls cost 22 cents a minute, and we could talk for 15 minutes at a time, when he was given free time to talk on the phone.
Yeah.
It didn't take long before I preferred the tablet's instant messages.
May 25ish, 2021
We'd just finished dinner but the conversation was still flowing. As it often had in the last month, the subject turned to Hubby and the case that we didn't talk about with him on the phone. And the way life had changed. But what started coming out of my girls' mouths was shocking.
I'd never heard any of this before.
Things my husband had said and done to the girls.
Ways he'd made them uncomfortable.
Boundaries he'd pushed. In some cases, flat-out violated.
My stomach churned as I listened to them talk.
"Where was I?" I asked them, wanting to know. Needing to know.
"Mom, you were gone. At work. Or at Waffle's. Or at group. Or having a migraine."
"Did he ever do any of this in front of me?"
"When he'd try, you would shut him down."
Well, that's something.
Dinner was cleared, and the girls shifted off to do their own things. I retreated to the room I was slowly turning into my library, and pulled up Messenger again. I messaged SnarkyDad. We talked almost daily these days, God bless his wife. I told him what I'd learned from the girls. All of them, for Special Edition had confirmed what the younger ones were saying.
"Auntie Jlwrites, that is grooming!" he wrote back to me.
Yeah, that's what I'd been afraid of. It was exactly as bad as I'd feared.
The next night I talked to each of the girls in turn, one at a time, and asked them one simple question: What would you think if I told you I was going to divorce your father?
The reaction was unanimous. They were in favor, very much so. With a certainty that left me breathless.
But also very sure of my next move.
I was going to be filing for divorce. And my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was in two months.
This is one of those posts I hate to write, even two months after the fact. It still hurts.
I had noticed back in September that Nokea, fondly referred to as Chonky around our house, wasn't doing too well. I took him in to the vet. We opted to treat him conservatively for what we could tell was
But I noticed he didn't clean it off his face.
And his white coat had become dull. He wasn't taking care of himself.
I checked. He'd lost weight since we'd seen the vet two weeks ago.
I took in the Small One for his checkup so he could be scheduled for neuter surgery (I also don't mess around), mentioned Nokea's worsening symptoms to the vet, and scheduled another appointment for Chonky in four weeks. It was the soonest I could get in that wasn't "emergent." And I scheduled Kahi for his surgery.
I worried the whole way home that Nokea wouldn't make it that long...or that I couldn't go that long without acting.
I checked his weight again another week or so later, and in the space of four and a half weeks since his vet visit when I first took him in, he'd lost four pounds. That's a lot of weight for a cat who only weighs 13 pounds or so to start with. That Sunday I texted my boss (a very understanding lady) and said I had to get my cat in to the vet as soon as I could on Monday. I wangled a 10:40 appointment.
The kids were all aware of how dire the situation was. Oldest graduated back in June, and does not have a job, so she was free to go with me to the vet. Youngest didn't want to miss school, but also didn't want to really be there if the worst had to happen. Middle, by contrast, did.
I pulled Middle out of school, citing a family emergency. I knew this was bad. She, Oldest, Nokea, and I drove to the vet.
Dr. W. was very concerned as I laid out the symptoms. Nokea had lost more weight than I thought. He was down to 6 pounds. I okayed bloodwork, to check for all kinds of functional values, and the scary things: FIV, feline leukemia, feline panleukopenia. And we waited.
My heart broke as I chose to be merciful to our feline friend who had shown us nothing but love and kindness from the day he entered our home.
Dr. W. allowed us to take things at our own pace. She put in a catheter so she wouldn't have to stick Nokea twice. She let Middle hold him while she administered the drugs that would let him drift off and fly to Jesus. And I do believe that's exactly where he went when he left us.
And the next night I found the perfect flagstone to mark his burial site in our yard.
Nokea Oreo, you will forever be missed. No one greets me at the door like you did (for you greeted everyone at our door for four and a half years). Thank you for teaching Kahi how to cat before you needed to leave us.
I'm making this about five and a half months late. But at least I'm doing it.
Meet our newest goober, Kahi.
This is how he spent a lot of his time when he first came home with us. He loved shoulders.
He did not love my master bath, which was his home for several weeks. Like, six of them. Then he spent several more weeks confined to my bedroom until I was sure he was big enough to handle himself among the others and not get killed. And woke me up in the middle of the night a couple times each night to get love. It's a good thing he's cute.
The other cats--Kimo (age 8), Makaha (age almost 8, who doesn't quite count as he lives in bachelor quarters in the basement), Kala (age 5.5), and Nokea (age 5)--were not amused. (Actually, due to aforementioned bachelor lodgings, Makaha didn't care one way or the other. He didn't have to share.)
I was mostly concerned that the other cats didn't think of him as good food. They were certainly jealous over his early canned-food diet, and howled how woe had befallen them when they didn't get to eat his food.
Things have worked out to a general peace now, and Kahi counts the others as playmates. Most of the time.
Welcome to our clan, bud.
We sure can't imagine it without you. You certainly spice things up.
...and probably more than a dollar short, but from our house to yours, Happy Thanksgiving.
We had a great time with family at our celebration yesterday, and the girls enjoyed the chance to hang out with their cousins. We missed sharing the day with Special Edition and Mr. Nurse, who moved to the other side of the country this summer due to Mr. Nurse's job pursuits, but we were at least able to connect with her via Messenger.
We are so thankful for all that we have, but our biggest blessing by far is our family.
It's also sort of miraculous that I got three teenagers to pose for a photo with their mom.
I came home late today after a long day at work to find Youngest struggling with pie crusts in the kitchen.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in the States, and this year, rather than me cooking a great meal for the four of us, we're journeying one state south and celebrating with a bunch of family. We are to bring pumpkin pie, and Youngest volunteered to do the baking.
Now, I had bought some pre-made pie crusts so this wouldn't be an issue.
But, as Youngest knew, that would mean I shouldn't eat the pie. (We learned earlier this year that I needed to go gluten-free after a series of medical tests.) And if there's one thing I love about Thanksgiving, it's pumpkin pie.
I was touched that she chose to go to the effort to make gluten-free pie crusts so I could also have the pie we're bringing. "Awwww," I said.
She smiled, perking up her whole countenance.
She was also listening to Christmas music as she worked.
A playlist that sounded awfully familiar. We have Spotify Family, so you can share playlists...
"Did you yank my playlist?"
"Yeah. You've got the best music."
Finally. One of my kids admits I have superior musical taste...even if it's just in Christmas music.
The house we live in dates back to 1959. As such, it has a few cool little features, like several pocket doors, a respectable-sized pantry, radiant heat in the floors, a boiler system for heat, and a genuine bomb shelter.
The bomb shelter has great acoustics.
The heating system is great if you have perpetually cold toes, because the floors themselves get warm. But it's not without a hiccup or two when you first turn things on for the season.
This year, half of our split-level got warm. The other half . . . didn't. Seventy degrees in the front half of the house. Sixty-three in the back half.
Given that our thermostats are approximately as old as Methuselah, I suspected two of them had broken. It was downright chilly.
No problemo. I had some new thermostats that we were going to change out for the old ones. I watched a YouTube video, flipped off the appropriate breaker, and went to work. I also looped in my neighbors for help.
Problemo. The wiring in the house didn't match up with the diagrams for the new thermostat, so we put a kibosh on things and I called first an electrician and then an HVAC company the next day. Unable to get the old thermostat back up on the wall, we left the breaker off for the night and borrowed the neighbors' space heater to keep the bedroom level from being frigid.
HVAC Company #1 comes out on a Thursday afternoon to look at my system. They tell me I have two leaks, it's problematic that my pipes aren't warming up, and I probably have a lot of air in the lines. Cost estimates: $1350 to flush the lines and get hot water back in and all the air out. $1300 to upgrade fully to digital thermostats, should I choose. $2700 to fix the two leaks, and almost $7000 to replace all four heat pumps that run my heating system. I asked about the thermostats. He suggested I just leave 'em alone if they're working. They were able to get my one thermostat back on the wall, so that was something. $99 service charge for the visit, and they emailed the estimates to me. Mind you, all of my heat pumps are running at this point.
Friday afternoon, while things are slow at work, I placed a call to a local HVAC company. They agree to come out Tuesday afternoon to look at the system. We just have to figure out how to stay warm until then.
Friday night, when I got home from work, I turned down the thermostats on the living room level (a toasty 80) and in the basement (a sauna). I'm able to bleed the lines a bit more and get five minutes of air hissing out of one line. Within an hour, the temperature on the bedroom level is up to 70. Now three-quarters of my house is warm. I still have a problem.
Tuesday. I meet HVAC #2 tech at my house. Still have no heat on the kitchen level, but it's been really nice the last few days, so it's 68 on that level. He pokes around my boiler room, knocks on the valve releases, and more air hisses out. Lots more. He checks the power lines to my newest heat pump, the one going to the level with no heat. Well, it's functional. Finally, he actually checks the thermostat.
What do you know. It's broken. A little copper wire had frayed. He was able to repair it, but suggested I get new thermostats sooner rather than later. I'd need ones, he said, that could handle 120 volts. I should be able to find them at any hardware store.
Since I had the rest of the afternoon, I went to the hardware store, explained my need, and had four thermostats ordered before I left.
They came in on Thursday and I picked them up. Got them home, unboxed ONE, and decided it might be smart to call the 800 number to make sure I knew what to do when I tried to wire it myself.
"That model," the rep told me about the thermostats I'd bought, "is incompatible with heat pump."
Fantastic.
She further told me I could try, which I did, but to no avail.
I called again tonight to see if I could find out exactly what model I needed.
Which, I learned, I won't be able to find out unless I also know amperage and wattage.
Which I don't know.
What I do know is this: The repair to the thermostat is stable for now. As long as we don't mess with it further, it should stay that way.
I'm going to need a pro to handle upgrading these thermostats in any way, shape, or form.
Hooray for home ownership.
So I lost my sunglasses today. Totally first world problems and all that, but since bright light is such a major migraine trigger for me, and the sun is such a huge flaming ball, I tend to go nowhere without my sunglasses.
Nowhere.
Losing them is therefore a Big Deal. A big enough deal, in fact, that I stopped at the closest Walmart to the office to buy a new (if ugly) pair on the way home from work today, just so that I could get home from work safely and migraine-free. I hate the new ones, but they were the only ones that fit reasonably well. I hoped I'd only need them as a back-up pair.
Because, to be honest with you, I thought this would be another "It ain't lost until Momma can't find it" story, and I'd get home and find my sunglasses merely overlooked in one of the places I'd told Oldest to look. (When the sun started to come out from behind the clouds while I was at work, I texted Oldest to search for my sunglasses there at home.) They weren't lost; they just didn't make it back into my bag after last night's Walmart run.
I know, I know. Two Walmart trips in 24 hours. Craziness.
But this was not the case. No sunglasses on the island. Not on the counter. Nor the dining room table. Not even in my bedroom, which was a last-resort spot to check. Okay, really lost.
I was officially sad. I really loved that pair.
I changed out of my work duds and saw that a message had come in via the Life360 app from Middle. So I poked my head downstairs and hollered to ask if she'd meant to send that to me or to Youngest.
Her bad. She hadn't meant to send it at all. Oops.
Well, at least she wasn't overly concerned about how long it took me to come home today.
Hey, I wonder. I yanked open the pocket door to the downstairs again. "Hey, Middle? Have you seen my sunglasses?"
"Oh, yeah. I know right where they are. Let me get them."
What.
Hang Rule #2 in all its glory. "Why do you have my sunglasses?"
A pause.
"There's a slight chance I might have used them last night when killing wasps in my room."
And that's when I remembered her girding up for battle like Nanook of the North last night, ready to take on all comers . . . including wearing my sunglasses.