My nephew is cute. He is funny and confident and charming. He lives in the right neighborhood. His mother is adored and his dad is "somebody". This makes him a hottie in the eyes of all the girls his age. Unfortunately his age is 13. And 13 year old girls with crushes are vicious.
Last night, Coray and her cousin were at the YM/YW combined activity doing roadside clean-up. After the cleanup they made cocoa and roasted marshmallows. Good wholesome fun. Except that very special girl was there. Very special girl is special largely because at some point someone decided she should be. She was born with health problems and apparently, in some circles, this means that you get a free pass for life. Please don't tell Jimmy, I do not need him getting any ideas. So very special girl is just plain odd. She, of course, likes my cute nephew.
It would seem that on Very Special Girl's home planet, mating and courtship begin by poking people with sticks. So she kept poking cute nephew with a stick. Now cute nephew is not the worlds most chivalrous boy ( he's 13!) but he knows that he is not allowed to smack a girl. He asked her to stop. But apparently, her deep love for him compelled her to continue. He moved away. She pursued.
At this point Coray told Very Special Girl to cut it out and got between the poker and the pokee. She was already annoyed because Very Special Girl had been slapping her in the back of the head for the whole bus ride. Very Special Girl decided that her poking plan was a real winner and stuck with her original course of action. She poked Coray. Coray picked up a stick and poked her back. Coray turned to walk away. Very Special Girl poked Coray in the back. By this time cute nephew had been drafted by adults to help make the hot chocolate. He was calling very special girl and trying to lure her away. She would not be dissuaded even by the feigned interest of the boy of her dreams.
Adults milled around while Coray put her arms over her face to block a poking frenzy and Very Special Girl laughed. That was enough. Coray grabbed the stick and whacked Miss Special good and hard. It was not a poke. It was a full swinging blow to the offending arm with the offending stick. Very Special Girl quit laughing and began shreiking hysterically. Suddenly the adults in the area became very interested in sticks and people wielding them and Coray was taken aside and given a talking to. Turns out, we do not hit Very Special Girl with sticks because that would be unkind.
Coray came home and shared her tale of woe. You may be surprised to learn that as a rule, I actually oppose smacking people with sticks. I was conflicted. Her Daddy was not. His points in her defense were:
1. She was defending family
2. She asked that the poking stop and attempted to walk away
3. The poking did not stop.
And that is how it came to be that Coray beat a girl with a stick at YW and her aunt said she was so proud and her daddy said "good girl" and her momma said "of course you're not in trouble".
I expect I will be hearing from a very special mother today. She is a great woman and I adore her. But she has a different expectation of other peoples adjustment to her girls quirks than I do. I may need to find a stick.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Child Protective Services should be by shortly
A little more than three years ago, I gave birth to a tiny fragile baby boy. It was a struggle to keep him alive. After a month in the hospital, I brought him home and spent a year measuring food, adjusting oxygen and timing medicine. I ordered his diaper rash ointment from two states away. I read medical abstracts comparing supplemental infant formulas. I prayed a lot. I whole heartedly committed myself to doing whatever it took to keep this precious boy alive and well.
This morning, I let that same kid eat two hot dogs and some popcorn for breakfast. Sadly, I do not have ignorance as an excuse. I know that hot dogs are not food. They were only in the house because my husband had taken my big boy camping and they had leftovers. And yes, I am fully aware of the assorted components in hot dogs. I have no defense. He looked at me and said "Momma, I can have hot doggy" and I said yes. Twice. I threw in the popcorn in hopes of creating sufficient digestive urgency to flush out the hot dogs. What? That's gross? I just fed my kid two hot dogs for the love of pete. This is no time to get squeamish.
Now, my little guy is happily dancing through the living room, flushed with triumph at his nutritional coup. Or having a seizure brought on by an allergy to lips and tails. It's one of those. Quick question, do dances of joy cause foaming at the mouth?
Also, in the interest of full disclosure this kid is wearing a diaper (Do you want to use the potty? No thank you) and a shirt that hasn't fit for a year. He looks like an orphan. We have a tub and clothes that will fit and fresh fruits and nice nutritious oatmeal. I have access to all the tools to be a less sucky mom right this minute.
But he really likes that shirt. Maybe I will just train him and his four year old sister to yell "Mommy is sleeping" through the door when CPS comes to discuss my children's nutrition. The last thing I need is them judging me.
This morning, I let that same kid eat two hot dogs and some popcorn for breakfast. Sadly, I do not have ignorance as an excuse. I know that hot dogs are not food. They were only in the house because my husband had taken my big boy camping and they had leftovers. And yes, I am fully aware of the assorted components in hot dogs. I have no defense. He looked at me and said "Momma, I can have hot doggy" and I said yes. Twice. I threw in the popcorn in hopes of creating sufficient digestive urgency to flush out the hot dogs. What? That's gross? I just fed my kid two hot dogs for the love of pete. This is no time to get squeamish.
Now, my little guy is happily dancing through the living room, flushed with triumph at his nutritional coup. Or having a seizure brought on by an allergy to lips and tails. It's one of those. Quick question, do dances of joy cause foaming at the mouth?
Also, in the interest of full disclosure this kid is wearing a diaper (Do you want to use the potty? No thank you) and a shirt that hasn't fit for a year. He looks like an orphan. We have a tub and clothes that will fit and fresh fruits and nice nutritious oatmeal. I have access to all the tools to be a less sucky mom right this minute.
But he really likes that shirt. Maybe I will just train him and his four year old sister to yell "Mommy is sleeping" through the door when CPS comes to discuss my children's nutrition. The last thing I need is them judging me.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
The view from Mt. Hypocrite
A construction company knocked out the power. I'm no electrician but the problem in a nutshell was, don't drive a crane through a power line. Make a note of that. With the amount of construction that goes on around here, summer is always chock full of random power outages started by some guy whose English teacher was right. He never did amount to much. And always, it was totally avoidable. They just don't mind risking the incovenience of others.
So there I am enjoying the 98 degree day in the shelter of my breezeless house listen to my children melt and screaming for everyone to stop opening the fridge. Fun for me. Angry doesn't even begin to cover it. Every summer we go through this. And every summer those stupid selfish bastards take shortcuts and incovience an entire neighborhood. I hope they all burn in hell. This is what someone elses self absorbtion and a lack of accountability get you, a silent A/C and a lot of muttering.
Of course the problem is that I am them too. It's just harder to see when I am doing it. That's because self absorbtion makes it hard to see things other than me. But in the cold light of day- I am a scuzz ball.
Two weeks ago, I flew home from National Jewish Hospital the recipeint of such blessings and grace that it was literally astounding. I went hopelessly sick and returned firmly on the path of wellness. I had just been given my life back. How, you ask, did I celebrate this miracle? By using my previous staus as a sick person to screw over my fellow air travelers.
Yep, I did that.
See, SW airlines doesn't have assigned seats. Or a firm grasp of the concept of personal space. My 100$ round trip ticket was reflected in the cattle car accomodations. When I checked in the first time, I told them that I was a special needs passenger. It was valid. I needed space to give myself shots and access to oxygen. So they gave me the cattle car equivalent of a golden ticket- a little blue pass that meant I got on the plane first. Even before the mom's with babies. And they marked my registration in the computer.
Nine days, a new future, and a much healthier body later, I was checking in to fly home. The ticket agent saw the notation on my registration and handed me that magic blue pass. I didn't need it. I knew I didn't. But I took it. I didn't want to stand in line. I didn't want to jostle for a seat. I didn't want to be wandering up and down the aisle looking for a bin to stick by bag in. Too hard. I couldn't be bothered.
And that is how I decided to be a liar and a jackass for a piece of blue vinyl. Several years ago a brilliant politican and severely morally retarded human being remarked that he did something particularly loathsome because he could. I could get out of standing in line and competing to get a seat. And so, I did. I deserve to be a little too warm, maybe it will remind me of something.
So there I am enjoying the 98 degree day in the shelter of my breezeless house listen to my children melt and screaming for everyone to stop opening the fridge. Fun for me. Angry doesn't even begin to cover it. Every summer we go through this. And every summer those stupid selfish bastards take shortcuts and incovience an entire neighborhood. I hope they all burn in hell. This is what someone elses self absorbtion and a lack of accountability get you, a silent A/C and a lot of muttering.
Of course the problem is that I am them too. It's just harder to see when I am doing it. That's because self absorbtion makes it hard to see things other than me. But in the cold light of day- I am a scuzz ball.
Two weeks ago, I flew home from National Jewish Hospital the recipeint of such blessings and grace that it was literally astounding. I went hopelessly sick and returned firmly on the path of wellness. I had just been given my life back. How, you ask, did I celebrate this miracle? By using my previous staus as a sick person to screw over my fellow air travelers.
Yep, I did that.
See, SW airlines doesn't have assigned seats. Or a firm grasp of the concept of personal space. My 100$ round trip ticket was reflected in the cattle car accomodations. When I checked in the first time, I told them that I was a special needs passenger. It was valid. I needed space to give myself shots and access to oxygen. So they gave me the cattle car equivalent of a golden ticket- a little blue pass that meant I got on the plane first. Even before the mom's with babies. And they marked my registration in the computer.
Nine days, a new future, and a much healthier body later, I was checking in to fly home. The ticket agent saw the notation on my registration and handed me that magic blue pass. I didn't need it. I knew I didn't. But I took it. I didn't want to stand in line. I didn't want to jostle for a seat. I didn't want to be wandering up and down the aisle looking for a bin to stick by bag in. Too hard. I couldn't be bothered.
And that is how I decided to be a liar and a jackass for a piece of blue vinyl. Several years ago a brilliant politican and severely morally retarded human being remarked that he did something particularly loathsome because he could. I could get out of standing in line and competing to get a seat. And so, I did. I deserve to be a little too warm, maybe it will remind me of something.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Update
Guess why horrific amounts of asthma meds might not work... Go on. Why might medications specifically targeted to a disfunction of the lungs not give someone relief? Because the patient doesnt have asthma.
I do not have acute, uncontrollable asthma. I may have mild to moderate asthma but right now, we are guessing if I do have asthma it's pretty mild. I will do a methycholine challenge tomorrow to find out. But all this pain and breathlessness is not today nor has it been in the last year, asthma.
We have identified 3 factors so far that have caused my problems. I have Swiyers James syndrome which basically means that the branches in my lungs that are supposed to be smooth and tapered actually look like cheetoes. This causes the congestion and makes me prone to those endless chest colds. I also have vocal chord dysfunction and some damage and problems with my esphagus. Apparently, you vocal chords second function is to produce voice. Their first function is to shut and protect the from things getting into my lungs. Mine are very very good at this. In fact those little traitors shut all the time for no reason at all. But sometimes they have a reason. Because my esophagus is damaged, it is letting reflux go back up. This further provokes my vocal chords and they slam shut cutting of my air.
The almost-funny-if-it-werent-so-horrible thing is that the asthma meds that I inhaled (and kept saying didn't help me) were actually agravating my vocal chords. Oh and, the reason that epi was the only thing that worked was because it made the chords release. Hey, you know what else besides painful shots of heart damaging medication works to stop a vocal chord spasm- taking in a puff of air and blowing out hard through pursed lips. It creates pressure that forces the chords to open. I learned it in about 7 minutes. It works like a charm. I walked home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. I walked back today. Unbelievable. So all those times I said I felt like I was choking, I was right. I was.
I don't have all the tests back and still have many to do. SO more stuff could turn up. There is a discussion about surgery for the espohagus but we have decided not to scope my lungs. We know I have Swiyer James and I just need to find a doctor in Idaho that can treat it. I also have a mass in one lung. That could be normal and fine. It will have to be CT'd on a regular basis to see if it is growing. If it grows, then we shall all freak out cheerfully for hours. But we'll wait on that. I also found out that I have severe osteoperosis. That kind of sucks and that will take some managing.
Today, I have some fairly un-fun tests. They are putting a tube in my esophagus with a little ball on it. They leave it in for 20 hours to asses the condition of my esophagus. Plus I have a sputum induction (these people LOVE their sputum) again and a barium swallow. I am looking forward to my sleep test.
I had to laugh this morning as I reset the motion alarms I put on the door and window of my hotel room. I am so weird. Who does that? I have (mostly) mastered the bus system with the exception of a little 2 hour detour to and around hell the first night I tried to get home. But apparently peole who can breathe can walk so I have been doing that. My Doctor isn't happy about that because she feels like we need a better plan for avoiding fractures before I take up exercise. I feel like I have held still too long. I will have a scan for Osteonecrosis which means the cell wall between the cartilage and the bone has died and they slip apart. If that is ok, I am going to ask for physical therapy.
And I got out of all the psych appointments. Every single physician that I have seen (8 thus far) crossed it off my schedule. The way it works is, you go to your appointments and then each doctor sends down orders for what other tests you should do or classes to attend. They took off all my psycho-social classes too. I am glad but I was rather looking forward to "Sex and Chronic Illness". I'm sure that class is a laugh riot. When I did the questionaire for psych at the beginning of the week, I scored very high in terms of my sense of being supported . I also scored really well (this shocked me) on optimism (seriously) and having a balanced life. So to the extent that I am not insane, thanks - your support helps. To the extent that I have cleverly concealed my lunacy, thanks for keeping my secrets.Amy- I was supposed to call Annet but I missed her. Would you email this to her and Bonnie? And you might have to call Annet and tell her you emailed her something. :)
draft
I do not have acute, uncontrollable asthma. I may have mild to moderate asthma but right now, we are guessing if I do have asthma it's pretty mild. I will do a methycholine challenge tomorrow to find out. But all this pain and breathlessness is not today nor has it been in the last year, asthma.
We have identified 3 factors so far that have caused my problems. I have Swiyers James syndrome which basically means that the branches in my lungs that are supposed to be smooth and tapered actually look like cheetoes. This causes the congestion and makes me prone to those endless chest colds. I also have vocal chord dysfunction and some damage and problems with my esphagus. Apparently, you vocal chords second function is to produce voice. Their first function is to shut and protect the from things getting into my lungs. Mine are very very good at this. In fact those little traitors shut all the time for no reason at all. But sometimes they have a reason. Because my esophagus is damaged, it is letting reflux go back up. This further provokes my vocal chords and they slam shut cutting of my air.
The almost-funny-if-it-werent-so-horrible thing is that the asthma meds that I inhaled (and kept saying didn't help me) were actually agravating my vocal chords. Oh and, the reason that epi was the only thing that worked was because it made the chords release. Hey, you know what else besides painful shots of heart damaging medication works to stop a vocal chord spasm- taking in a puff of air and blowing out hard through pursed lips. It creates pressure that forces the chords to open. I learned it in about 7 minutes. It works like a charm. I walked home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. I walked back today. Unbelievable. So all those times I said I felt like I was choking, I was right. I was.
I don't have all the tests back and still have many to do. SO more stuff could turn up. There is a discussion about surgery for the espohagus but we have decided not to scope my lungs. We know I have Swiyer James and I just need to find a doctor in Idaho that can treat it. I also have a mass in one lung. That could be normal and fine. It will have to be CT'd on a regular basis to see if it is growing. If it grows, then we shall all freak out cheerfully for hours. But we'll wait on that. I also found out that I have severe osteoperosis. That kind of sucks and that will take some managing.
Today, I have some fairly un-fun tests. They are putting a tube in my esophagus with a little ball on it. They leave it in for 20 hours to asses the condition of my esophagus. Plus I have a sputum induction (these people LOVE their sputum) again and a barium swallow. I am looking forward to my sleep test.
I had to laugh this morning as I reset the motion alarms I put on the door and window of my hotel room. I am so weird. Who does that? I have (mostly) mastered the bus system with the exception of a little 2 hour detour to and around hell the first night I tried to get home. But apparently peole who can breathe can walk so I have been doing that. My Doctor isn't happy about that because she feels like we need a better plan for avoiding fractures before I take up exercise. I feel like I have held still too long. I will have a scan for Osteonecrosis which means the cell wall between the cartilage and the bone has died and they slip apart. If that is ok, I am going to ask for physical therapy.
And I got out of all the psych appointments. Every single physician that I have seen (8 thus far) crossed it off my schedule. The way it works is, you go to your appointments and then each doctor sends down orders for what other tests you should do or classes to attend. They took off all my psycho-social classes too. I am glad but I was rather looking forward to "Sex and Chronic Illness". I'm sure that class is a laugh riot. When I did the questionaire for psych at the beginning of the week, I scored very high in terms of my sense of being supported . I also scored really well (this shocked me) on optimism (seriously) and having a balanced life. So to the extent that I am not insane, thanks - your support helps. To the extent that I have cleverly concealed my lunacy, thanks for keeping my secrets.Amy- I was supposed to call Annet but I missed her. Would you email this to her and Bonnie? And you might have to call Annet and tell her you emailed her something. :)
draft
Thursday, May 31, 2007
My kid
Yesterday we danced at a local elementary school. By we I mean, not me, but I was there to shuttle ballerina's on and off and chase them down the hall. Four classes dance a 1/2 hour program 4 times.
In the middle of this, Coray was standing in the hall, looking impossibly elegant in her midnight blue velvet bodice and stage make up. A reporter approcahed her and asked about ballet, the school, her class, how long she had been studying. Then the reporter asked why they were performing at the elementary school. Without missing a beat Coray replied, "We feel like it's important to give back to the community."
I don't know why I think that is so funny. Even today it makes me giggle. But if ever there was genetic evidenc that this is my child, it would have to be her ability to stand there with aching feet and a torturous stick on bra and say with a totally straight face "We feel like it's important to give back to the community."
Nice to know the PR gene does not skip a generation.
Post script: I went to the store and purchased the paper where Coray's interview appeared today. I read it to her ( the quote was quite a bit longer than what I quoted). I complemented her on her poise and how well she represented the school. "How did you know how to do that so well?" I asked. "Mother", she said, "When you spend as much time reading about great Roman leaders as I have, you just know what to say."
Apparently it does skip a generation.
In the middle of this, Coray was standing in the hall, looking impossibly elegant in her midnight blue velvet bodice and stage make up. A reporter approcahed her and asked about ballet, the school, her class, how long she had been studying. Then the reporter asked why they were performing at the elementary school. Without missing a beat Coray replied, "We feel like it's important to give back to the community."
I don't know why I think that is so funny. Even today it makes me giggle. But if ever there was genetic evidenc that this is my child, it would have to be her ability to stand there with aching feet and a torturous stick on bra and say with a totally straight face "We feel like it's important to give back to the community."
Nice to know the PR gene does not skip a generation.
Post script: I went to the store and purchased the paper where Coray's interview appeared today. I read it to her ( the quote was quite a bit longer than what I quoted). I complemented her on her poise and how well she represented the school. "How did you know how to do that so well?" I asked. "Mother", she said, "When you spend as much time reading about great Roman leaders as I have, you just know what to say."
Apparently it does skip a generation.
Momma, hands, and the really nice cliche guy in the parking lot
I was putting groceries in my car. Apparently, it isn't annoying enough to remember what you need, make a list, wander all over the store trying to unravel the scavanger hunt of where they might hide it, and pay for it. Nope. You need the weight bearing excercise of tossing groceries for 8 into the back of a 4 wheel drive suburban.
Anyway.
A college kid walked by playing his guitar. Because of course you would just wander around town like a troubador playing "Stairway to Heaven" on your very shiny red guitar. Is there another song?
He made me think of my mom. I remembered her elegant fingers dancing across the strings of her pale honey colored guitar. It made me happy to think of her playing "It aint me, babe" and me watching her lovely fingers. I always wanted hands like hers. Elegant and strong.
I have dad's hands. Great square blocks on thick wrists. Oh, and they're red. They are perfectly useful hands. They're good in a fight since it's pretty much like hitting someone with a 10 pound hammer. They can carry a lot. Great hulking hands like mine can hold up the world and sometimes they do.
But Momma's hands were pretty and they made pretty music while I sat on her bed and listened to her play all the songs that meant that she didn't love my dad. Her pretty songs and her wanted some place else to be.
That is how we are all connected. We are all tied up in three bars of a song. And one boy being a cliche in a parking lot in Idaho is the story of my parents and how they didn't stay together and how I wanted her hands and have his.
Anyway.
A college kid walked by playing his guitar. Because of course you would just wander around town like a troubador playing "Stairway to Heaven" on your very shiny red guitar. Is there another song?
He made me think of my mom. I remembered her elegant fingers dancing across the strings of her pale honey colored guitar. It made me happy to think of her playing "It aint me, babe" and me watching her lovely fingers. I always wanted hands like hers. Elegant and strong.
I have dad's hands. Great square blocks on thick wrists. Oh, and they're red. They are perfectly useful hands. They're good in a fight since it's pretty much like hitting someone with a 10 pound hammer. They can carry a lot. Great hulking hands like mine can hold up the world and sometimes they do.
But Momma's hands were pretty and they made pretty music while I sat on her bed and listened to her play all the songs that meant that she didn't love my dad. Her pretty songs and her wanted some place else to be.
That is how we are all connected. We are all tied up in three bars of a song. And one boy being a cliche in a parking lot in Idaho is the story of my parents and how they didn't stay together and how I wanted her hands and have his.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Crappy, crappy parenting
So my kid is 9 and can't ride a bike. It's time for the bike safety rodeo in Cub Scouts. I gave in and bought a bike.
He was happy. For 3 1/2 minutes. Then, I tried to teach him to ride a bike. This was a bad idea. I should not be allowed to teach anyone anything ever. I should be hired to give encouragement in hostage situations. All the bad guys would kill themselves immediately. So I gave him some helpful pointers that did nothing to facilitate bike riding. Then I got mad because he wasn't implementing my useless suggestions. Then he started crying because I gave him some more helpful pointers on some personality defects of his and ordered him to fix them immediately.
He did not learn to ride the bike. There were tears and yelling.
Fast forward 28 minutes. Kid is at pack meeting where I have informed his leader he can't ride the bike. I look out my living room window and what do I see? My kid. Riding a bike.
Well who'd a thunk it? Telling him everyone falls and not to be such a baby weren't the key to success. Shocking.
Man, I hope my kids survive me. They are so cool. Sam is riding by smiling from ear to ear but he's going to remember that his mom was big stupid jerk and made him cry when he was afraid of riding his bike.
Looks like we're having humble pie for dinner again.
He was happy. For 3 1/2 minutes. Then, I tried to teach him to ride a bike. This was a bad idea. I should not be allowed to teach anyone anything ever. I should be hired to give encouragement in hostage situations. All the bad guys would kill themselves immediately. So I gave him some helpful pointers that did nothing to facilitate bike riding. Then I got mad because he wasn't implementing my useless suggestions. Then he started crying because I gave him some more helpful pointers on some personality defects of his and ordered him to fix them immediately.
He did not learn to ride the bike. There were tears and yelling.
Fast forward 28 minutes. Kid is at pack meeting where I have informed his leader he can't ride the bike. I look out my living room window and what do I see? My kid. Riding a bike.
Well who'd a thunk it? Telling him everyone falls and not to be such a baby weren't the key to success. Shocking.
Man, I hope my kids survive me. They are so cool. Sam is riding by smiling from ear to ear but he's going to remember that his mom was big stupid jerk and made him cry when he was afraid of riding his bike.
Looks like we're having humble pie for dinner again.
Inertia
Superhero and famed philosopher, The Tick, is fondly remembered for punctuating his falls with, "Gravity is a harsh mistress." (If you don't know who The Tick is, do us both a favor and don't tell me. Just slink away and use google to correct the horrendous gaps in your education. Don't make me lose all faith in you or give me reason to mock you with the lazer like intensity of a thousand suns. Feel the shame. Fix it in private.)
He's right. While I have no fear of heights, I have great fear of depths and falling to them. Mostly the landing part. But there is something worse than gravity, a force more destructive by far. Inertia.
And I am intertia's bitch.
I have become so adept at the subtle art of holding still that even leaning forward seems an act of supreme courage. It's pathetic. My husband wants to buy me a new house. A new house. Yay. And for those of you who haven't seen my current house, let me explain that crap-tastic does not even begin to describe it. It was a crap job when it was built in 1920. Seriously. I can't use the Crock pot and the microwave at the same time because the electrical service shuts down and the breaker sits there openly weeping at the strain. The plumbing was obviously constructed on a dare and there is 1 window on each floor that opens. Also there are sample strips of orange shag carpet covering the walls on the way down the stairs, you can see daylight under all the exterior doors, and I am pretty sure that the circa 1967 monster antennae is actually holding up part of the roof.
I hate this house. We bought the house for the development potential of the property. The potential for the property is great. So is the potential that this craptastic house will end up being featured in a tragic news story after it blows up/ falls down/ or gets flooded for biullionth time.
Jeff wants to get me a house with a 220 electrical service. Wow. And hardwood floors. And plumbing that can handle a dishwasher. He's getting crazy. He's talking about a house air purification system and double pane windows. Shocking.
I do not want to talk about a new house. I actually probably need one. It does occur to me that this house might be less than ideal for someone with respiratory problems. I get that. Also my kids really need more room and I am willing to dream of a world where all bathrooms have sinks that work. But I do not want to talk about a new house.
Because getting there from here takes moving forward and I am holding perfectly still. And eating a brownie. And watching The Tick. While inertia chokes the life out of me.
He's right. While I have no fear of heights, I have great fear of depths and falling to them. Mostly the landing part. But there is something worse than gravity, a force more destructive by far. Inertia.
And I am intertia's bitch.
I have become so adept at the subtle art of holding still that even leaning forward seems an act of supreme courage. It's pathetic. My husband wants to buy me a new house. A new house. Yay. And for those of you who haven't seen my current house, let me explain that crap-tastic does not even begin to describe it. It was a crap job when it was built in 1920. Seriously. I can't use the Crock pot and the microwave at the same time because the electrical service shuts down and the breaker sits there openly weeping at the strain. The plumbing was obviously constructed on a dare and there is 1 window on each floor that opens. Also there are sample strips of orange shag carpet covering the walls on the way down the stairs, you can see daylight under all the exterior doors, and I am pretty sure that the circa 1967 monster antennae is actually holding up part of the roof.
I hate this house. We bought the house for the development potential of the property. The potential for the property is great. So is the potential that this craptastic house will end up being featured in a tragic news story after it blows up/ falls down/ or gets flooded for biullionth time.
Jeff wants to get me a house with a 220 electrical service. Wow. And hardwood floors. And plumbing that can handle a dishwasher. He's getting crazy. He's talking about a house air purification system and double pane windows. Shocking.
I do not want to talk about a new house. I actually probably need one. It does occur to me that this house might be less than ideal for someone with respiratory problems. I get that. Also my kids really need more room and I am willing to dream of a world where all bathrooms have sinks that work. But I do not want to talk about a new house.
Because getting there from here takes moving forward and I am holding perfectly still. And eating a brownie. And watching The Tick. While inertia chokes the life out of me.
Monday, May 28, 2007
5 minutes at the end of the world
I was going to say I love you
I wanted to build some little hall
with words
where you could come
and be with me
Then I remembered
that you have seen me every day
You know all my ugly secrets
and all my shining things
You have felt my love
and you have seen it fail
You have seen me try again
So I'll just say, "Always"
And I'll be reaching
for your hand
the next time
we go spinning by
I wanted to build some little hall
with words
where you could come
and be with me
Then I remembered
that you have seen me every day
You know all my ugly secrets
and all my shining things
You have felt my love
and you have seen it fail
You have seen me try again
So I'll just say, "Always"
And I'll be reaching
for your hand
the next time
we go spinning by
My disapearing face
I lost 40 pounds. Good for me. I had gotten fatter and slower with each baby and after Jimmy was born, I resolved to do something about it. I joined Curves and worked out faithfully. Really faithfully. I did the diet. I measured my food. I felt so good and slowly but surely, I lost the weight.
I looked at my face, now slimmer again, and thought "This is me".
Identity is a funny thing. How was that face more mine than the fat face? How could I see more of myself in the skinnier girl than I could in the fat one?
Now I am fat again but it is worse this time. I am not just fat. I am steroid fat. A year of prednisone has not just added weight but has actually changed the shape of my body, my face and even my lips. I am not just me and bigger, I have taken on the anonymous roundness of steroids. My cheekbones are gone. My lips are shaped like slugs. Much of what defined my face to me is gone.
Is this face mine? Am I less myself now? I look at this roundness and feel myself disappearing behind a moon mask. Why? Why is this not me, too?
Why can I only see myself as a woman I may never be again? And how, if I cannot find me in here, can I expect anyone else to? I tell myself the right things. Jeff says only kind things about it. I brace myself, encourage myself, reassure myself.
But then, every time I walk past a mirror or a window, I think, "Who in the HELL is that?" How did who I am become my face? And how do I undo that? How do I do I carry at this face that feels strange and bloated and looks alien and feel whole? Why am I this shallow? And if I cannot have my own face again, how do I make peace with the one that I am left with?
I looked at my face, now slimmer again, and thought "This is me".
Identity is a funny thing. How was that face more mine than the fat face? How could I see more of myself in the skinnier girl than I could in the fat one?
Now I am fat again but it is worse this time. I am not just fat. I am steroid fat. A year of prednisone has not just added weight but has actually changed the shape of my body, my face and even my lips. I am not just me and bigger, I have taken on the anonymous roundness of steroids. My cheekbones are gone. My lips are shaped like slugs. Much of what defined my face to me is gone.
Is this face mine? Am I less myself now? I look at this roundness and feel myself disappearing behind a moon mask. Why? Why is this not me, too?
Why can I only see myself as a woman I may never be again? And how, if I cannot find me in here, can I expect anyone else to? I tell myself the right things. Jeff says only kind things about it. I brace myself, encourage myself, reassure myself.
But then, every time I walk past a mirror or a window, I think, "Who in the HELL is that?" How did who I am become my face? And how do I undo that? How do I do I carry at this face that feels strange and bloated and looks alien and feel whole? Why am I this shallow? And if I cannot have my own face again, how do I make peace with the one that I am left with?
Monday, May 21, 2007
For Beefche
My friend is sad today
her mother is gone
her very own mommy
who birthed her and held her
and yelled sometimes
and did great things
and made bad dinners
and remembered the funny story
about the time when my friend was three
and loved her all her life
I am sad just to know
that there is such sorrow
of no more lovely mother
and no more "you were themost beautiful girl..."
Mother's keep our stories
and with them pieces of ourselves
tied up in long forgotten ribbons on dead flowers
and written in pictureson crumbling yellow paper
I am amazed to find
there are no words to fix this
there are surely words enough
to breakand tear and injure
but none now that I want to fix
this motherless world
for one loved heartI have only this-
I will wait with you
while you find your way
back to all the pieces of you
and all the stories of her
and the way she laughed
and her undone things
and the hope of an Easter
for everyone we've loved
and all the pieces of ourselves
that they carried away with them
to sit at the feet of God.
her mother is gone
her very own mommy
who birthed her and held her
and yelled sometimes
and did great things
and made bad dinners
and remembered the funny story
about the time when my friend was three
and loved her all her life
I am sad just to know
that there is such sorrow
of no more lovely mother
and no more "you were themost beautiful girl..."
Mother's keep our stories
and with them pieces of ourselves
tied up in long forgotten ribbons on dead flowers
and written in pictureson crumbling yellow paper
I am amazed to find
there are no words to fix this
there are surely words enough
to breakand tear and injure
but none now that I want to fix
this motherless world
for one loved heartI have only this-
I will wait with you
while you find your way
back to all the pieces of you
and all the stories of her
and the way she laughed
and her undone things
and the hope of an Easter
for everyone we've loved
and all the pieces of ourselves
that they carried away with them
to sit at the feet of God.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Gallows humor and people that don't end up on the news
My friend broke the temple today. She is the primary president and they are building a temple out of sugar cubes given for scripture reading done by the children. Almost half a year into the project, she sends the hopes and dreams of 105 crashing to the floor. She's kind of an overachiever anyway. Anybody can break a covenant or break the reverence over the temple. She goes for just breaking the temple. I admire her commitment to excellence.
Am I mean? Is it mean that it is funny to me? I fully recognize how frustrating it must have been, the work involved in repairs, the embarrassment. But when I check, deep down inside, it's still just plain funny.
I ratcheted up the steroids again. The pain and fatigue and confusion have come crashing down on me. I was laying on the couch today with my feet so swollen that I could not walk on them and my daughter sat next to me and took my hand. With a suspiciously sweet look on her face, she took my hand and began singing "Puff the magic ankles, lived on mom's legs...." Hilarious. I laughed and laughed. The kids then made a sport of guessing how many hours tills one of my feet exploded. Juli shut that down with a lecture on gambling. Because apparently it's fine to wonder if your mother is going to explode but we don't believe in betting on when that might be. And that's funny.
I have been reading a lot of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf. I have been so attracted to their insight and the language they use to express it. I was going to blog about that. But then I remembered that my Lit teaching friend might get a little anxious if I had a blog that could basically be entitled "Smart talented women who offed themselves". I wondered how I could love their work so much and agree with so much of their insights and still see more possibilities than what they ultimately saw.
I hope it's because I think exploding ankles and smashed temples and chaos are funny. I think humor gets a bad rap as a defense mechanism. I don't know that crying about something is dealing with it in a more authentic way than laughing until milk spews out your nose. They are both ways of seeing what is there. The smashed temple is truly smashed, there is heartbreak and there is humor. What is wrong with choosing to laugh?
I can cry for days about what has become of my health and my daily life. And all those tears are valid. But when you are dealing with the irony of a medication that can make your hair fall out and make you grow a mustache while causing both fatigue and insomnia you have to acknowledge the inherent humor in that. How many people get to look into get a hair transplant from their lip?
Yeah it might be a blocking defense mechanism but I think is more than that. When I cry about something I am acknowledging what it has done to me. And that is OK. Sometimes it is even good and I probably need to get better at expressing those moments when it hurts. But laughing is OK too because it acknowledges not just what a situation has done to me but my power to define it. Finding the humor says "World, I am not your dancing monkey".
I wish that Sylvia Plath would have known that. I wish in her silken fine poetry she could have found one finely twined giggle about the worlds most cruel and heartless husband being famous for his sensitive reflective poetry. Maybe if she could have laughed she could have seen some possibility beyond her head in the oven and her children raised by the woman her husband was breaking her heart over.
Defining is a way of owning. And to own something, we must be more than it is. I laugh and Goliath shrinks, the odds change, and the tragedy becomes a sad diorama in my hands.
Sometimes you just have to laugh.
Am I mean? Is it mean that it is funny to me? I fully recognize how frustrating it must have been, the work involved in repairs, the embarrassment. But when I check, deep down inside, it's still just plain funny.
I ratcheted up the steroids again. The pain and fatigue and confusion have come crashing down on me. I was laying on the couch today with my feet so swollen that I could not walk on them and my daughter sat next to me and took my hand. With a suspiciously sweet look on her face, she took my hand and began singing "Puff the magic ankles, lived on mom's legs...." Hilarious. I laughed and laughed. The kids then made a sport of guessing how many hours tills one of my feet exploded. Juli shut that down with a lecture on gambling. Because apparently it's fine to wonder if your mother is going to explode but we don't believe in betting on when that might be. And that's funny.
I have been reading a lot of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf. I have been so attracted to their insight and the language they use to express it. I was going to blog about that. But then I remembered that my Lit teaching friend might get a little anxious if I had a blog that could basically be entitled "Smart talented women who offed themselves". I wondered how I could love their work so much and agree with so much of their insights and still see more possibilities than what they ultimately saw.
I hope it's because I think exploding ankles and smashed temples and chaos are funny. I think humor gets a bad rap as a defense mechanism. I don't know that crying about something is dealing with it in a more authentic way than laughing until milk spews out your nose. They are both ways of seeing what is there. The smashed temple is truly smashed, there is heartbreak and there is humor. What is wrong with choosing to laugh?
I can cry for days about what has become of my health and my daily life. And all those tears are valid. But when you are dealing with the irony of a medication that can make your hair fall out and make you grow a mustache while causing both fatigue and insomnia you have to acknowledge the inherent humor in that. How many people get to look into get a hair transplant from their lip?
Yeah it might be a blocking defense mechanism but I think is more than that. When I cry about something I am acknowledging what it has done to me. And that is OK. Sometimes it is even good and I probably need to get better at expressing those moments when it hurts. But laughing is OK too because it acknowledges not just what a situation has done to me but my power to define it. Finding the humor says "World, I am not your dancing monkey".
I wish that Sylvia Plath would have known that. I wish in her silken fine poetry she could have found one finely twined giggle about the worlds most cruel and heartless husband being famous for his sensitive reflective poetry. Maybe if she could have laughed she could have seen some possibility beyond her head in the oven and her children raised by the woman her husband was breaking her heart over.
Defining is a way of owning. And to own something, we must be more than it is. I laugh and Goliath shrinks, the odds change, and the tragedy becomes a sad diorama in my hands.
Sometimes you just have to laugh.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Sometimes the waters just won't part
I talked to the the clinic manager at National Jewish Hospital today. It's all set, I am admitted into their clinic program. Yeah. I'm in.
And as a patient, I can look forward to scheduling my first clinic visit in August or September. Good thing we go my admission rushed huh?
In the meantime, because of my deterioration, I will remain on steroids without cycling off again.
So, I'm going to turtle up for a little while and feel really really sorry for myself. I know that you will all be worried and want to help. I'm just not really up to dealing with it all right now. I love you guys. I will suck it up and regroup. Just not right now.
And as a patient, I can look forward to scheduling my first clinic visit in August or September. Good thing we go my admission rushed huh?
In the meantime, because of my deterioration, I will remain on steroids without cycling off again.
So, I'm going to turtle up for a little while and feel really really sorry for myself. I know that you will all be worried and want to help. I'm just not really up to dealing with it all right now. I love you guys. I will suck it up and regroup. Just not right now.
Take a stand
A great evil has swept across our Nation. Once again we have narrowly survived it's divisive ravages. Only time will tell if we will be able to weather another assault next year. Now is the time for action. Now is the time to rise up and take a stand. Now is the time to defeat Mother's Day. Let's come together and banish this pseudo holiday from our calendars and wallets and hearts once and for all.
I understand the larger idea, honoring mothers. But we as a people aren't so capable of latching on to larger ideas. What we latch on to is "How this is all about me". This is where the idea breaks down. I participate in an online community. Thus far we have had special mothers day acknowledgements for motherless children, children of abusive mothers, single women, married women without children, married women without children by choice, women who are like mothers to some people, and Dad's because Father's day is under celebrated.
We have heard from complaints from everyone from the single, childless woman who insists that as a woman she is entitled to Mothers Day off of her church responsibilities to the married but childless woman who feels that it is an insult to be given a Mother's Day flower at church because it just highlights the fact that she is not really a mother. And that's all before you get to the angst of mothers who secretly suspect that every second of their parenting is destined for a tell all book after their kids get out of prison, the mother who screamed and swore to get her kids into the pew to hear talks about how sweet and nice mothers are, and the mothers who have become increasingly aware that their children are going to turn out just like them.
It all breaks down. Single mothers break down into single mothers by choice single mothers by abandonment or widows. Married women without kids get broken down into married women struggling with infertility, married women without kids by choice, and married women without kids struggling to overcome traumatic events and resolve their issues about having children. Married women with children get broken down by employment, socio-economic status, parenting style, whether or not they blow on owies, and pretty much every other facet of their lives.
I blame St. Patricks day. Money hungry people produced all those "Kiss Me I'm Irish" trinkets. Who was checking? Who was validating that the wearer of that dancing leprechaun pin was in fact of Irish descent? No one. They just sold them to everyone in search of the all mighty dollar and now we all feel entitled to have every holiday apply to us personally.
So as a mother of 6 kids, I say, let's scrap Mother's Day. You cannot synopsize the experiences of every woman into one holiday. And once you have made every caveat necessary to encompass all situations the holiday has become more about not stepping in minefields than moms anyway. So for the 85% of women who loathe and detest the holiday, let's just scrap it. For the 10% that like it because they are manipulative shrews and use it to further compound the endless manipulation of their offspring, you don't deserve a holiday. And for the remaining 5% who just like it because they are happy go lucky people who enjoy a party, we can substitute "Try a new variety of pickle" day.
Otherwise what we are left with it "Happy Mothers or others who may or may not be actively parenting minor units whether by choice or other wise and whether to the best of their ability or not with no intent to compound the grief of those not parenting minor units or those raised by horrifically unfit mothers who beat them or smoked crack or wore a mumu top with sweatpants to the school program Day". That just looks plain silly on a card.
I understand the larger idea, honoring mothers. But we as a people aren't so capable of latching on to larger ideas. What we latch on to is "How this is all about me". This is where the idea breaks down. I participate in an online community. Thus far we have had special mothers day acknowledgements for motherless children, children of abusive mothers, single women, married women without children, married women without children by choice, women who are like mothers to some people, and Dad's because Father's day is under celebrated.
We have heard from complaints from everyone from the single, childless woman who insists that as a woman she is entitled to Mothers Day off of her church responsibilities to the married but childless woman who feels that it is an insult to be given a Mother's Day flower at church because it just highlights the fact that she is not really a mother. And that's all before you get to the angst of mothers who secretly suspect that every second of their parenting is destined for a tell all book after their kids get out of prison, the mother who screamed and swore to get her kids into the pew to hear talks about how sweet and nice mothers are, and the mothers who have become increasingly aware that their children are going to turn out just like them.
It all breaks down. Single mothers break down into single mothers by choice single mothers by abandonment or widows. Married women without kids get broken down into married women struggling with infertility, married women without kids by choice, and married women without kids struggling to overcome traumatic events and resolve their issues about having children. Married women with children get broken down by employment, socio-economic status, parenting style, whether or not they blow on owies, and pretty much every other facet of their lives.
I blame St. Patricks day. Money hungry people produced all those "Kiss Me I'm Irish" trinkets. Who was checking? Who was validating that the wearer of that dancing leprechaun pin was in fact of Irish descent? No one. They just sold them to everyone in search of the all mighty dollar and now we all feel entitled to have every holiday apply to us personally.
So as a mother of 6 kids, I say, let's scrap Mother's Day. You cannot synopsize the experiences of every woman into one holiday. And once you have made every caveat necessary to encompass all situations the holiday has become more about not stepping in minefields than moms anyway. So for the 85% of women who loathe and detest the holiday, let's just scrap it. For the 10% that like it because they are manipulative shrews and use it to further compound the endless manipulation of their offspring, you don't deserve a holiday. And for the remaining 5% who just like it because they are happy go lucky people who enjoy a party, we can substitute "Try a new variety of pickle" day.
Otherwise what we are left with it "Happy Mothers or others who may or may not be actively parenting minor units whether by choice or other wise and whether to the best of their ability or not with no intent to compound the grief of those not parenting minor units or those raised by horrifically unfit mothers who beat them or smoked crack or wore a mumu top with sweatpants to the school program Day". That just looks plain silly on a card.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Being important and being chosen
My friend felt un-important yesterday. It was one of those days that she just felt, overlooked, dismissed, and invisible. I felt sad because she was sad. She wanted to feel like she mattered. She wanted to feel like she was important and needed. But she didn't. She felt invisible and extra, one more great cog in the wheel of blah.
I wanted to tell her that she was important. I wanted to remind her how much she does for everyone. I wanted to say that she was important and essential. I think, maybe we think that is a shortcut for being loved. I wanted her to know that she is loved.
But maybe there is something better than being important. Maybe being needed is not the way to find a place either. In a hundred years, few people will even remember me. How important could I possibly be? Maybe the very greatest joy of life is not people loving us because they need us but because they choose to.
My friend helps me out a lot these days. When I am shaking and throwing up she drives my kids to school. She feeds me on bad days. She fixes things that break. I appreciate her. I am grateful for the help. Some days are so hard, I cannot imagine how I would do it with the help I receive from so many.
But that isn't why I love her. I love her because she is the only grown up I know that laughs from her toes. She doubles over and her cheeks turn hot pink, and she laughs and waves her hand in the air because she is laughing too hard to breathe. That's awesome. I love her because she is very smart and very silly. She loves Jane Austen and Joy from "My name is Earl". She wears endless whimsical bracelets and thinks equations mean something. And she has single handily brought back florals with a evangelical zealousness not seen outside of English Manor houses. She wonders and she learns. She knows all the newest technology and giggles over vintage wedding dresses.
If I have to be affiliated with other human beings, I think I want the ones I choose because they laugh like a seizure and get excited about life. I need a friend to talk to but I would rather choose the one that bought 15 cubic yards of manure and then worried about it being stolen in the night than just someone I needed. I need someone to help me watch over my children but I chose for it to be my too smart friend as she regales me with tales of qualitative research.
I don't know how important any of us ever really are. But maybe the coolest thing is to not be important for any reason other than who you are and the way you laugh and the way you see the world.
Important is OK if you want to settle for that. But I think chosen is better.
I wanted to tell her that she was important. I wanted to remind her how much she does for everyone. I wanted to say that she was important and essential. I think, maybe we think that is a shortcut for being loved. I wanted her to know that she is loved.
But maybe there is something better than being important. Maybe being needed is not the way to find a place either. In a hundred years, few people will even remember me. How important could I possibly be? Maybe the very greatest joy of life is not people loving us because they need us but because they choose to.
My friend helps me out a lot these days. When I am shaking and throwing up she drives my kids to school. She feeds me on bad days. She fixes things that break. I appreciate her. I am grateful for the help. Some days are so hard, I cannot imagine how I would do it with the help I receive from so many.
But that isn't why I love her. I love her because she is the only grown up I know that laughs from her toes. She doubles over and her cheeks turn hot pink, and she laughs and waves her hand in the air because she is laughing too hard to breathe. That's awesome. I love her because she is very smart and very silly. She loves Jane Austen and Joy from "My name is Earl". She wears endless whimsical bracelets and thinks equations mean something. And she has single handily brought back florals with a evangelical zealousness not seen outside of English Manor houses. She wonders and she learns. She knows all the newest technology and giggles over vintage wedding dresses.
If I have to be affiliated with other human beings, I think I want the ones I choose because they laugh like a seizure and get excited about life. I need a friend to talk to but I would rather choose the one that bought 15 cubic yards of manure and then worried about it being stolen in the night than just someone I needed. I need someone to help me watch over my children but I chose for it to be my too smart friend as she regales me with tales of qualitative research.
I don't know how important any of us ever really are. But maybe the coolest thing is to not be important for any reason other than who you are and the way you laugh and the way you see the world.
Important is OK if you want to settle for that. But I think chosen is better.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
I was crazy one day
I went crazy one day. I stood there and I watched things that just weren't so, happening right in front of me. Sophie was laughing and showing me a dance and I saw blood and it was pouring from a gash in her neck that wasn't really there.
"Well", thought I, "that's a new one".
I could see both things. I could see the not real thing and I could see myself see it and knew it wasn't real.
I wondered if finally I have had Enough. I wondered if I had finally slipped my cog. I wondered if it was true what I have always feared- deep down inside I am crazy. Not just a little bit crazy but stark raving mad, the kind of wacko that sees blood that isn't there.
So I went to bed because 9 out of 10 times that is the thing to do. More problems would solve themselves if we just went to bed. I layed there very still, trying hard not to believe the crazy and wondering what I could expect in my new life as a nut job. Would it all be blood and terrifying injuries and the crippling fear that I had caused them? Or would I see the occasional unicorn or maybe a giant talking rabbit? There is so much to ponder when embarking on a new life.
I woke up and carefully considered the evenings events, both the actual and the lunatic. It occurred to me that something was not right. It occurred to me that maybe I did not want to see things that were not so and feel fear without a reason and smile and talk to children while I could feel my brain wiggling. This left me with a conundrum. Who do you tell? What do you say?
It took a while to think it through. It occurred to me that someone as medicated as me might be having a reaction. I decided to entertain that thought. I decided that my meds were finally killing me and I would have to go off the steroids and my lungs would slam shut and I would die a crazy breathless woman and the whole world would traipse over to look at my house and criticize as I lay dead on the floor.
But I called the doctor anyway. It turns out that I am a genius. And an idiot. After carefully explaining to the doctor that I was having a psychotic reaction to steroids and was either going to go crazy or suffocate I sat waiting for the straight jacket and the shocked look. I told him about the blood and waited for him to call the police and have my children moved to a secret location far away from the loony. I told him about the wiggling darkness that crept up at night and circled my face while I held very still. I told him I ate 5 tacos and forgot.
He said, "When did this start?"
"Last week," I said.
"Uh," he paused flipping through the chart, "how long have you been taking Ambien?"
"Since...last week."
It turns out that for the vast majority of people, Ambien causes deep and restful sleep. And for a little tiny sliver it causes buckets of imaginary blood and wiggling wells of darkness to fall into all night long. I came home and flushed the Ambien down the toilet. I can go back to not sleeping. At least insomnia induces giggling silly nuttiness. I'll save the buckets of blood for my vampire movies.
I wondered how often I have sat there thinking the world was ending or believing there was something wrong with me because I just didn't want to say what was happening. I wonder how many of the things that I am terrified of are so simple that a question will make them go.
I have a new resolve. Next time I go crazy, I am just saying something right away. Maybe I am the problem. But maybe I am not. Maybe I can just flush the crazy down the toilet and take a nap. That's worth asking an embarrassing question.
"Well", thought I, "that's a new one".
I could see both things. I could see the not real thing and I could see myself see it and knew it wasn't real.
I wondered if finally I have had Enough. I wondered if I had finally slipped my cog. I wondered if it was true what I have always feared- deep down inside I am crazy. Not just a little bit crazy but stark raving mad, the kind of wacko that sees blood that isn't there.
So I went to bed because 9 out of 10 times that is the thing to do. More problems would solve themselves if we just went to bed. I layed there very still, trying hard not to believe the crazy and wondering what I could expect in my new life as a nut job. Would it all be blood and terrifying injuries and the crippling fear that I had caused them? Or would I see the occasional unicorn or maybe a giant talking rabbit? There is so much to ponder when embarking on a new life.
I woke up and carefully considered the evenings events, both the actual and the lunatic. It occurred to me that something was not right. It occurred to me that maybe I did not want to see things that were not so and feel fear without a reason and smile and talk to children while I could feel my brain wiggling. This left me with a conundrum. Who do you tell? What do you say?
It took a while to think it through. It occurred to me that someone as medicated as me might be having a reaction. I decided to entertain that thought. I decided that my meds were finally killing me and I would have to go off the steroids and my lungs would slam shut and I would die a crazy breathless woman and the whole world would traipse over to look at my house and criticize as I lay dead on the floor.
But I called the doctor anyway. It turns out that I am a genius. And an idiot. After carefully explaining to the doctor that I was having a psychotic reaction to steroids and was either going to go crazy or suffocate I sat waiting for the straight jacket and the shocked look. I told him about the blood and waited for him to call the police and have my children moved to a secret location far away from the loony. I told him about the wiggling darkness that crept up at night and circled my face while I held very still. I told him I ate 5 tacos and forgot.
He said, "When did this start?"
"Last week," I said.
"Uh," he paused flipping through the chart, "how long have you been taking Ambien?"
"Since...last week."
It turns out that for the vast majority of people, Ambien causes deep and restful sleep. And for a little tiny sliver it causes buckets of imaginary blood and wiggling wells of darkness to fall into all night long. I came home and flushed the Ambien down the toilet. I can go back to not sleeping. At least insomnia induces giggling silly nuttiness. I'll save the buckets of blood for my vampire movies.
I wondered how often I have sat there thinking the world was ending or believing there was something wrong with me because I just didn't want to say what was happening. I wonder how many of the things that I am terrified of are so simple that a question will make them go.
I have a new resolve. Next time I go crazy, I am just saying something right away. Maybe I am the problem. But maybe I am not. Maybe I can just flush the crazy down the toilet and take a nap. That's worth asking an embarrassing question.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Amadou and Miriam
She put on the disc and assumed her post at the kitchen sink. The music rose, a quiet beat behind the despairing sigh of covered counters and un-vacuumed floor. The music rose undaunted by her despair and self-recrimination. The music rose and washed over her until it found one secret soft place in her soul and slipped down into her aching joints and stiffened frame.
She moved. Her hips sway in gentle circles. Her back flowed to keep the time. Her hands reached, like she once danced to Bob Marley. She was the girl who would follow Lloyd Cole anywhere. In that moment, she was all the women she'd ever been, the punk princess and the mother who grieved over dishes and the little girl who thought Janis Joplin could hold up the sky.
She danced, like someone who'd forgotten that the whole world was watching. She remembered her mother and her guitar and Cotton Eyed Joe.
They watched, with a touch of shame, her mother hips swinging and abandon on her face. She was familiar but they didn't completely know her. She was the mother who wants things done right now and the girl who danced all night. She was easy and the pain that has weighed on her could not keep pace with Mon Amour, ma cherie. She is laughing now.
They giggle and tease her just a little. But they will remember they day she wasn't broken. And she danced with pretty Thai hands, and stomping feet from Africa, and Caravanning hips like they've never seen before. They will remember that she was no ballerina but the music moved right through her and she was all the women she'd ever been in the kitchen while they watched.
She moved. Her hips sway in gentle circles. Her back flowed to keep the time. Her hands reached, like she once danced to Bob Marley. She was the girl who would follow Lloyd Cole anywhere. In that moment, she was all the women she'd ever been, the punk princess and the mother who grieved over dishes and the little girl who thought Janis Joplin could hold up the sky.
She danced, like someone who'd forgotten that the whole world was watching. She remembered her mother and her guitar and Cotton Eyed Joe.
They watched, with a touch of shame, her mother hips swinging and abandon on her face. She was familiar but they didn't completely know her. She was the mother who wants things done right now and the girl who danced all night. She was easy and the pain that has weighed on her could not keep pace with Mon Amour, ma cherie. She is laughing now.
They giggle and tease her just a little. But they will remember they day she wasn't broken. And she danced with pretty Thai hands, and stomping feet from Africa, and Caravanning hips like they've never seen before. They will remember that she was no ballerina but the music moved right through her and she was all the women she'd ever been in the kitchen while they watched.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
On two lives
Years ago, a woman that I loved and respected very much gave me a poem to read. It was her favorite poem. I read it with all the wisdom and insight of a young woman with no responsibilities in this world.
It was stupid. And depressing. The poem was the mournful tale of a dying woman who revealed to her daughter that hanging in her closet was one spectacular red dress that she had denied herself wearing. It is the mournful symbol of a life of self-denial and repression. I thought the mother was pathetic. Wear the dress or don't wear the dress. Why hang the albatross in your closet?
Then I was hanging up clothes in my closet. And I noticed for the first time how many lovely things I have, with tags still on them. I wondered how I ended up with one life hanging in my closet and one life on my back. How did I become a someone waiting for someday to do something?
There is something funny about getting good and sick. It makes you want to hurry up and push all these lives together. If there isn't a someday then what is left is right now.
This is how it came to be that I sat yesterday in a glamorous black pantsuit completely inappropriate for day wear holding a puking toddler. The three inch pearl brooch banged his head once when he flailed around but other than that he didn't mind. An the brocade kitten heels were perfect for a day spent in a chair.
I don't know what I accomplished by this freakish display. Maybe nothing at all. But today it is 4 inch pink wedges with a black skirt and white shirt and a 1950's gingham apron and an up do. I will run out of some days. I'll be flat damned if I am going to do it with the tags still on my clothes.
It was stupid. And depressing. The poem was the mournful tale of a dying woman who revealed to her daughter that hanging in her closet was one spectacular red dress that she had denied herself wearing. It is the mournful symbol of a life of self-denial and repression. I thought the mother was pathetic. Wear the dress or don't wear the dress. Why hang the albatross in your closet?
Then I was hanging up clothes in my closet. And I noticed for the first time how many lovely things I have, with tags still on them. I wondered how I ended up with one life hanging in my closet and one life on my back. How did I become a someone waiting for someday to do something?
There is something funny about getting good and sick. It makes you want to hurry up and push all these lives together. If there isn't a someday then what is left is right now.
This is how it came to be that I sat yesterday in a glamorous black pantsuit completely inappropriate for day wear holding a puking toddler. The three inch pearl brooch banged his head once when he flailed around but other than that he didn't mind. An the brocade kitten heels were perfect for a day spent in a chair.
I don't know what I accomplished by this freakish display. Maybe nothing at all. But today it is 4 inch pink wedges with a black skirt and white shirt and a 1950's gingham apron and an up do. I will run out of some days. I'll be flat damned if I am going to do it with the tags still on my clothes.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Moral cripples and the utter bloody uselessness of comfort
Someone ought to do something. Someone ought to make a law. Someone ought to stand up for truth. Someone ought to defend the weak. Someone ought to stand up for what they believe.
Sadly, the world appears to be peopled by nobodies. Because when you ask someone who you thought was a somebody, what they are going to do, they generally mumble and excuse themselves into being a nobody.
It leaves the heavy lifting for a very few. But there's an ironic twist, the same people who so cheerfully never take a moral stand for anything, never stick they're necks out, never bear their own discomfort for 5 minutes to leave things they claim to believe it- these same people then resent and criticize the .05% that does it all. It would be funny if they could just shut their yammering gobs and let people enjoy the irony.
Does anyone consider how expensive comfort is? If what it costs is what you believe in and who you could be, isn't that just too much? Here's a hint- there isn't a super human race who never feel scared, never feel embarrassed or alone, and always know just what to do. The people who stand up for things whether it is a friends reputation or morals in a declining society do it with churning stomachs and quivering knees. They aren't comfortable. They are morally consistent.
It costs a lot to be the somebody who does what ought to be done. But not nearly as much as it costs to be the nobody who did nothing at all.
Sadly, the world appears to be peopled by nobodies. Because when you ask someone who you thought was a somebody, what they are going to do, they generally mumble and excuse themselves into being a nobody.
It leaves the heavy lifting for a very few. But there's an ironic twist, the same people who so cheerfully never take a moral stand for anything, never stick they're necks out, never bear their own discomfort for 5 minutes to leave things they claim to believe it- these same people then resent and criticize the .05% that does it all. It would be funny if they could just shut their yammering gobs and let people enjoy the irony.
Does anyone consider how expensive comfort is? If what it costs is what you believe in and who you could be, isn't that just too much? Here's a hint- there isn't a super human race who never feel scared, never feel embarrassed or alone, and always know just what to do. The people who stand up for things whether it is a friends reputation or morals in a declining society do it with churning stomachs and quivering knees. They aren't comfortable. They are morally consistent.
It costs a lot to be the somebody who does what ought to be done. But not nearly as much as it costs to be the nobody who did nothing at all.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
That sucks, let's party
Today was not a good day. I blame it largely on the sudden disappearance of all oxygen on the planet. The white knuckle pain from cycling off steroids hasn't helped. And the Xolair fatigue was finishing me off. So I have spent the day curled up on the couch holding very still except for when I got up to give myself shots. Very glamorous. And I am negotiating with Doc to go back on steroids. Today was bad enough that I wanted to be, right this very minute, being annoyed by doctors in Denver. Poor me. Poor breathless sad little me.
Then it was time to do chores. The word "chore" brings to mind slopped pigs and mucked stables. At our house it means that I hold out hope that we get the dishes off the table before the next meal and I want toilet paper in the bathroom. I had bought the soundtrack to Wicked and had put it on as Coray walked through the room carrying food from the dining table to the kitchen. Suddenly, she rose up her hard won turnout kicked in some lovely swirl.
The fire spread. Coray leapt past Juli carrying plates. Juli spun past Sam. Jimmy hopped from foot to foot. Amy Grace turned in precise little circles. And Sophie spun holding onto my finger until she staggered off.
Coray spun and lept through our narrow living room, her effortless ringlets sailing, blue eyes twinkling. She raised her lovely leg and leaned into a artful twist of pajama and curls. I don't think I have ever seen a ballerina do that step before. They all should. She spun fast and stopped and stretched out her leg in a finish that was half perfect grace and half an act of violence against the world. She danced with a ferocity and confidence that put life on notice. She has worked hard, she owns the movement now. And anything in this world in reach of her perfectly pointed foot. Some nights ago she was worrying about the future. She worried about life and if she would be equal to it. Watched her leap and kick, it occurred to me that life ought to worry. Coray is coming. Spinning, strong and accidentally beautiful, she'll stand where she wants and dance when she pleases.
Juli wriggled by, her bent toes coveting Coray's pointe. But on the balls of her bare narrow feet she dances with celebration. It will seem a shame to tuck such happy toes in metal boxes and pink satin. She twists and spins with a body trained to be a ballerina and a heart meant for a leaping Irish dance. The music talks to her and she knows just what it means. She dances to answer. I see the girl I find so unexpected. She is so feminine and giggly, my Barbie girl. But she is so strong. She has the bravest heart. The legs that twist a funky ballet in my living room, hike ten miles, track bears, and never slow. She is an explosion, light racing across my horizon. She dances because the music tells her to and no one could convince her she couldn't.
My living room erupted into a showstopping number befitting any 1950's musical. Sam found his place tucked neatly behind his charming smile. Spinning cards and charming his mother, he was the appealing rascal amidst the girls. His eyes sparkled as he slid the deck of cards in a easy row and called for someone to pick a card. He doesn't know a single card trick. He smiles and that is immaterial. He is the card trick, his own winning surprise. Amy is his lovely assistant. Her moves neat and certain, her face so lovely. She is all show. Serious in her playfulness. She is an actress. She will dance if it is part of the act. But her green eyes are sure that she is the show.
Sophie and Jimmy join in, stealing cards and spinning dangerously close to swinging feet. Jimmy comes and takes my hand. He leads me to the floor and then we begin dancing. Him mostly. But he makes is irresistible. He hops from foot to foot with perfect rhythm and then he and Sophie are spinning away. Sophie spins and hugs, overcome with excitement and affection. She dances and hugs, her fairytale perfect face shining. Jimmy moves on to feats of strength, climbing higher and higher. Sophie steps in neat imitation of her sisters still spinning through the living room.
And it occurs to me, that I was far to sick tonight for anything but a party. It occurs to me, that when you love someone, they can dance for you when you can't. I danced for joy tonight, I hope they let me do it again.
Then it was time to do chores. The word "chore" brings to mind slopped pigs and mucked stables. At our house it means that I hold out hope that we get the dishes off the table before the next meal and I want toilet paper in the bathroom. I had bought the soundtrack to Wicked and had put it on as Coray walked through the room carrying food from the dining table to the kitchen. Suddenly, she rose up her hard won turnout kicked in some lovely swirl.
The fire spread. Coray leapt past Juli carrying plates. Juli spun past Sam. Jimmy hopped from foot to foot. Amy Grace turned in precise little circles. And Sophie spun holding onto my finger until she staggered off.
Coray spun and lept through our narrow living room, her effortless ringlets sailing, blue eyes twinkling. She raised her lovely leg and leaned into a artful twist of pajama and curls. I don't think I have ever seen a ballerina do that step before. They all should. She spun fast and stopped and stretched out her leg in a finish that was half perfect grace and half an act of violence against the world. She danced with a ferocity and confidence that put life on notice. She has worked hard, she owns the movement now. And anything in this world in reach of her perfectly pointed foot. Some nights ago she was worrying about the future. She worried about life and if she would be equal to it. Watched her leap and kick, it occurred to me that life ought to worry. Coray is coming. Spinning, strong and accidentally beautiful, she'll stand where she wants and dance when she pleases.
Juli wriggled by, her bent toes coveting Coray's pointe. But on the balls of her bare narrow feet she dances with celebration. It will seem a shame to tuck such happy toes in metal boxes and pink satin. She twists and spins with a body trained to be a ballerina and a heart meant for a leaping Irish dance. The music talks to her and she knows just what it means. She dances to answer. I see the girl I find so unexpected. She is so feminine and giggly, my Barbie girl. But she is so strong. She has the bravest heart. The legs that twist a funky ballet in my living room, hike ten miles, track bears, and never slow. She is an explosion, light racing across my horizon. She dances because the music tells her to and no one could convince her she couldn't.
My living room erupted into a showstopping number befitting any 1950's musical. Sam found his place tucked neatly behind his charming smile. Spinning cards and charming his mother, he was the appealing rascal amidst the girls. His eyes sparkled as he slid the deck of cards in a easy row and called for someone to pick a card. He doesn't know a single card trick. He smiles and that is immaterial. He is the card trick, his own winning surprise. Amy is his lovely assistant. Her moves neat and certain, her face so lovely. She is all show. Serious in her playfulness. She is an actress. She will dance if it is part of the act. But her green eyes are sure that she is the show.
Sophie and Jimmy join in, stealing cards and spinning dangerously close to swinging feet. Jimmy comes and takes my hand. He leads me to the floor and then we begin dancing. Him mostly. But he makes is irresistible. He hops from foot to foot with perfect rhythm and then he and Sophie are spinning away. Sophie spins and hugs, overcome with excitement and affection. She dances and hugs, her fairytale perfect face shining. Jimmy moves on to feats of strength, climbing higher and higher. Sophie steps in neat imitation of her sisters still spinning through the living room.
And it occurs to me, that I was far to sick tonight for anything but a party. It occurs to me, that when you love someone, they can dance for you when you can't. I danced for joy tonight, I hope they let me do it again.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
All fall down
I am not sure why I abandoned lying as a strategy for interacting with my doctor. It's just like me to abandon something that works. I sat there and said what this like for me, he looked at my PFT's, my meds, and my history and said "yamsbladder".
Okay. That's not a quote. But that made about as much sense to me as what he did say.
I like to be prepared so I am what is known as a negative thinker. I know 800 ways that any given situation can go wrong. Sure, there are thousands of books and self help tv personalities with whiter than white teeth that say this is not an effective strategy. They're wrong. If I think of what can go wrong, I think of what I will do. I go in to the problem with a plan. I go in knowing that I can do it no matter which scenario plays out.
Except for when some joker yells "yamsbladder" in the middle of my carefully constructed scenario.
I thought the Doc and I would discuss and deliberate, sadly up my prednisone, maybe look at the sleeping issue. Instead he said that he has hitched all his horses to this cart and it is still barely going uphill. He wants me to be admitted to National Jewish Hospital in Denver for one to two weeks. Yamsbladder.
What? That wasn't even in my list of Horrible Things That Might Possibly Occur. How am I supposed to figure out what to do now? Wing it? And how in the name of thunder have I managed in 10 months to flunk out of respiration 101 so badly that I am being sent to the worlds most prominent short bus for bad breathers? National Jewish Hospital is the most prominent Asthma specialty facility in the world.
It's a very good hospital. For very sick people. It is stunning to think that is me. It is stunning to think that is me enough that I can get in on a priority admittance. It is stunning to think that people seriously think I am going to spend oceans of money to be annoyed by doctors in Denver. I hate Denver. I was there once for about 17 hours and that city and I developed a lasting hatred that precludes my seeking life saving medical attention in that town. Also I think high altitudes make me look fat. I may be wandering into to hysterical denial here.
But it's not my fault. I had a plan for everything except yamsbladder.
Okay. That's not a quote. But that made about as much sense to me as what he did say.
I like to be prepared so I am what is known as a negative thinker. I know 800 ways that any given situation can go wrong. Sure, there are thousands of books and self help tv personalities with whiter than white teeth that say this is not an effective strategy. They're wrong. If I think of what can go wrong, I think of what I will do. I go in to the problem with a plan. I go in knowing that I can do it no matter which scenario plays out.
Except for when some joker yells "yamsbladder" in the middle of my carefully constructed scenario.
I thought the Doc and I would discuss and deliberate, sadly up my prednisone, maybe look at the sleeping issue. Instead he said that he has hitched all his horses to this cart and it is still barely going uphill. He wants me to be admitted to National Jewish Hospital in Denver for one to two weeks. Yamsbladder.
What? That wasn't even in my list of Horrible Things That Might Possibly Occur. How am I supposed to figure out what to do now? Wing it? And how in the name of thunder have I managed in 10 months to flunk out of respiration 101 so badly that I am being sent to the worlds most prominent short bus for bad breathers? National Jewish Hospital is the most prominent Asthma specialty facility in the world.
It's a very good hospital. For very sick people. It is stunning to think that is me. It is stunning to think that is me enough that I can get in on a priority admittance. It is stunning to think that people seriously think I am going to spend oceans of money to be annoyed by doctors in Denver. I hate Denver. I was there once for about 17 hours and that city and I developed a lasting hatred that precludes my seeking life saving medical attention in that town. Also I think high altitudes make me look fat. I may be wandering into to hysterical denial here.
But it's not my fault. I had a plan for everything except yamsbladder.
Courage
I am not a brave person. I have done some things that appear, on the face of them, to be acts of courage. But I was not brave. I did them with great fear and anger and resented every minute. Apparently, I am not just a coward, I'm pretty petty too.
Today, I have to go see my Doc. I don't want to. I have to get my shot. I have to have a discussion that I have no interest in having. I have to face the little annoyances of discussing miracles and their possible Eta's. I have to find a way to keep my life working while I shake and sleep for three days straight from the shot. And I have to face the nagging suspicion that none of this is going to make me any better or give me my life back.
I hate shots. I give myself epi-shots fairly often but that doesn't seem to have reduced my fear. The Xolair is worse. It is as thick as gel toothpaste and the tube is bigger than my thumb. So it takes the nurse pushing with both hands to push the serum into my arm and they have to go very slowly. And then, as near as I can tell, it isn't working. The only effects I have identified so far are the three day coma that follows the shot and the enormous bills. I hate the whole stupid thing.
I have to talk to my doctor. I don't want to. I have to tell him that his best efforts have not given me my life back. I have to say that I am tired. I have to tell him that I am scared. I have to tell him that if nebbing is so wonderful, he can do it and have the inside of his head stink and his teeth fall out but as for me and my house, I'm having a hard time seeing the benefit. We are a ways into this now and all the miracles on the horizon keep vanishing like mirages when we come up close. Even the theophylline isn't working now. I have to say how it feels to fight for breath for 3 hours and wonder if it is ok not to fight for it.
I like to ignore things. There is a suck to avoidance ratio that makes life easier. I want to look away and let it go.
But I am not going to.
Yesterday my husband called and said he wanted me to know that he loves me. He likes who I am and likes having me with him. He knows I am self conscious about the side effects of the steroids but he doesn't see what I see. He thinks I am beautiful. And then he said that the most important thing to him was me being by him. So I am going to take my shot and find out if I am on steroids permanently and argue about nebbing and cry about my lost life. He loves me. I have to try.
It made me wonder how often we see someone who is doing something that looks brave to us and misunderstand. We think we are seeing courage but what we are seeing is love. I am not brave. I have no fight left. I am tired and sad and everything hurts. I cannot believe that someone my age can feel so old. I cannot believe that my life is completely consumed by this stupid stupid illness. I don't want this battle. I don't want to work this hard to breathe. But there are people I love. And there are people who love me. That is enough.
I think I will look a little closer now, when I hear great tales of courage. I will listen and I will think, "Who did you love so much, that your love was bigger than the impossible thing?"
Today, I have to go see my Doc. I don't want to. I have to get my shot. I have to have a discussion that I have no interest in having. I have to face the little annoyances of discussing miracles and their possible Eta's. I have to find a way to keep my life working while I shake and sleep for three days straight from the shot. And I have to face the nagging suspicion that none of this is going to make me any better or give me my life back.
I hate shots. I give myself epi-shots fairly often but that doesn't seem to have reduced my fear. The Xolair is worse. It is as thick as gel toothpaste and the tube is bigger than my thumb. So it takes the nurse pushing with both hands to push the serum into my arm and they have to go very slowly. And then, as near as I can tell, it isn't working. The only effects I have identified so far are the three day coma that follows the shot and the enormous bills. I hate the whole stupid thing.
I have to talk to my doctor. I don't want to. I have to tell him that his best efforts have not given me my life back. I have to say that I am tired. I have to tell him that I am scared. I have to tell him that if nebbing is so wonderful, he can do it and have the inside of his head stink and his teeth fall out but as for me and my house, I'm having a hard time seeing the benefit. We are a ways into this now and all the miracles on the horizon keep vanishing like mirages when we come up close. Even the theophylline isn't working now. I have to say how it feels to fight for breath for 3 hours and wonder if it is ok not to fight for it.
I like to ignore things. There is a suck to avoidance ratio that makes life easier. I want to look away and let it go.
But I am not going to.
Yesterday my husband called and said he wanted me to know that he loves me. He likes who I am and likes having me with him. He knows I am self conscious about the side effects of the steroids but he doesn't see what I see. He thinks I am beautiful. And then he said that the most important thing to him was me being by him. So I am going to take my shot and find out if I am on steroids permanently and argue about nebbing and cry about my lost life. He loves me. I have to try.
It made me wonder how often we see someone who is doing something that looks brave to us and misunderstand. We think we are seeing courage but what we are seeing is love. I am not brave. I have no fight left. I am tired and sad and everything hurts. I cannot believe that someone my age can feel so old. I cannot believe that my life is completely consumed by this stupid stupid illness. I don't want this battle. I don't want to work this hard to breathe. But there are people I love. And there are people who love me. That is enough.
I think I will look a little closer now, when I hear great tales of courage. I will listen and I will think, "Who did you love so much, that your love was bigger than the impossible thing?"
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Household Organization
I love the subject of household management. I find it fascinating. I could talk about it for hours. I have books and little notes and even a planner. I go over them every now and then, like an archaeologist examining treasured relics to determine the nature of a culture. I read and re read. I shuffle and discuss.
Because I have no idea what it all means. Group like things together? Seriously? If I thought in groups of like things, work with me here, they would already be together. Yeah. it's like writing a map to a different country in a language that I don't speak. You know where I put things? Down. Just touch things once? No problem. I'll put it down. It will be lost. I will never touch it again. Can I count that as a success? But I keep assembling those darn tools just like the idiot tourist who just keeps talking louder and louder as if volume was the universal translator. Power through.
But the idea that befuddles me the most is "do a little bit every day". How is that going to help? You know how much I can see of my bedroom floor? A little bit. I don't think 5 minutes a day is going to get it done unless I set 2024 as the ETA for this project. And I have a really short attention span.
I have an alternate plan I put into use whenever I get too crazed. It's called "Wildly Over-react". The basic theory is that if doing a little bit of planned action every day is good, doing a whole bunch of random crap all at once in the most chaotic way possible is better. There's probably a mathematical formula that expresses it. I'm pretty sure it involves fractions.
So that is how I found myself barricaded out of my bedroom. Because if you haven't cleaned up anything for months, the most rational course of action is to assign a child to each room and have them get everything out of that room that doesn't belong. That's why I buy hefty sacks in bulk. As I sat there, barred from my bedroom by the hefty bag moat, I made the same deal with myself that I always make. "We will never do this again." The problem with making deals with myself is that one of me is saying "Now promise that we shall never ever do this again." But the other part of me is saying "Yes yes, I couldn't agree more, we should have something chocolatey right about now." And it's always that second one that decides that the whole house has to be clean right now and the best way to do that is assign a kid to each room and hand out the hefty sacks.
I hate her and I'm beginning to think she's the reason we're fat and it isn't really just a food allergy like she says.
One week later I have mostly removed the evidence of my latest folly. I only slept on the couch one night. So am I doing a little every day? Are you kidding? I am exhausted and I have to conserve my energy for the next time I am beguiled by a fresh roll of trash bags.
Because I have no idea what it all means. Group like things together? Seriously? If I thought in groups of like things, work with me here, they would already be together. Yeah. it's like writing a map to a different country in a language that I don't speak. You know where I put things? Down. Just touch things once? No problem. I'll put it down. It will be lost. I will never touch it again. Can I count that as a success? But I keep assembling those darn tools just like the idiot tourist who just keeps talking louder and louder as if volume was the universal translator. Power through.
But the idea that befuddles me the most is "do a little bit every day". How is that going to help? You know how much I can see of my bedroom floor? A little bit. I don't think 5 minutes a day is going to get it done unless I set 2024 as the ETA for this project. And I have a really short attention span.
I have an alternate plan I put into use whenever I get too crazed. It's called "Wildly Over-react". The basic theory is that if doing a little bit of planned action every day is good, doing a whole bunch of random crap all at once in the most chaotic way possible is better. There's probably a mathematical formula that expresses it. I'm pretty sure it involves fractions.
So that is how I found myself barricaded out of my bedroom. Because if you haven't cleaned up anything for months, the most rational course of action is to assign a child to each room and have them get everything out of that room that doesn't belong. That's why I buy hefty sacks in bulk. As I sat there, barred from my bedroom by the hefty bag moat, I made the same deal with myself that I always make. "We will never do this again." The problem with making deals with myself is that one of me is saying "Now promise that we shall never ever do this again." But the other part of me is saying "Yes yes, I couldn't agree more, we should have something chocolatey right about now." And it's always that second one that decides that the whole house has to be clean right now and the best way to do that is assign a kid to each room and hand out the hefty sacks.
I hate her and I'm beginning to think she's the reason we're fat and it isn't really just a food allergy like she says.
One week later I have mostly removed the evidence of my latest folly. I only slept on the couch one night. So am I doing a little every day? Are you kidding? I am exhausted and I have to conserve my energy for the next time I am beguiled by a fresh roll of trash bags.
Stupid things I love unreasonably much
Last week, we narrowly avoided a tragedy. Jimmy, age 2, spilled a cup of water on Bob. I was at the dentist when it happened. At least I have that comfort. Bob was injured in my absence. It was not I who failed to protect him. Coray fully grasped the enormity of situation. As I pulled into the driveway, stiff-faced and jaw-throbbing, she ran out to meet me. "Oh mom, it's Bob. I didn't know what to do. Jimmy dumped water on him and he wont stop running so I turned him upside down and put him on my bed. I don't think he's OK."
I should mention that Bob is a vacuum. A little round robot vacuum.
I ran to her room where Bob was in fact, upside down on her bed, wheels spinning furiously. I picked him up. I turned him over. I pushed the power button. Nothing. The wheels kept turning. Coray rolled her eyes, "yeah, we did try that." I tried more buttons. Then I tried combinations of buttons. And the wheels kept spinning.
I felt panicked. Well and truly panicked. It was unbearable. I finally took the battery out and set my dead little robot down on the kitchen counter. He was so still. I'd like to say that I loyally grieved for him. But I didn't. I left his sick bed immediately and ran to the computer to price replacements.
It's not that I don't have other vacuums. I have owned and even occasionally used other vacuums. I'm pretty sure I even know where another one is.
But Bob isn't just a vacuum. He was a deal I made with myself. He was the day that I understood that I could want to be a good mom and clean the floor and still want to read Maupassant instead. He was the day I accepted that maybe I should quit shooting for "perfect" and "should" and content myself with reasonable approximations.
As a victorious side note, I will point out that I didn't yell at anyone. Not the alleged babysitter, not the traitorous child who broke the no-open-cups-for-the-baby-rule, not the baby who was giggling over Bob's demise with twinklier eyes than I would have liked. I find that letting go of my shoulds makes me far less yellish as Juliana would say.
I sat on the couch later that evening, considering a Bob-less future and analyzing my budget for a Bob sized surplus. I considered life without him. I contemplated the return of guilt, the memory of inadequacy. And I began to wonder how many other ways I could make peace with all the women I am and want to be if I would just keep looking.
Bob's circuits dried out. After three false starts that confirmed our worst fears, he finally dried out enough to forgive our carelessness. He beeped three times and then came to life, whizzing emphatically around the kitchen that had gone uncleaned the night before (I said I think I know where another vacuum is not that I was sure). I watched him lovingly as he zipped with all the purposeful energy that I have never felt while cleaning. Then, I sat down to read, content to know that my bargain with sloth was in full force and all was right with the world.
I should mention that Bob is a vacuum. A little round robot vacuum.
I ran to her room where Bob was in fact, upside down on her bed, wheels spinning furiously. I picked him up. I turned him over. I pushed the power button. Nothing. The wheels kept turning. Coray rolled her eyes, "yeah, we did try that." I tried more buttons. Then I tried combinations of buttons. And the wheels kept spinning.
I felt panicked. Well and truly panicked. It was unbearable. I finally took the battery out and set my dead little robot down on the kitchen counter. He was so still. I'd like to say that I loyally grieved for him. But I didn't. I left his sick bed immediately and ran to the computer to price replacements.
It's not that I don't have other vacuums. I have owned and even occasionally used other vacuums. I'm pretty sure I even know where another one is.
But Bob isn't just a vacuum. He was a deal I made with myself. He was the day that I understood that I could want to be a good mom and clean the floor and still want to read Maupassant instead. He was the day I accepted that maybe I should quit shooting for "perfect" and "should" and content myself with reasonable approximations.
As a victorious side note, I will point out that I didn't yell at anyone. Not the alleged babysitter, not the traitorous child who broke the no-open-cups-for-the-baby-rule, not the baby who was giggling over Bob's demise with twinklier eyes than I would have liked. I find that letting go of my shoulds makes me far less yellish as Juliana would say.
I sat on the couch later that evening, considering a Bob-less future and analyzing my budget for a Bob sized surplus. I considered life without him. I contemplated the return of guilt, the memory of inadequacy. And I began to wonder how many other ways I could make peace with all the women I am and want to be if I would just keep looking.
Bob's circuits dried out. After three false starts that confirmed our worst fears, he finally dried out enough to forgive our carelessness. He beeped three times and then came to life, whizzing emphatically around the kitchen that had gone uncleaned the night before (I said I think I know where another vacuum is not that I was sure). I watched him lovingly as he zipped with all the purposeful energy that I have never felt while cleaning. Then, I sat down to read, content to know that my bargain with sloth was in full force and all was right with the world.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Admitting defeat
I made this blog a while ago. I picked the template and the colors. I picked a font. I even figured out how to put a picture on it. Sadly, for me that is pretty cutting edge. There sat my blog, formed and ready for some brilliant piece of insight. And since then, I have been composing brilliant essays in my mind, poignant and thoughtful. I have worked hard to come up with the perfect piece of prose to begin my blog with.
I still have squat. Nada. How can I have so much in my life and so little to say? I have decided that I am intimidated by my own intention to make something great. So I now intend just to make something.
This is my blog. It will be trite and misspelled. I will most likely get very bitter about dissenting opinions. I fully plan to contradict myself. Also, I lie about how I feel sometimes. I start sentences with "and" a lot. I am not great at imagining my ideal reader no matter how many times I read Stephen King's "On Writing".
So there you have it. My blog. Like most things that happened to you today it will be disappointing and dull. I have full confidence in your ability to adapt.
I still have squat. Nada. How can I have so much in my life and so little to say? I have decided that I am intimidated by my own intention to make something great. So I now intend just to make something.
This is my blog. It will be trite and misspelled. I will most likely get very bitter about dissenting opinions. I fully plan to contradict myself. Also, I lie about how I feel sometimes. I start sentences with "and" a lot. I am not great at imagining my ideal reader no matter how many times I read Stephen King's "On Writing".
So there you have it. My blog. Like most things that happened to you today it will be disappointing and dull. I have full confidence in your ability to adapt.
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