tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87142749126313608322024-03-14T03:30:20.828-07:00No Matter Where You Go, There You Are...My adventures in Life, the Universe, and Everything...Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.comBlogger302125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-11061946706182032322019-11-17T07:55:00.000-08:002019-11-17T07:55:34.973-08:00Seven Days...<br />
<br />
Last Sunday,November 10th, a little after 2:18 a.m., the Husbandly One breathed his last breath and was gone. Just like that. <br />
<br />
I was trying to give him a dose of medication to clear his airways, and had just asked him to open his mouth a little wider so I could get the oral syringe in. His eyes flicked toward me, his lips moved and he whispered... something... and then he was gone. I had stared at him, then stood up and said, "Oh," in shock.<br />
<br />
Our friend, K, who was there helping me with the night watch, stood up and leaned over him to look, then looked at me, her eyes wide with shock, and she said, "Oh," the same exact way I had.<br />
<br />
The next thing I knew, I was wrapped tightly in her arms, and I was roaring with grief as my knees threatened to buckle, because the worst thing ever had just happened to me, and I was trying not to leave with him.<br />
<br />
Most of that night is a blur. I remember staring at his face earlier in the night, thinking death was coming soon as I noticed how his skin was molding to his skull. I remember staring at his face after the hospice folks had cleaned him up and dressed him, touching his face and crying at how small he was, how thin, how... <em>cold</em>. I remember sitting on the couch in the dining room, holding E's dear, dear face in my hands as she told me she loved me. I said, "I know you do, because you came here without your teeth."<br />
<br />
I remember how kind the hospice people were, and the policeman who came in with extremely neatly threaded eyebrows. I remember my sister holding me so tight and telling me how sorry she was, and my other sister on the phone, telling me how much she loved me. I remember the guy from the funeral home, who sounded like Barry White. And I remember looking out the back door at this extremely beautiful sunrise and being startled that so much time had already passed.<br />
<br />
And now, it's been seven days. Seven days since my husband died. Seven days since I last looked into his face, wishing I could relieve his suffering, and knowing there was nothing I could do except respect his wishes. He'd been unresponsive since Thursday morning. His last clearly spoken words to me were, "I can't breathe."<br />
<br />
And because he was in hospice care, and had a Do Not Resuscitate order, I called Hospice and not 911. They helped me calm him down and get him breathing almost normally, but he was practically comatose after that. If you asked him to blink to answer yes/no questions, he'd do it. He'd smile, or smirk, or waggle his eyebrows, and he would hold your hand, squeeze it, and tug on it. <br />
<br />
We held his hand around the clock. Seriously. We took it in shifts, there was always someone there to hold his hand when I needed to sleep, or to eat, go to the bathroom, go outside and cry... someone held his hand continuously. If you didn't, he'd look for a hand, reaching out and trying to find one.<br />
<br />
So we held his hand.<br />
<br />
It's been seven days since I held his hand. Seven days since I ran my fingers through his hair and talked to him. Seven days since I lost the one person who got me and loved me anyway. Seven days since I told him I loved him and he squeezed my hand back to say, "I love you, too."<br />
<br />
Seven days of pretending to be a functional competent adult. Seven nights of sleeping alone in my full-sized bed that suddenly seems way too big. Seven days of pushing down panic and staying calm so my kids stay calm. Seven days of not going through the stacks of mail and papers on my desk to find out what OTHER bills didn't get paid. <br />
<br />
Seven days of missing my best friend, the person I tell everything <i>first</i>, seven days of wanting to tell THO something, or ask him something, or just wanting to see him, just because.<br />
<br />
Seven days of missing his Facebook Messenger icon being constantly up on my phone, because we sent jokes, memes, or photos we'd just taken of something interesting to each other.<br />
<br />
Seven days. And I will never, ever be the same again.<br />
<br />
Fuck. Cancer.<br />
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-79159502473126132972019-09-28T19:39:00.000-07:002019-09-28T19:39:08.199-07:00The Blank Page...<br />
You know, it's tough enough being a writer, but right now? Being a writer is almost impossible. It's so hard to focus. I'm still working on the flu story... at least the research end. The working title is still "The Pestilential Adventures of Mrs. Osgood Peabody," but when it comes to thinking of what the <i>actual </i>title should be, I'm kind of at a loss. Originally, I intended to have zombies in it... well... not <i>real </i>zombies, more like people having an weird interaction with high fevers and a new antiviral medication but... I can't make that work, so... I think I'll just play up the "return of the 1918 pandemic but <i>worse</i>" angle. <br />
<br />
Still, it's difficult to find the energy to work on it. I spend so much time worried over the Husbandly One, trying to get him to eat, or trying to help him over the next hurdle, that I have very little left over for writing. Even fanfiction is difficult right now.<br />
<br />
I spent a great deal of last night crying, but that's basically my emotional settings rebooting, you know? I cry, and cry, and get it out of my system, and then I feel better. I absolutely hate crying, though. <br />
<br />
But writing. I need to be writing. I really, really, <i>really</i> need to be writing. Because writing is what I do and what I love and... I need to do this, for me and for <i>him. </i>To show him that his faith in me has not been in vain. I need to do this. <br />
<br />
<i>I need to do this.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So... get over yourself and <i>JUST FUCKING WRITE!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-89028723497083065062019-09-11T16:31:00.000-07:002019-09-11T16:31:43.497-07:00I'm Trying Not To Be A Wuss, But I Don't Think It's Working...<br />
He's so damn thin. I don't even want to speculate with how much he weighs. His appetite is almost nonexistent, and warring with that is the "don't waste food" mentality we were brought up with by our Depression era parents. <br />
<br />
He thinks, "I can't eat an entire chicken pot pie, even though I want one. And if I don't eat it, it will go to waste. Therefore, I will not eat a chicken pot pie, so I won't waste the food."<br />
<br />
He hasn't said that, but I'm pretty sure that's part of what's wandering through his head somewhere.<br />
<br />
I had to change that mentality myself, especially over the last year. And most especially where he's concerned. So he can't eat an entire chicken pot pie, I'm just thrilled he ate <i>some</i> of it, you know? Maybe I should do what I did with my mom when her appetite was decreasing. You know, instead of cajoling her to eat, I would make a sandwich and say, "Oh, you know what, Mom? I can't eat this whole sandwich by myself. You want half?"<br />
<br />
And because she grew up during the Depression, there was <i>no way</i> she was going to let that half of a sandwich go to waste, so she'd shrug and say, "Might as well." And we'd sit there and eat our half of a sandwich and smile, and inside, I was cheering because hot <i>damn</i>, I got calories in her!<br />
<br />
I just need to be even sneakier than usual, because he's always on to me.<br />
<br />
Maybe that will take my mind off the thought of losing the love of my life way before I'm ready. I'm really scared. We go see the oncologist on Monday, and we'll see what we see.<br />
<br />
I should probably go back to the doctor myself. My ear is still bothering me. It's kind of hard to focus on me right now, though.<br />
<br />
I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm scared. And... I feel pretty alone right now. Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-29068553455003015212018-12-15T06:44:00.000-08:002018-12-15T06:45:17.355-08:00Like A Thief In The Night...<br />
Well, last night completely sucked.<br />
<br />
No matter what I do, it's always there. This... waiting grief. It's so frustrating, and so.... <i>time wasting</i>.<br />
<br />
I mean, he's <i>here.</i> He's <i>alive</i>. He's <i>fighting</i>. He's actually doing pretty well on the treatment front.<br />
<br />
But every once in a while, it sneaks up on me and sucker-punches me when I least expect it. I can hear my mother's voice. <i>Don't borrow grief.</i> Well, I'm not borrowing it. But it's very hard to live in the moment when your husband's having a rough chemo treatment, when he's cramping and going through diarrhea and spending hours in the tub, completely miserable, and you find yourself wondering how much he can take before it's too much?<br />
<br />
Please let that day be far, far away. Please.<br />
<br />
I can't bear the thought of him not being here.<br />
<br />
I can't bear the thought of him suffering.<br />
<br />
I'm so... torn up and ... last night, I couldn't stop crying.<br />
<br />
I hate this. I hate what he's going through. And I hate being so selfish.<br />
<br />
Last night was full of dreams I only half remember, but I would wake up crying. Not sobbing, just, I'd wake up with in tears, my face and pillow soaked.<br />
<br />
Today is going to totally suck. I hate letting him see how much this upsets me. But I can't... I can't let him see this... I mean, I'm trying to be strong, dammit, not a child!<br />
<br />
How do I do this?Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-67016507384645314922018-12-01T01:19:00.000-08:002018-12-01T01:19:18.861-08:00It's Worst at Night...<br />
Nighttime is the worst. There are nights when I just can't sleep. <br />
<br />
I worry. I worry a <i>lot.</i> <br />
<br />
I worry about my kids. Granted, my oldest is an adult, and will soon be graduating with her BFA, possibly by next fall, and my youngest will be 18 in a month. But I still worry. <br />
<br />
I worry about our finances. I worry that we'll lose our insurance. I worry that the Husbandly One will get worse, or he'll give up. There are times, when he's asleep, that I will lay there and cry, dreading the inevitable. I still have no clue how to deal with that. He's 54. I thought we'd be in our 80's or 90's before that became an issue.<br />
<br />
But, unless some radical new miracle treatment comes along... I can't even think about it, even though I do.<br />
<br />
I wonder, sometimes, if this ridiculous lingering illness I can't seem to shake off is really just extended broken heart syndrome.<br />
<br />
During the day, we go along as always, trying to come up with enough energy between the two of us to get basic chores done. Clean the kitchen, do the laundry, vacuum the house, hack back the bamboo that's trying to take over the back and front yards because the people who owned the house before us were idiots who really though they could keep the bamboo confined to one tiny spot in the yard. We run errands, feed the cats, putter among the plants, watch the ducks, talk to the kids, you know, all the things you do during the course of the day. And it's so much easier to push back the fear and anguish, the worry... I can focus on other things and do stuff.<br />
<br />
But at night? So much harder. The house gets quiet. I'm tired. I lay down, turn out the light, wrap my arm around him and think, "He's thinner today." And then it starts.<br />
<br />
It's so hard. I lay there, my eyes burn, my face stretches as I force myself to breathe normally, fighting back tears as I think desperately, <i>Please, please, don't take him away from me.</i> <i>Don't take my husband, the love of my life, my best friend... don't take him away from me...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Sometimes, he just... knows, and he'll turn over, asking me if I'm okay. <br />
<br />
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just... hurting a little, that's all."<br />
<br />
No need to tell him that it's not my joints hurting. Then we'd both be awake for the rest of the night.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I'm able to calm myself down and finally relax into sleep.<br />
<br />
But some nights... some nights, I can't. Some nights, I have to get up and go sit in the living room, or out on the back porch if the weather is nice. Somewhere I can sit and cry my heart out, because... while I know the chemo is working NOW... I know that one day, hopefully years from now, but one day, he'll be done. He'll have had enough, he'll be tired, and he'll say, "Enough."<br />
<br />
Quality of life over quantity.<br />
<br />
I can't even think about that right now. It's really selfish of me, I know. But I can't even bear to think about it. The selfish, immature part of me wants to scream out, "DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!!"<br />
<br />
The selfless mature part of me is yelling it, too.<br />
<br />
I just... can't even think of sleeping in that bed without him in it. I can't think of being in that room without him. In this house. This life.<br />
<br />
On the 16th, we'll have been married for 28 years. I'm hoping for 28 more, but you know what? I'll take every damn second I can get.<br />
<br />
Tonight is one of those sleepless, full of worry, terror, and grief nights. My focus for the last two years has been so narrow, just... getting through, day by day. <br />
<br />
Seriously, I am barely coping with any of this. And I hate that about myself.<br />
<br />
Day by day.<br />
<br />
Now, if I can just get through tonight...<br />
<br />
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-91689999944383494422017-03-07T15:32:00.000-08:002017-03-07T15:32:07.701-08:00Life Comes At You FAST...<div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I haven't posted in a while. 2016 was... <i>not</i> a good year for us. The Husbandly One's job took a really... stressful turn, to the point where it started affecting his health. By July, I knew something was wrong. Convincing him to go to the doctor, though, was another thing. I also started suggesting a job change, because I was <i>convinced</i> this job was going to kill him. He was so <i>angry</i>, and he'd come home all tied up in knots, unable to eat, and he started losing weight. <i>Lots </i>of weight.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Labor Day, we took a family trip to Rockport that we <i>almost</i> didn't go on, because the Impossible Son caught a stomach virus earlier in the week that sort of... stopped up the plumbing, if you get my drift. He got better, and the trip proceeded as planned. However, right after we got there, it was quickly apparent THO had caught the virus and was <i>miserable. </i>I suggested we go home, but he was <i>determined</i> to have a good time and not wasted the money he'd spent getting the hotel room, he was stressed out and he <i>wanted some beach, dammit!</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Yeah, it was a pretty miserable vacation for all of us, but most especially for THO.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
By mid September, his boss just... did that one thing too far. Normally, the metals company he worked for gave the employees two weeks off at Christmas, because that's a slow season for them. However, an announcement was made that they would only have Christmas Eve/Christmas Day off, and New Year's Eve/New Year's Day off. Okay, well, as THO said, that was kind of disappointing, but standard for most retail businesses. To cap it off, though, his boss <i>also</i> announced that, starting in the new year, they would be expected to work <i>Saturdays. </i>And even some <i>Sundays. </i>In other words, six to seven days a week. <i>Mandatory.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
WTF?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
That was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak, and the Husbandly One tendered his resignation right then and there. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was so happy, because the week previous, he'd been in so much physical pain that I was terrified he was dying. And I saw he was losing even <i>more</i> weight.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
After he quit, though, he started feeling a <i>lot</i> better. Which sort of supported my suspicion that stress had a lot to do with his issues. We had fun, went exploring, paid the house and cars off, hung out with the kids. It was a good time. He looked at it as a sabbatical. "Think I'll just take this time to fix what needs to be fixed around the house and yard, take little day trips, putter around, and relax. Maybe we'll go all out decorating for Halloween and Christmas," he said with a grin. "Then come January, I'll look for a more local job. No more hour and a half daily commutes to Lakeway!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yep, I was totally cool with that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This lasted until mid October. He started losing even <i>more</i> weight. He started having pain again. Lower abdominal pain and anal pain. We thought, irritable bowel? I started trying to convince him to go to the doctor, but we weren't insured at the time. The insurance he would have gotten through his company was extremely expensive... and absolutely useless. And what we found through the Affordable Care Act in 2015 was... not great. He was reluctant to go see our gastroenterologist, because I think he knew, he <i>knew</i> something was terribly wrong.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Finally, though, in November, it got to be too much. He was in <i>so much pain</i>, he couldn't handle it and got... <i>angry. </i>I put up with it, knowing from long experience that the more I insisted he go to the doctor, the more he'd resist. I just had to wait him out on this. Until I couldn't put up with it and exploded, pretty much letting him have it, because I was just <i>so done </i>with all the shilly-shallying.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He exploded right back, and after much tears and noise, he finally admitted maybe he should see the doctor.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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No, I didn't do a victory dance. I just called the damn doctor and set the appointment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
His weight loss was accelerating and terrifying me. He was also suffering from restless leg syndrome, to the point where he was practically kicking me out of bed, and so uncomfortable that we couldn't sleep together. I blew up an air mattress and set it up in our bedroom so we could at least be in the same room. And we both, as a result, got more and more depressed and unhappy. He started saying things like, "I know I'm not going to survive this. I'm going to die," and "I have to make sure you and the kids are taken care of, I won't impoverish us by draining our money just so I can get treatment that isn't gonna work," and other cheerful pronouncements of that ilk.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Me? I completely fell apart. Literally and figuratively. I spent <i>hours</i> walking around and bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. He'd make a pronouncement of doom, I'd start <i>weeping</i> (I am <i>not</i> proud of this, by the way) because the utter thought of losing this man that I love <i>so much</i> was <i>terrifying</i>. We expected to grow <i>old</i> together. I knew one of us would go first, but I thought we'd be in our <i>eighties</i>, not our <i>fifties.</i> I couldn't face the thought of a future without the Husbandly One, and ... I really, really didn't handle it well.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Throughout this, my oldest child, the Impertinent Daughter, was a <i>rock.</i> She held us together, she made sure we all ate, she cooked dinners, did laundry, washed dishes, made sure her brother did his chores and his homework... and I'm sure wept herself to sleep every night. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Impossible Son, already having difficulties in school because of the stress the Husbandly One's condition since summer was causing, started failing his classes, but remained outwardly calm and cautiously optimistic.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, we got in to see our gastro, Dr. K, who did a brief exam and listened to THO's symptoms (supplemented by me) and suspected ulcerative colitis. He put THO on a low residue diet and scheduled him for a colonoscopy just before Thanksgiving.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Let me tell you something, keeping THO on that low residue diet took the resources of myself, the Impertinent Daughter and the Impossible Son. But we did it, despite the whining and complaining.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He lost <i>more</i> weight. And then... the day of the colonoscopy came.</div>
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We did the full prep. It was supposed to clean him out. </div>
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It didn't.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
When we got to the hospital, THO was <i>still</i> having to run to the bathroom. And when the procedure started... well, they had to go get a pediatric probe, because they... couldn't get in. And when they did, Dr. K was <i>very </i>concerned. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They took biopsies.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Husbandly One had a stricture at the top of his rectum. Two days later, we found out it was a tumor. And a CT scan later, we found out it had metastasized to his liver.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Husbandly One had cancer.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Part of me was... devastated. The other half of me was <i>relieved</i> because this? <i>This</i> I know how to deal with. The unknown? I can't handle. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Then it became an issue of trying to find an oncologist who would treat him. Without insurance.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I convinced THO, however, to give the Affordable Care Act exchange, otherwise known as Obamacare, another try. The oncologist Dr. K. had recommended us to rejected us, because of lack of insurance, and said they would refer us to Shivers Cancer Center in Austin, but wanted us to be aware that they would put us on a waiting list and would give priority to Travis County residents.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We don't live in Travis County. We live in Caldwell County, just south of Travis. There's not a lot of options for us in Caldwell County, <i>and</i> we also found out we could spend six months <i>or more</i> waiting <i>just to be seen</i> at Shivers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Husbandly One decided we should physically drive to the oncologist's office in San Marcos and talk to them, to be a physical presence and show we are real people, not just an abstract test result. He also explained to them that he fully planned to go on the exchange and look for a health plan, and asked plainly what A.C. A plans they accepted. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Next thing we know, we've got an appointment to see the oncologist on January 3rd, and a list of plans to choose from, and something concrete to do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Never underestimate the power of a face to face conversation. No confrontation, just let them see who you are, and talk to them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Things moved rather quickly after that.</div>
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His bloodwork showed he was <i>extremely </i>anemic, and his weight had gotten dangerously low. In April, he'd weighed 150 lbs. By December, he weighed 128 lbs.</div>
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Like I said, terrifying.</div>
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<div>
The first thing the oncologist wanted to do was give THO an iron infusion, to build up his hemoglobin and help him gain weight for treatment. The second was to send him to a surgeon to have a port put in his chest, so that treatment could be administered intravenously through the port, rather than through his arm. The plan was to do the infusion <i>BEFORE</i> the port was installed, but the moment the surgeon saw him, he wanted to do it ASAP. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
In the meantime, the Husbandly One was experiencing pain moving through his abdomen, which truly puzzled us, because he was experiencing near constant diarrhea (which wasn't helping on the weight issue at all). He had the surgery for the port. And afterwards, I was helping clean him up before getting dressed to leave, and as I wiped his bottom, he jolted and nearly hit the ceiling. </div>
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We blamed it on tumor sensitivity.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Three days later, he's sitting in the bathtub, screaming in pain. Literally. Once again, I was <i>done</i>. I picked up my phone, called the oncology center's on-call doctor, who said loud enough for THO to hear, "Go. To. The. Emergency. Room. Now."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
So we did. The Impertinent Daughter drove and we got to Seton Hays in record time. We checked in, he barely had time to sit down when we were called to the triage nurse, who took one look at his inability to sit or stand (he sort of hunched over the back of a chair) and had him in a wheelchair going to one of the treatment bays lickety split. They tried to draw blood, realized he was dehydrated, and next thing we know, he's got two bags of saline hanging over him. They whisk him off to do a CT scan, the ER doc stops me to tell me he doesn't have a mass in his abdomen, but he is concerned about the way the pain is moving and the fact that the Dilaudid they'd given him wasn't working to help his pain at all.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>The Dilaudid was NOT working. At. All.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
It turned out, however, that the Husbandly One was an over-achiever. He had an anal abcess <i>AND</i> a kidney stone!!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
One surgery for the abcess and three days of being in the hospital to pass the stone later, the Husbandly One's pain was practically gone and his hemoglobin levels were <i>much better.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Things started to level out after that. He still has pain, but Tylenol and Tramadol seem to work pretty well. He's had three treatments so far, and the cancer markers in his blood have gone from 1800 to 370. He hasn't gained any weight... but he hasn't lost any, either. And now that he has a goal to focus on, things are easier.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have hope that things will continue to improve. </div>
Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-69500604074664277702016-08-14T23:14:00.000-07:002020-01-20T12:11:34.286-08:00The Yarn Elephant in the Room...<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7v628" data-offset-key="egg71-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; letter-spacing: -0.24px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span class="s1">So, y'all know I crochet, right?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And knit, yeah, I knit, too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Anyhow, I didn't always crochet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I didn't learn to crochet until I was pregnant with the Impertinent Daughter, despite my mom's best efforts to teach me when I was a kid.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She just couldn't understand why I wouldn't do it, especially since I would see a pattern for something, like a bag, or an afghan, or a poncho, and I would beg her to make it for me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>"Why don't I teach you to crochet and you can make it yourself," she said to entice me into learning. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But I refused.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I just wasn't interested.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I never got beyond learning to make a double chain cord, and even that was under protest. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Why?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Well, aside from some of the cool things Mom made, like the blankets, or the super cool poncho she made for me in fifth grade that was SO WARM, and the awesome potholders that really protected your hands from the heat, Mom also made a lot of the kind of stuff that would have me looking at it and going, "Why?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Why would someone make this??? WHY???"</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">WHY WOULD SOMEONE CROCHET A COVER FOR A SINGLE TOILET PAPER ROLL????<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And try to make it look like a.... FAT CANDLE??</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">There was a lot of stuff like that, and Mom would get all excited, "Oh, this will be so decorative, so cute, I can put this on the buffet/table/tv cabinet/piano, it'll look just like decorative candles/boxes/vases/flowers/whatever."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She was seriously delighted by those things, and she would crochet them and be so happy about them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And I would do the typical pre-teen thing and roll my eyes and sigh dramatically, so put upon by my mother's horrible lack of taste (in my advanced eleven-year-old opinion, that is).</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I would look at her crochet magazines and books and think, "Why would anyone think Hey, those talcum powder<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>containers look naked.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I must dress them up with CROCHET, and I will make them into... TALL POODLES.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because, yeah, that's what I think of every time I see talcum powder containers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>TALL POODLES." <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Then I would think that I should probably hide that particular magazine before Mom found it and decided our bathroom couldn't be without tall talcum powder container hiding poodles.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">You have to realize, it was the seventies.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Talcum powder for grownups was perfumed and came in these tall skinny cardboard round containers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Think Pringles can, but smaller.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now, in our house, those cans stayed in the cabinets, because we just didn't have a lot of surfaces for them to sit on in the bathroom.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But my mom decided they had to be candles.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or something.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Anyhow, I had no interest in learning to crochet just to do something like that.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or to create big fluffy skirts for dolls to hide paper towel rolls.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I preferred to reap the benefits of the warm and beautiful<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>afghans she created over the years, or the hats she made for me. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I was 32 and heavily pregnant with my first child when I finally decided I wanted to learn how to crochet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was having Braxton-Hicks contractions, and my ob-gyn gave me strict orders to get off my feet, drink plenty of water, and <i>do nothing.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i>I don't "do nothing" very well. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If you want me to sit down and rest, you better give me something to do with my hands or to keep my brain busy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A book only works if I'm not required to be social or pay attention to something.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My mom, wisely remembering<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>that sitting down with me for the initial lessons hadn't worked, gave me some yarn, a couple of hooks, and a book with basic instructions, along with a small booklet with simple patterns in it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I decided to make a baby blanket, and after a while, I would call her and ask for help.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or I would bring my project along when I went to wash clothes at her house, and sit down to ask questions, watching her hands move through the stitches and then try to emulate her movements. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I finished that blanket shortly before my daughter was born, and it is the most crooked, wonkiest, <i>saddest</i> excuse of a baby blanket, but both of my kids love it and have rescued it every time I try to make it disappear. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">One blanket became two, then three, then I made a vest for my daughter, then a poncho, and the next thing I knew, I was crocheting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And I was finding some pretty cool patterns.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And it was a great way to connect with my mom, as we commiserated over the occasional pattern that suffered from badly written instructions and required a lot of studying the pattern photos with a magnifying glass counting stitches.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">She cheated and had my dad do it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I asked him about it, he snorted and said, "It's an interesting challenge."</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I discovered something, though, as I worked through learning stitches and how to put things together.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Crocheting calmed me.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Mom used to make all our clothes, so my sisters and I all learned the basics of sewing, many times under protest as well.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I don't know about my sisters, but while Mom taught me how to embroider, and how to put seams together, and how to pin a pattern together, it was my DAD who taught me how to sew on buttons, and how to hem pants, and how to stay-stitch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because he learned how from his grandmother, and from the Marine Corps.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The takeaway from that is... sewing does NOT calm me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I am really <i>really</i> good at embroidery, but I <i>hate </i>it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It makes me feel like my nerves are all crawling, like I could fly apart.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It's frustrating and I get very, very snarly while I'm doing it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The same with machine sewing, sometimes.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">But crocheting?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It's so... zen.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It relaxes me and calms me down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So does knitting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It's very peaceful and I think it's because it has enough repetitive motion to soothe me while engaging my brain because I have to think ahead about the stitches, but it's no big deal, because I can take my time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It's almost like meditation, in a way.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Where am I going with this?</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Well, like many crafters, I have a Pinterest.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And I pin both crochet patterns and knitting patterns, some that I intend to make, and others that intrigue me and I <i>might</i> try.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">And, you know, there are a <i>lot</i> of great patterns out there.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There really are.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They're <i>awesome, </i>and you should check them out.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">But in the last couple of years, it seems those... really awful patterns that I thought had died an undignified death in the seventies, buried under the weight of National Geographic magazines and Reader's Digest novels in the attics of elderly women... have been making a reappearance in online journals and sites.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I'm ... kinda horrified.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I actually came across a blog where virtues of the horrible fake candle talcum can cover were being enthusiastically extolled.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I just... <i>WHY???</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">There is a <i>reason</i> I tell younger friends, "You know how you like to call the seventies retro?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I like to call it <i>thank God I don't live there anymore.</i>" <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Because, trust me, <i>no one</i> needs to crochet individual covers for each roll of toilet paper in their house.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>For <i>reals.</i></span></div>
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Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-47682679062607637402016-05-08T22:52:00.000-07:002016-05-08T22:52:15.891-07:00"To put it simply --- our brain span should match our life span." --- Meryl Comer<br />
<br />
Mother's Day has come and gone, and as I prepare for bed after a lovely day out with my husband and children, my mind turns to a subject I've been subconsciously avoiding all day.<br />
<br />
My mother.<br />
<br />
And all at once, I'm overwhelmed. I'm washing my face and suddenly, I'm in tears, completely unable to stop, because it's Mother's Day, and for the first time since I entered her life... I haven't called her to talk to her.<br />
<br />
There is no phone in her room at the nursing home, because she no longer knows how to dial one. One of my sisters, or my nieces, has to call me on their mobile and hand the phone to her, and I have to hope she knows who I am.<br />
<br />
I miss... I miss my mom.<br />
<br />
Yes, she's still alive, but... I miss my <i>Mom.</i> I miss the woman I used to call for advice, her calm voice calming me, her laughter when I told her the latest funny thing the kids or the cats did, her excitement matching mine when I told her about a new rose in my garden blooming for the first time and promising her pictures. I miss her humor, her intelligence when she'd challenge me about my opinions, making me back up my statements with facts. I miss the stories she used to tell me. I miss... asking her about recipes, and her rattling off the list of ingredients and how to make it, and then the pause before I said, "Okay, Mom, but... how did <i>you</i> make it?" And then getting the <i>real</i> recipe.<br />
<br />
I miss the woman she was before Alzheimer's stole her from me. And I want her back. <i>I want her back, dammit</i>.<br />
<br />
But I know I won't get her. I know she's gone, and what's left behind is this... shell that looks like her, and talks like her, and moves like her, and gives me occasional glimpses of the woman she used to be...<br />
<br />
I'm terrified that I'll be just like her. I'm terrified that I'll lose myself, that I'll forget my husband, and my children. Just two days ago, my daughter stared at me with stricken eyes and said, "Mom.... don't forget me. Don't ever forget me, please. <i>Please.</i>"<br />
<br />
I smiled through my tears and said, "Like I could ever forget you!" And prayed in my heart to whoever is listening that I can keep that promise. "When they develop a vaccine for Alzheimer's, I'm first in line, I promise," I said.<br />
<br />
Every time I forget something, every time I can't bring a word or a face to mind, every time I struggle for a word, every time I can't remember a name, or something that happened earlier in the day, a jolt goes through me and I want to scream. It doesn't help that memory issues and fogginess are a hallmark of Hashimoto's. <br />
<br />
A few months ago, when we went to the Ikea in Pflugerville, I had a moment. A horrible, horrible moment. Mike was driving, and we had just left 183 and turned onto I-35. I was reading something on my phone, and I looked up when I was done and for a horrible, horrible moment that seemed to last an eternity, I thought, "Where are we? I don't recognize this place! Where... what is this?" <br />
<br />
It was terrifying. Nothing looked even <i>remotely </i>familiar, and this was a drive we'd made hundreds of times over the last ten years. <br />
<br />
I didn't say anything, I just quietly stared around, trying to <i>force</i> my brain to recognize something, <i>anything....</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Then Mike, who was completely unaware of what was going through my mind, said, "Wow, things have changed so much since the last time I drove through here, I almost don't recognize anything! Oh, look, the bowling alley is still right there."<br />
<br />
I turned my head, and the bowling alley we took the Impertinent Daughter to for her fourth birthday, the birthday she found out she was going to have a sibling, was still there, looking just the same as it had nineteen years ago, and the world slipped back into place.<br />
<br />
It wasn't me. It was that it had been nearly two years since the last time we'd drove that way, and the rapid changes in Austin and the surrounding area meant many things had been torn down and new buildings gone up in their place. <br />
<br />
But for that moment, that one terrifying moment...<br />
<br />
I miss my mother more than I can say. And at some point tomorrow, I will probably text one of my sisters and ask to arrange a time to talk to Mom over the phone. And after I talk to Mom, I will go take a shower so I can cry my heart out without my family knowing. I once said that watching my mom go through this was like standing on a shore while my mother stood in a boat that was slowly drifting away from the shore. That we were holding hands as it drifted, and ever so slowly, she was slipping from my grasp, and that I knew one day, she would drift completely away.<br />
<br />
Right now... the tips of our fingers are barely touching, barely connecting.<br />
<br />
I hate that there is nothing I can do to change that.<br />
<br />
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you, and I will remember you... for as long as I can...Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-2157537173856064912016-04-10T20:43:00.000-07:002016-04-10T20:43:00.477-07:00Almost, But Not Quite...<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The day is coming, probably sooner than I would like, when my mother won’t know who I am. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I’m braced for it. I have promised myself that I won’t fall apart... at least, not in front of her. I’ll wait until I’m out in the parking lot, and then I’ll probably cry until I’m calm again.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We stopped by the nursing home she’s in this evening on our way home to Central Texas, and when I greeted her, she sat up with a smile, happy to have visitors. Even though at first, she had no idea who we were, just that we were family.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We all said hello, and I sat down next to her and took her hand after helping her get her glasses on, and I could see her staring at my face, trying to get some sense of recognition. So I said, “Do you know who I am?”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She smiled and said, “Yes, I do. You’re Carol... no, wait... you’re Jo.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A lot of people who haven’t see us for a few years usually mistake me for my middle sister. A few might mistake me for my oldest sister. Carol and I share a lot of personality traits, and facial expressions, but she’s fair, blonde, and green-eyed, and I’m olive, auburn, and brown-eyed. So it’s not that far out of the way that Mom would guess I’m Carol first.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Except she’s my mom, and in her normal state of mind, she’d never make that sort of mistake.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In her normal state of mind.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I hugged her and said, “Yes, I’m Jo!” and proceeded to chat with her, and have the kids sit with her and visit, but I could see that she had no real idea who I was. Just... that I was family. That I was one of her daughters. But... she didn’t <i>know</i> me.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It wasn’t until we were leaving, and I had hugged her and said, “I love you, Mom.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She said, “I love you, too.” Then something seemed to spark in her mind and she stared at me intently. “I love you,” she said as I stepped back to the curtain divider. “I love you... like... a bush.. and ... and a.. pickle. A peck.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I felt tears sting my eyes, and I sang, “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She joined in. “A hug around the neck, and a barrel in the heap. A barrel in the heap and I’m talking in my sleep about you, about you...”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Jo,” she said with a huge smile and recognition in her eyes. “There you are. There’s my baby. That’s my girl, my little Jo. My tomboy.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I fought back tears and kept singing. “I love you, a bushel and a peck, you bet your pretty neck I do. Toodle oodle oodle, toodle oodle oodle, toodle oodle doodley doo!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">I hugged her again, and she whispered, “You’re my baby, and I’ll never forget my baby.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">“I know, Mom,” I whispered back. “I love you.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">I left, and I had tears running down my face, but I held it together all the way home, until now. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">That day is coming, when even singing what my daughter used to call affectionately “The Grandma Song,” won’t fire off the right neurons in Mom’s mind. I’m going to hate that day. But... I think I’ll get through it.</span></div>
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Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-32011473067229211062016-03-31T14:22:00.001-07:002016-03-31T14:22:25.394-07:00Not Exactly One of the Maddening Crowd...<br />
<br />
I have had to make rules for myself. <br />
<br />
I <i>don't</i> go on forums or join Facebook/Twitter groups for Hashimoto's. Why, you may ask? Well... as much as I could use the support of fellow sufferers, I'm not exactly wild about the way they descend upon new members like... like... a pride of lions falling upon a tasty young morsel of a gazelle that just happens to wander into their territory.<br />
<br />
No, seriously, it isn't pretty. I've done my lurking in the background, and I'm Not Going There.<br />
<br />
The diets they throw at you, the supplements you should try, the exercises, the regimens, treatments... every single snake-oil miracle cure-all you can think of will be thrown at you, and gods help the person who says, "No, thanks, really, I'm not even remotely interested."<br />
<br />
I also <i>don't</i> do more than look at new research from the CDC or NIH, or even the Mayo Clinic. Why? Because mostly, I'm just looking at new treatment options, or if they've figured out what causes it, etc. But I'm not going to torture myself with looking at causes (except in regards to keeping my kids from getting this) or whatever new diet/supplement/vitamin/you name it they may suggest only to later say, "Sorry, our studies weren't as clear-cut as we'd thought, this doesn't really work."<br />
<br />
I had to recently make another rule for myself. I am not allowed to look at the list of <i>secondary</i> autoimmune diseases people who have Hashimoto's have a tendency to develop.<br />
<br />
I ended up shaking for two hours and had to sternly remind myself that I was being quite ridiculous and not to torture myself like that.<br />
<br />
I need to deal with what is in front of me <i>now</i> and not borrow trouble from the future, as my mother used to say. <br />
<br />
Life goes on. I roll with the punches, and I keep moving as best as I can. I feel the wind on my face, I watch the roses bloom on the back porch, and the jasmine on the front porch, I listen to my son tease my daughter and make her laugh, and listen to my daughter fuss at my son and make <i>him</i> laugh, I watch the ducks waddle contentedly through the grass in the backyard, and try to keep Muta the Magnificent from crushing my legs as he purrs in my lap. Life goes on, and I will have good days, and I will have bad days, and as long as I keep moving and keep remembering the good things in my life, I think I'll be okay.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-67935572808154923152015-12-01T07:29:00.001-08:002015-12-01T07:29:11.657-08:00Not All Artists Are Starving...Since the Impertinent Daughter started her first semester at Texas State, something has been coming up almost every time someone spots her doodling in the margins of her notebooks, or sketching in her sketchbook.<br />
<br />
People tend to gather around her when she sketches or doodles. It's a phenomenon I've encountered time and time again. Sit down quietly in an out of the way spot, open your sketchbook, pull out a pencil or pen and start drawing, then look up and there's always someone standing there, staring intently at your work.<br />
<br />
My daughter is used to this. What's new is, because she's on a college campus, the inevitable question comes up: "What's your major?"<br />
<br />
At first, she said, "I'm an art major." And she encountered yet another phenomenon that virtually every artist/art student will identify with.<br />
<br />
The Interrogation.<br />
<br />
"You're an art major? Really? But... that's not really practical, is it? You should be majoring in something that will ensure you can get a job, something that will pay well so you can survive on your own. Art major? Really? I mean, if you <i>have</i> to do it, at least major in art <i>education</i>, then you could become a <i>teacher.</i>"<br />
<br />
Even some fellow art students will pop out with the, "Are you at least taking commercial art?"<br />
<br />
*insert eye roll here*<br />
<br />
"Why do they do that, Mom?" she asked as we walked through the aisles of the hated Hobby Lobby (I really, <i>really</i> hate giving my money to Hobby Lobby), looking for the Copic markers she needed.<br />
<br />
"Because they don't understand that art is <i>everywhere," </i>I replied. <br />
<br />
And it is. Those commercials you see on TV? An artist came up with the logos for that business, and most likely did story-boarding for the commercial. An artist did the lighting and set design for them. <br />
<br />
The ads you see in magazines or on billboards? An artist did the layout for those, the design and the lettering.<br />
<br />
Like that pattern on your duvet? A designer made that? Yes, they did, but you know what? They had to take art to get there.<br />
<br />
Oh, you know that movie you liked last week? Yeah, artists did concept art, story boards, lighting and set design, costume design, makeup...<br />
<br />
Like the comics in the paper? Done by artists. That editorial cartoon that made you so mad or made you go, "Yeah, I know <i>exactly</i> how that feels!"<br />
<br />
Artist.<br />
<br />
How about those cool characters in the latest XBox game you just can't stop playing? Yeah, an artist had a lot to do with how they look.<br />
<br />
I could go on and on, but I won't.<br />
<br />
And yes, I know the argument of, "Not every artist makes it," or, "not everyone has the talent or the conviction to go the distance..."<br />
<br />
Imagine if Bill Watterson had listened to that sort of nonsense? We'd never have the awesomeness that is "Calvin and Hobbes." Or Walt Disney?<br />
<br />
Anyway, I asked the Impertinent One what she did when people said things like that to her. She shrugged and said, "Meh, I just nod and say something like thanks, I'll take that under advisement, or thanks for shattering my hopes and dreams, or whatever."<br />
<br />
Yeah, that made me laugh out loud.<br />
<br />
"Sometimes," she said as she peered at the markers in their case, "people come up to me while I'm drawing and say, <i>that's so amazing, are you an art major? </i> or <i>what's your major, that is so cool!</i> and I'll say oh, I'm going into game design, or computer science, and they'll be all horrified and say, <i>No, you have to major in art, you're so talented and creative, that's so awesome, look at how cool it is, you HAVE to major in art! </i>And I'm like, <i>make up your mind!!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Well," I said, after I stopped laughing, "the thing is, when you tell people you're going to major in art, you know what they're seeing in their heads, right?"<br />
<br />
"No," she said, turning to frown at me. "What?"<br />
<br />
"Most people, when they hear you're majoring in art, immediately think, <i>Vincent Van Gogh!</i> Or <i>Picasso, </i> or any other artist who started out poor and starving." When she blinked, I nodded. "No, seriously, they think, <i>starving artist, living in a freezing attic in Paris, living on the generosity of friends and family, practically homeless</i>. They think you're either a painter or a sculptor, or something that to <i>them</i> is completely impractical, never mind that there are some very successful painters, sculptors, etc, out there." I shook my head. "It's ridiculous and has no basis in reality, but that's what's going on."<br />
<br />
"That's... disturbing," Miss Impertinent said, slightly horrified.<br />
<br />
"I know, but there it is. That's why you keep hearing <i>you should major in something practical, that can help you get a good job and set you for the future." </i>I hugged her. "Don't take it personally. They don't know you, or what you can do. And you're already learning so much, I can't wait to see what you do next!"<br />
<br />
She blushed, but you know, I think the Impertinent Daughter is going to be <i>awesome</i>. I <i>know</i> she will. <br />
<br />
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-40265993183597345182015-12-01T07:13:00.000-08:002015-12-01T07:13:06.061-08:00It's a Southern Thing, Yo...There are times when I am confronted by the differences between my husband's family and mine. <br />
<br />
Most of the time, we tick along quite nicely. After all, we'll have been married for 25 years this month, so obviously, things are working and we get along. The Husbandly One and I are really good friends and most <i>excellent</i> partners in crime, and there are times when I'm honestly surprised to realize we haven't known each other all our lives.<br />
<br />
What a horror for our parents if we had!! No, seriously, we would have made the Weasley twins in the Harry Potter books look like rank amateurs!! I am fairly certain that between the two of us, we would have figured out how to legitimately order a flame-thrower and have it delivered to one of our homes by the time we were ten. I'm just not sure which of us would have been the instigator and which would have been the gleeful follower, because I'm pretty sure it would have been an even draw.<br />
<br />
Still, there are times when something happens and the huge differences in our families and the way we were brought up are unavoidable and stun us both.<br />
<br />
Like the time lightning struck our house when we were living out in the boonies and knocked our phone out. This was back in the mid-nineties, before cellphones were ubiquitous. We were living way out in the country in Central Texas and my family was back in Houston, and his in Texarkana. I kept asking THO to call my family from work to let them know we were okay and what had happened, and he would reply that he wasn't allowed to make long distance calls from work not related to his job, and that my folks would be fine and not worry. In retrospect, I should have written a letter, but it would have taken at least four days to get to my folks, and remember, back at that time, if you didn't have a phone, you didn't have internet because <i>DIAL-UP</i>.<br />
<br />
I worried, because at that time, I spoke to my mother on the phone at least every other day. I was a young mother with no close neighbors, alone in a house with a toddler, a large dog, and three cats. The phone was my lifeline to sanity and grownups.<br />
<br />
We also didn't expect for it to take almost <i>two fucking weeks</i> for Southwestern Bell, our telephone company at the time, to come out and take a look at our phone. And that is <i>another</i> story for another time. So, what was the huge difference between our families?<br />
<br />
I am the youngest of three daughters in a Southern family. In a Southern family, you may grow up, you may move away, but you <i>always</i> call your mom or your dad, and you will <i>always</i> be their kid. They will let you go, but they will never stop worrying about you. And if you don't check in with them on a regular basis, whether it's once a day, once a week, or once a month, <i>they will come check on you.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So, one week after the phone went out, at 1 o'clock in the morning, we were awakened by someone banging on the front door of our house while someone shouted my and my husband's name, demanding we answer. <br />
<br />
Our dog went nuts, and later, we realized he was barking with joy, not aggression, and our daughter was terrified. The Husbandly One went to the door and opened it to find my dad and my nephew-in-law standing outside, my dad staring at us with a half-terrified expression, half fury. One tearful phone call (with my nephew-in-law's dying cell phone, no less) with my mom later, we got the story from my dad. After two days of not hearing from me, Mom started getting nervous and tried calling me. Of course, our phone being <i>dead</i>, she couldn't get through, and an automated message gave them an error message. Mom waited for us to call, and waited, and waited, and soon, she became convinced that something terrible had happened to us. Unable to bear it any longer, she finally got Dad agitated enough to decide to drive all the way out where we lived to check on us, and take along NIL for support. <br />
<br />
They were afraid they were either going to find us dead, or gone.<br />
<br />
Dramatic, but not unexpected, considering my mom's vivid imagination, and I couldn't blame her one bit.<br />
<br />
THO explained about lightning having struck our house and showed them the blown up tree next to the house, and our dead phone (we ended up having to replace both the phone and the answering machine), and my dad frowned at him and said, "Why didn't you call us from work?"<br />
<br />
THO said, "We're not allowed to make non-work related long distance phone calls."<br />
<br />
My dad frowned and said, "You could have explained that your phone was out, and you have family who would be worried about your well-being that you needed to contact. Or you could have gone to any payphone and made a collect call to us, we would have accepted it. Or you could have made that collect call from work."<br />
<br />
As my dad explained all the ways my husband could have made an effort to contact my family and let them know we were okay, up to and including calling my nephew who was going to UT at the time and having <i>him</i> pass on the message, I was trying not to smirk because my dad was confirming all the arguments I had been making over the previous week about contacting my parents ASAP.<br />
<br />
"What was that all about?" THO asked after my dad and nephew had gone.<br />
<br />
"I'm a <i>daughter,</i>" I said, and nodded at our toddler. "One day, when she's grown up and off doing her own thing, you will completely understand why my dad had that panicked tone in his voice when he was banging on the door."<br />
<br />
And yeah, he gets it now.<br />
<br />
This past week, though, the difference has reared its head in a completely different way, though it is again, family related.<br />
<br />
Last Monday, THO got a call that his mother was in the ICU of a San Antonio hospital, sent there for a blood pressure reading that was through the roof and blood oxygen levels that were almost impossibly low. We drove out to check on her right after THO got home, and she was in terrible shape. <br />
<br />
It's been a rough week for all of us, but most especially Ma, as the doctors struggled to get her blood pressure down to more acceptable levels, to get her sodium levels up, and to get her lungs clear enough to breathe so her blood oxygen levels would rise from the forties up to a more acceptable 98%. It's still not quite there, but I'm thinking 90% is pretty damn good.<br />
<br />
What has blown my mind in all of this is... there has been no diagnosis. Nobody knows any details, (and this includes Mike's brother who has the medical power of attorney) of what the doctors think is going on, or what could possibly be wrong, or even of what tests they are doing. Nothing beyond the medications to bring her blood pressure down, something to calm her down, something to help her sleep, and breathing treatments twice a day to open her lungs up so she can breathe.<br />
<br />
This absolutely floors me.<br />
<br />
I am tempted to sic my sisters on this, because seriously, if this had been <i>my</i> mother? All three of us would know every single detail, from who exactly the doctors were, to what they were thinking and the results of every single test they had run, and what tests they were thinking of doing in the future. We would have gone through Ma's apartment to find out every detail of what she'd been eating, how much she'd been eating if at all, what medications and supplements she'd been taking, and how much candy or sweet things she'd been eating, just in case. We'd be taking shifts staying with her at the hospital so we could be on hand when a doctor showed up to check on her, to ask questions, and find out what was on the agenda for the day. We'd know her nurses, what they had planned, what she was allowed to eat outside what was being served in her meals so we could tempt her with something that might encourage her to eat. We'd have a notebook where we'd be keeping track of her blood pressure readings to coincide with what the nurses were getting, and we'd also put our heads together to remember what meds she could take, which ones she'd had reactions to, and which ones we knew she could tolerate and what she couldn't. Because we're Southern and that's what we do.<br />
<br />
How do I know this? Because that's what we're doing with our own mother, who broke her hip a few weeks ago, spent time in a rehab hospital, and is now in a nursing home, because she has Alzheimer's and my eldest sister was killing herself trying to be her live in caretaker. <br />
<br />
I simply cannot comprehend <i>not wanting to find out this information.</i> I can't understand having my mother in the hospital and not wanting to know what is going on, where are the doctor's going with this, what... it's driving my husband crazy that his siblings are just being so... <i>complacent </i> about this, because apparently, my Southernness has infected him. It's stressing him considerably, because <i>he wants to know</i> and they can tell him <i>nothing. </i>I've held my peace about this all damn week, because I didn't want to make it worse, but last night, I think he was kind of relieved when I finally blew up about it. At least he knew he wasn't alone in feeling that way any more.<br />
<br />
For all that my husband was raised in Texas, his parents (and his older siblings) are from Connecticut and New York, and they still have that mentality, I guess. It's just... one of those differences that makes me throw up my hands and want to rip off their arms and beat them over the heads with it. I just... don't get it. I really, really don't.<br />
<br />
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-44677498619048125082015-10-10T14:58:00.000-07:002015-10-10T14:58:48.395-07:00Warning for Whinage...<br />
Sometimes, I just need to... <i>vent</i>.<br />
<br />
I am so tired of being... <i>tired</i>. I am tired of the cycles of feeling kinda okay, and then feeling like absolute crap. I am tired of not having the energy to do the things I want to do... or the things I <i>need</i> to do. <br />
<br />
I am tired of watching my husband come home, exhausted from a day's work, only to have to take up <i>my</i> share of the workload because <i>I can't do it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I am tired of the headaches, the joint pain, the muscle weakness, and the overwhelming fatigue. I am tired of my hair falling out. <br />
<br />
I am tired of wishing the rest of it would just fucking fall out already so it would stop making my head hurt.<br />
<br />
I am tired of my fingers looking like sausages when they swell. Of the way my feet ache.<br />
<br />
I am tired of being cold <i>all the fucking time</i> because my thyroid is playing dead.<br />
<br />
I'm tired of my immune system playing helicopter parent and attacking every single part of me just because it's paranoid and thinks I'm about to get sick. Or that I'm already sick. <br />
<br />
I'm tired of having to say no to my husband and kids when they want to go do something that requires energy that I <i>don't</i> have, because I really, really, <i>really</i> want to go swimming and hiking and climbing and having adventures... but I can't depend on my body because my thyroid is an asshole and my immune system is stupid and...<br />
<br />
I'm just tired. <br />
<br />
Mostly, I have good days. And I'm able to be positive and somewhat philosophical about having an autoimmune disease. I try to look at the positives and try to basically make lemonade out of the lemons life has thrown my way.<br />
<br />
But every once in a while, it just... overwhelms me. There's so much to do. So <i>much. </i>Just doing a couple of loads of laundry will sometimes take me <i>all day. </i>I just swept the dining room and living room and it <i>feels</i> like I've been cleaning the entire house, re-digging the garden, replacing the roof, mowing the lawns, and jogging a marathon right afterwards.<br />
<br />
No, seriously, if I'm going to be <i>this</i> tired and sore, I want to have <i>earned</i> it, not just... gotten up out of bed. If I'm going to hurt this bad, then I figure I should have, oh, I don't know, climbed a mountain. Or taken on four teams of Navy SEALS in a hand to hand fight and WON. <br />
<br />
I know that in a couple of days, I'll feel better and my mood will improve. But right now? Life sucks and I just want to curl up somewhere and cry for the next two or three hours. <br />
<br />
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-66704735433857422872015-09-10T06:45:00.000-07:002015-09-10T06:47:50.313-07:00The Unbearable Stench of Impossible...<br />
So... the Impossible Son is now a freshman in high school.<br />
<br />
*pause for motherly whimpering*<br />
<br />
In our small town, the freshman campus is separate from the high school. It's also on the other side of town from where we live. Not a big deal, because this is a small town. I am lucky, though, that his first period class, athletics, is at the high school, and so is his last class of the day, because this means he can walk to school in the morning and walk home in the afternoon, since the high school is just down the street from us. Which means... <i>no more sitting in long slow lines of cars to drop off/pick up my student, HUZZAH!!!!</i><br />
<br />
*dance of joy, dance of joy*<br />
<br />
Since Impossible is also on the high school cross country team, this also means that every other morning, he has to be at the high school at 6:30 a.m. for running practice. The Husbandly One drops him off on his way to work, and if I wait long enough, I can go out on the back deck and see the whole team go running by. They get back to the school in time for the team to shower and get ready for their first period class. Which, for my son, is athletics, as I mentioned earlier.<br />
<br />
The next thing I need to mention is that my son, at 14, is the tallest person in our house. He is all long arms and legs, and the basketball coach pretty much started drooling the moment the Impossible Son loped into the gym. So... the Impossible Son spends first period playing basketball pretty much nonstop. All. Period. Long.<br />
<br />
All freshman who have their first and last periods at the high school are required to ride a bus to go back and forth. This bus leaves at a very specific time, and if a student isn't there at that time... too bad, so sad. There is only ONE bus for this. I totally get that.<br />
<br />
However, what this means for athletic students is... depending on the coach, there is NO TIME FOR A SHOWER.<br />
<br />
This... is NOT a good thing.<br />
<br />
So, Tuesday morning of the second week of school, I was sitting and staring at the story I'm presently working on and wondering if I needed to do little tweaking of my outline when the Dropkick Murphys start screaming, "I'm a sailor peg, and I lost my leg! Climbing up the topsails, I lost my leeeeegggg!!"<br />
<br />
It's my phone, and I think, "I turned in the athletic forms, he has all his school supplies, omg, what has he done now?"<br />
<br />
"Hey, Mom."<br />
<br />
I frown at look at the clock, thinking, <i>did he miss the bus?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"I need to come home and take a shower."<br />
<br />
<i>Blink. Blink.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Wait a minute, didn't you take a shower after class?"<br />
<br />
"There was no time," he said a little sheepishly. "I mean, I barely have time after practice to throw on my clothes! I have to get out to the bus as fast as I can, no time for a shower!"<br />
<br />
Okay, I know that's true, it was true when my daughter was a freshman, and will probably be true until the construction at the high school is finished.<br />
<br />
"Impossible, you'll just have to suffer through it," I begin, knowing the school won't just let him come home. Then I realize, the ringtone was the Dropkick Murphys, not the Legend of Zelda. He was calling from the school office, not his own phone.<br />
<br />
"Mom, everyone in my class says I <i>reek!</i> I <i>stink, </i>Mom, even the teacher says so! I <i>need a shower!"</i> he insisted.<br />
<br />
It doesn't normally take me this long to catch on. "Wait a minute, are you just calling me on your own, or did the teacher send you to the office to actually go home and take a shower?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Mom, my teacher <i>insisted!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Okay, I'll be there in a few minutes."<br />
<br />
I was sort of stunned, but, having been around the Impossible Son when he was sweaty, I could sort of see it. Thing is, he didn't have that much of a body odor problem, really. It was mostly his feet that would get us during soccer season, where we would beg him to keep his shoes on until we were out of the car. But that's soccer pong, and just means keeping his gear clean. So, I got in the car and drove over to the freshman campus to sign him out.<br />
<br />
The freshman campus was built in 1923 and has all the problems you'd associate with a building that old. It's small (the current class of freshmen are practically bursting out of the seams), it smells, and it's hard to air condition. In fact, only the classrooms and offices are air conditioned, while the halls are NOT. It's like walking into a sauna when you enter the building, and you want to hold your breath until you get into the office, where it's nice and cool. At least for a few minutes. Air conditioning at the freshman campus really means <i>not as hot as the hall way.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So, I wade through the sauna to the relative comfort of the office to sign my son out. He arrives and keeps a careful distance from me, and when we get outside, immediately moves downwind of me.<br />
<br />
"It's bad, isn't it?" he asks, eying me as we walk to the car.<br />
<br />
"Not really." I take a careful sniff, but I don't smell much because... <i>he's downwind.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Just wait," he says ominously.<br />
<br />
Amused, I unlock the car, we get in, I pull the window shade off the dash, start the car and get the AC going... and immediately my eyes start watering, my gag reflex leaps up and punches me in the throat, and my nose and lungs start rebelling and trying to escape.<br />
<br />
"Oh... my... God..." I gag, turning to stare at my son in horror. "Did you roll in something <i>dead??"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
He's <i>grinning </i>at me. "I know, right?" The Impossible Son's cheeks are red with embarrassment, but there's an odd sort of pride in his eyes, too. "It's <i>awful, </i>isn't it? I <i>told</i> you! You didn't believe me!"<br />
<br />
Frantically opening <i>all the windows in my car, </i>including the sun roof, with the AC going full blast in the faint hope of getting the... the... <i>STANK</i> out of my car, eyes watering and leaning away from my child, all I can say is, "Holy crap... how the <i>fuck</i> did this <i>happen??</i>"<br />
<br />
"Mom," the Impossible Son says as leans helpfully away from me, "we ran <i>four miles</i> this morning in cross country, and then I had to go straight to basketball practice! No time for a shower! And then we barely have time to dress before we have to catch the bus! We <i>all</i> reek!"<br />
<br />
I think all my nose hair was gone by the time we got home. My eyes are watering just <i>remembering</i> this. It was horrible. Like... old cheddar cheese that's been sitting in a bowl of water in direct sunlight for three days, and moldy soccer socks in a hot car, with a little muddy dog and three weeks unchanged cat litter box. During a hundred degree summer. With... sweat. <br />
<br />
*is still horrified*<br />
<br />
I never thought I'd ever say that about one of my children, but omg, he <i>reeked</i>. It made soccer pong look... <i>pleasant.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So, after he'd decontaminated and changed clothes, he told me the story.<br />
<br />
He was in his second period biology class, and the teacher had broken them up into smaller groups to work on their assignment. First, the kids in his group had started moving away from him with, "God, Impossible, WTF?" and "Dude, did you even take a <i>shower??" </i>Then some of the groups that were close to them started complaining and became vocal about insisting he go home to take a shower. The teacher, noticing the increasingly vocal protests, called him over to find out what was going on. At this point, Mr. Impossible had had enough. "Miss Biology Teacher, I really need to go home and take a shower," he said apologetically. <br />
<br />
She said humorously, "So you're a little sweaty, you're fine, stop messing around and get back to work."<br />
<br />
"No, I really, really stink, that's why they're all complaining," he insisted.<br />
<br />
At that moment, the AC came on, and the vent was apparently behind him and blew air directly toward her. He said she was opening her mouth to probably tell him to go back to his table when his personal cloud of stench was blown into her face. <br />
<br />
She froze. Her eyes went wide and her nostrils flared. Her eyes bulged as she stared up at him with horror, then they reddened and started to water. Her nose looked like it was trying to pinch itself shut. Her hands gripped the desk so hard, her knuckles went white. And her mouth snapped shut.<br />
<br />
He said, "I seriously started to worry about her, because it was like... she <i>stopped breathing!</i>"<br />
<br />
Of <i>course</i>, she stopped breathing! She was trying <i>not to smell him</i>.<br />
<br />
After a moment, she started frantically pointing at the door. "You," she said, scooting hastily away from him after thrusting a hall pass at him. "You! Home! Now! <i>SHOWER!!!"</i><br />
<br />
"Well," I said, leaning toward him, "you smell <i>much better </i>now."<br />
<br />
"I should," he said as we got in the car to go back to the freshman campus. "I used almost half my body wash cleaning myself off! Do they make industrial strength body wash?"<br />
<br />
"No, and before you ask, Axe Body spray is <i>not</i> shower in a can," I said firmly. "If you had used it you would <i>not</i> have smelled better. You would still have the Stench, it just would have been... the Stench <i>WITH</i> Axe Body spray. And that would have been <i>much worse.</i>"<br />
<br />
"How do you know?" he asked as we pulled up to the school and I parked.<br />
<br />
"Because the pot smokers at my high school used to try to disguise the smell of what they'd been doing before school started with this mint breath spray called Binaca. And it never worked." I grinned at him. "They never understood why they kept getting caught, but you know, it was because instead of smelling like pot smokers, they now smelled like Fresh MINTY Pot Smokers™!"<br />
<br />
He laughed. "I'll pass that on!"<br />
<br />
"Good. Because we're all kind of tired of smelling sweaty teen pong <i>with</i> Axe Body spray!"<br />
<br />
You know, I'm <i>still</i> working on getting the smell out of my car!<br />
<br />
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-75180232293609283182015-08-07T21:27:00.003-07:002015-08-07T21:27:28.596-07:00Because I do my best to keep my promises...So... four years ago, I posted <a href="http://toasterpop.blogspot.com/2011/02/epic-post-of-epicness.html"> this</a> after I had made a soccer bet with the Impertinent Daughter. Her coach had moved her to play forward, after several years of playing defense, and her confidence was shaky. To boost it, I bet her that if she got a goal, I would get a tattoo.<br />
<br />
She got a goal in her very next game, and the first words out of her mouth when she saw me were, "Mum, you're getting a TATTOO!!"<br />
<br />
Well, it's only taken me four years to make good on that bet, but finally, here it is, designed by my own Lady Lion... the tattoo...<br />
<br />
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It's fresh, so forgive the swelling and shininess. Still, I think the tattooist did a great job!</div>
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She's happy, and so am I. </div>
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-52979295584340396992015-07-30T17:06:00.000-07:002015-07-30T17:06:25.240-07:001000 People and One Song<br />
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Folks, today, this wins the internet....<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JozAmXo2bDE" width="560"></iframe>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-91430095881683587622015-07-23T05:56:00.003-07:002015-07-23T05:59:44.616-07:00Because It's Just What Parents Do... Right?<br />
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Every once in a while, I will click "Like" on a Facebook post that I find... resonant, or that strikes a chord with me, and every once in an even <i>greater</i> while, I'll comment on one of these posts.<br />
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Now, these aren't posts made by my friends, necessarily. Sometimes, it's a post from a page I've liked or I'm following. Sometimes, it's a repost from something else. <br />
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Most of the time, I'm pretty quiet, even on Facebook, but then there's those times when I just... well... I have to say something.<br />
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What? I'm Southern. It's what we do.<br />
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Like, once, on the Amy Poehler's Smart Girls page, there was a post about school dress codes and what one girl was doing about a so-called violation at her school, and how ridiculous they could be, etc. I couldn't help chiming in about an experience the Impertinent Daughter went through, how one of the Assistant Principals at her school (who was actually running things at the school, but that's a whole other jar of pickles) suddenly decided that girls at the junior high were no longer allowed to wear button down shirts, BUT... the boys could. I, of course, went to find out why, because I knew the woman was nuts, but I kind of wanted to know what the logic (!) was on this particular issue. "Because boys can unbutton them."<br />
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Riiiiiight...<br />
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I promptly informed the woman that if this was a genuine issue, then parents should be notified, assault charges should be filed, and the boys in question should be suspended, so what's going on with this?<br />
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Turned out there were no actual boys unbuttoning actual girls' shirts, and I pointed out the idiocy of that and basically, by the end of the week, that particular dress code issue disappeared.<br />
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My comment was much shorter than that, but basically, that was it. This was an issue, this is how I dealt with it, this was the result. <br />
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It... pretty much blew up, and the last time I saw it, a couple of months ago, it was edging 900 some odd likes. Plus lots of comments to MY comment about what an awesome/brave/cool mom I was to do this, and I thought, "but... isn't that what a parent does??? Your school lays down a ridiculous rule, YOU know it's ridiculous, your fellow parents know it's ridiculous, and so... one of you steps over and <i>says</i> it's ridiculous, the rest follow suit, and <i>BANG</i>... ridiculous rule gone.<br />
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So... today, the Richard Dawkins page posted about the ten reasons the new Texas textbooks are dangerous for students, and first, I face-palmed, because... OMG, Texas, <i>why???</i> And then I commented.<br />
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Now, here's the thing. As a parent in a small Texas town, I am often confronted with the ridiculous in my kids' education. No, I'm not kidding. I have had a teacher <i>openly proselytize</i> in <i>class</i> when my daughter was in 5th grade. The woman wasn't my daughter's main teacher, she was her Language Arts teacher, and she figured, "hey, I'm retiring, I don't have to worry about these ridiculous rules that prevent me from acting on the tenets of my faith, <i>here goes nothing!!"</i><br />
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Yeah, that went over real well. After going to the school to talk to both the teacher <i>and</i> the principal about the reason We Don't Do That In Public Schools, also with a demonstration of what would happen if they <i>did</i>, Mrs. I'm About To Retire decided her pension was worth protecting and stopped.<br />
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<span class="s1">There was the time my son was in first grade and his teacher, inexperienced and so new the ink on her degree was still smudgable, told me with great pride the way she and the other first grade teachers were going to teach their students about racism. They were going to separate the classes into girls and boys, and the boys were going to be the privileged group and be allowed things like getting to drink from the water fountains first, being able to get their snacks first, etc. And the girls would be the oppressed group and have to go second. I had to stop her in the middle of her enthusiasm to explain to her that if they did that, they weren't going to be teaching the kids about <i>racism. </i>They were going to be teaching the kids about <i>sexism.</i> "But... how else can we teach them about racism?" she asked, stunned. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">"You take the kids and get them to count off in ones and twos. Then pick a day, and ask all the ones to wear, say, a green shirt on that day, and the twos to wear a purple shirt. And on that day, the purple shirts get to hit the water fountain first, get their snacks first, get the swings first, etc, and the greens have to wait," I said.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"But that's silly," she said. "Just because of the color of a shirt!"</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Exactly," I said. "That's racism. Just because of the color of someone's skin."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It's horrifying how long it took her to get it. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Oh, let's see, and how about the first year the Impossible Son was in junior high, and I had to go talk to the principal because one of the assistant principals told my son, when he had some open sores on his hand, that he needed to keep them bandaged because, and I quote, "you can get AIDS from touching the tables and desks in the school."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And this woman was a former science teacher.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There was my daughter's 8th grade year, when the algebra teachers at the junior high decided that they didn't like the textbooks the district selected to teach algebra, so they decided to write their own <i>over the course of the year</i> and basically <i>winged it</i>. No textbook. Just endless handouts, and if you missed a handout, <i>tough cookies.</i> I hate to say this now, but... in a bizarre way, my daughter was fortunate when she caught mono <i>a second time</i> and missed something like thirteen weeks of school. Why? Because she then had myself and my husband as algebra teachers. Between the two of us, we make a pretty decent algebra teacher, I have to say. Well, the two of us, PatrickCMJ and ViHart on Youtube, several f-listers on Livejournal, and at least three websites online. Every day during those thirteen weeks, I was at the junior high, either picking up or dropping off schoolwork. It SUCKED, but I learned more about the quality of my daughter's education during the two years she had mono than I did at any other time, because <i>I </i> was one of her teachers. I already knew it sucked, but you could say I found out <i>how much</i> it sucked at that time.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But you know what? She passed with straight A's that year. And she was a Presidential Scholar that year. Boo. Yah.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Oh, and let's not forget the madness of her third grade year, when math education in her district got <i>weird.</i> That was the year her class started taking the TAKS test, and she got this teacher that all the other parents <i>raved</i> about being so awesome. And at that time, I still had faith in her teachers and the school. Until her math scores started dropping, and after many tears trying to help her with her homework, and looking at her textbook, a tome entitled "Everyday Mathematics," and actually <i>sitting in on her class</i> a couple of times to try to figure out what the disconnect was, I was forced to tell the Impertinent Daughter to nod and smile when her teacher explained math problems in class, and bring her work home so the Husbandly One and I could teach her how to actually do it. I told her to repeat back all the strategies the teacher explained on how to do this stuff, and ignore it and do it the way we taught it to her. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">It drove her teacher <i>nuts</i>. But I told her it was okay, and not to worry about it, just repeat back whatever the teacher tried to teach her, but do it our way. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Do you know, she was the only kid her her class to pass the math TAKS with above a 90? She got a 98. And one of only like... five or six kids in her entire grade to get Commended?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Or how I had to sometimes <i>fight</i> to have my kids' teachers assign them homework in the first place!! Why? Because there were times that that was the <i>only</i> way I could find out what my kids were being taught, and figure out how to even <i>help</i> them when there were <i>problems!!!</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">When the Impertinent Daughter was in sixth grade, the junior high principal,who barely lasted a year, told his teachers, "if you can't teach it to them in the forty five minutes you have them in class, then they're not going to learn in when you give them homework that night."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Well, you know what, dude? In my house, <i>yes, they will.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am sure some of you will wonder why I didn't just pull my kids out and homeschool them.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Why? Because I <i>know</i> what I lack as a teacher. I lack the patience and organization to do it full time every single day. And while I know a <i>lot</i>, I don't know <i>everything</i>, and I don't know how to teach <i>everything. </i>I realized that when I homeschooled the Impertinent Daughter for kindergarten. If she'd been an only child? Maybe. Maybe I could have done it. But... I couldn't do it with <i>two. </i>But that's a <i>personal</i> limitation. When the Impertinent One started first grade at the public school in town, she was the only kid in her class who could read (she was already reading at a third grade level), write more than a simple sentence, count up to 100, add and subtract... everything the state required a kindergartner to be able to do before starting the first grade. The <i>only </i>one. And all the other </span> kids had attended kindergarten in the district.</div>
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I know what I lack as a teacher. But... that doesn't mean I can't <i>supplement</i> what my kids are learning from their public school education. Because... that's a parent's job. <i>My</i> mother did that for <i>me.</i> So... I guess I just kind of assumed that <i>all </i>parents do this. My kids were watching the Discovery Channel and The Learning Channel back when they were actually educational channels. And they were watching PBS. My husband and I took them to the library, and the zoo, and the museums, and everywhere else we could think of, and we read (and still read) to them, and discuss things. We read the newspaper, and the internet, we watch the news, we watch movies and historical films, and documentaries, and we visit antique stores and discuss the wild and crazy things we find in them. We talk to old people, and we take trips, and... do everything we possibly can to expose them to as much as we can so we can raise a couple of <i>well rounded people with open minds</i>.</div>
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Because that's what we do. What parents do. Our children are world citizens, right? So... we want them to reach out and embrace it and love it and be endlessly curious about it.</div>
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So... when I saw that post on the Richard Dawkins page, I liked it and commented on it. I said, "I am going to try not to hyperventilate over this, then do what I have always done, go through my son's textbooks, point out the obvious omissions, go to the library, dig out books for him to read, and encourage discussion. So tired of being ashamed of the state I live in... ugh..."</div>
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Because I am. So <i>very</i> tired of being ashamed of Texas. <i>Very</i> tired.</div>
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I commented on this <i>yesterday.</i></div>
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The comment itself is already up to 218 likes.</div>
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Apparently, this resonated with a <i>lot</i> of people. </div>
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This makes me wonder if we can get this reversed... <i>again.</i></div>
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Come on, Texas. Get your shit together. </div>
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We can do this. It's what parents <i>do.</i> We need to <i>fix this</i>, because it's not going to get any better without us.</div>
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Let's go. <i>Let's do this thing!!!</i></div>
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Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-20158521788578715752015-03-04T07:22:00.000-08:002015-03-04T07:22:06.346-08:00When Writers Meltdown...Last night, I had a meltdown.<div>
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In times of crisis, I am usually pretty calm, mostly because of my dad and his, "if you panic, you're no good to yourself or anybody else" philosophy. <i>Inside</i>, I'm freaking out and mentally flailing in whatever handy mental compartment I have available, but outwardly, I tend to focus on whatever the situation is and how to deal with it.</div>
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There are exceptions, however, and last night... was a pretty big exception. </div>
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Over the years, I have learned to backup my writing. I have an external drive for our desktop, and one for my laptop. I also have various flash drives. And I also use Google Drive and iCloud. Yes, I know that's all redundant, but in light of the hard drive crashes and accidents we've had over the years we've had computers, I've learned that redundancy is my friend. Because I've lost a lot of writing files in those hard drive crashes, and every single one of them hurt. In fact, the hard drive crash of our last PC, combined with some comments from people who shall remain unnamed, drove me into a seven year writing block that was acutely painful. </div>
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I need to write. It's painful <i>not</i> to write.</div>
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So, I back up and back up, and that's great, but I admit that sometimes, I'll let things slide a little. Maybe I'm up late writing, and I'll save what I was working on, but I won't back it up to the flash drive or Google or iCloud, etc, because I just want to go to bed and crash, and I'll do it in the morning.</div>
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Last summer, one of our cats spilled one fourth inch of water over my laptop in her never-ending Quest for Fresh Water and killed the hard drive, and the last chapter of the novel I was working on.</div>
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One new hard drive and and expanded iCloud later, I've gotten better at remember to back up.</div>
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I also have the habit of slipping my flash drives into the front pocket of my jeans for the portability of being able to work wherever I am. I did that yesterday with the intention of working on getting the first fifty pages of <i>The Pestilential Adventures of Mrs. Osgood Peabody</i> into shape to send to a publisher, but I was having a bad Hashimoto's day and instead curled up on the couch under a blanket to watch "Criminal Minds" on Netflix with my daughter. Later, I changed out of the jeans and into a pair of fleece pajama pants with big pockets, fulling intending to transfer the flash drives into those big pockets, because I still wanted/needed to write, dammit.</div>
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And proceeded to get sidetracked by having to answer a question from one of the kids, thus totally forgetting about the flash drives. Problem is, it kept niggling at my brain that I urgently needed to do something, but could never fully remember what it was, because succeeding events kept driving back to the back burner of what passes for my mind. Even after the Husbandly One got home for work, I could never get it to come up to the front of my mind and remember what it was I needed to do.</div>
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But it bothered me.</div>
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And because last week was pretty rotten autoimmune-wise, THO was working to get ahead on the Laundry Monster. So he was gathering up random clothes to throw in the washer. I reminded him that the Impertinent Son needed his running tights washed because he has a track meet on Thursday, and went to grab them while he picked through my stuff for things to wash.</div>
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He grabbed my jeans.</div>
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I noticed and thought, "Wait," but... nope. Nothing. </div>
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It wasn't until later when I thought, <i>Okay, so I won't get any work done on it tonight, but I should probably get the flash drive and back Mrs. Peabody up to Google Drive...</i> and that was when it hit me.</div>
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"Did you wash the jeans I was wearing today?" I asked THO breathlessly.</div>
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He looked up from his book. "Yeah. I washed both pair that I found on your basket. Why?"</div>
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I didn't answer, I just <i>ran</i> for the laundry room, stopped the washer and opened it and started digging. And found one of the flash drives almost under the agitator at the bottom of the laundry tub.</div>
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But not the Mrs. Peabody drive.</div>
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I pulled every single item of clothing out of that washing machine, dripping wet, and shook them out, felt in every pocket, every sleeve, every leg, every arm, every single nook and cranny... and no drive. I felt around under every side of that agitator in the washing machine. And no drive.</div>
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I went back to the living room where I'd been sitting, on the off chance it might have fallen out of my pocket, and I was fighting back tears as I pulled the couch cushions off. And no drive.</div>
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My son noticed and asked what was going on. And by this time, I wasn't fighting back the tears any more, because it was sinking in that the drive had probably gone down the drain. I filled him in on what had happened, and he said, "Don't worry, Mom, I'll get Cailly and we'll help you look for it. It's probably not anywhere near the washing machine."</div>
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I nodded and popped the drive I'd found into a small container with rice to help dry it out. And went back into the bedroom to look in the clothes basket and around the floor, just in case. And felt progressively worse and worse and worse, and then... I completely lost it.</div>
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All that work. Fighting through writer's block, and uncertainty, and finally getting my writing groove back. Working on a piece that was getting positive feedback. And it was <i>gone</i>.</div>
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It felt like the universe was trying to tell me something. Stop. Quit trying. You're never going to get anywhere. You're never going to succeed. Look at how old you are. It's never going to happen, so you should just give up while you can. Give up, grow up, just stop.</div>
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In the meantime, the Husbandly One was disconnecting the washing machine drain hose to see if the drive had possibly gone down and doing everything he could to help. The kids were alternately looking everywhere they knew I had been, and coming in to comfort me as I sat there, a completely wet mess. </div>
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I gave up. And it was as we were straightening the covers on the bed that I spotted something familiar on the quilt.</div>
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The missing flash drive.</div>
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After nearly suffocating THO with a tearful hug, then going to share the good news with the kids, you bet your effin' <i>BIPPY</i> I went and backed up everything on that drive to Google Drive and iCloud!!!</div>
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And from now on... NO MORE PUTTING FLASH DRIVES INTO MY POCKETS!!!!</div>
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Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-42232986274168998192015-01-15T08:00:00.000-08:002015-01-15T08:00:20.342-08:00To Chip, Or Not To Chip...<br />
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The Husbandly One and I have such <i>awesome</i> communication skills sometimes.<br />
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I only have two lunches to make in the mornings now, the Impossible Son's and the Husbandly One's, so it's not such a frantic thing as in the past. As such, I'm a little more relaxed in the mornings, which is a good thing, considering how creaky the autoimmune thing makes me now. <br />
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So this morning, I'm making the Husbandly One's lunch and I admit, I was a still a little under-caffeinated and moving a little slowly. Sandwich was done and it was time to add chips, so I hooked the step stool with my foot (because I'm <i>fun-sized</i>, yo!) so I can get to them. They are kept on the top shelf of our cabinets which are, of course, way above my head.<br />
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As I stepped up to get them, I looked over at THO and said, "You know, I had quite a fight to hang on to these chips yesterday," as I reached for the bag of sour cream and onion potato chips.<br />
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"Yeah?" he said sort of absently, because he was at the table, drinking coffee and surfing Facebook. <br />
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"Yeah," I said, pulling the bag down. "Your son discovered the bag and practically emptied the damn thing in a 'small' bowl. He's doing the 'eating everything in sight' thing again. I had to confiscate the bowl and rescue the chips!"<br />
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Both THO and Mr. Impossible <i>love</i> sour cream and onion chips. Thing is, where THO has learned moderation and to ration them out to himself, Mr. Impossible is still at the Hoover stage of his appetite and will eat an entire large bag at one sitting if we let him. So THO basically hid this particular bag of chips so he'd have them in his lunches this week.<br />
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I had opened the bag and was about to put some in his lunch when THO turned around and said, "Oh, we have chips at work, so you don't have to put any in my lunch. Unless you just want to."<br />
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I frowned at him. "So..."<br />
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"You can put them back," he said, watching me.<br />
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"Okay," I said slowly, rolling the bag up and clipping it, then getting back up on the step stool to put them away.<br />
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They are in my hand, about to touchdown on the shelf, when he says, "Or you could throw them in my lunch... if you want."<br />
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I stop, stare at him, then slowly start to take them back down off the shelf, preparing to unclip them again.<br />
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"Honey, we have chips at work," he said.<br />
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Breathing slowly and evenly, I <i>don't</i> unclip them, and start to put them back on the shelf.<br />
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"Unless, you know, you just <i>want</i> to put them in my lunch."<br />
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I study his face. He's not teasing me. He's entirely serious and has no clue. Okay. I start to get them down again.<br />
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"Honey, I said we have chips at work! You don't have to put any in my lunch!"<br />
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"AAAAAUUUGHHH!!! <i>Will you make up your mind???"</i><br />
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THO looks shocked. "What?? What did I do??"<br />
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"We have chips at work, unless you want to put them in my lunch, but you can put them back because we have chips at work, unless you <i>want</i> to put them in my lunch, <i>which one is it??"</i> I glare at him. "I have <i>not</i> had enough caffeine for this!!"<br />
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Yes, he apologized, and thus he has survived to live yet another day.<br />
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<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-24372146888470141202015-01-07T08:18:00.001-08:002015-01-07T08:18:54.320-08:00"Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know..."A Facebook discussion group was established for our small town/county a little over a year ago, and I have to say, it has been a hugely positive thing for the most part.<br />
<br />
I am sure there are people who work for our small school district who don't feel the same way, but after having a child in the schools here for twelve years, through good and bad, having a visible forum for local parents to air concerns has forced our district to change.<br />
<br />
No longer can they count on problems just going away as soon as parents leave the building, or as unsubstantiated rumors. It's right there on Facebook, in black and white (and blue), and everyone can see it. <br />
<br />
I wish we'd had this discussion board years ago, like when Mr. Harper, the wonderful AP Physics teacher at the local high school, finally gave up on being treated right by the district and left to teach where he'd be happier. Or when there were no textbooks for the math and science classes. <br />
<br />
I'm glad we have it now. I'm seeing more and more parents posting about the issues at the junior high that have been continuously swept under the rug for <i>years</i>. The bullying issues. The huge fights that happen on the Maple Street walking path after school. The inconsistent way things are treated. It's infuriating, and I'm glad it's getting a spotlight.<br />
<br />
I'm glad some of the policies at the elementary school my son used to go to are being spotlighted, too.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping this continues. I remember the discussion when a bond election to build a new high school was coming up, and how many people in our town truly did not realize how badly it was needed. In their minds (and there are still some people who persist in this belief) there is no need for a new high school. They truly do not see that our schools are practically bursting at the seams, and the current building is falling apart. It has reached the point where it's cheaper to build an entirely new school than it would be to repair the existing building and add on to it. There are still people who think it is "too fancy" for us, and it is very hard for me not to laugh hysterically at them.<br />
<br />
Really? Are you kidding me? We are <i>so far behind</i> other districts, in education, in facilities, it's not even funny. And I just mean basic, bare-bones facilities, not the bells and whistles.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'll raise these issues on the discussion board later, but for now, I'll simply be grateful that the district's dirty laundry is finally being aired.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-50833245188800586282014-11-03T21:03:00.000-08:002014-11-03T21:03:12.388-08:00Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes...So... I'm in menopause. <br />
<br />
This presents my body a bit of a quandary where my thyroid issues are concerned. See, because my thyroid is basically kaput, my internal thermostat is off kilter, and I spent a great deal of my time being cold. This is <i>great</i> during the summer, because this means that while everyone else is sweltering and complaining about how hot they are, I'm usually comfortable. Come on, I actually carry a jacket around during the summer, because I never know when I'm going to start shivering.<br />
<br />
Of course, the flip side is that during the winter, while everybody else is saying how nice it is that it's cooler, I'm <i>freezing to death.</i> Well... not to death because I'm quite obviously here and <i>alive. </i>But, I get very, very cold, to the point where my hands and feet will <i>hurt</i>, and while the rest of my family is comfortable sitting around in sweats and maybe a long sleeved shirt, I'm wrapped in six or seven layers of clothing, with at least three pair of wool socks on, and a knit hat, and a scarf wrapped around my neck, oh, and don't forget the fingerless gloves!<br />
<br />
It's kind of embarrassing sometimes, and there have been times when we've been out in public and I've had someone, usually male, look at me with false sympathy and say, "Oh, are you cold?"<br />
<br />
I used to try to explain the thyroid issue, but now, I find it much easier to simply lay my ice cold hands against whatever bare skin presents itself. If I'm feeling <i>nice</i>, I'll take their hand, or lay my hand against their cheek, and they'll usually respond with suddenly widened eyes and an, "Oh, <i>honey!! </i>Let's find you some hot chocolate/a warm place by the fire/heater/<i>let me get you a blanket!!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
If I'm feeling irritated and, okay, let's face it, vindictive for being patronized, I'll lay my icy little hands against the back of their neck or, if they're one of those entirely offensive people who <i>never wear jackets or long sleeves when it's freezing outside</i> (of whom my son is one) and thus standing there with bared arms, I might slide my hand against their inner bicep or against their back. That usually results in a shriek or whoop of some sort (seriously, y'all, my hands are <i>really cold</i>), lots of shivering and offers of hot toddies, blankets, heaters, anything just <i>don't put your hands on me again, for gossakes!!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This has changed somewhat, though, thanks to menopause. Oh, I still get cold! I still wrap up and shiver and stuff, but... now...<br />
<br />
*sigh*<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I am <i>totally </i>rocking the not having periods. And not having cramps that my mother "affectionately" dubbed "The Screaming Mimi's" when I was a teenager. If I had to choose between having The Screaming Mimi's again, or going through labor with my kids? <br />
<br />
I'd choose labor. Seriously. That. Bad.<br />
<br />
So, I am really, really good with not having periods. Really.<br />
<br />
What I'm <i>not</i> good with are the thermostat issues.<br />
<br />
I spend all day cold, bundled up and shivering, and by the time bedtime rolls around, I'm looking forward to bundling up under the covers and cozying up to my own personal heater, also known as the Husbandly One.<br />
<br />
I slip into bed, snuggle up to him, and for about, oh, I'd say thirty seconds, everything is right with my world. I'm snuggled up to my favorite husband, I'm blissfully, wonderfully <i>warm</i>, and my eyes start to drift closed...<br />
<br />
And it starts. Heat starts to travel up from the small of my back. Suffocating waves of <i>uncomfortable</i>, not so blissful <i>heat</i>, and I start sweating, and I have to push away from my suddenly too hot husband, throw off the covers, and lay there, panting as I sweat and start pondering turning the ceiling fan <i>up</i> just so I can stop sweating. I can feel it coming off of me in <i>waves</i>, and I wonder if I'm going to have to get THO up so I can change the sheets when... I start to shiver. Goosebumps start on my arms and thighs, and my toes and fingers start to ache, my teeth begin to chatter, and I have to pull the covers back on before I start shaking. Because... <i>I'm cold again!!!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I want to yell at my body, "Hey, make up your effin' mind!! Hot or cold, hot or cold, you can't have both, so decide!! Either let me snuggle up under the covers or lie on top of them, just <i>make up your mind!!!</i>"<br />
<br />
Stupid hormones.<br />
<br />
It's like being in the middle of Antarctica wearing only a light cashmere cardigan over your sleeveless tee, hurrying toward the thick heavy parka and mukluks you know are just right there, waiting for you. And you've just managed to get the mukluks on and are struggling into the parka when BAM!! You're suddenly in hottest, most humid place you can imagine. Like... the Amazonian rainforest or something. Or Nairobi. And just when you're stripping off your sweat-soaked sleeveless tee... BAM!!! Antarctica again!!<br />
<br />
And this is only at night.<br />
<br />
If I wanted to sleep during the day, I could do it in perfect comfort under the blankets. No problem. I've done it, as a matter of fact, when I got hit in the face by the Wall of Fatigue and just couldn't stay awake any longer.<br />
<br />
But during the night? Ugh.<br />
<br />
I'll survive this, but for now? Not enjoying this aspect.<br />
<br />
THO is properly sympathetic (he is, at times, a wise, wise man) and applies chocolate when necessary, usually to ensure his survival. He is most fortunate that I'm not experiencing the extreme mood swings I remember my mother going through. <br />
<br />
I don't even want to think about <i>that</i>.<br />
<br />
So... while I'm enjoying the freedom from fertility, I'm not so much enjoying the wild temperature variations. Oh well, c'est la vie!<br />
<br />
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<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-70779172120831459872014-10-08T17:19:00.000-07:002014-10-08T17:19:21.202-07:00"And That's Why I Almost Fainted At The Dentist's..."<br />
<br />
<br />
I totally blame the show "Bones" for this...<br />
<br />
I went to the dentist today to have a molar pulled. It was one of those so-called "twelve year molars" because they tend to come in when we're twelve or so, the last to come in before the wisdom teeth. Second molars, I think, is the official name.<br />
<br />
My second molars were crooked and very hard to clean, and thus, they had issues. I had the second molar on the upper right pulled four years ago because it had a cavity that went nuclear, to the point of needing a root canal. My dentist poked and prodded around the tooth for some time before finally sitting up and saying, "Well, I <i>could</i> do a root canal on this thing, but... I should probably send you to an oral surgeon for that."<br />
<br />
Now, you have to understand, I am a <i>huge</i> chicken when it comes to dentists, for a very good reason. My first introduction to a dentist was the Dentist From Hell when I was four. It was very traumatizing, to the point that even to <i>this day</i>, I break out in a cold sweat just thinking about him. My parents found a kind, gentle, non-threatening dentist after that who worked very hard to help me overcome my fears. When I hid under the dental chair from him, he plopped down on the floor and talked quietly to me, singing and telling me stories until I came out again. He's the only reason I can even <i>contemplate</i> going to a dentist now. <br />
<br />
And the dentist I'm seeing now is AWESOME, he totally understands that I'm a huge chicken about dental matters and why, and he does an awesome job at making sure I don't feel a damn thing when he works on me, and his work is faultless. I trust him completely, because he's really good about warning me before he does something, and understands my thing about needles and works to accommodate that. And really, that's all I ask.<br />
<br />
So when this dentist that I trust told me he may have to send me to someone <i>else</i>, you can imagine my dismay. So I asked why. And he said, "Well, the thing is, I'd have to put you under anesthesia and dislocate your jaw just so I could have a hope of getting back there," he said frankly. "And even with that, there's no guarantee that I wouldn't break your jaw, your mouth is just that small. An oral surgeon would be a better bet for you on that front."<br />
<br />
So I thought about it and asked, "Do I need this tooth? I mean, is it necessary to keep my teeth in line or do I chew on it?"<br />
<br />
"No," he said, after checking it again. "In fact, I can safely say you've never chewed anything with that tooth. There's nothing under it, either. It can come out if you want."<br />
<br />
So that's what I did. He pulled it out, and after all the pain meds wore off, I suddenly realized a neuro-facial pain I'd had for <i>years</i>, so long I'd hardly noticed it anymore, except when I had a migraine, was <i>gone. </i>The roots of that tooth had been pressing on nerves and I had no idea. I still get migraines, but they haven't been so bad since that tooth came out!<br />
<br />
So, recently, I started having pain in the upper left second molar. Mostly just low level pain, but every once in a while, something would fire off the nerves on that side of my face and that tooth would <i>hurt!!</i> It would cause major pain that would fade to minor twinges, then back again. So, I went in to have it looked at in September and again, he found a cavity. <br />
<br />
"I could fill it," he said with a frown. "But..."<br />
<br />
"Let me guess," I said, "you'd have to dislocate my jaw just to get at it?"<br />
<br />
"The cavity is on the back of that tooth right where you're having a hard time cleaning it," he said. "It could be filled, but I'd have to send you to an oral surgeon to have it done, because I can't get to it without hurting you, and I refuse to hurt you."<br />
<br />
So, after some discussion, we decided to pull it. And that was what we did today.<br />
<br />
Oddly enough, it wasn't as difficult to take out as the other one. In fact, he sat back a lot sooner than I expected and said, "Okay!" and I frowned and said, "What? That's it? You're done??"<br />
<br />
"Yep!" he said with a grin. "And you came through it beautifully!"<br />
<br />
Now, I almost fainted three times during this visit, which is unusual for me. I usually manage to stay pretty calm, despite my anxiety. My philosophy is this is something that needs to get done, there's no use freaking out, crying, or fighting because that just makes it harder for everyone involved and makes it take <i>longer</i>. I'm all for keeping it quick and efficient!<br />
<br />
But today? *sigh*<br />
<br />
The first time was because of the needles. This dentist uses a gel to numb the gums before giving a shot, which works most excellently. And that was great, except on the last shot, I was very much aware of the fact I had a needle in my gum because he had to lay the syringe across my lip while the needle was still in my gum. So after it was all over, I got all woozy and light headed and the dental assistant was quick to set the chair so my head was lower than my feet. Yay.<br />
<br />
She also distracted me with a cooking show that was on the Food Network, which worked excellently well because the cook (I have no idea who she was) was completely incompetent and doing things WRONG and I couldn't help pointing it out!<br />
<br />
The second time, the dentist raised my chair a little too quickly, but you know, he was trying to reduce the risk of excess bleeding, and I'm totally cool with that. I'm just not cool with, you know, face-planting on that hard, hard floor they have in the treatment rooms! I remember telling the dental assistant that my chair needed to be lowered before I pitched face-first off it and went SPLAT!<br />
<br />
The third time was all "Bones" fault.<br />
<br />
See, I could <i>hear</i> the moment the tooth released from my skull, could hear the faint crackle and cricks and thought, "Huh, wonder what the micro-fracturing looks like, and how long it'll take 'em to remodel?<br />
<br />
And that's when my brain went, "Holy crap, are you actually analyzing micro-fracturing of <i>your own friggin' skull???"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The world went kind of wobbly at that point. <br />
<br />
I'm fine now, and recovering somewhat comfortably. It's sore, but the pain is steady and bearable, as opposed to stabbing and acutely uncomfortable. <br />
<br />
At this point, I'm ready for a glass of ice tea and maybe to take another nap, because the pain meds are kicking in and... <i>oooooo, lookit all the pretty colors...</i><br />
<br />
<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-91914147658037000422014-09-22T21:06:00.000-07:002015-01-15T08:06:47.415-08:00Out of the Bushes...<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">So this morning, I wasn't at my sharpest. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">Alright, let's face it, <i>most</i> mornings, I'm not at my sharpest. Sometimes, there just isn't enough caffeine on the <i>planet</i>, you know? But this morning? Oy.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">First off, when the Impossible Son and I stepped out onto the front porch to leave for school, he stopped and went, "Uh... Mom?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">"What?" I asked as I locked the front door.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Look," he said a little too calmly, so I turned around and looked toward the driveway and my mouth dropped open.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Where the hell's my car???" I asked, shocked, because it wasn't in its usual place at the end of the driveway. Then memory kicked in and I looked up toward the garage and went, "D'oh!" Because I'd forgotten that the Husbandly One had moved it to air up the tires.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">Yes, I normally park at the end of the driveway. Why? Because there are billions and <i>billions </i>of little tiny birds that live in the red-tipped photinias that our predecessors planted alongside the driveway and (1) they are the most prolific poopers on the planet and (2) they have extremely accurate aim when it comes to the vehicles I drive. I mean, I actually gave up washing the minivan when we had it, because I would have had to wash it four times a day <i>every single day!</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">Everybody knew my van, because it was the red one covered with bumper stickers... and bird poop. Not exactly a notoriety I was comfortable with, you know?</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">So when we got the CR-V, I made the decision to park it at the end of the driveway, <i>before </i>the bushes. Results? No more bird poop. I'm the only one who parks in the driveway <i>anyway</i>, so might as well park the way I want, right? *sigh*</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">So, the Impossible Son and I got in the car, my son chattering away as usual, I start the car, put it in reverse and check the mirror, preparing to back out. All of a sudden, a tall, thin, grey-haired figure lurches out into the street from behind the bushes, slack-faced and dragging one leg, one arm swinging wide while the other is held straight down and in front of a stiff body. The early morning light casts a grayish yellow pallor to the skin, and my first thought is, "Holy crap, the zombie apocalypse is <i>real</i>, WTF???"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">Mr. Impossible says, "Mom? You okay? What is it, what's... OMG, Mom, is that... is that a <i>zombie???</i>"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">The Husbandly One <i>nearly</i> got a frantic phone call to come home <i>RIGHT NOW!!!</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">However, my brain kicked into gear and I said, "No, honey, that's the sewing lady who lives down the street."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Why's she walking like that?" he asked, watching her lurch her way down the street. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">"She had a stroke a few years ago," I said as I plugged in the iPod to give my pounding heart a chance to slow back down to a more normal rhythm. "We usually see her walking in the mornings."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Yeah, but from the <i>other side." </i>Mr Impossible watched her go as I slowly backed out. "Guess she decided to take a different route today."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Yep," I said, and we made our way to school. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">The funniest part though is, until that moment, I never realized how much zombies in movies walk like stroke victims. No, really, think about it. The same stiff legged gait, the arms held out for balance, one swinging loosely, the other sometimes curled up close to the body, or held out straight, the slack-jawed face or dead expression with one side of the face drooping... </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">Yep, I was definitely awake as I took off for the school. Nothing like a couple of shocks to get the old adrenaline pumping!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Times;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; letter-spacing: 0px;">I'll take a pass on that tomorrow, though, thanks.</span></div>
</div>
Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-63020244479266975922014-06-04T12:12:00.003-07:002014-06-04T12:14:39.008-07:00Epically Awesome in Every Way...<br />
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So... last Friday night, after three days of worrying that it would rain and we'd have to move everything into a gym and much plotting about tickets, screens, and just how much humanity could be packed into three gyms and a band hall... this happened...<br />
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(photo by Jo Jandrok)</div>
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The Impertinent Daughter graduated from high school.</div>
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I am so incredibly proud of her, for so many, many things. I am proud of what she's achieved academically and artistically, but... I am also proud of her for thinking for herself. For doing things her own way. For sticking to it when things got tough. For being willing to ask for help, and for being willing to go beyond what her teachers assigned. </div>
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I'm also proud of her class, for refusing to be intimidated by a woman who had been trying to squash them all into the same little boxes pretty much since they met her in sixth grade. I'm proud of them for turning their graduation into a joyous, boisterous, yet <i>controlled</i> celebration of both achievement.... and freedom.</div>
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When the beach balls appeared during that particular administrator's speech, I knew this wasn't going to be an <i>ordinary</i> graduation!</div>
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(gif by K. Griffin)</div>
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The beach balls were rapidly followed by streamers, silly string, and confetti cannons. A friend told me later that at previous graduations, when the beach balls appeared, they were rapidly captured by administrators and popped with a knife, which I find disheartening. This year, however, when the balls were caught by administrators.... <i>THEY THREW THEM BACK TO THE KIDS, AND EVEN ENGAGED IN PLAYING WITH THEM!!</i></div>
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I found that awesome and wonderful. Like they were saying, "Okay, our job's done, you guys turned out just fine, let's just <i>have fun!"</i></div>
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The best parts of the evening? When the Valedictorian gave her speech, which was basically, "don't make high school be the best years of your life, the best years are yet to come, " she ended it with reminding her classmates of their plan, counting off, and leading them in a shout of, "DOBBY IS <i>FREEEEEE!!!"</i></div>
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Most of us parents had no problem understanding that the reference went beyond Harry Potter.</div>
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The beach balls, streamers, etc. continued throughout the ceremony, much to everyone's amusement, and I think for us parents, the challenge was to capture it all.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmayNJNEeM5uYNW4wPTYPVlWMJ2gYB-xfMiDaJ4dCQLXXwAERr0Zajpx-Ilxh_IGq7YqnyyWn_MmB8RmXMfyi-a44ZWOiaq0fKUe0WhPzwb_QGZNzOjMhD45wfH4Vqn1jdcy9ziawLDlJ/s1600/20140530_205834-MOTION.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmayNJNEeM5uYNW4wPTYPVlWMJ2gYB-xfMiDaJ4dCQLXXwAERr0Zajpx-Ilxh_IGq7YqnyyWn_MmB8RmXMfyi-a44ZWOiaq0fKUe0WhPzwb_QGZNzOjMhD45wfH4Vqn1jdcy9ziawLDlJ/s1600/20140530_205834-MOTION.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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(gif by K. Griffin)</div>
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The only thing that really bothered me was finding out the hug to the 12th grade assistant principal was <i>required</i>. I'm sorry, but if the only way you can get people to hug you is to <i>make it a requirement</i>, then maybe you don't deserve to be hugged in the first place! And I was concerned when I saw the kids were draping something around her neck, and wondered what the heck was going on. When I found out what was actually going on later, though, I realized the kids got back at her in the only way they really could. They were draping their IDs lanyards around her neck.</div>
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I hope she realized it for the insult that it really was, though I doubt it.</div>
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It doesn't matter, really. What matters is that after twelve years of endless reams of paper, pens, pencils, crayons, textbooks, YouTube math and science tutorials, endless excuse notes, two bouts of mono, four concussions, sketchbooks, Prismacolor pencils, gouache watercolors, algebra and calculus books from Half-Price Books, freezing in the stands for three years watching her play soccer, holding her when the coach turned out to be a clueless jerk, conferences and meetings with principals to argue against stupidity in administration, happy-happy-joy-joy dances with her teachers when something went right, endless discussions about science, politics, Shakespeare, history, or whatever else she was studying, after lots of hugs, love, many, many batches of double chocolate chip cookies, and encouragement... the Impertinent Daughter has graduated from high school. My beautiful, wonderful, brilliant, talented, and just plain <i>EPIC</i> daughter graduated.</div>
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And I am so proud!</div>
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You go, Boo-Girl!</div>
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<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8714274912631360832.post-73265503809424463092014-05-04T22:11:00.000-07:002014-05-04T22:11:30.841-07:00Because there's no way to really prepare...I somehow never envisioned this day. <br />
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Well, I did, but far off in some misty, distant future, nebulous and untouchable in the land of <i>Someday</i>. Because in my mind's eye, last week, my daughter was two and lurching around the living room with a very large dog and three attendant cats, chocolate smeared around her mouth from the chocolate chip cookie she was hanging onto with fierce determination as she headed for her goal; the front door.<br />
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Three days ago, she was pushing her baby brother in a giant Tonka truck across the kitchen floor while he squealed with glee, making "Vroom! Vroom!" noises while the Triplicats scattered out of the way.<br />
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Two days ago, she was waving impatiently at me to leave as I hovered outside her first grade classroom, her brother in a backpack on my back, hoping she was going to be okay, and that she would make friends.<br />
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Yesterday, she was playing in her first soccer game, stunning us both as she displayed a determination and ferocity that has gotten her through every hurdle that has been placed in her way. I still remember having to hold onto the Husbandly One when a kid who seemed like a veritable giant loomed over her and looked like he was going to plonk a massive fist on top of her head and crush her as he stole the ball from her. She looked up at him, sniffed derisively, then plowed him over as she took the ball <i>back</i>, and passed it to one of the forwards, who immediately took it and made a goal. She then turned to face the boy and flounced past him to show how beneath her contempt he was and ignored him for the rest of the game.<br />
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It was very demoralizing for him.<br />
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Last night, I hugged my seventeen year old daughter for the last time, and this morning, I hugged my eighteen year old daughter for the first time.<br />
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The night the Impertinent Daughter was born was one of the most... ridiculous and yet wonderful nights of my life. My water broke three fourths of the way through an episode of the X-Files, an episode I still <i>to this day</i> have never seen through to the end, and then we were rushing to the hospital, feeling woefully unprepared. I mean, we decided on her name on the way to the hospital!! Seriously!!<br />
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I had a C-section, because she was a breech baby, and I remember when I heard that first cry thinking, "Oh, my God... what have I done? <i>What have I done??</i> I can't be a <i>mother!!</i> I'm too immature!! I'm not stable enough! I'm gonna fuck her up, and she'll be lying on a couch by the time she's 25, spilling her guts to a therapist about her whacko mom and how she totally fucked her up and... and... <i>I CAN'T DO THIS!!</i>"<br />
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Meanwhile, they were cleaning her up, and the Husbandly One was looking at her and cutting the cord and all that, and then they laid her in my arms, wrapped up like a little burrito. I looked into her tired little scrunched up face, her centuries old eyes looking up into mine, and felt my breath catch. She wriggled a tiny hand free of the burrito wrap, then reached up to touch my face, stroking my chin, and suddenly, I was calm.<br />
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I could do this.<br />
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We could do this. We would grow and learn together, and we could <i>totally</i> do this.<br />
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And now, here we are, eighteen years later. She's got a driver's license. She'll be graduating from high school in a few weeks. And there's a part of me that's screaming, "No, no, I can't do this! I can't let go of my little girl, my baby, my firstborn, I can't let her go out into the wild, crazy world, because she's not ready! <i>I'M</i> not ready!!"<br />
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Today, she hugged me, and touched my face, and I thought, "Maybe... maybe I can do this."<br />
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Nah, not really, but you know... I'll give it a really good try.<br />
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Happy Birthday, Impertinent Daughter. You have given the roller coaster of my life some really wild twists and turns, some of them utterly terrifying, but I hung on and I've enjoyed the ride. And I can't wait to see where it'll take us next!!<br />
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Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07522633884217854888noreply@blogger.com0