Monday, December 2, 2019

That One Monday When I Was Cranky

One Monday night as we were heading to bed, Olivia asked me AGAIN, why I was always so tired and cranky.

First…it was a Monday.

Second, she asked me this at 9:30pm. I’d been awake since 5:30.

But to give a rundown of all the things that cumulated to make me cranky that night here’s the list:

I got home twenty minutes later than usual because I had to stop at Walmart before going home to buy packing tape. Do I use packing tape? No. I do not. But hell, since I am in town every single fucking day of the week, (you know, since I GO TO WORK) it’s no big deal to run into Walmart, is it? It’s way more convenient for me to do so than for the person who actually uses the damn tape to make a special trip to town to buy the tape. I mean, he never has to leave the house but we wouldn’t want to put him out and make him GO TO TOWN to purchase the items that help his business thrive. No, he has an assistant for that, right?

Ahem.

So, I walked in the door at 5:20. I’m informed that one of my children is on the toilet pooping. I’ll let you, dear reader, figure out which one. I mean, one of them wants help after she poops and one of them would rather die than require help from her mother after she moves her bowels. Again, I’ll let you decide which is which.

I leave the tape on the table, put the cash that was requested with the purchase of the tape on the counter. I look through Olivia’s folder and find her homework packet.

The pooping child announces, “I’m dooooone!” as I’m heading down the basement stairs. I suggest none-too-gently that perhaps she should wipe herself since I was BUSY.

Tom declared he was doing the dishes and couldn’t assist in the butt wiping.

The other child in the household said she was too busy doing her ab workout and couldn’t help either.

I transferred the clean, dry sheets from the drier to a basket. I put the clean, wet towels in the drier. I started the drier.

I paused and started watching HULU on my phone, a moment of peace in a world of chaos.

I finally headed back upstairs.

Guess who is STILL sitting on the toilet, waiting for someone, ANYONE other than herself to come and attend to her butt.

I stalked into the bathroom, told her to GET UP from the toilet. I gave her a wet wipe and told her to wipe her butt. She did and then she tried to hand me the used wipe! I told her to throw it away!

You guys.

I am so tired of dealing with anyone but my own bathroom issues I can’t even tell you.

I KNOW we’re lucky. I KNOW she’s doing great. I KNOW THIS. But I’m tired of it. SO TIRED.

Finally, we sat down to do homework. Sigh.

Through all this, there are sounds being made by several people in our house, (all of them except me) about us going to my mom’s house that evening.

I didn’t want to. I was tired. I just wanted to be home.

When homework was finally done at 6:05, I called my mom to let her know that we were JUST finishing up and she shouldn’t expect us.

She said that if we were hungry, we could come on over because she had food ready.

Fine.

At least I hadn’t taken my shoes off.

We drove to my mom’s. We ate. Olivia told stories and Alyssa amused my mom and Lloyd with her antics.

We got home at 7:15.

I went up to see if I needed to change the sheets on anyone’s bed. What does that entail? It requires me to SNIFF the sheets to see if they’re stinky. Yes. Let that sink in. I have to SMELL the sheets to see if they smell like urine.

It’s as gross as it sounds.

And she wonders why I’m cranky.

For what it’s worth, on this night, those sheets were not stinky. I repeat, NOT STINKY. So no beds needed to be stripped and remade. A small spark of joy in an otherwise long drudge of a night.

I just…I don’t even know. I don’t hate my life. Really I don’t. I know how good I’ve got it, relatively speaking.

I do realize that I don’t do more than any other mother and/or wife out there. It’s just that at the end of the day, I would like to be done. I’m tired, just like every other overworked parent in this world.

I would like my family to know that I’m sorry for my crankiness, though. They don’t deserve that. When I get like that, I need to just go find a quiet corner of our house and settle myself down.

As we settled in that night, Olivia said in the dark to no one in particular (I was the only other person in the room but whatever), "At least Dad's not tired and cranky all the time."

Yeah. At least she can count on Dad.

Friday, November 29, 2019

Notes to Self

You don’t have to tell every single person you come into contact with that you’ve had cancer and been through chemo.

You don’t have to bring up the lymphedema every chance you get.

No one really cares.

So yes, they make all the right noises when you bring it up but you could just…not.

Practice a little introspection and figure out why you feel the need to share that stuff with everyone.

Do you want them to feel sorry for you?

Is it because you want them to appreciate all your glorious post-chemo hair?

Is it because you feel like a freaking hero for all that you’ve been through?

Well, guess what? Everyone has been through their own hell. They don’t necessarily need to know about yours.

Maybe you’re hoping to make yourself approachable. Is it working?

Are you looking for a common bond among your fellow humans?

I’ll be honest, that’s annoying as hell. So maybe just stop. Stop telling people about the dry mouth that comes from chemo. Stop making a circle around your face and saying something along the lines of, “This is nineteen months of growth.”

Stop mentioning the lymphedema, stop drawing attention to the compression sleeve. Stop talking about cancer altogether.

If people want to talk to you about it, they’ll bring it up.



Is it obvious that I’m annoying the shit out of myself these days? Time to breathe and stop being so hard on myself I guess.

Thursday, November 28, 2019

A Few Thanks

Since I bitch and moan pretty much non-stop these days, let me tell you something that isn’t a complaint.

My feet don’t hurt.

Will they hurt tomorrow? Maybe. Will they hurt sometimes next week? Probably.

But they don’t hurt right now and that’s awesome.

I can go up the stairs at work and not get winded. Will I get winded next week? Maybe but right this second, I could trot right up those stairs and still have a conversation at the top of the stairs. I feel pretty darned good about that one.

I just wanted to share some non-complaints for a change. You’re welcome

Wednesday, November 27, 2019

13

Today she is thirteen. Just because she's a teenager doesn't mean that Olivia woke up this morning and was suddenly typical. She's still gloriously Livie.

Every night at bedtime, Olivia goes through a string of questions. They’re usually in the same order and she needs to ask them before she can settle in and go to sleep. They go something like this:

Q: What do you hope I dream of?

A: I hope you dream of swimming with mermaids, dancing with Felice (from Leap), flying around the Eifel Tower with Ladybug and Cat Noir. After you save the world with them, I hope you all go to lunch at their school where you get to hang out with all your friends from school and all of Marinette’s friend. I hope that Adam Goldberg is there along with the Baudelaire children and the Templeton boys (from Boss Baby) and Harry Potter. I hope you guys all eat your lunch and talk and laugh with each other and that you get to see Barry Goldberg running like a weirdo as he’s being chased by chickens trained by Victor.

Q: What do you hope you dream of?

A: I hope I get to dream of watching you do all those things in your dream and that I get to swim with the mermaids with you and watch you talk to all your friends.

Q: What time are you going to wake me up?

A: 6:20

Q: What time will I get downstairs?

A: 6:40

Q: What time are you leaving for work?

A: 7:00

Reply: Cool.

Q: What do you have laid out for me?

A: whatever I have picked out for her as the next day’s outfit. Don’t forget to mention the underwear, bra and socks.

Q: Do you have to go anywhere after work?

A: Yes or no, depending of if I have to go anywhere after work.

Q: Does Lyssie have to go anywhere after school?

A: Yes or no, depending on the day and Lyssie’s work schedule. Wednesdays she has voice lessons, so…

Reply: At least I have Dad, who is always here when I get home.

How grateful am I that she has her dad; that he’s always there when she gets home?

How jealous am I that he gets to be the reliable one, the one who is ALWAYS there when she gets home?

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

On Being Present

Recently my dad had to be hospitalized due to gallstones. He doesn’t have a gallbladder but he developed gallstones. Weird? Yes, but I googled and we all know that you can trust everything you find during a Google search and there it was.

Anyway.

He went to Urgent Care on a Tuesday because he’d lost part of his hearing aid in his ear and couldn’t retrieve it. The doctor there gave him one look and told him he needed to go to the emergency room.

He was yellow, an obvious indication that his liver wasn’t working well.

The small hospital in our hometown determined that he had gallstones and sent him to the larger hospital in Fort Wayne.

I talked to him the evening before he was transferred to Fort Wayne. He sounded okay but tired.

The next morning, I went to work, texted my brother and sister and called my dad. He told me the doctor said he needed surgery. They were going to try and get him in that morning.

The ladies with whom I worked told me that if I needed to leave, I was free to do so.

I called my dad again and asked him if he wanted someone to be there for his consults and when he got out of his surgery.

He replied, “That’s not necessary.”

I told him, “I know it’s not necessary but is it something that would give you comfort? I know when I had my surgeries, it was nice to know that someone I loved and who loved me was waiting for me to wake up.”

He agreed that it would be lovely to have someone there.

I went.

It was by far the right thing to do.

My dad is fine. He came through his surgery without any issues. They inserted a stent into his bile duct so he could pass the stones they hadn’t been able to remove. They were able to remove one stone but had to leave several because they simply couldn’t retrieve them.

I texted my brother and sister from my car before I left for the hospital to let them know I was going. My brother expressed frustration that he has no vacation days left so he couldn’t leave work to go.

My sister, well, she was having some trees cut down that day and she had to go to court (I didn’t ask) and so wasn’t able to go to the hospital herself. She did go and pick my dad up the next day when he was released so I was able to stay at work.

When I got to the hospital, my dad was already in surgery. He was brought back from recovery about two hours after I got there. He was groggy and cold but otherwise doing well.

I think he enjoyed our one-on-one time that afternoon. I stayed with him for several hours, listening to his stories and just keeping him company.

We both needed that.

Being there, just being a physical presence for someone, takes so little of us and sometimes, it feels like so much. I know that I could have stayed at work that day and stayed in touch by phone with my dad’s nurse but actually going to the hospital and being nearby when he woke up, that was precious.

My dad is a month away from turning 80 years old.

I’m so lucky, so grateful that he’s still here, still doing so well, so present in my life.

Monday, November 25, 2019

Flat Spaghetti (as Opposed to Flat Stanley)

We make spaghetti for dinner maybe once every six weeks or so. Neither of the girls like it much but they’ll eat it as long as we have garlic bread to go with it.

On a recent trip to Aldi, Tom picked up a couple of boxes of fettuccine.

He just boils it as if it were spaghetti and pours tomato sauce over it.

One recent Tuesday, Tom cooked some fettuccine and served it to Olivia (Alyssa had eaten at Gram’s house and so was able to avoid the drama of flat ‘spaghetti.’)

When Olivia arrived at the kitchen table (after using the bathroom because, hello, transition) she looked at the plate on the table and declared, “I hate flat spaghetti.”

Tom told her not to be like that. He said pasta is pasta and it doesn’t matter what shape the spaghetti is in, it all tastes the same.

She argued with him through the entire meal. Every single bite she took was accompanied by a grimace and the declaration that flat spaghetti is disgusting.

For what it’s worth, I ate it and it was fine.

But Liv is a creature of habit. Spaghetti is supposed to be, well, spaghetti shaped. Fettuccine is different and she hates different.

I think she bitched about that flat spaghetti the rest of the night, long after dinner was over.

Since I don’t go to Aldi (no reason, just…don’t) I have no idea if they have regular spaghetti and if they do, I don’t know if the fettuccine is cheaper or something.

I didn’t bother to ask Tom why he bought fettuccine rather than spaghetti. I don’t care. I mean, if I don’t have to cook the stuff, I’m not going to be picky about what someone else cooks.

But Olivia? That girl will pick something to the bone.

The next night Tom didn’t bother to try and serve Liv the leftover flat spaghetti. I think he decided that was one hill he wasn’t willing to die on.

Friday, November 22, 2019

Mom = Tired

Tired = Mother’s Guilt

So each night for the past few weeks, when we go to bed, Olivia asks me if I’m tired.

Well, it’s bedtime, so yes, I’m tired.

She will often wonder aloud why I’m always so tired.

It’s like a knife to my heart.

And yet…I’m tired because even on the weekends when we get to sleep in, I still keep busy pretty much all day. While she’s lounging on the couch watching YouTube videos on her tablet I’m vacuuming and running laundry up and down the stairs and sweeping the kitchen floor and washing dishes and cooking meals.

On weekdays, I get up at 5:30am, work from 7ish until 4:30, go home and help with homework, make dinner, pack lunches, clean up the kitchen and then, FINALLY, around 8pm, sit down to watch an hour of television before we start our bedtime routine, which means I fall into bed around 10 because Olivia takes almost an hour to settle into bed.

But Mom? Why are you always so tired?

Thursday, November 21, 2019

Radio Silence

I don’t know.

I mean, yes, I know that I haven’t been posting.

I’ve been writing. I just haven’t been posting.

I don’t know why.

I feel like I’m in limbo.

I don’t even know why.

Day to day life is fine. I feel fine.

The girls are fine.

Tom is still broken, which saddens me.

We’re going out our days, doing what needs to be done.

But I worry that we’re marking time; not really moving forward.

What am I waiting for; the next scan…the next mammogram…the next appointment with the next doctor?

I don’t want to live like this.

I want to get beyond cancer and what it’s done to me and my family.

I wonder if I need to volunteer or something like that. Should I be giving back to the community I never even wanted to join?

My cancer diagnosis put my work (ha!) with Share Your Story on what is apparently permanent hiatus. I just never made it back after going to tell them about the cancer.

I want to help people beyond myself but I haven’t yet figured out how.

What’s next?

Wednesday, November 6, 2019

Baby Shower

My cousin’s daughter is having her second child in January. She has a three year old son and is expecting a daughter this time.

Let me preface this before I don my shawl and bifocals and settle into the recliner with an afghan on my lap and a hat on my head to cover my thinning hair and keep my pale, age-spotted scalp warm. Preface: I know that every baby is a celebration. My first pregnancy and the birth of my first child was no more amazing and wonderful than my second pregnancy and the birth of my second daughter.

That said…this cousin (first cousin once removed if you want to be technical, and you know how I feel about technicalities) threw herself a baby shower.

She is threw herself a baby shower.

She sent out the invitations and she hosted this party. Sure, she asked her grandma to provide the food because why would she put her pregnant self out to buy shit and cook/prepare food? Several of her grandma’s sisters (my mom and aunts) provided decorations and even more food.

I feel so crotchety but this makes me crazy. It feels like a demand for presents. She sent invitations out with instructions as to where she’d registered. She sent several social media reminders over the past month or so. I just…

Okay, so yes, she moved up here in the last few months from Mississippi. Apparently, she gave her older sister all her baby gear because she wasn’t sure she’d have any more. She’s twenty three years old and already has one child. The odds of her not having another child were pretty slim.

But, since she gave all the stuff she’d used for her son away, she needs more stuff, new stuff, PINK STUFF if you will.

So she threw herself a baby shower.

I don’t get the gall.

I mean, she has a mother (who really is kind of useless, just saying) and a grandmother. She has a sister. She has friends. She couldn’t go to any one of those people and gently suggest, or hell, just outright ASK one of them to throw her the shower? That would just feel so much better, less like she feels entitled to presents from everyone.

Is this a generational thing? Am I officially an old biddy?

It just feels so icky. And yet, I feel bad that it feels icky, like I’m the one being weird about all of this rather than the entire situation being weird and I’m just responding to the weirdness with weirdness of my own.

Sigh.

But of course I went to this shower. And I took a gift. The gift was a box of diapers because I’m awful like that.

Tuesday, November 5, 2019

Almost Thirteen

We have a running joke in our house.

When Olivia is being especially difficult or deliberately lazy or just glorying in her idiosyncracies, one of us will say, “It’s hard to have a four year old for eight years.”

She’ll laugh, things will be reset and we’ll go on with our day.

And sure, it’s funny. It lightens an otherwise stressful situation.

But it’s also true.

Chronologically, Olivia will be thirteen in just over a month. But socially, she’s about eight years old. She has no desire to attend or even host a sleep-over. She’s perfectly happy to hang with Mom and Dad on the weekends. She’s shown no real desire to wear makeup. She’s very fashionable and makes decisions about her wardrobe but she still wants help putting on some of her clothes.

She doesn’t NEED help but she wants it.

She’d much prefer to have someone spoon feed her rather than feed herself. This is exasperating, and sometimes, admittedly, infuriating.

I remember when she was a baby and not crawling when she was a year old. It was like having an infant for almost two years.

My cousin’s sweet daughter is a year older than Olivia. S is in a wheelchair and she’s still tube fed. My cousin has had an infant for almost fourteen years.

I shouldn’t be complaining about my thirteen years with a four year old.

But I am; because I can. And because you can’t actually compare O and S.

See, the thing is, I KNOW Olivia is capable of so much more than she actually does. I know she can dress herself. I know she can feed herself. I know she can bathe herself.

But…I can’t trust her to wash her own hair. I don’t know if she’s capable of changing the toilet paper roll. Those things take some serious coordination and I just don’t know if she’s got it.

I don’t know if she can stop herself from scribbling on her work at school. I want to think she can but I just don’t know.

She is physically capable of taking out an old pad and putting in new one on when she’s having her period but I don’t think she truly know when she’s supposed to do that. I’ve tried to explain it to her but it just doesn’t happen without help.

I joked the other night at a Music Boosters meeting that I only have one more year after this year because after Alyssa graduates, I won’t have a child in the music program. Olivia is not a joiner. I don’t know if she wants to be or not but I do know that she simply isn’t able to force herself to speak above a whisper while at school. There’s a block that affects her physically.

It makes me sad because I think she’s capable of so much more but her brain and body won’t work together to let her do all she could do if they would cooperate.

So we celebrate her strengths. I read her fiction, I listen to her imaginations, I laugh at her jokes and enjoy her laughter when she’s in on the joke.

We let her express herself through her fashion and exclaim in wonder when she always gets it right.

I know how lucky we are that she is who she is and she is capable of so much but I also grieve the person Olivia would have been had that fifth chromosome not had a deletion.

I know these amazing kids of mine are not done doing awesome thing. I know that this coming year, the year she is thirteen, could bring amazing achievements. I won’t stop trying to teacher her, to lead her toward growth and accomplishments. But I’ll also continue to try and celebrate exactly who she is.

Monday, November 4, 2019

Snack Break

The other night we’d been in bed for at least a half hour when Olivia called out, “Are you going to be mad if I say I’m hungry?”

I replied, “I’m not going to be mad but I am going to be sad because I’m not going downstairs to find you food at 9:45 and so you’re going to have to go to sleep hungry.”

She sighed and went quiet for a few minutes.

Then she said brightly, “Hey, since tomorrow is Friday, maybe I can have a late snack.”

I told her that sounded like a good plan and went on to suggest that she try and ask for that snack before we went to bed because once we’re in bed, dude, the kitchen is closed.

She gave it some thought and asked, “Can a person have breakfast for a bedtime snack?”

“Why not?” I asked. “Lots of people have breakfast for dinner so why not for a snack?”

She agreed with my logic and informed me, “Tomorrow for my snack I’m going to have toast with strawberry jelly, a banana and some blueberries. Then, I’m going to have a bowl of cereal.”

The cereal thing…ha. Hahahaha. She’s awful about eating her cereal in the mornings but then again, she’s on a schedule and doesn’t handle that sort of thing well. Maybe eating cereal at night will be easier for her than trying to eat it before the bus each morning.

The next morning, she reminded me to stop and buy blueberries for her evening snack. Probably better ad bananas to that list too since I usually only buy enough to last us from Saturday to Friday so and if she’s eating an extra… well, we’ll see.

Hey, maybe she’s going through a growth spurt. Tom measured her recently and she’s exactly 5’3”. She might hit 5’4” yet.

Friday, November 1, 2019

Cheezit

So my mom’s cat went missing. He’s this big, beastly orange creature with a loud cry and a coarse fur. I kind of can’t stand him.

But my mom and step-dad adore this monster. So when he went missing on a Monday, they were understandably upset. My mom went so far as to drive the around the country block to see if she could see him in the ditch or along the side of the road. She just wanted to know.

I didn’t find out that he was missing until the Thursday after he’d been gone since Monday.

The girls and I had visited my mom that Monday. When we got there, my step-dad’s brother and nephew were also visiting. My step-dad (have I ever given him a blog name? No? Yes? I feel like I did and that I called him Lloyd. So yes, let’s go with that.) Lloyd and his nephew J were out on the deck shooting a gun. Yes, surely you can hear my eyes rolling over that one.

But whatever. They were doing that. Cheezit the cat had greeted us when we arrived, as he does. He loves guests and always lays on the cement, rolling around showing his tummy and begging for scritches and scratches.

I ignore him and Olivia screeches when he comes near but Alyssa always stops and pets the creep.

He didn’t come running to see us off that evening when we left but since Lloyd and J were shooting the gun, maybe Cheezit had gone into hiding.

When the girls and I got home, we heard a cat crying from inside the garage but Tom insisted that it was Leo, who happened to be on the front porch. We accepted his explanation and went about our evening. Now? I’m not so sure the crying was Leo.

Liv and I visited my mom and Lloyd on Thursday afternoon. Lyss was at work.

It was then that my mom told me that Cheezit had been missing since Monday. They’d called Lloyd’s brother and the nephew J to see if maybe Cheezit had climbed into the back of J’s truck and hitched a ride to his farm.

No. He hadn’t been seen.

My mom worried that the cat HAD gotten into the truck but then jumped out along the way and hadn’t been able to find his way home. The night he’d gone missing the weather had been awful. Rain and wind had swept in, which could have disoriented him.

I got home that night and told Tom about this missing kitty. He said something about having seen another cat around our house, thinking it might be Harvey (who’s been gone for about two months now) but that this phantom cat was darker than Harv. And it definitely wasn’t Leo, who is bigger than Harv but a much lighter orange than Cheezit.

Friday morning as I was heading off to work, Tom opened the garage door and said, “That’s your moms’ cat!”

What?!?

When he’d opened the door, Leo waltzed into the garage like he owned the place (I mean, he kind of does) and the other cat, the one that turned out to be Cheezit, had run. But he hadn’t run far. He’d gone to the front porched and laid himself out on the bottom step, like it was some sort of boudoir.

I called his name and he just looked at me. I picked him up. He’s enormous, it was definitely Cheezit.

I told Tom I was going to take him home. Going past my mom’s on my way to work is only about a mile out of my way.

That cat cried the entire drive to my mom’s house. It’s only four miles but it felt like forty with that animal wailing all the way there.

He also prowled the car, moving from the front seat to the dash, where he tried to sit IN FRONT OF MY FACE. I told him he had to move so I could, you know, SEE TO DRIVE.

He finally went to the back of the car where he continued to scream.

I talked to him the entire drive, telling him what a good kitty he is (he’s not) and how glad his mom and dad were going to be to see him. I told him he was going home and that it would be okay.

When we pulled into the driveway, he looked out the window and almost lost his mind. I know animals don’t think the way humans do but I swear that cat KNEW he was home.

I managed to get him out of the car and into my arms. The TV was on so I knew someone was awake.

I took Cheezit into the sunroom and knocked on the kitchen door.

Lloyd came to the door and saw that I was holding his cat.

When he opened the door, I said, “He was on our front porch this morning. He must have gotten into my car on Monday and we just never saw him.”

Which, you know what? That makes no sense. The way that cat reacted to the drive back to my mom’s, if he’d been inside my car, we’d have known it and Olivia would have lost her own mind dealing with a yowling cat in the backseat with her.

What I think might have happened is that he found a spot under the car, like somewhere under the hood and managed to not get mangled by the engine.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that Lloyd was near tears with relief to have that monster back in his arms. He was holding and petting Cheezit when I left, murmuring about how glad it was to have him home.

It was nice to see a man and his cat reunited. I felt like I’d done my good deed for the month.

Thursday, October 31, 2019

The Perks Keep Coming

For the record, a child who is twelve, almost thirteen, does not want to go out in the rain to trick or treat.

Ahhh.

That’s the sound of my relief in her declaration that going out in the rain to get candy we could totally buy at the store ourselves is not worth it.

Though to be completely open, she was getting her costume time in the night before said rainy trick or treating. My mom took her to my aunt’s nursing home for a parade/party and that was enough for Miss O.

Have I mentioned that every single new stage in this whole parenting gig is so much better than the last?

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Self-Improvement

You know you look like hell when your 82 year old co-worker tells you that you look tired.

Yes, that happened. May is 33 years older than I am. She’s also incredibly kind. So her telling me I look tired at the end of the day, well, it’s probably true.

Ever since I came through my cancer fight (am I through it?) I’ve tried to better myself.

I haven’t actually figured out how to control my eating but maybe these other little improvements will bleed into that. I have hope.

In the past six or so months I’ve been really good about washing my face each night before bed. Then I put coconut oil on my face for the night.

I’ve been doing the exercises for my lymphedema on a pretty consistent basis. I wish those exercises would motivate me to do more exercises but alas, not yet. Someday?

I switched to gentler shampoo for my fragile new hair. Ha. You know what? It’s not actually that fragile. I feel like this new hair is actually stronger than the hair that fell out two years ago. But I still want to take better care of it so I’m using a shampoo that’s free of parabens and sulfates as well as alcohol.

I got the sleeve for my left arm and wear it daily.

I’ve been drinking my water,

I take my multivitamin whenever I think of it and try to remember to take my apple cider tablet each morning.

I need to floss more often but we can’t all be perfect, Alyssa.

There’s obviously so much more I could be doing but I feel like I need to celebrate the little things I’m doing to try and be better.

One small drop of coconut oil at a time, is what I’m saying. Maybe these small drops of improvement will grow into a giant pool of greatness.

Hey, it could happen.

Tuesday, October 29, 2019

Lunch with a Judge

Alyssa’s class recently got to sit in on a Supreme Court case that was being heard in a nearby town.

She mentioned the night before they were going that one of the dudes in her class was going to have lunch with the judge.

I laughed and said, “Ohhh, how did he get so lucky?”

She shrugged and said, “The teacher asked the office for the three students with the top GPAs in our grade and they offered the opportunity to them. I said no.”

Way to bury the lede there, sister!

I mean, okay. I’m not actually surprised that she’s in the top three of her class. She’s a smarty pants who consistently (as in always) gets straight As but to have it confirmed is kind of awesome.

She asked later, “Can you imagine ME sitting down to lunch with a judge?”

“Sure,” I said. “You probably wouldn’t talk much but I can picture you there.”

She’s come a long way since her stint on the Quiz Bowl team in seventh grade. She sat there like a lump, never once buzzing in to answer a question, even though she knew some of the answers. She was quite shy then and while she’s still a bit reserved, she’s not nearly as withdrawn as she once was. Having started working, especially with the public has helped a lot.

And let’s not forget her performance background. Getting on stage, either alone or with a group, goes a long way toward helping a person come out of their shell.

All this to say I’m proud of the smart, sweet, funny girl she’s become and can’t wait to see what more she has to offer the world as she sets off to change it for the better.

Monday, October 28, 2019

Why Are You Tired?

“Why are you always so tired?”

That was the question Olivia asked me on Monday night at about 10:30. We’d been in bed for over an hour. She was STILL talking about some Sssniperwolf video she’d watched on YouTube and I’d muttered that I was REALLY tired and maybe she needed to just go to sleep.

I decided to go with the long answer. “Because I got up really early this morning and went to work and then came home and drove you to Gram’s and then made you dinner and then, while you took a bath, I worked on your Halloween costume. Then after I washed your hair and combed it out for you, we went back downstairs where I got you pie and ice cream. You got to sleep in today since you didn’t have school and then you had THREE glasses of tea at Gram’s which is why you’re so wide awake. Please try to sleep because tomorrow is going to be rough on both of us.”

I get that kids are inherently self-centered. I also think there’s nothing wrong with trying and getting teach them a little empathy.

Olivia is very much used to my life revolving around her. She is spoiled. I fully admit that. She’s not so much a brat about it as she’s just used to having things happen in a certain way that almost always benefits her.

And for the most part, that’s okay.

But there are times when she needs to be shown and to learn that even my world isn’t always about her.

So sometimes tuck in time needs to be short because this Mom is freaking tired. The turtles can’t sing quite as many songs (sometimes they don’t sing at all) and Barbie’s rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star might not be as riveting as it often is.

Sometimes I need to just kiss her goodnight and be done for the night.

Kids never really get how hard the adults in their lives work. I get that. I’m okay with that. But I kind of want them to understand just a little that when I’m out of their sight, I’m working. I’m doing stuff. I’m not just sitting around eating chocolate covered cherries and watching Hulu in a closet somewhere, biding my time until I can go home and do things for them.

Yes, my job entails sitting at a desk most of the day but I’m also interacting with people (which for an introvert is exhausting), looking at numbers, working in databases, blah blah blah. Boring? Absolutely. But also not restful.

So yes, my loves, I’m tired.

I’m sorry that more often than not my job gets the best of me five days a week. But that job puts a roof over our heads, it makes it possible for us to go to the doctor, it buys our groceries and lets us heat our house. There are so many behind the scenes things that happen that kids don’t understand and those things make their parents so very, very tired.

Sometimes…too tired to make Travis the Turtle sing his naughty little heart out at 10:00pm. On those nights, just be glad he has the energy to give you a kiss and GO TO SLEEP.

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

What It's Like to Wear a Compression Sleeve

After a diagnosis of lymphedema in mid-June, physical therapy through July, and procrastinating all of August and September, I finally got the stupid sleeve on Saturday, October 13.

I excel at procrastination. I am the freaking queen of procrastination. Just saying.

I got home with the sleeve, opened it up and…yuck. It’s ‘flesh’ colored. It’s gross.

I read the instructions, which are to fold the sleeve over by about a third and use the folded part as a sort of handle to pull it up the arm.

It goes from my wrist to my armpit. Ick.

There’s a sort of latex-but-not-exactly-latex band at the top to keep the sleeve from sliding or rolling down my arm.

So I started pulling the thing on and let’s just say, it’s TIGHT. I mean, duh. Obviously, it’s supposed to be. The pressure is stronger at my wrist and lets up a bit as it goes up my arm. To be precise, there is 30mm of pressure at the wrist and at the top of my arm the pressure is 20mm. Whatever the hell that means.

Basically, it’s tighter lower on the limb in an effort to keep the lymphatic fluid from pooling there. The looser parts at the top allow the fluid to travel back up and into the body where it can be stored/flushed.

I mean…I guess that’s what happens. What do I know? I do know that during the massages my PT (you remember Kim) performed on me, it was all about moving everything back up and into the center or even off to the right side of my body, where all my original lymph nodes still exist and do their job (I assume they’re doing their job.)

So I tugged the sleeve onto my arm with Tom and Alyssa looking on with fascination.

Yes, it was lovely to have an audience.

When I got the garment (that’s what they call them on the website I found) up near the top of my arm, Tom took over tugging at it.

That was great fun, let me tell you.

I think my disgust with my arms is well documented. I haven’t worn a tank top since 1994 because I find my upper arms to be hideous. Sure, I wear a swimsuit to the pool/lake but that’s because wearing a T-shirt would gain more attention than just donning that ugly suit and going with it.

I hate that Tom has to be up close and personal with one of my least favorite body parts.

I even went so far as to apologize to him for having to touch my gross arm.

To his credit, he told me to shut up. He’s a keeper, that guy.

Once the sleeve was on I evaluated how it felt.

It was tight but not uncomfortable. But my arm did feel tired just from having the sleeve on. My elbow felt especially fatigued. Weird.

It also felt cool, as if the sleeve was keeping any heat from accumulating on my skin or even in my arm. My mom said something about it being good for winter since it should keep me warm but honestly, I don’t think that’s how it works; at least not for me.

I wore the sleeve for about six hours that first day. It was a relief to take it off.

The next day, I wore it for 8ish hours.

The third day, I wore it to work and made it maybe five hours before I couldn’t stand the way it felt on my elbow. See, the thing creases weirdly in the fold of my elbow and makes it itch and hurt.

PT Kim told me to start slowly and work up to wearing it during all my waking hours. We’re going slowly, that’s for sure.

The fourth day, I made it the entire day at work, so there’s that.

I still don’t have the gauntlet (the part that goes on my hand.) The dude at the medical supply store who sold me the sleeve told me to watch my hand closely and if I noticed any swelling at all to stop wearing the sleeve until I got the gauntlet.

So far, my hand is fine. I really ought to get on ordering that thing, though. Hopefully before February, since that seems to be my current timetable with this sort of thing.

It’s just one more way that cancer has affected my life; one more way that cancer sucks.

Monday, October 21, 2019

The Journey to a Compression Sleeve

Back in June my radiation oncologist diagnosed me with lymphedema of the left arm.

Yes, the fact that I have a radiation oncologist kind of freaks me out. Let’s move on.

His nurse measured my arms (as she does at every visit) and found that my left arm was 3cm bigger than my right arm. In Lefty’s defense, I am left-handed, which means there’s probably more muscle over there as compared to Righty, which is just the support arm.

But whatever. I walked away with the diagnosis of lymphedema.

I was given orders to see a physical therapist.

After several phone calls and a bit of a tantrum I finally got scheduled for some appointments in July to see Kim, a lovely physical therapist who specializes in lymphedema. Apparently it’s a highly specialized field and not many PTs care to learn it.

After four sessions with Kim (my insurance would only approved four sessions, yay American healthcare!) I left with an order for a compression sleeve and gauntlet for my left arm/hand.

I went home and put that order…somewhere.

I did the exercises assigned to me by Kim and I half-assed the self-massage that Kim taught me.

Kim had mentioned that when I went to get the compression sleeve/gauntlet, I’d need to go to a medical supply store.

Guess which town does not have a medical supply store? That’s right, Angola, Indiana does not have a medical supply store. Big surprise.

Damn it.

There are a couple of medical supply stores in Coldwater, Michigan, though. There’s also one in the hospital in Auburn, Indiana.

And of course, let’s not forget Fort Wayne, which obviously would have medical supply stores on every freaking corner. Fort Wayne has about a bazillion hospitals, OF COURSE they’d also have a plethora of medical supply stores.

About a month after my last visit with Kim, after googling medical supply stores and not being able to figure out which ones would actually have compression sleeves (I mean, really, stores with names like Hudson Aquatic? Please.) I went back to the rehab department where I’d gone for physical therapy and asked if they had a list of stores where I could get a stupid sleeve.

Okay. So yes, I waited awhile. Give me a break. My stupid arm does not look swollen. I was doing the exercises daily. My daily life was not being affected by the mild lymphedema in my arm.

But…I am going on a bus trip in March and Kim told me from the start that when I traveled, especially by plane but also by car or, yes, bus, I should most definitely wear a sleeve to keep swelling to a minimum.

So fine, I’d get a sleeve.

The hospital rehab facility had a list right there at the front desk. Why Kim hadn’t given me that at my last session, I have no idea.

I took the list and waited another week or three and finally started calling around. I hate making phone calls.

I found that one of the stores in Coldwater could measure my arm and order a sleeve for me if I had a prescription.

Huh. I wonder where I’d put that order from the PT/doctor.

Okay, then.

I half-hearted looked through the several piles of paper we have laying around our house and then decided that if I had to, I could call Kim and ask for a new order.

But before I did that, I gave myself one more evening to find the paper. Guess what? I found it! It was right where I’d left it on top of the entertainment center in the living room. It was under the red and yellow bands Kim had given me for my resistance exercises.

So I worked extra hours all week long so I could leave at 4 on a Friday to go to Coldwater (about a half hour from Angola) and get that damned sleeve ordered. Because, see, these stores were all only open until 5 and only one of them had Saturday (9am to Noon) hours, and that one was in, you guessed it, Fort freaking Wayne.

I googled the address and it was right there off interstate 69. Yay!

I left work, drove to Coldwater, drove to the storefront…and it was empty.

I drove around the building thinking maybe they’d move next door?

No.

I parked my car and called the number I’d called earlier in the week. I asked the woman who answered if they’d moved.

She said, “No, we’re still in Hillsdale.”

Hillsdale!?! What the actual hell? I said, “Uh, the address I was given is in Coldwater.”

“Oh,” she said cheerfully. “We haven’t been in Coldwater for about three years.”

Well. I thanked her and hung up. What else could I do?

I then Googled and then called the place in Fort Wayne that has Saturday hours to make sure they even sell that damned sleeves because, yeah, I’m NOT driving all the way to freaking Fort Wayne if they don’t.

The dude who answered said that they do sell them, they have them in stock unless the patient needs an extreme size (am I extraordinarily sized? Who even knows these days?) and hey, they’re open on Saturday.

So the next morning, I got up at 7:30 (on a Saturday! L) and drove to the SOUTH side of Fort Wayne (because why would they have a medical supply store on the north side, where there are TWO hospitals?) and bought my sleeve.

Hey, guess what? My arm is not extraordinarily sized. It’s just large. Like, for real, the size sleeve I got was ‘large/regular’. Hey, go you, large/regular Lefty.

They did not sell the gauntlets at this store so I need to order one online.

One last thing…as I was paying for my $90 compression sleeve, I said something about driving from the Angola area. The dude looked at me and said, “You came from Angola?”

I nodded, taking my HAS card back.

“We have a store on Coldwater Road,” he said.

Huh? Why the hell didn’t Google tell me that? That would have saved me about 20 minutes on my drive.

But whatever. At that point. I was just glad to have the stupid sleeve. But wait. Now that I have it, that means I should wear it, right?

Friday, October 18, 2019

Scribbles

Olivia’s tendency to scribble on her school work is known far and wide. When she’s bored or doesn’t understand what’s expected of her, she’ll spend her time doodling on the paper she’s supposed to be working on.

Math is one of those things she’s most likely to scribble all over. She hates math.

I get it.

But I’m also frustrated by her scribbling because it means she brings home notes to which Tom wants me to reply.

Why that man can’t just sit down and write a reply himself is beyond me. Oh yeah, that’s right, teachers only want to hear from the parent called Mom.

Whatever.

Recently, O brought home one such note.

When I got home, she raced to greet me, starting in one some Miraculous Lady Bug story or something like that.

I read the note and Tom called from where he was reclining on the couch with his foot propped up (can you hear the eye-rolling that’s going on over here?) that I needed to reply to the scribble note that Olivia was losing screen time due to her scribbling at school.

Guess when her screen time ban was starting?

After dinner, that’s when.

She’d been on her table from 3:15 until I got home at 5:00 but once dinner was over, NO MORE TABLET.

Can you guess why that was the case?

I’ll give you a minute.

That’s right. The timeframe for lost tablet time was set so that I would be home during her time away from the tablet.

That way, I would have to deal with her all evening, finding things for her to do.

“Go read a book.”

“Get the colored (collared?) pencils and draw something.”

“Get out of my face and find some Barbies to play with!”

Those were just a few of the things I said to her during the three hours during which she was not allowed to be on her tablet.

Did she bother her dad?

Not much because a much more fun target was home.

I do know that we have to set parameters for her. I know that we have to find ways to make the scribbling stop but damn it, why can’t at least SOME of that time happen when I’m not there to have to actively parent?

Thursday, October 17, 2019

Amazon Can Bite Me

A recent Monday afternoon I got home from work and was asked by Tom, “What music did you buy on Saturday?”

I didn’t buy music on Saturday.

He informed me that someone had purchased some music on Saturday and used his debit card to do it.

Huh. Weird. I texted Alyssa and asked her if she’d bought music from Amazon on Saturday.

She did not.

We went to my Amazon account and there was no record of music having been purchased on Saturday.

Tom went to his paypal account and there it was, a pending charge of $10.47 for Amazon music.

I suggested his card had been hacked.

But no. It hadn’t.

He did a little more digging and found ANOTHER charge to his card for an ‘unlimited Kindle’ account.

Olivia had gotten a Kindle the previous Christmas but hadn’t used it in at least five months because she dropped the damned thing.

As we all know, Kindle is an Amazon device.

Apparently, when you register a Kindle, you are automatically signed up for an unlimited account. You aren’t asked if you want this account, you are just signed up and you are then charged monthly for this service you don’t even know you have. Tom started getting charged in July for this because that’s when we almost bought a brace for his broken clavicle but we’d cancelled the purchase. Sadly for him, we didn’t delete his card from my Amazon account and Amazon made his card the default payment card.

This is lucky for me, though because I’d probably been paying that stupid Kindle charge since December and would have probably paid is FOR FREAKING EVER if Tom hadn’t caught it.

Cancelling that charge was not hard but it wasn’t easy either. It wasn’t just right there, asking you if you wanted it. I had to go into my account settings, my devices, my services and finally found it and was able to cancel it.

But wait, Amazon said. Are you SURE you want to cancel this service?

I’m sure as shit I want to cancel a service for a device that doesn’t even work anymore, you assholes!

Then, we found that we were paying another $40 for some kind of Amazon music service.

We cancelled that fucker too.

I have no idea how or when my account got signed up for that service either. But I’m pissed that Amazon can get away with this kind of thing.

We went ahead and cancelled all the cards associated with my Amazon account. From this point, I’ll just do what I do for Netflix and Hulu and buy gift cards if I want to purchase something off Amazon. Which honestly right now I don’t really want to give Amazon any more of my money.

Amazon can go screw itself.

Wednesday, October 16, 2019

Forgiveness

I forgive myself for some of the stupid shit I did in my late teens and early twenties.

I forgive myself for making bad choices that, at the time, seemed like the only choice.

I forgive myself for being harder on myself than I am on anyone else.

I’m letting go of grudges I’ve held for decades.

They hurt no one but me.

I forgive myself, though, for holding those grudges.

I am going to stop hating myself for every little thing. The fact that the bananas I bought last week were a little green? Not a big enough deal to beat myself up over.

I didn’t vacuum yesterday? I’m not letting it weigh on me.

Was my family fed? Was the laundry done? Did they all have clean sheets to sleep on and clean towels to use after their warm baths/showers. Did they go to sleep knowing they are loved?

Yes to all of the above. And because of those yeses, I know I’m a good wife and mother.

I’m a good daughter and sister. I’m a good niece and cousin. I’m a good aunt. I could be a better friend but I forgive myself for that too because I’ve got a lot on my plate and my real friends do too. We understand that somethings have to slip in order for us to do the most important things.

I forgive myself for getting cancer. It wasn’t my fault.

Even though it might have been caused by my fatness, it still wasn’t my fault. Thin, athlete women get cancer too. And we all fight it the same way, with all we’ve got.

I forgive myself for saying I was an idiot the other day but I’m also going to try and stop doing that. I wouldn’t say that to a friend, why do I say it to myself?

Let’s all try this. Let’s be kinder, more loving to ourselves. Let’s be more forgiving. Let’s live our best lives, knowing we’re doing the best we can to be there for our loved ones.

We’re all important. We all matter. Words can hurt. Let’s start using kinder words, even about ourselves.

Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Banana Ooooh Nana

I hate bananas. Given my propensity to over-share, this probably is a well-established fact. I distinctly remember liking bananas as a child and then, around four years old or so, I must have gotten a bad one because from that point forward, no. No freaking way. I hate the taste, the smell, the texture. I hate the little black things (seeds?) in the middle of the penile shaped fruit. It’s just SO GROSS.

While visiting my aunt in the hospital one recent weekend, several cousins, aunts and uncles were there. (Quite honestly, we weren’t sure Auntie Nell would make it through that night. She rallied and is doing better.)

My cousin E had two bananas in her purse.

Gag.

She offered one to me.

I made a face and she laughed.

Her dad was next to her and nodded his agreement to the face I made. He said, “You don’t like them either?”

I made a gagging sound and said, “No, they’re disgusting.”

J agreed, “I don’t like them but I make myself eat two a day.”

I gave him a blank stare.

He stared back.

When I could finally speak again I asked, “Why? Why would you do that to yourself?”

“They’re so good for you. I want the potassium,” replied Uncle J.

“Duuuuude,” I exclaimed, “they sell supplements for that sort of thing!”

“But getting it from food is better for you.”

I shook my head, “Sure, except then you have to actually eat the nasty things. Nope, not going to happen.”

“What about banana bread?” Cousin E asked as she munched on one of the bananas she’d pulled from her purse.

“No.” I replied with an even tone. “Not banana bread, not banana muffins, never banana candy. Banana pudding is even grosser than actual bananas. Nothing banana, not ever, no way, no how.”

“I love banana pancakes,” piped up another cousin.

I spun to confront her, “Are you crazy?”

At that point, we had quite an audience.

And see, here’s the thing. I get that other people actually enjoy eating bananas. That’s fine. Go you if you like bananas.

But why, in this day and age, would anyone subject themselves to something they don’t like just for the nourishment? I mean, it’s not like Uncle J is at risk for malnutrition. Being able to abstain from repulsive foods is one of the (many) benefits of living in a first world country.

And just so everyone out there who loves bananas knows, I buy bananas every single week for my two banana-eaters, Tom and Liv. They love those gross things and since I love Tom and Liv, I buy them fresh fruit. I’m a freaking superhero over here.

Monday, October 14, 2019

Nerding Out

I tend to fold laundry in my bedroom with the television on. These days I’m working my way through Star Trek Voyager. I’m currently on season 3.

*screech* I realize that I could stop this post right here and it would be enough to indicate the extent of my nerdiness.

Alas, there is more.

One such afternoon, Alyssa happened to be in my room with me during the above adventures. There was some joke on the show and I actually laughed out loud. No sksksksk for me. No, this was full on laughter.

Alyssa looked at me like I was crazy.

I asked her, “Is my nerd showing a little?”

She muttered, “A little?”

Huh.

Friday, October 11, 2019

Dayamn

These last few weeks have felt like months.

I know someday I’ll miss these busy evenings with school things calling my name and taking me away from hearth and home.

But right now, I could use a little boredom.

I don’t know how those with multiple kids in several sports and extracurricular activities do it. I just have the one interactive kid and I’m tired.

SO TIRED.

One Wednesday evening in the recent busy weeks, I was sitting on the couch at about 8:15 (I know, SO BUSY, but in my defense I hadn’t gotten home until 7 that evening and still had to pack my lunch, eat my dinner AND give Olivia a bath, so give me a flipping break.) I glanced up from my phone because of course it was in my hand.

I looked at Alyssa on the other end of the couch and Olivia on the floor with her tablet. I am so lucky, so blessed.

Anyway, I wasn’t feeling all that lucky in that moment.

I sighed and said, “This week is taking forever and it’s only Wednesday. Daaaamn.”

Olivia laughed. She laughed and laughed and then she said, “Daaaamn.”

Alyssa looked up from her phone (we’re a screen family, what of it?) and said, “Huh? So we’re that kind of family now?”

I give her a moment but when she didn’t drop the F bomb or say anything else at all, I laughed and told her, “Nah, we’re just all really tired and ready for football and prom to be OVER.”

For what it’s worth, prom isn’t until next May…it’s going to be a long year.

Feel free to remind me of that when I’m lamenting about how fast the teenage/high school years fly by.

Thursday, October 10, 2019

This Side of Radiation

I’ve had two doctors (not my radiation oncologist) tell me that radiation changes everything.

When I suggested to my family doctor recently that radiation ‘cooked’ the tissues of Leftie, he agreed that essentially, that’s what happened.

So we can’t rely on fingers to feel for problems there anymore.

The ‘cooked’ tissue is denser than the tissue on the right, which hasn’t been cooked. The outer layer of skin is tougher too, as if it’s been permanently tanned.

It’s frustrating because all of this, along with the lymphedema make me feel like there’s always a problem lurking, or, if there IS a problem, I won’t be able to tell because all I can feel is the damaged wrought by the radiation, which is ironic since the radiation was applied in order to save my life.

It’s a vicious cycle.

The solution, for now, is to have a mammogram before it’s actually due. I’m due for one in November.

My doctor ordered one for as soon as I want to schedule it. He agreed that we just can’t trust my fingers or his to feel for any problems that are beyond the radiation damage and the lymphedema.

Which basically means I need to stop poking at myself in the night when I can’t sleep because something hurts or feels swollen or just feels ‘weird.’

My doctor was kind at this last appointment. He reminded me that I’m allowed to feel sad about what I’ve been through. Even though we lost Amy and I am grateful just to still be here, I’ve lost something too and I can grieve that without guilt.

Easy for him to say, right? But it was nice to hear.

Wednesday, October 9, 2019

Idiot's Guide to Dyeing Fabric

-Get the fabric from your mom.

-Cut it out according to the pattern for a circle skirt.

-Buy blue Rit dye.

-Take fabric and dye to the basement where the washing machine is located.

-Go back upstairs to get reading glasses because the directions on the back of the Rit dye bottle are microscopic and you’re old.

-Once back in the basement, put on glasses to read instructions that say, “If using washing machine method, go to ritdye.com/washingmachine

-Swear like a sailor as you go BACK upstairs to get your phone so you can go to the website indicated on the bottle of Rit dye.

-Take phone down to basement, use phone to go to website. Read first step: Wet fabric…

-Take fabric back upstairs to wet it in the kitchen sink since you don’t have a sink in your basement laundry room and your washer is a front loader so you can’t just start running the water into the tub of the washer while the door is unlocked. Son of a bitch.

-Tromp back down to basement with now-wet fabric.

-Read next step on website: Wearing gloves, mix dye in four cups of VERY hot water.

-Take bottle of dye, phone, AND glasses back upstairs to kitchen where you start 4 cups of water heating on the stove. At this point, after eleventy billion trips up and down those mf-ing stairs, you decide to read ALL the steps of the directions before you take one more step up or down those stairs.

-Once the four cups of water are VERY hot, you take the pan with the water/dye mix, another container of VERY hot water (four cups again), your glasses and your phone BACK down to the washing machine where you start a wash cycle, adding a soak cycle to the process.

-Once the wash cycle has started, you dump the water/dye mixture into the detergent dispenser and then the VERY hot water, which serves as a rinsing agent for the detergent cup and…you hope for the best as the machine does its thing.

-After the fabric has been dyed, you run a load of towels in an effort to clean all the blue dye out of your washer.

And that’s that. Unless you’re way smarter than I am and read your directions first so you can save yourself fifty bazillion trips up and down the stairs.

No wonder my left knee hurt for a week after this incident.

Tuesday, October 8, 2019

Homecoming Spirit Week (Alternate Title: Kill Me Now)

Know what Homecoming week means? It means SPIRIT WEEK. Which, in turn, means work for Mom.

Because, duh.

The weekend before spirit week, we were trying to figure out what the girls would wear on each designated Spirit Day.

Monday was declared Royalty day.

Tuesday was Decade day.

Wednesday meant Class Color Day which meant red for Olivia and green for Alyssa.

Thursday brought us Farmer Day (we ARE in the middle of the corn fields and dairy farms, don’t you know?)

And Friday was good old Bomber Blue and Gray day.

So…there we were, at the Walmarts, trying to figure out Royalty Day and Decade Day.

I suggested that Alyssa dress as a ‘modern day’ royal. AKA How would Duchess Kate dress if she were heading to afternoon tea with the Queen?

We decided she’d wear a dress we’d bought the previous spring, it was royal (ha) blue with white polka dots. It was a nice, conservative length and had a cinched waist. It’s a lovely dress, which is why we bought it. She bought a small crown at Hobby Lobby that is attached to a hair comb.

She was set.

Olivia, on the other hand, was not set. I ended up making her a ‘deconstructed Elsa Dress’. Which means I bought a $4 long sleeved T-shirt to which I sewed sheer fabric on the back for a cape and another sheer, sparkly fabric to the front to reflect the sweetheart neckline of Elsa’s dress. She wore shorts that were the same blue and I braided her hair into an ‘Elsa braid.’

For Decade Day, I suggested I make the girls ‘circle’ skirts.

My mom told me that those kinds of skirts aren’t nearly as easy to make as I might think they are.

For what it’s worth, she’s right, though I don’t know that for sure since I didn’t make either skirt. My mom made both of them. Because she’s awesome and a lifesaver and my total hero.

But! I did dye the fabric that was used to make Alyssa’s skirt.

And that, my friend(s?) was a process unto itself. And quite honestly? It deserves its own post.

On Wednesday, Olivia wore a red t-shirt she borrowed from her sister. Thanks Lyss!! I braided O’s hair and used red hair ties and I polished her fingernails in a lovely sparkly red. Done and done.

Alyssa dressed herself in a lovely green T-shirt and a green hoodie. She’s quite the teenager, I must say.

Thursday, or Fucking FARMER day (gag), Olivia once again borrowed from her sister. This time it was a plaid shirt. She wore that with shorts she could wear to gym. I braided her hair into two braids down the side because, farmer girl, right?

Alyssa donned one of her own flannel shirts, a pair of jeans and cowboy boots. Cowboy and farmer are basically the same thing, right? Right.

Bomber Blue and Gray day, whee! Blue shirts with the school mascot (a bomber plane, duh) and jeans.

And then there was the game…which I attended because I’m a music booster mom. Can you even stand it?


Monday, October 7, 2019

Chill

So apparently, I’m the chill mom.

Ha!

Should have seen me the other night while trying to ‘help’ Olivia with her homework. OMG, you guys, that child is going to put me into an asylum.

It took her no fewer than 10 minutes to sit down. Seriously.

She spun, she clicked, she snapped her knees together (they’re currently bruised from all the snapping). She hopped. She put her right knee on the chair, paused, removed her right knee and put her left knee on the chair. She decided that, no, the left knee could not go first and switched back to the right knee.

Then she paused, right knee on the chair, looked around and caught my stare.

I said, “Will you just sit?”

That derailed her and the whole routine had to be repeated.

I was decidedly not chill by then. I wanted to pull my hair out. Except, you guys know how I feel about my hair these days, so that wasn’t an option.

Finally, FINALLY! She sat down.

-

-

-

And looked at me. And kept looking at me.

As if she didn’t know what to do next.

Her homework was right in front of her. The pencil was in her hand. The instructions were pretty clear. WRITE THE SPELLING WORDS.

She asked me to sharpen her pencil.

It didn’t need sharpened.

I sharpened it anyway.

She wrote the first three letters of the first word. She erased those letter and wrote them again.

She picked at the pencil. She looked me.

I glared at her and told her to WRITE THE WORDS.

This went on for twenty minutes. She had twelve words to write. TWELVE.

I know.

She doesn’t mean to irritate the shit out of me.

I know.

But I was so tired that day.

I’d gone to work early. I’d had to run to town before going home to order pizza for the JH/HS marching band to be picked up on Friday and served before a football game.

I know that Olivia can’t help some of her quirks.

But back to my being chill. Apparently, my ability to braid hair makes me super chill.

Who knew?

Go me and my mad braiding skillz.

Though, maybe my willingness to say the word penis in front of my children when describing the male reproductive organ lends itself to my chillness.

Friday, October 4, 2019

Flower on a Tuesday

One recent Tuesday, I left work, went to Meijer (because it’s closer to my work than WalMart) and bought cereal (Lucky Charms for those who want to know), turkey and Lays BBQ chips. I also got cash back when I paid because Alyssa needed to pay her voice teacher at the next lesson, which was the very next Wednesday.

Yes.

I then raced home thinking Liv and I could get one page of math done and a spelling activity out of the way before I headed to the school for Volley for the Cure.

Oh please. Don’t even think that I was going because I’m the face of breast cancer in my community.

No.

I was going because the pep band was playing between the JV and the varsity volleyball games and the choir was singing the national anthem before the varsity game.

Yes, I paid $6 to listen to my daughter toot her piccolo and sing a lovely version of The Star Spangled Banner.

I left after the first volley of the varsity game.

Give me a break. It was after 7pm at that point and I’d been home for all of 45 minutes that day, not including the morning routine before work. And those forty-five minutes? They were spent bitching and moaning about the insanity of the homework that Olivia brought home that night. It was geography.

OMG.

Seriously.

The copies were so awful, I couldn’t read the stupid latitude and longitude on the pictures. The instructions were vague and stupid.

She was supposed to do the starred pages. There were six starred pages. We did five of them. The sixth one, oh, let me tell you about that sixth page.

The instructions were to create picture codes that could be used on a map key for things like a foot path, a place for picnics, and so on.

There was NO FREAKING WAY that Olivia was going to be able to come up with pictures and then ACTUALLY DRAW THEM for this assignment.

I wrote at the top of that page, “Olivia did not understand the instructions to this task. She also does not have the fine motor skills to complete it even when it was explained to her.”

Sigh.

I hate that sometimes I have to actually say, “She can’t do this.”

But damn it, she’s not learning anything when I do her freaking homework.

I tried so hard during those 45 minutes to explain each answer and how we arrived at those answers.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that when I’m tired or feeling stressed about time or anything else, I’m a raging bitch when it comes to homework.

This is so unfair to Olivia.

I pray every night to be better, do better, serve her better.

We’ll see.

We did finally get done with the last page of the home work and I headed to the Volley for the Cure game.

I paid my $6 and wen t to find a seat.

I sat behind the dad of one of Alyssa’s friends (through N.) This guy once dated my cousin. He knows my mom well and these days, he knows me on sight. He told me my hair looked nice. Ha!

Before the game started, the announcer mentioned why we were all there (other than to listen to the band and the choir.)

He asked all the survivors and fighters to stand.

Sigh.

Friend’s Dad turned and looked me.

I tried not to make eye contact.

He said, “That’s you!”

Fine.

I stood up and endured the applause. Then one of the volleyball players brought me a flower.

And…she hugged me.

Which is fine. It’s all fine.

And that’s why I took a yellow carnation home from a Tuesday night volleyball game.

Tuesdays wear me out.

Thursday, October 3, 2019

Put Together

There’s this woman at work who is always so put together.

By that I mean that her hair is always done (it’s HUGE, actually), she’s always got high heeled shoes on, her makeup is applied with a steady, if heavy hand.

I’ve followed her through the front door a few mornings and she’s always perfumed.

She accessories to perfection. She tucks her shirts into her jeans and wears a belt. A BELT, for goodness sake.

She makes me look like I wear potato sacks to work.

And yet…I have no desire to be that put together.

It looks exhausting.

I get up at 5:40 each morning, shower, dress, slap on a little make up (eye shadow, a bit of liner and mascara, that’s it.) I scrunch my hair and then I wake Liv up and get busy helping her with her hair and clothes.

So yeah, I have no desire to put more work into my appearance.

My hair, well, it is what it is.

I am not going to start a makeup routine that involves things like primer, foundation, highlighter, blush, brow pencil, blah blah blah.

Perfume gives me a headache and you couldn’t pay me to wear a belt.

So I’ll schlump to work each looking the way I look.

And I’m okay with that.

Put Together Lady can corner the market on accessories and hair spray.

I’ll just be over here in my jeans and untucked shirt, still growing my hair out and making the best of each and every day.

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Scabies

So I was diagnosed with shingles a couple of weeks ago.

It started as an annoying itch on a Tuesday (because what other day would it start?) and by Thursday morning, I had a small spot that looked like a bug bite. It was right along where my bra lays on my right side.

On my drive to work that Thursday morning, I was thinking about the burning itch on my side and it hit me, “Shingles.”

By noon, that ‘bug bite’ had become two. I was more and more sure that I had shingles.

I had chicken pox when I was six. I remember this well because the small pills my mom gave me to take for the itch often (always?) got thrown behind the couch. She found them months later when she moved the couch to vacuum. Yes, I was a brat.

I googled shingles because it’s what we do in this day and age.

It said that if you suspect you have shingles, you should see a doctor.

So after taking Olivia to the orthodontist for a walk-in appointment to get a wire fixed, I headed to Urgent Care for confirmation that I had shingles.

By the time the doctor saw me, the two spots I had at noon that day had become eight. It was a definite rash which ran right along a nerve line.

Shingles.

When I got home that night with an antiviral medicine that I only took seven doses of before deciding I’d rather let the shingles run their course rather than feel as bad as the antiviral made me feel, Tom had fed the girls and had talked to them about my scabies.

Yes. He called my case of shingles scabies.

Do you know what scabies are?

I do, because I googled it. It’s gross.

It’s a rash caused by a mite the boroughs under the skin.

Ick.

And EWWWWW.

And yet, it stuck.

All weekend long, whenever I’d get an especially painful pang from my shingles rash, I’d cry out, “Ohh, my scabies!”

And of course, it got shortened to the point that it was just the one scabie that was hurting me.

Because we’re nothing it not inventive and funny around here.

Well, okay. So my children think I’m funny. In the end, they’re the ones who count since they have to live with me.

Tuesday, September 17, 2019

Fund Raising

What I want to know is when did it become a thing for the parents of the juniors to fund raise and plan the prom and after-prom?

Back in my day (Yes, I’m aware of how old and crotchety I sound, I don’t actually care.) the students themselves planned the whole shebang.

And, the school did not sponsor an after-prom gathering. The students figured that one out for themselves too. For what it’s worth, after my junior prom, my besties and I headed to Lead Bestie’s house and watched A Nightmare on Elm Street and then fell asleep on her parents couches/recliners. Best prom and after-prom EVER. I wish I’d gone to my senior prom with those three awesome people. Alas, I went with a boyfriend and it was…not fun. It was so very not-fun that I don’t even remember what we did after prom. I may have just made him take me home because, blah.

Yes, I did attend the initial meeting of the Junior Parents the other night. How did you guess?

Out of 40 students, nine parents showed up.

I know.

It seems like that’s always how it is. Whatever.

As of right now, I’m working two football games, selling crap for the Music Boosters as one of them and 50/50 tickets at the other. Go me!!

And I’m a co-chair with another mom (she’s awesome, by the way) in charge of food for Family Fun Night. Wheee!!

I hate being in charge of food. I hate it when it’s just for my family. Imagine how I feel about it now that it’s for the public at large. Let’s just say I’m not looking forward to this responsibility.

But anyway, here we are. The nine of us, plus two who had to work that evening and checked in with me to see what’s up, are in charge of raising tens of thousands of dollars to put together a prom ot end all proms.

Or, you know, give our kids a fun night that they may or may not remember in thirty years.

I’m sure I’ll do plenty of bitching between now and May 2, which is when PROM 2020 happens. Hold on to your hats, folks. Wait, I can’t even with that ‘folks’ back there. That is not something I’d EVER say out loud so why write it, right?

No, I guess what I meant say was, “Hold on to your hats, your awesome nerds.”

Monday, September 16, 2019

And Then There Were the Cows

One other thing we did while at the County Fair was visit N’s cows.

I don’t know how it works in other states but in Ohio, ‘kids’ can show animals/whatever they show the year after they graduate from high school.

So N had her two cows there, Jen and Hope. Jen is four years old and Hope is her one year old daughter.

Awww…

So N had classes on Monday in Toledo so since we were going to the fair anyway, she asked Alyssa if she’d check and make sure the cows had water.

So we hit the Dairy Barn first.

Olivia is disgusted by the entire experience. She hates animals. She hates how they smell, how they sound, how the look. She refuses to pet them, so she can’t say for sure that she hates how they feel but she’d pretty sure she hates that too.

Alyssa had to get three buckets full of water for Jen and one for Hope. Then she petted them both and off we went to be dazzled by Poor Jack’s Amusements.

We checked back in with Jen and Hope on our way out of the fair to take Liv home and get Alyssa to the school for the marching band performances that evening.

They both needed more water and all that previous water had helped their digestion because damn, there were some impressive piles of cow shit at their feet.

To Jen’s credit, she hadn’t stepped in it much.

Ick.

Alyssa scooped the poop, got the water and we left the barn as Olivia gagged over the entire situation.

My mom petted Hope a few times and then opted to wash her hands before we made our way home.

My mom and I went back to the fair for the band performances and Olivia opted to stay home with Tom. She’s a smart fella, that girl.

After the performances, Alyssa checked on the cows one more time. They needed a little more water (they are thirsty girls!) and there was a little more poop. Not nearly as much as there’d been earlier but still…gross.

Let me just say that Alyssa would have fit in perfectly on a farm. She’s an excellent water carrier and poop scooper.

She does her mama proud.

Friday, September 13, 2019

The Obnoxious Side of the County Fair

While I was fretting about my exceptional size, waiting for our turn to see if my hips and butt and boobs would fit on the Freak Out, there were shitty little kids calling their asshole friends to come and skip the line the rest of us had waited in for twenty minutes.

Seriously. That happened.

One obnoxious girl, probably 14 or so, who was at the front of the line kept turning around, pointing to her friends and waving for them to join her up front.

This ride is not one in which you share a car or something like the Scrambler or the Berries. No, this ride seats twelve people per cycle. TWELVE. And this little shit kept calling her friends to come up and take one of those twelve spots from those of us who’d been waiting our turn like civilized people.

She managed to get two of her crappy friends to skip the line, which just pisses me off.

Who is raising these kids to think this is okay behavior?

While Alyssa and I were waiting in line for what is kind of like the Octopus/Spider ride at Cedar point (kind of, but not exactly) two girls got off the ride and then ran around from the exit to the entrance and joined their brother who were near the front of the line. They jumped in front of at least fifteen people.

Their parents WERE RIGHT THERE!

I just do not understand why people do this. Why are there parents out there who let their kids be selfish pricks? They’re teaching their kids that the rules don’t apply to them.

It’s so wrong and obnoxious and I don’t know what can be done to fix it. Hell, probably nothing since the awful parents aren’t stepping up and making their kids be better people.

Sigh.

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Exceptional Size

The county fair is in town this week.

The girls get the Monday of ‘fair week’ off school and kids get into the fair for free. Wristbands for unlimited rides are $14. We’ve been every year since we moved to this area.

Last year, alas, I didn’t have any vacation time, so I left work a little early and Olivia and I hit the fair for a couple of hours at the end of the day. That was fine.

This year, wheee, I have three whole vacation days (I ‘earn’ my third day in October) and so I knew at the start of the year that was going to use one of those three days for Fair Day. It’s tradition!

We always ride the spinning berries ride first. Again, tradition. And by ‘we’ I always get a wristband too because I’m twelve years old at heart and I love to spin and flip and ride.

So we rode the strawberry, didn’t spin nearly enough and then headed to a ride that was a two-seater. I told the girls I’d sit that one out so that they could ride together.

Alas, the minute Olivia saw that not only did this ride spin but it also rose into the air, she noped right out of that sucker.

We were on to the Scrambler. Olivia asked if we could all ride that one.

I took one look at the seats and said, “Sure, if my butt were a lot smaller.”

There was a mom and her two young daughters on that ride already and even though her girls were all of six and seven, and the mom was smaller than I am, they were smashed in there quite snugly. So yeah. Mom was going to sit that one out too.

By the time the girls were done on the Scrambler, my mom had found us and so Alyssa and I decided to ride the Freak Out. This ride required riders to be taller than 49” and shorter than 79”. There was a sign posted that read something like, “Due to the design of the seats on this ride and the safety harnesses, riders of exceptional size may not be able to ride.”

As Alyssa and I got closer to the front of the line, I started to worry that I might be ‘exceptionally sized.’ I watched the other riders getting off the ride to see if I could find anyone with hips as wide at mine or boobs as big. Alas, this ride tends to draw the 11 – 17 set and they tend to NOT be the size of a 40+ mom.

I finally asked Alyssa if she thought I might be exceptionally sized. She rolled her eyes and said, “No!”

Bless her lying little heart.

But guess what? She wasn’t lying. I fit!

Okay, confession. The carnie had to tell me to sit back as far as I could in the seat and he has to PUSH the harness into my bosom in order to get it to click into place but click it did!

And I was only uncomfortable for a few seconds before my body and all its mass settled into the new parameters set by the seat and its harness.

That ride was SO MUCH FUN. We were spun and swung into the air and whipped around and it was exhilarating.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Hearing Bells

Olivia will often announced, “I have a new Jingle Bell song.”

I try hard to stifle the groan when she says this.

You’ve all heard the Jingle Bells, Batman smells song right?

Well, she just inserts random characters from her favorite books and shows into the song and then expects praise, like she’s done something brilliant.

I know.

I am proud of her. She’s amazing.

But these songs are so stupid. The ‘original’ one is stupid. They’re all inane and annoying and I would like to never hear another.

Except, Liv loves them. They crack her up.

She’ll belt out, “Jingle bells, Weston smells, Gage laid an egg. The aide’s car lost a wheel and the teacher ran away.”

And then she’ll laugh like it’s the funniest thing ever.

So okay, that one was kind of clever but then she’ll insert Marinette, Adrian, Adam F. Goldberg and Barry. It’s usually Murray that smells and Beverly always lays the egg but sometimes the roles of the three kids will be rotated.

It’s just…parenting can be so boring, even with all the joys and beauty.

Over here in the Ordinary household, we celebrate all the little things. She’s tying her shoes! We got rid of the cushy tushy. Sure, she’s twelve but these things were/are big things to us.

But jingle bell songs? Sometimes, silence is golden.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Dawn's In Trouble, It Must Be Tuesday

Remember back at my old job where Tuesdays were the worst day of the week?

I hated Tuesdays with the heat of a thousand dying stars. Wait. Are dying stars not super hot?

Whatever.

I hated Tuesday.

Which kind of makes me sad because Alyssa was born on a Tuesday and so…I love Tuesdays.

Except. No. That was an exception. She made one single Tuesday special.

The rest of the Tuesdays in the world? They can bite me.

Tuesday is just the second Monday of the week.

These days, I don’t exactly hate Tuesdays, not the way I once did. But they’re still not fun.

Tuesdays in my new life are mostly just boring, actually.

The only thing Monday has going for it is that it’s a busy day. So it passes quickly and then…slump…it’s Tuesday.

Sigh.

Monday, September 9, 2019

Filth

I vacuumed the upstairs rooms in my house last weekend.

Cue the epic event music.

I know, big whoop, huh?

Except…it had been months since I’d done this. Yes, I feel much shame over this fact. I suppose I’ll get over it someday.

I’d be over it sooner if not for the fact that the canister that holds all the filth that was sucked up off the floor was full when I was finished with the three bedrooms and the hallway.

I should have emptied the thing and then vacuumed each room again, just because there were some serious filth on those floors.

I knew it was time to vacuum (way past time, if you must know) when it felt like the hair that had accumulated on those floors felt like it was reaching up and wrapping itself around my toes when I walked through a room.

It was gross.

We’re gross.

Maybe I’ll vacuum up there again this coming weekend.

Then again, maybe not. Now that there isn’t a wig forming on the floors, I’ll probably conveniently forget about the hair and skin we shed every single day that is falling to the floors to create all kinds of nastiness.

Okay, sure, maybe I will vacuum up there again sooner rather than later.

It’s not like I enjoy living in filth.

But for what it’s worth, you know you’re a grown up when you feel a huge sense of accomplishment when you manage to vacuum carpets, change all the sheets on all the beds in the house and still cook dinner for your family. Yeah, I’m right up there with Martha Freaking Stewart.

Friday, September 6, 2019

Signs of Compassion

Remember that time when I sobbed in the movie theater while watching Inside Out?

Yeah. Those were the days.

Oh, wait, there was another movie during which I sobbed while sitting in a dark theater. I think it was called Now and Then. There was a scene where this old dude was sitting on a bench all by himself. He reminded me of my dad and it broke my heart.

Anyway!!

This is not about me and my propensity to cry in public while being ‘entertained’ by images projected upon the silver screen.

No.

This is about Olivia and her recent show of compassion.

We just finished watching the Netflix original Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events. It is three seasons long and Olivia watched each episode with rapt enthusiasm. We found it when we went looking for something to replace The Goldbergs, which won’t be showing new episodes until late September.

So we wrapped up the series and we headed to bed. As I was getting the wash cloth ready to wash Liv’s face I noticed that her eyes were a little bright, as if with unshed tears.

I asked her if she as okay.

She shook her head.

I asked what was wrong.

She answered me with a question of her own. It was about the time we went and saw Inside Out. She asked me if I remembered crying during that movie.

I told her I did remember and then asked her, “Did the tale of the Bauldelaire children make you sad?”

She nodded, the tears flowing freely now. She struggled to speak past her tears but managed to tell me that the scene where Sunny’s friend, the snake (an actual snake for those unfamiliar with the Series of Unfortunate Events) climbed a tree to get an apple that would cure Sunny of the illness caused by the spores of poison mushrooms.

Sunny ate from the apple and then went on to give her sister and brother a bite of the apple. All three children were saved from the poison.

The kindness of that snake made Olivia cry with happiness.

I cried too.

She’s showing compassion and empathy.

I know that one time when she cried because her sister was sad that Orville had died was an excellent sign that Miss O is capable of empathy but those moments are rare so this show of emotion was a beautiful thing.

Sure, I don’t like her to be sad but she actually wasn’t so much sad as just moved to tears by beautiful storytelling.

I want her to feel the magic of movies and books and to feel the emotion being conveyed through the shows we’re watching and the books we’re reading. I want her to understand and empathize when others are happy or sad or angry or hurt.

I don’t want her to be stuck in her own bubble, filtering the world and all its beauty through the veil of 5p- and however it skews her world.

I don’t know that it does filter things for her but I do know that it affects her ability show her emotions.

That evening as I held her sobbing body and soothed her grief and her happiness, I was so happy for her to have been so touched by a movie. That’s part of what movies are there for, to make us feel, to make us happy and sad and angry and wonder what else is out there beyond our own little corner of the world.

Of course, Alyssa had to suggest, “Maybe she’s PMSing.”

Well…there is that. But I like to think it’s more than just hormones. It’s Olivia waking up, taking a look around and seeing all the world has to offer.

Thursday, September 5, 2019

Small Town Life

One Sunday evening right before school started, the girls and I were in the living room watching the Netflix series, “Lemony Snickets’ Series of Unfortunate Events”.

Tom was in the family room watching murder because that’s what he does.

Alyssa’s phone was in her hand because, duh, teenager.

She announced in an relaxed tone, “Steph’s in a ditch.”

It took me a minute but then I said, “What? How do you know this?”

“She sent a text to our group chat.”

I asked, “How did she end up in a ditch?”

“She took a curve too fast and spun her truck into a ditch on the corner of 6.75 and K,” Alyssa replied calmly.

“Has she called her parents?” I wanted to know.

But before Lyss could reply, I remembered something I’d seen on Facebook, posted by Steph’s mom, “They’re in Hocking Hills, aren’t they?”

Alyssa nodded.

“Did she call her brother?”

Alyssa shook her head at that one. “She said he’d just have a panic attack and she is already having one so two of them panicking isn’t going to do anyone any good.”

I got up from my nest on the couch and headed to the family room. I told Tom the situation and said that I thought we should go see if we could help.

I knew that a seventeen year old girl should not be on the side of the road alone at that time of the evening.

Tom drove his van with a tow strap in the back and I drove the girls in my car.

We only had to go about four miles to find Steph. Her cousin, a teenage boy, was already there as well as a friend of his. They had a chain and were preparing to try and pull the truck out of the ditch. It had gone in perpendicular to the road, the front end first into the ditch.

The first thing I did was to ask Steph if she was okay. She nodded but I still hugged her anyway. She was shaking. I told her we’d all put a vehicle in a ditch and even if we hadn’t yet, I looked at Alyssa, I assured Steph that we all would do so at one time or another. I told her I was really glad she was okay.

I could see the relief on the boys’ faces when they saw Tom get out of his van. I think they were glad to see a DAD show up.

Tom suggested that several people get in the back of Steph’s truck and try to weigh down the back tires so they could get a grip and make it possible to just drive the truck out of the ditch.

The cousin’s friend started to hand Steph the keys to her truck, as if to let her try and drive it out of the ditch.

I was like, “No, how about she not be the one to do that.”

The dude nodded and got in the truck himself.

Tom and the cousin got in the back of the truck. Friend started it and at first the tires just spun on the gravel.

Then Tom and Cousin started bouncing in the back of the truck, the tires gained traction and whee, the truck was out of the ditch.

And wonder of wonders, it did NOT fly across the road into the other side of the ditch, which was my biggest fear as Friend was gunning the engine.

His work there done, Tom headed back to his van and hopped in, waving in my direction.

Cousin and his Friend got in their truck and headed off.

I asked Steph, “Do you want us to follow you home?”

She nodded, “You don’t mind?”

I smiled, “Of course not.”

See, this is what friends do. We take care of each other, we mother each other’s kids, we go out even when a storm is coming and help a kid get her truck out of a ditch.

I am so glad we were close by and able to help this sweet girl.

The rain started just after we passed Steph as she pulled in her driveway.

The four mile drive home from her house was an adventure as the wind blew and rain poured.

But it was worth it because a teenage girl was home safe and sound. The only damage to her truck was the front license plate holder.

I call that a good day.

Wednesday, September 4, 2019

Wired aka Help

It sounds so simple. Just slap some wax on the weird wire in your mouth that’s poking the hell out of the inside of your cheek.

Sure.

I had no problem with that.

Alyssa had no problem with it.

Olivia…has problems with it.

First of all, her hands aren’t nearly as dexterous as yours, mine and ours. Second, sticking her fingers in her mouth grosses her out.

But that first problem is the one that concerns me.

Backstory: Olivia’s teeth have moved since the last time she saw the orthodontist, as is the point of braces.

One of her wires was very stabby one even last week. It was wreaking havoc on her mouth.

When I got home that day, I helped her with wax.

That evening, after snacks and brushing teeth, she needed more wax.

It was downstairs. I was upstairs. I sent her down to ask her sister to help her with the wax.

She returned a few minutes later with a glob of wax in her hand. She handed it to me to adhere it to the wire in her mouth, thereby protecting her mouth from the stabby wire.

The next morning I put more wax on the wire.

I sent Liv down for breakfast with the little container of wax.

As I was leaving for work, I pointed out the wax and told Tom and Alyssa that someone, ANYONE, needed to help Olivia with the wax after she finished breakfast and her teeth were brushed.

Tom said, “Yeah, Lyss.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes and said, “What’s the big deal, you just slap it on your teeth.

I was running late but paused long enough to tell her, “Yes, it’s simple, for you and for me but not for her. Please help her.”

Tom wasn’t much help when he said, “Yeah, it’s simple, YOU just slap it on her teeth.”

Alyssa huffed and puffed (maybe I’m exaggerating but in the moment it felt like a huffy and puffy reaction) and I repeated, “Please. Just SOMEONE help her with the wax before she leaves for school.”

I know that Alyssa thinks we baby Olivia. I understand why she feels that way.

I called the orthodontist that morning to confirm that they would have people in their Angola office (They work some days in Angola, other days in Kendallville, I never know which is which.) and then called Tom to let him know he could bring Olivia to town that afternoon to get that wire fixed.

She had an appointment already scheduled for five days from when the wire suddenly got stabby but I didn’t want to wait that long. Her mouth was already showing signs of trauma. It was swollen and raw from the wire.

She doesn’t need one more reason not to eat her lunch at school but that’s a post for another day.