Speaking of Self-Pity

Tom took gifts to his oldest son and his (the son’s) family. There are three kids ages 13, 11, and 8.
I was glad Tom got to see Jay. It’s been awhile and I know he misses his older kids.
When he got home that afternoon, he had cards from Jay’s kids. Kay, Jay’s wife, is homeschooling their three kids, Dee, Gray and Zee, Tom took gifts to his oldest son and his (the son’s) family. There are three kids ages 13, 11, and 8.
I was glad Tom got to see Jay. It’s been awhile and I know he misses his older kids.
When he got home that afternoon, he had cards from Jay’s kids. Kay, Jay’s wife, is homeschooling their three kids, Dee, Gray and Zee, this year; which is awesome. I’m glad that works for their family.
But…and here comes the self-pity. But Tom was gushing about how much Kay enjoys homeschooling their kids. She just loves it. It’s going so well. Everyone is so happy with the situation, the kids love it, Kay loves and obviously, Jay loves having her home with the kids.
Wheee! Everyone is so happy and perfect and bully for them.
But see, that’s fine. It’s great that they’re all happy.
But then, THEN! Somehow, it came around to how I would NOT enjoy homeschooling our children. I don’t know if Tom said it or if I did but it absolutely came across as I was somehow lacking because I would not receive as much joy from homeschooling as Kay does.
I muttered something about Kay not having a challenging child to work with. I might also have mentioned that she doesn’t work 9 hours a day and THEN have to go home and help/do homeschool/work.
Tom replied that he’s heard the sounds that come out of me when O and I are working on her homework.
Sigh.
I spiraled from there.
See, I’m one of those people who needs words of affirmation. I need someone (Tom) to tell me I’m doing a good job. I NEED him acknowledge that I’m doing my best, that he know that I’m at least trying.
Okay, yes I’m impatient with her when she write the same letter seven times and erases it six time or when wants to hug my butt or when she talks about inappropriate things. I get frustrated when she does the same things over and over and over again even though I’ve explained how and why it’s not polite/appropriate/etc.
But you guys, that girl knows I love her, right? I’m still her favorite person in the whole world so I MUST be doing something right, right?
No, I do not enjoy sitting with her and DOING her homework for her. I don’t enjoy looking up answers and then having her either write or type them in, word for word from what I’m saying.
Could I have homeschooled Alyssa successfully and maybe even joyfully? Maybe…probably. But she’s self-motivated. She can work things out on her own. She doesn’t have OCD as well as an undeniable need to announce to everyone in her general vicinity that she farted every three minutes.
And I’m betting that all three of Jay’s and Kay’s kids are self-motivated and can work things out on their own too. Okay, so the eight year old probably needs more hands on help but he’s pretty typical so…
Again, I’m glad Kay enjoys homeschooling her three kids but can we celebrate that without making me feel like shit because I can’t work nine hours a day and them come home and ENJOY helping Olivia, a unique child with her own very special set of tendencies, with her homework?
Is that really too much to ask?
PS Please note that Tom was probably very much oblivious to my own inner through process that went from him saying how much Kay is enjoying homeschooling to me thinking that I’m the absolute worst mother in the entire world since I don’t enjoy sitting with my seventh grader ‘helping’ her with her homework. Yes, it was 99% me and my own neuroses.

Pause

I didn’t mean to hit pause on this blog.
There were a few things that made me stop posting.
First, the formatting is driving me crazy. I had to google how to make it show paragraph spaces. I know, big deal. But sometimes, the smallest things can bring things to a screeching halt.
Second, I’m kind of tired of hearing myself whine. I feel so ridiculous. I’m 50 years old. I should have my shit together, damn it.
Third…Tom is on our family computer pretty much all evening every evening and I don’t know my phone well enough (hello, I’m 50 years old) to post from there.
I’m going to try though. I still have some things to say, some things to work through.
I’m sorry.

Blue

I want to paint our front porch ceiling blue. Tom thinks that’s stupid. I don’t actually care what he thinks. But…I have to figure out how to tell him that gently without hurting his feelings. He’s not used to me not caring what he thinks. I’ve mentioned that he has an opinion on everything. Well, sometimes, I don’t actually want his opinion. I just want him to let me do what I want to do and accept that I’ve done it. Like painting the porch ceiling blue. I’m not talking some heinous, bright blue. Duh. Lots of people paint their porch ceilings blue. It’s an actual thing. And honestly, our porch ceiling is currently nasty. Rust, wear and tear, twenty four years of yuck have accumulated on that thing. You’d think he’d want me to paint it because I’d obviously have to do some pre-paint prep which would involve cleaning, priming, etc. So…just let me do my thing. Here’s the thing…I want to start living more authentically. Gosh, that sounds so…pretentious. But even if it is pretentious, it’s also true. I want to stop tiptoeing around other people, even my husband and just live my life how I want. I want to paint my ceiling blue and I want to bring more green into my bathroom. I want take more walks and be in less pain. I want to enjoy moments of every single day. I know I have to continue to work. I know Olivia will continue to have homework. I will keep doing what needs to be done but I also want to do things that just make us happy. As long as those things aren’t hurting anyone else, what’s the harm in finding and doing things that makes us happy every day? Like painting our porch ceiling blue.

Lunch Detention

Since it was mentioned in yesterday's post: Olivia came home one afternoon with a note in her agenda that said she had to serve lunch detention because she didn’t complete her morning work. The teacher noted that O had been given three hours to do the work. Well. Yes, I can very easily imagine Olivia sitting in that classroom with a worksheet in front of her, staring at it and just…not doing it. I mean, hello. Have you met Olivia. Don’t worry, she didn’t get in trouble at home for this lunch detention. I told her that I understand that sometimes, she simply cannot make herself do the work. And if there isn’t someone sitting next to her, keeping her focused on the work, explaining and re-explaining what she needs to do, the work is not going to get done. I reminded myself (and Tom, who was a bit huffy about the lunch detention, both toward the teacher and toward Olivia) that this teacher is still getting to know Olivia. We have to give both Mrs. H and Olivia time to get acclimated with each other. O and I did the work together at home. It was fine. Later that evening, I asked Olivia exactly what ‘lunch detention’ is. She said she had to stay in the classroom with the teacher and work on her classwork during lunch. She was able to take a bit of time and eat her actual lunch. I asked her if it bothered her that she had to have lunch at her desk in the classroom. What do you think? I think that perhaps lunch detention isn’t much of a punishment as far as Olivia is concerned. She likes being away from the prying eyes of her classmates. I’m betting there will be a parent -teacher conference sooner rather than later between me and Mrs. H and perhaps even Ms. P, the aide. And that’s okay. That’s probably for the best. I think that in the beginning, Mrs. H had very high hopes for Olivia. I want us to continue to have high hopes for her while tempering those hopes with patience and understanding that perhaps those hopes are too high. I think that maybe Mrs. H went into this year with Olivia much like the fourth grade teacher Mrs. K. She took one look at Olivia, beautiful, perfect Olivia and saw a child she honestly believed was capable of so much more than she was doing. She truly believed that Olivia was playing me and Tom; that Olivia had figured out that if she ‘played dumb’ she could get away with doing the bare minimum. I don’t think Mrs. H has had that extreme a reaction to Liv but I do think she believes that Olivia might be doing some of her behaviors on purpose; that is, she’s doing some of it to get out of doing the other, harder work. All of that is simply not true. And we have to understand that some days, the connections in O’s brain work great. She can sit there with a worksheet and answer simple math questions with minimal assistance. She can read a book and answer questions about it, she can do simple social studies questions. But other days, those same connections in Liv’s brain don’t spark. She cannot be left alone with a worksheet and be expected to fill it out. She will scribble the hell out of the worksheet. She will poke holes in it with the point of her pencil. She will sit there and stare into space imagining out all sorts of ‘fan fics’ about TicTockers and YouTubers and classmates. She will not do the work in front of her. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she simply can’t force herself to focus without someone sitting next to her keeping her focused. It’s not a stall tactic. It’s not an attempt to get out of doing the work. She’ll do the work; hell, she wants to do the work. She just needs someone to remind her every few minutes exactly what she’s supposed to be doing. Believe me, I really think that if she could do the work on her own, she would. Does anyone want someone next to them reminding them every few minutes to write the word? I think not. We’ll get there. I truly believe that too.

Motivated

The four-day work/school week following Labor Day was long even though it was a ‘short’ week. Olivia had loads of homework each day, including the day she had to serve lunch detention for not doing her classwork in, you know, class. Because of all this homework, we did not get to go to my mom’s house on Tuesday or Wednesday. I told her, though, after we finished just under an hour of homework on Wednesday that if she worked really hard at school the next day and then came home and did the required spelling work (writing her spelling words four times each…yikes!) that we’d go to Gram’s for a little while. I even suggested to Olivia and her dad that perhaps they’d like to get a head start on her spelling homework before I got home on Thursday. Did I mention that she had to write each word four times? Yes? Well, did I also mention that there were 21 words on that list? Have I pounded it into everyone that Olivia struggles with her handwriting? Excellent. We’re all on the same page. Any bets on whether or not she’d started the spelling work before I got home? How about if I tell you that I was fifteen minutes later than usual because I had to go to the pharmacy after work and pick up a refill of her medicine? Yeah, you’re right, of course she didn’t start the spelling before I got home. Why would she? And, the better question is why would her dad bother himself to encourage her to get started? Okay. I will reel in my bitterness over being the sole homework helper in our house. It’s how we’re dividing the labor these days, get over it, right? Ahem. So we sat down and I told her that if it took her too long to write all 84 words we wouldn’t be able to go to Gram’s because she, Olivia, not Gram, needed to bathe that evening. Do you think that girl sat there and wrote her words without stopping for a straight twenty minutes? Well, she didn’t. But! She didn’t erase all that many and she didn’t ask for chocolate after the second word and she didn’t need constant redirection. Yes, she paused a few times to shake out her cramping hand and she did get up to get a drink of water about halfway through. But she got them done with minimal bitching from me and we were able to go spend about forty-five minutes at Liv’s Gram’s house and everyone was refueled by the visit. We may have found a source of motivation for this girl…maybe. I mean, it worked once but that doesn’t mean it will work ever again. But don’t think I won’t try it again very soon. Will report back on the success or lack of success in any future attempts at bribing her with a visit to Gram’s.

Impersonator

Tom’s been looking for a used car to purchase for his and Alyssa’s use. The one she currently drives to school and work is fine as long as it starts but that’s the iffy part, so he wants something a bit more reliable. He’s been perusing FB marketplace for vehicles. But see, the thing is, he doesn’t actually have a FB account. He doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary for him to have an account because I have one and I can keep in touch with his sisters and extended family for him. Huh. Of course this means that he’s using my account to look at vehicles and message the owners. I don’t actually care that he’s doing this. What’s the big deal? Well, the big deal comes along when he messages these people and pretends to be me talking to them, saying things like, “My husband is the one who will be coming to look at the car. I’ll hurry him along.” Yeah. I have never ‘hurried him along’ in all the years of our marriage. But this isn’t even that big a deal. It’s kind of funny to read the messages he sends out in which he’s impersonating me. But then he was communicating with a woman who is selling her vehicle and she mentioned that her son would be the one to show my husband the car because she is in the hospital receiving chemo or leukemia. Tom, pretending to be me, said to her, something along the lines of: Sorry to hear about the chemo. I went through that for breast cancer a few years ago. Just keep the faith and everything will be fine. You guys, please tell me that you KNOW I wouldn’t say that? Okay, so no, I didn’t actually say it but she thinks I did and it’s just so trite. No one who has been through cancer treatments would say that! We’d say something like, “Oh, I’m so sorry you’re going through chemo. That sucks so much. I’m wishing you the best.” We would not tell her to ‘keep the faith’ and ‘everything will turn out okay.’ It doesn’t always turn out okay, damn it! And those of us who have faced serious health issues know this. We don’t say that to each other. We just don’t. It’s kind of like those of us who’ve had a child in the NICU or suffered a loss. We don’t say things like, “Well, at least you know you can get pregnant” to a woman who’s recently suffered a miscarriage. We don’t say things like, “Hey, at least you have one baby” to someone who’s lost one of their twins. We know the odds aren’t always in our favor. We know that things can go bad from one heartbeat to the next. Keep the faith? Are you fucking kidding me? I ought to slap him for that. I know he meant well. I know that; which is why I’m taking deep breaths and thinking before I speak. I just…I don’t know how to explain to him why what he wrote was wrong. I don’t think he’d get it and it would probably hurt his feelings. So…I’m letting it all out here and reminding any readers who haven’t been through sucky times to maybe think about this stuff and how they might want someone to respond to them if they were to suffer something horrific. Just think about it.

A Week at the Post Office

I’ve mentioned (ad nauseam) that I go to the post office every single day for work. Some days, weeks, months, I only have to go into the part where the post office boxes are so that I can pick up the incoming mail from the six post office boxes that my work has. Why yes, I feel quite important when I pull out the key ring with SIX post office box keys on it. I’m way cooler than you over there opening your ONE PO box. Ha on you, only having three envelopes. Look at me with my bags of mail. Yeah, mail is super fun, except when it’s not. See, one recent week, the post office was getting on my last nerve. I had to go in and talk to the ladies (it’s always ladies. Why are there NEVER any men working the stupid counter?) at the counter. They’re the ones who deal with the general public and I feel for them because the general public is stupid. I feel stupid when I’m a member of the general public. Just saying. So that week, I had to go up to the counter every single day. So frustrating. The first day is was so I could try and sent a garment back to the UK. It was a return. The company send a label and everything; except, since it was an international return, I had to fill out customs paperwork. And apparently, the label they sent was just an address label. It didn’t include postage, which was going to be $14.95. The hell? So I took the stupid customs label and told Kathy behind the counter I’d be back the next day. The next day, not only did I have my return, I also had a check from work to pay for the six post office boxes for the next six months. AND I had a yellow ticket (of leave? Alas, no, no yellow ticket of leave for you, prisoner 24601.) that indicated there was something that hadn’t fit in the P.O. boxes. That’s SUPER fun. First, I gave her the check my boss had given me for the P.O. boxes and…it wasn’t made out for the right amount. The label with the amount they’d sent in was faded and the last number, a 6, looked very much like a 0. Kathy asked me if I wanted make up the $6 difference. I did not. While I might have had cash on hand, I didn’t want to part with it even though I know work would have reimbursed me. But damn it, I shouldn’t have to pay for stuff like that with my own money. Then I gave her the yellow ticket that had been in the box from the day before but that I hadn’t seen until I got back to the office because there was so much mail it had been buried in there amidst the checks and catalogs and invoices. Kathy took my yellow ticket, disappeared behind the wall that separates the general public from the VIPs of the postal world. She returned with a big ass box (not so big, but it was heavy, which is actually just as annoying as being big…I HATE big, heavy boxes. This is probably a bit PTSD from when Tom used to send ridiculously large and heavy boxes with me to my previous employment to be shipped via UPS, which pissed me off to no end and was one of the very few things we’ve ever had actual fights about. This box, for the record, did NOT have a P.O. box number listed. It actually had a street address, which was not the street address of the plant I work at. My place of employment has four plants within a one mile radius. I work at plant 1. This box was addressed to plant 4. The hell? Why was it waiting for me to pick up when it could have been sent with the freaking mailman to the actual street address on the box? That this point, I was very near my last reserve of patience. So finally Kathy perused my customs forms and asked me the company name for the return. I don’t know. I didn’t buy the stupid garment. I was returning it for Alyssa, who’d bought it for her sister, bless her heart. But it didn’t fit her sister and who wants a $40 bra that doesn’t fit? Not us. You want a bra sitting around your house that doesn’t fit anyone? Give me a call, the stupid thing is still in my purse. Anyway, I told her I had no idea what the business name is and took the package, the customs paperwork and ANOTHER customs form because Kathy had helpfully stamped the one I’d already filled out with that day’s date and so I’d need to do it all again for the next day. I told her I’d take the check back and have my boss issue a new one. Whatever! The first was empty. Wheee!!! But guess what? As I was checking the first, empty post office box, I realized I’d forgotten the heavy-ass box Kathy had brought up for me before the whole customs issue came up. It was still sitting on the counter beside Kathy’s workspace. So, I went BACK to Kathy’s counter to retrieve that stupid box. But there was this DUDE standing there talking to Kathy about I don’t even know what. And he was in my way! Instead of standing directly in front of Kathy, where there is plexiglass protecting her from creeps like this, he stood off to the side, directly in front of the stupid heavy box I didn’t even want. Except I needed that box because it wasn’t mine, it belonged to plant 4 and I needed to take it there. Or, you know, back to plant 1 where I could then send it to plant 4 via ‘interoffice mail.’ Sigh. Kathy’s coworker saw my frustration and retrieved my box from its purgatory in front of annoying dude who does not understand personal space. I took that stupid heavy box out to my car and then went in to actually get the mail out of the other five post office boxes. The next box I opened…had another stupid yellow ticket. Are you freaking kidding me? I had to go BACK IN TO THE COUNTER for the THIRD time for anyone who’s counting to get whatever was waiting for me behind door number two. It ended up being a packet of mail that was just too much to fit into the box. Figures. The next day (third day of the week, for those counting) I had to go to the counter to try and send that stupid bra back to England AND pay for the P.O. boxes with the corrected check. Somedays, I think the post office is more trouble than it’s worth. Then I remember that Kevin Costner movie, The Postman. Did you guys see that one? One scene has the bad guy about to kill two of the postman’s mailmen. These two boys stop and introduce themselves to each other and the bad guy realizes that if these two don’t know each other, his rival for world domination has already gotten away from him. That’s not really a good description of the scene but close enough. What I’m saying is, that movie reminds me that we’re lucky to have mail service and it keeps us connected in a way that even the internet can’t quite do so I’ll try and not let my trivial annoyances stop me from mailing a letter every now and then.

I'm Sorry

There are a few words/phrases that Olivia simply cannot say.

A couple of years ago, we had a stand-off over her inability to tell me she was sorry for something.

These days, she is quick with “I didn’t mean to.” She says this in lieu of saying, “I’m sorry.”

She will tell Travis the turtle she loves him but she can’t say it to anyone else.

Don’t worry, I know she loves me. I don’t have to hear the words directly from her mouth.

She had a really hard time with Thank you for a while but seems to have gotten past that one.

But the other night, while we were in the car at the sketchy farm looking at the crap-mobile the two creepy dudes were trying to sell to Tom, Olivia did something that caused me physical pain and before I could even react, she said, “I sorry.”

That’s not a typo. She didn’t say “I’m.” She said “I sorry.”

It was said in a slightly baby tone but you know what? I don’t care.

She looked at me in shock after she said it. I stared at her. We were both stunned that those words had come out of her mouth. She smiled and I told her I was so proud of her for being able to say it.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to say some of these things. It’s just that there is some kind of mental block that stops her from uttering those phrases.

But the fact that she said that to me without prompting (sometimes, I think the prompting is what puts up the block) means that she’s continuing to grow, to learn, to mature.

I didn’t think she’d reached her peak but seeing actual progress is so heartening. It makes the struggles that much more worth it.

My girl is trying. She’s growing. She wants so badly to do right by us all and all we want is for her to do right by herself. Every day is a step forward…even if it’s a small step.

A Long Drive

Alyssa’s car has been acting up lately. Tom thinks it might be the fuel pump. Sometimes, it just won’t start. The battery is fine, it has a spark, it just…won’t start. After a couple of tries, it usually fires up but it can be very frustrating when you’re somewhere that is not home and your car isn’t starting.

I supposed it’s a rite of passage to have to deal with an unreliable car. We’ve all been there, right?

My first car, a 1975 Gran Torino Elite was a wild ride. By the time I finally retired that thing (around 1990) I had to have a bottle of gasoline in the backseat of the car so I could prime the carburetor each time I wanted to start it. I couldn’t fill it up with gas because there was a hole in the top of the gas tank and every couple of days I had to top off the power steering fluid.

Yeah. Those were fun days.

But…because we can, we’re looking for a different car for Lyss. She has a lot going on and we want her to be safe while doing all the things.

Tom started searching on FB marketplace. He found a car with 90,000 miles that was for sale for a decent price. It was in Huntington. He contacted the seller, who told him there were no issues with the car. He gathered some cash and away we went.

Okay, that sounds simple enough. It wasn’t quite so simple. We left at about 5:15 on a Tuesday. Olivia and I had already done her social studies homework and her spelling homework at home. But we took her math worksheet with us so she could finish it in the car. We had a 73 mile trip ahead of us.

I sat in the backseat with Olivia so I could help her with her homework. For what it’s worth, she did it mostly by herself. Go Liv!

Alyssa sat up front with Tom, who drove. Even though he’s very familiar with Huntington, Tom had Lyss use the GPS on her phone; which was the first mistake.

Wait, the GPS was the second mistake. The first mistake was even bothering with this car, though maybe that’s not fair, the pictures posted on FB marketplace were excellent pictures, they just didn’t tell the whole story.

Anyway! We drove, Olivia did homework, Alyssa studied for two exams (physics and anatomy) and I sat back and enjoyed not having to drive.

We followed the directions given by Alyssa’s phone…sort of. Tom did make poor Siri recalculate the directions a couple of times. But whatever.

We finally made it after driving for an hour and fifteen minutes. Tom pulled into the driveway of an out of the way farm. There were about a thousand chickens running around along with at least fifty cats and kittens.

There was only one dog loping around with a woman and two men. One of the men was in filthy shorts than hung to below his knees, socks that came up to mid-calf and a greasy T-shirt.

Tom got out of the car to go talk to the dudes about the Fort Taurus they had for sale.

The girls and I watched the chickens. At one point, a rooster attempted to accost one of the hens. Olivia saw the action and said with glee, “They’re going to do it!”

Let’s remember, she’s 13 and so is surrounded by 13 year old boys. Yikes.

The hen did not consent and so nothing untoward happened beyond the rooster making overtures that were firmly turned down.

After about twenty minutes Tom and one of the dudes got in the car that was for sale and went for a drive.

It was at this point that I realized that Tom had taken the keys to my car with him.

Let that sink in. He drove away with a stranger (neither of them wearing a mask!) with MY keys. The girls and I were left in my car with no way to leave if the need to leave happened to arise.

I told the girls to lock their doors. We continued to watch the chickens and the kittens. One chicken hobbled toward the car and we realized she was missing most of her right foot. It was so weird and creepy.

The dude in the filthy shorts stalked around the farmyard. The woman and her dog went about their evening business.

The car continues to get hotter and hotter. It wasn’t exactly hot outside but with three of us in that enclosed vehicle, breathing our hot breath and occasionally laughing because of the insanity of the situation, the windows steamed and the interior temperature rose.

Tom and Dude 1 came back. They talked a little more. The girls and I cracked our doors open, scaring some chickens and getting fresh air.

Tom came to the car and told Alyssa she should drive it.

Then Tom and Alyssa got in that sketchy car and drove away, WITH MY KEYS AGAIN. This time, they left just me and Liv in my car, in that farmyard with BOTH of the creepy dudes hovering.

I felt like we were writing the first few pages of a horror story.

We locked the doors again and waited.

And waited.

And I got antsier and antsier. Olivia announced that she had to pee but she was going to wait until we got home to do so. Smart girl. (Spoiler: we took her to a grocery store in Huntington; she didn’t have to wait another two hours to relieve herself.)

Tom and Alyssa FINALLY got back from their little drive. Alyssa returned to the car, where she declared, “It’s a no.”

Tom continued to talk to the dudes, who tried to convince him that this car was totally a most excellent buy for our teenage daughter. It had a WOOFER in the trunk.

Tom told them Alyssa wasn’t quite the woofer type.

Then he told them that the pictures they’d posted did not show dents in the hood, the broken cruise control or the weird cobbled dash.

They argued that the cruise control being broken didn’t make the car undrivable.

Okay. I mean, that’s technically true but when you’re thinking about spending money in the four digits, you want something better. Or, if nothing else, you don’t want to feel like you’d been taken by some well-angled pictures.

Tom finally pulled himself away from the owner (though, apparently, the guy selling the car was actually the grandson of the owner…which…okay…that’s sketchy as hell) and his mechanic friend (that was the dude in the filthy clothes) and made his way back to the car.

We left as quickly as we could and made our way to town where we all used the facilities in the local grocery store and then went through the drive-thru at McD’s.

Tom drove into the McD’s parking lot and started to hand Alyssa a pad of paper, telling her to write down exactly what she wanted.

I offered, “You want me to do the ordering?”

He took me up on that offer so fast you’d think he was shy. Nah, dude just really hates ordering at the drive-thru.

So he took my place in the backseat, I took the driver’s seat and ordered food for my family without a single word being written down.

Tom was stunned by the low, low price of the food but then realized I hadn’t ordered anything for myself. My jaw had ached all evening and I just couldn’t bring myself to eat anything. I offered to drive us home so he could eat.

We made it home safely and were in bed a half hour later. It was an exhausting trip, is what I’m saying.

Feeling Put Upon

The Saturday of Labor Day weekend, Olivia woke up around 8am. She then talked at me for the next hour and a half while I lay dosing, trying to ignore her need to get up and go.

I finally dragged my lazy carcass out of bed at 9:30 but I certainly didn’t want to. The day went downhill from there.

I’d mentioned to Tom earlier in the week that I was going to paint the bathroom.

That morning he asked me what color. I told him. Then he asked me what color I wanted to paint the front door. See, I’d mentioned that to him earlier in the week too.

I hemmed and hawed on answering that one because I didn’t really care to hear his opinion on my thoughts. Dude has an opinion on everything. EVERYTHING. And see, the thing is, his opinions are always so strong. It’s never, eh, I don’t mind that. It’s always a sure and confidents yes or no.

It’s infuriating.

Except that morning all his opinions did was make me weepy.

I did tell him that it wasn’t him, it was me. I didn’t know why but my emotions were very close to the surface and those emotions were all sunshine and roses. They were teary and sad and angry emotions.

We made it to my mom’s house without any actual tears falling, though things were cloudy on the way.

Tom called me on our way to town to tell me that he didn’t actually care what color I chose to paint the front door.

That was nice.

See, once upon a time, very early in our marriage, I painted our laundry room a bright apple green.

He hated it. He hated it so much that he can’t imagine me NOT picking another horrible color for any part of our house.

But guess what? I learned from that. I don’t go all willy-nilly with my paint colors anymore. See my previous post about the nice cool white I picked for the bathroom.

So give the green a freaking rest, is what I’m saying. It’s been at least fifteen years since I did that. I’m not a bright eyed 35 year old with apples in her eyes and confidence in her choices anymore.

Whew, it feels good to get that out.

We made it to Menards and headed to the paint department. Let me tell you, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend is not the time to go to Menards. When we arrived, there were three carts available for use by the front door. The rest were scattered about the store, in use by the seventy million other customers.

My mom pointed down an aisle in the paint section and said, “The Rustoleum is at the end.”

I started down the aisle but couldn’t see the stupid Rustoleum and stopped halfway. I didn’t quite stomp my foot but I did give out a plaintive, “Where am I going?”

Yes, it was incredibly whiny. Yes, I hated myself so much in that moment. But I was so tired and felt so put upon by the entire world.

My girls are so amazing. They both just rolled with my stupid whiny mood. They laughed at me as I behaved like a brat. They didn’t take my bitchiness personally (I hope) and they just let me wallow in my mood.

We went to lunch, which helped because hello Applebee’s chicken fajita roll and strawberry lemonade.

Walmart was the worst but by then I’d expected just that and so I made my way through the store with as much stoicism as I could and finally, at home, I was done.

There was no paint prep that Saturday. There was very little laundry done. I did not vacuum.

Tom left to go…somewhere that afternoon. Alyssa went out with N and so Liv and I had noodles for dinner. It was comforting and just what we needed.

The next day, I was back to fine. I felt god enough, emotionally and physically to paint the bathroom and do laundry and cook so I’m calling that weekend a wash.

Masked

Unless you live under a rock, you probably know that Indiana and Ohio are mandatory mask states.

Ohio is too. If you’re in a public place, you’re supposed to wear a face covering.

My doctor’s office insists on actual masks. Face shields do not count. Those weird scarf thingies that go around your neck and can be pulled up over your face also are not accepted at the doctor’s office.

Labor Day weekend, we did our usual round of lunch, grocery shopping, etc.

While grocery shopping at The Walmarts I will say that more people than not were obeying the face mask ordinance.

But! There’s always a but. There were quite a few people who seemed to think that wearing a mask down around your chin is good enough. Or perhaps if they just wear it over their mouths but leave their noses free to breathe fresh air, that’s okay too, right?

No! Damn it, people, what the actual hell?

Just because the mask is ON your face and attached to your ears but hanging down around your chin, it doesn’t count unless it’s COVERING the places where the air actually leaves your actual body. It is the air that was inside your body that carries the germs that inhabit your body.

So pull the stupid mask up over your stupid face, up to and including your nose, and deal with it.

I know, I know, it’s so much easier to breathe when the mask isn’t covering your nose. Duh. It’s also easier to infect other people with your cooties if your mask is down around your chin.

No one enjoys wearing a mask but we’re wearing them (some of us correctly!) so that our kids can stay in school, so that we can continue to go to work, so that society as a whole doesn’t have to SHUT DOWN again because of the assholes out there who can’t be bothered to wear their masks properly.

But let’s also point out the true creeps who refuse to wear masks at all.

Okay, yes, there are people out there with medical reasons for not masking up. But I’m pretty damned sure that the two men that happened to be in the Edon Family Dollar last weekend who were NOT wearing masks of any kind (not even down around their stupid chins) were part of that small group of people with a medical reason for not wearing face coverings.

I think those two dudes were just assholes who were just WAITING for someone to call them on their selfishness.

They don’t care that there is a sign on the door that says anyone entering must wear a mask. They don’t care that the rest of us who ARE wearing masks are doing so FOR them. They’re just out there with their nose and mouth breath polluting our air.

Ugh!

Alyssa said that even though there are signs on the Arby’s where she works stating that masks are mandatory, so many people come in without them. And, she continued, you can tell by the look on these people’s faces that they are just hoping someone will say something about masks.

No one ever does because creeps like this are looking for a fight.

I am never looking for a fight, so I just mutter under my breath, shoot them dirty looks behind their backs and come here and bitch about them.

That’ll teach them.

Refresh

I painted my bathroom over Labor Day weekend. Yes, I painted this room when we first moved into this house ten years ago. No, I have not yet painted the bedroom to which this bathroom is attached.

I have to take these refreshes slowly. The bathroom is much smaller than the bedroom and I just didn’t have it in me to attack the big paint job just yet.

But I’m getting there.

The bathroom looks so much better now. The old paint, which was great when it first went on, was a soft white, maybe what you might call a warm white. I think it was called Soap Bubble White.

The new paint is also white, but it’s a cooler white. It has a blue undertone and it had really brightened the room. The finish this time is also glossier, which should make wiping down the walls so much easier.

I started this project about at 11 on Sunday morning. And by ‘start’ I mean, I took everything out of the bathroom, cleaned off the countertop, wiped everything down, dusted the light fixture, took the covers off the electrical fixtures, took the pictures off the walls, taped off the trim, took the towel rack down from the wall and laid plastic across the counter where I planned to put the paint can and the tray into which I was going to pour the paint.

That took me over two hours.

I started painting at 1:30.

Can I interject here and say that I actually hate painting? It’s tedious, it’s boring, it’s messy. I’m not good at doing the edging. I’m not nearly neat enough to pull this off.

But! That first swipe of new paint going on the old dingy paint is so satisfying.

I finished painting at 4pm, so…two and a half hours isn’t bad.

After the new paint was on the walls, I hated to put all the crap clutter that was in that room before.

So…I didn’t. I went through the little organizer I’ve kept my makeup in for years and purged. I was ruthless. I didn’t think to myself, “Well, maybe someday.” Nope, if I hadn’t used it in the past six months, out it went.

And it felt so good! Some of that stuff was YEARS old. Makeup has a shelf life, you know. I should have tossed most of it years ago.

I moved some pictures around, I rehung the curtains (I should have washed them first…maybe next weekend?) and I started purging the crap in the medicine cabinet. That stuff is years old too. Yuck.

I love going into that bathroom now. It’s just so clean and bright.

All I need now is to put up a shelf above the toilet and put a plant on it. That well behind the toilet gets afternoon light and putting a little green in there will just be lovely.

OMG. Is this turning into a decorating/design blog? Hahahaha, no. I’m not nearly confident enough in my own choices for something like that.

No, tomorrow we’ll likely return to our regularly scheduled rant about homework...or not.

An Essay

Alyssa recently had to write an essay for school. The theme was to write about an event that made you change your mind about someone or something.

She chose to write about her sister.

She shared her essay with me and it brought me to tears.

The lines that resonated the most with me were: “And that was the day I learned that my younger sister was never a bad child. I always knew that she struggled with things, but at times I felt lie maybe she just needed to try harder, but it turns out she was already trying her hardest.”

I’ve mentioned a time or twelve that over the years Alyssa has voiced her opinion that we (Tom and I and even my mom) coddle Olivia. She believed that if we just expected more from Olivia, then Olivia would be able to do more.

I’ve replied to these sentiments that I hope, should Alyssa choose to have children someday, that she was a perfect mother and that her children were perfect too. And I’m not even being sarcastic. I really do hope that for her.

But I’m absolutely not perfect and Olivia isn’t either.

But you know what? Like Alyssa, I need to remember more often, especially when we’re at the height of frustration, that Olivia is trying her hardest. She’s doing all she can to please me and yes, even her teachers.

She doesn’t have 5p- syndrome AT us. Her inability to work on her own is not misbehavior on her part. She wants to be normal. She WANTS to be able to answer the questions posed to her at school and at home.

Hell, she WANTS to be able to use a reasonable amount of toilet paper, but sometimes, she just can’t help but pull seventy squares off at a time.

She’d love to able to shave her own legs like a typical thirteen year old. But she can’t.

And I need to be okay with that.

I’ve always thought I accepted Olivia for exactly who she is. I love her so much.

But I need to be more patient with her. I need to accept that she simply can’t do some things and find peace in that.

I had to fill out a questionnaire for her IEP at the beginning of the school year. This is a new teacher, a new aide, a new schedule. O is struggling and so am I. But my struggle is with my own expectations of her. Who knew that thirteen years into this special needs parenting gig I’d have to adjust my expectations yet again?

The questionnaire asked what we wanted for Olivia educationally. I wrote that I want her to be able to count her own change and know if someone is cheating her. I want her to be able to tell time so she can get places on time. I want her to be able to read, both for navigation and for pleasure.

Another question asked what I considered Olivia’s greatest weaknesses. Her concentration, her inability to work on her own.

What did I think Olivia needed from her educational team? Patience. The understanding that she’s not doing things AT any of us. She’s trying.

She’s trying…I am the one who needs to remember that the most. She’s trying and I need to give her credit for that. She’s trying and so I need to try too.

Not My Story

Thought it’s not my story to tell, I want to put it out there that the world lost a beautiful soul on 9/3/2020. Angie leaves a loving wife behind, grieving family and friends and a lasting legacy of living every single moment of life to the fullest.

I only knew her from the periphery. She was the wife of my husband’s niece. I saw her each July at the Ordinary family reunion.

She was cheerful, kind, beautiful.

The love story between Angie and Jen is one for the ages. They made me want to be kinder to my little family, to love a little harder, to live a little louder.

I hope Angie has found peace and I pray for Jen. I can only imagine her pain as she faces this big world without her love.

Too Much...Too Little

Alyssa has been embracing her curly hair for about six months. You know, since the quarantine started.

She found a few fb groups that talk about how to treat your hair and bring out your curls.

One such group touts the “Curly Girl” method of caring for your hair.

It’s all about getting your hair back to a healthy state.

I was scrolling through Instagram one evening and came across a post about frizz and some of the possible reasons your hair is frizzy.

1. Too much water…or not enough water

2. Too much product…or not enough product

3. You’re washing your hair too much…or not enough

4. You’re using products with silicone

5. You’re having a reaction to the coconut oil in your product…or you need MORE coconut oil. Everyone’s hair is different, don’t you know.

6. You’re not scrunching your hair enough…but you’re also touching your hair too much.

7. You need more mousse and less gel…or less mousse and more gel.

It went on and on like that. It was ridiculous. Because basically, they’d don’t really know why people get frizzy hair. It just happens and you should do HOURS of experimentation to figure it out for yourself but hey, buy our products and they might work for you…or they might not; no refunds!

I haven’t bothered to ask Alyssa how much money she’s spent on this curly hair journey of hers. She makes her own money and well, as long as it’s not outrageous, whatever.

She’s got a t-shirt and several microfiber towels that she uses for ‘plopping’ her hair. This is when she lays her hair into the towel/shirt and then gently wraps it so it can dry. This is very different from what I do with my terrycloth towels when I wrap my hair in them. I’m just trying to get the excess water out, not trying to place my hair into any sort of curl patterns.

And don’t get me started on curl patterns. OMG! The insanity. Are you a 1 or a 2c or a 5? Who the hell knows?

She also has a hair dryer with a diffuser. Damn, that thing takes FOREVER. I am not willing to put that much time and effort into my hair. I’m sorry. No. I have five minutes each morning after my shower to comb my wet hair and then it’s time to wake Olivia and braid her glorious hair. I don’t want to carve out three more hours so that I can dry my hair with a diffuser.

I will scrunch some mornings. I will use mousse (but not gel) and I try not to touch my hair much as it drying but even that takes a lot of mental effort and I don’t really have the fortitude to follow through.

So…my girls get to have the awesome hair and I’ll be over here with my frizzy ponytail. After being bald for eight months (or so, because really, when does bald turn into fuzz turn into actual hair?) I’m kind of happy with my frizzy ponytail.

Numb

At my most recent dental cleaning I was told I needed four fillings.

Thank you so much, chemo for the dry mouth that has led to, at most recent count, eleven cavities in two years. Yikes.

And let me tell you, I feel like every subsequent session in which I get fillings is worse than the last. I have to talk myself through these appointments, telling myself not to be such a baby, to suck it up. I remind myself that the drilling, numbness, pain isn’t going to last forever. Nothing lasts forever so grow up and deal.

I only almost cried twice during this latest appointment. Well, wait, I only almost cried once and then, on the drive home, after the appointment, during which I was numb from ear to ear and was having actual trouble swallowing because of my enormous numb tongue in my mouth, I almost cried then too.

But it wasn’t the pain or fear of pain that almost made me cry during the actual appointment. I almost cried when the woman giving me the shots to numb my mouth told me that the worst was over.

I told her that wasn’t actually true because the shots didn’t bother me nearly as much as the drilling and grinding. The smell was awful and the sound of the drill is horrible and the sensation of pressure on my teeth makes me crawl out of my skin. She patted my shoulder and said, “Well, after what you’ve been through, this should be a piece of cake.”

Don’t be nice to me! That’s what makes me cry, damn it.

I haven’t been through any more than anyone else who’d had a major medical issue. Don’t give me more credit than I deserve.

On the way home, I thought about getting there and finding Liv and Tom in their usual places, her on the couch with her tablet and him at the computer. I imagined asking him if Olivia had eaten dinner yet (I wouldn’t be home until after six at this point.) and I imagined him saying she hadn’t and the thought crushed me.

I just couldn’t handle the thought of getting home, helping her with homework AND having to get her dinner around.

At that point, I still couldn’t talk because my entire mouth was numb. I still had to work hard to swallow and yet the coming dull ache was there, right behind the numbness.

But, look at me being all unnecessarily pessimistic. When I got home, Tom and Olivia were at the kitchen table, working on her homework. He looked frazzled and she looked like her usual cheerful self. So that’s a good thing.

I walked in and Tom could tell by looking at me that I was not well.

He told me to go sit down. I shook my head and managed to mumble that I could help with homework. I could read the questions, find the answers and point to them for her to write them down.

We were done forty-five minutes after I got home.

I was still numb even after O was done with her homework.

Tom, bless his soul, heated up dinner for her, which made me entire freaking year, and I settled on the couch where I felt sorry for myself for the rest of the evening.

After this particular filling session, I felt more abused than usual. Apparently, I had some bleeding on the right top part of my mouth.

The dentist put pressure on it. The assistant (What is her actual title? She helps while he’s drilling and she prepares and puts in the fillings…) put pressure on my gums. She said that it’s normal, my gums were just angry. She suggested warm salt water for the next few days.

These sessions just keep getting worse.

I know. I KNOW that if this is the only lasting effect I have from chemo that I’m lucky but it sucks so much. It hurts, it’s inconvenient and it’s expensive. These four fillings cost over $900. That’s ridiculous.

Sure, the feeling came back to my toes. Yes, my hair grew back. I’m grateful for all of that.

And do I have to say that I’m glad to be alive? Duh.

But can the dry mouth go away now? Can I not have to have any more fillings for the foreseeable future?

Please?

Spirit Week

Once again, they’ve moved everything forward in the year in hopes of cramming everything fun in before school is shut down for good for the year. Not that we’re being pessimistic or anything, it’s just…you know, Covid time.

So the third week of school, the second full week, was Spirit Week, aka Homecoming week. This is usually later in the football season, alas, I’m sure they moved it to the second home game (which, coincidentally, was the second game of the season) just so they could say they had it.

Huh. Anyway, whoever came up with the ‘Spirit’ days for this year was, well, less than creative.

They tried to be punny with it by titling the whole thing with something like “Bombers: Turn “UP” the Spirit. Each day, in turn, had some sort of UP in it.

Monday: Mix “UP” Day – wear your clothes backwards – Olivia declared she was NOT going to wear her clothes backwards because that would just annoy her all day. She did let me braid her hair from the bottom up (I almost capitalized the up back there but just couldn’t do it.) That was it for her spirit for Monday.

Tuesday: Grown “UP” day – dress like a grown-up – she decided to wear a leopard print cardigan and some matching shoes because then she’d look like a grown up lady aka an Edon mom. Hahahaha. That’s my girl.

Wednesday: Squad “UP” Day – class colors – Olivia’s class color is black. And guess what else this day was? Picture day, because why wouldn’t it be picture day? I suppose class color day is better than backwards day. Her teacher told Olivia she could bring a ‘picture day’ outfit to change in to but we all know how that would work out. So thanks but no, I’m fine with her seventh grade picture being of her in a black shirt. Maybe we can say it was the start of her twenty-four hour goth phase.

Thursday: Dress “UP” Day – dress your best – she wore pink because that’s how she dresses up. So much for the goth stage.

Friday: Bomber “UP” – wear your blue and gray – this one is self-explanatory.

I think that if they hadn’t tried to put the stupid UP in each day, they might have been able to be a bit more creative. Alas, they didn’t ask for my opinion and if they had I’d have been all…meh.

So since someone else was willing to do the mental work of coming up with this stupid list of spirit days, I should just shut my face.

From Wolves to Spoons

All that bitching about how much homework Olivia had in the first full week of school and how little direction we were given for helping her do said homework made an impact.

After several frustrated emails to her teacher and both of her aides, we are now being spoon fed O’s homework.

Instead of a worksheet with literally no instructions whatsoever, now I get a paragraph of directions along with page numbers for the book we’ll be using to look up answers and the page actually marked with ¼ piece of cardstock, just in case I’ve forgotten how to count and am unable to open up a book to the right page.

While this extreme opposite approach to her homework is slightly insulting, it’s more than a little amusing. If

I did ask her team to help me help her and that’s what they’re doing.

And I’ll take it. I’d much rather they act like I’m a complete moron when it comes to O’s homework than have them send work home with the assumption that I can read minds or that I was actually there all day with Liv, knowing exactly what she’s doing in each class and how to help her figure it all out by the time she gets home.

So, hey, look at that, this is not a rant about homework. What do you know.

A Very Brady Rant

I had to get blood drawn for labs. I went to the hospital at 9:30 one weekday morning. My thought was that it shouldn’t be all that busy at that time. I mean, people work, right?

Apparently not around here, they don’t because that hospital was crawling with people. Okay, so the people weren’t actually crawling but they were everywhere.

One dude in particular was especially antsy about the wait.

After I’d checked in with the receptionists and got my pager for registration, I sat down to wait.

This dude was sitting in a chair about ten feet from my little couch. His chair faced the registration doors. My couch faced him and the television that was mounted above and to his left.

The television was tuned to HGTV and they were showing episodes of A Very Brady Renovation. Yay! Except freaking Marcia Brady kept crying every time a new room was revealed. Chill the fuck out, Marcia!

This dude, though, damn he was irritating. He sat slumped in his chair for a few minutes, then he’d sit up straight and look at his beeper. Then he’d stand up and stretch, which always let to him clutching his right shoulder.

I was about to ask him if maybe he should be in line in the emergency room when he’d sit back down again, glance around to see if anyone was looking at him and then grumble under his breath.

I wanted to tell him to relax, watch a bit of A Very Brady Renovation and stop fidgeting. Obviously all the fidgeting was bothering his stupid right shoulder.

What was most irritating for me was that I had to look past him to watch A Very Brady Renovation, which meant that every time he looked my way, I knew it. I was never actually looking at him, because, duh, A Very Brady Renovation was on, why would I look anywhere else? But I knew he was looking and it was creepy as hell.

Thank Pete, (not Pete Brady, who used to be my favorite Brady brother until I watched Christopher Knight on his stupid reality TV show where he married America’s Next Top Model season cycle 1 winner Adrienne Curry. I think the show was called My Fair Brady, which, can we all agree is a REALLY stupid title for a REALLY stupid show? I only watched a partial episode on the Youtubes once but during that episode Chris was a raging dick to Adrienne and that made me detest him. And now, damn it, I guess I have to pick stupid Greg as my favorite Brady brother even though I can barely stand him because Bobby aka Mike Lookinland is just gross. That dude has NOT aged well at all. Oh, and by the way, Cindy Brady? The eighties called and they want their hair back.)

Ahem, where was I?

Oh yes, thank Pete that fidgety, creepy dude was called before I was and he left my line of vision. I was able to watch Marcia cry a few more times before my beeper went off and I got to go back and have a needle stuck in my arm. Good times; takes me back to my chemo days when I got stuck weekly. Ahh, memories. But wait, this time was actually different. This was the first time in all the times someone has stuck a needle in my arm that the person doing the sticking told me I have tiny veins. What? I have given blood my entire adult life, well, until I was diagnosed with cancer and had to be pumped full of chemotherapy, thank you so much. Now they don’t want my precious AB+ blood. So have my veins shrunk in the last two years? Is that even a thing?

Umm…I have no idea where I was going with any of this. Maybe there was no actual story here, except that the hospital was crazy busy and it wasn’t even because of Covid because if you suspected you had Covid-19, you weren’t even supposed to go into the hospital. There were signs all over the freaking place declaring that.

Alas, perhaps these days there is no ‘good’ time to go have blood drawn, unless you figure that anytime HGTV is airing A Very Brady Renovation is a good time to go so you have something to watch while you wait eleven hours from registration to blood draw is a good time to go. Then, well, check your local listing.

I don’t even know.

Senior Night

Senior athlete night is usually the last home game of the season.

Alas, with things as messed up as they are right now, we aren’t sure which home game will be the last of the season.

And so, Alyssa’s school decided to hold senior night senior night on the first home game of the season.

I mean, for all we know, the first home game might be the last, right? I mean, seriously, though.

So we got an email the Monday before the Friday of that game, letting us know that all seniors who were participating in fall sports would be honored at the home game that Friday.

Alyssa, for those not in the know, is in marching band, which is considered a fall sport. I know.

But those kids work REALLY hard. They go to band camp for weeks during the summer, they work hard to learn the music and the choreography for the half-time show.

I’ll be honest. I was in the marching band in high school and even I didn’t think of it as a sport back then but whatever. If the school wants to recognize them as fall athletes, who am I to complain? I’m glad my girl gets the accolades she deserves.

The way the senior athletes are recognized is that they’re given a card to fill out detailing their interests, the things they participate in, their parents’ names, you know, the usual.

Then, at the start of the game, the student and their parents are introduced to the spectators and the card is read describing the student.

When we found out about Senior Night early that week, Alyssa informed Tom, “Dad, you’re going to that football game.”

He gave a look that said he didn’t think he was going to the game.

She told him, “You’re going. You have to walk on the field with me and Mom.”

I assured him that there would be fewer spectators there this year because Governor DeWine has made it so that only parents and immediate family members can attend sporting events for the foreseeable future. Football at Edon is a pretty big thing. The entire community usually comes out for the home games.

Not this year! Nope. Each student athlete was given four vouchers to be given out for people to come to the games. This will ensure crowd control.

Somewhat mollified, Tom agreed to attend the ceremony honoring the athletes. “But,” he amended, “I’m NOT staying for the game.”

Duh.

No one expected him to stay for the game. He and Olivia can scamper away as soon as the ceremony is over.

I will stay, though, because hello, I have to watch the half-time show. That’s the whole reason I go to the games anyway. I always say that I’m only there for the band. I have to watch my girl’s last half-time show. This might be the only performance they give this year and I’ll be there for it.

We’re going to wring every single moment out of this senior year that we can. We realize that it might be even more abbreviated than last year’s senior year. So…here we go.

Balance

Once upon a time, the balance of work in our house was pretty even. I help with homework and Tom packs lunches and often heats up dinner.

Lately, though, since the girls were home for 22 weeks, I’d taken over a lot of the evening work because he’d been home with them (read: Olivia) all day every day. I get that mental taxation of that.

However, now the girls are back to school.

Which means he’s home all day, every day, alone. He can get started on his eBay listings/packing/whatever he wants to do without having to deal with breakfast, lunch, snacks and whatever else Olivia might need throughout the day.

So yeah, his life is pretty freaking great right now.

The other night, after we did homework for a half hour, then went to Gram’s house and then got home at 7:00, I asked if lunches were packed.

Alyssa had packed hers but…O’s was not packed.

I packed her lunch, I packed my lunch. I gave her her 8pm meds, I got her a snack before bed. I brushed her teeth, I bandaged her fingers, which are bloodied on a daily basis because…Olivia.

The next day, before I even got home, Tom had packed O’s lunch, which was…nice.

The day after that was the 2 hour homework session.

He suggested I go rest before we tackled homework.

No. Not a good idea. Must get started because the sooner we start, the sooner we can be done. It’s a good thig I made that call because if I’d ‘rested’ before homework that night, we’d have been finishing at 8, she’d have been having dinner at 8:15 and no shower would have happened and guys, Olivia is 13, she needs her showers.

As we were doing homework, he was toodling around, taking pictures, cleaning crap to list, just going about his day.

He did announce in the middle of all this that he’d packed her lunch.

“Thank you,” I said because heaven forbid I don’t sing his praises whenever he ‘helps’ me around the house.

Damn, I’m such a bitch.

Alas, homework continues to frustrate.

Tom left to go to my mom’s. He came back and continued about his business. It was at least 6:45 by this point. It never once occurred to him to offer to warm some food for Olivia so she could eat as soon as she was finished with homework.

We finished homework at 7:10 that evening. As she completed the last few multiplication problems, I heated some chicken and noodles and mashed potatoes.

At one point in all this, Tom declared that he was going to go out to the garden and pick some tomatoes. He stopped at the backdoor to make eye contact with me and declare he was picking these for ‘my lunch.’ Then he waited, because I was obviously supposed to thank him for going out to pick tomatoes because he was doing it for me.

OMG.

Are you kidding me?

I was in homework hell and I still had to make sure Liv ate dinner AND took a shower and he wanted gratitude from me because he was going to pick tomatoes FOR MY LUNCH.

I might have lost my mind for minute.

I think if I’d murdered him then and there, I could have claimed temporary insanity.

Yes, he still lives and breathes. But, because I’m a petty bitch, I did NOT take any of those freaking tomatoes in my lunch the next day. I was so pissed about the whole thing that I didn’t bother to pack anything for my lunch the next day.

That’ll show him.

A Perfect Storm (aka Yet ANOTHER Vent about Homework - Sorry in Advance)

What do you get when you mix being out of school for 22 weeks, a new-to-you teacher, new aides, a new(ish) school (she’s in the same building but in the junior high wing instead of the elementary wing)?

Don’t forget to throw a kid like Olivia into the mix and guess what happens?

A perfect storm happens.

On the Wednesday of the first full week of school, Olivia and I sat at the kitchen table for two hours working on homework.

Oh yes, there were tears, hers and mine.

We both cried in frustration over the entire situation. See, here’s the thing: Olivia’s new-to-her teacher expects Olivia to act like a typical seventh grader in that she, Mrs. H, wants to be able to give Olivia a worksheet and then have Olivia actually complete that worksheet without someone sitting next to her keeping her on task.

Yeah. That’s probably not going to happen.

If it does? Well, awesome. I will be the first to throw a party. Seriously. I would be so, so happy. But I am not ordering the cake quite yet.

Another thing this teacher and her aides seem to think might happen is that they will give Olivia oral instructions as to what homework she has and how to complete it.

That’s it. They speak words to my child while she is at school and they expect those words to be retained by the dear, sweet girl so that when she gets home, she’s supposed to TELL me what needs to be done and how to do it.

But that doesn’t happen. She brings home worksheets with questions about ancient Greece and yet…there was no book. No instructions to look up the information on line…nothing.

I asked Liv what she was supposed to do and she shrugged. She had no idea.

She’s not being deliberately obtuse. She simply cannot retain that kind of information. I wish she could. Oh how I wish she could.

I know that her teachers probably think we baby her. Heck, her fourth grade teacher came and SAID that she thought Olivia was playing us. She used those words.

And I get it. Olivia looks so ‘normal.’ She looks perfect. I’m glad for it. I really am and yet, it’s frustrating that people, as in her teachers, expect her to act the way she looks.

She’s not doing this on purpose! If she could do the damned work, don’t you think she would? She doesn’t want to be different.

That evening that we were sitting there doing two hours of homework, one of her aides, Mrs. B, emailed me. This aide has worked with Liv for several years. She gets her. She’s very kind (that’s not to say these new teachers/aides aren’t kind, they just aren’t familiar with Olivia.) and in the email she explained that they’d tried to do the science questions in class but it just didn’t get done.

I replied that I appreciate all that she does for Olivia but I was very frustrated by the lack of written instructions on all the homework she’s been bringing home this year (we’ve had six days of school, for Pete Sakes!)

Mrs. B apologized for the lack of instructions and told me the chapter (14, why are they starting at chapter 14? For the love of Pete!) but said she didn’t have to book with her so she couldn’t tell me the page number. I thanked her for the chapter information and said we could figure it out with that information. But seriously, first of all, CHAPTER 14 at the beginning of the year is stupid. And second, how the hell was I supposed to know to look way the hell back on page freaking 570 for the information she needed to fill out that stupid worksheet?

Ahem.

Her other aide, Ms. P is new to Olivia this year. She seems fine. She goes to science with Olivia, which is great.

On Tuesday, she sent home the worksheet about Ancient Greece. I sent a note back with that blank worksheet and said that I didn’t know how to help Olivia with that work since there were no instructions provided. Ms. P replied to my note with a bunch of jargon I was probably supposed to understand. I didn’t. She went on and on about how they usually do those worksheets in class but the day of the sheet that had come home, Olivia had been taking some kind of placement test.

Okay, whatever. So sent it home but you HAVE to send home written directions so I can help my child.

I sent another reply. This time, I again thanked her for all she does for Olivia. I told her I appreciate that she works with Liv daily and blah blah blah. I then gently reminded her that Olivia is not able to retain instructions from school to home. That the only way I can help Livie with her homework is if she, the aide, and/or the teacher send written directions home with Olivia.

I want Olivia to succeed. I really do. I want her to be independent and to do her work herself. I want her to be able to sit down and do a math worksheet without me sitting next to her telling her to answer the question and then answer the next question and the next. I would love that so, so much.

But we’re not there yet and if they don’t help me help her, we’re going to continue to flounder and I’m going to lose my freaking mind.

And if my husband jovially heads out to pick fucking tomatoes the next time Olivia and I are heading into our second hour of homework, stopping at the door so I can THANK him for being so selfless as to pick those tomatoes FOR ME he’s going to wear those tomatoes. But that’s a vent for another post.

So Different

I have two younger brothers. J is four years younger than I am and M is thirteen years younger.

Let me state right here that they’re both rednecks. I can say that because they’d both declare it loud and proud.

It makes me sad, to be honest. Not the redneckness of it, but how proud they are of it. I almost feel like being proud of their status as rednecks kind of makes it worse than if they were ignorant of their ignorance.

See what I’m saying?

No? Let me tell you a story.

Recently, J posted an opinion piece on FB. Ahh, yes, the book of faces. Sigh.

J opined that schools should show the movie Blazing Saddles as an example of how we can all make fun of ourselves and others. It’s hysterical, he’ll tell you, that the N word can be dropped by anyone and everyone and, get this, NO ONE is offended.

Of course he got all kinds of likes to this post and so many comments about how brilliant he is.

Yes.

I know.

My mom, bless her heart, finally commented, telling my brothers that as white men, they don’t get it. Not at all.

M, in a moment of redneck oblivion, posted, “It is so much cooler when races can be made fun of and make fun of themselves.”

Because it’s important to be cool, don’t you know? Why is everyone so sensitive these days? Don’t they realize that being sensitive isn’t cool?

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself and letting my own feelings of disgust with this entire situation run wild.

I’m not usually one to comment on these sorts of things. I know that I’m not going to change anyone’s mind. But I couldn’t just let that sit there. I thought maybe, just maybe, someone out there was reading this shit being posted by MY BROTHERS and might be feeling like crap because my brothers were being asses.

So, I replied to M’s comment: “You know I adore you, right. But you need to check your white privilege. Those of us who haven’t been oppressed for thousands of years don’t get to make fun of those who have. We just don’t. Lecture over. I love you.”

And of course, he came back, stronger than ever, because that’s what rednecks do. He wrote, “If your great grandpa was oppressed and you were not then it seems like and odd grudge to have. I worked with a Mexican the other day. He made white jokes and the white people made wall/tunnel jokes etc. Everyone laughed. It isn’t my privilege to make jokes. Sounds like whites are the ones oppressed. They ain’t (sic) allowed to joke around. I love you too.”

So not being able to tell racist jokes makes him oppressed. OMG, seriously? This is not a difference of opinion at this point. It’s several lifetimes of ignorance coming together and it makes me sick.

I commented one more time because I couldn’t let it go. “I wish I could explain it better but all I can say is white people (I didn’t say WHITE MEN especially but I wanted to) are in no way oppressed. We just aren’t. Not being able to make racist jokes does not make us oppressed. But I don’t think I can convince you of that so I will stop here.”

Of course, because he’s a redneck who can’t help but dig in when he’s being told he’s a racist pig (but not in so many words because I’m not stupid) he had to reply. I won't retype his entire comment because it was long and ignorant and I just can't. Let me just say that he threw out professional athletes and Oprah Winfrey as people of color who are not oppressed. Again, I just can't anymore.

I let him have the last word. I said my piece. I got my thoughts out there for anyone who might be lurking and watching this unfold. I reacted to his comments with a sad face (rather than the ‘like’ thumbs up that he got from others.)

If we were face to face, I might have tried harder. I might have lectured him on how he’s coming across as an ass and I might still. But I’m letting the FB thing go because, like I said, I know that no matter what I said from that point he wasn’t listening. He wants so badly to be right, even though he’s so, so wrong.

It breaks my heart that people I love can make me dislike them so much.

Putting the P in Postal

I go to the post office every day for work. I pick up the incoming mail from the PO boxes (yes, boxes, there are six that I check daily) and at least once a week, I have to go in and actually interact with postal workers. They’re fine, very professional, maybe a little irritable sometimes but they deal with the general public and let me tell you, that would make me cranky too. And we’ve all figured out that you just can’t fix stupid.

On one recent trip to the post office, I had to drop off a certified mailing, get the date stamp on my receipt for the certified mailing and buy twenty rolls of stamps.

While she was waiting on me, Annie, the post office employee took a phone call. From her side of the call, I could tell that someone wanted to put their mail on hold.

Annie explained that the customer would need to come into the post office and do this in person.

After some back and forth, Annie offered the option of going online to make this request. She told the person it would cost $1.05 to do this online. Then she gave the address to the website.

We all know the postal service’s website, right? USPS.com

Annie said just that, “Go to USPS.com and click on the change my address link. No, that P as in Paul.”

The customer on the phone thought Annie had said B as in boy.

You guys…why would the United States Postal Service’s website be USBS.com? I mean, sure the B could be for BULL and the S could be for SHIT but come on!

I kind of love that Annie said, “P, as in Paul.” She’s way kinder than I am I would have said, my voice dripping in sarcasm, “P…as in POSTAL.” The ‘duh’ at the end of that sentence would have been unvoiced but VERY implied.

After she hung up the phone and rang up my $1100.00 worth of stamps, Annie gave me a smile and as a way of explaining that exchange said, “She was young.”

Just being a customer in that place for ten minutes makes me understand the whole phrase ‘going postal.’

Like I said, you can’t fix stupid but the young do (usually) grow up.

Taking No for an Answer

I don’t think I would handle rejection well, which is why I avoid the possibility of rejection whenever possible. I haven’t actually had to deal with rejection often in my many years in this world. I’m lucky, I know.

But I am also able to read a ‘soft’ no and accept it without pushing.

Example 1:

At work we have an overstock of no-touch thermometers. I asked the engineering manager if I could buy one. He asked how many we had in stock. I told him there were 25 in the area I could see.

That was the end of our communication, all of which took place over email. There was no face-to-face conversation here.

When he didn’t get back to me after I’d told him how many we had, I let it go. I took his non-response as a no, we are not selling the ‘extras’. No need to follow up. No need to make him come out and say no. I don’t need a reason, I don’t need a clearer answer. I get it and I accept it. What else can I do?

Example 2:

My aunt had a pool. We’ve taken Olivia to swim there a few times this summer. It got her out of the house and into the sunshine. My aunt and her husband both said, “Come over anytime!”

Okay. That’s great and all but…no. I’m not going to just arrive at their house and swim in their pool without prior authorization. I just can’t.

So one Friday in late July, I texted my aunt and asked her if I could take Olivia to her house the following Sunday to swim.

My aunt responded with an attachment that I couldn’t open. I replied that I couldn’t open the attachment.

She said, “Oh, it was a good message.”

…

And that was it. That’s all she said.

Do I need to say that we did not go swimming that weekend? I was NOT going to ask again. I wasn’t going to say something like, “So…is that as yes or no to swimming?”

Why? Because her non-answer was a no to me. I didn’t want to put her on the spot. I didn’t want to force her to say no if she didn’t want to come out and say it.

I can take no for an answer, even if the no is never actually verbalized.

Obviously, I would be a terrible sales person. “Oh, you don’t want this vacuum? Okay then, bye.”

I probably wouldn’t have been a very good cis-dude either, what with their inability to take even a clear and firm NO for an answer.

And how about that that, I managed to turn this into a male-bashing post after all.

First Last

On the morning of the first day of school, I was taking pictures of the girls, as one does.

I took pictures of them alone and together as we’ve done since the beginning of this schooling journey.

As I took one of Alyssa, I lamented in a tone of exaggerated despair, “This is your last first day of school.”

She rolled her eyes at me.

I laughed and said, “Just kidding. I’m not (mom who’d two kids graduated last year and the year before and who now posts all kinds of ‘empty nest’ posts on FB. She wails that her kids have left and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Her kids went to the local university. They’re all of a half hour away from her house so…yeah.)”

Alyssa gave me a look of relief that I took as gratitude that I’m not going to embarrass her…yet.

See, it is a little bit sad. I mean, it’s gone so fast. It feels like last year she was the one in 7th grade. I remember thinking during her freshman year that it was all going to fly by and I was right. Sure, the last twenty two weeks of 2020 have crawled by but I can feel the momentum speeding up. I can feel her slipping away. I know this is what we want for her.

When one becomes a parent, the best thing you can hope for is that your child grows up and becomes an independent, well-adjusted adult doing things that make them happy while not being a menace to society.

I think we’ve managed that with Lyss. I mean, we still have a year to really mess her up if we want to but for the most part, she’s pretty much already molded into the model of responsibility and decorum. We’ve done our best and she’s pretty amazing.

But each of these ‘last firsts’ will be bittersweet. Already, because of Covid-19 she missed her last parade, the Kickoff Dance (which I don’t even think she attended last year) has been canceled for this year. She missed her entire junior year track season. So…we’ll cherish each ‘last first’ we get this year as they come and we won’t count on any of them until they happen.

I know I’m echoing what every parent before me has endured as they watched their chickens fly the coop. How lucky are we all that our kids are so amazing that they want to fly and they get to fly and that, if we’re lucky, they’ll come home sometimes and hang out with us, sharing their glories, their failures, their tears and their laughter. We’ve done what we can and now it’s up to them. But it’s nice to know that we can be a safe place to land if things ever get tough and they need to come home.

I’m just going to say it. Home is where your mom is.

Welcome to Junior High

New year, new teacher, new masks, new everything.

We finally said goodbye to spring break after twenty two weeks.

Obviously, spring break morphed into summer break and here we are in August, masking up and starting a new year.

This year kicks off Olivia’s first in junior high and Alyssa’s last in high school.

Since Liv transitioned from elementary to junior high, she’d got an all new teacher. She worked with Dr. C for three years and was very comfortable with her. Now she’d in Mrs. H’s intervention class.

It’s going to be fine.

Olivia was a little nervous the week or so before school started. She was picking at her fingers, not sleeping well, and flapping her left hand more than ever.

The school had canceled the open house, which usually takes place a day or two before school starts in an effort to keep the number of people entering the building to a minimum.

But! They did have a 7th grade orientation two days before the first day of school. That was nice. It explained how junior high will be different from elementary school. It described the day and how the students were responsible for their own behavior, etc.

Okay. Sure. Fine.

Olivia and I got to meet her teacher, which was great. The original plan, way back in February of 6th grade, was to have Mrs. H come to Dr. C’s class and meet Olivia in a safe, familiar setting. Then, in the last few weeks of school (which were, obviously, spent at home with me as the teacher’s aide) Dr. C was going to take O down to Mrs. H’s classroom and let O get used to it little by little.

Well, none of that happened. 2020 went to hell in mid-March and we’re all still on the broken escalator trying to climb back out. Sadly, the people in front of us haven’t figured out that a broken escalator just becomes STAIRS and we all need to just start climbing.

Instead, Olivia came home from spring break and never left the house again until August 17, which is when we attended 7th grade orientation and met her teacher.

Obviously, that’s an exaggeration. But still…kind of accurate.

And yet, it’s going to be fine. We’re all in the same boat. All the kids went home on the afternoon of March 13th and didn’t step foot in the school again for twenty two weeks.

I’m rambling. I’m nervous for her. I know she’ll be fine but I want to fast forward about four weeks and REALLY KNOW she’s fine.

Just wait until next year at this time when Alyssa’s off to college. That’s going to be a fun ramble, isn’t it?

One Foot Out the Door

It’s the first week of Alyssa’s senior year but I swear she’s had one foot out the door on her way to college since the first week of June.

Recently, she told me that she and N and Tessa were talking about next year, A’s and T’s freshman year of college. They all three want to live together at Toledo University.

But, guess what? Toledo’s rule is that incoming students must live on campus for their first four semesters. Of course, there are loopholes. If your family lives within twenty five miles of campus and you’re going to live at home, then fine, you can do that.

If you don’t qualify for that one, then if you can prove financial hardship which would prohibit you from paying for on-campus housing, then sure, find more affordable housing so the university can still get tuition from you.

So, here’s the thing. We do not live within twenty five miles of the Toledo campus. N’s sister, though, does; which is how N has been able to avoid on-campus housing during her time at Toledo University.

Tessa, whose father died when she was seven years old, will probably be able to claim financial hardship.

So…that leaves dear, sweet Alyssa. Poor child, her parents are both still alive and even still married to each other. Sigh.

Wanna guess what her next giant leap was in this little conundrum?

Yeah, she jumped right into: Well, I guess N and I will just go to the courthouse and get married.

That seems a bit extreme, don’t you think? I mean, there are other ways around the ‘must live on campus rule’ besides the VERY BIG STEP of getting married.

There are so many other smaller steps to be taken before leaping into marriage.

I think she was kidding, but I also think she was only sort of kidding.

Everyone who knows me know that if/when Alyssa and N get married, I will throw them the biggest, most beautiful (or smallest, most beautiful, whatever they want) wedding ever. But I want them both to truly be ready for such a step.

But anyway, I think she’s just putting the cart before the horse. She’d just chomping at the bit for independence. She wants so badly to make her own decisions, to learn from her own mistakes, to be trusted to know what’s best for herself.

I do trust her. I know she’s amazing and smart and responsible.

I also know she’s young and so is N. The young are impetuous; even the most responsible young. It’s just the nature of the young. They can’t help it. Their brains are still maturing.

So for the next ten-ish months, she’s going to have to deal with me and her dad making decisions in her best interest. We can’t help it, it’s in our nature to want the best for her. So…there might be some pushing and pulling around here and that’s okay. She needs to push the boundaries and we’ll need to reinforce them.

It’s been a fun ride but it isn’t over yet.

Just the Beginning

When we met Olivia’s new teacher on the evening 7th grade orientation, she very kindly mentioned, TWICE, that during the first week of school (all three days) there would be no homework.

Guess who had homework on the second day of school?

Yeah.

I should have known.

See, this woman, this lovely teacher who is new to Olivia has so very much to learn about the light of my life.

The ‘homework’ Olivia brought home was work she was supposed to do in class that day. What I’m imagining Mrs. H did was place the math sheet with approximately 25 addition problems in front of Olivia. Then, bless her heart, she expected Olivia to actually solve the problems…by herself.

Hahahahahaha.

No.

That’s not how Olivia works. She simply cannot sit there on her own and do this sort of work. She needs someone (me, apparently) to sit next to her and keep her on task by reading every single problem to her, which means, if the problem is 96 +24 I have to asked, “Okay, what’s 6+4? What’s 5+5? 6+4 is the same as 5+5. What’s 5+5? Okay, now that you’ve told me what 5+5 is, what is 6+4? Remember, 6+4 is the same as 5+5. Why did you write a five below the line? Did you say the answer to 6+4 is 5? Okay, Livie, if you erase every single number and then write it again, this is going to take us twice as long. But you still have to leave a little space, even if it’s tiny, between the numbers and letter so your teacher can read what you’re writing. You don’t have to have your numbers and letters hugging each other. It’s better if they don’t touch. Stop sniffing me. What is the answer to this question? Please stop poking the pretzels in the Chex mix with your pencil. Okay, that’s it, the Chex mix is being moved out of reach. But seriously, that is 6+4?”

And after we figure out what 6+4 is, we move on to what 9+2+1 is…and so on and so on and so on. I know.

Yes, this went on for an HOUR that first night.

And first, let me explain that I got home that night already frustrated because my phone was being stupid. Thankfully, Alyssa asked me if I’d turned if off and then back on, which, of course I hadn’t. Once I did that, it was fine. Duh.

Homework got better the longer we worked on it, if you can believe it. I settled down, stopped being a bitch and Olivia stopped sniffing me long enough to do her actual work.

My concern, though, is what happens when she starts having actual homework along with all the shit stuff she was supposed to do at school but just…you know, didn’t? Will we be sitting there for HOURS each night, doing her school work at home and then her homework? Because…no. I just don’t think I can do that. I definitely don’t want to. I want us to have a balance. It’s sort of like work/life except in this case it’s a school/life balance. I want her to be able to relax.

Okay, so I need to calm down.

It’s the first week of school. Her teacher is getting to know her. She has access to Dr. C, the wonderful teacher who worked with Liv over the last few years. They’ll figure this out or they won’t. If they don’t, we’ll figure something out at home. If it comes to it, I’ll ask for a conference and we’ll go from there.

School, like everything else, is a work in process. I need to remember that if I get home another night and find PILES of homework in Liv’s backpack.

Sigh.

Three Years

August 21, 2017 was a Monday. The details are still so clear in my head.

This was the seventeenth anniversary of when I started my job (at the time).

Bigger still, though, it was the day I was told I had cancer. I knew it was coming. My doctor had called me the day before but I hadn’t been near my phone and so wasn’t able to answer.

Doctors do not call you on the weekends with good news.

I called my doctor’s office at 9am the next morning, Monday, August 21, 2017. I was at work because, why not? I didn’t feel sick, there was no reason not to work.

He took my call right away. Again, not a good thing.

He told me right there over the phone that the biopsy came back saying I had cancer. But he didn’t want to go into details on the phone. He asked me if I could come to his office that afternoon. He wanted my husband to be there too.

I called Tom and gave him the news. I asked him if he could meet me at the doctor’s office at 2:30.

I called my mom and asked her if she could meet the girls’ bus at 3:10 at our house. I explained the situation. She cried.

I hadn’t cried at that point. I mean…why? We didn’t know how bad things were yet. I wanted to save my tears for when they might actually be needed.

But I get it. I totally get why my mom cried. If I were told one of my children had cancer, no matter how old those children were (I was 46) I’d cry too.

I continued to work, because what else could I do?

Tom and I met at the doctor’s office. Dr. S was very kind. He explained that my cancer was invasive ductal cancer. It was triple negative. He said I’d need to meet with the surgeon but it might take weeks before I could get in.

At that point, his nurse came and told us that she’d contacted the surgeon’s office and had gotten me in to see him that same week, on Thursday, at 3pm. Dr. S was surprised that Dr. B had an opening.

I was not surprised. It felt very much like divine intervention at work. Just like those nights I’d lay awake, thinking about the pain in my left breast. There was no lump that I could feel. It was too deep. But I knew that pain wasn’t normal.

From there, things just snowballed. Meet the surgeon, get chest x-ray, get breast MRI with contract, schedule surgery (September 5). Meet the oncologist. Get port placed. Set up appointment with chemo nurse (Kyla) for chemo education. Set up appointment for first chemo. Second chemo; two days after that second chemo treatment, my hair started falling out and I was bald all the way into the 16th chemo. Meet with Parkview billing because OF COURSE my treatment was going to span two years and I’d have a whole new deductible to meet. This woman was awesome. She found me a program that would pay up to $5000 toward my Taxol chemo. Guess who much my twelve infusions of Taxol cost? That’s right, exactly $5000.

After chemo was done it’s time to get port removed, meet with radiation oncologist, feel terrible about self for a few days because while he was kind, he was the first doctor in all these doctors I’ve seen and who have seen my stupid boobs to make me feel like maybe the cancer was my fault. Get over myself, schedule appointment to get fitted for brace that I will lay in for my five minutes of radiation that will take place every week day for seven weeks, for a total of 35 treatments.

Schedule first radiation, get through all 35, ‘graduate’ from radiation.

And…done.

Except of course once you’ve been through cancer treatments, you never really feel done. Every twinge, every new ache must be the cancer coming back. It can’t possibly be that I’m getting old and I’m way too fat.

I still see my chemo oncologist every six months. This past June I was released from seeing my radiation oncologist. I see the surgeon once a year. His office schedules my mammograms. I’ve had one more breast MRI (with contrast.)

I’m doing okay. I’m here and I’m so very grateful for that. Every single day is a gift that I don’t appreciate nearly enough what with my irritability and being tired. But that’s life. We can’t be all sunshine and roses every second of every day.

But I do try and take a minute each day to be grateful. I’m grateful to God for His grace and His love. I’m grateful to the doctors and nurses and technicians and billing clerks and hematologists and receptionists who were always so kind to me. Who always treated me like a person, someone going through a traumatic experience rather than a number, someone to push through the program.

I would like for this to have all meant something but it doesn’t always have to. Sometimes, it’s just one chapter in the book of your life. And that’s okay too. But sometimes, like on days like this, I feel the need to go back and reread that chapter, if only to see how far I’ve come.

Self-Aware

One evening a week or so before school started, Olivia declared that she was using a scrap of material from one of Lyss’s craft projects to wrap around her (Olivia’s) left hand. She said she was wrapping her hand to stop herself from flapping that hand. Oh. Yes. The flapping; she’s become aware of the flapping. Maybe she’s always been aware of the flapping but suddenly, she’s aware that not everyone does it. And she doesn’t want to be one of the few who flaps. Sigh. Self-awareness can be a great thing. But then again, it can also be a confidence killer. I want her to be aware of herself and to be able to control her own body. I also want her to feel good about herself and not be worried about all the ways she’s ‘different’ from everyone else. It’s a tough line. After explaining to me that she was wrapping her hand to keep herself from flapping it, she asked me if I would talk to her new teacher this year about the flapping and see if her teacher, Mrs. H, had any ideas for how Liv could keep herself from flapping. She wanted to know if I’d ever done anything like she did. I think she was reassured when I told her that when I was her age, I did shake my hands; both of them. It was very much like the flapping that Olivia does. In fact, it probably was flapping. It started around the time my parents were getting divorced, so…take that for what it’s worth. It drove my mom crazy. Whenever I’d do it around her, she’d snap, “Stop shaking your hands!” I told Olivia that I was able to stop shaking my hands by putting my hands in my pockets, either the front or back pockets of my jeans. She seemed reassured that I’d done it too and I’d been able to stop. I reminded her that once upon a time, she’d sucked her thumb and pulled her hair out and she’d stopped doing those things. She liked knowing that. I’ve often wondered if it’s better to be so disabled as to not even realize you’re disabled or just this side of ‘normal’ and know you’re not quite normal. I love Olivia. I love her so much that it makes my heart hurt to know she’s hurting. And yes, I would STILL take away 5p- if I could. I would ‘fix’ her because it would make her life easier. I think she’s amazing just the way she is but I also know that having all of that fifth chromosome would take away some of the quirks, some of the challenges, some of the things that make her life harder. Self-awareness…a blessing or a curse?