March 6…not only is this Tom’s oldest daughter’s (the girls older sister? My step-daughter? Jessica? After all these years, what’s the best way to refer to her?) birthday it’s also the anniversary of my last chemotherapy infusion. Go me.
Let’s be honest. Do I miss it?
No, I do not. I don’t miss the smell that invaded my head the moment the nurse started the infusion. I don’t miss the Benedryl grogginess or the steroid insomnia. I don’t miss the baldness.
But…I miss knowing we were actively fighting cancer. I don’t miss the appointments but I do miss knowing that if I had a concern, I’d been seeing a medical professional in a matter of days.
And this is all at a time when I’m feeling pretty good. Please, God/Universe/karma don’t take this as a challenge. I don’t want to make any statements that might come back and bite me in the ass. But I also want to celebrate these moments when I’m not actively worried about my health.
I mean, duh, I still need to lose an enormous amount of weight but my aches and pains have lessened, my fears are subsiding. Of course, those fears reserve the right to rear their ugly heads at a moment’s notice any time they want.
I recently went to the visitation for the mother of a friend from high school. This woman was lovely. She was always so kind whenever her daughter, C, had friends over. She doted on her husband, who I’m thinking was a pain in the ass kind of husband.
While she was 78 years old, these days, that doesn’t seem all that old to me. She died from lung cancer. She was diagnosed two months ago and chose not to seek treatment.
I get it.
She’d lived with a smoker her entire life. Both of her brothers died from cancer. I know one of them had stomach cancer and I’m not sure about the other.
Sigh.
Cancer sucks so much.
But here I am. Telling my tale. Actually, I’m telling the tales of so many more people than myself. I tell tales that aren’t mine to tell. I apologize in advance as well as for past transgressions of telling stories that aren’t mine to tell.
I’m an over-sharer, it’s been an established trait. The problem, I don’t just over-share about myself. You come into contact with me and I’ll probably over-share about you to someone else.
Sorry.
Seriously.
A mom, a dad and two daughters. We're living ordinary lives with a twist of 5p- (Cri du Chat) for spice. But we're about so much more than our younger daughter's genetic diagnosis.
Monday, March 30, 2020
Friday, March 27, 2020
Just Another Day
You know the day before was a rough one when your first thought upon waking to a new day is, “Please don’t let me yell at her like a crazy person again today.”
But damn it.
I guess I just wish my youngest child could step outside her own head for a few minutes and see what her actions affect others.
But even if she could do this (she’s thirteen, even if she were typical, I think this would be hard for her) I don’t think it would apply to me. I’m mom. In her eyes, I’m really only there to serve her needs. I’m pretty sure she feels the same about her dad but he’s infinitely more patient than I am.
Or, maybe he’s just not as tired as I always am. See, he deals with the after school demands. I deal with nighttime and first thing in the morning demands.
And you know? She’s not that bad. It’s just…I get so beyond tired and frustrated and I just want things to be easier than they are. I wish things weren’t such a production sometimes.
I’ll announced, “We’re going to bed in five minutes.”
Five minutes later, I turn off the television and get up, stating, “I’m going to bed.”
Then the drama begins. “Wait!” she shriek, rushing to plug in her tablet, gather the crap she sleeps with (all kinds of insane, pointy shit that can’t possibly be comfortable to have in bed with you, but whatever, it’s her bed so…)
Then we brush her teeth and then we go upstairs and she has to pee and make sure the stupid toilet lid is closed.
Finally, she makes her way to her bed fifteen minutes after I’d turned off the television.
Then she has to move her pillows around and get situation. But last night, before she could get into bed, she had to run back downstairs to ‘look for something.’
She didn’t tell me what she was looking for. If she had, I’d have been able to save her ten minutes of searching and three minutes of yelling on my part. Sigh.
She finally came back upstairs empty handed after I’d yelled down that I was going to bed without her and she could tuck her own self in.
She screamed from the bottom of the stairs, “Mom! Wait!”
I was in my bed and she came in and stared at me. No words, just staring because obviously, I wasn’t going by the script.
I asked her what she’d been looking for downstairs.
“My sunglasses,” she confessed.
I rolled my eyes (because I’m a bitch) and said in stilted tones, “Go down the hall to your room, look in the purple bag that’s on the trunk at the end of the bed.”
She skedaddled down the hall and what do you know? She came back less than a minute later with two pairs of sunglasses to add to the pile of toys in her bed.
I asked her why she needed sunglasses since she was going to sleep. She shrugged because, duh, don’t ask stupid questions, Mom.
I got out of bed, made the turtles and Gub kiss her goodnight and then told her that Barbie was too tired to sing that night and to just go to sleep.
Yes, please do be polishing up my Mother of the Year award. I’ll collect it next week.
I sulked for a few minutes and then apologized to her. I told her I hoped tomorrow night would be smoother and that I hoped Barbie would feel like singing to her.
She asked me if I was still mad at her.
I sighed and told her I wasn’t.
She deserves so much better.
So today and tonight, I’m going to pretend to be better. Fake it till you make it, dude.
But damn it.
I guess I just wish my youngest child could step outside her own head for a few minutes and see what her actions affect others.
But even if she could do this (she’s thirteen, even if she were typical, I think this would be hard for her) I don’t think it would apply to me. I’m mom. In her eyes, I’m really only there to serve her needs. I’m pretty sure she feels the same about her dad but he’s infinitely more patient than I am.
Or, maybe he’s just not as tired as I always am. See, he deals with the after school demands. I deal with nighttime and first thing in the morning demands.
And you know? She’s not that bad. It’s just…I get so beyond tired and frustrated and I just want things to be easier than they are. I wish things weren’t such a production sometimes.
I’ll announced, “We’re going to bed in five minutes.”
Five minutes later, I turn off the television and get up, stating, “I’m going to bed.”
Then the drama begins. “Wait!” she shriek, rushing to plug in her tablet, gather the crap she sleeps with (all kinds of insane, pointy shit that can’t possibly be comfortable to have in bed with you, but whatever, it’s her bed so…)
Then we brush her teeth and then we go upstairs and she has to pee and make sure the stupid toilet lid is closed.
Finally, she makes her way to her bed fifteen minutes after I’d turned off the television.
Then she has to move her pillows around and get situation. But last night, before she could get into bed, she had to run back downstairs to ‘look for something.’
She didn’t tell me what she was looking for. If she had, I’d have been able to save her ten minutes of searching and three minutes of yelling on my part. Sigh.
She finally came back upstairs empty handed after I’d yelled down that I was going to bed without her and she could tuck her own self in.
She screamed from the bottom of the stairs, “Mom! Wait!”
I was in my bed and she came in and stared at me. No words, just staring because obviously, I wasn’t going by the script.
I asked her what she’d been looking for downstairs.
“My sunglasses,” she confessed.
I rolled my eyes (because I’m a bitch) and said in stilted tones, “Go down the hall to your room, look in the purple bag that’s on the trunk at the end of the bed.”
She skedaddled down the hall and what do you know? She came back less than a minute later with two pairs of sunglasses to add to the pile of toys in her bed.
I asked her why she needed sunglasses since she was going to sleep. She shrugged because, duh, don’t ask stupid questions, Mom.
I got out of bed, made the turtles and Gub kiss her goodnight and then told her that Barbie was too tired to sing that night and to just go to sleep.
Yes, please do be polishing up my Mother of the Year award. I’ll collect it next week.
I sulked for a few minutes and then apologized to her. I told her I hoped tomorrow night would be smoother and that I hoped Barbie would feel like singing to her.
She asked me if I was still mad at her.
I sighed and told her I wasn’t.
She deserves so much better.
So today and tonight, I’m going to pretend to be better. Fake it till you make it, dude.
Thursday, March 26, 2020
Scrabble
Olivia and I recently joined my mom for a quick jaunt to Battle Creek. By quick jaunt, I mean, we left home at 10:30 on a Saturday morning and were home at 3:15 that next Sunday afternoon.
Grammy Dotty lives in Battle Creek with my Auntie Laura. Auntie Laura also cares for her husband, who is not well. Her son, Aidan, lives with them as well and helped care for Grammy Dotty and Bill, Laura’s husband.
But wait, that’s not the entire cast of characters.
After my mom picked up me and Olivia, we drove to Angola where we picked up my mom’s two older sisters, Aunties Judith and Kathy.
And once we got to Auntie Laura’s house, my mom’s youngest sister, Auntie Nora arrived. Got it?
So, in order of age, here were the sisters in attendance:
Judith, Kathy, my mom (Gram or, Thea if you will) Laura and Nora.
First we made lunch, which was lovely.
Then Aiden set up the Scrabble board.
My mom and her sisters, as well as Aidan, are cut-throat Scrabble players.
I enjoy a game of Scrabble but I don’t feel the need to sabotage the board in order to keep others from making decent words.
We sat down to play the first game which included me, Aidan, my mom and Auntie Judith.
The house rules for this Scrabble game are:
Everyone draws one tile to see who goes first. The person with the letter closest to A goes first, then the person to that person’s left and so on.
Then, everyone draws another six tiles to bring them up to seven. After each turn, you reach in, get your allotted tiles and move on.
The problem is, Auntie Judith cheats and it makes my mom, Auntie Laura and Aidan crazy.
How does she cheat, you ask? Well, the very first part of the game, pulling one letter out of the bag, is hard for her. She’ll reach in, pull out three tiles, look at them and then pick the one she wants, putting the other two back.
Then, she does that same little act every single turn. Even if she only played two tiles, she’ll reach in, take out a handful, sort through them, choosing the tiles she wants and then put the extras back in the bag.
My mom calls her on this every single turn and Auntie Judith gets snippy, insisting she didn’t do that when everyone at the table saw her do it. Or, she’ll play dumb and ask, “How else am I supposed to get more letters?”
To which my mom replies, “By reaching in and pulling out one at a time, if necessary. Only take as many as you need. You don’t get to pick and choose from a handful!”
The very first time my mom called her out about it, she took one too many tiles and so said all innocently as she put one back, after looking at them all, “Ooops, took one to many.”
And you know what? It’s actually not even any fun to play with someone who plays like that.
She ended up pulling ahead and winning by a single point in that first game.
The second game, though, Aidan won by a landslide.
I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to be my game so instead of playing defensively for myself, I played for assist points (which obviously don’t get counted on my scoreboard but they sure as hell made me feel better when he beat Auntie Judith by a t least 50 points.) by strategically playing words that would help him play even better words.
And the thing is, Auntie Judith is so wrapped in her own little game, her own world that she didn’t even realize we’d ganged up on her. Which maybe wasn’t fair but it sure was fun.
This was the first gathering of the sisters since Auntie Nell (her real name) died. It was sweet and sad and everyone missed her so very, very much. She loved Scrabble too and she was NOT willing to let Judith get away with anything either.
Grammy Dotty lives in Battle Creek with my Auntie Laura. Auntie Laura also cares for her husband, who is not well. Her son, Aidan, lives with them as well and helped care for Grammy Dotty and Bill, Laura’s husband.
But wait, that’s not the entire cast of characters.
After my mom picked up me and Olivia, we drove to Angola where we picked up my mom’s two older sisters, Aunties Judith and Kathy.
And once we got to Auntie Laura’s house, my mom’s youngest sister, Auntie Nora arrived. Got it?
So, in order of age, here were the sisters in attendance:
Judith, Kathy, my mom (Gram or, Thea if you will) Laura and Nora.
First we made lunch, which was lovely.
Then Aiden set up the Scrabble board.
My mom and her sisters, as well as Aidan, are cut-throat Scrabble players.
I enjoy a game of Scrabble but I don’t feel the need to sabotage the board in order to keep others from making decent words.
We sat down to play the first game which included me, Aidan, my mom and Auntie Judith.
The house rules for this Scrabble game are:
Everyone draws one tile to see who goes first. The person with the letter closest to A goes first, then the person to that person’s left and so on.
Then, everyone draws another six tiles to bring them up to seven. After each turn, you reach in, get your allotted tiles and move on.
The problem is, Auntie Judith cheats and it makes my mom, Auntie Laura and Aidan crazy.
How does she cheat, you ask? Well, the very first part of the game, pulling one letter out of the bag, is hard for her. She’ll reach in, pull out three tiles, look at them and then pick the one she wants, putting the other two back.
Then, she does that same little act every single turn. Even if she only played two tiles, she’ll reach in, take out a handful, sort through them, choosing the tiles she wants and then put the extras back in the bag.
My mom calls her on this every single turn and Auntie Judith gets snippy, insisting she didn’t do that when everyone at the table saw her do it. Or, she’ll play dumb and ask, “How else am I supposed to get more letters?”
To which my mom replies, “By reaching in and pulling out one at a time, if necessary. Only take as many as you need. You don’t get to pick and choose from a handful!”
The very first time my mom called her out about it, she took one too many tiles and so said all innocently as she put one back, after looking at them all, “Ooops, took one to many.”
And you know what? It’s actually not even any fun to play with someone who plays like that.
She ended up pulling ahead and winning by a single point in that first game.
The second game, though, Aidan won by a landslide.
I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to be my game so instead of playing defensively for myself, I played for assist points (which obviously don’t get counted on my scoreboard but they sure as hell made me feel better when he beat Auntie Judith by a t least 50 points.) by strategically playing words that would help him play even better words.
And the thing is, Auntie Judith is so wrapped in her own little game, her own world that she didn’t even realize we’d ganged up on her. Which maybe wasn’t fair but it sure was fun.
This was the first gathering of the sisters since Auntie Nell (her real name) died. It was sweet and sad and everyone missed her so very, very much. She loved Scrabble too and she was NOT willing to let Judith get away with anything either.
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
Job Hunting Etiquette
So I worked in HR for almost 18 years.
These days, I’m on the periphery of HR. And honestly, I’m okay with that. I have no desire to be back in the conference room conducting interviews and filling out reviews and sitting in on meetings issuing warnings or even, heaven forbid, terminations.
No thank you.
But since I’m still here, on the edges of it all, I have a bit of advice for anyone out there on the job hunt.
First, an interview is your chance to make a first impression. So…maybe shower the day of your interview and wear clean clothes. I know, this seems so obvious. You’d be surprised by how many people don’t do these things. I’ve had to spray the area around my desk more times than I can count in an effort to mask body odor and/or cigarette smoke.
That brings me to the second hint. If you smoke, well, obviously, you should quit but I get that it’s harder than I think. But, um, maybe don’t sit in an enclose car and puff away at that last cigarette right before entering the building where you interview is taking place. The haze of smoke is blinding and it causes more gagging than you may realize. Ick.
I mean, okay. I get that maybe you’re nervous and so you need that last cigarette. But perhaps you could finish it a few minutes early and get out of the car and let the wind blow the stink off for a bit before heading inside the building.
Third, let’s say you decide to apply for a job at the same place your significant other is applying. Good for you two for wanting to work. That’s awesome. And hey, if your interviews are back to back on the same day, I get needing to bring your kids with you. No big deal there.
But…see, if your significant other is called and invited back for a second interview, maybe DON’T send the hiring manager a snippy little email that says, “Guess I didn’t make the cut.”
Yes, that happened. Talk about burning bridges.
Why would you do that?
You don’t know if maybe the significant other was just a better fit for the position the hiring manager happened to have open at that moment. You could very well be the next on the list for the very next job opening but if you’re going to show that kind of attitude before you’re even on the payroll…guess who isn’t going to end up on the payroll at all.
Another suggestion is to maybe take your facial piercings out before the interview. I know that these days these things are much more acceptable than they were even ten years ago, but damn. When you’re face has more holes than…something with a lot of holes, maybe don’t wear the three lip rings, the tongue stud and the eyebrow ring for that first interview. The green hair probably can’t be changed as easily but the piercings…they just kind of put some people off.
I know I’m showing my age here. I am very much a member of Generation X and it shows. But damn, people.
These days, I’m on the periphery of HR. And honestly, I’m okay with that. I have no desire to be back in the conference room conducting interviews and filling out reviews and sitting in on meetings issuing warnings or even, heaven forbid, terminations.
No thank you.
But since I’m still here, on the edges of it all, I have a bit of advice for anyone out there on the job hunt.
First, an interview is your chance to make a first impression. So…maybe shower the day of your interview and wear clean clothes. I know, this seems so obvious. You’d be surprised by how many people don’t do these things. I’ve had to spray the area around my desk more times than I can count in an effort to mask body odor and/or cigarette smoke.
That brings me to the second hint. If you smoke, well, obviously, you should quit but I get that it’s harder than I think. But, um, maybe don’t sit in an enclose car and puff away at that last cigarette right before entering the building where you interview is taking place. The haze of smoke is blinding and it causes more gagging than you may realize. Ick.
I mean, okay. I get that maybe you’re nervous and so you need that last cigarette. But perhaps you could finish it a few minutes early and get out of the car and let the wind blow the stink off for a bit before heading inside the building.
Third, let’s say you decide to apply for a job at the same place your significant other is applying. Good for you two for wanting to work. That’s awesome. And hey, if your interviews are back to back on the same day, I get needing to bring your kids with you. No big deal there.
But…see, if your significant other is called and invited back for a second interview, maybe DON’T send the hiring manager a snippy little email that says, “Guess I didn’t make the cut.”
Yes, that happened. Talk about burning bridges.
Why would you do that?
You don’t know if maybe the significant other was just a better fit for the position the hiring manager happened to have open at that moment. You could very well be the next on the list for the very next job opening but if you’re going to show that kind of attitude before you’re even on the payroll…guess who isn’t going to end up on the payroll at all.
Another suggestion is to maybe take your facial piercings out before the interview. I know that these days these things are much more acceptable than they were even ten years ago, but damn. When you’re face has more holes than…something with a lot of holes, maybe don’t wear the three lip rings, the tongue stud and the eyebrow ring for that first interview. The green hair probably can’t be changed as easily but the piercings…they just kind of put some people off.
I know I’m showing my age here. I am very much a member of Generation X and it shows. But damn, people.
Tuesday, March 24, 2020
Stage Mom
Another year, another musical. This year’s musical is The Addam’s Family. Alyssa is in the chorus.
Because I’m That Mom, I’ve helped with costumes and hair and makeup. I also made food for the evening of the last performance.
It’s what I do.
But you know what? I’m willing to be That Mom but I really don’t want to be THAT MOM.
And yet, they almost made me do it.
The first full dress rehearsal with hair and makeup was the Sunday before the actual performances which were the following Friday and Saturday.
Oh my goodness, let me tell you, that show was rough that Sunday night. Yikes.
But what made me almost turn into THAT MOM was the fact that during an ensemble scene there are two duets. One is sung by two girls on the left side of the stage. The other is sung by my own darling Alyssa and a fellow ancestor (what they call the chorus in The Addams Family.) That Sunday evening the two girls on the left side of the stage both had microphones (these are worn on the head with the mike wrapping around their face toward their mouth) and neither Alyssa nor her duet partner had one.
Obviously, this meant that you couldn’t hear Lyss’s voice (or her male partner’s) over the pit band. But you heard A and J loud and clear.
I made up my mind that the next day, which was also a full hair and makeup dress rehearsal, I would speak to one of the directors and gently suggest that perhaps one of the two mikes on the girls across the stage from Lyss should give up her microphone to Alyssa or the dude who was ‘singing’ along with her (for what it’s worth, he doesn’t actually sing, so it’s kind of a solo – Oh, hello, my name is Marie Nordoff and I am THAT MOM.)
I worked myself into quite the tizzy that night, worrying over the ‘confrontation’ I’d have to have with the directors.
Yes, it was as ridiculous as it sounds. I kept telling my stupid brain to call the hell down. It wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, seriously.
But my mind would not stop. I ran scenarios in my head, thought about how I’d make the suggestion gently, not so much as a stage mom but as a concerned audience member who wants everyone to hear everything that’s going on in the play.
And guess what? All that angst was for naught. The directors watched the same rehearsal I’d watched and told Alyssa the very next night that she needed to wear one of the mikes so we could hear her.
Hear that brain? We didn’t have to be THAT MOM. It’s okay and all that worry was completely unnecessary.
[Side story to this whole thing: I stupidly mentioned the mike thing to the real Marie Nordoff. Guess which role her daughter, Harmony, is playing? Why yes, she is a member of the Addams Family, however did you guess? No, I’m not going to say which member of the family. I’m pretending to maintain the slightest bit of anonymity here. Anyway, when I mentioned not being able to hear Alyssa’s and her duet partner’s voices, Marie was quick to tell me that the school has a limited number of microphones and they have to give them out in order of who has the most lines/songs.
Duh.
I managed to not roll my eyes at her or tell her, “Yeah, I know. It’s not like I was going to suggest they take Harmony’s microphone away from her to give to my kid and her one small solo. Though, let’s all be honest here, Harmony’s got a voice on her that carries pretty darned well without a mike. Just saying.]
*Please note that the musical was a couple of weeks ago but I wrote this and scheduled it to post at a later date. I know, I should probably be better at posting more current stuff but hey, I'm doing the best I can here.*
Because I’m That Mom, I’ve helped with costumes and hair and makeup. I also made food for the evening of the last performance.
It’s what I do.
But you know what? I’m willing to be That Mom but I really don’t want to be THAT MOM.
And yet, they almost made me do it.
The first full dress rehearsal with hair and makeup was the Sunday before the actual performances which were the following Friday and Saturday.
Oh my goodness, let me tell you, that show was rough that Sunday night. Yikes.
But what made me almost turn into THAT MOM was the fact that during an ensemble scene there are two duets. One is sung by two girls on the left side of the stage. The other is sung by my own darling Alyssa and a fellow ancestor (what they call the chorus in The Addams Family.) That Sunday evening the two girls on the left side of the stage both had microphones (these are worn on the head with the mike wrapping around their face toward their mouth) and neither Alyssa nor her duet partner had one.
Obviously, this meant that you couldn’t hear Lyss’s voice (or her male partner’s) over the pit band. But you heard A and J loud and clear.
I made up my mind that the next day, which was also a full hair and makeup dress rehearsal, I would speak to one of the directors and gently suggest that perhaps one of the two mikes on the girls across the stage from Lyss should give up her microphone to Alyssa or the dude who was ‘singing’ along with her (for what it’s worth, he doesn’t actually sing, so it’s kind of a solo – Oh, hello, my name is Marie Nordoff and I am THAT MOM.)
I worked myself into quite the tizzy that night, worrying over the ‘confrontation’ I’d have to have with the directors.
Yes, it was as ridiculous as it sounds. I kept telling my stupid brain to call the hell down. It wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, seriously.
But my mind would not stop. I ran scenarios in my head, thought about how I’d make the suggestion gently, not so much as a stage mom but as a concerned audience member who wants everyone to hear everything that’s going on in the play.
And guess what? All that angst was for naught. The directors watched the same rehearsal I’d watched and told Alyssa the very next night that she needed to wear one of the mikes so we could hear her.
Hear that brain? We didn’t have to be THAT MOM. It’s okay and all that worry was completely unnecessary.
[Side story to this whole thing: I stupidly mentioned the mike thing to the real Marie Nordoff. Guess which role her daughter, Harmony, is playing? Why yes, she is a member of the Addams Family, however did you guess? No, I’m not going to say which member of the family. I’m pretending to maintain the slightest bit of anonymity here. Anyway, when I mentioned not being able to hear Alyssa’s and her duet partner’s voices, Marie was quick to tell me that the school has a limited number of microphones and they have to give them out in order of who has the most lines/songs.
Duh.
I managed to not roll my eyes at her or tell her, “Yeah, I know. It’s not like I was going to suggest they take Harmony’s microphone away from her to give to my kid and her one small solo. Though, let’s all be honest here, Harmony’s got a voice on her that carries pretty darned well without a mike. Just saying.]
*Please note that the musical was a couple of weeks ago but I wrote this and scheduled it to post at a later date. I know, I should probably be better at posting more current stuff but hey, I'm doing the best I can here.*
Monday, March 23, 2020
She Comes By It Naturally
The week before the school musical was rough.
I don’t know why the slightest adjustment to our schedule messes me up so much but damn.
A Tuesday (big shocker) evening was stressful from beginning to end. O and I spent about 45 minutes at my mom’s which was the least stressful part of the day. Rain fell and we watched a rainbow appear. It was lovely.
Then…we went home and it all fell apart. We got home around 6:15. Guess who had homework. If you guessed that I was the one who had homework, you’d be right because obviously if O brings home work that has to be turned in the next day, I am basically the one who does it. I’m so over that shit. I actually wrote question marks on two of the questions because they were stupid and I couldn’t figure out how, from the boring-ass article sent home, one would figure out the answer. One such question was something like, “How could the original settles of the near the Indus river have avoided the flooding of their area?”
I mean…? What? They could have maybe, I don’t know, not settled there? What a stupid question.
Ahem.
Part of what annoys the shit out of me during ‘our’ homework time is that the more frustrated I get, the more Olivia acts out. I know she’s responding to me. I know if I’d just calm myself down it would go much more smoothly but the more she acts out, the more irritated I get and it’s just builds until I want to scream.
After the homework fiasco, it was time for Olivia to eat dinner.
You guys….I just don’t know. This child asks for snacks every ten minutes all freaking day long. But the minutes you put food in front of her that is an actually meal, she acts like she’s three years old. She reads and writes and plays with whatever is in front of her but she doesn’t actually EAT HER FREAKING FOOD. She screws around and then complains that the food is cold.
It’s infuriating. She is thirteen years old and has hands that work, why will she NOT pick up a fucking fork and feed herself?
Finally, she was done eating (sort of but whatever) and she and I could go upstairs so she could take a bath.
Please note that nowhere in the above paragraphs do I mentioned eating dinner myself. Oh hell no. I had to pack lunches (mine and Alyssa’s because she’s decided that when she was in fifth grade and wanted so desperately to pack her own lunch that this independence as premature and these days she’s simply too busy and put-upon to pack her own lunch.) while Liv was eating.
The bath took FOREVER but at last, she was clean and hey, would you look at that, she hadn’t flooded the bathroom. I’m calling it a win.
That was our Tuesday evening.
Then...Wednesday at work…OMG.
I go to the post office every single day at 10am.
Except on this day, at 9:22, the owner of the company brought an envelope down to be mailed and mentioned having more and confirming that I usually go at 10am.
I confirmed that I do go at 10 but said (stupidly) that if he needed me to wait a few minutes, I could go a little later than 10.
At 9:57, he came down with one more envelope (how freaking long does it take to write checks is what I want to know?) and said that if I could give him five to ten more minutes he'd have more. Obviously, I said sure because, hello, owner of the company.
I went into the restroom at 10ish.
I came out at a few minutes after 10ish. Still no more mail.
I waited.
And waited.
Suddenly, I realized I’d heard his voice in the conference room, which is around the corner from my desk.
It was 10:15 at this point, almost twenty minutes after he’d asked me if I could give him five or ten more minutes.
I was twiddling my stupid thumbs waiting for mail that obviously wasn’t coming any time soon.
Damn it!
I had a project that I needed to start at 10:30.
I know the post office isn’t going anywhere and it’s open all day but I have a schedule and a routine and I HATE it when it gets messed up.
Obviously, Olivia comes by this naturally.
I finally left for the post office at 10:23, having confirmed that the owner was not, in fact, going to be giving anything else that needed to go out. Actually, though, could you maybe just take these three letters/checks later in the day?
Sure, why not? It’s not like I need to rush home each evening and do homework or anything.
Gah, I’m such a bitch these days.
I don’t know why the slightest adjustment to our schedule messes me up so much but damn.
A Tuesday (big shocker) evening was stressful from beginning to end. O and I spent about 45 minutes at my mom’s which was the least stressful part of the day. Rain fell and we watched a rainbow appear. It was lovely.
Then…we went home and it all fell apart. We got home around 6:15. Guess who had homework. If you guessed that I was the one who had homework, you’d be right because obviously if O brings home work that has to be turned in the next day, I am basically the one who does it. I’m so over that shit. I actually wrote question marks on two of the questions because they were stupid and I couldn’t figure out how, from the boring-ass article sent home, one would figure out the answer. One such question was something like, “How could the original settles of the near the Indus river have avoided the flooding of their area?”
I mean…? What? They could have maybe, I don’t know, not settled there? What a stupid question.
Ahem.
Part of what annoys the shit out of me during ‘our’ homework time is that the more frustrated I get, the more Olivia acts out. I know she’s responding to me. I know if I’d just calm myself down it would go much more smoothly but the more she acts out, the more irritated I get and it’s just builds until I want to scream.
After the homework fiasco, it was time for Olivia to eat dinner.
You guys….I just don’t know. This child asks for snacks every ten minutes all freaking day long. But the minutes you put food in front of her that is an actually meal, she acts like she’s three years old. She reads and writes and plays with whatever is in front of her but she doesn’t actually EAT HER FREAKING FOOD. She screws around and then complains that the food is cold.
It’s infuriating. She is thirteen years old and has hands that work, why will she NOT pick up a fucking fork and feed herself?
Finally, she was done eating (sort of but whatever) and she and I could go upstairs so she could take a bath.
Please note that nowhere in the above paragraphs do I mentioned eating dinner myself. Oh hell no. I had to pack lunches (mine and Alyssa’s because she’s decided that when she was in fifth grade and wanted so desperately to pack her own lunch that this independence as premature and these days she’s simply too busy and put-upon to pack her own lunch.) while Liv was eating.
The bath took FOREVER but at last, she was clean and hey, would you look at that, she hadn’t flooded the bathroom. I’m calling it a win.
That was our Tuesday evening.
Then...Wednesday at work…OMG.
I go to the post office every single day at 10am.
Except on this day, at 9:22, the owner of the company brought an envelope down to be mailed and mentioned having more and confirming that I usually go at 10am.
I confirmed that I do go at 10 but said (stupidly) that if he needed me to wait a few minutes, I could go a little later than 10.
At 9:57, he came down with one more envelope (how freaking long does it take to write checks is what I want to know?) and said that if I could give him five to ten more minutes he'd have more. Obviously, I said sure because, hello, owner of the company.
I went into the restroom at 10ish.
I came out at a few minutes after 10ish. Still no more mail.
I waited.
And waited.
Suddenly, I realized I’d heard his voice in the conference room, which is around the corner from my desk.
It was 10:15 at this point, almost twenty minutes after he’d asked me if I could give him five or ten more minutes.
I was twiddling my stupid thumbs waiting for mail that obviously wasn’t coming any time soon.
Damn it!
I had a project that I needed to start at 10:30.
I know the post office isn’t going anywhere and it’s open all day but I have a schedule and a routine and I HATE it when it gets messed up.
Obviously, Olivia comes by this naturally.
I finally left for the post office at 10:23, having confirmed that the owner was not, in fact, going to be giving anything else that needed to go out. Actually, though, could you maybe just take these three letters/checks later in the day?
Sure, why not? It’s not like I need to rush home each evening and do homework or anything.
Gah, I’m such a bitch these days.
Friday, March 20, 2020
The One Where I Talk about My Favorite Chris aka You Can Skip this One if You want
The One Where I Talk about My Favorite Chris
Everyone has a favorite Chris, right? I mean, how can you not? Sure, they’ve all got their strengths but obviously one is far and away the best Chris.
Can you guess my favorite Chris?
But wait, is it hurtful for me to have a least favorite Chris? It’s not like Chris Evans is ever going to read this, right? So yes, there it is. He’s my least favorite Chris. Though to be fair to him, I haven’t actually ever seen any of the movies he’s been in. I know, *gasp* I’ve never seen Captain America. Nerd that I am, I’ve never really been into the Marvel superheroes. It’s not that I dislike the Marvel universe, in fact, I do so love the X-men but I’ve always just been more of a DC fan when it comes to the movies, X-Men not included. OMG, this is getting REALLY nerdy. Sorry.
Pratt and Hemsworth are tied for second place. I mean, neither is awful or anything, they just aren’t Chris Pine.
Ahhh, Chris Pine.
Have you seen him in Finest Hours? That man is so amazing. He captures the character of Bernie Webber so beautifully. I just can’t even stand it. I think I’ve watched that movie at least four times and now, just thinking about it, I want to watch it again.
And then there’s his portrayal of Captain James T. Kirk. I love him so much (both Kirk and Pine.) He manages to bring Kirk to life without making him a caricature. He doesn’t do ‘William Shatner as Kirk.’ He’s managed to breathe life into a character that could very much be cartoonish.
But wait, that’s not all. His role as Steve Travers in Wonder Woman…I mean, damn. He’s just so pretty.
Everyone has a favorite Chris, right? I mean, how can you not? Sure, they’ve all got their strengths but obviously one is far and away the best Chris.
Can you guess my favorite Chris?
But wait, is it hurtful for me to have a least favorite Chris? It’s not like Chris Evans is ever going to read this, right? So yes, there it is. He’s my least favorite Chris. Though to be fair to him, I haven’t actually ever seen any of the movies he’s been in. I know, *gasp* I’ve never seen Captain America. Nerd that I am, I’ve never really been into the Marvel superheroes. It’s not that I dislike the Marvel universe, in fact, I do so love the X-men but I’ve always just been more of a DC fan when it comes to the movies, X-Men not included. OMG, this is getting REALLY nerdy. Sorry.
Pratt and Hemsworth are tied for second place. I mean, neither is awful or anything, they just aren’t Chris Pine.
Ahhh, Chris Pine.
Have you seen him in Finest Hours? That man is so amazing. He captures the character of Bernie Webber so beautifully. I just can’t even stand it. I think I’ve watched that movie at least four times and now, just thinking about it, I want to watch it again.
And then there’s his portrayal of Captain James T. Kirk. I love him so much (both Kirk and Pine.) He manages to bring Kirk to life without making him a caricature. He doesn’t do ‘William Shatner as Kirk.’ He’s managed to breathe life into a character that could very much be cartoonish.
But wait, that’s not all. His role as Steve Travers in Wonder Woman…I mean, damn. He’s just so pretty.
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Trying to Get a Grip
need to get a grip. I’m a mess these days. I don’t even know why.
I feel so put upon, as if the world is asking more of me than I want to give.
Which is stupid, I am only being asked what I’ve already offered.
So suck it up, buttercup.
Maybe it’s the time of year. Friday, March 6 was the two year anniversary of my last chemo. Why should that get to me? I don’t even know but I also don’t pretend to understand the human brain.
I know people suffer post-traumatic stress but seriously, self? What the hell? What I went through doesn’t necessitate PTSD, for Pete’s sake (aka, Pete Sakes.)
I’m here, aren’t I? Is that enough to celebrate? Why do I have to also be so low and annoyed at everyone and everything?
My poor husband and daughters don’t know what to do. If they look at me wrong I either glare at them, snap some snarky comment or cry. What the actual hell? Maybe I need a week-long nap. Someone swaddle me, rub my back and sing me to sleep. Or, you know, maybe everyone could just leave me the hell alone and I will just put myself to bed.
Whatever.
This too shall pass and all that jazz.
But until it does, I apologize in advance for anything I say or do that might be obnoxious. I mean, seriously, just ignore me for the next week or so. And please, PLEASE forgive me if it feels like I’m ignoring you. I promise it’s not you, it’s me.
I feel so put upon, as if the world is asking more of me than I want to give.
Which is stupid, I am only being asked what I’ve already offered.
So suck it up, buttercup.
Maybe it’s the time of year. Friday, March 6 was the two year anniversary of my last chemo. Why should that get to me? I don’t even know but I also don’t pretend to understand the human brain.
I know people suffer post-traumatic stress but seriously, self? What the hell? What I went through doesn’t necessitate PTSD, for Pete’s sake (aka, Pete Sakes.)
I’m here, aren’t I? Is that enough to celebrate? Why do I have to also be so low and annoyed at everyone and everything?
My poor husband and daughters don’t know what to do. If they look at me wrong I either glare at them, snap some snarky comment or cry. What the actual hell? Maybe I need a week-long nap. Someone swaddle me, rub my back and sing me to sleep. Or, you know, maybe everyone could just leave me the hell alone and I will just put myself to bed.
Whatever.
This too shall pass and all that jazz.
But until it does, I apologize in advance for anything I say or do that might be obnoxious. I mean, seriously, just ignore me for the next week or so. And please, PLEASE forgive me if it feels like I’m ignoring you. I promise it’s not you, it’s me.
Wednesday, March 18, 2020
The Show Must Go On
You know that dream where you’re on stage and you haven’t learned the lines and don’t even know what play you’re doing?
Yeah, it’s a little like the one where you’re in a classroom about to take a test for a class you haven’t bothered to attend all semester.
I know there’s a meaning to those sorts of dreams but this is not a dream analysis blog so let’s get to the point, shall we?
The school musical program Alyssa has been part of since her freshman year always does performances on Thursday, Friday and Saturday after several months of rehearsals. The Thursday performance is called a full dress rehearsal and is open to the public. There are no tickets sold for this performance and a free-will donation is accepted but not required.
Anyway, that’s a lot of stupid backstory.
At this year’s Thursday dress rehearsal was full of behind the scenes drama.
Wait, that was unnecessarily dramatic.
A dude got sick.
This was not nervous up-chucking. He was sick with an illness that his mother reported was making the rounds through their house. His older brother had been sick the week before. His dad was sick a couple of days before, it was just his turn to be sick. By Sunday his mom will probably be sick.
The problem is, this dude plays a pretty big role in The Addams Family musical. He’s not quite Gomez or Fester big but he’s the father of the guy Wednesday Addams is in love with, which means he has more than a few lines and even sings along during a couple of songs.
He showed up to the school, prepared to suck it up and get through the show.
Except…he couldn’t stop barfing.
Ewww.
And ick.
So, the show was supposed to start at 7pm. At 6:40, I looked over and saw the directors scrubbing the makeup off one of the guys in the chorus (the chorus members in this show are called “ancestors.” They wear very pale foundation and big black circles around their eyes. They’re ghosts and are supposed to look dead.)
This little fellow was going to go on in place of the cookie tosser.
No, he was not an understudy. No, he had never rehearsed this role. No, he had no idea what his lines were.
He was going to have a script in his hand while on stage.
It would be fine, the directors assured him as we reapplied his makeup so he looked alive and well from Ohio.
We found some Lysol and sprayed the hell out of the shirt the ralpher had been wearing and put it on the stand-in.
The directors came out just before show started and explained the situation to the audience.
And you know what?
It was fine.
It was better than fine. It was funny. He had his nose in the book because he couldn’t see the script very well with the stage lighting. But his dry read of the role was hysterical because the character was himself is supposed to be a tired, bored middle-aged dad.
The other actors did such a good job of leading him around the stage that it didn’t even matter that he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing.
Everyone was such a good sport about it all. The audience appreciated his gumption and the rest of the cast just rolled with the pauses and gaps in the performance.
Obviously, we hoped that the chunk blower was feeling better for the Friday and Saturday performances but the Thursday dress rehearsal proved that the show must go on and if everyone can go into a situation like that with a sense of humor, the show is that much better for it.
Yeah, it’s a little like the one where you’re in a classroom about to take a test for a class you haven’t bothered to attend all semester.
I know there’s a meaning to those sorts of dreams but this is not a dream analysis blog so let’s get to the point, shall we?
The school musical program Alyssa has been part of since her freshman year always does performances on Thursday, Friday and Saturday after several months of rehearsals. The Thursday performance is called a full dress rehearsal and is open to the public. There are no tickets sold for this performance and a free-will donation is accepted but not required.
Anyway, that’s a lot of stupid backstory.
At this year’s Thursday dress rehearsal was full of behind the scenes drama.
Wait, that was unnecessarily dramatic.
A dude got sick.
This was not nervous up-chucking. He was sick with an illness that his mother reported was making the rounds through their house. His older brother had been sick the week before. His dad was sick a couple of days before, it was just his turn to be sick. By Sunday his mom will probably be sick.
The problem is, this dude plays a pretty big role in The Addams Family musical. He’s not quite Gomez or Fester big but he’s the father of the guy Wednesday Addams is in love with, which means he has more than a few lines and even sings along during a couple of songs.
He showed up to the school, prepared to suck it up and get through the show.
Except…he couldn’t stop barfing.
Ewww.
And ick.
So, the show was supposed to start at 7pm. At 6:40, I looked over and saw the directors scrubbing the makeup off one of the guys in the chorus (the chorus members in this show are called “ancestors.” They wear very pale foundation and big black circles around their eyes. They’re ghosts and are supposed to look dead.)
This little fellow was going to go on in place of the cookie tosser.
No, he was not an understudy. No, he had never rehearsed this role. No, he had no idea what his lines were.
He was going to have a script in his hand while on stage.
It would be fine, the directors assured him as we reapplied his makeup so he looked alive and well from Ohio.
We found some Lysol and sprayed the hell out of the shirt the ralpher had been wearing and put it on the stand-in.
The directors came out just before show started and explained the situation to the audience.
And you know what?
It was fine.
It was better than fine. It was funny. He had his nose in the book because he couldn’t see the script very well with the stage lighting. But his dry read of the role was hysterical because the character was himself is supposed to be a tired, bored middle-aged dad.
The other actors did such a good job of leading him around the stage that it didn’t even matter that he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing.
Everyone was such a good sport about it all. The audience appreciated his gumption and the rest of the cast just rolled with the pauses and gaps in the performance.
Obviously, we hoped that the chunk blower was feeling better for the Friday and Saturday performances but the Thursday dress rehearsal proved that the show must go on and if everyone can go into a situation like that with a sense of humor, the show is that much better for it.
Tuesday, March 17, 2020
Participation Award
I know that as a parent, we don’t get participation awards. We show up because it means a lot to our kids that we support them.
I am stupidly proud of myself for never missing a performance or a meet or a concert, even while going through chemo and radiation.
I mean, what if I’d died? Talk about not being able to be there. I wanted to be there as much as I could because my future wasn’t (isn’t) a given. So yes, I attended everything.
My daughter puts all the effort into these things. The very least I can do is show up at performances/meets/concerts.
She was recently inducted in the National Honor Society.
This is a pretty awesome achievement.
There was a dinner the night of the induction ceremony.
A week before the dinner I said something about taking Olivia to my mom’s the evening of the dinner so that Tom and I could attend the dinner.
He said something along the lines of, “Oh, am I going to the dinner?”
Duh.
I just looked at him.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink, blink, blink.
Finally, I said, “Of course you’re going. She’s probably your only child to get this distinction.”
He shrugged and went about his day.
I mean.
I’m not saying anything negative about Alyssa’s older (or younger) siblings. But obviously the older three weren’t in NHS. That ship sailed over 10 years ago for all three of them. And Livie…well, let’s just say she’s not a joiner and will have no interest or desire in doing what it takes to be part of National Honor Society. And that’s okay. It’s okay for all of Alyssa’s siblings.
But she IS a joiner. She loves competing and performing and serving others and we’re going to that dinner!
This reminds me of the final performance of the musical the high school put on recently. One of the girls in Alyssa’s class was an ‘ancestor’ like Lyss and Tessa. She’d put in the work, showed up for practices, learned the songs and the dances.
I was backstage with the cast during intermission, just making sure anyone who needed anything, you know, a makeup touch-up, hair reteased, a safety pin, etc. I was there to serve. It’s what I do. I don’t even want credit for it.
No. Seriously. I mean, sure, a Thank You is lovely but I like doing this kind of thing and I have fun doing it so whatever.
Anyway, this girl was heading back to the stage and as I passed her, she said sadly, “My mom is leaving.”
I asked her why.
“Her butt is numb.”
.
.
.
Her. Butt. Was. Numb.
She was leaving during intermission, before the second act because her butt was numb. Her daughter had put in MONTHS of work for this play. I don’t give a shit if her daughter was working the lights, she should have been there for the whole thing. Damn it, she should have been there every single night her daughter was on that stage, not just one night for HALF the performance.
I know parents don’t get participation awards. But you know what? We do get participation points from our kids. They know when we’re there and when we’re not. They see us in the stands, backstage, on the field, in the audience. They KNOW and it matters to them.
This girl put on a brave face but I know she was hurt that her mother couldn’t bring herself to sit in those chairs for one more hour.
I know it sounds like I’m mom-shaming but you know what? No, I’m PARENT-SHAMING. It’s not just moms. Dads need to show up too. Kids need to know they’re supported. They WANT their parents to see them, to appreciate them, to know how hard they work and applaud their efforts.
So we went to that dinner, BOTH of us, because it meant a lot to Alyssa that we were there. We go to the track meets. We go to the plays. We go on field trips.
We show up, not for participation awards but for our kids, who are here because WE chose to have them. They were not left on our porches for us to raise without our consent. The least we can do is continue to be there even when they’re teenage pains in the ass. It’s a part of growing up, growing away from us. They have to do it but we don’t have to push them away as they pull away. They deserve better; let’s be better.
I am stupidly proud of myself for never missing a performance or a meet or a concert, even while going through chemo and radiation.
I mean, what if I’d died? Talk about not being able to be there. I wanted to be there as much as I could because my future wasn’t (isn’t) a given. So yes, I attended everything.
My daughter puts all the effort into these things. The very least I can do is show up at performances/meets/concerts.
She was recently inducted in the National Honor Society.
This is a pretty awesome achievement.
There was a dinner the night of the induction ceremony.
A week before the dinner I said something about taking Olivia to my mom’s the evening of the dinner so that Tom and I could attend the dinner.
He said something along the lines of, “Oh, am I going to the dinner?”
Duh.
I just looked at him.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink, blink, blink.
Finally, I said, “Of course you’re going. She’s probably your only child to get this distinction.”
He shrugged and went about his day.
I mean.
I’m not saying anything negative about Alyssa’s older (or younger) siblings. But obviously the older three weren’t in NHS. That ship sailed over 10 years ago for all three of them. And Livie…well, let’s just say she’s not a joiner and will have no interest or desire in doing what it takes to be part of National Honor Society. And that’s okay. It’s okay for all of Alyssa’s siblings.
But she IS a joiner. She loves competing and performing and serving others and we’re going to that dinner!
This reminds me of the final performance of the musical the high school put on recently. One of the girls in Alyssa’s class was an ‘ancestor’ like Lyss and Tessa. She’d put in the work, showed up for practices, learned the songs and the dances.
I was backstage with the cast during intermission, just making sure anyone who needed anything, you know, a makeup touch-up, hair reteased, a safety pin, etc. I was there to serve. It’s what I do. I don’t even want credit for it.
No. Seriously. I mean, sure, a Thank You is lovely but I like doing this kind of thing and I have fun doing it so whatever.
Anyway, this girl was heading back to the stage and as I passed her, she said sadly, “My mom is leaving.”
I asked her why.
“Her butt is numb.”
.
.
.
Her. Butt. Was. Numb.
She was leaving during intermission, before the second act because her butt was numb. Her daughter had put in MONTHS of work for this play. I don’t give a shit if her daughter was working the lights, she should have been there for the whole thing. Damn it, she should have been there every single night her daughter was on that stage, not just one night for HALF the performance.
I know parents don’t get participation awards. But you know what? We do get participation points from our kids. They know when we’re there and when we’re not. They see us in the stands, backstage, on the field, in the audience. They KNOW and it matters to them.
This girl put on a brave face but I know she was hurt that her mother couldn’t bring herself to sit in those chairs for one more hour.
I know it sounds like I’m mom-shaming but you know what? No, I’m PARENT-SHAMING. It’s not just moms. Dads need to show up too. Kids need to know they’re supported. They WANT their parents to see them, to appreciate them, to know how hard they work and applaud their efforts.
So we went to that dinner, BOTH of us, because it meant a lot to Alyssa that we were there. We go to the track meets. We go to the plays. We go on field trips.
We show up, not for participation awards but for our kids, who are here because WE chose to have them. They were not left on our porches for us to raise without our consent. The least we can do is continue to be there even when they’re teenage pains in the ass. It’s a part of growing up, growing away from us. They have to do it but we don’t have to push them away as they pull away. They deserve better; let’s be better.
Monday, March 16, 2020
The Case of the Missing Potato Chip Baggies
For the past month or so, we’ve been so excited because Olivia’s come home each afternoon with most of her lunch gone. She hasn’t eaten her lunch at school most of this year so this was big news.
Except, there was one perplexing issue with this new development. She wasn’t bringing home the baggie in which her potato chips were packed.
Tom asked her if she was throwing the baggie away. She insisted she was not.
Finally, very recently, he decided he was going to get to the bottom of the missing baggies.
When she got home one recent Wednesday (because the specific day of the week is SOOOO important *eyeroll*) Tom had her afternoon snack of a cookie and a Reese’s peanut butter cup on a plate on the table. When she walked in the door, he very deliberately moved the plate to the counter and told her she’d get her snack when she told him what she was doing with baggies we sent her chips in.
She told him she didn’t know.
He told her he thought she did.
He left her in the kitchen to eyeball her snack and when to the computer in the living room. Olivia asked him from across the house if she’d get pie and ice cream that evening.
He shouted back, “Not until you tell me where the baggie is.”
Silence.
He called, “Bring me the baggie!”
She shrieked, “I don’t have it!”
He yelled back, “Where is it?”
She finally sighed and replied, “Ella has it.”
“Ella?”
“She gets in my backpack on the bus on the way home and takes the cereal bar, the cookies and the chips. Sometimes she eats them on the bus but sometimes she just puts them in her backpack and takes them home.”
Huh.
Now, I think we can all agree that if Olivia would eat her lunch at the appropriate time (lunchtime) in the appropriate place (cafeteria) each day, this would not be an issue.
But since she doesn’t eat it, this little girl, who is in the same assisted class with Olivia, takes it from her each afternoon on the bus.
Sigh.
Olivia said that another girl, younger than both Olivia and the food thief, has told E not to take Liv’s food. She’s also told Olivia to tell E not to take her food. Olivia shrugs and says, “I don’t talk on the bus so…”
Yeah. Unless she’s communicating with her dad, Olivia is NOT good with confrontation.
Tom wanted to know how Ella knew that Olivia had food in her lunchbox at the end of the day.
I asked Olivia about this when I got home that afternoon.
She replied, “Each day at lunch, Ella takes my lunch out of my lunchbox and puts it on the table for me. Then, when she isn’t looking, I put it back in the lunchbox.”
On one hand, I feel bad for this little girl because she’s probably hunger, which is why she’s taking Liv’s food. On the other hand, STOP TAKING MY KID’S FOOD. I don’t care that she doesn’t eat it at school. We don’t send it so that others can eat it. We send it every single day in the hope that Olivia will finally eat at school.
Obviously, I emailed her teacher, who was aghast at this situation. Like us, she had no idea this was happening. She told me she would speak to the principal the next day and figure out a solution. She then asked me if Olivia was ever missing anything else. She said she’d send money home with Olivia a few times when there was left over change from any of the field trips they’d taken as a class.
I confirmed that the money always made it home. E was only taking food.
So…that’s the case of the missing baggies.
Except, there was one perplexing issue with this new development. She wasn’t bringing home the baggie in which her potato chips were packed.
Tom asked her if she was throwing the baggie away. She insisted she was not.
Finally, very recently, he decided he was going to get to the bottom of the missing baggies.
When she got home one recent Wednesday (because the specific day of the week is SOOOO important *eyeroll*) Tom had her afternoon snack of a cookie and a Reese’s peanut butter cup on a plate on the table. When she walked in the door, he very deliberately moved the plate to the counter and told her she’d get her snack when she told him what she was doing with baggies we sent her chips in.
She told him she didn’t know.
He told her he thought she did.
He left her in the kitchen to eyeball her snack and when to the computer in the living room. Olivia asked him from across the house if she’d get pie and ice cream that evening.
He shouted back, “Not until you tell me where the baggie is.”
Silence.
He called, “Bring me the baggie!”
She shrieked, “I don’t have it!”
He yelled back, “Where is it?”
She finally sighed and replied, “Ella has it.”
“Ella?”
“She gets in my backpack on the bus on the way home and takes the cereal bar, the cookies and the chips. Sometimes she eats them on the bus but sometimes she just puts them in her backpack and takes them home.”
Huh.
Now, I think we can all agree that if Olivia would eat her lunch at the appropriate time (lunchtime) in the appropriate place (cafeteria) each day, this would not be an issue.
But since she doesn’t eat it, this little girl, who is in the same assisted class with Olivia, takes it from her each afternoon on the bus.
Sigh.
Olivia said that another girl, younger than both Olivia and the food thief, has told E not to take Liv’s food. She’s also told Olivia to tell E not to take her food. Olivia shrugs and says, “I don’t talk on the bus so…”
Yeah. Unless she’s communicating with her dad, Olivia is NOT good with confrontation.
Tom wanted to know how Ella knew that Olivia had food in her lunchbox at the end of the day.
I asked Olivia about this when I got home that afternoon.
She replied, “Each day at lunch, Ella takes my lunch out of my lunchbox and puts it on the table for me. Then, when she isn’t looking, I put it back in the lunchbox.”
On one hand, I feel bad for this little girl because she’s probably hunger, which is why she’s taking Liv’s food. On the other hand, STOP TAKING MY KID’S FOOD. I don’t care that she doesn’t eat it at school. We don’t send it so that others can eat it. We send it every single day in the hope that Olivia will finally eat at school.
Obviously, I emailed her teacher, who was aghast at this situation. Like us, she had no idea this was happening. She told me she would speak to the principal the next day and figure out a solution. She then asked me if Olivia was ever missing anything else. She said she’d send money home with Olivia a few times when there was left over change from any of the field trips they’d taken as a class.
I confirmed that the money always made it home. E was only taking food.
So…that’s the case of the missing baggies.
Sunday, March 15, 2020
Ramen and Toilet Paper
So… corona virus, aka, Covid 19…
Yeah.
Ohio schools have closed at least through April 3. The situation will be reevaluated at a later date to see if they’ll close longer than that.
Oh how I laughed at Tom when we found out he’ll be stuck in a house with Olivia for three weeks.
And yet…damn.
I mean, sure, I get it. We need to slow this thing down. Social distancing and all that.
We currently have plenty of toilet paper, in case you were worried about our butts.
Alas, we’re down to our last package of ramen. Think there will be some when I go Walmart to buy groceries on Saturday?
I’m taking bets here.
See, I don’t even plan to go in order to ‘stock up’. I just need to buy groceries, which is what I do every Saturday. But we are low on ramen. And since the girls will be home for three weeks, we’ll need soup and Spaghetti-Os. Ewww, but still, a child can’t live on ramen alone.
Let’s not forget the macaroni and cheese.
It will appear to the average shopper (me) that I’m stocking up and perhaps even hoarding and that’s okay.
I took Alyssa to the doctor the other day for her sports physical. I felt a vague sense of guilt for taking a perfectly healthy child to a germ-infested doctor’s office but she needed that physical in order to participate in track meets. She can practice without it but she has to have had the physical in order to compete.
She’s fine, by the way. I know that shocks exactly no one.
But our doctor talked to us a little about covid-19. He said that the panic amongst the medical community is due to the unknown. They just don’t know what this virus will do to people, not really. It’s spreading so fast and making the elderly SO sick (or, rather, KILLING them) and there simply are not enough tests in this country to stop people from spreading this stupid virus.
So we have to slow everyone down.
I mentioned SARS and Zika to my doctor and he seemed surprised that I remembered them. They were flashes in the pan, if you will. He said he hopesCovid-19 goes the same path but no one knows for sure that it will.
It might become more like influenza, which still kills tens of thousands of people each year.
He pointed out that the flu killed more people in the late 1910s than bullets did in WWI. So…yeah, that’s depressing.
But we’re hopeful. We’re rallying. We’re staying home and washing our hands and not licking the handle of the shopping carts.
And…some of us (not me, but some people) are buying ALL the toilet paper and hand sanitizer. I just hope there’s still ramen available the next time I go buy groceries.
Yeah.
Ohio schools have closed at least through April 3. The situation will be reevaluated at a later date to see if they’ll close longer than that.
Oh how I laughed at Tom when we found out he’ll be stuck in a house with Olivia for three weeks.
And yet…damn.
I mean, sure, I get it. We need to slow this thing down. Social distancing and all that.
We currently have plenty of toilet paper, in case you were worried about our butts.
Alas, we’re down to our last package of ramen. Think there will be some when I go Walmart to buy groceries on Saturday?
I’m taking bets here.
See, I don’t even plan to go in order to ‘stock up’. I just need to buy groceries, which is what I do every Saturday. But we are low on ramen. And since the girls will be home for three weeks, we’ll need soup and Spaghetti-Os. Ewww, but still, a child can’t live on ramen alone.
Let’s not forget the macaroni and cheese.
It will appear to the average shopper (me) that I’m stocking up and perhaps even hoarding and that’s okay.
I took Alyssa to the doctor the other day for her sports physical. I felt a vague sense of guilt for taking a perfectly healthy child to a germ-infested doctor’s office but she needed that physical in order to participate in track meets. She can practice without it but she has to have had the physical in order to compete.
She’s fine, by the way. I know that shocks exactly no one.
But our doctor talked to us a little about covid-19. He said that the panic amongst the medical community is due to the unknown. They just don’t know what this virus will do to people, not really. It’s spreading so fast and making the elderly SO sick (or, rather, KILLING them) and there simply are not enough tests in this country to stop people from spreading this stupid virus.
So we have to slow everyone down.
I mentioned SARS and Zika to my doctor and he seemed surprised that I remembered them. They were flashes in the pan, if you will. He said he hopesCovid-19 goes the same path but no one knows for sure that it will.
It might become more like influenza, which still kills tens of thousands of people each year.
He pointed out that the flu killed more people in the late 1910s than bullets did in WWI. So…yeah, that’s depressing.
But we’re hopeful. We’re rallying. We’re staying home and washing our hands and not licking the handle of the shopping carts.
And…some of us (not me, but some people) are buying ALL the toilet paper and hand sanitizer. I just hope there’s still ramen available the next time I go buy groceries.
Tuesday, March 10, 2020
Sanctuary
The services for my aunt Nell were on a Friday. The visitation was the Thursday evening before the services.
Tom and I decided that Olivia is old enough and mature enough to attend both the visitation and the services.
Alyssa had to work Thursday evening so she couldn’t come to the visitation but she did come to the services.
Because I’m that mom, I sent the girls to school for two hours that Friday. I mean, it was only fair, I went to work for three hours so…
The service was lovely. Grammy Dotty was adorable. She arrived about ten minutes late, made her way to the front row, talking to everyone she passed, saying, “Ohh, hi, sugar!”
Remember, she’s 94, mostly deaf and blind in one eye. She deserves a lot of slack.
My mom and all but one of my aunts got up to talk about their sister Nell. They told stories from their childhood, talked about Nell’s candor and her strength, her enormous capacity to love.
After each person finished speaking, Grammy Dotty asked, “Oh, I wish I could hear! Can I get a transcript of that?”
It lightened the tone of the service and made people chuckle.
After the service, we all headed down to the basement of the church where the ladies of the community had prepared food for us. Well, okay. The ladies of the community DID prepare food but my mom, her sisters, my cousin’s wife, and even I made plenty of the food too.
The girls and I managed to get to the bathroom first immediately after the service. Ha on all the ladies who were waiting outside that door when the three of us filed out, like a mother duck and her little ducklings. Sorry, ladies, you snooze, you risk peeing your pants!
After we spent a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, A and O and I made our way to the basement.
For reference, this is the church I grew up going to vacation bible school in. It’s also the church where Tom and I got married. We had Amy’s funeral service there two years ago.
Though, let me be honest here, I don’t remember it smelling vaguely of urine any of those times. This time…the urine smell was quite unpleasant…vague but unpleasant.
Also, this church has not been updated in, oh, at least 40 years. Same carpet as when I attended for VBS, same pews, same tables and chairs in the basement.
But it’s kind of nice that some things never change. I do so hope, though, that someone will Fabreze the hell out of the carpet and pews some time soon. That urine smell could change and we’d all be happy. Just saying.
After partaking of the luxurious lunch provided by the lovely ladies of the Metz community (I am only being slightly sarcastic here…) Olivia was bored.
She’d had two and a half servings of beef and noodles, half a brownie, two cups of sweet tea, a cup of green jello with melted whipped cream. She was stuffed and ready to recline.
She’s also sat there listening to Jaxon lament the woes of young love. Apparently, there’s a girl in his class (he’s in 5th grade…FIFTH GRADE, for the love of Pete!) and they talked a bit, then he ‘caught feelings’ and then she ‘caught feelings’ and now she’s his girlfriend. (Is ‘caught feelings’ a thing the young pups of this world are saying? It’s weird, but whatever.)
Then he started standing on one foot, leaning like a fool, stating, over and over and over again, telling us that he’s the only one in his class who has to lean like that when they stand on one foot. What are they doing in his fifth grade class?
I, fool that I am, suggested that perhaps he has scoliosis, which is why he has to lean in order to stay standing when he’s only on one foot. This set him off an a scoliosis tangent that is probably still going even all these days/weeks later. Sigh.
So Olivia asked me if I had any paper and a writing implement with which she could doodle.
I told her I had something in my purse, which was in my car. She lit up. We could LEAVE that basemen (and, coincidentally, Jaxon and his new scoliosis fear) and go get the pen and paper from my car.
Which we did. Because I’m an accommodating mother. Also, I was really looking for an excuse to escape that boy too. We’re bad relatives but he’s also an odd duck.
Once we’d retrieved the notepad and pen, Olivia suggested we go to the sanctuary, which was blessedly quiet. There were a few people in there, but not nearly as many as were in the basement. The sun was shining in the tall windows and there was just a sense of peace in the air.
Olivia kicked off her boots (tangent: she needs to start wearing socks with those boots. When she doesn’t her feet REEK after she takes off the boots) and her the smell of her feet competed with the smell of urine in the air.
I didn’t stick around long to see which odor won.
I talked to my cousin Chet (he’s Nell’s son). I helped my mom and her sisters take down the displays they’d put up the day before. I carried vases of flowers out to my mom’s car. I hugged my cousin’s wife and thanked her for all she’d done.
I checked on Olivia and her feet a few times but she told me that I didn’t have to stay around her. She’d found a quiet place to doodle and was happy as a stuffed clam in that sanctuary.
I loved watching her in that pew. She seemed peaceful, relaxed. That’s not a state Olivia is usually in when we’re out and about.
I don’t know if it’s the meds, the calm of the church, the presence of God. But something about that moment struck me. My girl is growing up. We’ll have times when we backtrack but right now, we’re moving forward and I thank God for that every single day.
Tom and I decided that Olivia is old enough and mature enough to attend both the visitation and the services.
Alyssa had to work Thursday evening so she couldn’t come to the visitation but she did come to the services.
Because I’m that mom, I sent the girls to school for two hours that Friday. I mean, it was only fair, I went to work for three hours so…
The service was lovely. Grammy Dotty was adorable. She arrived about ten minutes late, made her way to the front row, talking to everyone she passed, saying, “Ohh, hi, sugar!”
Remember, she’s 94, mostly deaf and blind in one eye. She deserves a lot of slack.
My mom and all but one of my aunts got up to talk about their sister Nell. They told stories from their childhood, talked about Nell’s candor and her strength, her enormous capacity to love.
After each person finished speaking, Grammy Dotty asked, “Oh, I wish I could hear! Can I get a transcript of that?”
It lightened the tone of the service and made people chuckle.
After the service, we all headed down to the basement of the church where the ladies of the community had prepared food for us. Well, okay. The ladies of the community DID prepare food but my mom, her sisters, my cousin’s wife, and even I made plenty of the food too.
The girls and I managed to get to the bathroom first immediately after the service. Ha on all the ladies who were waiting outside that door when the three of us filed out, like a mother duck and her little ducklings. Sorry, ladies, you snooze, you risk peeing your pants!
After we spent a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, A and O and I made our way to the basement.
For reference, this is the church I grew up going to vacation bible school in. It’s also the church where Tom and I got married. We had Amy’s funeral service there two years ago.
Though, let me be honest here, I don’t remember it smelling vaguely of urine any of those times. This time…the urine smell was quite unpleasant…vague but unpleasant.
Also, this church has not been updated in, oh, at least 40 years. Same carpet as when I attended for VBS, same pews, same tables and chairs in the basement.
But it’s kind of nice that some things never change. I do so hope, though, that someone will Fabreze the hell out of the carpet and pews some time soon. That urine smell could change and we’d all be happy. Just saying.
After partaking of the luxurious lunch provided by the lovely ladies of the Metz community (I am only being slightly sarcastic here…) Olivia was bored.
She’d had two and a half servings of beef and noodles, half a brownie, two cups of sweet tea, a cup of green jello with melted whipped cream. She was stuffed and ready to recline.
She’s also sat there listening to Jaxon lament the woes of young love. Apparently, there’s a girl in his class (he’s in 5th grade…FIFTH GRADE, for the love of Pete!) and they talked a bit, then he ‘caught feelings’ and then she ‘caught feelings’ and now she’s his girlfriend. (Is ‘caught feelings’ a thing the young pups of this world are saying? It’s weird, but whatever.)
Then he started standing on one foot, leaning like a fool, stating, over and over and over again, telling us that he’s the only one in his class who has to lean like that when they stand on one foot. What are they doing in his fifth grade class?
I, fool that I am, suggested that perhaps he has scoliosis, which is why he has to lean in order to stay standing when he’s only on one foot. This set him off an a scoliosis tangent that is probably still going even all these days/weeks later. Sigh.
So Olivia asked me if I had any paper and a writing implement with which she could doodle.
I told her I had something in my purse, which was in my car. She lit up. We could LEAVE that basemen (and, coincidentally, Jaxon and his new scoliosis fear) and go get the pen and paper from my car.
Which we did. Because I’m an accommodating mother. Also, I was really looking for an excuse to escape that boy too. We’re bad relatives but he’s also an odd duck.
Once we’d retrieved the notepad and pen, Olivia suggested we go to the sanctuary, which was blessedly quiet. There were a few people in there, but not nearly as many as were in the basement. The sun was shining in the tall windows and there was just a sense of peace in the air.
Olivia kicked off her boots (tangent: she needs to start wearing socks with those boots. When she doesn’t her feet REEK after she takes off the boots) and her the smell of her feet competed with the smell of urine in the air.
I didn’t stick around long to see which odor won.
I talked to my cousin Chet (he’s Nell’s son). I helped my mom and her sisters take down the displays they’d put up the day before. I carried vases of flowers out to my mom’s car. I hugged my cousin’s wife and thanked her for all she’d done.
I checked on Olivia and her feet a few times but she told me that I didn’t have to stay around her. She’d found a quiet place to doodle and was happy as a stuffed clam in that sanctuary.
I loved watching her in that pew. She seemed peaceful, relaxed. That’s not a state Olivia is usually in when we’re out and about.
I don’t know if it’s the meds, the calm of the church, the presence of God. But something about that moment struck me. My girl is growing up. We’ll have times when we backtrack but right now, we’re moving forward and I thank God for that every single day.
Monday, March 9, 2020
Late to the Party
At least ten years ago, my step-daughter-in-law jumped feet first into the essential oils business. She became a representative for doTERRA oils. I don’t know if she still is a rep, I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over a year. No big drama, we just live almost 80 miles apart and she has her life and I have mine.
My husband sees and talks to his son as much as possible but…there you have it. I did communicate with her via FB until she deleted her page. That was a surprise but again, we were never close enough for her to confide as to why she deleted it.
To be honest, I kind of thought the essential oils craze was just that, crazy. Or, if not crazy, a little hokey. K insisted that the use of essential oils in a diffuser had ‘cured’ her children of asthma. I mean, come on. I don’t think it works that way. But whatever, you do you.
But anyway, when I started my current job (about a year and a half ago for anyone counting) I couldn’t stand the smell of the office. It was awful.
It smelled like old cigarette smoke. It was probably 'just' the smell of welding dust. There are a lot of welders in the production part of the building wehere I work. Whatever it was, it was nasty and most days in those first few weeks, I had to change clothes the minute I got home and sometimes, I needed to shower to get the smell off me.
So, I did what one does and got an essential oil diffuser. I didn’t get it because I’d suddenly developed asthma. I did it because my sense of smell was affected by chemo and it was incredibly sensitive. I figured if nothing else, diffusing oils would help the office smell better. It couldn’t hurt, right?
Almost immediately, the office did smell better. I got all kinds of comments on how great everything smelled. Yay!
So this past Christmas, I gave Alyssa a diffuser for her bedroom. She diffuses lavender in the evenings and orange throughout the day.
Then…her room smelled so nice that I decided to use the $40 Meijer gift card given to us from Tom’s sister and bout another diffuser, this one for the master bedroom. And now, we diffuse a lavender blend each night. It’s lovely.
And…I currently have eleventy billion (or, you know, like, 16) bottles of essential oil in one of my desk drawers at work. I mean, you never know what kind of mood I’m going to be in each morning. Some days I might want clarity. Others I might want immunity. There are days when I want a pure oil like peppermint and others when I want a blend like Joy.
I haven’t gotten to the point where I’ll rub peppermint oil on my temples rather than pop a couple of Excedrin when I have a headache but that might be right around the corner.
Or it might not. Trust me, I’m not going all crunchy on you. I have no plans to stop shaving my right arm pit.
My husband sees and talks to his son as much as possible but…there you have it. I did communicate with her via FB until she deleted her page. That was a surprise but again, we were never close enough for her to confide as to why she deleted it.
To be honest, I kind of thought the essential oils craze was just that, crazy. Or, if not crazy, a little hokey. K insisted that the use of essential oils in a diffuser had ‘cured’ her children of asthma. I mean, come on. I don’t think it works that way. But whatever, you do you.
But anyway, when I started my current job (about a year and a half ago for anyone counting) I couldn’t stand the smell of the office. It was awful.
It smelled like old cigarette smoke. It was probably 'just' the smell of welding dust. There are a lot of welders in the production part of the building wehere I work. Whatever it was, it was nasty and most days in those first few weeks, I had to change clothes the minute I got home and sometimes, I needed to shower to get the smell off me.
So, I did what one does and got an essential oil diffuser. I didn’t get it because I’d suddenly developed asthma. I did it because my sense of smell was affected by chemo and it was incredibly sensitive. I figured if nothing else, diffusing oils would help the office smell better. It couldn’t hurt, right?
Almost immediately, the office did smell better. I got all kinds of comments on how great everything smelled. Yay!
So this past Christmas, I gave Alyssa a diffuser for her bedroom. She diffuses lavender in the evenings and orange throughout the day.
Then…her room smelled so nice that I decided to use the $40 Meijer gift card given to us from Tom’s sister and bout another diffuser, this one for the master bedroom. And now, we diffuse a lavender blend each night. It’s lovely.
And…I currently have eleventy billion (or, you know, like, 16) bottles of essential oil in one of my desk drawers at work. I mean, you never know what kind of mood I’m going to be in each morning. Some days I might want clarity. Others I might want immunity. There are days when I want a pure oil like peppermint and others when I want a blend like Joy.
I haven’t gotten to the point where I’ll rub peppermint oil on my temples rather than pop a couple of Excedrin when I have a headache but that might be right around the corner.
Or it might not. Trust me, I’m not going all crunchy on you. I have no plans to stop shaving my right arm pit.
Friday, March 6, 2020
Finally
Finally, I had a dentist appointment that did not lead to scheduling another appointment for fillings.
Ahh, the side effects of chemo that no one mentions: dry mouth and the cavities that come along as a result.
For what it’s worth, I never missed a cleaning while I was going through chemo. I mean, why would I? It wasn’t that big a deal.
But once chemo was over, I continued my regularly scheduled cleanings and all of a sudden, a year post-chemo, I started developing cavities. In the past year, I’ve had eight fillings, five of them in the backs of my top front teeth. Yikes!
I’d like to keep my teeth, please.
Then we all remember that one day I went in for two fillings and left with three. That was actually sort of traumatic, to be honest. I’m not sure why. I mean, I’m really good at telling myself that something unpleasant isn’t going to last forever but that session with the dentist reminded me of why dentists are often compared with sadists.
Alas, it did NOT last forever and I have moved on from the trauma as much as possible. How is it that I felt more traumatized by that hour in the dentist’s chair than I did by months of ultrasounds, biopsies, MRIs, x-rays, surgery, chemotherapy and radiation?
A little displaced angst, perhaps?
Ahh, the side effects of chemo that no one mentions: dry mouth and the cavities that come along as a result.
For what it’s worth, I never missed a cleaning while I was going through chemo. I mean, why would I? It wasn’t that big a deal.
But once chemo was over, I continued my regularly scheduled cleanings and all of a sudden, a year post-chemo, I started developing cavities. In the past year, I’ve had eight fillings, five of them in the backs of my top front teeth. Yikes!
I’d like to keep my teeth, please.
Then we all remember that one day I went in for two fillings and left with three. That was actually sort of traumatic, to be honest. I’m not sure why. I mean, I’m really good at telling myself that something unpleasant isn’t going to last forever but that session with the dentist reminded me of why dentists are often compared with sadists.
Alas, it did NOT last forever and I have moved on from the trauma as much as possible. How is it that I felt more traumatized by that hour in the dentist’s chair than I did by months of ultrasounds, biopsies, MRIs, x-rays, surgery, chemotherapy and radiation?
A little displaced angst, perhaps?
Thursday, March 5, 2020
A Blue Sweater
I wear a sweater to work almost every day. And by sweater, I mean the kind like a cardigan rather than those that are pulled over your head. I have several, obviously. Once upon a time, I had two black sweaters, a blue (royal-ish/navy-ish) one, a light gray sweater and two beige sweaters in different lenths.
Alas, my blue sweater sprung a leak. Aka, it got an enormous hole in it right under my right armpit; it was almost as if the stench under there was so strong it couldn’t be contained. So sad.
One of my black sweaters got a really bad snag and also had to be retired.
Which brings me down to one black sweater, one light gray and two beige. I only really wear one of the beige sweaters.
The other one is just a really unfortunate beige and because of this, I decided, AHA! I’d dye the unfortunate beige one navy blue. The cost of a bottle of dye is much less than a new blue sweater.
Remember that one time I dyed something and it took me five thousand trips up and down the stairs from the kitchen to the basement and back again into infinity? Yeah, this time around the dyeing process was much smoother.
I read the instructions…I followed the instructions. I even noted on the instructions that this dye was not recommended for acrylic.
Huh.
Guess what I didn’t do?
I didn’t check to see what this unfortunate beige sweater was made out of. Can you say foreshadowing?
I went through the entire dyeing process. I made the machine do a pre-soak of the sweater in the blue dye.
I went down an hour later to check the status of the sweater.
I opened the washer…I took out…an unfortunate beige sweater.
The little string that is attached to the shoulder to keep the sweater on a hanger was blue, so I didn’t imagine the entire dyeing process.
I checked the tag. Guess what that stupid, unfortunate beige sweater is made of?
Need a minute?
Let me give you a hint…ACRYLIC. Gross, nasty feeling acrylic. No wonder I hardly ever wear that stupid sweater, the unfortunate beige color notwithstanding.
Which means, obviously, that I am now out the cost of a bottle of dye AND I need to buy a new blue sweater. (I wear a lot of blue, which is why it’s necessary for me to own a blue sweater. The girls’ school colors are blue and gray, another reason for wanting/needing a blue sweater. Not that I have to justify my desire to buy a blue sweater, I mean…ahem.)
Alas, my blue sweater sprung a leak. Aka, it got an enormous hole in it right under my right armpit; it was almost as if the stench under there was so strong it couldn’t be contained. So sad.
One of my black sweaters got a really bad snag and also had to be retired.
Which brings me down to one black sweater, one light gray and two beige. I only really wear one of the beige sweaters.
The other one is just a really unfortunate beige and because of this, I decided, AHA! I’d dye the unfortunate beige one navy blue. The cost of a bottle of dye is much less than a new blue sweater.
Remember that one time I dyed something and it took me five thousand trips up and down the stairs from the kitchen to the basement and back again into infinity? Yeah, this time around the dyeing process was much smoother.
I read the instructions…I followed the instructions. I even noted on the instructions that this dye was not recommended for acrylic.
Huh.
Guess what I didn’t do?
I didn’t check to see what this unfortunate beige sweater was made out of. Can you say foreshadowing?
I went through the entire dyeing process. I made the machine do a pre-soak of the sweater in the blue dye.
I went down an hour later to check the status of the sweater.
I opened the washer…I took out…an unfortunate beige sweater.
The little string that is attached to the shoulder to keep the sweater on a hanger was blue, so I didn’t imagine the entire dyeing process.
I checked the tag. Guess what that stupid, unfortunate beige sweater is made of?
Need a minute?
Let me give you a hint…ACRYLIC. Gross, nasty feeling acrylic. No wonder I hardly ever wear that stupid sweater, the unfortunate beige color notwithstanding.
Which means, obviously, that I am now out the cost of a bottle of dye AND I need to buy a new blue sweater. (I wear a lot of blue, which is why it’s necessary for me to own a blue sweater. The girls’ school colors are blue and gray, another reason for wanting/needing a blue sweater. Not that I have to justify my desire to buy a blue sweater, I mean…ahem.)
Wednesday, March 4, 2020
The Commitment Spectrum
There is a spectrum of parental commitment at work around here.
Of course, each parent thinks their level is the ‘right’ level.
On the far conservative end, we’ve got Marie Nordoff. Her daughter is Harmony. Harmony is the best of the best at everything at Edon. Okay, wait. Harmony is not the best at track, but that’s because she’s only three feet tall (or, you know, five feet exactly) and her legs are four inches long. So, while she’s got spirit, yes she does, she’s not the fastest runner. But you’ve got to hand it to her, she’s always willing to get out there and run a race, even knowing she’ll probably come in last.
But other than her less than perfect track score, she’s pretty damned talented.
But her mom, wow. That woman takes the cake of parental commitment. She’s at EVERYTHING. She’s at practices, she’s at performances. She’s paid for years of lessons, both voice and oboe (Harmony does not play the oboe but I don’t to give away too many actual details for fear of giving away too much.)
Lee is a member of the music boosters, she even holds an officer role. Go her. She’s a smother if ever there was one.
Harmony has been heard to say that she can’t way to go away to college so she can get out from under the stifling control of her smother.
But on the other end of this spectrum is the mother of Alyssa’s friend Jayda. Jayda’s a joiner, which is incredibly surprising because her mom comes to nothing. Literally…nothing. Wait, I’ve seen her mom at one track meet in the four years (we’re heading into the fifth) of Alyssa and Jayda participating in the sport.
Her mom is never at concerts, never at plays, never at meets or games where the marching band is performing. Jayda also plays the oboe (she does NOT) and while she’s third chair (behind Harmony and, oh, let’s just say Alyssa also plays the oboe) she shows up and what more can you ask of a child who’s parents are never, ever there?
Her parents are divorced and her dad lives about an hour and a half away. But that’s no excuse. Yes, Jayda is mean to him, but that’s also no excuse. The man is her father. He’s his job to show up for his child, even if she’s an ungrateful brat. The adult looks beyond the brattiness and see the pain and works to overcome it. Right? Right!
Then there are those of us who are somewhere in the middle.
Okay, so I totally admit that I definitely fall closer to Marie’s side of the spectrum than to Jayda’s mom’s side. But while yes, I attend the music boosters meetings, I’m not an officer. And yes, I did take charge of about half of all of Olivia’s class parties from kindergarten through third grade, sharing the responsibility with Deb Porch, the only other working mom but also the only other mom willing to take on that responsibility. But those are extremes that I didn’t want to have to take on, there was no other choice.
I attend the junior parents’ meetings because someone has to. But, go me, I’m not in charge.
I try to let Alyssa do her own thing, supporting her as she figures out who she is and where she’s going. I don’t want to mold her into a mini-me. I don’t want her to live my life nor do I want to try and relive my youth through her.
But I also want her to know that I’m always there. Always cheering her on from the sidelines as she lives her own life.
And wow, this is a judgey-ass post. Sorry. I obviously have strong feelings about being too involved and not being involved enough.
Good thing I’ve found the perfect balance of involvement, huh?
Sorry, I’ve got to go, the hair and makeup crew for the musical can’t make do without me.
And don’t even get me started on all the snacks that Tom, my mom and I brought to give Olivia during a one hour concert. Damn, you’d think she was four years old the way we cater to her. Yikes.
Of course, each parent thinks their level is the ‘right’ level.
On the far conservative end, we’ve got Marie Nordoff. Her daughter is Harmony. Harmony is the best of the best at everything at Edon. Okay, wait. Harmony is not the best at track, but that’s because she’s only three feet tall (or, you know, five feet exactly) and her legs are four inches long. So, while she’s got spirit, yes she does, she’s not the fastest runner. But you’ve got to hand it to her, she’s always willing to get out there and run a race, even knowing she’ll probably come in last.
But other than her less than perfect track score, she’s pretty damned talented.
But her mom, wow. That woman takes the cake of parental commitment. She’s at EVERYTHING. She’s at practices, she’s at performances. She’s paid for years of lessons, both voice and oboe (Harmony does not play the oboe but I don’t to give away too many actual details for fear of giving away too much.)
Lee is a member of the music boosters, she even holds an officer role. Go her. She’s a smother if ever there was one.
Harmony has been heard to say that she can’t way to go away to college so she can get out from under the stifling control of her smother.
But on the other end of this spectrum is the mother of Alyssa’s friend Jayda. Jayda’s a joiner, which is incredibly surprising because her mom comes to nothing. Literally…nothing. Wait, I’ve seen her mom at one track meet in the four years (we’re heading into the fifth) of Alyssa and Jayda participating in the sport.
Her mom is never at concerts, never at plays, never at meets or games where the marching band is performing. Jayda also plays the oboe (she does NOT) and while she’s third chair (behind Harmony and, oh, let’s just say Alyssa also plays the oboe) she shows up and what more can you ask of a child who’s parents are never, ever there?
Her parents are divorced and her dad lives about an hour and a half away. But that’s no excuse. Yes, Jayda is mean to him, but that’s also no excuse. The man is her father. He’s his job to show up for his child, even if she’s an ungrateful brat. The adult looks beyond the brattiness and see the pain and works to overcome it. Right? Right!
Then there are those of us who are somewhere in the middle.
Okay, so I totally admit that I definitely fall closer to Marie’s side of the spectrum than to Jayda’s mom’s side. But while yes, I attend the music boosters meetings, I’m not an officer. And yes, I did take charge of about half of all of Olivia’s class parties from kindergarten through third grade, sharing the responsibility with Deb Porch, the only other working mom but also the only other mom willing to take on that responsibility. But those are extremes that I didn’t want to have to take on, there was no other choice.
I attend the junior parents’ meetings because someone has to. But, go me, I’m not in charge.
I try to let Alyssa do her own thing, supporting her as she figures out who she is and where she’s going. I don’t want to mold her into a mini-me. I don’t want her to live my life nor do I want to try and relive my youth through her.
But I also want her to know that I’m always there. Always cheering her on from the sidelines as she lives her own life.
And wow, this is a judgey-ass post. Sorry. I obviously have strong feelings about being too involved and not being involved enough.
Good thing I’ve found the perfect balance of involvement, huh?
Sorry, I’ve got to go, the hair and makeup crew for the musical can’t make do without me.
And don’t even get me started on all the snacks that Tom, my mom and I brought to give Olivia during a one hour concert. Damn, you’d think she was four years old the way we cater to her. Yikes.
Tuesday, March 3, 2020
A Concert
Alyssa and several classmates were invited to participate in an ‘All County’ honors band and choir event recently. There are about six junior/senior high schools in Williams County, Ohio.
The students who participated in it got to get out their regularly scheduled classes on a Wednesday for band practice and on a Thursday for choir practice (or vice versa, I’m not actually sure which was which, does it really matter? I mean, Lyss was in both so she went to Montpelier on both Wednesday and Thursday that week.)
Ahem. Where was I?
Yes, they were taken to the high school in Montpelier and practiced with their peers from the other school and ‘guest’ conductors.
Then, on the following Sunday, the students gathered and performed for parents/grandparents/siblings and community members in a lovely little concert.
The week before the concert, I asked Alyssa if she wanted me to make her dad and sister come to the concert. She admitted that she did want them there. I told her I’d make them attend.
See, here’s the thing, Tom has used Olivia’s lack of attention span for years, YEARS, to get out of these kinds of things.
Only too bad for him, Olivia is old enough and mature enough to come to these things herself and be expected to behave. Honestly, she’s been old enough for years. But because it was easier for me to just go with my mom and watch Alyssa perform than to deal with Liv’s constant questions of “When is it going to be over?” I just let them stay home.
But that’s not fair to Alyssa. She deserves to have her dad show up too. Her sister can also support her by showing up.
I am proud to be able to say I’ve never missed an event. If my kid (either of them) is performing/attending, I’ve been there.
I know not all parents feel the need to be there all the time. I get that. And while I admit to being a little judgey of the ones who NEVER show up, I get that sometimes we have to work or there are extenuating circumstances that keeps parents from being there.
But this time, I simply informed Tom and Olivia of the time and place and told them I’d see them there.
Then I joked with him that I’d told Alyssa that I’d make him and Olivia show up. He got a little huffy over the word make. So I changed his perspective and told him I’d told her that I’d gently encourage him to go to the concert. That smoothed the feathers and everyone (well, except Olivia, but she had snacks so…) enjoyed the lovely music created by our amazing students.
The students who participated in it got to get out their regularly scheduled classes on a Wednesday for band practice and on a Thursday for choir practice (or vice versa, I’m not actually sure which was which, does it really matter? I mean, Lyss was in both so she went to Montpelier on both Wednesday and Thursday that week.)
Ahem. Where was I?
Yes, they were taken to the high school in Montpelier and practiced with their peers from the other school and ‘guest’ conductors.
Then, on the following Sunday, the students gathered and performed for parents/grandparents/siblings and community members in a lovely little concert.
The week before the concert, I asked Alyssa if she wanted me to make her dad and sister come to the concert. She admitted that she did want them there. I told her I’d make them attend.
See, here’s the thing, Tom has used Olivia’s lack of attention span for years, YEARS, to get out of these kinds of things.
Only too bad for him, Olivia is old enough and mature enough to come to these things herself and be expected to behave. Honestly, she’s been old enough for years. But because it was easier for me to just go with my mom and watch Alyssa perform than to deal with Liv’s constant questions of “When is it going to be over?” I just let them stay home.
But that’s not fair to Alyssa. She deserves to have her dad show up too. Her sister can also support her by showing up.
I am proud to be able to say I’ve never missed an event. If my kid (either of them) is performing/attending, I’ve been there.
I know not all parents feel the need to be there all the time. I get that. And while I admit to being a little judgey of the ones who NEVER show up, I get that sometimes we have to work or there are extenuating circumstances that keeps parents from being there.
But this time, I simply informed Tom and Olivia of the time and place and told them I’d see them there.
Then I joked with him that I’d told Alyssa that I’d make him and Olivia show up. He got a little huffy over the word make. So I changed his perspective and told him I’d told her that I’d gently encourage him to go to the concert. That smoothed the feathers and everyone (well, except Olivia, but she had snacks so…) enjoyed the lovely music created by our amazing students.
Monday, March 2, 2020
Skating By
One weekend in mid-January, Alyssa said, “Did you know there’s a roller skating rink in West Unity?”
I did NOT know that, thank you very much.
That is definitely information I would like to have.
That same weekend, Lyss and her friends made their way to West Unity to check out the new skating rink.
She came home several hours later with blisters and sore legs.
She also declared that they’d skated for two hours and then went for food.
Hello? How could they have left after only two hours when there was still skating time left?
Go ahead, laugh at me now. I get it. I really do.
A week later, the day Nell died, actually, Alyssa texted me before I’d talked to my mom and found out that Nell had died.
Lyss’s text read something along the lines of: My friends and I are going skating again tonight. Olivia thinks she’s going too.
Well.
Guess what? If Olivia was going skating, that meant I was going skating too. I was excited. (Please read NO sarcasm there. I actually WAS excited. I hadn’t been skating in years…#foreshadowing.)
Let me backtrack. This skating ‘rink’ used to be a grocery store. Let that sink in. It. Used. To. Be. A. Grocery store…
So we go there just before 6pm. I’d already cried a few tears for my mom and her sisters and our beloved Auntie Nell.
We went in, paid our $5 each, $7 for Alyssa who wanted to try rollerblades. Yikes.
The place is still a work in progress. The ‘room’ where the skates are handed out is still just framed out. They haven’t put up drywall yet.
The skates were ancient. I had to try on four pair before finding a halfway decent pair that didn’t pull to one side or the other.
The floor of the actual skating floor is…cement. It’s the left over cement after the linoleum was ripped up. There were a few pockmarks but it was actually almost smooth.
There were two posts on either side of the skating floor. (These come in handy later.)
There’s a janky concession stand set up at the back of the business, probably where the meat department used to be in the grocery store.
Anyway, we got some skates, I put a pair on O’s feet. She declared that they were REALLY heavy.
Duh.
I put my skates on. Tried them. Took them off. Put another pair on, tried them, they were…okay.
We headed out to the floor.
Is it okay if I tell the world that Olivia is incredibly uncoordinated? I mean, isn’t this kind of obvious to anyone who knows anything about her? The child didn’t walk until she was 29 months old. Anything that takes gross motor skills does not come naturally to her.
She was AWKWARD on those skates. I tried to stand behind her and help her. I tried holding her hand. I tried skating in front of her.
She leaned on the rail and pulled herself along. Then…the rail kind of stopped and she grabbed at me.
She started to fall and held on to me for dear life.
She went down, pulling me down with her. We were at least six feet from the wall and about four feet from one of the poles.
I was not going to be able to help her up.
Guys, I can barely get off the floor without pulling myself up using some sort of support when I’m NOT wearing wheels on my feet. With wheels on my feet? I wasn’t going to be able to get up on my own, let alone help my 115 pound toddler up too.
Alyssa ‘raced’ to the rescue (I put raced like that because she was on rollerblades and wasn’t used to them. I should really just say she rolled slowly and gingerly to the rescue.)
She was able to get Olivia back on her feet/wheels.
I walked on my knees on that filthy cement floor to the post and pulled myself up.
I realized then and there that I am WAY too old and fat for this shit. Dear Lord, that was embarrassing.
Not that anyone was watching me. I mean, please.
A couple of strangers did come along and ask if we needed help. I just kind of nodded toward Olivia and said, “She has no idea what to do and I’m clueless as to how to help her.”
They were very kind and told her a little about how to skate. She got ‘better.’ Better meaning she was able to slightly pick up her feet and not end up on the floor every three feet. She and I made our way to the center where she tried to learn to just stand on the skates.
But that was boring for her. So she made her way to the wall again (with my tentative help) and tried some more.
Thankfully, the Porch family showed up. Mama Porch and I skated while Olivia and Delaney had snacks. That was probably O’s favorite part of the whole night. Alyssa and Nora Porch helped their friend Sierra skate.
Oh, but wait. When Liv took off her skates, I decided to try them. They were size 8. I’d had on a size 8. The 8s felt so much better that decided to wear them instead. I turned in the crappy 9s and skated in the 8s for a while.
About two hours in, my right knee hurt. My left foot also hurt. My back was killing me. Did I mention that I’m too old and fat to be doing this sort of thing?
Olivia was bored with the snack offerings and Alyssa and her friends wanted to go to Buffalo Wild Wings.
So guess what? We left even though there were HOURS of skating left.
Yes, once again, I was forced to eat my words.
I will probably never learn to keep my mouth shut.
But for the record, I WILL go roller skating again, no matter that I’m too old and fat. It’s still fun, even if it does hurt for days after.
I did NOT know that, thank you very much.
That is definitely information I would like to have.
That same weekend, Lyss and her friends made their way to West Unity to check out the new skating rink.
She came home several hours later with blisters and sore legs.
She also declared that they’d skated for two hours and then went for food.
Hello? How could they have left after only two hours when there was still skating time left?
Go ahead, laugh at me now. I get it. I really do.
A week later, the day Nell died, actually, Alyssa texted me before I’d talked to my mom and found out that Nell had died.
Lyss’s text read something along the lines of: My friends and I are going skating again tonight. Olivia thinks she’s going too.
Well.
Guess what? If Olivia was going skating, that meant I was going skating too. I was excited. (Please read NO sarcasm there. I actually WAS excited. I hadn’t been skating in years…#foreshadowing.)
Let me backtrack. This skating ‘rink’ used to be a grocery store. Let that sink in. It. Used. To. Be. A. Grocery store…
So we go there just before 6pm. I’d already cried a few tears for my mom and her sisters and our beloved Auntie Nell.
We went in, paid our $5 each, $7 for Alyssa who wanted to try rollerblades. Yikes.
The place is still a work in progress. The ‘room’ where the skates are handed out is still just framed out. They haven’t put up drywall yet.
The skates were ancient. I had to try on four pair before finding a halfway decent pair that didn’t pull to one side or the other.
The floor of the actual skating floor is…cement. It’s the left over cement after the linoleum was ripped up. There were a few pockmarks but it was actually almost smooth.
There were two posts on either side of the skating floor. (These come in handy later.)
There’s a janky concession stand set up at the back of the business, probably where the meat department used to be in the grocery store.
Anyway, we got some skates, I put a pair on O’s feet. She declared that they were REALLY heavy.
Duh.
I put my skates on. Tried them. Took them off. Put another pair on, tried them, they were…okay.
We headed out to the floor.
Is it okay if I tell the world that Olivia is incredibly uncoordinated? I mean, isn’t this kind of obvious to anyone who knows anything about her? The child didn’t walk until she was 29 months old. Anything that takes gross motor skills does not come naturally to her.
She was AWKWARD on those skates. I tried to stand behind her and help her. I tried holding her hand. I tried skating in front of her.
She leaned on the rail and pulled herself along. Then…the rail kind of stopped and she grabbed at me.
She started to fall and held on to me for dear life.
She went down, pulling me down with her. We were at least six feet from the wall and about four feet from one of the poles.
I was not going to be able to help her up.
Guys, I can barely get off the floor without pulling myself up using some sort of support when I’m NOT wearing wheels on my feet. With wheels on my feet? I wasn’t going to be able to get up on my own, let alone help my 115 pound toddler up too.
Alyssa ‘raced’ to the rescue (I put raced like that because she was on rollerblades and wasn’t used to them. I should really just say she rolled slowly and gingerly to the rescue.)
She was able to get Olivia back on her feet/wheels.
I walked on my knees on that filthy cement floor to the post and pulled myself up.
I realized then and there that I am WAY too old and fat for this shit. Dear Lord, that was embarrassing.
Not that anyone was watching me. I mean, please.
A couple of strangers did come along and ask if we needed help. I just kind of nodded toward Olivia and said, “She has no idea what to do and I’m clueless as to how to help her.”
They were very kind and told her a little about how to skate. She got ‘better.’ Better meaning she was able to slightly pick up her feet and not end up on the floor every three feet. She and I made our way to the center where she tried to learn to just stand on the skates.
But that was boring for her. So she made her way to the wall again (with my tentative help) and tried some more.
Thankfully, the Porch family showed up. Mama Porch and I skated while Olivia and Delaney had snacks. That was probably O’s favorite part of the whole night. Alyssa and Nora Porch helped their friend Sierra skate.
Oh, but wait. When Liv took off her skates, I decided to try them. They were size 8. I’d had on a size 8. The 8s felt so much better that decided to wear them instead. I turned in the crappy 9s and skated in the 8s for a while.
About two hours in, my right knee hurt. My left foot also hurt. My back was killing me. Did I mention that I’m too old and fat to be doing this sort of thing?
Olivia was bored with the snack offerings and Alyssa and her friends wanted to go to Buffalo Wild Wings.
So guess what? We left even though there were HOURS of skating left.
Yes, once again, I was forced to eat my words.
I will probably never learn to keep my mouth shut.
But for the record, I WILL go roller skating again, no matter that I’m too old and fat. It’s still fun, even if it does hurt for days after.
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