Sorthing Clothes (as opposed to the Sorting Hat)

Over the years as Alyssa outgrew clothes, I’d set them aside (sometimes in boxes, sometimes in…piles) for Olivia to grow into.

And then, when O would outgrow those very clothes, I’d box them up for Tom’s oldest granddaughter, Hope.

Both of Tom’s sons have three kids each. The oldest had boy, girl, boy and the youngest had boy, boy, girl. The youngest grandchild/daughter (Ella) is five. Hope turned 11 this month.

All of Tom’s grandkids are on the small side. His sons are small and they had children with small women, so these clothes can sometimes sit for up to six months after I’ve boxed them up and there is still a good chance they’ll fit Hope.

I’ve already told Hope’s mom that if something doesn’t work for them, they are free to do what they will with the clothes. Once they’re out of our house, they are no longer my problem concern.

Recently there was a big pile of clothes in Olivia’s room. It has been accumulating for a couple of months.

Feeling motivated and not wanting to lose that sense of momentum, I asked Tom for some boxes into which I could neatly fold these clothes.

He is the keep of the boxes in our house since he’s the one who packs items to be shipped after selling them on Ebay.

He agreed to scrounge up some boxes. As he walked away he said, “This might be the last clothes we send to Hope, right?”

He suggested that at her age, Olivia will more than likely stop outgrowing her clothes soon and whatever we buy her from this point forward should continue to fit her until she either wears it out or hates it and refuses to wear it anymore.

I agreed that that was a definite possibility.

Olivia is about 5’4” tall these days and weighs the appropriate amount for that height.

Sorry, Hope and Hope’s parents, the days of surprise boxes of clothes from Grandpa Tom are almost over.

Prom (or Not?)

Yes, I Did Skip a “Junior Class Parent” Meeting and I Feel Zero Guilt Over Doing So

I attended at least eight parent meetings over the span of the school year that were geared toward raising money for the junior/senior prom and then planning said prom.

It was miserable. We sold pies, we organized a ‘Family Fun Night’, which included a dinner (I was on the food committee with my kind of moms), kiddie games, a silent auction and a concession stand. We sold more pies, we held 50/50 raffles at every single stupid football and basketball games.

Then we met to talk about how we’d spend the money we’d raised.

Then school closed for the year on March 13 and…everything stalled.

We still got emails from the teacher who was in charge of the prom (she works with the juniors and their parents each year doing this. That poor, poor woman.)

We also got FB updates.

So, prom is now happening on July 18. But there will be no dancing; also no dates. Only students who were juniors or seniors during the 2019-2020 school year are invited. It’s happening at a hotel nearby and there will be dinner and prizes. Formal dress is encouraged but not required.

Yeah, Alyssa thinks is sounds awesome too.

On the Wednesday before the Fourth of July, I got a FB message from Mrs. R, the teacher mentioned above. She attached the agenda for the parent meeting that was being held the very next day, July 2.

The agenda was roughly this:

1. Discuss T-shirt – someone needs to organize this.

2. Discuss prizes – someone needs to organize this.

3. Chaperones – we need as many as possible.

I replied to her message and said, “So sorry, can’t make the meeting. But I can totally be a chaperone if you need me.”

She responded almost immediately with, “We’ll definitely need you, I’ll put you on the list.”

And that’s that.

I was NOT going to be in charge of T-shirts.

I was NOT going to be in charge of prizes.

And you know what? I knew that if I attended that stupid meeting, I would somehow end up in charge of one of those things, either by myself or as a co-organizer.

No thank you.

And guess what?

I feel no guilt whatsoever about any of this. Nope, not even a little. I’ve done more than my share in this whole Junior parent thing. I mean, damn, there were maybe five of us who showed up to every meeting. Two dads were among the regulars. But you know what? There are over 30 kids in this class. That means that 1/6 of us carried the load for the rest.

So I’m done.

I will chaperone because I want to be there.

But I am not organizing another thing for this ‘prom.’

I hope it’s great for the kids but at this point, it feels like a farce anyway so let’s just get through it, get it over with and move on.

Updated: So I casually mentioned to Tom that Alyssa and my mom are going to the mall (in FORT WAYNE) to get Alyssa a dress for this prom. I think he came close to going into shock. He got very busy researching the guidelines for gatherings during this 'unprecedented time'.

He's VERY against either me or Alyssa attending this prom. He thinks it's dangerous and stupid of the school to even consider a gathering like this when they're not even sure how they're going to do school this fall.

I get it. I do. I get his angst and his worry and his fear. But I also am so tired of not living.

I mean, damn it, Alyssa and I both go to work every single week. We deal with people every single day. I go to the grocery store.

If we do these things, why are we so worried about something that actually be fun?

I know Tom's answer. He'll say that work is 'necessary' as are groceries. But gathering with 50+ people in a ballroom at a local hotel for dinner and prizes is NOT.

Yes. True. But maybe...it is necessary? For our mental health, for our well-being?

I will be wearing a mask that night. Alyssa will too. Will others? Maybe not but I can socially distance with the best of them.

Something's got to give, is what I'm saying.

The Little Things

My house is a disaster.

We’ve lived in this house for almost ten years. The first year we lived there, I painted every room on the first level except the tiny half bath. It’s fine.

I painted the upstairs hallway, both bathrooms and two of the four bedrooms.

In the ensuing years, I have painted…nothing. It’s just not high on the priority list.

The clutter is what’s getting to me; the boxes of crap sitting in corners of rooms. It either needs to be tossed or stored but I need to get it out of the corners. And yet, I’m never actually motivated to just sit down and go through these boxes when I’m actually at home. They sit there, taunting me as I’m doing other things, things that can’t be put off, like laundry, dishes, making food for my family to consume.

Sigh.

It feels like a metaphor for my life. The clutter that is in my head, the crap I put into my body. I need to do something about all of that too and yet…it sits there, like the boxes in the corners of my house.

Hon

I work with a few women who call everyone endearments like ‘dear’, ‘hon’, ‘sweetie’.

I don’t have a problem with this the way I do with men who call women things like that.

See, women don’t single any particular gender out when they do it. They just generally call people these things.

Dudes, though, do NOT go around calling each other ‘darlin’ or ‘dear’. So…yes, it’s irritating when men do it but okay when women do.

That’s just the rule, deal with it.

But, this isn’t actually about that.

It’s about the women who do it and how they came to be women who call people, not family, not dear friends, but EVERYONE by endearments.

I am not one of those women.

I might call you ‘dude’ but that’s the extent of my familiarity with people. Sure, call my daughters ‘lovey’ and ‘baby’ but they’re my children. And I will call my husband ‘sweets’ because it amuses me to do so.

But these women who call people ‘hon’. Have they always done it? I mean, honestly, can you imagine a twelve year old saying to her teacher, “Here you go, hon,” as she hands in her homework?

At what point in a woman’s life does she become an endearment dropper?

I’m truly curious about this.

One of friend’s mom is one who calls people ‘dear’ and ‘hon.’ She’s lovely and again, it doesn’t bother me but has she always done it? I didn’t know her in her teen years and I don’t feel like I can ask if she did it back then because she probably isn’t even aware of doing it.

I don’t think her eighteen year old daughter does it but I will ask Lyss.

I remember back in my waitressing days when the women who were older than I was at the time (but most certainly younger than I am now) were endearment droppers with the customers. Maybe some of them picked it up when they got jobs like that. I suppose calling some gross dude ‘hon’ might actually make him a better tipper. I mean, anything is possible.

Maybe this fascinates me so much because I’m naturally kind of stand-offish. I will make conversation with the cashier at my local grocery store but I’m not going to call him or her ‘dear’ when I thank them for my change. I will smile through my mask and wish them well but that’s the extent of my friendliness.

And that’s okay too. You do you, Hon and I’ll sit over here with my dudes and we’ll all be happy and non-judgmental and go about our lives in bliss and harmony.

Curfew

Alyssa’s growing up. She’s trying to spread her wings and I love that for her.

Her dad, though, wants to keep her safe.

I get both sides.

I want her to feel a sense of independence. I want her to be free and have fun.

But like him, I want her to be safe too. And when she’s out, I worry about her until she gets home but I know we can’t wrap her in bubble wrap and stash her in the basement.

So what do we do?

She wants to be able to go out and not watch the clock constantly, worrying about getting home in time for what she feels is an arbitrary curfew.

Maybe I need to do a poll and see what other parents have set as a summer curfew for their seventeen year olds.

See, I get it. Alyssa works Fridays, Saturdays and Sunday from 7am to 3pm. She can’t go out Thursday, Friday or Saturday nights much past 9pm because she has to get up at 6 for work.

N works weekends too, only she’s on the 3pm to 11pm shift. So they don’t see each other on the weekends.

N has Tuesdays and Wednesdays off. This is perfect for Lyss because it means they’d can go out, hang out, do whatever it is teenagers od these days. But…those days are ‘week nights’ and Tom thinks Lyss should be home by 10 on weeknights.

Her argument is that because she and N work weekends, Tuesdays and Wednesdays should really count as weekends for them and thus, they should be able to stay out late.

And remember, it’s SUMMER.

Another thing is that Alyssa is a REALLY GOOD person. She gets straight A’s. She has never missed a day of work. I really, truly don’t think midnight on a summer night when she doesn’t have to work the next day is that big a deal. I mean, they’re usually just hanging out at N’s house anyway. They don’t cause trouble, they don’t go out ‘cruising’.

But I have to figure out how to gently suggest all this to Tom because he’d a dude and needs to think this is all his idea or he’ll dig in his heels and ‘stick to his guns’ just on the basis of principle.

Sigh.

I hate being in the middle of it all. I mean, yes, I’m her parent too and I am his spouse and I want them both to be happy. I can see both sides and I think there has to be a compromise. Right?

What time do your teenagers come home on summer nights when they don’t have to be anywhere the next day?

Guilt

I do still have a bit of survivor’s guilt.

I know how lucky/blessed I am to still be here, loving my family, mothering my children, wifing my husband.

I wonder why I got to stay, why I got to live and Amy didn’t.

Okay, so yes, her kids were ‘grown’ when she died. But…they aren’t that old. Her son was 22 and her daughter was 18 when she died. Her daughter had just gotten married. Amy’s first grandchild was born nine and a half months after Amy died.

Amy loved babies. She LOVED babies. She would have adored that little girl so, so much.

I know she’s still loving her from heaven. I know this. And yet…it’s so unfair that she isn’t here, living on this earth, holding that baby, kissing her, hugging her. Helping H as she figures out motherhood.

I know she wouldn’t want me to feel this way.

When we were kids, Amy was the caregiver of all us who were younger than she was. Chet and I were only thirteen months younger than Amy and yet she was always trying to mother us.

She’d want me to embrace my life, to love my babies and celebrate every single day I’m here. She’d want me to run through sprinklers, to drink that strawberry lemonade, eat another piece of cake and laugh long and loud with my daughters.

I cried for her. I cried hard. I still have moments of grief. But I know she loved hard in her 48 years on this earth and she’s still loving hard from afar (or may not so far away, who really knows?)

When I dream of Amy, she’s always so happy. She’s healthy and beautiful and young and she’s smiling. She’s full of life and love and I know…I know she’d want me to be that way in the here and now.

So I’m going to try. I’m going to try and let go of the guilt. I’m going to try and live this one life I have to the fullest, loving as much as Amy did, laughing as much as she did, holding babies every chance I get and hugging my girls for as long as they’ll let me.

Instead of feeling guilty that I’m still here and she’s not, I’m going to try and live the way she would be living if she were here, unapologetically, unfiltered, unfettered by guilt.

Released

I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist on a Tuesday in June. It was the third Tuesday in June of 2020.

This doctor, while kind and well-meaning, usually made me feel terrible about myself.

But at this appointment, he had nothing but good things to say. He didn’t tell me to get more exercise, he didn’t tell me to start eating a plant-based diet.

No, instead, he told me that I’m showing marked improvement in my left arm, the measurements show that I’m managing my lymphedema very well with exercise and self-massage.

He listened to my concerns (there weren’t many, I never want to bother anyone) and did a thorough exam. He said everything looks good.

It all looks good enough that he’s releasing me from his care.

I did ask him the question I’ve had since I stopped seeing some sort of doctor or nurse on a weekly basis. I’ve wondered all this time, which doctor do I ‘bother’ with which concerns. I mean, I have so many specialists, who do I call if my hip hurts? Who wants to know if I feel something else, a pain, a lump, anything in my breast?

He was very helpful in answering this question. If I have any breast concerns at all, I should call the surgeon. He can actually do a biopsy right there in his office. Or he can order tests, exams, whatever to find out what’s going on.

Dr. Z, the chemo oncologist is my go-to guy for anything else.

Dr. R said that when breast cancer comes back, it often comes back in the bones. It seems to like the shoulders, the hips, the spine. So if I have unexplained pain in any of those areas that doesn’t get better in a couple of weeks, I should call Dr. Z’s office.

So…that’s all good stuff. I feel better informed at this point than I have in two plus years, which is a really good feeling.

One Down

In years past, my chemo oncologist check-ups were in late October and late April and my radiation oncologist check-ups were in June.

Thanks to Covid-19 and all the insanity that came with it, my oncologist appointment for April was postponed until June 16. That was a Tuesday.

My radiation oncologist appointment, which was scheduled a year ago, is Tuesday, June 23.

I think we can all be pretty sure that nothing is going to change in a week from one appointment to the next.

Of course there is the fact that my radiation oncologist is WAY more thorough than my chemo oncologist.

Though to be fair, this year my chemo oncology check was done by the nurse practitioner. She’s great. For a little woman she had STRONG hands. She digs in there during the physical exam. To be honest, I actually feel better after my appointments with her than I do after my appointments with Dr. Z. I have, in the past, felt like he’s just passing through, whereas she spends time with me, talks to me, treats me like an actual person.

Well. That was six paragraphs to say that my chemo oncology appointment went well. Nothing pointing that there is anything to be concerned about. She said my lungs sound perfect. Please, universe, karma, God…don’t take this to mean that I’m asking for my lungs to NOT sound good. Please, know that I am grateful, eternally, for every single day I am here and that I’d be ever so much more grateful for many, many more days, years, decades during which to life my simple little life.

I’m assuming, since the two appointments are a week apart, the next one will be fine too.

I am also going in to this next appointment with the full knowledge that Dr. R will make me feel terrible about myself. He’s kind about it but he reminds me that I’m a fatty and that my fattiness could very well be a contributing factor to my cancer. He will remind me that the Mediterranean diet, which is based on eating a mostly plant-based diet, has shown to work well for cancer survivors.

Wheee!

I know! I want to tell him that I KNOW all this. It doesn’t make it any easier to actually do all the things that might make a difference though.

Ah well, at least I know that the funk I often find myself in after my yearly appointment with him only lasts a few days and then I bounce right back to my lovely, jovial self.

Huh.

I wonder if he’ll have anything to say about my supposed lymphedema. I haven’t worn a sleeve on my left arm in, oh, six months. My arm is fine. It’s FINE! In fact, the nurse practitioner and a couple of other doctors concur that I probably do not have lymphedema. I show no signs of visible swelling. I have very little (no?) pain in my left arm.

I mean, I appreciate that he’s so proactive. I do. I also appreciate that he’s thorough. He wants me to get healthy, be healthy and stay healthy. I mean, he’s one of my doctors, I supposed I should want him to want those things. Sigh. If only it were that easy.

Anyway, I’m sure once I’ve seen him I will have lots to bitch about. But for now, I’m grateful. I’m blessed. I’m so, so lucky to be here, living this life and loving these people and skating in my driveway with my daughters. How did I get here? Please don’t let this just be a wishful dream that I wake up from.

Home School

Over the holiday weekend, I found out that one of my cousins, a lovely young woman with two beautiful daughters, will be homeschooling her girls this fall. She’d already made the decision years ago not to send her older daughter to public school. S had gone to a private Catholic school since kindergarten. I believe she’d be going into fourth grade this coming fall.

E (the cousin) told her mom that she just wasn’t comfortable sending either one of her daughters back to school. Her younger daughter, A, will be five in December, so she’d have been home another year anyway. But she’s ready to learn. So E’s going to devote her days to educating her girls.

Good for her.

Seriously.

She’s already a stay-at-home mom so this won’t be a hardship on their family. It will be fine.

I also found out that my oldest step-son’s wife (does that make her my step-daughter-in-law?) will be homeschooling their three children as well.

Tom visited with J the week before holiday weekend and J told him they’d gone back to church a couple of times after the initial quarantine but the sight of everyone hugging and shaking hands made J choose not to go back and now they’ll be keeping their kids out of school too.

Again, good for them. I hope it works for them and they get a lot out of it.

After Tom told me all this, I gave it a moment of thought and declared, “All I know for sure is that homeschool is NOT a good option for our family.”

He laughed and agreed. Then he said, “Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea for a lot of kids who are going to be homeschooled in the near future.”

I didn’t touch that one. I may be married to the ringmaster, but that is NOT my circus and so I don’t get to judge the monkeys.

What I do know is that my little weirdos would have been even weirder if I hadn’t sent them school where they’ve been socialized into semi-functioning human beings over the past decade or so.

Okay, so the big one has come a long way. I mean, she works with the public, she is in a long-standing relationship, she has lots of friends, she performs in musicals and takes solos, both vocal and flute, to contest each year. She runs track and is the section lead of the woodwinds in her high school band. She tries out for soloes in her choir. She takes voice lessons to which she drives herself, pays the lady herself and practices without nagging.

But let me tell you, she would not be this outgoing and vivacious if she’d been stuck me day in and day out during her more formative years. No. She’d still be stuck to my side, letting me speak for her (and yes, that is one of my biggest flaws, I answer for my kids rather than let the silence get awkward.)

Honestly, she still gets squirmy if you suggest she go through a drive thru as the actual driver and have to speak, OUT LOUD, into the intercom and order something. She doesn’t like to order her own food when out and about. She wouldn’t call Walmart and ask if they have a specific phone in stock when her phone was dying. So, yes, she’s still weird (adorably weird but still) and while I love every weird cell in her body, I know school has been SO good for her.

And don’t even get me started on the little one. I mean, damn, can you even imagine that one without the last eight years of formal schooling? Yikes. And honestly, I can see regression setting in now that she’s been out of school for sixteen (16!) weeks. I feel for her new teacher this fall. Not only will she be getting to know Olivia for the first time, she’ll be getting to know an Olivia who has been out of school for almost 22 weeks. I better get that woman a few gift cards just to mellow out the start of the year.

All this to say, yeah. Good for all you homeschooling moms. I’ll be over here investing in masks and hand sanitizer and sending my darlings back into the cesspool that is the public school system.

In our case, the fear of germs is trumped by the benefits of socialization. I realize not everyone has the same priorities and that doesn’t make any of us are wrong (except 45, the creepy-ass dude whose name is the present tense of one the verb in the first sentence in this paragraph. Yes, he’s wrong ALL THE TIME. No matter the subject, he is wrong.)

A Close Shave

Thirteen is an age where typical kids simply go take a shower when they’re stinky, right? Or, if they want to bathe, they just…go take a bath.

Alas, we all know that Miss Liv is not typical. She’s so awesome in so many ways. She’s proving doctors and research wrong every single day.

But that does not mean I can leave her alone in a bath for more than five minutes if I want to avoid a disaster.

Most of these disasters are of the water logged type. Sometimes, she pulls an entire bath towel into the tub with her. Other times, there’s a pond on the bathroom floor.

This time, though. Oh my goodness.

Of course it’s my fault. I mean, I KNEW, each time I saw that stupid razor on the side of the tub that I should pick it up, put it away. Out of sight, out of mind and all that jazz.

But I didn’t put it away. I left it there, right there, in plain sight.

And she saw it all right. She saw it right after watching her sister shave her (the sister’s, not Liv’s) legs right there in the bathtub as Olivia bathed.

She probably watched Lyss shave and thought, “Huh, that doesn’t look hard.”

And then, after Lyss left the room and I stupidly continued to my own thing one room away, Olivia spotted the random disposable razor on the side of the tub.

Relax, no lives were lost and only a little blood was spilled.

The biggest sacrifice in this entire situation is the inner quarter of her right eyebrow.

Yes, she shaved off part of her eyebrow.

She also gave herself a scrap across her chin, where she claimed a random hair was ‘bothering’ her.

Who knows?

What I do know is that each time I went in to check on her, which was every ten minutes or so, she hid that razor like a thief. She KNEW she wasn’t supposed to have it.

She also reminded me to close the door each time I was leaving the room after checking on her. That right there should have clued me in.

Eyebrows grow back and scrapes heal.

I do know it could have been SO MUCH worse and as such, I’ve taken every single razor in the house and hidden them.

Out of sight, out of mind indeed.