The Perks Keep Coming

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

Ahhh.

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

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

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

Self-Improvement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve been drinking my water,

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

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

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

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

Hey, it could happen.

Lunch with a Judge

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

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

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

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

Way to bury the lede there, sister!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Are You Tired?

“Why are you always so tired?”

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

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

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

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

And for the most part, that’s okay.

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

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

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

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

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

So yes, my loves, I’m tired.

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

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

What It's Like to Wear a Compression Sleeve

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

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

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

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

It goes from my wrist to my armpit. Ick.

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, it was lovely to have an audience.

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

That was great fun, let me tell you.

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

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

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

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

Once the sleeve was on I evaluated how it felt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Journey to a Compression Sleeve

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

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

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

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

I was given orders to see a physical therapist.

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

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

I went home and put that order…somewhere.

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

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

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

Damn it.

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

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

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

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

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

So fine, I’d get a sleeve.

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

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

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

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

Okay, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded, taking my HAS card back.

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

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

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

Scribbles

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

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

I get it.

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

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

Whatever.

Recently, O brought home one such note.

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

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

Guess when her screen time ban was starting?

After dinner, that’s when.

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

Can you guess why that was the case?

I’ll give you a minute.

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

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

“Go read a book.”

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

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

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

Did she bother her dad?

Not much because a much more fun target was home.

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

Amazon Can Bite Me

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

I didn’t buy music on Saturday.

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

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

She did not.

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

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

I suggested his card had been hacked.

But no. It hadn’t.

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

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

As we all know, Kindle is an Amazon device.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We cancelled that fucker too.

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

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

Amazon can go screw itself.

Forgiveness

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

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

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

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

They hurt no one but me.

I forgive myself, though, for holding those grudges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Banana Ooooh Nana

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

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

My cousin E had two bananas in her purse.

Gag.

She offered one to me.

I made a face and she laughed.

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

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

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

I gave him a blank stare.

He stared back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that point, we had quite an audience.

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

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

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

Nerding Out

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

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

Alas, there is more.

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

Alyssa looked at me like I was crazy.

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

She muttered, “A little?”

Huh.

Dayamn

These last few weeks have felt like months.

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

But right now, I could use a little boredom.

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

SO TIRED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Side of Radiation

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a vicious cycle.

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

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

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

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

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

Idiot's Guide to Dyeing Fabric

-Get the fabric from your mom.

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

-Buy blue Rit dye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homecoming Spirit Week (Alternate Title: Kill Me Now)

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

Because, duh.

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

Monday was declared Royalty day.

Tuesday was Decade day.

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

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

And Friday was good old Bomber Blue and Gray day.

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

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

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

She was set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chill

So apparently, I’m the chill mom.

Ha!

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

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

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

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

I said, “Will you just sit?”

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

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

Finally, FINALLY! She sat down.

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And looked at me. And kept looking at me.

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

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

She asked me to sharpen her pencil.

It didn’t need sharpened.

I sharpened it anyway.

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

She picked at the pencil. She looked me.

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

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

I know.

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

I know.

But I was so tired that day.

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

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

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

Who knew?

Go me and my mad braiding skillz.

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

Flower on a Tuesday

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

Yes.

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

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

No.

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

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

I left after the first volley of the varsity game.

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

OMG.

Seriously.

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

I don’t know.

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

This is so unfair to Olivia.

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

We’ll see.

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

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

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

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

He asked all the survivors and fighters to stand.

Sigh.

Friend’s Dad turned and looked me.

I tried not to make eye contact.

He said, “That’s you!”

Fine.

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

And…she hugged me.

Which is fine. It’s all fine.

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

Tuesdays wear me out.

Put Together

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looks exhausting.

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

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

My hair, well, it is what it is.

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

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

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

And I’m okay with that.

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

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