14 Years of 5p-

Although Olivia was two years old when finally diagnosed with 5p- syndrome, obviously, she’s been living with it her whole life.

At the time of her diagnosis, her doctor, the lovely, wonderful Dr. S told us that when Olivia is older, she will get to decide who knows she has 5p- and who doesn’t.

At the time, I was torn. I mean, yes, I want her to be able to pick and choose who knows what about her. But I also kind of wanted the world to be able to see her struggles so that people would be kinder and maybe more patient. Yeah, we all know how that works, right?

I learned early on that having an ‘invisible disability’ is a double-edged sword. There are benefits and drawbacks. Isn’t that how it is with most things in life, though?

We’ve always been open with family about O’s diagnosis. There was no reason to keep it a secret. She is who she is and she’s perfectly awesome even with her diagnosis. Yes, yes, I would STILL give her back that missing part of her chromosome, even these fourteen years later. I would take away that struggle because the world is hard enough to fit into without extra complications.

Anyway!

While at my aunt’s house over the 4th of July weekend, we were all sitting around a table, just doing what families do. My aunt said something about O’s syndrome as she was talking about my cousin H’s daughter and her struggles and my nephew stopped my aunt.

“Wait,” J said. “There’s something wrong with Olivia?”

Olivia looked at him and said casually, “I have 5p- syndrome.”

He looked confused and asked, “What does that mean?”

I explained about the missing chromosome and told him about how things are sometimes harder for Olivia and take her longer to figure out. Olivia is 357 days older than J (to save everyone from doing dreaded math, that’s 8 days short of being a full year older.) I told J that when he started walking when he was 13 months old, Olivia, at just over two years old, saw him doing that and figured if he could do it she could too, which is about when she started walking.

He grinned at that and the subject was dropped.

But it made me think. J hadn’t known that Olivia has a syndrome. To J, she’s just Olivia. A little quirky, maybe a little different but not ‘wrong.’ Sure, she has some weird habits (flapping, stimming, being immature for her age) but again, to him, that was just Olivia.

And that warmed my heart. It reminded me of that day in the doctor’s office all those years ago. It made me thankful for ‘invisible’ disabilities, and how because of them, my daughter is just Olivia, all her idiosyncrasies just adding to what makes her special and loved by family and friends alike.

It Was Fine

All that worry about my family being dicks was for naught. Everything was fine.

In fact, the graduation party was an unmitigated success. There was plenty of food, there were gifts and decorations. People showed up and stayed for hours.

My mom’s heart even seemed to thaw a bit. Miracle never cease.

We had scheduled the party for 1 to 4. We met the trustee (one of Lyss’s teachers) at 10. He unlocked the building for us and we got started on the set up.

Tom thought it was ridiculous for us to start setting up that early. Ha! Showed him. We were still getting the food out when people started arriving at 12:55.

Yes, of course someone arrived five minutes early. Why wouldn’t they? And obviously it was someone from my dad’s side of the family. Phil is just That Guy.

But whatever. It was fine.

Everything was fine. I think people had fun. I know they ate and talked and laughed and balloons were tossed and children sweated outside on the playground.

Alyssa smiled and greeted her guests and sat with her friends. She ate macaroni and cheese and mingled and Olivia irritated her to no end.

It was fine. It was great even.

Borrowing Trouble?

Okay, so here’s the thing:

I come from a redneck, conservative family. Yes, it’s as annoying as you might think.

Alyssa is out. She is in no way in the closet. She and Naomi have been together for over three years.

I’ve posted pictures of every single prom they’ve gone to on all the social media platforms I have.

And yet…I’m pretty sure most of my extended family (as well as immediate, such as brothers, who can be assholes) does not know she’s gay.

I don’t care if they know. I don’t care if they bury their heads forever and pretend they don’t know what they know. It’s not my story to tell and so I haven’t bother to make any kind of announcement. If someone were to ask, Alyssa has given me permission to answer.

But!

Her graduation party is in just over a month. Naomi will be there, as she should be. This is a big day for Alyssa and Naomi is a huge part of her life.

I never, ever want Alyssa to hide any part of who she is. I am proud of her, every single part of her. I think she’s amazing and I want the world to see her.

I don’t think anyone will be weird at the party. I hope they won’t.

Do I mention to Alyssa that people might be weird? Do I prepare her for potential weirdness just so she and Naomi aren’t blindsided if there is weirdness or do I go into this with the expectation that everyone will be on their best behavior?

I mean, who am I kidding, right? People are jerks all the damn time, even to people they claim to love.

But I don’t want to borrow trouble. There might not even be trouble. Though I’ve mentioned that an aunt has been a royal jerk a few years ago when relating a story about some lesbians their family lived next door to a thousand years ago, right? This aunt has VERY strong feelings about those particular lesbians which has, unfortunately, colored her feelings on all lesbians forever and ever and always, thank you very much.

Ick.

The one time we talked about this (at Auntie’s salon) I tried to gently point out that just because she felt a strong ick factor from those particular women, it didn’t mean that all women who are gay are creepy or inappropriate with children. I reminded Auntie that there have been men who, since the beginning of time, have treated women and children badly but that didn’t mean that ALL men (ugh, ‘not all men’) are bad, misogynistic, rapists, abusers, pedophiles, etc. Sadly, I don’t think she got what I was saying or, you know, she didn’t want to hear it.

Alyssa is unwilling to spend any amount of time at this aunt’s house these days and I do not blame her even a little. Olivia and I still go with my mom because Auntie lives on a lake and so her place is lovely and wonderful in the summer for all kinds of summer fun. But we try and be as un-political as possible. And yes, I know this is probably not the best stance and ask me after the party whether Liv and I will be going back to her house.

So. Will Auntie be a bitch? Will my brothers be assholes? Will everyone just let it be a nice, celebratory day for Alyssa and not be dicks? Do we even care what other people think?

And wait, if anyone DOES say something, will I react like a boss and shut that shit down? Damn, I hope so.

I guess we’ll see.

P.S. I’m honestly not worried about Tom’s side of the family at all. First, he has a niece who married a lovely young woman a few years ago (sadly, niece’s wife died about six or so months ago…) and so his family seems to understand that we are living in different, better times and if you don’t like the way others live and they’re not living in a way that’s hurting anyone else, you should just keep your yap shut.

Pepsi

My dad loves his Pepsi. He takes medication for high blood pressure so that he can continue to drink Pepsi. If he didn’t drink Pepsi, his blood pressure would probably be fine but, well, he’s 81 years old, let the man have his Pepsi, right?

One recent Tuesday (because of course it was Tuesday…”Dawn’s in trouble, it must be Tuesday.”) I checked my phone around 3:10. I usually leave my phone in my purse, which is then in a file cabinet drawer all day. But that Tuesday, I checked my phone because I wanted to see if Lyss had texted me anything about that evening’s track meet. It was the first of the season.

I didn’t have anything from Alyssa but I did have a text from my sister. She was letting me and our brother know that she’d called an ambulance for our dad that morning around 11:30 because he’d fallen several times in the past few days.

Okay. I told the lovely ladies I work with and they all encouraged me to leave and go see my dad since he was in the hospital that is only about two miles from where I work.

When I got to the hospital, he was still in the emergency room. He’d received two bags of fluids, finally peed and they were actually going to release him to go home in the next half hour or so.

How fortuitous. I texted my siblings and let them know I’d take him home.

The doctor came in and talked to me and Dad.

Wait, let’s back up. As soon as I arrived, my dad informed me that he thought his problems were from his Covid vaccine. See, he’d received his first shot the previous Friday. And his weakness and falls had begun happening after receiving the shot.

So. The doctor agreed that the weakness and loss of appetite could very well be from the vaccine, then he quickly pointed out, “But don’t take that to mean you shouldn’t get your second shot. You need to get that second shot. Just be sure to hydrate before and after. And by hydrate, I mean drink a lot. Even if what you’re drinking is Pepsi, you need to drink as much as you can before the shot and after. Even if you don’t feel like it.”

See, the official diagnosis was severe dehydration. My dad said that after he got his shot, he hadn’t been hungry or thirsty and so hadn’t eaten in three days.

Guys, my dad is a frail man. He can’t afford to not eat for three days. He probably weighs, at most, 150 pounds. He’s small and so even a day without food and Pepsi will take a toll on him.

While I was waiting for the nurses to finish the discharge paperwork, my brother called me. He offered to come to the hospital (he lives about a mile away) and take Dad home to Sister’s house since I needed to be in the next town away for Lyss’s track meet.

Can I tell you how refreshing it was to have a DUDE offer something like that? I didn’t even have to ASK! Women all over the world know what I’m talking about here. We do so much emotional work for the men in our lives and so it was refreshing to have the dudest of dudes offer something like that.

I felt very much like my siblings and I handled this incident like a well- oiled machine. Our teamwork was pretty stellar.

Respect

I have quite a few friends, family, acquaintances who have children who have come out in the last few years as transgender.

And can I take a moment to say how freaking proud I am of this generation of parents who have done such an amazing job of creating a safe, loving space where their children feel comfortable being their true selves without fear of being kicked out of their home or treated badly? I am just verklempt over the whole thing.

Anyway!

Speaking of safe, loving spaces, my mom had us all over for Easter dinner this year. It was lovely. We started out on her deck but the sun, that brilliant ball of fire, was quite intense and so we ended up taking it into the kitchen.

In the course of conversation, my brother mentioned that the daughter of one of our step-cousins has come out as transgender.

I could tell by my brother’s tone that he was disgusted by this. I sat and listened as he talked about the person who used to be called Eva has asked to be called Bailey. Bailey has cut their hair very short and wears masculine clothing.

Finally, when my mom and I didn’t seem to be reciprocating his angst over Bailey’s requests, J said, “I just don’t understand it.”

I took that moment to gently say to him, “Well, you don’t have to understand it to respect it.”

He looked a little surprised but let it set in and replied, “True.”

I explained, “Just because you don’t understand it, that doesn’t mean their need to define who they by their own standards rather than by society’s standards isn’t important. Respecting the name they’ve chosen for themselves and using the pronouns they ask you to use is important because it shows that you respect their autonomy, their right to be who they really are. I’m glad Bailey’s dad is being so awesome about that.”

My brother didn’t have much more to say after that and honestly, I’m glad. I didn’t want to fight with him but this wasn’t something I was willing to just let go while he sat there and spouted off. Maybe I’ve given him something to think about.

I hope, for his sons’ sakes that they’re both CIS because honestly, I’m not sure how accepting that household will be if they’re not. It breaks my heart because for all the celebrating I’ve done in the paragraphs above about this generation’s parents, well, obviously, there are throwbacks still among us.

Narcissist

peaking of FB, my niece (my sister’s younger daughter) recently posted on FB something like, “It’s so hard to have a mother who is a narcissist and who has bipolar…”

The post went on to explain how her mother makes her feel small and inadequate and never quite good enough.

I didn’t reply because, well, I don’t know my niece very well and I honestly don’t know my sister all that well either and it’s not really any of my business.

My sister’s other younger sister (not my sister) did reply with something along the lines of: I love my sister but don’t ever let anyone make you feel small. You are deserve better.

My brother (the brother that is also my sister’s brother) also replied. He told Niece to not let anyone, not even her mother, make her feel bad. Just love her kids and blah blah blah.

So, yes, her cry for help was heard and she got the replies she was looking for.

Okay. So. My sister has always hated her mother. Her mother has been dead for decades now but Sis never had a nice thing to say about her mom. If you ask her, she’ll tell you that her own mother is a narcissist and was never a good mother.

If I had been inclined to reply, I might have said something about how I hoped that Niece would break the cycle of bad mothering. That if she felt her mom was a bad mom, maybe she, Niece, could do better by her own children.

But that probably wouldn’t have come across as helpful as I’d have liked.

So instead I just went and asked my husband if I was a narcissist. I mean, I don’t want to be a narcissistic mother. I really hope I don’t make it all about me all the time.

Wait.

So Different

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

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

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

See what I’m saying?

No? Let me tell you a story.

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

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

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

Yes.

I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Division of Labor

There are two sides to every story. Or, as the case may be around here, there could even by four sides of every story.

We're smack in the middle of my fourth week at home with Tom and the girls.

It's...okay.

I mean, it's fine, it's obviously stressful and we're all experiencing some degree of cabin fever but it's fine.

Except when it's not.

On week days, Olivia and I get up at 10 to start the day. Some days we shower, some days we don't. Since it take Liv at least 20 minutes to gather her 'treasures', ie, the items she sleeps with and yet will NOT leave in her bed each day, we are never downstairs for breakfast before 10:30, even on non-shower days.

We usually start school work by 11:30am and it's never taken us beyond 1:30 to finish it for that day.

Then, obviously, it's time for O's lunch.

Recently, I've felt a sense of martyrdom, that I'm doing the bulk of the work around here with regards to keeping house and caring for the girls.

We know that the other side of this story would say differently. I know that Tom works hard. I do. I also live inside my own head, where I'm the center of the universe and in my universe, I'm tired of never, ever being alone.

So on recent Tuesday (of course it was a Tuesday) I mentioned that someone was going to have to make a fruit run. We were out of apples, bananas, strawberries, and cuties.

I told Tom that he had a choice. He could either go to the nearest grocery store (a ten minute drive) and buy fruit or he could put together lunch for the girls.

Now, there were several options in this scenario:

1. I make lunch, he goes to buy fruit and the girls go with him.

2. I make lunch, he goes to buy fruit and the girls stay home with me.

3. He makes lunch, I go buy fruit and the girls go with me.

4. H makes lunch, I go buy fruit and the girls stay home with him.

He chose to go buy fruit.

Guess which option, 1 or 2, happened.

Obviously, the girls stayed with me. It was never actually an option that they'd go with him. But then again, if I'd gone to get the fruit, it never would have been an option that they'd stay home either.

Sigh.

I know this is my fault.

I could insist they either go with him or stay home with him. But insisting is so much work.

It's so much easier to just be a martyr.

But then I'm resentful and they sense my resentment and everyone is miserable.

We'll get through this. Together.

Home

The last day I went to work was Friday, April 10. On Thursday, April 9, my doctor sent a letter to my place of employment stating that as a former cancer patient, one who'd been through chemotherapy and radiation, it was his medical opinion that I should self-quarantine for at least two weeks.

So I'm home. And I'm SO LUCKY that I'm currently home with full pay. Please know that I realize how lucky I am. SO LUCKY.

The stress level in our house went from explosive to manageable that Thursday night when I got home and told my family that I was going to be at home with them for the next two weeks.

Things had gotten rough in the days before my doctor's note arrived at my work.

Olivia and Tom were at constant odds over school work.

I'd get home from what felt like eighteen hours at work and before I'd even put my purse down, Tom would be informing me that he needed my help with O's schooling. She'd need my attention, Alyssa would want to show me a TikTok.

It was hard for all of us.

I've been home for six full days and things have settled into a routine. We had our best, most productive 'school' day yesterday.

We're doing our best, just like everyone else is.

And I know that we're some of the lucky ones. We have income, even though we're all at home. We have money for food, we can pay our mortgage. We aren't sick. We have each other and even if that sometimes feels overwhelming, we're so lucky.

I've made masks and we wear them if we have to go out into public. Alyssa wears one to work each time she had to work. Tom wears his to the post office.

My 80 year old dad is NOT social distancing. He goes to his local gas station every single day to buy a newspaper. My brother and I have had to tell him point blank not to come to our house.

I made my dad a mask. He drove to our house and I met him in the driveway to give it to him. He went to his nephew's house for Easter dinner. Sigh. That nephew is NOT social distancing either. He's 70 years old and says, "If I get it, I get it."

What the actual hell, Phil!?!

Okay, so if YOU get it, you get it but you know what? If you're going out and about after YOU'RE infected, YOU are not the only one getting it, dumb ass.

It makes me so angry because those of us who are trying so hard to flatten this curve are being sabotaged by idiots like him.

I'm so glad to be home. I'm go grateful that I can be here, helping Liv with her school work, watching TikToks with Alyssa. Feeding my family, both with actual food and with the spiritual, emotional support that we all need.

I just wish the idiots out there would get it together and stop thinking that this isn't a big deal.

It's a BIG FUCKING DEAL.

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.

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.

Auntie Nell

My mom and her sisters all had their children very young; as in late (or in one case, early) teens.

As such, they didn’t seem old enough for us (me, my brothers and cousins) to bestow the titles of “Aunt” or “Uncle” upon my mom and her siblings.

So they were just Dianne, Grice, Janet, Evelyn, Nell, Keith, Debra, Lorry, Ronnie, Eleanor and Rodney.

But then we, the next generation, started having kids. Most of us waited until at least our mid-twenties if not early thirties to have kids, which made the Aunts and Uncles that much older.

So when I’d talk to my girls about my mom’s sisters, they became Auntie “Name”.

When I got home that Friday afternoon and told Tom that my mom’s sister Nell had died, Alyssa said with despair, “Oh! But she was my favorite.”

That’s not to say she’d have chosen one of the others to take Nell’s place even if she could. She was just saying she was going to miss our Auntie Nell.

And we do miss her. We miss her laugh, her ability to tell it like it is.

She was so honest, so real.

She was also the auntie that my girls saw the most because she, like us, lived fairly close to my mom, so it was easy for all of us to drop in for a visit.

I can’t count the number of times the girls and I would show up at my mom’s house and Nell would be there. Or we’d be there when she arrived. And it was (still is) a given that my mom would have tea ready for Nell, Cherry and Olivia.

For what it’s worth imma pass on the tea, thank you very much. Blech.

But yes, she was the favorite. She didn’t try to make anyone like her. She just let people be who they were. I think that’s what my girls love most about her. She didn’t pretend she was there to visit with me or them. She was there to see her sister. We were just part of the package. My girls are reserved (at least around most people, including family) unless they see you every single day, or at least several times a week. It’s just part of their personality.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just…her death has hit me hard. We knew it was coming but kept hoping she’s bounce back. She had a hard life. The beginning was really hard.

I just hope…I pray she’s a peace. I pray that she and Amy are laughing and loving and watching over everyone.

Another Post About How Tired I Am

(Are you as sick of this as I am?)

One recent Monday the girls didn’t have school.

Alyssa had to work at 4:30 that day. Olivia and Tom had to go to my mom’s to print some labels using her computer and printer.

I got home that afternoon and found an empty house.

Do you know how rare that is?

We’ve lived in our house for nine years and I can probably count on one hand how many times I’ve been alone in that house.

The joy of having a spouse who works from home, right?

I mean, okay, it’s nice that he’s always there but…he’s ALWAYS there.

So what did I do with my ten minutes of solitude?

First, I snapped Julie a video of my empty house.

Second, I started washing dishes because, hello, I needed to pack my lunch and my lunch dishes were dirty. And of course, the girls’ breakfast and lunch dishes were in there. Tom usually washes the dishes before I get home but I beat him home.

He and Olivia got home before I finished washing the dishes.

It was fine.

But then, I realized it was only 5:20. I asked Tom when O had eaten lunch because he almost always feeds her a very late lunch.

He confirmed it by saying, “She started eating at 2 and finished at 3.”

Okay then.

I took her upstairs and made her take a bath. I won’t say she was stinky but I will say that her hair hadn’t been washed since Thursday and it was Monday. I know, mother of the year over here.

She was bathed and shampooed by 6:15, in time for dinner.

Then, during dinner, my brother called me to tell me that our dad’s truck had been hit in a parking lot. The dude who’d hit his truck waited in that parking lot to give my dad his insurance information. Go, good citizen.

But of course my dad had to drive all the way from Angola to my house (about twenty miles) to tell me the same damn thing. He showed me pictures, he talked about the ‘foreigner’ who’d hit his truck.

Olivia and I finished eating while my dad was there and then we started her homework because hello, it was 7:15 by this point.

While we worked on homework, my dad talked…about himself, his truck, his phone. Each time I’d try and refocus on helping O with her homework, he’d interrupt with another question or comment in an attempt to bring the attention back to himself.

Once homework was done, I packed my lunch for the next day, washed the dishes AGAIN and finally, at 8:10, I sat down.

I’m tired.

You guys, I’m so freaking tired.

I get up between 5:30 and 5:45 every day of the week. I get myself together as quickly as I can so that I can wake Olivia up and get her around (she does dress herself but she can’t braid her own hair.) I go to work, I come home, I make food for my family, I clean the kitchen, I fill Olivia’s cup of water several times an evening. I go and go and go and still feel like there is so much left to do.

I wonder, sometimes, if this is just residual exhaustion from cancer and the treatments I endured in hopes of killing off the cancer.

I recently joined a FB support group for breast cancer survivors.

Reading what some of those women are going through, still, even years after treatment, reminds me of how lucky I am.

But acknowledging my luckiness doesn’t make me less tired. You know?

But maybe acknowledging my tiredness, my right to being tired, the fact of what I’ve been through, maybe just giving myself permission to be tired and angry and sad about it all, maybe that will give me some peace.

I don’t know.

Maybe I just need a nap.

On Being Present

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He replied, “That’s not necessary.”

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

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

I went.

It was by far the right thing to do.

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

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

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

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

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

We both needed that.

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

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

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

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.

Filth

I vacuumed the upstairs rooms in my house last weekend.

Cue the epic event music.

I know, big whoop, huh?

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

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

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

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

It was gross.

We’re gross.

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

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

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

It’s not like I enjoy living in filth.

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

Wired aka Help

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

Sure.

I had no problem with that.

Alyssa had no problem with it.

Olivia…has problems with it.

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

But that first problem is the one that concerns me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning I put more wax on the wire.

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

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

Tom said, “Yeah, Lyss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home Alone

Remember that last post when I mentioned how I could use a little loneliness?

Dudes!! On Wednesday, August 28th at 4:00pm, my family is leaving our house and going away…AWAY!

I will go home at 5:00pm to an empty house.

Stop and take that in.

The house will be empty.

We have lived in our house for nine years and I have NEVER been alone in it for more than twenty minutes and that was back when I was off work for cancer treatments and Tom would go to the post office and race back, lest I be without his aid and care for longer than I could stand.

They should be back home by 5:30 so yes, a half hour alone in my house.

Whatever will I do?

The possibilities are endless.

I could go to the basement and get the clean towels that need to be folded.

I could clean out the toy room, taking all the crap that Tom never wants to leave the house and putting in my car, where it will hide until tomorrow afternoon when I will drop it off at a local donation box.

I could start dinner.

I could sit and just take in the still silence.

A coworker to whom I was extolling the joy I was feeling over going home to an empty house told me I should leave work early to make the alone time last even longer.

I’m considering it.

But, and this is key, I can’t get home before Tom and the girls leave at 4ish because if I get home before they leave, he’ll want ME to take Alyssa to her voice lesson or, he’ll leave Olivia home with me while he takes Lyss to Bryan to the lesson.

I don’t want either of those things to happen. I want the three of them to get into his big blue van and drive away from the house while I am driving toward the house and then I will get to be gloriously alone…ALONE for at least 30 minutes.

I just can’t even.

Sramriches and Other Embarrassing Memories

Back in the day, when Alyssa was a tiny tot, she often asked for macamoni and cheese.

It was adorable.

One afternoon a few years ago, my mom was watching Olivia and my nephew Jaxon. They were having tea and snacks.

My mom sliced some lemons for their tea.

Jax loves to eat lemons like normal people would eat an orange.

He announced to the room, “We’re eating womens.”

Olivia gave him a stern look and informed him, “We are NOT eating ladies!”

Jax’s favorite food group is the sandwich. But until very recently, he called them sramriches. I can’t stand the cuteness. His absolute favorite sramrich is the peanut butter and jerry kind.

When Lyss was still eating macamoni and cheese, she’d often ask me, “Mommy, can I have something from the nitchen?”

Because I’m a horrible human being, I’d say to my eighteen month old (no exaggeration, she was speaking in full sentences at a year and a half, don’t judge me, Olivia spoke at three, so it all evens out to average. I’m not bragging, just telling it like it is.) “But Lyssie, we don’t have a nitchen.”

And she’d reply with the haughtiest of tones, “Mom. You know I mean kitchen.”

Can I remind everyone that she was eighteen months old at that time of these conversations?

Jaxon’s favorite president is Hammerham Lincoln.

We fought an endless battle with Olivia to get her to stop using her shirt sleeve as a napkin. Tom finally gave up the fight and cut the bottoms off old socks, creating what he called, “Sleevekins.” The cuffs of the socks fit perfectly over O’s arms and sleeves, creating a removable area she could wipe her mouth on and save the sleeves of her shirt. Tom’s an innovative fella.

For the record, she hasn’t had to use a sleevekin for several years. We’re not completely disgusting over here.

Until a couple of years ago (Jaxon is eleven, by the way) he called my girls Ryssie and Ribbie. I think I might love this kid.

I want to remember these things so I can tell these stories at each of their graduations. Because that’s what we oldies do to the younguns, that’s why.

Memories...All Alone...

My earliest memory is from when I was still sleeping in a crib.

We lived in a house in Metz, Indiana, a place so small that there wasn’t a post office. The only form of commerce was the Pepsi machine that stood outside the volunteer fire departments garage.

I slept in a crib that was under a west-facing window. I’d wake up from my afternoon naps and lay there, watching the dust motes float lazily in the rays of sun shining in the window. I could hear my mom outside the room, sometimes in the hall, sometimes in another room, humming. She often had a laundry basket on her hip.

I’d wait for her to come check on me. She’d approach the crib slowly and smile when she saw me awake, saying softly, “Oh, you’re awake.”

I always felt so safe in that home with that lady. I always knew she’d be glad to see me.

I was a November baby, so this memory (or conglomeration of memories) is probably from when I was seven or eight months old. I say that because the weather seems warm in my memories, like summer time.

I have a scar on my right hand. The injury that resulted in that scar happened in the house where my first memories were built. We must have lived there until I was a toddler because my mom says the scar happened when I was maybe a year and a half. We were outside on the front stoop of that first house. My mom was sitting on one of the step. I was probably toddling around on the steps too. I started to fall and my mom reached out to stop my fall, forgetting she was holding a cigarette in her hand. The cigarette burned my right hand, leaving a small scar that is there to this day.

I don’t remember that moment though.

I also have a scar just below my bottom lip. I don’t remember getting this one either but my mother reports that this scar was the result of me being a bit of a brat. I wanted lunch and I wanted NOW. I was small enough to be in a highchair with a tray. She told me it would be ready soon. I didn’t want ‘soon’ I wanted ‘now’. When she didn’t produce food right that second, I threw my head against the tray. I put my bottom teeth (probably the only teeth I had at that time) through my lower lip.

My mom pulled my lip off my teeth, blotted the blood and fed me. She was one tough lady.

I have two younger brothers. My closest sibling is my brother who is four and a half years younger than I am. But I didn’t grow up isolated with just a brother or two. We had cousins galore. We were never, ever lonely.

My mom and her sisters basically raised us as if we were all siblings. There was always someone around to do something with, even if it was just playing with Matchbox cars in the dirt outside beneath the boxelder tree.

And yet with all those cousins and brothers, I had plenty of time alone too. I hit a tennis ball against the roof of our house. I swung on the tire swing so much I had calluses on my hands. I created all these stories in my head, riding my bike as if it were a horse through the town.

My parents divorced when I was eleven. My dad moved three houses away. He was always just up the street.

I guess you could say I had an idea childhood. I was so, so lucky. So very blessed.

I hope with all my heart that someday, my girls feel that way about their childhood.