The Other Side of the Microphone

The girls and I are heading south and slightly west this weekend to Bloomington, Indiana to attend the IU Dance Marathon.

This will be my second dance marathon as a Riley mom.

The first was Purdue University's dance marathon last year. I actually managed to speak to the crowd without sounding like an auctioneer.

Though this will be my second dance marathon as the parent of a child who has been helped by Riley Hospital for Children, it will be my third dance marathon to have attended.

Back in 1993, I was a participant in the Indiana University Dance Marathon.

What an experience.

It was one of those things you're glad you did but that you swear that you will never, ever do again. It was exhilirating, exhausting, thrilling, terrifying.

I remember one of my very best friends, Elizabeth, asking me early that academic year if I'd do the dance marathon with her. I'd never heard of it and had no clue what it was all about, but I'm always willing to go on adventures with good friends. I've been blessed to have friends who feel the same. (St. Louis, right Julie?)

So when I agreed to E's request, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I attended the meetings, the gatherings, the training sessions where we were given tips on fund raising. But I didn't really get why we were raising funds. Sure, sure we were benefitting Riley but, at 22 years old, that didn't mean so much to me.

What I remember about those 36 hours on my feet is the noise. I remember the crowds, the chaos, the orange plastic fencing they put up to keep the spectators on one side and the 'dancers' on the other. I remember being allowed to sit for five minutes at a time while we ate and for another few minutes every few hours while volunteers rubbed our backs and feet. But it was never enough.

The exhaustion set in about 24 hours in and we still had twelve hours to go.

I remember people getting on stage and talking but I don't remember what they said. And quite honestly, I don't remember seeing a single child there.

The dance marathon I attended last year was so much different. For me, at least. I was a Riley mom. I was on the other side of the microphone. I was the one talking about my Riley kid. I was the one telling how much Riley Hospital for Children helped our family.

I was the one watching these amazing college students make both of my kids feel special. I watched them dance with Olivia and color with Alyssa. I watched them hold Olivia on their shoulders so she could watch another child dance on stage.

I stood back and took it all in, this time, the exhaustion wasn't there because, as a mom, I got to go sleep in a comfy hotel room (about which Olivia declared, "I don't like this creepy house.") and go back, refreshed to watch these tired, amazing people celebrate as the total donation was announced.

It's an amazing experience, one I'm going to do again this weekend and again in about three weeks at Purdue again.

How lucky am I that I have been on both sides of the microphone? Why was I so blessed to be surrounded by such amazing people who care so deeply about my kid and all sick kids who need a hospital like Riley?

This will be my first time back in Bloomington in about 15 years. I spent five years of my life there and then didn't look back. I've missed that place and feel so very lucky to be going back for this very reason. I can't wait to show my girls a place that made such a big impact on my life.

And quite honestly, I have to say that I prefer this side of the microphone. I might miss the body I had in my early twenties (one I didn't appreciate AT ALL, I totally thought I was fat, so stupid!) but I don't miss that life. I've lived that life and I'm so very blessed to get to live this one now. This life that has put me on this side of the microphone.

Fast

I've been accused of being a fast talker on more than one occasion.

Okay, I've lost count of the number of times people have told me that I talk really, really fast.

The most recent was during a visit to the bank.

It was a Saturday morning. The girls and I were on our way to buy groceries and I needed to cash a check and make a payment to my student loan. (I know, forty years old and STILL paying off my college loans, so very, very sad.)

Anyway, while there, the girls were being good, as they are while in public. Seriouly, they're actually pretty well behaved whenever we're out and about.

I was telling the teller that I'd had some trouble with the online services of our bank.

I explained that I'd like to make my payment online but I can't actually access my checking and saving accounts that way. I can get to my dad's accounts and the savings accounts I set up for the girls but not my own accounts.

She suggested I meet with one of their 'banking assistants.'

She said, "With the way you're talking and those sweet girls behind you, I can see that you're a busy woman, maybe a bit overwhelmed."

Whoa!! Overwhelmed?

Not so much because of banking issues, but whatever. I smiled, gathered my circling children and left the building with my cash and my receipt for having made my payment.

My great grandmother visited from Mississippi way back in the late 80s/early 90s. She and I were having a lovely conversation when she put her soft, wrinkled hand on mine and said, "Lawdy, honey, but you talke so fast I can't understand you."

I attempted to slow down.

When my current boss first started with this company about three years ago, he suggested that I SLOW DOWN when making an announcement over the paging system.

This summer I needed to tell one of our temps, the teenage son of a full-time employee, that he needed to go to to the temp agency and fill out some papers.

I was mid sentence when he looked at me in awe and said, "Wow, you talk really fast."

I don't know what the point of all this is.

Maybe just to say that it's not a sense of being overwhelmed that makes me talk so fast so much as I often feel like I have so much to say and so little time to get it all out.

Who knows? Alas, at least I can come here and spew all those random, pointless thoughts and not actually bother anyone. Right?

Very, Very Bossy

Olivia seems to have decided to get a headstart on the bossiness that seems to come with being four years old.

Last weekend during breakfast, she announced, "When I am doing eating, I am taking a bath."

Tom and I shared a look and I replied, "You are?"

She nodded wisely and said, "I need to wash my butt."

Well, okay then. I mean, honestly, you can't argue with that kind of logic, right?

She got that bath.

Along with this bossiness she's developed this sense of urgency. Everything is very extreme.

Last night on the three-mile drive from my mom's to our house, O announced, "I'm very, very hungry."

This morning, in the dark hour between 5 and 6, she told me, "My butt is very, very itchy."

Hmmm, not only is she on the extreme side of bossy, she seems to be preoccupied with her butt...which...well, she's four.

Admittedly, I find it all very amusing. My husband? Not so much. Remember, he tends to be the prudish adult in the family when it comes to words like butt and fart.

But the bossiness? While sort of endearing right this minute, could get old very fast as she attempts to tell me what to wear, how to do brush her sister's hair, what she's going to eat (ice cream and pie to not constitute dinner, no matter how much I might wish it did.)

But for now I'm enjoying this independent streak and taking it all in from this girl some doctors said might never talk.

Keep on with your bossy self, Baby O.

Aged

So this is 40.

Huh.

Doesn't feel much different from 39.

To be honest, as I approached my fortieth birthday, I didn't feel the angst or sense of mortality that sometimes comes with these 'pivotal' birthdays.

It was just a day.

A nice day at that.

To be honest, I'm kind of excited to see what my forties bring.

I'm not sure this decade can outdo the last one, though.

I had a pretty good run in my thirties. I bought my first car (the previously mentioned Grand Prix that now has over three hundred thousand miles) I met Tom, gave birth to Alyssa, married Tom, gave birth to Olivia, bought a house.

All in all, pretty good for ten years of life.

So what's going to happen in my forties?

Will I change jobs?

Will I get healthy and be the best I've been in twenty years?

Will I continue to bitch and moan about my husband and quietly fear that my daughters deserve so much more than I'm giving them as a parent?

Or will I grow a pair, tell my husband what I actually need instead of expecting him to read my mind. Will I decide that perhaps being all mommy all the time isn't quite enough and take some time to rediscover Tommie?

Perhaps. Perhaps a bit of everything.

We'll see.

It may just be a sign of some newfound maturity that I spent most of my actual birthday painting our living room. It had this horrible stenciled border around the top of the walls and I couldn't stand it another day.

Of course, we're also having a party for a bazillion family members in just under two weeks and I needed to make the room presentable. But yeah, I painted. Rememberh how much I hate painting? Yes, I still hate it and yet I did it...on my birthday.

So go me, being all mature and all.

Finally

The long awaited obligatory Halloween post. Yeah.

So my stupid camera is REALLY cheap. I got it from work as a service award and if I take out the batteries? It deletes the pictures.

So I'm stealing pictures from my mom's Facebook album.

My mom is awesome.

She is an awesome mom and an even more amazing Grammy. She adores my girls and my nephew. And they adore her. They know how lucky they are.

Growing up, my mom always made my Halloween costumes and they were always amazing.

I was Bat Girl one year.

I was a Jeannie another year (though she made me wear a pink thermal shirt under my tube top that year and I was pissed! You can see the tear streaks in the pictures from that year. I didn't give a crap that it was 40 degrees outside, I didn't want to wear a freaking shirt.)

Anyway...

This year my mom outdid herself with the costumes.

Alyssa was Wonder Woman.

Jaxon was Buzz Lightyear.

And Olivia was a lightening bug.

And they were all cuter than you can imagine.

And since pictures are worth a thousand words I'll stop with the words and attach the pictures.

PP

We have a spray bottle beneath our sink. The bottle contains a water/amonia mixture and has "PP Cleaner" written on it with a black Sharpie.

Tom made the mixture and labeled the bottle.

Obviously, we use this for cleaning up the spots Olivia leaves several times a day when she's too busy, lazy, bored, to come tell us she needs to pee.

I say that O is potty trained. But I wonder if I can say that will honesty when we typically have at least two accidents a day.

Except when we're out in public.

Then, she tells us every single time when she has to pee.

Well, she did have an accident at gymnastics three weeks ago, but that was an odd occurance.

So we know she can both hold it AND tell us when she has to go.

Which makes the accidents that happen at home that much more frustrating.

Last weekend, she peed on the new-to-us couch twice in the span of ten minutes.

She ended up in time-out.

After four minutes in a chair, not caring a bit that she was in that chair, I asked Olivia why she was in timeout.

She gave a pttthhhhht.

I gave her two more minutes of timeout and asked her again why she was there.

She said she was sorry.

I asked her why she was sorry. She repeated the raspberry.

I ignored her for another two minutes as she continued to sit in the chair.

Again, I asked her why she was in timeout and why she was sorry.

She mumbled, "Because I peed."

I asked her where she'd peed.

"On the couch."

I asked, "And where are you supposed to pee?"

"In the potty."

She was released from timeout.

And for the rest of the day, she told me when she had to pee. Success!!!

I think this was the first time she connected her actions (the peeing) to my frustration and her having to go to timeout.

My mom reports this week has been much better, pee-wise.

So...conclusion? Timeout works for my kid as long as I make sure she gets why she's even in timeout.

Yeah, even I can learn something every day.

2nd Grade Angst

Way back when I was in second grade, we didn't go down to the cafeteria for lunch. The lunch lady brought our trays/drinks to us. I know, it was A LONG TIME AGO.

The school I attended housed kindergarten through 12th grade. The elementary was in a separate wing from the jr./sr. high but we shared a cafeteria.

I am not a milk drinker. Never was. Can't stand the stuff. Ugh!

So I got to drink Jungle Juice when I happened to eat the lunch provided by the school. It was an orange kool-aid type drink. Not good but not nearly as bad as milk, as far as my seven year old self was concerned.

One day the lunch lady, Mrs. Fee, forgot my Jungle Juice. I'd always felt this woman thought I was a spoiled brat for not liking milk and for getting my mom to write me a note saying I didn't have to drink it. That day, I was sure she'd forgotten on purpose.

She told me if I wanted the juice, I'd have to go down to the high school cafeteria and get it myself. She didn't have time to go back down there herself. She had other lunches to deliver, she snotted at my second-grade self.

So off I went.

But I was sort of scared because I'd never been to the high school part of the school before and I wasn't sure where I was going or what I'd find. I did find the cafeteria and the Jungle Juice and headed back to my classroom.

As I walked quickly (but didn't run! I loved rules at that age and running in the halls was against the rules.) back toward the safety of the elementary wing, a wing with which I was very familiar, having spend the better part of almost three years of my life, I was accosted by three high schoolers.

Now, looking back, I realize they never touched me, they weren't in any way threatening. But the scared the shit out of little seven-year-old me.

They stood in front of me, blocking my way. They made a semi-circle and stood there, saying things like, "Ohh, she's so cute." "Look how little she is!" "I just want to take her home with me."

I was terrified. I couldn't get past them and I was sure they were going to keep me there in that hallway forever.

I don't even remember them finally letting me go but I do remember crying in bed that night, begging my mom not to make me go to school.

She kept asking me what was wrong.

I wouldn't tell her at first. I told her she'd laugh.

She persisted and so I spilled the entire story.

And...she laughed. I was horrified. She laughed at the most terrifying experience of my life.

I begged her to promise me I'd never have to go to high school.

She reassured me that by the time I was ready for the high school part of that school, I'd be five years older and much bigger than I was now.

I ended up doing just fine in that very high school.

Now, I've told this story because, well, for one thing, I'm an over-sharer and so I share, but also because last night was a parenting win for me and Alyssa.

When we got home, she announced that she was hungry.

I started to prepare food when she suddenly announced she wasn't hungry after all.

Then she told me her tummy hurt.

I asked her if she had to go to the bathroom. What? It's what we moms ask.

She said no. She said it just felt funny.

I asked if her tummy felt like she was nervous about something.

She shook her head but said, "Maybe."

Uh oh, I knew something was up.

I knelt down before her and asked her what was wrong. What had happened at school that day to make her feel bad.

She explained that during recess, she'd stayed in to finish her journal but couldn't find her journal in the pile of unfinished journals.

Through tears, she explained that first thing in the morning, the students write in their journals and she couldn't find hers and she was sure she was going to get into trouble.

I offered to write her teacher a note explaining the missing journal but she cried that sometimes a student takes all the notes to the office before the teacher reads them.

In the end, I called my boss, left a voice mail explaining that I'd be about a half hour late and when I dropped Alyssa off at school today, I went in with her and talked to her teacher.

And what do you know, the teacher had the journal because she wanted to share it with me during our conference this very evening. She was very apologetic to Alyssa for not telling her that she'd taken her journal. Alyssa cried with relief that she wasn't in trouble for having 'lost' her journal.

And...they weren't even going to be writing in their journals today.

Yet I came through for my girl. She got that I was there for her, no matter how trivial I might have thought the journal issue was, I took her seriously and helped her through her angst.

It's tough to be seven, even when you have an awesome mom.