Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Buddies since age 3
Monday, April 24, 2017
Easter 2017
Holidays were a thing in my house until we left home because my dad made sure of it. When we were young, my mom was in charge of the holidays, but once we hit high school she passed the torch to my dad who kept things alive until I was in my late twenties and moving out. Even then he mailed me holiday cards.
I plan on doing the same thing, thus I shopped as I do every year for Easter eggs, the candy, and the gifts for the basket. Of course, all of that is left for the Easter Bunny who then comes in my house at night and hides them. In Florida, eggs have to be hidden the night before inside because outside is too damn hot. Two nights prior to the day, however, my daughter remarked on how she was not going to church on Easter because she would be too sleepy from prom. I reminded her about the bunny and the eggs, and she said it was okay with her if he didn't hide any.
WHAT?
I may have sniffled a bit.
Darcy: "OH Mommy! Oh, I'm sorry. Of course, I want to hunt eggs. Just hide like five."
Me: "I don't hide them. The Easter Bunny hides them, and it isn't up to me how many he chooses to hide."
Darcy: "Oh, Mommy, of course it isn't."
He hid twenty for Darcy and three for Elliot. As always, we couldn't find one egg. This happens every year without fail and sometime down the road we find it, and we all relive the holiday. Same thing this year. I look forward to finding it myself after both girls are off to college.
Darcy: "You'll just cry."
Me: "I'll just eat it. Or maybe it was the one with the hundred dollars, and I'll spend that."
Darcy: "You do know, that I'll be close enough and will come home for the holidays next year. I'll be here at Easter."
Me: "And?"
Darcy: "And I'll want to hunt those Easter eggs with the hundred dollar bills in them. I love hunting eggs!"
I plan on doing the same thing, thus I shopped as I do every year for Easter eggs, the candy, and the gifts for the basket. Of course, all of that is left for the Easter Bunny who then comes in my house at night and hides them. In Florida, eggs have to be hidden the night before inside because outside is too damn hot. Two nights prior to the day, however, my daughter remarked on how she was not going to church on Easter because she would be too sleepy from prom. I reminded her about the bunny and the eggs, and she said it was okay with her if he didn't hide any.
WHAT?
I may have sniffled a bit.
Darcy: "OH Mommy! Oh, I'm sorry. Of course, I want to hunt eggs. Just hide like five."
Me: "I don't hide them. The Easter Bunny hides them, and it isn't up to me how many he chooses to hide."
Darcy: "Oh, Mommy, of course it isn't."
He hid twenty for Darcy and three for Elliot. As always, we couldn't find one egg. This happens every year without fail and sometime down the road we find it, and we all relive the holiday. Same thing this year. I look forward to finding it myself after both girls are off to college.
Darcy: "You'll just cry."
Me: "I'll just eat it. Or maybe it was the one with the hundred dollars, and I'll spend that."
Darcy: "You do know, that I'll be close enough and will come home for the holidays next year. I'll be here at Easter."
Me: "And?"
Darcy: "And I'll want to hunt those Easter eggs with the hundred dollar bills in them. I love hunting eggs!"
Happy Spring 2017
For several years I have written when the Jacaranda trees sprout in our area, a true sign of spring. I put pictures, discuss our "Jacaranda!" game, and mention whether or not spring has come early or late this year based on the tree bloom. The trees are a surprise for me. One day they are green and the next they are suddenly sprouting purple flowers, and that suddenness makes me so happy.
This week the jacaranda trees began turning purple. It was slow. I noticed a touch of purple peeking out over several other trees, and it dawned on me, "Spring! Jacaranda!", and then I thought, "Jeez, has it been a year already?" Which is a common theme any more in my head. Immediately, I wanted a picture of these trees, but decided to wait until they were more uniform in their color, and really, how many jacaranda tree pictures do I need? I also thought about how late the trees were this year, having remembered that they were earlier in sprouting last year, and that made me think about how I seem to write about that very statement each year too.
So when I sat down this morning to write about the purple trees I researched through my blog to see what I have mentioned previously. This is why I now am so thankful for my blog. Because my memory is shit. I thought these trees popped up in color in March last year and found out that was incorrect. As was the previous year. I wrote most of my jacaranda tree entries in May. May! May isn't even a month I would have associated with these trees. It's April or March. Period. Only, it isn't. Apparently. Although I do make reference to April in my discussions on lateness or earliness which I seem to discuss in every entry.
So I turned to Google for the correct answer, and ended up on a plant website. I learned that the trees bloom in South Florida, although I'm not really considered in the south of this state, in April and May. The lavender clusters are 12 inches long and 8 inches wide, and the tree grows to be 40 feet tall. It grows quickly after planting, although it takes five to seven years for the flowers to sprout. There are two other species of these trees, one blooms yellow flowers and the other blooms red. If only I had a large property...
The article, like my own entries, talks about how people consider these trees messy (I reference my husband and his opinion), but that the fallen petals require no clean up and makes the lawn "picturesque". Every year I whine about not having one of the trees, but now I suppose I should just can it since five to seven years is too long for me to wait at this stage of my life. Not that those years won't fly by, but I really don't have any more space in my yard.
I figure it will be another week for the trees to completely fill in. You know, in May. I'll post a picture when that happens. As for now. Happy Florida Spring!
This week the jacaranda trees began turning purple. It was slow. I noticed a touch of purple peeking out over several other trees, and it dawned on me, "Spring! Jacaranda!", and then I thought, "Jeez, has it been a year already?" Which is a common theme any more in my head. Immediately, I wanted a picture of these trees, but decided to wait until they were more uniform in their color, and really, how many jacaranda tree pictures do I need? I also thought about how late the trees were this year, having remembered that they were earlier in sprouting last year, and that made me think about how I seem to write about that very statement each year too.
So when I sat down this morning to write about the purple trees I researched through my blog to see what I have mentioned previously. This is why I now am so thankful for my blog. Because my memory is shit. I thought these trees popped up in color in March last year and found out that was incorrect. As was the previous year. I wrote most of my jacaranda tree entries in May. May! May isn't even a month I would have associated with these trees. It's April or March. Period. Only, it isn't. Apparently. Although I do make reference to April in my discussions on lateness or earliness which I seem to discuss in every entry.
So I turned to Google for the correct answer, and ended up on a plant website. I learned that the trees bloom in South Florida, although I'm not really considered in the south of this state, in April and May. The lavender clusters are 12 inches long and 8 inches wide, and the tree grows to be 40 feet tall. It grows quickly after planting, although it takes five to seven years for the flowers to sprout. There are two other species of these trees, one blooms yellow flowers and the other blooms red. If only I had a large property...
The article, like my own entries, talks about how people consider these trees messy (I reference my husband and his opinion), but that the fallen petals require no clean up and makes the lawn "picturesque". Every year I whine about not having one of the trees, but now I suppose I should just can it since five to seven years is too long for me to wait at this stage of my life. Not that those years won't fly by, but I really don't have any more space in my yard.
I figure it will be another week for the trees to completely fill in. You know, in May. I'll post a picture when that happens. As for now. Happy Florida Spring!
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Happy 22nd, no 23rd, Anniversary
In my youth, when the children were younger I hung out with other women who either had no husbands or had husbands like mine who worked 24/7. That has dwindled now that the children are driving, but back in the day I had a posse. My husband used to joke that he had several wives, and my three peeps, Jyoti, Kelly, and Susan all considered themselves Tom's other women, and the order changed depending on who hung out that week the longest with Tom.
That standard joke fell to the wayside in high school, but this past week Tom and I went to dinner with Jyoti after taking photos of the girls for prom, and both of them mentioned how good it was to be back together. Ha ha. Yesterday while Tom was eating breakfast and I was doctoring my coffee, his phone charging on the counter pinged.
Me: "Your girlfriend is texting you."
Tom: "Yep."
He continued eating. I continued my doctoring. The phone pinged again as a reminder that he had a message, and then it instantly pinged again as another text hit. Seeing as I was on my way to the table, passing by the phone on the counter, I decided tobe nosy take a peek.
Me: "Your girlfriend is insistent. Bossy, little thing, huh?"
Tom: "No kidding."
Me: "Let me just see what she wants."
I turned the phone over to glance at it, sure it was work related, because come on, are women really still out there wanting married men? (Insert emoji with rolling eyes) But there on my husband's screen were two text messages from another woman! Another woman! And the other woman was my SIL.
Me: "What the? Susan! Your messing around with my brother's wife?"
Tom: "Is that really who it's from?"
Me: "What? You have others?"
I spit my coffee all over the counter laughing. Tom was laughing. I mean, what were the chances that the texts were truly from another woman? She was texting him to remind him that our anniversary was the next day. I immediately texted her back to let her know she had been caught. She texted back that she hoped I would return the favor with my brother. I didn't have the heart to tell her I had no idea when their anniversary was, although I think it is in October.
Now, of course, I'll never know if my husband remembered or not. Usually, I'm the one who forgets, but I had remembered several weeks earlier after my co-worker asked me how long I had been married. She is in her twenties and has been with her significant other for a couple of years and wanted me to "give her hope" for a long term relationship. I had no idea how long I had been married and had to think about that one, and then explain about my odd numbered problem with dates, not to mention that math isn't my best subject. But having this conversation reminded me the anniversary was coming up, and so I was prepared, and wondering if he would remember.
Friday, while at work I reminded my co-worker that my anniversary was Sunday, and then I Googled the 23rd anniversary to get some gift ideas. It came back with "silver plated" and some ideas were jewelry, picture frames, and door knockers. Door knockers? I told my co-worker I would just paint my nipples silver and call it a day, and she fell out of her chair laughing. I'm probably not a good role model.
This morning my husband and I exchanged anniversary cards and kisses and hugs. His card said, "Happy 22nd Anniversary" so I did get one up on him, and he spent some time sheepishly working the math. I told him this is why I have girlfriends to keep me on top of my game.
Tom: "Obviously, your girlfriends are better than mine."
Hopefully, next yearhis girlfriend my SIL will remind him how many years.
That standard joke fell to the wayside in high school, but this past week Tom and I went to dinner with Jyoti after taking photos of the girls for prom, and both of them mentioned how good it was to be back together. Ha ha. Yesterday while Tom was eating breakfast and I was doctoring my coffee, his phone charging on the counter pinged.
Me: "Your girlfriend is texting you."
Tom: "Yep."
He continued eating. I continued my doctoring. The phone pinged again as a reminder that he had a message, and then it instantly pinged again as another text hit. Seeing as I was on my way to the table, passing by the phone on the counter, I decided to
Me: "Your girlfriend is insistent. Bossy, little thing, huh?"
Tom: "No kidding."
Me: "Let me just see what she wants."
I turned the phone over to glance at it, sure it was work related, because come on, are women really still out there wanting married men? (Insert emoji with rolling eyes) But there on my husband's screen were two text messages from another woman! Another woman! And the other woman was my SIL.
Me: "What the? Susan! Your messing around with my brother's wife?"
Tom: "Is that really who it's from?"
Me: "What? You have others?"
I spit my coffee all over the counter laughing. Tom was laughing. I mean, what were the chances that the texts were truly from another woman? She was texting him to remind him that our anniversary was the next day. I immediately texted her back to let her know she had been caught. She texted back that she hoped I would return the favor with my brother. I didn't have the heart to tell her I had no idea when their anniversary was, although I think it is in October.
Now, of course, I'll never know if my husband remembered or not. Usually, I'm the one who forgets, but I had remembered several weeks earlier after my co-worker asked me how long I had been married. She is in her twenties and has been with her significant other for a couple of years and wanted me to "give her hope" for a long term relationship. I had no idea how long I had been married and had to think about that one, and then explain about my odd numbered problem with dates, not to mention that math isn't my best subject. But having this conversation reminded me the anniversary was coming up, and so I was prepared, and wondering if he would remember.
Friday, while at work I reminded my co-worker that my anniversary was Sunday, and then I Googled the 23rd anniversary to get some gift ideas. It came back with "silver plated" and some ideas were jewelry, picture frames, and door knockers. Door knockers? I told my co-worker I would just paint my nipples silver and call it a day, and she fell out of her chair laughing. I'm probably not a good role model.
This morning my husband and I exchanged anniversary cards and kisses and hugs. His card said, "Happy 22nd Anniversary" so I did get one up on him, and he spent some time sheepishly working the math. I told him this is why I have girlfriends to keep me on top of my game.
Tom: "Obviously, your girlfriends are better than mine."
Hopefully, next year
Saturday, April 22, 2017
Prom 2017
I have never been someone who enjoyed dressing up. I blame my mother who didn't wear make-up or dresses, but when I had two daughters I made sure that they were comfortable wearing whatever, and had my friend Kelly give them make-up applying lessons. They both enjoy getting dolled up for special occasions, Darcy more than Madison. She has been looking forward to doing just that for her last prom.
She, being my spendthrift, bought her dress online months ago for less than fifty dollars. Tom and I were out to eat when she texted us, asking if she could purchase it.
Me: "Absolutely! Great price. But you'll have to wait until I get home to give you the credit card number."
Darcy: "No. I have it memorized."
Since the dress arrived she has been slowly gathering items to go with it. She borrowed shoes. She ordered "sticky boobs". She bought make-up, jewelry, and a bow to put on the dog for pictures. (The bow turned out to be the wrong color and so he didn't get to wear it).
Normally, these kids don't pair up for dances unless they have a significant other, and most of her friend group doesn't have that. For senior prom, however, many of them wanted to have a date. Without going into details and pissing off my daughter, let's just say that Darcy cut to the chase when it came to her date. (She is the me I am now, and Madison is the me (and Tom) I was during my school years.)
Darcy: "I'm going off to college. I don't need to set off with the baggage of a boyfriend for heaven's sake. That's ridiculous."
I like to think it is because she will be focused on her school work. So she and her good friend, Tim, went to prom together. He and his parents came over for the picture moments. The sun wasn't in a good spot at the time so my pictures suck in my front yard suck. Plus, I still had the heebie jeebies from the whole rat episode, and the entire time I was in the yard I felt like ants were biting me.
All of the kids were taking pictures as a group, and so Tom and I drove south to meet with other parents to take group photos on the water. It was a beautiful night. The kids were all excited, goofy, and enjoying their last high school prom.
Before they headed off to the dance, Darcy began negotiating her curfew. Because her date is eighteen, he isn't confined by a driving curfew as my not quite an adult daughter. I had told her she needed to be home by one and she was working to change that to two.
Darcy: "I think we can maybe go until 2:00?"
Me: "Uh, no. 1:00."
Darcy: "2:00 please..."
Tom: (holding up one finger) "Uno."
Darcy: (holding up two fingers) How about two?"
Tom: (holding up one finger and one thumb and then turning those them into a gun that he pointed at her date) "How about two?"
It was funny, and everyone laughed, but I gave in. She got home at 2:05. She had a great night. I was glad. The final countdown has begun. She has one week left and then her IB exams begin and run through May. Yikes!
She, being my spendthrift, bought her dress online months ago for less than fifty dollars. Tom and I were out to eat when she texted us, asking if she could purchase it.
Me: "Absolutely! Great price. But you'll have to wait until I get home to give you the credit card number."
Darcy: "No. I have it memorized."
Since the dress arrived she has been slowly gathering items to go with it. She borrowed shoes. She ordered "sticky boobs". She bought make-up, jewelry, and a bow to put on the dog for pictures. (The bow turned out to be the wrong color and so he didn't get to wear it).
Normally, these kids don't pair up for dances unless they have a significant other, and most of her friend group doesn't have that. For senior prom, however, many of them wanted to have a date. Without going into details and pissing off my daughter, let's just say that Darcy cut to the chase when it came to her date. (She is the me I am now, and Madison is the me (and Tom) I was during my school years.)
Darcy: "I'm going off to college. I don't need to set off with the baggage of a boyfriend for heaven's sake. That's ridiculous."
I like to think it is because she will be focused on her school work. So she and her good friend, Tim, went to prom together. He and his parents came over for the picture moments. The sun wasn't in a good spot at the time so my pictures suck in my front yard suck. Plus, I still had the heebie jeebies from the whole rat episode, and the entire time I was in the yard I felt like ants were biting me.
All of the kids were taking pictures as a group, and so Tom and I drove south to meet with other parents to take group photos on the water. It was a beautiful night. The kids were all excited, goofy, and enjoying their last high school prom.
Before they headed off to the dance, Darcy began negotiating her curfew. Because her date is eighteen, he isn't confined by a driving curfew as my not quite an adult daughter. I had told her she needed to be home by one and she was working to change that to two.
Darcy: "I think we can maybe go until 2:00?"
Me: "Uh, no. 1:00."
Darcy: "2:00 please..."
Tom: (holding up one finger) "Uno."
Darcy: (holding up two fingers) How about two?"
Tom: (holding up one finger and one thumb and then turning those them into a gun that he pointed at her date) "How about two?"
It was funny, and everyone laughed, but I gave in. She got home at 2:05. She had a great night. I was glad. The final countdown has begun. She has one week left and then her IB exams begin and run through May. Yikes!
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Return to the ER
For several years I spent tons of time in various emergency rooms, hospitals, and rehab centers. It is rare to not drive past one of those places as I go about my day. Sometimes I actually drive out of my way to avoid going past one of them because the memories cause me undo stress and heart palpitations, not something I ever thought I would voice out loud. My gym that I avoid as much as possible travel to rarely daily is a part of a hospital so I drive past the ER each and every time I visit the gym. Most of the time I try to ignore the voice that jumps into my head reminding me of bad times, but Tuesday the voice shouted, and I let the feelings come and then I worked them out on the elliptical and put them away. Last night, however, everything exploded.
It was a typical evening. I was alone. Darcy was out. Tom was working. Eventually they came home and we went about our nightly routine of homework, mindless television, and stroking the dog's ego. At some point in all of that the daughter casually mentioned in passing that she had a terrible stomach ache.
10:45 p.m. - Casual mention of stomach ache. Parents nodded.
11:10 p.m. - Daughter kisses us goodnight. Whines about stomach ache and mentions that she feels like she is going to throw up. Mother reacts accordingly, meaning freaks out. Daughter says she hasn't gone through her "stages of vomiting yet" and will get back to us.
12:30 a.m. - Father is in bed. Mother is sitting under fan in living room after shower to cool off and keep hot flashes at bay. Daughter comes out of bedroom, kneels by the toilet for several minutes. Comes out and says stomach is really, really hurting. Mother checks her for fever and asks the medical questions again, racking her brain for all the things she learnedas a mother in medical school. Tells her to wake her if needed. Both go to bed.
1:00 a.m. - Daughter pokes mother and tells her that "something isn't right". Both go out to the living room. Mother rubs daughter's back, head, and runs through the questions again.
1:15 a.m. - No change. Father's snoring can be heard from the bedroom.
1:30 a.m. - No change. Daughter can't get comfortable. Mother gives her water. Standing, drinking, and rolling from side to side makes daughter nauseated. Father snoring louder.
1:45 a.m. - Mother Googles the big, wide web on information about stabbing stomach pain. Also looks up on which side the appendix is located. Mother apparently did not retain this from her medical school training any more than she retained geography. Father sleeping.
2:00 a.m. - Daughter tells mother she can't take it any more. Mother texts friend who works at children's hospital and is currently at work. She calls mother and a discussion is had regarding which hospital.
2:10 a.m. Mother wakes up snoring father and suggests the hospital. Father agrees, but disagrees about the 45 minute drive to children's hospital. Insists on hospital up the street. Rolls over and goes back to sleep. HE WORKS.
2:15 a.m. - Mother drives daughter to ER up the street. She second guesses herself the entire way. She should have gone to children's hospital.
2:22 a.m. - Arrive at ER. Daughter has a low grade temperature. Mother fills out paperwork and tries to ignore anxiety about being back in an ER.
3:10 a.m. - Called to back room to discuss medical issue. Told there is a three hour wait. Mother pissed. Should have gone south to children's hospital.
3:39 a.m. - Called back to the ER.
Darcy: "Whoa. This is bringing back a lot of memories about Grandma."
Me: "Yes, it is."
The smells, the hallway, the bed, the nurse and her rolling cart, the IV, and my sitting useless in a chair by the bedside. Holy been there, done that. It made me feel better to know she felt it too, even more so being on the same side, lying in the hospital bed with an IV and feeling miserable. It was odd not to have the humor, the questioning of all hospital personal, and the beep, beep of machines. Darcy had brought her Steelers blanket, but her feet were bare. We reminisced about all of the hospital socks that Grandma had collected over all of her stays. I peeked through unlocked supply drawers without prompting. It was surreal. And scary. My kid was in the ER.
3:45 a.m. - Sexy male doctor appeared. Wrong curtained room. We felt deflated. He was FINE.
3:47 a.m. - Ashley, the PA appeared. Pushed on the stomach. Darcy moaned. Ashley said "we are concerned about the appendix." I assured her "we were too".
4:01 a.m. - Blood taken. IV of saline dripping in the vein. CT Scan scheduled.
4:23 a.m. - Three medications inserted into the IV, one for pain, one for nausea, one for stomach
4:45 a.m. - Dye Contrast CAT Scan
5:05 a.m. - Sexy male doctor back.
Darcy's white blood count was elevated and the appendix enlarged. No panic as the other three indicators, urine, strands in appendix, and appendix wall thickness, were all negative. She had two ovarian cysts and fluid in the ovary. Possible burst cyst. Sexy doctor said it was now a waiting game. Could be early onset appendicitis or ruptured cyst. Discharged for a "wait and see".
5:22 a.m. - Home. Father snoring.
5:30 a.m. - Daughter eating toast. Father snoring loudly.
5:34 a.m. - Mother in shower. Father snoring louder.
5:45 a.m. - Mother calls friend to cancel 7:00 a.m. breakfast meeting. Father still snoring.
6:00 a.m. - Daughter in bed. Father's alarm going off. Father wakes up and asks for details. Goes about his morning.
6:30 a.m. - Mother, having called school to report daughter's absence, having texted radiologist friend to read the scan, and having set up a pick up of important documents needed to be taken to school, signs off phone and falls asleep.
Easiest ER trip yet. Maybe now it won't be so hard to drive past these places. It is what it is. Darcy still hurting, but hopefully, this will turn out to be the cyst issue and not the appendix. Fingers crossed.
It was a typical evening. I was alone. Darcy was out. Tom was working. Eventually they came home and we went about our nightly routine of homework, mindless television, and stroking the dog's ego. At some point in all of that the daughter casually mentioned in passing that she had a terrible stomach ache.
10:45 p.m. - Casual mention of stomach ache. Parents nodded.
11:10 p.m. - Daughter kisses us goodnight. Whines about stomach ache and mentions that she feels like she is going to throw up. Mother reacts accordingly, meaning freaks out. Daughter says she hasn't gone through her "stages of vomiting yet" and will get back to us.
12:30 a.m. - Father is in bed. Mother is sitting under fan in living room after shower to cool off and keep hot flashes at bay. Daughter comes out of bedroom, kneels by the toilet for several minutes. Comes out and says stomach is really, really hurting. Mother checks her for fever and asks the medical questions again, racking her brain for all the things she learned
1:00 a.m. - Daughter pokes mother and tells her that "something isn't right". Both go out to the living room. Mother rubs daughter's back, head, and runs through the questions again.
1:15 a.m. - No change. Father's snoring can be heard from the bedroom.
1:30 a.m. - No change. Daughter can't get comfortable. Mother gives her water. Standing, drinking, and rolling from side to side makes daughter nauseated. Father snoring louder.
1:45 a.m. - Mother Googles the big, wide web on information about stabbing stomach pain. Also looks up on which side the appendix is located. Mother apparently did not retain this from her medical school training any more than she retained geography. Father sleeping.
2:00 a.m. - Daughter tells mother she can't take it any more. Mother texts friend who works at children's hospital and is currently at work. She calls mother and a discussion is had regarding which hospital.
2:10 a.m. Mother wakes up snoring father and suggests the hospital. Father agrees, but disagrees about the 45 minute drive to children's hospital. Insists on hospital up the street. Rolls over and goes back to sleep. HE WORKS.
2:15 a.m. - Mother drives daughter to ER up the street. She second guesses herself the entire way. She should have gone to children's hospital.
2:22 a.m. - Arrive at ER. Daughter has a low grade temperature. Mother fills out paperwork and tries to ignore anxiety about being back in an ER.
3:10 a.m. - Called to back room to discuss medical issue. Told there is a three hour wait. Mother pissed. Should have gone south to children's hospital.
3:39 a.m. - Called back to the ER.
Darcy: "Whoa. This is bringing back a lot of memories about Grandma."
Me: "Yes, it is."
The smells, the hallway, the bed, the nurse and her rolling cart, the IV, and my sitting useless in a chair by the bedside. Holy been there, done that. It made me feel better to know she felt it too, even more so being on the same side, lying in the hospital bed with an IV and feeling miserable. It was odd not to have the humor, the questioning of all hospital personal, and the beep, beep of machines. Darcy had brought her Steelers blanket, but her feet were bare. We reminisced about all of the hospital socks that Grandma had collected over all of her stays. I peeked through unlocked supply drawers without prompting. It was surreal. And scary. My kid was in the ER.
3:45 a.m. - Sexy male doctor appeared. Wrong curtained room. We felt deflated. He was FINE.
3:47 a.m. - Ashley, the PA appeared. Pushed on the stomach. Darcy moaned. Ashley said "we are concerned about the appendix." I assured her "we were too".
4:01 a.m. - Blood taken. IV of saline dripping in the vein. CT Scan scheduled.
4:23 a.m. - Three medications inserted into the IV, one for pain, one for nausea, one for stomach
4:45 a.m. - Dye Contrast CAT Scan
5:05 a.m. - Sexy male doctor back.
Darcy's white blood count was elevated and the appendix enlarged. No panic as the other three indicators, urine, strands in appendix, and appendix wall thickness, were all negative. She had two ovarian cysts and fluid in the ovary. Possible burst cyst. Sexy doctor said it was now a waiting game. Could be early onset appendicitis or ruptured cyst. Discharged for a "wait and see".
5:22 a.m. - Home. Father snoring.
5:30 a.m. - Daughter eating toast. Father snoring loudly.
5:34 a.m. - Mother in shower. Father snoring louder.
5:45 a.m. - Mother calls friend to cancel 7:00 a.m. breakfast meeting. Father still snoring.
6:00 a.m. - Daughter in bed. Father's alarm going off. Father wakes up and asks for details. Goes about his morning.
6:30 a.m. - Mother, having called school to report daughter's absence, having texted radiologist friend to read the scan, and having set up a pick up of important documents needed to be taken to school, signs off phone and falls asleep.
Easiest ER trip yet. Maybe now it won't be so hard to drive past these places. It is what it is. Darcy still hurting, but hopefully, this will turn out to be the cyst issue and not the appendix. Fingers crossed.
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Ants, rats, and uncaring neighbors oh my!
After posting the entry regarding our fire ant problem, which my husband took care of with vicious ant killer since Home Depot did not sell Borax and that was where he was when I texted that I needed him to pick up Borax, I took the dog outside for his daily constitutional. Actually, I just took him out to pee, but that was something my dad used to say, and lately, I'm using more and more "Russisms". Probably because the anniversary of his death just came and went, but that has nothing to do with my story. Jeez.
So, Elliot and I trooped out the front door into our overgrown yard, which I contemplated mowing, but those who read me know my mowing history, and therefore, know that it didn't get past the contemplating stage, and the dog immediately took off after a squirrel who was happily enjoying an acorn dinner under our oak tree. I'm used to this, saw the little guy as we exited the front door, and braced myself for the pull on the leash as he ran toward the tree. The squirrel, of course, beat him to the tree, and so Elliot started sniffing the ground as if he were a hunting dog on the scent. (Another Russ reference) He figured there were other squirrels and followed his path around the front of our house toward the corner where he believes all of the squirrels live. As he walked away from me sniffing, he suddenly jerked up, twirled around and pounced at something running along the foundation under my front bedroom window. I assumed it was a lizard, and did not react.
We have tons of lizards in Florida. In my part of the area they are small lizards, and they never bother us, scurrying out of our way as we walk. Occasionally, they enter our house and give me a good blog entry as we react as if a robber were stealing us blind. Outside, however, I pay little or no attention to them. I calmly stood there watching as Elliot chased the critter toward me, but as my eyes adjusted I saw it was not a lizard, but what I thought was a baby bunny. I yelled at the thought of my dog capturing a baby bunny.
Then, as the "bunny" came closer, like a foot away, I saw the long tail and the word "RODENT" entered my brain, followed closely by "RAT!! RUN! RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!" I began screaming like a girl who had just seen a rat close enough to run over her shoe. I started dancing, prancing, hopping up and down as it got closer, my dog right on top of it, thinking it was playing with him. I was shrieking Elliot's name, pulling on his leash while he resisted, and trying to get inside my house for safety before the rat...well, I wasn't sure what rats did, but I wasn't hanging around to find out.
At some point in my hopping from foot to foot and my shrieking, Elliot stopped and looked at me like I had come unhinged. I took that opportunity to yank him toward the front door, and we made it to safety as the rat came to a stop right where I had been standing. Elliot and I stared at him through the glass door.
He was in no hurry to escape. Apparently, a dog and a screaming, out of control human was no big deal to Ratatouille. He sat there shaking, burrowing into the grass as if seeking some shelter. Instantly, I knew something wasn't right with him. This is Florida. We have fruit trees, and with those trees, come fruit rats. They usually only come out to steal from our trees at night, and rarely do I see them. Once we had one in our garage. Once I ran over one with my car at night. Once we had one hanging out on our back fence. When we do see them it is usually an indication that something isn't right.
Elliot and I stood at the door and watched him for about fifteen minutes. At one point, I went outside to take a SnapChat photo because, hello, social media! I'm dedicated to my job, and whoa, I knew this was an entry, and pictures are always great to go with my poetic words. Ratatouille did not care how close I got, and seemed very nonchalant about my taking his picture. He moved very little, ate some stuff in my grass, huddled down, and eventually I got bored. I sent the picture to my husband who was still searching Home Depot for Borax.
He returned home with this little baby, and the aforementioned ant killer. I body searched him just to make sure there wasn't anything lethal enough to dispose of his family, and let him set out themurder traps. The next morning, before I woke up, the rat was in the trap where Tom put him on a bus to rat boarding school. The ants are taking their sweet time packing up, but slowly they too are dying heading off.
I'm hoping this is it for the critters for a while. I need time for my heart to return to normal. I also just want to say that none of my new neighbors came outside during my screaming episode to see if I was being abducted, stabbed, or chased by a rat. This neighborhood is going to hell.
So, Elliot and I trooped out the front door into our overgrown yard, which I contemplated mowing, but those who read me know my mowing history, and therefore, know that it didn't get past the contemplating stage, and the dog immediately took off after a squirrel who was happily enjoying an acorn dinner under our oak tree. I'm used to this, saw the little guy as we exited the front door, and braced myself for the pull on the leash as he ran toward the tree. The squirrel, of course, beat him to the tree, and so Elliot started sniffing the ground as if he were a hunting dog on the scent. (Another Russ reference) He figured there were other squirrels and followed his path around the front of our house toward the corner where he believes all of the squirrels live. As he walked away from me sniffing, he suddenly jerked up, twirled around and pounced at something running along the foundation under my front bedroom window. I assumed it was a lizard, and did not react.
We have tons of lizards in Florida. In my part of the area they are small lizards, and they never bother us, scurrying out of our way as we walk. Occasionally, they enter our house and give me a good blog entry as we react as if a robber were stealing us blind. Outside, however, I pay little or no attention to them. I calmly stood there watching as Elliot chased the critter toward me, but as my eyes adjusted I saw it was not a lizard, but what I thought was a baby bunny. I yelled at the thought of my dog capturing a baby bunny.
Then, as the "bunny" came closer, like a foot away, I saw the long tail and the word "RODENT" entered my brain, followed closely by "RAT!! RUN! RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!" I began screaming like a girl who had just seen a rat close enough to run over her shoe. I started dancing, prancing, hopping up and down as it got closer, my dog right on top of it, thinking it was playing with him. I was shrieking Elliot's name, pulling on his leash while he resisted, and trying to get inside my house for safety before the rat...well, I wasn't sure what rats did, but I wasn't hanging around to find out.
At some point in my hopping from foot to foot and my shrieking, Elliot stopped and looked at me like I had come unhinged. I took that opportunity to yank him toward the front door, and we made it to safety as the rat came to a stop right where I had been standing. Elliot and I stared at him through the glass door.
He was in no hurry to escape. Apparently, a dog and a screaming, out of control human was no big deal to Ratatouille. He sat there shaking, burrowing into the grass as if seeking some shelter. Instantly, I knew something wasn't right with him. This is Florida. We have fruit trees, and with those trees, come fruit rats. They usually only come out to steal from our trees at night, and rarely do I see them. Once we had one in our garage. Once I ran over one with my car at night. Once we had one hanging out on our back fence. When we do see them it is usually an indication that something isn't right.
Elliot and I stood at the door and watched him for about fifteen minutes. At one point, I went outside to take a SnapChat photo because, hello, social media! I'm dedicated to my job, and whoa, I knew this was an entry, and pictures are always great to go with my poetic words. Ratatouille did not care how close I got, and seemed very nonchalant about my taking his picture. He moved very little, ate some stuff in my grass, huddled down, and eventually I got bored. I sent the picture to my husband who was still searching Home Depot for Borax.
He returned home with this little baby, and the aforementioned ant killer. I body searched him just to make sure there wasn't anything lethal enough to dispose of his family, and let him set out the
I'm hoping this is it for the critters for a while. I need time for my heart to return to normal. I also just want to say that none of my new neighbors came outside during my screaming episode to see if I was being abducted, stabbed, or chased by a rat. This neighborhood is going to hell.
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Following in the footsteps
Parenthood opened my eyes, and while it showed me a glimpse into my own parents' experiences, it wasn't until my mother died that I felt a connection, an understanding if you will. We used to talk about it some. I'd discuss my feelings on an issue regarding my children, and she would nod and remind me of a time when I did the same thing as my children. Whoa. But I didn't dwell on it like I do now. Now I feel a fist bumping sympathetic connection.
I think of her when I sit down each night to eat my dinner at our kitchen table by myself. I think of her during the day when I realize that I've sat reading a book way too long. I think of her when I sit up waiting for my daughter to come home from a night of fun. Recently, after attending a women's luncheon where I met the most fascinating older women, we were discussing my feelings on becoming an empty nester, and one of the women opened my eyes even further. She told us that after college they go off and get married, and she was okay with that because she just decided she would travel to them.
Her: "I went to the first child's home at Christmas, and within two days of being there I realized that my kids didn't need me anymore. They had their new lives. They needed to establish their own traditions, needed to form their own lives, get to know one another. I knew my job was done, and that I needed to move on."
Yikes! While deep down I knew this, I wasn't ready to hear that it could happen so soon! I was counting on those articles I kept reading about how college graduates are returning home to live with mom and dad again because they can't find jobs. I was looking forward to that despite knowing it was a pipe dream. I'm well aware of the times I moaned about not being able to establish our own holiday traditions and instead had to travel from family to family. I said all of that to my own mother who didn't like budging on her own traditions such as turkey for Christmas dinner.
Now as my empty nest days are coming faster I want to put my hand up and just yell, "Stop! I'm not ready yet!" I want my kids to stay in their childhood rooms. I don't want them to fly. They aren't ready. Except that they are, and there is truly nothing I can do to stop them from leaving. The rational part of me knows this, is very proud of them, while the irrational part of me is in total denial. I think of my mother. She followed me to Florida. It is all making more sense.
Me: "Wow. After just that first visit? What did you do?"
Her: "I joined the Peace Corp and lived in Romania for two years."
Uh. Maybe I need to find something in between following my kids and joining the Peace Corp.
Yikes! While deep down I knew this, I wasn't ready to hear that it could happen so soon! I was counting on those articles I kept reading about how college graduates are returning home to live with mom and dad again because they can't find jobs. I was looking forward to that despite knowing it was a pipe dream. I'm well aware of the times I moaned about not being able to establish our own holiday traditions and instead had to travel from family to family. I said all of that to my own mother who didn't like budging on her own traditions such as turkey for Christmas dinner.
Now as my empty nest days are coming faster I want to put my hand up and just yell, "Stop! I'm not ready yet!" I want my kids to stay in their childhood rooms. I don't want them to fly. They aren't ready. Except that they are, and there is truly nothing I can do to stop them from leaving. The rational part of me knows this, is very proud of them, while the irrational part of me is in total denial. I think of my mother. She followed me to Florida. It is all making more sense.
Me: "Wow. After just that first visit? What did you do?"
Her: "I joined the Peace Corp and lived in Romania for two years."
Uh. Maybe I need to find something in between following my kids and joining the Peace Corp.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Science and nature, ugh.
I am not a nature person by choice. I enjoy the outdoors, but I'd prefer it to come with critters that are out of sight so they are out of my mind. I don't enjoy toiling outdoors unless it is in a body of water. I don't feel the need to get my hands in the soil to create food or beauty. I enjoy walking in nature, taking pictures, admiring its beauty, and then I like to come back inside.
Now that spring is rapidly disappearing in Florida, I have noticed the tremendous amount of fire ant hills everywhere I travel. When I park my car, or move one of the many cars we have in what looks like a used car lot, I climb out and have to dodge ant hills. They are off the edge of my driveway which is rapidly becoming a suburban neighborhood with all of the houses these ants are constructing. Used to be my next door neighbor, Howard, would take care of that. He would see the hills, sprinkle some magic fairy dust on it and the hills would disappear. My kind of man. See nature near Cara, take care of it. Unfortunately, Howard has left me and moved to Texas where I'm sure he is taking care of ant hills for others, and my new neighbors are well, let's not get into all of my new, non-neighborly neighbors.
Before I go any further into this story, let me explain about fire ants. Fire ants are miserable little critters that will literally sting the crap out of any part of your body if you happen to disturb them in any way, accidentally or on purpose. Fire ant stings are never done by just one worker, because these little turds work together as a team, stinging your skin until you literally feel you have stepped into a giant fire pit. These ants are a southern thing, and the first time I was introduced to them was working my first picnic in the recreation department at my new job. The pool was rented out to organizations who had picnics outside in our shelter area, and when the event was over it was our job to clean up. Which was one of the many duties we did as lifeguards. Side note: we once made signs that we wore that said, "We pull weeds, we empty trash, we scrub toilets, we save lives." Our boss did not find it funny, and made us trash them, but we truly thought about making shirts with that slogan.
I was with another lifeguard my first week outside emptying trash cans and getting to know him when he looked down at me standing in the field outside the gate to the pool, and told me I was standing in an ant hill. To this day, I can remember my cocky attitude. I mean, what? Ants? We had ants in Indiana, who cared if I was standing on a hill? No sooner, had I gotten all of that out of my mouth, those little suckers stung. I thought I had been hit with a cattle prod. I started screaming, swatting my ankles, and when none of that worked I ran away and jumped into the pool with my clothes and shoes on. He has never let me forget that. In fact, he jumped in with me as a show of solidarity, and we have been friends since then, but at the time, it wasn't funny. These stings cause red whelps on the skin that eventually come to a white head full of pus. They are nasty.
So, suddenly we are being infested with a large amount of fire ants. Every day I have to hop over them getting in and out of our cars, and while they usually avoid a direct pathway a nest of these critters have decided they want to live away from the driveway suburbia. They started building a condo smack dab in the middle of the walkway to my front door. While I'm not usually a critter killer, save for spiders, roaches, and well, maybe I am a killer, I used my shoe and chucked the sandy dirt off my walkway, screaming at them to find another town.
The next morning they were back at it. IN THE VERY SAME SPOT. I got rid of it again. They went back at it. Tom got rid of it. They came back. By this time, I figured they were damn determined, and rewarding that tenacity, I ignored them and let them build. Only they decided to build a two story condo and invite their relatives from all over. That has not set well with me.
This hill was once the size of a nickel, and now is three times that. This is now war. I can't take it. I mentioned it to someone who jumped over the hill coming up my walk, and he told me that I could use Borax on the hill. That seemed more humane then some kind of spray, and so I Googled it. I watched a nice man on a YouTube video assure me that these fire ants are dangerous, not only to my yard and garden, but also to pets and well, my life, seeing as how a poor woman was just stung to death by fire ants. Okay, he might not have mentioned that death, but I read about it. I am to combine one cup of Borax and one cup of sugar in a jar and sprinkle "gently" over thecondo mound. The YouTube man told me the sugar was for the queen who apparently is, what, resistant to Borax? I didn't really get that part of it, but I'm a direction follower to a T so I shall be adding the sugar. As soon as I get the Borax, which I thought we had for use in our pool, but found that we don't. I added it to my list.
Then, that night as Tom and I took the dog out for a walk, Tom swiped the condo mound with his foot and destroyed their home and myblog entry experiment. But don't worry. They will be back. They always are.
Now that spring is rapidly disappearing in Florida, I have noticed the tremendous amount of fire ant hills everywhere I travel. When I park my car, or move one of the many cars we have in what looks like a used car lot, I climb out and have to dodge ant hills. They are off the edge of my driveway which is rapidly becoming a suburban neighborhood with all of the houses these ants are constructing. Used to be my next door neighbor, Howard, would take care of that. He would see the hills, sprinkle some magic fairy dust on it and the hills would disappear. My kind of man. See nature near Cara, take care of it. Unfortunately, Howard has left me and moved to Texas where I'm sure he is taking care of ant hills for others, and my new neighbors are well, let's not get into all of my new, non-neighborly neighbors.
Before I go any further into this story, let me explain about fire ants. Fire ants are miserable little critters that will literally sting the crap out of any part of your body if you happen to disturb them in any way, accidentally or on purpose. Fire ant stings are never done by just one worker, because these little turds work together as a team, stinging your skin until you literally feel you have stepped into a giant fire pit. These ants are a southern thing, and the first time I was introduced to them was working my first picnic in the recreation department at my new job. The pool was rented out to organizations who had picnics outside in our shelter area, and when the event was over it was our job to clean up. Which was one of the many duties we did as lifeguards. Side note: we once made signs that we wore that said, "We pull weeds, we empty trash, we scrub toilets, we save lives." Our boss did not find it funny, and made us trash them, but we truly thought about making shirts with that slogan.
I was with another lifeguard my first week outside emptying trash cans and getting to know him when he looked down at me standing in the field outside the gate to the pool, and told me I was standing in an ant hill. To this day, I can remember my cocky attitude. I mean, what? Ants? We had ants in Indiana, who cared if I was standing on a hill? No sooner, had I gotten all of that out of my mouth, those little suckers stung. I thought I had been hit with a cattle prod. I started screaming, swatting my ankles, and when none of that worked I ran away and jumped into the pool with my clothes and shoes on. He has never let me forget that. In fact, he jumped in with me as a show of solidarity, and we have been friends since then, but at the time, it wasn't funny. These stings cause red whelps on the skin that eventually come to a white head full of pus. They are nasty.
So, suddenly we are being infested with a large amount of fire ants. Every day I have to hop over them getting in and out of our cars, and while they usually avoid a direct pathway a nest of these critters have decided they want to live away from the driveway suburbia. They started building a condo smack dab in the middle of the walkway to my front door. While I'm not usually a critter killer, save for spiders, roaches, and well, maybe I am a killer, I used my shoe and chucked the sandy dirt off my walkway, screaming at them to find another town.
The next morning they were back at it. IN THE VERY SAME SPOT. I got rid of it again. They went back at it. Tom got rid of it. They came back. By this time, I figured they were damn determined, and rewarding that tenacity, I ignored them and let them build. Only they decided to build a two story condo and invite their relatives from all over. That has not set well with me.
This hill was once the size of a nickel, and now is three times that. This is now war. I can't take it. I mentioned it to someone who jumped over the hill coming up my walk, and he told me that I could use Borax on the hill. That seemed more humane then some kind of spray, and so I Googled it. I watched a nice man on a YouTube video assure me that these fire ants are dangerous, not only to my yard and garden, but also to pets and well, my life, seeing as how a poor woman was just stung to death by fire ants. Okay, he might not have mentioned that death, but I read about it. I am to combine one cup of Borax and one cup of sugar in a jar and sprinkle "gently" over the
Then, that night as Tom and I took the dog out for a walk, Tom swiped the condo mound with his foot and destroyed their home and my
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
My gold teeth
Several years ago, and the dentist's receptionist says sometime before 2005 because that is how far back her files go electronically, I was fitted for a mouth guard, a contraption that fits on the lower half of one's teeth, worn at night, to counteract the horrid grinding of teeth. Apparently, I ground my teeth so desperately that I was wearing down the enamel on my choppers. Whatever. Frankly, I thought it just another blood sucking scam to take my money, and when told the cost of this mouth guard I was even more sure of that. Five hundred dollars! Five hundred dollars for a piece of plastic that went into my mouth!
I almost didn't get it. My dentist, and please know that I believe my dentist to be one of the good guys as I've written here before, talked me into taking the leap off the ledge to protect my nice set of teeth, and since my mother already had a mouth guard, I bought the damn thing. (My poor husband came unhinged over that little purchase, and that was a blog entry I should have posted back in the day)
In the beginning, I blamed my teeth shifting and tiny missing parts due to my nail biting habit, and I only wore the guard occasionally when I remembered to do so. I've spent so much of my life with a contraption in my mouth what with the retainers, braces, and multiple head gears (that I wore all at one time, mind you) that I truly did not care to shove another thing into my mouth unless covered in chocolate or sugar.
One of the negatives that kept it out of my mouth, was the cleaning. Every morning I was supposed to use a separate toothbrush, brush it, dry it, and tuck it neatly and safely away in its box. But that was back in the day when I had kids to get up and dressed and off to school, and my routine of sleeping until the last possible minute due to my nighttime showering and quickness in pulling myself together in the dawn did not include all that cleaning of a piece of plastic. It took up too much time, and what was I suppose to dry it with? A germy hand towel?
My friend, my younger friend, also a mouth guard owner, threw hers into hydrogen peroxide every morning, and so that seemed much simpler. The problem, however, was I threw it into a cup of the liquid and promptly forgot to wear the guard for weeks, or it could have been months, and when I remembered the thing it had turned an orange color. I was horrified, sure that I had done something that could get me in big trouble until I remembered that I was an adult and pretty much immune to outbursts of anger and punishment from adults in my life.
Okay, that last part wasn't true, because I worried needlessly for weeks before my scheduled cleaning appointment (guards accompany you to every appointment for adjustments and cleaning) like my dentist was going to put me in a time-out corner. No one cared, however, about my orange guard. All my dentist cared about was that I was wearing the guard nightly. So I gave him that and told him I was. Liar.
Somewhere, however, through the years, after waking with a stiff jaw and a mighty headache, I started wearing the guard more often until now I can't sleep without it. Seriously. The thing is now like a limb. I've taken to slipping it into my mouth during my afternoon naps, and I had been thinking about wearing it during the day because obviously, I'm a tense person who grits her teeth 24/7 and not just at night. My mouth guard is now my security blanket, and I love the damn thing.
Last Monday while brushing it (an no, I use the same damn toothbrush I use on my teeth) I dropped it on the floor. I'm sure I've dropped it before, and so I picked it up, rinsed it and dropped it into the cup I keep it in. (An empty cup, not one full of color staining liquid) When I took it out that night to go to sleep, I noticed that a chunk of it had broken off.
What? I freaked out! Not only could I not find the piece, but immediately I knew I was in big trouble, not only with the dentist, but with my husband, and my mother (because she still has that kind of hold on me until I remember she is dead). I kept silent for almost a week, wearing the broken guard, and trying hard to think of ways to earn five hundred dollars for a new one. Finally, after my teeth started shifting and aching, I broke down and fussed up. My husband felt the dentist would offer a lifetime warranty on the thing.
Yesterday, as I drove to the dentist worried about the cost of a new one, but telling myself the thing was at least ten years old and therefore only $50 a year, I wondered about inflation, almost gave myself a heart attack, and finally said, what the hell. I have to have the thing. For the sake of my nice teeth, not to mention my sanity. I handed over the guard to the assistant, and almost kissed her when she said:
Her: "I think we can fix this."
And they did. It wasn't pretty, the process. My dentist worked for an hour painting a nasty tasting, highly toxic fumed substance on the pieces while in my mouth. He cured it in a little can with a handle that he carried with him into other patients' rooms. Then we did it all over again. Three times. Then he sanded it down, adjusted it, cleaned it, and shook my hand. Price: $95.
Receptionist: "Better than the $750 for replacing it, huh?"
WHAT! The cost has gone up to Seven Hundred and Fifty Dollars! For a piece of molded plastic that one sticks in one's mouth!! Holy Mother of straight teeth! I went outside to my car and thanked the Dental Gods for my dentist's ability to repair that little nugget, and then I came home and brushed it with a special brush, dried it with linen, and put it in its carrying case. Because by golly, I KNOW BETTER NOW.
I almost didn't get it. My dentist, and please know that I believe my dentist to be one of the good guys as I've written here before, talked me into taking the leap off the ledge to protect my nice set of teeth, and since my mother already had a mouth guard, I bought the damn thing. (My poor husband came unhinged over that little purchase, and that was a blog entry I should have posted back in the day)
In the beginning, I blamed my teeth shifting and tiny missing parts due to my nail biting habit, and I only wore the guard occasionally when I remembered to do so. I've spent so much of my life with a contraption in my mouth what with the retainers, braces, and multiple head gears (that I wore all at one time, mind you) that I truly did not care to shove another thing into my mouth unless covered in chocolate or sugar.
One of the negatives that kept it out of my mouth, was the cleaning. Every morning I was supposed to use a separate toothbrush, brush it, dry it, and tuck it neatly and safely away in its box. But that was back in the day when I had kids to get up and dressed and off to school, and my routine of sleeping until the last possible minute due to my nighttime showering and quickness in pulling myself together in the dawn did not include all that cleaning of a piece of plastic. It took up too much time, and what was I suppose to dry it with? A germy hand towel?
My friend, my younger friend, also a mouth guard owner, threw hers into hydrogen peroxide every morning, and so that seemed much simpler. The problem, however, was I threw it into a cup of the liquid and promptly forgot to wear the guard for weeks, or it could have been months, and when I remembered the thing it had turned an orange color. I was horrified, sure that I had done something that could get me in big trouble until I remembered that I was an adult and pretty much immune to outbursts of anger and punishment from adults in my life.
Okay, that last part wasn't true, because I worried needlessly for weeks before my scheduled cleaning appointment (guards accompany you to every appointment for adjustments and cleaning) like my dentist was going to put me in a time-out corner. No one cared, however, about my orange guard. All my dentist cared about was that I was wearing the guard nightly. So I gave him that and told him I was. Liar.
Somewhere, however, through the years, after waking with a stiff jaw and a mighty headache, I started wearing the guard more often until now I can't sleep without it. Seriously. The thing is now like a limb. I've taken to slipping it into my mouth during my afternoon naps, and I had been thinking about wearing it during the day because obviously, I'm a tense person who grits her teeth 24/7 and not just at night. My mouth guard is now my security blanket, and I love the damn thing.
Last Monday while brushing it (an no, I use the same damn toothbrush I use on my teeth) I dropped it on the floor. I'm sure I've dropped it before, and so I picked it up, rinsed it and dropped it into the cup I keep it in. (An empty cup, not one full of color staining liquid) When I took it out that night to go to sleep, I noticed that a chunk of it had broken off.
What? I freaked out! Not only could I not find the piece, but immediately I knew I was in big trouble, not only with the dentist, but with my husband, and my mother (because she still has that kind of hold on me until I remember she is dead). I kept silent for almost a week, wearing the broken guard, and trying hard to think of ways to earn five hundred dollars for a new one. Finally, after my teeth started shifting and aching, I broke down and fussed up. My husband felt the dentist would offer a lifetime warranty on the thing.
Yesterday, as I drove to the dentist worried about the cost of a new one, but telling myself the thing was at least ten years old and therefore only $50 a year, I wondered about inflation, almost gave myself a heart attack, and finally said, what the hell. I have to have the thing. For the sake of my nice teeth, not to mention my sanity. I handed over the guard to the assistant, and almost kissed her when she said:
Her: "I think we can fix this."
And they did. It wasn't pretty, the process. My dentist worked for an hour painting a nasty tasting, highly toxic fumed substance on the pieces while in my mouth. He cured it in a little can with a handle that he carried with him into other patients' rooms. Then we did it all over again. Three times. Then he sanded it down, adjusted it, cleaned it, and shook my hand. Price: $95.
Receptionist: "Better than the $750 for replacing it, huh?"
WHAT! The cost has gone up to Seven Hundred and Fifty Dollars! For a piece of molded plastic that one sticks in one's mouth!! Holy Mother of straight teeth! I went outside to my car and thanked the Dental Gods for my dentist's ability to repair that little nugget, and then I came home and brushed it with a special brush, dried it with linen, and put it in its carrying case. Because by golly, I KNOW BETTER NOW.
Monday, April 10, 2017
Random Details
- Since I got my Echo Dot, I've been obsessed with what I call my "writing music", playing it over and over and over again much to Darcy's annoyance. I call my playlist "Inspiration". Certain songs really help me create, and as I'm trying to write daily, I need the music. Recently, after attending a funeral where the song, Hallelujah, was sung, Tom and I were discussing various artists who have recorded the song. I knew I had one on my Itunes, discovered it was an American Idol contestant from Season 7, Jason Castro. I couldn't remember who he was, looked him up, listened to his album, and OMG! I am hooked. Love this album. It is now my new music obsession. I bet Echo plays it fifty times a day. I'm not sure it's helping my current writer's block, but it makes me feel good.
- I discovered there was an organization for romance writers, and so I joined. They have a huge conference every year in a different city. It is huge. Major authors attend. There are tons of workshops, agents, publishers, and an award's show. This year is in Orlando this summer. I took it as a sign. I signed up today. Now if I could only get past this block.
- The new administrator, the one I apparently "scared" has quit. No one told me until the day before I had to go in and work with the new one. I was nervous. I mean, when you frighten everyone away, there's a perception. She's not going to be as tough to crack, this one. Plus, she has shown me, in the two weeks we've worked together, that I've harshly judged these youngsters in the work force. This woman is awesome. She is everything I was at that age, energetic, top-notch, meticulous, and she knows her stuff. Oh, and she asked to be my Facebook friend because she wanted "to find my blog and read it". I love this woman.
- We had three days of sixty degree weather, a last burst of spring before returning to our eighty degree temperatures. It was a little bit of heaven in April.
- My cousin's husband, does that make him my cousin too, travels to Ireland often. This past week he was in Belfast, Dublin, and Stockholm, and we all took the trip with him via SnapChat. I've decided he needs a travel assistant, and I'm getting my resume together.
- I have one pineapple growing this season, out of my seven plants. Two of the plants are from last year's crop, and one is from the first crop. The rest were my mother's plants. She loved those damn plants, and even though I fought her on growing my own, I'm now CEO of PineConApple Plantation. I just wish I liked the fruit better.
- I'd like to go to Indiana at the end of May, but one thing after another is stopping me. I need to go from one end of the state to the other to cram everything in that I want to do, and to do all of that in the amount of time I have is just darn frustrating. Flights are decent, but car rental is crazy. It is cheaper for me to rent a car from here and leave it in Indiana then it is to rent in that state and drive from one end to the other. Apparently, cars from Florida are in high demand?
Sunday, April 09, 2017
Keepsake - NRA Conference
In 2003, Tom and I, along with our friends, Sharon and John, made an overnight trip to Orlando to see Toby Keith perform at the NRA Convention. Sharon and I became Toby Keith fans after his song, I Wanna Talk About Me, came out because, well, we related to it. When we heard he was going to be within driving distance, we jumped at the chance to see him, scored tickets, and went, leaving my children behind with Kelly.
We decided when we arrived to check into the convention to see exactly what an NRA convention was all about, and to see if we could catch a glimpse of Charleton Heston who was retiring as the President of the NRA Association. When Sharon and I get together, we are a tad over the top. We feed off of and egg on each other, while our husbands pretend they don't know us. Pretty much that is how the entire went.
The convention had all these booths set up, and we hopped from booth to booth schmoozing with the operators, and pretending we were card carrying members. Sharon and I met the candidates running to replace Heston, and proceeded to quiz them on various topics. Our favorite questions was, "Do you believe in killing Bambi?" Tom and John always walked away right after we asked that question. It was entertaining to say the least to see the candidates faces when we asked that question. We usually let them hem and haw their way through answering, before we told them we were from Indiana and Alabama, and we knew hunting. Their relief was hilarious too.
At some point, we ended up in a room where participants could shoot at targets. For a fee, you could shoot rifles at targets, and suddenly John and Tom were excited. Sharon, whose motto was "I was born to do this" jumped at the chance. I waved my hand, told them I didn't want to show them up, and let them shoot. Tom kept trying to get me to do it with them, but I said I was against guns and shooting, and just a bunch of crap to see everyone's reactions around me. After all, this was an NRA convention. Of course, I also offered up my opinions on how they could all improve, and finally the man in charge told me to put my money where my mouth was. He goaded me. I started doing my hustler routine because what the hell?
I was given my rifle and the gun man started giving me advice. I pretended I didn't know a thing. I asked about where my finger should go. I asked about where I should aim. I played the "oh, my goodness I'm a girl" card, and all of the men in the room were wanting to give me advice, including my own husband. Only Sharon was laughing. The gun man was placing my hands on the rifle and telling me to inhale, and I was saying things such as, "Like this? Is this right? Oh, I'm so scared." Sharon tried to tell the man I was full of shit, but I had the men eating out of my hands. He finally told me to eye the target and give it a go. So I did.
I shot, and then the man said, "Let's see how you did," and he pulled the target forward. Of course, I had hit it dead center. No kidding. DEAD CENTER. Everyone, except Sharon who had moved on to her own shooting, stood there with their mouths open. The guy had me do it again. I did. DEAD CENTER. He finally looked at me and asked if I had hustled him. I kept shooting. I hit a beautiful target, and then I asked about my prize. I had out shot everyone there, but they didn't really have prizes. All of the gun men working the room finally found me a prize, and then they made me stand on a chair while everyone cheered, and they gave me a medal.
Which I recently found in going through my keepsake box. I pinned the medal to my chest, told my gun man that I truly had only shot a rifle once at beer cans on a fence at my farmhouse in Indiana, but that I obviously was "born to do this", and we left. He didn't believe me. My husband still tells that story to this day. Of course, then Sharon and I really got to use the Bambi question, and then I'd pull out my award and target, and tell them I was obviously just messing with them. It was a fun day.
We ended the evening with Charleton Heston, who was truly mentally gone by then, and Toby Keith who was fighting a cold. Sharon got us the two of us right up next to the stage by sweet talking the guards and pointing to my medal, and it was the greatest Toby concert experience I've had, and I have been to several of Toby's concerts. I took great pictures with my camera (back then we didn't have those highfalutin phones) and had all of them stolen at Target's photo center, but I still chalk that day up as a win, win.
P.S. I haven't shot a gun since. I know when to stop when I'm ahead. Besides, I hate showing up others.
We decided when we arrived to check into the convention to see exactly what an NRA convention was all about, and to see if we could catch a glimpse of Charleton Heston who was retiring as the President of the NRA Association. When Sharon and I get together, we are a tad over the top. We feed off of and egg on each other, while our husbands pretend they don't know us. Pretty much that is how the entire went.
The convention had all these booths set up, and we hopped from booth to booth schmoozing with the operators, and pretending we were card carrying members. Sharon and I met the candidates running to replace Heston, and proceeded to quiz them on various topics. Our favorite questions was, "Do you believe in killing Bambi?" Tom and John always walked away right after we asked that question. It was entertaining to say the least to see the candidates faces when we asked that question. We usually let them hem and haw their way through answering, before we told them we were from Indiana and Alabama, and we knew hunting. Their relief was hilarious too.
At some point, we ended up in a room where participants could shoot at targets. For a fee, you could shoot rifles at targets, and suddenly John and Tom were excited. Sharon, whose motto was "I was born to do this" jumped at the chance. I waved my hand, told them I didn't want to show them up, and let them shoot. Tom kept trying to get me to do it with them, but I said I was against guns and shooting, and just a bunch of crap to see everyone's reactions around me. After all, this was an NRA convention. Of course, I also offered up my opinions on how they could all improve, and finally the man in charge told me to put my money where my mouth was. He goaded me. I started doing my hustler routine because what the hell?
I was given my rifle and the gun man started giving me advice. I pretended I didn't know a thing. I asked about where my finger should go. I asked about where I should aim. I played the "oh, my goodness I'm a girl" card, and all of the men in the room were wanting to give me advice, including my own husband. Only Sharon was laughing. The gun man was placing my hands on the rifle and telling me to inhale, and I was saying things such as, "Like this? Is this right? Oh, I'm so scared." Sharon tried to tell the man I was full of shit, but I had the men eating out of my hands. He finally told me to eye the target and give it a go. So I did.
I shot, and then the man said, "Let's see how you did," and he pulled the target forward. Of course, I had hit it dead center. No kidding. DEAD CENTER. Everyone, except Sharon who had moved on to her own shooting, stood there with their mouths open. The guy had me do it again. I did. DEAD CENTER. He finally looked at me and asked if I had hustled him. I kept shooting. I hit a beautiful target, and then I asked about my prize. I had out shot everyone there, but they didn't really have prizes. All of the gun men working the room finally found me a prize, and then they made me stand on a chair while everyone cheered, and they gave me a medal.
Which I recently found in going through my keepsake box. I pinned the medal to my chest, told my gun man that I truly had only shot a rifle once at beer cans on a fence at my farmhouse in Indiana, but that I obviously was "born to do this", and we left. He didn't believe me. My husband still tells that story to this day. Of course, then Sharon and I really got to use the Bambi question, and then I'd pull out my award and target, and tell them I was obviously just messing with them. It was a fun day.
We ended the evening with Charleton Heston, who was truly mentally gone by then, and Toby Keith who was fighting a cold. Sharon got us the two of us right up next to the stage by sweet talking the guards and pointing to my medal, and it was the greatest Toby concert experience I've had, and I have been to several of Toby's concerts. I took great pictures with my camera (back then we didn't have those highfalutin phones) and had all of them stolen at Target's photo center, but I still chalk that day up as a win, win.
P.S. I haven't shot a gun since. I know when to stop when I'm ahead. Besides, I hate showing up others.
Friday, April 07, 2017
Flashback Friday - substituting
From the archives - September 20, 2004
One of the jobs I do during the year is to substitute teach for a small school for children ranging in age from three years to fourteen years. Most of the time I am in the pre-primary/kindergarten classes. This is where I found myself this morning. I was called in at 7:30 a.m. It was a beautiful day with sunny skies and cooler temperatures than normal. Despite it being Monday, the children were eager to work, and the morning progressed smoothly.
After lunch, I was assigned to rest time for three of the children who are young three year olds. These three apparently require actual sleep or they are unable to make it through the rest of the day. They are brought inside early while the rest of the class goes to "specials" such as library, art, etc. These three get to relax on cots while teachers read books and lure them into Slumberland. Today, I got that job.
Last week when I subbed, I was assigned this task, and I failed. I could not get these three children to sleep. Actually, I didn't understand that they were to sleep. I read tons of books, and we discussed them and had meaningful conversations that one can only have with three year old children. It wasn't until the head teacher came in with the rest of the students for their rest time that I understood these three were to have already been put out. I got this by the horrible shriek she gave upon seeing my three charges awake. It was terrible. I'm lucky I still have a job.
Today, I was informed by her that these three must be put to SLEEP. I was told to read one book, rub their backs, and speak softly to them. Gotcha. I did just that. I got them situated with their blankies and their stuffed animals. I read the book. I rubbed their backs and soothed them with gently, inane conversation. Yep. NO ONE WENT TO SLEEP.
One girl kept sitting up and crying," I want my Mommy." Another one kept tossing her green, stuffed giraffe into the air and trying to catch it with her feet. Although, each child yawned and rubbed his eyes, they were determined to stay awake. They were determined to see me fail. I felt my motherly instincts trying hard to kick in, and I had to work hard to suppress them because screaming, "Close your eyes and get to sleep right NOW!" was somehow not in the substitute teaching manual.
When my children were nappers, I had a system. I started it with my first daughter under the suggestion of her pediatrician. I would nurse her, or give her lunch, depending on the age at the time, take off her shoes, and put her down. I would darken the room and turn on her soft music. I would rub her back, and love her gently for a few moments, and then I LEFT THE ROOM. She put herself to sleep. It was not my job to see that she slept. My job was to leave her the hell alone so she could have her time while I had my time. It worked great.
These three children are not alone. They are spaced about three feet apart from each other. They are in a room with interesting pieces of work, listening to other children outside on the playground. They would rather make faces at each other, and whisper interesting tidbits back and forth. Frankly, I felt that if they couldn't make it through the rest of the day without sleeping then maybe they shouldn't be full time students. But then, that is why I am a S-U-B-S-T-I-T-U-T-E. I am not paid for my, albeit wonderful, opinions.
So I failed yet again. I have to give the head teacher some credit this time for not shrieking when she came inside with the other children. She smiled and thanked me for coming (I only work until 1:00 because I teach swimming at 2:00, but that is another story) and then showed me the door.
Note to self: Visit the classroom and silently observe the real teacher in action. Not sure I believe that she truly accomplishes this sleeping chore without sneaking in sleeping pills.
Update 2017 - I ended up working as a substitute in that classroom quite a bit as they had a teacher rotation issue, but I only got one child to fall asleep. I never conquered all three of those kids. I never conquered any of the others either, and wished I had written about those experiences because they about destroyed me. Worst part of the job. I am very thankful that my kids were able to come home for their nap times. I am very thankful for teachers who are able to put these kids to sleep. I am thankful that this is, and wasn't, my full time job.
One of the jobs I do during the year is to substitute teach for a small school for children ranging in age from three years to fourteen years. Most of the time I am in the pre-primary/kindergarten classes. This is where I found myself this morning. I was called in at 7:30 a.m. It was a beautiful day with sunny skies and cooler temperatures than normal. Despite it being Monday, the children were eager to work, and the morning progressed smoothly.
After lunch, I was assigned to rest time for three of the children who are young three year olds. These three apparently require actual sleep or they are unable to make it through the rest of the day. They are brought inside early while the rest of the class goes to "specials" such as library, art, etc. These three get to relax on cots while teachers read books and lure them into Slumberland. Today, I got that job.
Last week when I subbed, I was assigned this task, and I failed. I could not get these three children to sleep. Actually, I didn't understand that they were to sleep. I read tons of books, and we discussed them and had meaningful conversations that one can only have with three year old children. It wasn't until the head teacher came in with the rest of the students for their rest time that I understood these three were to have already been put out. I got this by the horrible shriek she gave upon seeing my three charges awake. It was terrible. I'm lucky I still have a job.
Today, I was informed by her that these three must be put to SLEEP. I was told to read one book, rub their backs, and speak softly to them. Gotcha. I did just that. I got them situated with their blankies and their stuffed animals. I read the book. I rubbed their backs and soothed them with gently, inane conversation. Yep. NO ONE WENT TO SLEEP.
One girl kept sitting up and crying," I want my Mommy." Another one kept tossing her green, stuffed giraffe into the air and trying to catch it with her feet. Although, each child yawned and rubbed his eyes, they were determined to stay awake. They were determined to see me fail. I felt my motherly instincts trying hard to kick in, and I had to work hard to suppress them because screaming, "Close your eyes and get to sleep right NOW!" was somehow not in the substitute teaching manual.
When my children were nappers, I had a system. I started it with my first daughter under the suggestion of her pediatrician. I would nurse her, or give her lunch, depending on the age at the time, take off her shoes, and put her down. I would darken the room and turn on her soft music. I would rub her back, and love her gently for a few moments, and then I LEFT THE ROOM. She put herself to sleep. It was not my job to see that she slept. My job was to leave her the hell alone so she could have her time while I had my time. It worked great.
These three children are not alone. They are spaced about three feet apart from each other. They are in a room with interesting pieces of work, listening to other children outside on the playground. They would rather make faces at each other, and whisper interesting tidbits back and forth. Frankly, I felt that if they couldn't make it through the rest of the day without sleeping then maybe they shouldn't be full time students. But then, that is why I am a S-U-B-S-T-I-T-U-T-E. I am not paid for my, albeit wonderful, opinions.
So I failed yet again. I have to give the head teacher some credit this time for not shrieking when she came inside with the other children. She smiled and thanked me for coming (I only work until 1:00 because I teach swimming at 2:00, but that is another story) and then showed me the door.
Note to self: Visit the classroom and silently observe the real teacher in action. Not sure I believe that she truly accomplishes this sleeping chore without sneaking in sleeping pills.
Update 2017 - I ended up working as a substitute in that classroom quite a bit as they had a teacher rotation issue, but I only got one child to fall asleep. I never conquered all three of those kids. I never conquered any of the others either, and wished I had written about those experiences because they about destroyed me. Worst part of the job. I am very thankful that my kids were able to come home for their nap times. I am very thankful for teachers who are able to put these kids to sleep. I am thankful that this is, and wasn't, my full time job.
Tuesday, April 04, 2017
Will you read to me?
My mother didn't grow up with lots of hugs and kisses, but she was a mother who was very generous with them with her own children. I was, and am, even more so. I think after Madison was born I must have kissed and hugged her a million times a day. I couldn't stop. I pushed my nose into her neck, her cheek, and smothered her with love, inhaling her scent, rubbing her soft skin. It was the same with Darcy. Both of my kids are used to me kissing them for no reason. They can just be telling me a story, and I feel that rush of love that I have for them, and I act on it. We can be anywhere, in the grocery, the library, at school. They take it in stride. I will miss doing that come August.
For some reason, I haven't been getting enough sleep. I'm someone who needs eight hours a night. I can survive on six, but eight is my ideal. Before spring break, I was getting into a decent habit of being ready for bed by ten o'clock, but then Maddy came home, and I wanted to be with her, and so I slipped back into my stay-up-all-night-sleep-all-morning-routine. The NCAA basketball tournament didn't help matters after that. Why must these games start after nine o'clock? So this Sunday I was showered and reading in bed by ten o'clock, feeling great that I was going to soon be asleep.
Darcy came into my room around ten thirty. She came in with, "M-o-m-m-y", something she calls me when she wants something. I sighed, looked up from my book, and wondered how much money she wanted and where she was trying to go this weekend. Instead she asked me to read to her.
Another thing I learned from my mom, was reading. She was an avid reader and she read to us and instilled that love in me. I tried to do the same with my children, as did she. Most of the pictures I have of my mother with my children, she is reading to them. They are always stretched out on her lap, and she is introducing them to the wonder of different worlds and activities. I did the same. Reading was our nightly routine, but we read in the morning, the afternoon, before dinner, and after school. Madison is a huge reader, but Darcy lost it somewhere down the road. She doesn't have to have a book in her hands like Madison and I do. She goes through phases where she will read for a week and then not read for months. I'm not sure what happened there, but she does love listening to someone else read.
She needed to read a book for her English class, and while she had devoured ninety pages already, she had another seventy to go. She was tired of reading. Her eyes were twitching and she was having trouble focusing. Before going to college, Madison would read Darcy the books she needed for class. Since Madison was gone, Darcy needed someone else to read to her. She asked me.
A part of me wanted to decline. I was tired. I was getting back into a better sleeping habit. I didn't have time to read seventy pages. Plus, I am a terrible aloud reader when the books don't have simple titles like, Nina, Nina, Ballerina, a once staple in our home. For some reason, my mind gets ahead of me, and I stumble over words, mispronouncing them. I think it had to do with being chosen to read aloud in school. Nothing worse for a shy kid, which I was. (Don't laugh, it is true)
But Darcy was speaking in her little girl's voice. "M-o-m-m-y, will you read to me? P-l-e-a-s-e?" How could I turn that down? I whined, of course. She didn't care. She was done reading. And so she begged, I relented, and she climbed into bed with me, lying next to me, and I began to read. She didn't have her phone. I didn't have my phone. She snuggled against me, reading with me over my shoulder. She corrected me immediately when I mispronounced "facade". We laughed, and then we laughed even harder. She hugged me, told me it was okay. "Oh, Mommy," she said, laughing.
It was magical. I read. We talked about the book. I got better in my reading. She eventually stopped following the words with me, and just listened. Had she been little again, her thumb would have been in her mouth. During our hour and a half of reading, I stopped many times just to smother her with kisses. At some point, Tom joined us, and listened. It was time well spent, and when she announced at midnight that I could stop, I was disappointed. I could have done that all night long.
But I have learned since my kids got older, to know when to push and when to back off and let them find their own way. I still may follow behind, my hands out to catch them if they falter, but I do it now wearing my invisible cloak because they don't need Mommy to help them. Until they do. And I'm so glad that I am here when that happens.
For some reason, I haven't been getting enough sleep. I'm someone who needs eight hours a night. I can survive on six, but eight is my ideal. Before spring break, I was getting into a decent habit of being ready for bed by ten o'clock, but then Maddy came home, and I wanted to be with her, and so I slipped back into my stay-up-all-night-sleep-all-morning-routine. The NCAA basketball tournament didn't help matters after that. Why must these games start after nine o'clock? So this Sunday I was showered and reading in bed by ten o'clock, feeling great that I was going to soon be asleep.
Darcy came into my room around ten thirty. She came in with, "M-o-m-m-y", something she calls me when she wants something. I sighed, looked up from my book, and wondered how much money she wanted and where she was trying to go this weekend. Instead she asked me to read to her.
Another thing I learned from my mom, was reading. She was an avid reader and she read to us and instilled that love in me. I tried to do the same with my children, as did she. Most of the pictures I have of my mother with my children, she is reading to them. They are always stretched out on her lap, and she is introducing them to the wonder of different worlds and activities. I did the same. Reading was our nightly routine, but we read in the morning, the afternoon, before dinner, and after school. Madison is a huge reader, but Darcy lost it somewhere down the road. She doesn't have to have a book in her hands like Madison and I do. She goes through phases where she will read for a week and then not read for months. I'm not sure what happened there, but she does love listening to someone else read.
She needed to read a book for her English class, and while she had devoured ninety pages already, she had another seventy to go. She was tired of reading. Her eyes were twitching and she was having trouble focusing. Before going to college, Madison would read Darcy the books she needed for class. Since Madison was gone, Darcy needed someone else to read to her. She asked me.
A part of me wanted to decline. I was tired. I was getting back into a better sleeping habit. I didn't have time to read seventy pages. Plus, I am a terrible aloud reader when the books don't have simple titles like, Nina, Nina, Ballerina, a once staple in our home. For some reason, my mind gets ahead of me, and I stumble over words, mispronouncing them. I think it had to do with being chosen to read aloud in school. Nothing worse for a shy kid, which I was. (Don't laugh, it is true)
But Darcy was speaking in her little girl's voice. "M-o-m-m-y, will you read to me? P-l-e-a-s-e?" How could I turn that down? I whined, of course. She didn't care. She was done reading. And so she begged, I relented, and she climbed into bed with me, lying next to me, and I began to read. She didn't have her phone. I didn't have my phone. She snuggled against me, reading with me over my shoulder. She corrected me immediately when I mispronounced "facade". We laughed, and then we laughed even harder. She hugged me, told me it was okay. "Oh, Mommy," she said, laughing.
It was magical. I read. We talked about the book. I got better in my reading. She eventually stopped following the words with me, and just listened. Had she been little again, her thumb would have been in her mouth. During our hour and a half of reading, I stopped many times just to smother her with kisses. At some point, Tom joined us, and listened. It was time well spent, and when she announced at midnight that I could stop, I was disappointed. I could have done that all night long.
But I have learned since my kids got older, to know when to push and when to back off and let them find their own way. I still may follow behind, my hands out to catch them if they falter, but I do it now wearing my invisible cloak because they don't need Mommy to help them. Until they do. And I'm so glad that I am here when that happens.
Saturday, April 01, 2017
And down I go again
For several years my friend Michael has pranked me on April Fool's Day, and I have fallen for it. I wrote about two of them here. Things have been quiet for the last two years, and of course, I got complacent. (I also blame staying up late to watch the UConn women finally get beat after 111 straight wins. I was sleep-deprived.)
This morning at 8:00 a.m. Let me say that again, this morning at 8:00 a.m. on a SATURDAY, my husband came into my bedroom and woke me. Every year our neighborhood has an annual spring garage sale where we can all participate, and the association advertises it in the paper. Tons of people arrive in our hood and drive over our sprinkler heads, and shop.
Last year my husband woke me up to tell me that our neighbor next door was selling a kitchen set, and I needed to get up and go check it out because he wanted to buy it. I griped about having to get up, refused, and he whined about how he was going to buy it anyway. I got up, saw the table didn't match my kitchen at all and ended up spending the entire day in my pajamas with my new neighbor.
This morning, Tom came into my room and woke me up, telling me the neighborhood was having its annual garage sale. I mumbled, rolled back over, and snuggled under the covers. Saturday is my day to sleep in, and I am a woman who loves sleeping in. He persisted. I thought about how this was exactly what he did last year, and I was seriously getting pissed.
Tom: "Cara. Cara. Seriously. The neighborhood has the coolest garage sales."
Me: "I don't care. I'm not looking at any kitchen tables."
Tom: "But, look what I got."
Me: "I don't care. Seriously, Tom, I stayed up to watch the women's basketball until after 1:00. I don't care. Go away."
But he didn't, and I started to get worried about what he had purchased, and so I rolled over to see. This is what he had.
I freaked out. It was a sixty-pound pig--IN MY BEDROOM. Let me tell you, a sixty-pound pig is HUGE. He came over to the bed and sniffed me, and then wandered around my bedroom. I was shrieking while he was doing this, and then it suddenly popped into my head that the only person I knew who had a pig was our friend Michael. I've only seen the pig via Instagram, but every time I asked about the pig, I've been told, "He's the same size as Elliot."
Uh-huh.
Me: "Is that Michael's pig?"
Tom: "Michael, who? No, I just got a great deal on him."
I could hear Elliot whining in the other room, and so I freaked out some more.
Me: "Take that thing out of here. Oh, my god, Tom, what the hell?"
Tom: "I know. Isn't it cool?"
Me: "I'm not kidding. Get it out of here before it pees on my carpet."
Tom: "He's house trained. He isn't going to pee in here."
I continued to freak and vaguely thought about how an ugly kitchen table would have been way better than this. I also thought about how my husband was going to spend his nights on the floor with his new pet too.
Me: "Oh, my god, that is Michael's pig. Is that Michael's pig?"
Tom: "I told you. I got a great deal."
I jumped out of bed in my pajamas and marched out to my living room, where I found Michael laughing, holding my poor dog by his leash.
Michael: "April Fool's!"
I had forgotten. Who remembers this holiday? I was ready to throttle him. But then I gave him kudos for getting me. Again. Seriously? He called my husband a week ago and plotted this out. The garage sale thing worked in their favor.
We went outside, and the pig rooted around our yard, eating acorns while the garage sale people freaked out. One woman walking to a sale saw the pig, and her mouth gaped, and she nearly got hit by a man backing up his van. It was not the way I wanted to wake up either, lady.
But Michael brought donuts and gave me something to blog about too, so I forgave him. For as long as it took me to eat the sugary goodness.
Then I stewed about it while petting Oscar, the pig, and texted a picture of him to my Steelers buddy, who got me two years ago on this day. I told him that Tom got him at a garage sale. I mean, I can't always be the fool, right?
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