clickmom

stump

Not enough brain cells for Haiku again. This is the story I was going to try to tell you in 5-7-5. I was driving down the street with Evan and out of the corner of my eye I saw two squirrels chasing each other around on someone's lawn. Evan sees them too. I might have said "Aaaww, how cute" because seriously, you could just imagine them giggling as they frolicked about they were so cute. I think "Oh, how sweet they are playing tag like children" when suddenly the squirrels head right for the street and right in front of my truck. I scream (like the squirrels might hear me or something), Evan practically jumps out of his seat arms extended in the "halt" signal screaming too, and as I take my foot off the gas to slam on the brake I notice a car right up my ass in the rear view mirror so I can't slow down even and I brace myself for the worst. Only the two of us are screaming so loud I am not sure if even feel that sickening kind of hit a woodland creature homicidal thump. But as soon as we get past the spot Evan glares at me and says "You killed them." and I say back "How do you know? I'm not sure I felt anything and I could not see anything behind us with that car all up my tail" and Evan glares at me some more and says that in the least worst case scenario I probably ran over one of their tails and now the squirrel is limping from the road leaving a trail of tail stump blood behind him. I ask Evan if he wants me to turn around so we can drive back and look. He says he does. We drive the other way past the spot and there are amazingly no squirrel guts smeared all over the road. I turn around and we re-drive the potential crime scene and there is absolutely no trace of even stump blood on the street. I say "See I didn't hit them!" and Evan says "Yeah, I bet their bloodied bodies are clinging to the wheel wells right now." (Did he want me to hit them or what?) So, naturally, I cautiously slowly pulled into our driveway, peered around in the wheel wells and vindicated myself once again. Whew! Never let it be said that I am not a friend to creatures big and small. (Unless of course they are tasty when pan seared.

oral lube

Not that I am counting, but it has been 3 weeks and 3 days since I gave up all things dairy-licious. (Chheeeeeese, cheeeese, how I miss you cheeees!) Some people (my mother) who don't actually believe that I went to a real doctor (as opposed to some alternative incense burning snake oil salesman) and that the real doctor did a real test (as opposed to tarot cards, psychic vibes or the voodoo kinesiology tests the chiro does) to actually accurately diagnose (as opposed to looking into a crystal ball, reading tea leaves and making shit up) my real (as opposed to my hypochondriacally imagined) dairy allergy keep asking me if I feel better. Which is very frustrating, as I do not. feel. better. Maybe I even feel a little worse. Except some people (mom) are somewhat impatient about me having something to complain about and even I may have possibly began to wonder what is up with the not recovering my zest for living after all of this deprivation. (CheeEEEeese!) .

Last night, because I need shit like this to happen to me, before I went to bed I noticed uncharacteristically vile breath coming out of myself. So, I thoroughly brushed my entire oral orifice and went to bed quite satisfied that I would wake up 8 hours later and still be minty fresh. But it was not to be. I woke up practically gagging on the scent of my pie hole and ran back to the bathroom for more toothbrush action. I brushed and brushed and brushed. I felt like I couldn't brush the nastiness out. I spied some scope, grabbed it, swigged, and swooshed. and swooshed. and swooshed. Until the burning made my eyes water and when I spit it out the scope and sewage that is my current state of mouth and my stinky mouth juice had turned the green scope blackish gray.

blackish gray

scope

out of my mouth

as in

WTFFFFF????

So I ran to the chiro for his special kind of snake oil magic and asked him what the heck was going on with my oral lubrication? Oh, yeah, and I have the farts like you wouldn't believe. The chiro waved his magic vials of answers around me and declared me suffering from a massive yeast die off. And I was all like, wait a minute, that's a good thing! Yeast is dying in me and that is good! Dairy loving yeasts that have been my over stayed their welcome unwanted gastrointestinal guests are dying off so fast that they are stinking me up. I practically floated out of the office because finally some good news! I finally did something right!

So if I see you on the street and I happen to say "Hhhhello, hhhhow are hhhhue?" I am totally testing you to see if you will call me out for the stinking breath and then I am going to tell you how thrilled I am to hhhhhaaaave it.

Matt's birth story

Disclaimer: This is the story of a birth experience gone bad. Sensitive people might not want to read. Also, it's looong, so use the bathroom and get comfortable before beginning. Maybe bring supplies, like a protein bar and a full water bottle.

My pregnancy with Matt was pretty easy and text book. I was nauseous in the beginning, but nothing horrible. I ate a donut at 6 weeks in that repeated on me for three days. I was tired, but nothing a good head on the desk lunch hour nap couldn't abate. My blood pressure stayed consistent through out the pregnancy. And I have to say, I looked fabulous despite the weight. The only thing that wasn't so great was the 55+ pound weight gain, all in the last 20 weeks. I am confident that if you went out and did some research it would mean something. Maybe related to his being on the spectrum, or maybe having to to do with his food sensitivities, or maybe some indicator of my personal state of impending lack of health. But in any case, I ate my weight in spanish food (working in the south bronx yum yum), spanish breads, orange juice and I had this bizarre addict's longing for gallons of milk every day from 20 weeks on and I got huge.

Background: Back when I was pregnant I was already a mother to two dogs. (I thought they were good practice! Har dee har har) I lived on the upper east side of manhattan and I used to take the dogs to walk along the east river. In reality there is a walking path along side the FDR drive which is filthy dirty and noisy as hell. Traffic is speeding inches away from the pedestrians and the walk is littered with dog droppings and bum trash. It is almost always crowded with joggers, skater, dog walkers, and any assorted variety of city dwelling characters, but to me back then that couple of miles was a peaceful respite. Me and the dogs walked it regularly enough to recognize the other walkers, and I knew which ones were more regular than the others. I knew the people who were there, walkers, skaters, dog owners, and I knew their styles and attitudes too. Mostly I was wave or "hello" friendly with the other dog owners, because when you live on top of people like you do in the city that kind of thing happens. (or at least it does to me). There were a few irritated people that had vicious dogs and bad attitudes that I avoided. I had a made up scenario for each one, and they never bothered me too much. One of the not so regular dog walking people I used to see was a pointy nosed blonde lady with an exceptionally pointy nosed blonde cocker spaniel. They looked so much alike it was disturbing. They were both mean and I often wondered why an uptight nasty lady would take her mean unfriendly dog to such a close to other people and dogs kind of place.

There were indications all along from my gyno of how my labor would be treated when the time came. I was too young and naive to understand them. I didn't know that when he kept casually mentioning c-sections it because he had an astounding 70% c-section rate. I didn't quite understand that what appeared to be a snicker was truly a malicious snicker when I marched into his office with my all natural non medically intervening birth plan. I knew what I wanted. I had glanced through the options and I thought innocently enough that once I told him what I wanted that it was what I was going to get. I just trusted him, and that was my critical mistake.

Once I got to my last trimester the gyno recommended a lamaze class. (You know where this going now don't you?) He gave us the name of a nurse at the hospital who he thought gave a good class and suggested we take it with her and only with her. I called the nurse, got onto her schedule and we were assigned a weekly spot in her lamaze class that she taught out of her cutesy studio apartment close to the hospital. On the first day I walked in and I almost fell to the floor. It was the pointy nosed blonde haired dog twin mean dog owner. I wanted to turn and run, but I didn't. We sat through the 8 week labor for idiots class. Breathed ourselves purple and went on our way. I knew before ever even experiencing labor that her class was a joke. I (dumb dumb dumb!) figured I'd just handle it as best I could when I got there.

Since lil sis was single at the time she flew in to be there for my big day. Lil sis showed up a few days before my estimated due date and that first night of her visit I was walking through my apartment when I felt a little trickle between my legs. Hmmm. It wasn't the gush I had imagined it would be, but it was most definitely a little leak. It was such a little leak, I needed to be convinced that it was what I suspected it was. I could make it leak more by hula dancing. I took a cup to catch some of the leak so I could make sure it was clear (no meconium) and also because the dog look alike lamaze teacher said it would smell like ammonia. I didn't smell a thing so I made lil sis smell my cup of amniotic fluid leakage and she will never let me forget it. I figure we won't be even until she gets bit by a venomous snake and I have suck out the poison with my own mouth.

I decided the leak was indeed amniotic fluid and called the gyno who said I had the option of meeting him at the hospital or in his office in the morning unless the labor picked up. I chose the hospital option and called the husband who was still at work at 11 o'clock at night. Brace yourself for another mistake in this long line of mistakes: the husband said he wanted to work through the night and meet me in the AM when I did the dog drop at my parents before heading off to the hospital. You see, Matt had the audacity to think he was going to show up three days before his due date and the husband had some important things to take care of at work. Since lil sis was there for me I agreed to his plan. I threw some laundry in the machine, decided I was better off napping, tried to rest (hahaha) and spent the night pretty much just wasting time until the morning when I could go to the hospital. And in the morning we called a car service, tossed the one dog we had not had to put to sleep into the car, and made the ride to my parents. Lil sis was timing my contractions. They were a mere 3 minutes apart, but only 45 seconds long and pretty mild. I was in the early stages and I knew it. The cab driver was a bit panicky and I reassured him that I was not going to have a baby in his cab. He was so glad to see us get out! We got to my parents place, which was only blocks from the hospital, met the husband, who showered and then husband switched preggo watch with lil sis and he and I went off to the hospital. For the record, I do not recommend your husband pulling an all-nighter at work the night you go into labor. You might want him to be of sound of mind and judgement for the big day.

Once at the hospital I was hopeful that dog face could be my nurse. Even though I didn't like her I figured she was the evil I knew. She wasn't on shift then. Later I would find out that she had not been there that entire week and despite her reassurances that she would be a labor nurse for at least 3 of the 5 of us in the class, she had not been there for a single one of our class's labors. We read the board and discovered that one of the lamaze class moms was already checked in and laboring. (we were all due with in a week of each other) She was half of an interesting couple. He was much much older, wealthy, had already had a grown family, she was young, blonde, and beautiful, and knocked up two weeks into the relationship and he married her to do the right thing. Since he hadn't been in the delivery room the first time around with his original wife she didn't want him in with her. So I snuck in to say HI and I found her lying in the dimly lit room blissfully unaware due to an effective epidural. She slowly through her pain free haze turned to the nurse and asked in a dreamy voice "Am I having a contraction?" and the nurse said "Yeah, that was a big one." I thought it didn't look like anything I couldn't handle, even though my own birth plan called for an unmedicated birth.

And then they found me and made me go to my own little not a room, more like a windowless converted storage closet. The gyno came in with an itty bitty tiny little resident who I believed was named singer. So the nurse was all worked up (completely pissed! hostile even!) because I had the pregnant leaking nerve to show up 15 minutes before the end of her shift and now she had to fill out all of my admitting forms. One of the questions she asked me was whether or not anything traumatic had happened during my pregnancy and when I told her that I had to put my dog to sleep a month earlier she scoffed at me. I was glad she was at the end of her shift. The new nurse showed up and she wasn't much better. Her name was beryl.

Once the gyno and little singer came in to do the initial exam on me (each individually, yay for two internals) they ordered pitocin. I was two centimeters. My water had only been leaking for 8 hours yet he wanted to speed my labor up. I didn't know enough to refuse the pitocin. Once the pitocin hit me I went from "oh, there goes another contraction" to "AAARRRGGHHHHH!!!". Pitocin was horrible to me. Pitocin worked so well (sarcasm) that I was in instant dreadful agonizing back labor. I thought my spine was going to shatter with each contraction. Also, the new excruciating contractions made Matt jump around and every time I had a mother fucking contraction bitchy beryl had to refit the baby heart rate monitor that I did not want in my medically non-interventive labor and delivery in the first place. So bitchy beryl says to me "I keep losing the tracing, could you please try to lie still and make it easier for both of us" and like the idiot I am (but hopefully used to be and am not any longer) I spend the rest of my labor trying not to move during contractions. So here is how it goes: The husband did not like that I was in one of the closet for room rooms and asked to have me switched to a room with a window. Except he did not ask me what I wanted. I would have told him to leave me the fuck alone. After about an hour of non moving/lie still back labor they start wheeling me around,and they take me from my comfy little now familiar closet as a room room and push my bed/stretcher/medieval torture device into a dismally cold somewhat larger room with filthy old windows so I can spend the next 4 hours wondering if the sky could possibly be as disgusting as it looks through the windows or if maybe this side of the hospital is next to the furnace chimney and the windows are coated with furnace debris or if it is indeed the end of the world as my back and it's every three minute or so threat to shatter might indicate.

Gyno and singer start visiting me every 45 minutes, sometimes more often. They enter the room, they do not talk to me, he does an internal, sometimes I have my eyes closed in deep concentration trying not to move and all, and am only aware of his presence as he initiates the finger rape of me, he removes his fingers from my birth canal, gives singer the nod, she inserts her fingers in my birth canal, they leave and whisper in the hallway where I can see them but can not hear them. I have to call out "How many centimeters?" "Tell me what you think" and they are clearly very put out by having to actually speak to the laboring woman and by having to tell the laboring woman what they have just determined. And I continue to endure the back labor, trying not to move during contractions, and the surprise internal exams (you should have seen his glower when I asked that he not do them during a contraction!). Despite my attempts to lie still, they keep losing the tracing on the baby and I consent to an internal monitor being screwed into his head. I pray that they do not poke his little brain putting it in. I also pray that by getting a better grip on his heart beat maybe the atmosphere, which I am not at all happy about around me will change and I will feel more like a participant in this event and less like a nuisance slab of meat. During this whole ordeal bitchy beryl is pretty much absent. She comes in every one on a while to look at me disapprovingly and scold me for not being relaxed. It seems as if the only advice she has is "Relax" though she never mentions how I am supposed to do that while not moving during my back labor contractions while lying flat on my back.

At one point I am told I have permission to lie on my left side (I shit you not, they gave me permission to move) to see if that helps the back labor. The entire event of my labor seems incredibly chaotic, the gyno and singer are poking me more often, they are less communicative (if that is even possible) I am being scolded more and more by bitchy beryl for not being relaxed. All this is opposed to the serene setting I walked in on when my class mate was laboring with an epidural. So I decide that perhaps I will take the epidural and try to regain some modicum of order and control in this situation which has rapidly spiraled out of control. The anesthesiologist comes in. He tells me to sit up and lean on the husband. The husband almost faints and everyone in the room runs to him because they say "Hey, we can't pick you up off the floor buddy! Better sit down" and I have to lean on beryl who I would rather kill than see. The epidural goes in, I fell nothing different, anesthesiologist tells me to wait 20 minutes and see and he disappears. I am lying down on my side again and things start to pick up now.

I am still in incredible pain and I tell beryl that the epidural didn't take. She tells me that I am panicking and if I would only relax I would see that it did take. I tell her again and again. and even offer to hop off the table despite the IV, epidural, monitor and internal monitor that are all plugged into me in their various locations and hop around the room to demonstrate but the bitch keeps telling me it is all in my head and if only I wasn't so panicked I would know that I was just fine. I ask to see the anesthesiologist again but am told he is busy. So I begin to turn inward. I am incredibly focused on me and I no longer pay attention to what is going on around me. Everything I hear is a blur. Everything I feel is a blur. I know I am right and they are not. There are inconsistencies in Matt's heart rate, they give me oxygen. Then I am finally 9 1/2 centimeters, they say I have a lip. I say "I am not numb" out loud but I am too defeated to shout and be heard. They ask me to sign a release for a c-section. I say NO. I do not want a section. The husband signs it. I watch him sign it. There is no fight left in me. That is what I think. They wheel me toward the operating room, I am fading into the ceiling tiles. The operating room is being cleaned. They push me against the wall to wait and the gyno sits down next to my head. I check out. I loose myself in the beat of Matt's heart that I can hear from the monitor. I go into a trance. The next 20 minutes are completely blank. We spend them in the hall waiting. No one touches me or checks me.

They wheel me into the operating room. No one checks me or touches me or even speaks to me. No one asks me how I am or even offers a single word of encouragement. No one sticks his fingers inside me to see that Matt has now descended into the birth canal. He is on his way out. The anesthesiologist appears for the first time since inserting my useless epidural. I am snapped back into consciousness by the sound of the metal arm planks being pulled out of the operating table. I look at him and say "You will not tie my arms down" and the sound of rage in my own voice scares even me. He says he won't tie them down as long as I keep them on the arm planks and I curl my fingers over the edge of the planks and hold tight. The curtain is hung, the husband lowers his head down next to mine to avoid seeing the blood and I say to the anesthesiologist "I'm not numb" but this time my voice is the dead voice of someone who can not be heard. As he ties on his mask all I see are his eyes through the plastic shield. I am watching the anesthesiologist's eyes. And then I start to tell the husband what I feel going on. "They are shaving me." "They are cleaning me it is cold and wet" "They are pressing on me" and I see the eyes of the anesthesiologist widen in fear "OH MY GOD! THEY ARE CUTTING ME!"

And I can feel the hand of the gyno going into the hole in me and I can feel him pulling and pushing and moving. His hand comes out. His hand goes back in. Push push push. His hand comes out. Singer's slim gentle hand goes in. More pushing and pulling. I know there is something wrong. I do not know what it is. I think one of us is going to die because I know there is something very wrong. There is no hand inside me but I am being cut again. Then the hand is back inside my bigger incision, pushing and pulling and pressure and pain. Then another hand spreads my legs apart, it goes up between my legs and pushes inside of me and it pushes up so hard and quick. And I feel Matt going back into my belly. And there is more pushing from the hand in the cut in my belly and I see the anesthesiologist fill a syringe and hold it up ready for use. And I think it must be me who is going to die. There is nothing normal going on here. And I think I want it to be me who dies and not my baby. And then I hear a baby cry. But it seems so far away and I imagine it is a baby in another room, and I ask "Is that my baby? Is that my baby?" as the anesthesiologist shoots that syringe into my IV and no one bothers to answer my question. I am knocked out.

I come to 7 hours later. They have put me in a room, but I do not know that yet. And climbing back into consciousness is a slow process. At first I hear voices. They are all talking at once and I cannot determine what they are saying. It's confusing. Then my eyes focus. And I see both my family and the husband's family standing around me. And they are making a rectangle the way they are lined up and I wonder if I am in a coffin and they are taking one last look. But I realize I hurt, so I must not be dead. I am afraid to talk because if I am not dead, I fear my baby might be. I know something went wrong. Then they all notice I am awake and I have to speak so I ask if they have seen my baby. And every one starts telling me how cute he is and I realize that somehow my baby is alive too. But I don't want all those people standing around me so I remember what a friend of mine said when we came to visit her after her section and I say "You didn't come to see me, go look at the baby" and they all take the hint and leave. It's about 8 o'clock at night. I fall back into a drugged sleep.

The nurses disturb me a few times that first night changing my IV bags and shooting pain killers into my hips but I never really wake up until the next morning. When I do wake up I begin buzzing for the nurse because I want to see my baby for the first time. She tells me I should rest and let them take care of my baby in the nursery, but I insist so she finally fetches me my baby. It has been almost 21 hours since his birth. I know it is my baby coming down the hallway when I hear him cry. It is the same cry I heard in the operating room. It is the only part of him I experienced. I can distinguish it from all the other baby cries. My baby's cry is breathier, it is unique. The nurse pushes the plastic baby holder to me and I finally meet my little baby and I am completely overwhelmed. I gather him into my arms and I am completely bowled over by a speeding freight train of love and this wild primal ferocious urge to protect him. I tell everyone who will listen that I never knew love until the day I held my baby.

NO! the origins story

When Matt was little all us earthy crunchy granola moms used to sit around discussing the most heated of parenting subjects. One of the hot parenting trends of the moment was to eliminate the word NO from your vocabulary when speaking to your child. This is how it would work: Let's say that my cute little baldy boy Matt was being held captive hanging out in his high chair and I gave him some paper and some crayons except he thought the crayon would look much nicer on the arm of his high chair. And I stopped yacking on the phone long enough to register observed Matt graffiti-ing drawing on his restraining device high chair. I would not, as instinct would dictate scream NO! and angrily grab the crayon out of his hands screaming about how much the chair cost or how his daddy worked so hard to provide him with nice things he didn't have any respect for, instead I would calmly approach my child and say in a sing song voice "Crayons go on paper" and then I would demonstrate the proper use of crayons on paper and Matt would imitate scribbling with crayons on paper and I'd clap my hands in false only for toddlers excitement and say "Yay! Crayons go on paper! That's right Matt!" sigh. Those were the days of my unlimited patience, I have to tell you, I fear I would barely recognize myself. But that method did work like a charm, especially for Matt who was born eager to please, much like a good quality pure bred german shepherd puppy. Woof!

So, this is how I did things back in my youth, and this is how I got the best baby of all time, and I never ever once told Matt NO! and I was pretty proud of that. I figured (hahahaha) he would never say NO! to me either.

Now, Matt was a tall baby and if you have a tall baby people tend to think he is older than he is and they completely ignore that he is toothless, drooling, fat like a baby, and completely bald and they start to ask him questions that he can't answer yet. So I would stroll around Brooklyn with my tall for his age year old baby in the stroller and nice friendly well meaning folks would bend over and ask 1 year old Matt "What's your name?" or "How old are you?" and before I could tell the annoying stranger they were talking to almost still an infant baby Matt would scream out NO! and for the first 27 times I could not for the life of me figure out where in the world Matt got the NO! from. Pretty much Matt's response to any question was NO! I had never told him NO!. I was sure of it. I was dumbfounded. And then one day I was thinking about the NO! as I walked the dog with Matt. And when the dog went to sniff something indescribably gross I said "NNOOooooooo" and when the dog was about to bark at a passing by dog I said "NNNOOOooo" and when the dog tried to cross the street on his own I said "NNNOOOooooo" and as if the heavens parted and the angel beam of light shined right on my head I realized that Matt must be talking to dogs when he says NO! to every probing stranger question.

This did not explain why Matt used to crawl around our living room with a ball in his mouth, or enjoy a playful game of fetch before dinner, but at least I knew where he had gotten the NO! from.

NO! (just testing)

Saturday morning Matt went into the bathroom, came out and announced that I should know he had just produced a "completely liquid crap". I could have told you this in between uninvited whiffs and the inevitable vile aroma induced swoons. Because that kind of extra special essence is really only reserved for the sincerely truthfully ill. We let Matt stay home all day while we ran errands, visited grandma, and did all the other little weekend necessities. He was very happy about that. Sunday the whole family went to the diner for brunch. Matt had a chili, bacon, jalepeno, and onion ring burger. One bite of that and I considered him cured. When he tried to pretend he was still ill last night (as in the night before school resumes) I laughed at him. But alas, it would not be me who had the last laugh because not only have I been afflicted, the husband has fallen as well. Matt's laughing now.

In other news, I really wanted to drink a diet soda of my youth this afternoon. But I didn't. In general I don't drink diet soda. This particular soda comes only in the diet version, but the real reason I shied away from it is because I read the label and wondered if drinking ester of wood rosin was a wise idea. To me it sounds like something a person would need to finish off their shop class wood working project and not something to be ingested. I suppose I could look it up, but truth be known, I am kind of scared to know. I'd like to run the FDA for a few weeks. You know, and shake things up a bit.

After a workout the trainers at my gym are required to stretch a person out. So, Bubbles stretched me out today. It's a little awkward for me, since I am not completely comfortable with the whole trainer as my personal slave for the hour system and the trainer yanking and pushing my legs around while I lie there like a beached whale just seems like such an uneven distribution of power, or something, I don't know it's weird because Bubbles is my peer. But Bubbles always throws in this little extra shoulder tension releasing magic thing she does. Pretty much she digs her strong as hell fingers in between my shoulder junk down to where there are deep hidden knots of tension and she pushes on those knots until (my head explodes) they release under the sheer force, power and determination of her hard as steel probing thumbs. Typically I am full of knots and the maneuver hurts like a son of a bitch. Today though, it didn't hurt as much and Bubbles commented out loud that I didn't seem as tense as usual. I attribute that to two things. First I keep thinking about the mom who is struggling with her three boys emotional and educational issues. I am so incredibly grateful that I don't have her problems. It really put my own familial trauma into perspective for me. And also, I feel this change coming on from with in. I think I am ready to do a lot more standing up for myself and a lot less swallowing and taking it. I really liked the way I didn't take shit from my mom this weekend. Something big is happening here! Next thing you know I will learn how to say NO!

Okay, you knew I would look it up didn't you? Ester of wood rosin: It's a by product of chemical wood pulping (pine trees). It is used as an emulsifier/stabilizer (keeps product ingredients from separating) and has been shown to have metabolic stability (does not break down when consumed). It has been tested for bio-availability, which it does not seem to have (you do not absorb it, but instead poo it out, at lest the rats did, and that is a good thing). But in the end, I don't chew on pine trees and don't want to consume anything that needs to have metabolic stability or not be bio-available. I think I am going to stick with actual real absorbable bio-available food. Goodbye soda!

no winners this week

I am skipping weekly winners this week. I couldn't find the energy or inspiration. It was one of the longer weeks of the past year.

Here's what happened with the hat last night. Kitten called me up and asked me to meet her early so she could ask my opinion (she gives me too much credit, but all right...) on some house decorating matter. I met Kitten early. I donned the too small for my head hat before leaving my house (damn mom has a small head) and laughed all the way over to where we were meeting. Then Kitten shows up with her husband and I was all thrilled because maybe he might say something too, since the hat is totally ridiculous, so I took a deep breath, stopped laughing and hopped out of my car like there was nothing stupid looking and sequined on my head. We greeted, chatted, opined and Kitten's husband left, and Kitten and I drove all the way to the movie theater, hat perched ever so juantily on my head, slowly squeezing the oxygen out of my brain, and Kitten never batted an eyelash. Just as we pulled into a parking spot at the theater I decided I couldn't take the hat pain anymore and I turned to Kitten and said "Kitten! Aren't you going to say something about my hat?" and she got the deer in the headlights look, and she stuttered a little and I confessed "It's a joke! You're supposed to say something!" Therefore I totally blew it and Kitten was not able to give me an honest repulsed (as this is an answer I expected) answer. She tried to be diplomatic even after I told her the hat was a total joke. And then she wouldn't text message her husband "So, what did you think of the hat?" like I wanted her to. Then I left the hat in the car. So that hat experiment was a total failure. Next time I might wear mom's other hat. It's a turban. Or maybe her wig.

mind games mom style

Five stories why my new new undead therapist is at home right now high five-ing his wife and leafing through the new car catalogs:

1. When my folks ran out here in December, after living with us for 6 months, they decided they were leaving on a Thursday night and they left Friday morning. They took exactly two carry on bags of their stuff. I have so far sent them 2 enormous UPS packages. Because they asked me to. Turns out they wanted their stuff. Most of it at least. Now, nearly three months after the exodus, they have arranged for a someone to drive their caddy down. They wanted me to pack it up. For them. With, like, ALL their shit. Because they didn't bother packing their own junk before they left. Or sorting it. Or throwing away their supermarket receipt collection. So my dad says he will fax us a list. I don't have a home fax. I give dad the husband's work fax. The fax never arrives. They won't resend it.

2. Mom calls one night at 8:30 when I am trying to put Josh to bed. She tells me she wants to read me the list of their stuff that I have to pack into their car, which has been sitting in my parking spot in my driveway for almost three months now. (Have I mentioned how I have been going out to the driveway and starting their car for them so the battery wouldn't die for almost three months now?) You know, so I can start packing her stuff. I tell her "It's 8:30 I have to put Josh to bed. Can you just email it to me?" And she exhales sharply (because you know I am so dense and I never understand her difficult life) and she comes back with "I can't email this list I it's too long for me to email it.You have to write it down!" You know, cause I am NOT doing her a favor here. I tell her I will have to call her back since now that I have finished taking care of my grandmother I have to spend a minute or two of super condensed "quality time" with my boys.

3. Like the patsy I am, I call her back and get the list. They want me to sort out their summer clothes from their winter clothes and only send them their summer clothes. Truthfully, once my folks were stationed here, I did not go into the guest room. I knew they had a lot of stuff, but as far as I was concerned it was their room for the duration and I was going to respect their privacy. I went in there last night, opened the closet and a few drawers and I was speechless. It looked like they had been living in that room for 30 years! One wanted his socks and underwear, she didn't want her socks or her underwear, but she needed her bras, and her bathrobe, but not the caftan, just the belted one. Yes to the bright pink night gown and also the grey one. There is a green warm up suit in the closet, don't send it. There is a silver handbag in the closet that she is in desperate need of be sure not to forget the handbag. She will not mention that it is completely concealed in a red fabric bag. Also, they need all their toilet articles from the bathroom, two redwells filled with "business papers" ,their massive prescription drug stash, all the stuff they stole from her various hospital stays (including diapers WTF??), she wants her flea market knock off designer watch collection, and I shouldn't forget Dad wants all 10 pairs of shoes he felt he needed to travel with. Then there are drawers that she knows are full but she can't remember what is in them. Would I just send the entire contents of the drawers? Except the 172 get well soon cards that she saved but does not want. I can toss those. Get the picture?

4. Grandma's filter procedure was scheduled for 4 o'clock yesterday. At first they told us 3 o'clock and since the nurse who called the medical transport didn't want grandma to be late she had the van picking us up at noon. They took grandma right into the surgical waiting area, got her gown on, set her up on a gurney, covered her with a gazzilion blankets, and we waited. For almost four hours. But at least they had TV. Then they moved grandma into another waiting area. And we waited for 2 more hours. They had no TV. In the second waiting area I got to hear the scrub nurse making angry phone calls complaining about how behind schedule they are. And I got to watch the maintenance guy in the hallway scrape dirt build up off the linoleum floor with ammonia and a metal scraper on a long pole. FInally they took grandma in about 6:10. Total time waiting 6 hours. Times I had to explain to grandma where we were and what we were there for: too many to keep track of. Level of personal anguish and frustration by the time they wheeled her out: infinite. They sent me to another waiting area, and I finally had some cell phone reception. I saw that mom had called me and I called her back. I tell mom they have finally taken grandma for the procedure. Mom says "Great! I'll tell lilsis because she is sitting right to me in the restaurant having dinner!" And I felt terrible. Because I was doing all the hard stuff and everyone else was not only not doing the hard stuff, but they were out having fun while I was caring for grandma and missing my kids. And I just say to mom "Well, call (scumcle) your brother too, my phone battery is low." and mom (hold on to your seats....) does the annoying exhale sound and says "Arrr, I can't do that right now, I am in a restaurant" And I say "Really? You will do that right now because I am in a hospital!" and I hang up. And I couldn't care less whether she calls scumcle or not. All I know is that there is no way in hell I am calling him now.

5. Mom tells me her car driving guy will show up between 9 and 10 today. Mom calls at 9:48 to see how the passing of the car went and I tell her that her car guy hasn't shown up yet. I ask for his cell phone so I can call him. At first they don't think they have it. Mom says "You have to stay home until he comes!" I tell her I can't because I have to get grandma out of the hospital where she had to unexpectedly due to the late hour spend the night last night (and back to the world's most negligent rehab) after needing a procedure to insert a filter to avoid an instant death from a pulmonary embolism from the blood clot. And mom response is "You can't leave until he gets there!" and I say "I have to get grandma, the husband can wait until 11 before he has to pick up our kids from religious school" and mom says "You have to stay home until he comes!!!" and then I yell back "NO, I HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL TO GET YOUR 96 YEAR OLD MOTHER OUT!!! I HAVE PRIORITIES AND SHE COMES FIRST!" and then my mom starts to cry and says "I never ask you to do anything for me!"

just let that sink in for a little bit

This is when my dad realizes he does have the guy's cell phone number after all and I tell my mother to give me the car guy's number , I will handle it and I hang up on her. Only she doesn't hang up on her end so after trying to call the guy five times with an open line I have to find my cell phone to call him and I just tell him I am going to leave the key in an envelope taped to the front door if we aren't here when arrives. Car guy comes, he gets the key off the front door, he meets the husband returning from religious school with the kids, they shake hands, he leaves in the caddy and all my parents summer clothes, pills, toiletries and garbage safely and neatly packed into the trunk.

Maybe the new new undead therapist needs some home renovations or a new boat too.

But I got even with her. I stole her hat! Check it out, and yes, it does have sequins in the embroidery. I am going to wear it tonight when I meet Boops and Kitten. I am going to suppress the laughter and pretend it is for real. I am going to watch the clock and see how long it takes them to say something. I'll let you know tomorrow.

better day

I am trying to eavesdrop on Evan who is on the phone with one of his utopian friends. I have no idea what they are talking about because Evan is mostly saying "Yeah, Uh Hum, that's interesting...." which gives me no clue at all. I did catch this statement though "That's funny because cracker also refers to a white person." and now I'm kind of afraid to know.

Good News! Grandma had a filter put in today because she developed a blood clot. That went fine, but the best news is that she also got her stitches out and the surgeon says she can start walking again!! Yahooo! Now the whole family is stitch free and mobile. This combined with the bald eagle I saw gracefully gliding through the air Wednesday afternoon surely means that things are looking up for us, right????

ain't it great to be crazy!

Attribute the brain dysfunction! Is it mercury poisoning, (which I actually have!), stress (which I actually have!) or peri-menopause (which I just might actually have!)?

1. I am standing in front of the front door to my home. I have the car remote in my hand and I am pressing the "unlock" button waiting for my front door to make the clicking unlocking sound so I can get in. It takes a while to occur to me that this big wooden door is not a car and finally I realize I must insert the house key to get inside.

2. I have an annoying paper cut on my middle finger. I keep accidentally rubbing it so I grab a fantastic four band aid and cover it up. The bandage falls off about 3 hand washings later and I slap a new one on. I spend the next 4 hours incredibly busy yet being vaguely aware that my paper cut continues to sting burn and hurt. FInally with 2 of the 3 kids tucked into bed I look down and realize that I put the replacement band aid on the wrong finger.

3. I pull into school to pick up Josh. I have a few minutes to spare so I sit in the car listening to music until it's pick up time. When I open the door to make my way over to the pick area and greet Josh the car bells go off. I close the door, look around and can't figure out what I am doing wrong. I check the lights, but they are on automatic. I try to leave the car again, more bells. I repeat the door close and visually search until it dawns on me that I am empty handed. What is supposed to be in my hands? I wonder. Oh yeah, the car keys are still in the car.

not what it seemed

I have kind of secretly been taking guitar lessons since September. I didn't keep it secret because I keep secrets, I just didn't mention it because I didn't feel completely committed. Progress has been slow for me since I never manage to make the time to practice. I can't get better if I don't practice! I knew that going in, but truthfully because of my crazy schedule and also because of the ongoing neck injury that makes it painful for me to lift my arm over the back of the big acoustic guitar, and also because I always save practice for the end of the day and then when I have to choose between sleep and guitar I head for bed, I just never do it. And then this past week I grabbed Matt's (who has also been taking lessons since September but practices every single day and is playing awesome already, his teacher says he learns in a week what other kids master in a month and I am as jealous as I am proud) smaller thinner electric guitar, and discovered I could play and play with no neck/shoulder/head pain at all! Now I have been playing and playing Matt's guitar and tonight the fingers on my left (chord pressing) hand are not enjoying typing at all. Pretty much the whole left side of the keyboard is a big ow ah ooh ouch.

Anyway, I went on line and found some songs that I played when I was 8 and 9 and took half assed guitar lessons in my NYC public school's inner city underfunded not destined to last for very long after school program. Man, was I a child of the 70's! Leavin on a Jet Plane, Blowin in the Wind, If I Had a Hammer, House of the Rising Sun, etc.... I was trying to remaster Puff The Magic Dragon because I thought Josh would really love to sing along that song with me when Evan came into the living room, took a seat and listened to my heart felt singing and "playing" of Puff. He smiled through sealing wax, frolicking in the autumn mist, and traveling on a boat with billowed sail. But when I got to a dragon lives forever and the one grey night it happened Evan sat up in alarm. He gripped the chair as I sang along until he finally pleaded with me "Who died? Was it Puff? Was it Jackie Paper? Wait, it sounds bad, what happened??" So in between words I said I'd tell him when I finished. I made him listen to the whole song. I totally hammed it up. I sang with feeeeeling. Evan was so adorably concerned. And then I told him the truth. And he who hung on to and memorized every single word out of the DARE officer's mouth, said "Oh, I get it! Puff! Hahaha."