Drowning and the Lottery

I tend to steer away from writing about other people I'm close to - in particular my husband - simply because he's not a fan of having his world laid open for everyone to see. No matter what else is wrong with me, I've got to have an outlet and for me, that's what this blog is, right or wrong.  I also try to steer away from talking too deeply about my adoptive mother, Sandy. A lot of time, I refer to her as Gammy because it's less invasive, I think, to her privacy.  Needless to say, sometimes it cannot, or maybe, more accurately, should not be avoided.

I've spent a lot of time lately trying to unbury myself from years of depression and anxiety and, while it's really only been a few weeks, I could tell I was on an upswing. I was starting to feel better, a little, I think. I honestly don't know because I'm not sure I really know what feeling better feels like. (Gosh, what an awful sentence! You understood that, right?)

Anyway - I am trying very hard not to immediately dive into the negative and trying to focus on the positive. But by golly, it seems something is always trying to knock me down! Has my strength not been tested enough already? Except, that I just do what I always do - like the saying/song goes - I pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again. I keep going. I do it anyway. Because honestly, it's worse if I don't push forward. It's what I do.

People say, "You've got to take time for you!" or "If you don't take care of yourself, you can't take care of anyone else!" or "Make sure you get some rest!" - and they're all well-meaning. But quite frankly I don't have time for me right now. I've got time for kids, and hubby, and house, and work, and church, and Sandy and everything all of those things include, like school stuff and homework, art night. Church plays, Sunday school, Puppets. Cat litter, daily feedings, vet visits, flea meds, brushing, love, attention, what-the-heck-are-you-doing-with-that-Q-tip? Scouting events, merit badges. Cookies, cookies, cookies. Do laundry - pile after pile. Make sure kids stay clean and healthy. Talk about stuff that's important. Make sure I continue to get a paycheck by doing what they pay me to do, which is no small feat in itself.

My ability to find room for one more thing on a regular, daily basis is basically nil. I'm already up to my eyeballs and then some, breathing through a thin reed, and praying I don't drown.

So, when Sandy had yet another health scare this past weekend I just felt so...frustrated! With her (not that it was her fault), with the situation (not that it could have been helped), with me (because I feel like I'm not doing enough), with the fact that I can't find a way to help her (because...lots of reasons), with everything! As difficult of a relationship as she and I sometimes have, she basically saved my life and I will do anything - anything - to reciprocate.

Therefore, I am now consumed by trying to solve this problem. Because that's what it is, a problem. Clearly she cannot live on her own anymore, but she's not ready for a nursing home and cannot afford assisted living. Which means, at the very least, she'd need to move in with me and my family. And as we currently are, that is an impossibility.

Basically, I need to win the lottery. Just a couple million dollars; I'm not asking for much. Then I could fix up and pay off the house we're in, and buy something suitable for us and Sandy. See? I just solved the problem.

Right then! For the next six weeks, I expect to see lottery tickets in my mail box every time I look there.

I know. I know. Not gonna happen.

But a seriously frustrated person can dream, can they not?

Wish me luck.

TTFN
JMS

Dear Boy-child *OR* One Mother's Guilt

Dear Boy-child,

Sunday was your 13th birthday. I know I didn't do anything - really - to help you celebrate. I feel awful about it. My reasoning still stands, however. You've got to make an effort in your room, and with your other chores. We talked several times about consequences, and, unfortunately, that meant no major birthday celebration on a momentous birthday which should have been celebrated in a big way. You only become a teenager once in your life. I'm not blaming you for anything. I was just trying to be consistent in my parenting and discipline. But in hindsight, we should have celebrated. I'm so sorry. I know you feel let down. And I definitely feel like an awful mother.

I remember my own 13th birthday. My mom and dad (your Grandma Mary and Grandpa Bruce) purchased a huge motor home and took off on a trip across the country to see the sights. They were gone for several weeks, which happened to mean they were gone for the entire month of October and, therefore, gone for my birthday. I was so upset they weren't there, and to this day, it still bothers me. What I didn't understand at the time was how sick Grandma Mary really was. I guess they figured they should take the opportunity to go on that trip while she still felt well enough to go. I have postcards - tucked away, safely - from them, during that trip. I'll show them to you some day. They're painful for me to look at, because they remind me of my mom, and some of them are in her handwriting, and also because of my stupid missed birthday. Sometimes, I imagine they smell like her...which is probably weird.

But I'm not dying. I'm not even sick. Your father and I did not take a whirlwind trip across the country and leave you with family members and friends to take care of you. We should have celebrated your 13th birthday.

I'm sorry.

I love you so much. I am so proud of the young man you are. You make me a better person; I mean that quite literally.

Thank you for being you.

Love,
Mom

Aging parents and a major gap in the care of our senior population

The whole issue of aging parents is - I am realizing - a scary and confusing and frustrating (even sometimes angering) thing.  I've mentioned a couple of times recently about "all the everything" which has been going on.  Bottom line is, my adoptive mother has been unwell and in and out of the hospital and a skilled nursing facility. I don't really want to go into detail (this is now the third or fourth time since last October) because we still do not have a bottom-line answer.  First it's this thing - which seems to explain everything - but then it's not that thing, it's this other thing - which also seems to explain a lot. But no one can say, definitively, what is wrong other than, "You're getting older, Mrs. G.  Some things aren't going to work like they used to."  In my opinion, that's a lame, cop-out excuse and further (again, my opinion) doctors aren't in it for the Care of Person anymore, they're in it for the money.

Give her medications to take care of one thing, but that medication gives her debilitating side effects to a point where she - reasonably - has to stop taking them or they decide to give her another medication to counteract the side effects of the first medication.  And every week something changes and now she's on another pill and it's next to impossible to keep it all straight.  It's no wonder she is having difficulty managing her medications.  I certainly couldn't do any better.

Give her a walker to help stabilize her movements and lessen her risk of falling - which is all fine, well, and good - but now it's very difficult to maneuver around her apartment even though it's supposedly handicap accessible.  The bathtub certainly isn't handicap accessible, and though it does have one support rail, that rail is not at the right height to accommodate her.  She has a shower chair but no anti-skid mat in the bottom of the tub because "they" consider it a fall-risk so she has to wear anti-skid shower shoes to take a shower in her own home.

She has trouble standing long enough to wash out a few cups or make a small meal.  So she falls back on frozen meals which, nutritionally, aren't cutting it for her. She needs to have fresh meals more often.  I feel extraordinarily guilty that I am not able to make her a casserole or two every week and bring them to her, but extra time is difficult for me to find and if I were to make time it would be cutting into her sleep time after my kids go to bed.  I am trying to find more hours in my day and every day I fail; they're not to be found.  So, unless I give up sleep altogether, or quit my job and dump my family into abject poverty (which is what would happen)...there really aren't any other options.

Another thing.  Mom is in a particular place in her life where there is a clear gap in how we (the United States of America) care for our aging population. If you have $3500/month or more then by all means, find a lovely retirement home or assisted living facility and spend the rest of your days surrounded by the good things in life. But, if you're a single senior, a widow, with no military claim for either yourself or your deceased spouse (because discounts may apply), on a fixed income provided by Social Security, you're relegated to living in HUD housing surrounded by folks who might otherwise not have a place to live and who are of sometimes questionable morals, sanity, and personal hygiene.

According to the State, you're not bad off enough to require 24/7 nursing care which would allow you to stay in a nursing facility.  They would make sure you got 3 meals a day, a comfortable bed, and medication management, as well as on-site nursing in case anything were to happen.  But you're not rich enough to afford assisted living, which is really what you need.  So you live alone.  And you struggle.  And you're scared all the time that you're going to fall or that you're going to get sick or that you're not going to be able to get to the doctor for your multiple appointments because you can no longer drive.  And you struggle to do your own laundry which, for any person of good health might take 1/4 of the time it takes you to do the same thing.  But you really don't want to bother anyone so instead of doing it yourself - thereby overcoming your own fears of falling, etc., and fears of further pain from doing too much - you just don't do it at all.  And now you're living in a situation you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.  Sickness takes over - and depression - and you wind up back in the hospital again.

It's an awful cycle.

So what do we - the caregivers - do?  We feel guilty a lot.  We wish we could do more.  We wish that we had the extra (enough of this "we" crap)...  I wish I had enough money to buy a bigger house so that I could move her in with me. I wish I had the space.  I wish I could spend more time fixing extra nutritious meals for her so she wouldn't have to eat the frozen meals. I wish I didn't feel so flipping selfish all the time.  I wish I didn't wish for more time to myself. I wish I didn't have to talk to her every day and feel terrible that nothing I say or do is ever enough, or right. I'm always wrong. And this is an awful cycle, too.

If I thought, just for a minute, that I could be successful in filling this gap in care for our aging seniors I would drop everything and do it.  I would find a way for those who cannot afford assisted living to still live in comfort and without fear, with needed care at-the-ready for things like help with activities of daily living (showering, cooking, cleaning), medication management, etc.  But at a FRACTION of the cost. Without volunteers, without funding, without donations I don't see that happening.  I don't see anyone really being willing to care for seniors in the way they care for children or even animals.  I don't see a construction company donating time, materials, and labor and funds to build such a facility.  Or people who have already worked their 40 hours spending another 4-8 hours a day volunteering their time to help the elderly.

Would we rather they just be homeless, or worse, die for lack of care?  Just a little bit of extra assistance is all some of these folks need but there isn't anywhere that will take them because they don't have enough money.

One more thing.  I've done my research.  Yes, I've tried that.  And that, too. There are occasionally places that might fit this bill, but not right here. Not where I need it to be. And if I were to find one of those places it would not be nearby and then I would never see her.  There's that wonky time issue again.

I guess I don't know what else to say.

TTFN
JMS

Calling a spade a spade

It was pointed out to me recently (kindly, with no malice intended) that my posts make it sound like I'm a single parent.  I have discussed this with the person who commented and things are completely resolved.  Well, I guess you can't have resolution where there really wasn't an issue in the first place, but I think you get what I mean.  However, I feel that I need to address this further.

I am happily married.  Sure, we have our arguments; all married couples do.  But we've been married for over sixteen years and haven't killed each other - or wanted rid of one another - yet.

My hubby is a very private person.  He's grudgingly on Facebook because I kinda forced him into it a few years ago by creating an account for him.  I think he's finally - after all these years - seeing its draw.  And, I'm sure, its drawbacks.  But I digress.  He doesn't really like it when I write about him - specifically - so I've gotten into the habit of just not writing too much about him.  I'm far more open than he is, anyway.  He's always there, though.  My one constant.  My one strong point.  Lifting me up when I've let life overwhelm me, which happens far more often than I care to admit.  Sometimes, he doesn't even know he's helping, but he is.

I'm gonna embarrass the heck out of him now, though.

Here's to my fixer-of-kitchen-sinks, doer-of-own-laundry, Chief Kid Wrangler, raker of leaves and mower of lawns, handler of all the things, constant companion, partner in crime, pain in my rear, aways putting the toilet paper on the holder the wrong way, love of my life.  I couldn't do it - do anything, really - without you.

One other thing. I do not know what it is like to be a single parent.  I cannot even begin to understand the challenges single parents face and would never profess otherwise.  If I understand anything about it, it is this: It's a hugely important job and a singularly difficult one with it's own particular set of challenges encompassing not only care of oneself, but other little lives who depend on you, along with a sometimes sad, and other times lonely experience.  My hats off to you. 

TTFN
JMS

Forcing myself to think of the good things

I think I mentioned in another post (and probably, if you really dig, several other posts) how I struggle to keep my emotional head above water and to not be so darned negative all the time.  But my negativity is about to rear its ugly head.

WOULD 2016 JUST END ALREADY?  PLEASE?

SHEESH!

Okay.  I've gotten that out of my system.  Feel free to sound off in the comments, too, if you want.  It's an open forum after all, right?

Do I feel better?  Not really.  But in order to make myself feel better, I'm going to say a few things about stuff which has made me feel good this year.  In no particular order, they are:

** Going to see Alice's Restaurant performed live at a local restaurant - by a very talented musician - just before Thanksgiving.  I love that song.  I know every word.  And it brings me joy every time I hear it.  It was especially fun to listen to it performed live.  The artist made it his own without compromising the integrity of Arlo Guthrie's original.  That takes skill!

** And of course, there's Booker T. Jet Black Alley Cat.  I can't neglect to mention him.  He's brought joy and fuzz and snuggles and silliness to our house and I just adore him.  The kids love him, too, so that's awesome.  His "Gotcha" day was Friday, May 13 and he's a black kitty.  He has crossed my path each morning - on the way to the food bowl - and hasn't tripped me up yet.

** Two visits from my father.  The first one, back in March, was after a solid ten year lapse.  It's been an amazing thing to reconnect with him, and to have him get to know his grand kids.  They're totally in love with Grandpa, too, so it's a mutual thing.

** Being part of the Puppet Ministry at church.  It is a fantastic outlet for my Inner Weird Person and so much fun!  Oh, who am I kidding?  I'm just a Weird Person.  No "inner" about it!  But it gives me a chance to use these stupid voices I've made up for a better purpose than just being obnoxious or having fun with my kiddos.

And...I'm done now.  I guess it's kind of a short list, isn't it?  And there have been other things I'm sure I've forgotten about.  Apparently, I have trouble in that regard; allowing the negative (there I go again) to overshadow the positive.  I'm trying.  I really am.  Of course, there are my daily joys of getting to see my kiddos after work and hear about their respective days.  And the joy of looking at my physical surroundings - of East Tennessee - and remembering what a beautiful place this is.

TTFN
JMS

A really (REALLY) long one

It's been a rough month.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, when I'm down (low, troubled, stuff not going well) I tend to want to embrace my inner introvert and find the nearest blanket fort to hide in.  Hence, the few and far between posts.

***

So, long-time readers will probably know this, and so will close friends and long-established family: my mom died when I was 15.  Thereafter, lots of not-so-awesome stuff happened and eventually, in an effort to lift me out of the mire and save me from a direction that would have (maybe) proven ultimately fatal (maybe), I was adopted (legally) by my aunt and uncle.  My father's sister and her husband.  Therefore, when I speak of my mom in the present tense, I'm referring to my adoptive mother; my biological aunt.

It's confusing, I know.

That's a very basic introduction into my complicated family.  And it's important to know and to understand when I start explaining myself and why I've been so stressed out, distant, and down in the dumps.

***

Flashback to December 18, 2015: Mom was with a friend and they stopped at the post office so he could get his mail.  She (from what I understand) was standing outside waiting on him - probably having a cigarette - and while waiting, lost her balance and fell over, hitting her head solidly on the concrete.  A subsequent hospital visit and CT scan of her head told us there was no concussion and further - when she told them she could hardly walk because her foot hurt - an X-ray told us nothing was wrong with her foot.  She was sent home.

Fast-forward to January 15, 2016: I get a call from another friend of Mom's who tells me, "There's something wrong with your mom, you may want to come over."  To which I reply, "I'll be right there," and am there within 30 minutes.  (I'm a 20 minute drive away.)  I arrive to find friends fussing and scared and my mom passed out - in a twisted heap - on her bed.  I couldn't wake her up.  I couldn't tell for sure if she was even breathing.  I truly thought she was dead, and it was the second worst moment of my entire life.  I called 911, and they immediately dispatched EMTs.  911 personnel told me to wake her up - try hard to wake her up; shake her if you have to - but see if you can get her to open her eyes.  Which I did.  She opened her eyes, but she didn't know who she was or where she was or who I was or what year it was or who was president or what year she was born.  She kept asking me questions, but the words she used were jumbled and confused and slurred and made no sense.  She was clearly not in her right mind.  By now, first responders arrived and went through the same questions the 911 folks had me ask her, with the same lack of responses.  They were concerned she'd had a stroke and so we bypassed Local Hospital for one in Nearby Big City as they were better equipped to diagnose and treat stroke patients.

Thus began a very long night of emergency room treatments, personnel, questions, more questions, still more questions - most of which I could answer, but a lot of which I could not, since I wasn't there when all this occurred.  (I'm leaving out a lot of details here, because there just isn't room.)

About 3AM they confirmed a room for her on the 5th floor and admitted her.  She was slightly more lucid than when we brought her in, but only just.  Enough to remember who she was, who I was, ("Oh, you're my Jenny!"), what year it was and what year she was born.  Still iffy on the President question.  I got her situated in her hospital room, talked to the nursing staff for a few minutes, then gave Mom a hug and went home to rest.

She was somewhat better on Saturday - enough to have a perfectly normal conversation with her - but she was still off in that she seemed vacant; not really there.  Sunday morning, when I visited, was more of the same.  Conversational, but not proactive.  She would respond if I asked her a question directly, but she wasn't actively engaging in conversation.  It was hard to watch.

By Sunday evening, though, (according to the nurse in charge) Mom had taken a turn for the worse and was actively hallucinating.  I wasn't aware of the change until I got to the hospital early on Monday afternoon.  Monday was a holiday, so the kids weren't in school and I was not at work.  Boy-Child and I had taken a bunch of stuff over to the donation center and afterward decided we should go see Gammy.  (That's what my kids call her.)  So we drove to Nearby Big City to visit and found her in a full-blown hallucination.  She was convinced she was at the edge of a cliff, and was going to fall off.  She had hold of my hands and was staring at me - absolutely terrified - telling me to, "Push me back, Jenny!  PUSH me back!"  Her feet were flailing and she was stiff with fear.  It was horrible to witness.  And as bad as that was, it was worse for Boy-Child, who expected to see his Gammy doing better, not actively worse.  I absolutely could not convince her she was in a hospital or even laying down, safe, on a bed.  The cliff-edge was her reality.  She stayed inside this hallucination for over 40 minutes, until the Physical Therapy girls came in to do her PT and, upon seeing them, the spell was broken.  She was immediately limp and relaxed, but still not mentally in the now.  PT couldn't be done because she was unable to follow directions and fought them when they tried to assist.  Finally, she looked straight at me and said, "I wish you'd just leave!" ...so we did.  There wasn't anything I could do and Boy-Child was terrified, too.

Anyway - she spent from Sunday, January 17th in the late afternoon through Thursday, January 21st in the morning in a solid state of various hallucinations.  She talked to people who were not there, she ate food that was not there, she yelled and screamed, she swore like a sailor, she would not calm down and called me all manner of names and said all manner of horrible things.  I know it was not her - not really - but it still was hard to handle.

Wednesday, January 20th came an early evening call from the physician at the hospital overseeing Mom's case.  She and I talked at length about what was happening and at that time I was told that subsequent CT scans and MRIs done since she came in through the ER (where they had also done a CT scan and an MRI) showed that Mom has something called Chronic Microvascular Ischemic Disease, also known as Vascular Dementia.  I was told that we should consider not allowing her to live alone anymore and was told it would be good for me to move her in with us, if we could.  We discussed how that was not possible due to lack of space (truly, I live in just over 1000 sq. ft. with four people and one potty) and was then told that I needed to consider assisted living.  Which is also not an option because we simply can't afford it.  Believe me, I've done the research.  I was then told that we would need to see about getting her permanently into a nursing home; that she absolutely, without fail, could not live on her own.

Oh, and they also discovered that she did, indeed, have three broken metatarsals in her left foot!  So much for an accurate diagnosis at Local Hospital back in December, eh?

She spent 9 days in the hospital.

Well now we're going to fast-forward to today.  Mom's been at the nursing home since Monday, January 25th.  They say that if they didn't know what was wrong, what she'd been through, that they would never have known she'd had a problem with her mental capabilities.  They say she's doing great and, if they could rehabilitate her physically, she could go home.  The reason the Physical rehab is taking so long is that because of the broken bones in her foot the hospital discharged her with orders to wear a giant walking boot every time she even thinks about getting up.  The problem there is, Mom's 98lbs soaking wet and the boot is too heavy.  She's off-balance anyway, she normally uses a walker for stability, and therefore the boot makes walking nearly impossible.  Therefore, rehabilitation is stymied until they can remove the boot.  She had an X-ray of her foot on Monday night and they determined she's not completely healed, but it's up to the doctors at the nursing home to write a new order for a lighter-weight boot that wouldn't hinder rehab.  They're wanting to get her up and moving so she can go home.

During all this time, I've been taking care of Mom's cat (not that I mind, she's a sweet - though scared - little thing).  Among many, many other things.  My brain is sore, my body is tired, but it's not about me.  I think that's my new mantra: It's Not About Me.

Believe it or not, that's the short version.  I could add all the details of her various hallucinations.  I could add all the awful things she said to me while she was not in her right mind.  I could tell you about what happened before she passed out on the night of January 15th, or, at least as much as we can piece together; no one really knows for sure.  I could add stuff we did while she was hospitalized.  I could elaborate on lots of things, but I won't.  Your time is precious.  And you'd probably get bored.

Anyway - that's what has been going on.  It's been the primary thing on my mind since mid-January and is the reason I have not posted anything substantial in weeks and weeks.

Happy 2016, right?

TTFN
JMS

A small job well done

I whined a lot yesterday, didn't I?  I guess I should feel the need to apologize, but I'm not going to.  Well…okay, I guess maybe I will – just a teensy bit – because I certainly wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable and decide never to return.  It felt good, though, to get those feelings off my chest.  Thank you for allowing me to vent.

***

My girl-child had some trouble with her homework the other night.  It wasn't as if she couldn't do the work, she simply didn't want to do the work.  Apparently it was different than her regular homework and she chose to complain about it (speaking of whining) rather than doing the work.  She wanted to go outside to play.  She was hungry.  She wanted to watch television.   She was just humming a song, mo-om!  Sheesh!  She had to use the bathroom probably more times than was really necessary.  There were tears.  She was a mess!

Meanwhile (recall my previous post about anger management issues) I was doing laundry and trying to figure out supper and from her all I continued to hear was grumbling.  I mentioned I was making a concerted effort to speak kindly, or at least politely, and my patience was being tried – but I pushed through it and managed not to holler at her.  

Then I decided to paint my toes.  (My toes said they wanted to be blue, so they are now blue.)  I figured I could flop on the bed, toes in the air, and “help” girl-child with her homework.   Which is exactly what I did.

At this point, she'd been “doing” her homework for well over an hour, when typically she can fly through it in twenty minutes or less.  This kind of delay is very unusual for her so I figured there was something more going on than her just not wanting to do the work, but really – I think she was bored with it.  Somehow, I managed to con her into to not only finishing the first page of her math homework but the second page as well.  There was giggling involved…so I guess whatever I did was successful.

So, not only did I find a tiny spark of happiness in painting my toenails blue, but I found a small flame of joy when girl-child responded positively to my assistance.  Unfortunately, there was no television and no outside, because by the time she'd finished her work and eaten her supper, it was already very close to bedtime.  But she went to bed happy, which made me happy.  I guess I need to consider it a small job well done.

TTFN
JMS

Boy-child's birthday

Today is boy-child’s 11^th birthday!  (Well, actually, in …Off on a Tangent world, which is my virtual world, which is me, mostly, boy-child’s birthday was yesterday since I’m usually about a day behind reality here.)  Anyway, boy-child is officially a year older, and so, therefore, am I.

He was born early – about 7 weeks – and while that’s not really as early as some other premature babies, it was certainly scary enough for this first-time mother.  He spent the first twelve days of his life in the NICU at Children’s Hospital getting a suntan (he was slightly jaundiced) and being fed through a tube (he didn't have a suck-reflex, so he had to learn it).  Visiting him there was scary, too – but I couldn't stay away.

One night, hubby and I had gone home for the night with the intent of returning to the hospital first thing the next morning, and I had an anxiety attack just before midnight absolutely convinced something was wrong with boy-child.  All alone.  In an incubator.  In a big scary hospital.  All alone.  Alone.  SOB!  So hubby drove my hyperventilating-self to Children’s Hospital (a 30 mile drive, mind you) so I could see our little baby boy.

Boy-child was so tiny.  Born at 4lbs 6.8oz and 17 ¾ inches long.  He had a full head of black hair which, as he got older, all fell out and grew back blonde.  He had giant brown eyes.  Giant.  And he had a way of peeking at you from under these mile-long eyelashes – even as a tiny infant – that just melted your heart.  He had a huge noggin!  As he got a little older and started sitting up, that head, more often than not, was the reason he couldn't keep his balance and tipped right over.

As a now 11-year old, not much has changed except that he’s bigger, and he has grown into his head.  He still has huge brown eyes and long, dark eyelashes, though, and he makes use of them regularly because he knows just the right look will still melt my heart and he can get just about whatever he wants.  (I’m really not a pushover, though, and he doesn't really get whatever he wants, but darn it!  He’s hard to resist!)  I just love him to pieces.

Happy birthday, buddy!  I love you!

TTFN

JMS (a.k.a. “Mom”)

Girl-child Drama

Oh. My. Golly. Golly. Goshness! (That’s my polite way of saying it’s been an amazingly hectic weekend.)

Friday night, both kiddos spent the night at their friends’ house.  (Same house.  Same friends.  Brother friends with brother.  Sister friends with sister.  It works out because they all get along so well and because the friends have brave, amazing parents.)  Anyway – sleepover night.

Saturday night, girl-child attended a sleepover birthday party with five girls. 

Sunday arrived.  Mom of sleepover party birthday girl brings girl-child to church and I can tell from the second I see girl-child that she’s not just tired, she’s TIRED!  Purple-circles-under-her-eyes-and-pale-skin-tired.  This isn’t the mom’s fault; far from it.  But when you get five 8 and 9 year old girls in one place for a sleepover, giggling ensues and little actual sleep happens.

Anyway, girl-child makes it through Sunday school and now we’re about 15-20 minutes into actual church service when (pardon me) all Hell breaks loose.

I was multi-tasking, which, truth be told, I shouldn't have been doing during church service, but I was trying to coordinate boy-child who had lucked out and was able to stay another night at the first friend’s house and so wasn't at church with us.  Friends were trying to figure out swimming at the fitness center but realized they’d need a parent to sign him in.  Hubby and I were both in church, so I was trying to politely ask if they could wait until we were done.  Meanwhile, girl-child had read two words of the text: “brother” and “swimming” and had an absolute meltdown.  Red-faced, crocodile tears, “brother always gets to do all the fun stuff and I don’t!”  No amount of consolation or hushing worked so I resorted to removing her from the situation.

Luckily, hubby and I drove in separately this morning so I was able to take girl-child home. 

When we got home, girl-child went directly to bed.  She did not pass “Go.”  She did not collect $200.00.  She slept for two solid hours.  When she woke up (on her own) she was immediately provided with a snack and some juice to tide her over until lunch could be had.

Then, for the rest of the day, a wonderful afternoon at the very-crowded park, and dinner with friends, she was perfectly fine.  Until we hit about 6:45 PM when TIRED reared its ugly head again and she wanted to go home.  “Mom, I’ve just really had a rough day.  I think I need to go home.” 

Now, she is soaking in a warm bath (with her hair piled on top of her head so it won’t get wet), playing with her bath toys (a beluga whale from Mystic Seaport and a black horse that has hair and spots that change color in warm water), sipping on a cold Perrier (“Mom! Can I have a drink, please?  I’m really thirsty!”), she’s happy.  Not “singing” happy, but happy.

Good thing this upcoming week is Spring Break or tomorrow might be a difficult school day.

TTFN

JMS

A Short Tale (Non-fiction)

This morning, we displeased Her Majesty by advising her of the time and suggesting she rise from her slumber.  Words were not spoken aloud; she only uttered vehement grunts and mumbled noises.  There was much protesting; gnashing of teeth and kicking of bed sheets.  Even the Court Jester was unsuccessful in conveying cheer.

When Her Majesty finally deemed the humble castle and its inhabitants worthy of joining, she arose.  There was splendid celebration amongst her lowly servants.  Shortly, Her Majesty deemed the eldest female servant worthy of affection and thus wrapped her royal arms around the servant’s neck.  A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as years of comfort, given and received, poured into that one gesture.  

Her Majesty was thusly fed, sewn into her courtly attire, given a paste to put upon her teeth to make them shine, and once more supposed fondness toward the eldest female servant as that servant departed for Market.  The eggs, milk and straw baskets the favored servant sells make up the household kitchen purse.  Undoubtedly, there shall be a grand feast tonight.

Farewell, for now.

JMS

It's practically a requirement

One of the things I love about being a mom is getting to spend one on one time with my kids.  They spend a lot of time together, and for the most part, they get along pretty well - with a few pushy-shovey-he-said-she-said-that’s-mine-no-it’s-mine thrown in for good measure.  Because really, what would parenthood be without those special and important parts of a parent’s resume: peacekeeper, disciplinarian, human lie detector, etc.?  You get the drift.  But when they’re together, they’re always in some kind of competition with one another; for my time, for hubby’s time, for the stuff (whatever that stuff may be).

I mentioned several (ok a dozen or so) posts ago that one of my new favorite things is the kids sweetly competing for hugs from me in the mornings before I leave. The hug from boy-child, who relinquishes me to his sister so girl-child can hug me, but then he scoots around us so he can get behind her for yet another hug from me, then she follows the pattern, and so on and so forth until I have to say, “Ok guys, I’ve really got to go!  Love you!” and scoot out the door.  This truly could go on forever, but I love it.

However, when there is an opportunity for me to spend quality one on one time with one or the other of my kiddos, I do my best to jump on it.  They each know that I love them and care about what they have to say, and this alone time is an opportunity for me to prove it.  Not with stuff but with time.

Tonight, Hubby took girl-child to Girl Scouts.  So boy-child and I went to Firehouse Subs and had a mutually agreeable dinner together and the conversation spanned from school, to standardized testing, to Minecraft, to the new-fangled drink machine the restaurant has, The Weather Channel, weather in general, and opinions about many other topics.  My son has an amazing capacity to understand things far beyond his 11 years; he is so wise.  Then we hit the local thrift store, just to see what they had, and as we wandered, we searched for various things that might interest us – just because.  He wanted to get a Beanie Baby for his sister.  Then we found a t-shirt that says, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” on it and he said, “MOM! Don’t you think [girl-child] would loooo-oooove that?”  So we got that, too.  He’s a sweet kid and thinks of his little sister even without a parent prompting him.

Now we’re home, the laundry is tumbling, teeth have been brushed and we’re hanging out together talking about a game on his tablet called “Hay Day” – which is kind of like FarmVille, but not.  And he has been touting the virtues of becoming a landscape architect “because it’s so satisfying to arrange things on [his] farm so they are pleasing to the eye.”  I’m quoting; that actually came out of his mouth.

Anyway – I really enjoy hanging out with my kids.  When boy-child goes to Scouts with Hubby, I hang out with girl-child and that can mean anything from cooking a simple meal together, to just throwing together a snack plate (covering all the nutritional bases, of course) and curling up in bed together to watch a Disney movie.  We talk about all kinds of stuff too, just different stuff.

I guess that I’m kind of lucky that I actually enjoy my kiddos.  I know there are lots of parents out there who think of their kids as accessories, or worse, a burden.  I feel sorry for those parents.  They have absolutely no idea what they’re missing.

TTFN

JMS

Throwing snowballs at memories

All this snow and ice and wind and all the school closings and being around my kids, watching them react to everything, has brought me back, time and time again, to childhood and growing up in the North.

This morning, while listening to Pandora and Depeche Mode Radio (yup...still stuck on it), Pet Shop Boys were singing about West End Girls and I thought of my younger brother. A few days ago, he'd sent me (and boy-child) an email with a link to that song's video on YouTube. Apparently any time my brother hears music like that he thinks of me. So just a little while ago, when it came on Pandora, I sent him a text message just to say hello.

So, I guess you're probably wondering (besides the obvious) what one has to do with the other. Simply that one of my strongest memories of winter and childhood and North is the time that my brother and I (and a couple neighborhood kids, if I remember correctly) got it into our heads that it was a good idea to throw snowballs at passing cars...after dark. I don't remember who came up with the idea, and it doesn't matter, but we had fun. For all of about one minute.

One of the cars that received a barrage of snowballs stopped short in the middle of the street and the driver came flying out – FURIOUS – and chased us through the neighborhood. I remember being absolutely terrified that he'd catch us and it made me sick to think about how much trouble we would get in. I don't remember what happened to the other kids we were with, but I vaguely recall hiding in the bushes until the very angry driver man went away. It's all kind of a blur, actually. But my brother and I made it home safe and sound.

I don't really remember if our parents ever found out about that and I suppose, all these years later, it doesn't make any difference. The things we do as kids define us, in some way, as adults and I am sure, beyond a doubt, that was the first time I ever feared being caught for doing something I knew, deep down, probably wasn't a good idea. Which is probably why I never got into too much trouble growing up and in teenage years, and in my young adult life. Fear.

Oh, believe me, I had plenty of opportunities to get into a TON of trouble, but somehow I managed to keep myself together and stay out of it. I'm lucky. My life could have turned out so differently if I'd been even slightly less fearful of things.

It's interesting to me that as an adult I've shed a lot of my old fears and, in some cases, formed brand new ones; especially where my children are concerned. I fear for their health, well-being and safety more than anything else. It's the reason I get so upset when boy-child does something downright stupid and risks his own safety. I know, I know, boys do stupid things and at some point all of my fear for his safety and well-being isn't going to amount to a hill of beans and yes, he's going to have to learn his own lessons. But maybe, just maybe, while he's still young, I can instill some awareness in him that will protect him in some way when he's older?

I don't know. I'm sure he'll have his own throwing-snowballs-at-passing-cars-after-dark-and-being-chased-by-a-mad-man moment, but hopefully it will only serve to make him a better, more thoughtful person. I still haven't quite figured out what it did to me.

TTFN

JMS

Snowmageddon 2015

Quick!  Run to the store!  There’s gonna be a snowflake!  Yeah, yeah…that’s probably a little harsh, but having grown up in the North, a couple of inches of snow didn't mean utter and complete panic.  Sigh.  That’s probably a little harsh, too.  I live in the South now, and they’re really not panicking, I suppose, but it’s a near thing.  As soon as someone even mentions the word snow (or it’s bigger, badder Evil Twin: Ice) there’s a run on the nearest grocery or convenience store for the basics: bread, milk, eggs and toilet paper.

I remember once, many moons ago, just after I had moved from North down to the Washington, DC area, we got nearly three feet of snow.  The Federal Government shut down.  I recall sitting in my street-view bedroom, looking down on the scene below, and watching people try to drive like it was an ordinary day.  I imagine they were quite puzzled when their normally well-behaved vehicles skidded sideways down the street.  Huh.  How about that?  But if the DC area was bad, it’s worse here.  (I’m sorry – I’m just making a blanket generalization.  Please don’t chastise me…yet.) 

As a kid, I (and the rest of my peers) lived for snow days.  But, being from North the Snow Day was the Stuff of Legend.  (It happened once.  People still talk about it.)  Now, as an adult with children, I look at snow days in a completely different way.

The Preemptive Strike

The Preemptive Strike occurs when the just the threat of inclement weather (take your pick from a myriad of options) is enough to close down whole school systems.  I understand that those in charge of making such decisions are merely doing so for the safety and security of the children who attend said systems.  As a parent, I appreciate knowing as far in advance as possible.  Truly, there’s not much worse than a phone call at 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning to let us know that school is cancelled for the day.  Actually, worse would be the call that happens just about the time your kids would normally get up for the day and therefore negating any possibility of them going back to bed for an hour or two allowing you a brief respite.  Anyway, I like the Preemptive Strike.  Mostly.  What I don’t like is when the decision makers call the game (if you will) and then absolutely nothing happens, weather wise.  That’s just annoying.

The Early Out

The Early Out occurs when kids are already at school, but the powers that be decide the impending weather situation is enough to warrant sending everyone home early.  Again, I understand that those in charge are making such decisions for the safety and security of the children and I am absolutely in favor of that.  But, a couple of years ago they let school out early and there was a mad rush to pick up kids, causing a worse problem with cars and traffic than the weather would have.  In response to that situation, most schools around here, when faced with an Early Out, stagger the releases of kids.  First this school, then that school.  First these grades, then those grades.  It seems to help and, though parents really have to pay attention to the times their children are being released, the staggered pick-ups seem to work.

But, regardless of the weather situation, kids are still up to their old tricks.  Mine do The Snow Dance, which involves hands waved in the air and little kicks and wiggles that is, quite simply, hysterical to witness.  They wear their pajamas inside out and backwards and flush ice cubes down the toilet.  They are glued to the weather channel or the weather on the local news in an amusing, innocent way.  Boy-child even loaded a weather app on his tablet (a tablet which, btw, he saved for and purchased himself) and has been our very own, personal Weather Man for the last two days.  And if, by some miracle, a snow day does occur (as it did this morning), they then believe that all their tricks and nonsense worked because – POOF! – no school.

Snow days, while somewhat miracle-like for the children, admittedly test the sanity of the parents.  It’s a stressor for those who have to take time off work to look after their kiddos.  Some parents may even lose business when snow days occur.  Some parents struggle to find stuff that’s interesting for their children to do all day.  That doesn’t mean that snow days don’t affect me, either; they totally do.  But Hubby gets the short end of the kid stick.  Hubby is the best Stay at home Dad in the whole wide universe.  I’m totally lucky in that regard, and so are my kiddos.

Anyway, here’s hoping your pantry is stocked, your family is home safe and sound, and you have lots of fun indoor activities to do.  Snowmageddon 2015 is upon us!.

TTFN

JMS

Mornings in days of yore

You know how they say never to blog, post on social media, do anything or say anything about work because you run the risk of putting your job in jeopardy should someone take offense to something you’ve said or done?  This post isn’t that, I promise, but it does have to do with the fact that I have a job and how my current job has changed my home life for the better.  

A little over seven months ago I accepted a new job.  Taking into account my opening paragraph, I won’t talk about where I work or what I do at work except to say what you already know, I’m an administrative assistant.  I do that.  I love my job for lot of reasons, I truly do, but there’s one reason that overshadows all the others.  Since taking this job, I have been able to see my kiddos every morning.  This is something that has really never been possible before, either because of timing or because of distance.  I am absolutely so grateful for the close proximity of my new job and the fact that the time I start allows me to spend a little bit of time with my babies.

In days of yore, I was gone before they woke up.  At work before the sun even considered rising above the horizon.  Now, not only can I get a shower in the morning, I can help wake up my sleepy-headed girl-child.  Maybe help her figure out what to wear; help her get dressed. She requires a very steady hand, a gentle voice and lots of coaxing to rouse her from her slumber.  She does not like to get up and will do everything in her power to delay putting feet to floor.  And even with all the gentle coaxing, tickles, smiles and kisses in the hopes that she’ll smile and wrap her warm little arms around your neck, some days, it doesn’t matter one whit and she’s just gonna be a grump and everything is going to be wrong with her world.

I can talk about stuff with my always-ready-to-go-up-at-the-BCOD boy-child. He tends to be awake already when my alarm goes off and by the time I get out of the shower, he is happy and bouncy and full of it (you know when I mean).  He’s pretty self-sufficient but usually it’s when he’s trying to get dressed that he can’t find a pair of socks or he (in his mind) doesn’t have any clean jeans/t-shirts to wear or can’t find something he needs for school.  He’s kind of scatterbrained in that way, even though he’s so smart it’s scary.  Unfortunately, I think he gets the scatterbrain from his mom.  But he’s the complete and total opposite of his little sister.  She requires finesse.  He doesn’t.

They’re old enough now that they can get their own cereal, pour their own milk, and get their own spoons.  But I get to witness the fact that they’re eating a healthy breakfast.  I can help get them ready for the day.  I can spend time with them.  This is something that I’ve never had before.

Then, when I’ve got my jacket on and I’m pulling my keys out of my purse…all part of my new routine…my kiddos have started a routine, too.  They come away from the table where they’re munching on cereal to hug me – each in turn – and then, when I go into the kitchen to collect my lunch box (hubby packs my lunch, bless him) and kiss hubby on the cheek, I head to the front hallway on my way out of the house and find both kiddos, lined up in front of the door expecting more hugs.  It’s awesome.

Though I’m definitely not a morning person (my girl-child probably gets her intense dislike of mornings from me), I must admit mornings have become my favorite part of the day.

TTFN
JMS

Stupid stuff you learn from your parents

When I was a kid my dad said all kinds of goofball stuff that I, as an adult, now say.  And yes, people look at me in exactly the same way we kids used to look at my dad when he said them.  You know that look.  The one that says, “I wonder which planet you’re from?”

Here are a few examples:

·         Woolsey Boat Paint

·         Good Gravy, Grandma!

·         Battle Boat/Battle Dog/Battle Baby

Bear with me, explanations to come.

Woolsey Boat Paint (yes, it's really a thing) meant “We’ll see,” in Dad-Speak.

“Good Gravy, Grandma!” was not a way to praise to his grandmother about her gravy-making par-excellence; it meant, essentially, “Good Grief, Charlie Brown!”

Battle Boat/Battle Dog/Battle Baby – well, that takes quite a bit more explaining, however the short version is that my dad went through a He-Man, Masters of the Universe phase about the same time my brother and I did, so because one of the characters on the show was Battle Cat, everything became a Battle-something.  (I’m dating myself, here.  There are going to be many of my dear readers who remember this awesome, animated, good vs. evil television show.  Those who don't remember, please feel free to Google it for a full description.  Suffice it to say, my brother and I adored the show and had all the accoutrement required to enjoy hours of self-entertaining play.) So, the 12-foot aluminum row boat became Battle Boat (yes, officially).  Our Shetland Sheepdog, Trevor, became Battle Dog.  And my little sister became Battle Baby.

No – I am not joking.

(My father also had a fondness for antique oil lamps, which I confess, I also share.  File that under Little-Known Jen Fact.)

So, when I say something off-the-wall, please know that I come by my strangeness honestly.  And, since I’m being honest, I like my Weird.  I embrace it.  Please deal with it as you are able.

That is all.

TTFN
JMS