I Wanna…Blog Some

and when I am no longer
content
with the effort of
not contracting
but instead choose to
expand

I expand

and I fill this space
refuse to be contained
by labels
or expectations
or boxes designed to keep me small

hell no.
not now.

now is my time
this is my space

and you can’t take your eyes of off me.

I’m not growing up here
I’m growing out
out
in all directions
possessing this space
every last inch

This is part of a poem that a friend wrote on her blog (please read the whole thing: http://www.peacelovefree.com/2011/03/30/you-cant-take-your-eyes-off-of-me/).

I am not really a poetry person. Most of the time I just don’t get it. Seriously. I think it’s some kind of deficiency on my part. And maybe I don’t even “get” this poem. But I don’t think it matters if part of it (well, most of it, but specifically the part I put above) makes me think, “Yeah, that!”

Here’s the deal (or the skinny!): I’m a girl with some girth. And most of the time (when I am shopping in clothing sections far from most of my friends with much fewer selections and many more synthetic fibers) I would rather be smaller. But I have been smaller, and guess what? Still insecure about looks, hair, odors, and whether or not people like me in general. But then there are times that I feel so damned good about myself that I think, “Dammit, I can take up as much space on this planet as I damn well please!”

I feel so okay with screaming:

I expand

and I fill this space
refuse to be contained
by labels
or expectations
or boxes designed to keep me small

And then screaming some more, “This is my space!”

I’m not growing up here
I’m growing out
out
in all directions
possessing this space
every last inch

That was just a small part of the poem. Not even the true meaning (I’m pretty sure) of what my friend was saying. I am pretty sure the poem was about a different sort of self-confidence. And then a surprise twist at the end (spoiler alert) of such a sweet compliment and encouragement to others. And if that was what the poem was really about then it worked because I feel better today. The words I stole today were the ones that resonated the most with me, and I am grateful that I stumbled upon them today.

I like to justify. I like my words to all end at the same place on the right just like they start at the same place on the left. And I also like things to be ok.

I sneak candy into the movies. I used to sneak in cheeseburgers and fries, but I haven’t done that in years. I don’t sneak in popcorn and soda has always made too much noise. I don’t like most of the drinks at movies, but I have one of those refill cups, so I do bring that and make the best of it for only $1 (mixing punch and Sprite isn’t too bad, but I’m much too picky about root beer to attempt the ick kind served at my local theater and I haven’t had a cola in over a decade because after my first kid it all started tasting like the crappy diet). But I do sneak in candy. I’m starting to feel bad about it because my kids know I do it. If I have to be sneaky then it must be wrong. But I do it. I should stop. I will. Maybe. I justify it by feeling ripped off the few times I have bought it. It’s like the theater is stealing from me! I will pay for the movie and sometimes extra just to see it in 3D or IMAX. I will pay for popcorn (okay, I pay about $20 once a year for a T-shirt that gets us a free popcorn every time we go). But when I pay $3.50 for a box of Goobers that I could get at the 99 Cents store for $ .999 it just hurts. But what am I teaching my kids?

I’ve been thinking about what we teach our kids by our actions and when we brag about our misdeeds (brag might be a strong word) ever since Thanksgiving when a relative told a story about a concert she went to recently with her kids. It must have been an outdoor concert where the concert goers all sit on a blanket or something on grass around the stage. The person next to the relative had been drinking and when she stumbled on or near the relative and her kids the person dropped something. The something was a twenty dollar bill. The relative, feeling justified in our own mind for relieving this person from the ability to buy more beer, took the money and ran. Ran straight to the concession stand to buy snacks.

The deed itself didn’t bother me as much as the story being told to my kids. There’s a story my kids know well about the time I stole something (I was given way too much change making the item I bought free and about thirty extra bucks) and my mom died (I gave her the T-shirt that was essentially free…and yes, I know that isn’t what actually killed her).

Kind of ironic that in some ways it felt like a stolen t-shirt caused my mom’s death since she was known for taking things that didn’t belong to her. She lifted office supplies (often times they would be in our Christmas stockings—part of the reason that I have a thing for confetti has to do with the year I got a stolen hole punch). She made long distance calls from her office and hid pages of the phone bill. She even used her boss’ gas card when we went on vacation one year (she planned the trip around knowing when that bill would arrive). My mom justified her actions by saying that she wasn’t paid enough and if they weren’t going to give her a raise then they owed her something. And we were broke. So without her unscrupulous ways my stocking would have been thinner, my brother wouldn’t have gotten as many calls when he was stationed in Panama, and we might not have been able to take that one road trip from Tucson to Florida (in August in a car with no air conditioning…maybe we shouldn’t have taken the trip for other reasons as well).

Is taking candy into a theater with a sign that says, “No outside food or drinks” the same as stealing? Are we taking something that doesn’t belong to us? Can’t we just eat it before or after the movie…or skip it all together (seriously, I don’t need any more candy)?

And why should I judge people who talk about their lucky day of finding money to buy snacks that they would have otherwise not been able to afford (the prices at concerts and sporting events are worse than at the movies)? And I suppose I should stop complaining when people don’t justify their margins. Especially when I can’t figure out how to do it here on this blog!

My middle child, my first daughter, my mirror, my love. She turned 9 today. What thrills me the most scares me a little too. She is healthy and “normal.” The last time I had a child turn 9 he did it in a hospital. This time 9 is done with no big worries. But…this time we get more choices. When will she be ready to stay home alone? When is a cell phone appropriate? When can she walk around Target by herself? All things we get to decide based on age and maturity level and not some impending doom of epilepsy. It’s almost easier having an excuse not to let your babies grow up by telling yourself that they need extra protection. But this time 9 is different. This time we have no good excuse for holding on a little while longer. The only thing I can think of that will keep her close to the nest is that she’s afraid of a few things. I can just tell her that clowns only visit 9 year olds who stay home alone and she won’t want her freedom so quickly.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

You read that at something. Maybe your dad’s memorial. Maybe at mine. Maybe both. But why didn’t you heed the words you spoke? Why didn’t you fight with everything you had? Maybe you thought you had, but I can’t believe that.

Did you think you were an asshole that everyone would be better off without? The world was so much better for having you in it. You wrote. You gave encouraging words. You chased me around and made me giggle when I was a little girl. You had children. You had a wife. You had a mother, a brother, and a sister. There was nothing that wouldn’t have been forgiven. Everyone forgave my dad. That should have given you some encouragement. But in the end you didn’t think about that. You thought about something else. I don’t know what. I guess I wish you peace, but you left none for now. You left at least me wondering why you decided to go gently into that good night.

***

I wish I could tell anyone thinking of killing themselves to think of the people they are leaving behind. They would not be better off without you. You would be causing them pain–possibly more than you are in.

What do you do when you can’t decide? This might not seem like a big deal decision, but I’m very perplexed. Here it is: TV or no TV?

I grew up being able to tell time by the TV. Gilligan’s Island is on so, it’s 3:00. Flintstones…must be 3:30. Brady Bunch…4:00. You get the picture. And I consider that to be a happy childhood. I think there is something to be said for being lazy (relaxing). I think that vegging out after a day at school is okay. I also think that a shared history of pop culture is good. Back when everyone went back to school and talked about the Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley episode everyone had seen the night before.

But times have changed. Too many channels. Ways to watch TV shows whenever we want. And I am just not feeling the love for the TV like I used to. At least for my kids. I still like some TV shows, but rarely watch them when they are originally on.

For years we didn’t have any cable TV. I had one kid and he watched one channel: PBS. Ah, those were the days. We could still tell time together by what was on. And there was always a break during the day when Charlie Rose came on. Now we have fancy digital cable with a few HD channels. No premium channels, but we do like the channels that let us choose 80s music, graphic or non-graphic rap, classical, etc. Now I feel like I can’t live without all the options.

But who has time for all of the options? The kids are back in school. They went right back to the rules of No TV on Monday—Thursday. We have Netflix that has TV shows available and can watch tons of TV shows online. We adult types hardly have time for any viewing in the evenings, but catch up later with a few, but they are all major network shows: Glee, Desperate Housewives, 30 Rock, The Office, Law & Order. There is the really bad guilty pleasure of The Secret Lives of the American Teenager (really bad acting, but hey, Molly Ringwald is in it!). I can watch Secret Lives online.

So what am I waiting for? I need to call the cable company and cancel! I need to do it now! But, what about TV as a babysitter? What about liking to have home improvement channels if I feel like it. What if I decide to get hip and watch Mad Men? What if I start to remember the number for the Comedy Central and want to start watching The Daily Show on a daily basis? Or what if something really big happens and I need MSNBC to give me the liberal (and might I add SANE) viewpoint?

I can’t. I can’t call the cable company. I love my TV. I hate my TV. I hate loving my TV.

Mama said there’ll be days like this,
There’ll be days like this Mama said.

Maybe Mama didn’t say.  She should have if she had known.  But she never acted like it was a problem for her. 

I ended up inheriting my mom’s shape.  She was a big woman.  All breasts and belly.  I was embarrassed to see her naked…maybe because I knew early her body was going to be my destiny.  And now I try not to look too long at myself naked because I have all the parts of my mom that freaked me out (except for the breasts…I’m happy with those).  But I have the saggy stretched marked belly just like my mom had. 

My mom never acted ashamed of her body.  She would run naked through the living room to get my dad’s attention.  And later in life when she was no longer any one’s wife she was still getting action.  And during baseball season it was a LOT of action! 

There are days I channel that confidence.  Days when I look in the mirror and think…I’m just juicy.  Like the when having the word "juicy" written across your bottom was first fashionable, but that juicy had nothing on the juicy I’ve become.  I like the days I look at myself and think, "oh, so that’s what my husband has the hots for" rather than the shame of what I’ve let myself become, but the shame days are more common. 

My mother never mentioned having either kind of days.  I’ll bet she did, but she didn’t talk about it.  I’m not talking about it with my kids right now either.  They probably see me when I’m walking around all naked as the day I was born and think I only have confidence.  Should I tell them the secret is that some days I believe in myself and believe I am bigger because my personality says I shouldn’t be a waif.  I’m not to be hidden.  I’m to have a body that matches the size of my over-sized Queen of My World personality?  And other days I avoid looking at myself so I don’t have to think about how much I wish I looked different.  How angry I am for becoming the cliched housewife who has let herself go?  How I wish I could lose weight–not for health reasons, but just to be looked at and actually seen? 

I don’t know what I’ll tell my kids.  I am starting to think more about what I am teaching them without saying any words.  That’s what I’m starting to work on.  I have decided that I will stop eating the food they leave on their plates when they say they are full.  It only been a few days and it hasn’t been easy.  They are so used to me doing it that they hand me their plates automatically now.  I’ve been scraping the bits of food into the trash.  I’m full.  Throwing out food seems like a waste.  But I’m not going to do it any more.  I haven’t said anything about this decision.  When the kids have asked me the last few days if I want what they have left I have just said, "No thanks."  I wonder if they will notice.  I wonder what difference it will make. 

I hope I will start treating myself better by not continuing to expect miracles from Oreos.  I hope I start feeling juicy more often than like a blob.  I hope my kids will never feel like they have to finish the food of their kids’ plates.  And maybe someday I will tell my kids that on some days they will feel on top of the world and other days they will feel all of the weight of it crashing down on them.  And that’s okay, they shouldn’t worry, because there will be days like this.

My Child  Why does school have to retern!!!!!

13 minutes ago · Comment  ·Like Unlike

Me  Because you need to learn how to spell.

5 minutes ago · Comment  ·Like Unlike

There’s an App (am I showing how un-cool I am that I’m not sure if it’s spelled Ap or App?) for iPhones to remind you when you are getting your period.  Or if you are the significant other of a woman to WARN you of when she is getting her period.  I don’t have an iPhone, but I was thinking earlier,  as I was leaving Fresh & Easy, all I need is for there to be a tracking and auto call thing with Fresh & Easy to let us know when it’s been about a month since I’ve purchased dark chocolate covered almonds.  It would be like the call we get from the pharmacy to pick up The Boy’s monthly supply of anti-seizure meds. 

This is a call/warning from your neighborhood Fresh & Easy.  We are calling to notify/warn you that it has been approximately 1 month since you/your wife last picked up your/her monthly supply of PMS chocolate.  Thank you and have a nice day/hibernate until things have calmed down. 

"What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

- Juliet

I have resisted calling my son a "special needs" child.  Mostly it is because I’m not sure what it might mean.  I think he does have some special needs.  But he doesn’t have as many as some other kids.  He’s just him.  And that happens to mean that he does take medications twice a day.  And it does mean he has a diagnosis of epilepsy.  And that does mean we can’t just forget that sometimes he’s been known to have a seizure even though most of the time the medication keeps them from happening.  And because he’s known to have a seizure on occasion we can’t just let him go swimming, or ride his bike alone for long distances, or walk to the store alone, or whatever.  We are starting to let him do more things and letting them be alone sometimes.  We did get a Medical Alert Bracelet with his diagnosis and a phone number to call.  But does that put him in the same category as real special needs kids?  Maybe I just hate labels even though they can make things easier. 

I recently learned that not only are there label options for my boy, but I have something new I can call my daughters who don’t take meds but still can’t swim alone or go hitch hiking to the mall.  They also don’t have seizures or a medical alert bracelet.  Boo hoo for them, right?  Actually they do sometimes complain about not having epilepsy because in the past few months their brother has gotten to do some really cool things because of his epilepsy (trip to Washington D.C. and an interview on Radio Disney).  But, maybe they will be a little more content knowing that even if they don’t get all the perks, they still get a name.  They are called "typicals." 

I learned this word "typicals" at an event for kids with "special needs" and/or illnesses to get to go up with their families in small planes or helicopters.  It was a fun event for the entire family (not just the lucky ones in wheel chairs and cool stuff like autism).  At this event I was at a table with my son giving out information about the local Epilepsy Foundation and their super cool camp (Camp Candlelight) and chatting with other mothers about the fun of having a kid that does quirky stuff that we wish they didn’t even if it meant giving up rides in helicopters and free snow cones.  One of the mothers asked me about having other kids.  And she said, "Do you have any ’typicals?’"  That’s when I got really excited to have a name for the other two kids I’m in charge of rearing.

I also tried to clear up another confusing label that day.  There were quite a few people at the event that were short in stature because of a medical condition AKA Little People.  I am not fond of the term Little People.  And I just this second figured out why.  I thought it was because it made me think of kids.  But no!  It makes me think of Little People Toys from Fisher Price.  While I was at this event I met a very friendly man who was short in stature because of a medical condition and I asked him what his preferred label was since Little People was really not a great option (in my opinion).  And he told me that he did not mind at all being referred to as a Smart Ass.  Now I know that I might not want to go around town and saying, "Oh look, there’s a Smart Ass" every time I run into someone who is short in stature because of a medical condition (damn, that takes so long to say and type, but it seems my best option until Fisher Price comes up with a better & more politically correct term for their short in stature because of a manufacturing decision toys. 

I still may not be totally comfortable with the "special needs" label.  I know I’ll get in trouble calling strangers "smart ass" just because of their height issues.  But I am happy with the word "typicals" for my daughters.  Even though I suspect they are anything but typical. 

More from my favorite scene in Romeo and Juliet (because I have a very small portion of it memorized):

Juliet:
O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

Romeo:
[Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Juliet:
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy:
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,
Nor arm nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O be some other name!
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
and for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Romeo And Juliet Act 2, scene 2, 33–49

I knew it would be a bad thing as soon as it started. 

Back-story:  My hair tie thingy broke in my Yogalates class (part Yoga/part Pilates/part Hell).  After seeing me struggle (more than usual) the instructor came over and lent me a spare hair thingy to keep my unmanageable hair from being all over the place (nothing she could do about my unmanageable everything else).  This friendly gesture by her meant that I would have to reciprocate with a friendly gesture.  Something like…say thanks.  No biggie, right?  WRONG.  I try to maintain a distance between me and anyone that asks me to do things called "downward dog." 

When I returned the hair thingy and said thanks I couldn’t stop myself and started talking to the Yogalates instructor.  And kept talking and talking and talking.  What the hell was I thinking?  I sure wasn’t thinking that I would find out that the instructor has a kid that goes to my kids’ school!  We chatted for a really long time and that meant that my hopes of remaining anonymous were shattered.  The chances of hearing things like, "Missed you at class on Tuesday," would increase.  And the ability to freely mock the teacher and call her names based on sadistic characteristics were shot to hell. 

But today was the day that I realized just how bad this thing could be.  I woke up thinking of reasons why I couldn’t or shouldn’t go to Yogalates today.  The real reason is that I’m a wuss.  The other reasons include being tired, making an appointment to give blood before class and that means no strenuous exercise after…sure I could just go after class, but still…people could really be needing my O+ right now!  And I’m just tired.  Did I mention that?

Even with me fishing for a great excuse to tell myself I still got up and put my workout clothes.  Yoga pants, T-shirt that hopefully won’t ride up and show my jiggle-belly or be too low to show the un-sexy uni-boob sports bra, and sneakers that will be taken off for class anyway so they don’t officially count, but they make me look so very gym-ready.

Dropped the kids off at school in my optimistic clothes while still trying to settle on the best story to tell myself and maybe even the instructor next week if she does do the, "Missed you in class on Friday," thing.  And then WHAM-O!  There she was on the campus of the kids’ school.  And she saw me in my work out ready attire.  And I talked to her again (will I never learn?).  I even said (where the hell was my fish?), "Guess I can’t skip class now that you’ve seen me and know I’m dressed for it."  I even told her I was tempted to skip because I was so tired and wanted a nap.  And she reminded me that there were several hours before class and I had time for a nap and could still be there.  I’m screwed.  So screwed.   

The other day I started writing about things that irk me.  I was all upity with my opinions.  And at least smart enough to listen to The Fish* and not hit "Publish."  I’ll give a small hint though (The Fish got up to go to the bathroom.)  Democrats shouldn’t work really hard to pass Health Care Reform and then go celebrate by lighting up cigarettes.  Smoking is bad for you and me.  Don’t do it.  (I also did mention knowing that I need to also work on some of my own health issues, so don’t anyone call me a hypocrite.  I already know it.)

But none of that is making me cranky today.  Today I’m leaving for Washington D.C. with my Boy!  He probably doesn’t realize how many times I’m going to ruffle his hair and try to sneak in a few forehead kisses.  If it’s just us, he’ll probably let me.  I can’t imagine anyone reads this without knowing my entire life story, but if you aren’t in the know…we are going to D.C. for Kids Speak Up! an advocacy training program for kids with epilepsy.  And once the kids learn to advocate they spend the day on Capital Hill doing that.  With so many members of Congress very busy this week, all of Brennan’s meetings are with staffers of Senators, Congressmen, and Congresswomen.  But this week, I will forgive them.  This week they are working on finalizing the Health Care Reform Bill that passed last night and just needs to spend a little more time with the Senate. 

Trying to keep busy until my 10:45pm flight tonight I have a small list of things to do:

• One more coat of Carrot Orange Paint on living room wall so it doesn’t look like sherbert anymore
• Manicure & maybe a pedicure
• Eyebrows threaded (they look scary since I’ve been letting them go the last week or so)
• Shopping for pantyhose (Do women DC wear them?  We don’t in Arizona, but maybe they are still an East Coast thing?)
• Clean my bedroom so my husband doesn’t do it while I’m gone and mess with all my stuff (he can never tell what is trash and what is treasure).
• And keep up with my routine or saline nose drops, echinecea, gargles, and plenty of apples to remind my cold that it is time to pack it’s bags and get the hell out.

*Before I forget…The Fish.  The Fish is the voice in my head (sometimes The Fish isn’t a voice in my head and looks a lot like my husband…or my friend Christina) that lets me know when I’m getting ready to do something that is not a good idea.  I got the idea from The Cat in the Hat book.  Remember the fish that’s always telling the kids not to listen to The Cat in the Hat?  Like that. 

The first time I remember discovering a word that seemed really different I was about 12.  I was reading a book that got from a bookstore with a $10 gift certificate that was given to me for being a good reader.  This was the first time I got to go buy $10 worth of books.  And back when I was 12 that bought nearly 10 books.  I don’t remember the name of the book, but I do remember the word.  The word was despise. 

I don’t know that I’d ever read the word despise yet.  I was just beginning to read books that had words I wasn’t familiar with.  I didn’t need to look up the word because it was easy to figure it out.  I just remember being so impressed that there was more than one way to say hate.  And it wasn’t about liking hate.  It really was just about liking to have more than one way to say things.  That began my love affair with using a Thesaurus.

I have a new favorite word that is another one that has other words that mean the same thing.  This one is a fun word.  Fun to say and fun to want to say:  phenomenal. 

Words are phenomenal.  I think I’ll go say a few.  And maybe later I’ll read a few.  I’m still finding new ones to love. 

I took my thumb sucker to the orthodontist yesterday.  Nice guy.  He’s been seeing my mouth breathing son for a few years now (no braces yet, but a few teeth pulled).  Dr. Toothguy has two offices.  One in central Phoenix and one in Scottsdale.  Dr. Toothguy alternates weeks with the two offices.  We live pretty close to the central Phoenix office and normally see him there, but the kids were on Spring Break and Dr. Toothguy’s schedule had him at the Scottsdale office.

I figured there would be a few differences.  Central Phoenix has it’s nice parts and it’s not nearly as nice parts.  Part of the central Phoenix charm is driving by amazing mansion looking homes down Central Avenue, and then colorful graffiti art on sides of buildings.  Residents include former governors, newscasters, gang-bangers, homeless people, and me.  Scottsdale is beautiful.  Beautiful people.  Beautiful buildings.  Beautiful but fake.  People get dressed up to go shopping.  The city is known for Hollywood visitors and fake boobs. 

I didn’t really think about how the different location might affect the experience of going to see an orthodontist.  I expected nicer cars, newer office–no 1970s building and matching decor.  After the appointment I’ve been wondering if the suggestion given to my thumb sucker was also affected by the location.  My lovely middle child was told that she should really work on stopping her right thumb in mouth habit that has persisted for over 8 years.  Dr. Toothguy was gentle in his words–telling the child she was smart and wonderful and that it would take her head to break such a long habit.  Dr. Toothguy helped my child create a chart to track thumb sucking.  She’s to put the date on the side and then either a smiley face if she went the day without the thumb and a sad face if she succumbed to the habit.  He sympathised with her.  He shared his own successful plight to stop smoking a few years ago.  And he promised my child that when she went 30 days without sucking her thumb that her parents would buy her an iPod.  All this with me waiting in another room playing UNO with my youngest.  What?!?!  An iPod?  Once I was brought into the room I was told the child had a couple of missing permanent teeth, etc., and then I was then informed of the iPod deal. 

Dr. Toothguy mentioned that stopping the thumb habit would save us over $400.  Dr. Toothguy mentioned that there are several different types of iPod–including the Shuffle for under $100.  Had he noticed my surprise over the whole idea?  I’m not totally opposed to the idea.  But I wonder if that is the same offer he makes to patients when he sees them at the older dated office with maybe some bigger variations of income levels.  Stop sucking your thumb and go to Peter Piper Pizza?  Stop sucking your thumb and go on a shopping spree at the 99Cents Only Store? 

And then did Dr. Toothguy realize that it will cost me two iPods instead of one?  "Why?!?" you ask (you did–I heard you).  I will also have to buy one for my younger daughter.  She already asked me where the hell is her iPod since she stopped sucking her finger years ago.  I couldn’t really argue with that.  I’m not going to reward one child for breaking a habit that my other kids don’t have.  Otherwise I’ll bet my youngest child would start sucking her finger again just so that she can be bribed to stop.  Yes, my thumb sucker is a smart child.  But her younger sister may be smarter.  Or shiftier. 

And when my youngest and shiftiest child needs to have her first appointment with Dr. Toothguy (it’s inevitable) we will be going to the central Phoenix office. 

I’m sitting on my red couch watching T.V. and drinking lemonade.  Life is wonderful.  The lemonade was made from a neighbor’s tree.  Sure we had to sneak into the backyard when we needed a few more, but we nearly had permission.  I even strained the lemon juice three times to get all the pulp out (how come it’s more socially acceptable to be a kid with sensory issues?).  And man, is this lemonade amazing.  I only have a few sips left.  I should probably find out if the neighbor has a firearm because I may need to sneak into his backyard again.   

I made it!  I’m 42.  It feels like 24.  Not because I’m delusional.  Because it’s like my 40’s are now legitimate.  When I turned 24 I didn’t look 24 and I went out with a new guy and some of his friends on my birthday.  They all had this look when I told them it was my birthday like, "I’ll bet she’s barely drinking age and will act like a damn fool all night," but when I said I was 24 their looks changed to something that said I was for real.  Well, that’s what this feels like.  I’m really in my 40’s now! 

And how am I celebrating?

So far for breakfast I’ve had 3 Ibuprofen (so that maybe for the day I won’t feel the aches that have come with aging…plantar fasciitis) and two of these:

I’ve told my husband I want (at least) 42 kisses. 

I’m going to eat 3 cheeseburgers (as a challenge with my kids I haven’t had one in 48 days and can only eat them this year on birthdays…and I think half birthdays). 

I’m getting a hair cut…something that will take off at least 4 inches. 

And I’m going to have a dumb ass grin on my face all day because I love birthdays!

Thank you again Mom & Dad!

A touchy number.  The mother-in-law that I never met was only 41 years old when she died.  And my father-in-law was just 43 when he lost his wife.  I am 41 and my husband is 43.  I can’t so much as sneeze without my worry wart husband suggesting I see a doctor about it.  He’s cautious.  And he loves me.  But we made it.  He survived 41 and now I, unless I die in my sleep tonight, will make it.  The next milestone will be 53.  That’s how old my mom was when she died.  Death sucks. 

The matriarch of my mother’s family died last night.  She was my Great Aunt.  To me her name was Lucy Lucero.  But knowing that side of the family there is much more to it than that. 

Aunt Lucy was a family historian.  Aunt Lucy was also a world traveler, and an educator, and a hostess with the mostest. 

My first memories of Aunt Lucy are the same as those of my Great Aunt Pita and my Great Grandma, Luz Lucero, called Granny.  It was me being a little girl in a house full of family.  We were visiting New Mexico because that’s where my mom’s family was, and Aunt Lucy, Aunt Pita, and Granny lived together.  I don’t know if the visit was planned for months, or days, or possibly a few hours.  We showed up and there was a house full of people I was related to and a feast.  (I started to just use the word, "food," but that was not good enough.)  I remember something like a full Thanksgiving style feast with margaritas and orange soda. 

After awhile of being surrounded by family (and maybe after sipping some near empty margarita glasses that adults put down without thinking) I needed to retreat.  Part tired and part just knowing that there would be a cozy bed in a neat room just waiting for me to lay my little girl head down was what drew me to the room with twin beds.  It was the bed of one of my "spinster" Great Aunts.  Maybe Pita who was not much bigger than a little girl herself.  Or maybe Lucy.  But that bed and that room smelled like family.  And it was a few minutes to be alone and savor the feeling of having a family even one that I didn’t see very often because my mom moved so far from hers. 

Aunt Lucy lived with her sister and her mother when I was very little.  And then Granny and Aunt Pita died.  And eventually Aunt Lucy lived with my Great Aunt Sofie.  We could still come over when we were visiting and be made to feel like we were always welcome.  Because we always were.  And for the record, and because I know that it would be Aunt Sofie’s wish for you to know, Sofie was the younger sister.  And to remind everyone she colored her hair black so that she would look younger than Lucy who had silver hair for as long as I can remember it. 

Lucy traveled and she brought back little things from the exotic places she went to.  And when I would visit she would give me little dolls or trinkets.  I remember a small cloth Japanese doll that had an outfit like silk pajamas and thin legs that could be tucked inside of it’s arms so it stayed in a sitting position.

When I was older and visited her she brought out a photo album.  She had kept every picture sent to her of great nieces and nephews.  School photos.  Snap shots.  All kinds of things I would never have thought she would hang on to all these years. 

When I was older she trusted me to hold on to some family memories for her.  I was the oldest granddaughter to her sister Frances Chavez.  And my mom was Frances’ oldest daughter.  And I was Tina’s oldest daughter.  Aunt Lucy gave me a ring that had been her mother’s.  The gift was not the ring, but it was the acknowledgement of a position in a family.  She let me know that, even though I wasn’t around as often as others, I had a place.   

I hate cigarette smoke.  Maybe from years of breathing in my dad’s smoke.  And maybe from years of being around my dad and his horrible sounding nasty phlegm producing cough he started every morning with.  And maybe from watching my dad suffer and then die from his at least half-century cigarette habit.  But I hate cigarette smoke. 

And I’m vocal about my hatred of cigarettes.  Ask around.  I will ask smokers not to smoke.  I will ask businesses to enforce the no smoking around their doors law.  I will thank a cross-dressing individual with a similar smokers cough to my dad for being such a great example of why not to smoke when s/he coughs up half a lung in front of my kids.  I especially ask smokers not to smoke if we are at a kid’s sporting event, school event, etc.  Seeing a person smoking around kids takes my hatred up a few levels. 

So, when I saw a parental figure walking up to the school gate the other day at pick up time with a cigarette in his hand I was not happy.  When this parental figure–a dad or grandpa, but clearly not a person who regularly picks a kid up because he didn’t even do the pick up right–walked passed my Soccer-Mom looking mini-van I asked him to please not smoke again in front of the kids.  The other side of the school actually has a "Tobacco Free Zone" sign, but this pick up area didn’t.  But, still…what adult doesn’t know that you don’t take a lit cigarette up to a school? 

At first it appeared to be a brief conversation when I asked this dad-type person not to smoke, but he came back.  He wasn’t done with me.  He wanted to know if I thought kids never saw people smoke.  I said, sure, but they shouldn’t have to see it at their school…by a parent…since we are the adults they (should) look up to.  He wanted to know what my kids do at the grocery store (because that’s where people smoke?).  I said that if they see smokers they are either busy holding their breaths until we pass, or they start talking about their grandpa (my dad) or their grandma (their dad’s mom) and how they both died of smoking related illnesses (COPD and cancer).  I didn’t tell the guy that they used to ask (very loudly), "MOM, WHEN ARE THEY [pointing to the smoker] GOING TO DIE?" 

The dad person started reminding me that he had rights (which is only part right because there are laws against some of his perceived rights that include not smoking by certain entrances).  I had to get out my best mom lecture for this dad person.  My speech went something like this:

You are an adult and you know the right thing to do.  You probably wish that you had never started this very addictive habit that you know is not healthy.  I’m sure that you would not wish this horrible habit on any child, so you know that you should not be smoking in front of them at a school.  You do have the right to smoke, but you also know what the right thing to do is.

And then it was time for me to pull up my Soccer-mom style mini-van to get my kids.  I didn’t want to be rude, so I let this dad type person know that was why I was going to be pulling away from him.  And as I started to go, he spotted my liberal pinko-commie bumper sticker–the one that says Obama/Biden ‘08 and he yelled out, "Well, you might want to rethink your vote for Obama because he’s ruining the world."  And that was when I knew I won my argument. 

• I’m having a great hair day.
• My kids are finally at ages when they can let the grown-ups go out for awhile on our own and refresh our old-married-couple batteries, and because of that I had a lovely date with my husband this Saturday night!
• I think I"m going to take a short nap today even though I haven’t done anything to strenuous to require a nap, but just because I can.
• My car has to go to the mechanic this week, but I get to drive my old man’s fancy car and pretend I’m fancy too.
• Laundry is already done.
• I might go to a movie one day this week while the kids are in school.
• I have gift certificates I will use very soon:  one for a facial and one for a massage. 
• It is February and that means Science Fair Projects, heart shaped meatloaf, and my birthday!

I don’t cry anymore when I think of my mom.  My mom was in my dream last night, and it was as real as if she hadn’t been dead for over fifteen years.  She was sitting at a table while I was getting ready to put food on my plate from one of those all-you-can-eat buffet style tables with the lovely glass known as cough guards (did you know that’s what they were called?).  There’s always food around when I dream about my mom (interesting?).  My mom was strongly hinting that I load up on mashed potatoes–and in my dream I could nearly taste the fake mashed potato flavor in my mouth–and refried beans.  I was arguing that I didn’t want mashed potatoes and smashed beans, but then she pointed out that Chris Isaak was at a table nearby feeding a baby and I guess my mom thought that if I had a plate full of food that a baby could eat than I would be more marketable to him.  My mom always had a way of kinda throwing me at men that she thought I should throw myself at.  And in my dream I obliged and put mashed potatoes and refried beans on my plate and went and sat next to Chris Isaak and a baby that he seemed to be the parent of (kinda like Ricky Martin’s recent twins by a surrogate only without the "he’s probably not into chicks" feel).  I did shamelessly throw myself at Chris Isaak and I think I might have had my way with him after he seemed really impressed with my collection of Elvis memorabilia, but maybe the introduction of my Elvis stuff that I’ve collected with my husband reminded me that it was time to wake up and face the reality that a) I was married–and in a committed monogamous kind of way, b) I would never ever end up doing It with Chris Isaak and c) my mom wasn’t really alive anymore. 

I have a calm feeling now when I think of my mom.  I miss her, but it’s different from when she first died.  When she first died I couldn’t picture my life without her and everything seemed to loose purpose.  I ended up in therapy.  Things got better, but now I hardly can remember what life was like with her.  That makes me sad.  I miss the idea of her, but I don’t remember what it felt like to have her around to miss her as much. 

I don’t cry when I think of my dad anymore.  I thought my dad was my best friend when I was growing up.  He was tall.  He drank a lot.  He was funny.  He told funny stories about real things that he did.  He traveled a lot with work when I was little.  He was kicked out of our house a few times.  He could make my mom laugh and forgive him.  He probably could have stayed married to my mom much longer (if not forever) if she would have made it easier for him to have girlfriends.  He told old corny jokes (Man to a drug store clerk:  Could you show me where the talcum powder is located?  Clerk:  Walk this way…  Man:  If I could walk that way I wouldn’t need talcum powder!).  He screwed up several times.  He had a sadness about him.  He loved Jazz–specifically West Coast Be-Bop. 

I don’t have dreams with my dad in them much.  In fact I can’t remember any.  My dad died the week before my youngest was born and she’s 6 1/2.  I cried a lot in the beginning, but I was busy with three kids and cried much less than I remembered when my mom died.  My dad almost always lived in another state than me, but in the last 18 months of his life he moved to Phoenix and for part of that time he lived with us.  After years of independence for both of us, I was having to take care of my dad and being asked to inform him of my daily whereabouts.  I really might have been so excited to have my dad living close to me if he was healthier.  I would have loved going to movies with him or just hanging out.  But my dad couldn’t go to movies anymore.  And hanging out was even a chore. 

I had already lost my best friend to his poor health (decades of smoking), but at least he was around.  He could still tell stories and make everyone laugh.  And I think about him, but I don’t cry when I go to Safeway anymore (that’s where I did most of his grocery shopping).  I don’t cry when I look at his record collection in my house. 

I miss my mom and my dad, and I wish.  I wish.  I wish.  That my kids knew them more than just stories I’ve told and pictures I’ve shown.  That they could have helped hold my hand when my boy was sick.  That they were still here. 

I lied.  I still cry.  But just a little.