I Wanna…Blog Some

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.

Cure it all.  Fuck it all.  Whatever. 

I read a friend’s blog where she discussed the question and the answer to the question about whether she would want a cure for down syndrome.  Her baby (6.5 year old) has down syndrome.  Then this friend posted a link to a story about a mom who helped her 16 year old son get a tattoo to inform people that he has type 1 diabetes.  And the mom mentions the question about what if they find a cure.

What if they find a cure for down syndrome?  Diabetes?  What about epilepsy?  We can’t all live forever, so we can’t just go around willy nilly curing every thing.  That would just be crazy.  And then funeral people would all go out of business.  But curing down syndrome, diabetes, and epilepsy that might not affect the funeral business too badly, but it would really be great for quality of life.  But do I think it would be possible?  Kinda. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the impact of epilepsy on my son.  Specifically how will it affect his life expectancy.  Will he die young?  Will putting depakote in his body for years and years damage his liver?  Will years of occasional brain misfirings make his brain or heart age quicker than the rest of us?  I’m afraid to ask his doctors because I’m afraid of what they would say. 

I’m going to stop writing now.  I’m starting to depress myself. 

After 15 years of marriage (and a few years of living together and a few years of dating off and on and a few years of knowing each other before our first date) it is hard to face changes.  Even changes you have longed for.  Maybe it’s because it was the other person who said it.  So, after all these years together I’ve been told that it is now time to move on from the old ways of doing things. 

Funny that I am now so resistant to this change when I’ve really wanted it for so long.  Here it is:  I’ve been told that I can start folding the husband’s socks over at the cuff when I fold the laundry.  All these years I folded everyone’s socks at the cuffs except for his because he was convinced it would stretch out his socks.  For him I would just match up the socks and fold them together in half.  Everyone else gets the cuff fold and then socks in a pile.  I kept saying, "Dear, by the time folding the cuffs might cause the socks to be stretched out it would be time for new socks anyway."  Maybe that finally started making sense.  Maybe he just started feeling different from the rest of us with his fancy pile of socks and not the chaotic pile the rest of us enjoyed.

So why is it so difficult now to start folding his socks the way I’ve folded every other sock in my entire life?  Do I feel guilty for getting my way…again?  Should I just be happy that I finally can have full sock consistency in my life?  It’s laundry day today and I’m not sure if I should be happy or sad (about the socks…I know I shouldn’t be happy because it’s laundry day).

I’m done.

There are times when I just want to send an email or a text or even a phone call and just say that.  Just say:  I’m done. 

Right now is one of those times.  Why?  Because my kids are off from school.  Because it is two days before Christmas…a holiday I don’t “celebrate” any more, but still participate in partially.  By that I mean Santa still pops in with a present for each kid and a full stocking for everyone.  And I’ve been in the mindset of being done with shopping since Hanukkah has been over for a few days and I have nothing ready for Christmas.  And the kids are out of school.  The house is a mess.  The dishwasher installer who was supposed to be here from 9-11am called earlier to say it would be from 1-3pm.  And the kids are out of school.  The house is a mess.  And my spouse.  My wonderful spouse.  He’s working.  Working hard (so that I don’t have to—outside of the home anyway).  I get it.  I’m even relieved a little because originally we were going to try to go to California and that would have been crazy—more gifts for more people with not enough time.  And so there is relief that my spouse is working.  But it also means that I have kids home from school.  Home is a mess.  Did I mention I have a cold that won’t go away that is made worse by sleep?  And it’s two days before a holiday that I don’t “celebrate” but I do some what participate?  And I have no dishwasher…well, I have two…one that doesn’t work pulled out into our playroom (our messy playroom) next to a shiny beautiful new one that is also in our playroom (our messy playroom) that better fucking work.  We got it for half off because it was a floor model of a discontinued style (but one highly rated by Consumer Reports Magazine), but it still cost more than we thought because of the installation fee and then the additional plumbers fee after the first installer had to leave because the valves were incorrect and then the haul off fee for the old sucky rusty dish “washer” that is in our messy playroom (our VERY messy playroom). 

The kids were all talked into showering and dressing so we could go visit the mall Santa.  The Christown Mall Santa.  In front of Costco.  No waiting!  The kid all typed up and printed out lovely letters to Santa.  Abby was concerned that Santa tell the elves, Mrs. Claus, and the reindeer that she said Merry Christmas.  Brennan was busy helping his sisters.  Sophie decided to ask for about a dozen presents—most with huge price tags.  I told the kids that we were in a recession and because of that Santa has to give more things to kids whose parents are hit hard by job loss etc. and that means that he has to budget for other kids.  And Brennan knows who Santa really is.  And Sophie pretty much knows who Santa really is.  And I already yelled at Sophie that if she tells me one more time that she’s going to ask Santa for a pig that she will get the pig and have to give away all of the rest of her worldly possessions and also quit gymnastics so she would be able to dedicate the proper amount of time to her pet pig.  So, she asked for a giant stuffed pig.  I could have lost it then. 

I waited and lost it when one of the kids came to me and informed me that the doors on the front closet are off the tracks….again.  I took off (threw off) all of the coats in the closet.  I tried to bend the tracks up better so that when I finally get the doors on they won’t keep falling off.  And I got one door up.  Tried to get the other door up and that made the first door fall back off.

Between different steps (get a ladder, get a hammer, get pissed, move shit out of the closet, hammer stuff, bang stuff, etc) of attempting to fix the closet doors I got mad at the kids.  Their rooms are a mess (as is the rest of the house).  I told them (well, Sophie) that she has some nerve asking Santa for so much stuff when she can’t take care of the things she already does have.   So, now the kids are cleaning their rooms (I think).  I’m in my bedroom (my very messy bedroom) and trying to blow off steam before I go back to the fucking closet doors that I want to take a hammer to. 

And if I can’t get the closet doors on.  And if the dishwasher installation guy tells me one more reason that he can’t install my shiny beautiful new dishwasher.  And if I can’t get out of my house to attempt to find some stocking stuffers. And if my kids don’t start taking me seriously when I tell them to clean their rooms.  You better watch out for my text, my email, or maybe even a phone call telling you that I am done. 

Thinking about my mom motivated me to make one of my favorite meals.  Well, thinking about my mom and fall like weather here in Phoenix (woohoo a high of 86◦!) motivated this meal.  My mom used to make it regularly and even though I wasn’t paying much attention I think I’ve figured out how to make it (unlike her enchilada sauce).  We never knew an official name for it so we named it Goop or Goup.  I figure Goup is more appropriate since it’s soup made with ground beef.  

The ingredients for Goup are:

• Ground Beef
• Potatoes
• Corn
• Water
• Flour
• Pepper
• Parsley

There’s no real recipe.  There’s an order, but no measuring.  Cook however much ground beef you have.  Add just enough water to cover potatoes that are cut into fairly small cubes.  Cook until potatoes are done.  Add however much frozen or even canned corn (or I suppose carrots or some other veggies would be fine, but then it’s not the same).  Thicken it with a little bit (or more) of flour (depending on how much water you used).  Then you add some pepper.  And a little more pepper.  And a little more pepper.  (I’m a pepper person and not a salt person.)  Add some parsley.  If you want you can add just a smidge (really, a smidge only) of red chili powder. 

I suppose Goup is a poor person’s meal.  That would make sense since we lacked a lot of moola in our coola growing up.  But, man, what a comfort food it has always been for me.  I don’t know if I should make it more so my kids also like it or less because they kinda seem to hate it.  Maybe I just need to find a better name for it.  Something like, "If You Eat This I Will Let You Have Ice Cream For Dessert."

I wasn’t even thinking about it.  Much.  I had a general idea, but wasn’t doing some count down to the date.  Then I was looking at a friend’s blog and there was the date on her post she wrote today.  October 5, 2009.  It’s been 15 years since my mom died.  Well, assuming she died after midnight.  That’s the funny thing about dying in your sleep.  No one can be totally sure of what day you died (or there’s my dad who died while awake and we still don’t know what day he died because he lived alone and that sucked too). 

So, 15 years.  I don’t have to do the math because it was just a couple of months after I got married and I’ve been married 15 years.  Some days it feels like I never even had a mom.  There’s this vague idea or fantasy of what it was once like to have a person in my life that would take my calls no matter what time it was during the few times we lived apart (I lived at home until I shacked up with my now husband and only moved away from home a few times and then once she moved away from home briefly).  We became best friends eventually, but it was not an easy road to that. 

My mom said things to me that no mom should ever say to a child.  There were a couple of times when police had to be involved with smoothing things out between the two of us.  I wasn’t an easy child (I know that now that I have children of my own).  But eventually we were great friends.  I could tell her anything.  It sometimes freaked out my boyfriends that she new such intimate details of my life.  It may have even freaked out some of her boyfriends if they knew what she told me. 

My mom became one of my greatest supporters.  She told me what she was proud of and it wasn’t always the typical stuff to be proud of.  Once she told me that she admired the way I treated men the way that they treated women.  That might not seem like a compliment, but I think what she meant was that she felt like I didn’t get hurt by men the way she had she seemed to think I knew what I wanted and went after it (or him).  But she also seemed very relieved when I settled down.  There’s a part of me that thinks she was ready to let go of this world as soon as I married because she trusted this guy I found.  She knew that I was in good hands and found someone that would keep me safe.  Maybe that was something she recognized as the oldest of 8 kids that I was a true "baby" of the family and would always do better with some help than on my own.  She was ready to hand me over. 

I can’t remember her voice.  I can’t remember what her hugs felt like.  I can’t remember how she walked or snored or sang or anything anymore.  She’s as real as the Loch Ness Monster.  I have pictures.  I have my wedding video.  Some place I even have her old answering machine with her voice on it.  But none of those things make me feel like she was just here a second ago.  I have memories and sadness.  I have three kids that have never met her.  I tell them that to know me is to know her.  I ended up being just like her in so many ways.  I wanted kids–especially a daughter–so that I could have a mom in my life again even if that mom was me.  I hope that my kids will forgive my mistakes, know I’m proud of them, and remember they can call me at any hour. 

My Mom & me on the day that we met. 

My Mom & me one Halloween (I’m the one on the right).

Pure Fiction

Just when my husband is at his hottest I can’t touch him.  And it’s not that I can’t, but it would be pointless.  He’s been so busy with work.  Doing real professional stuff.  Wearing a suit daily.  And doing hot professional stuff.  It’s so professional and so hot that I can’t even say what it is.  And it’s all day every day!  But because it’s all day/every day he’s either not home or asleep!  So, that’s why touching him during his oh-so-steamy phase is ridiculous to even think about. 

And while he’s busy being hot…well…maybe it’s a good time for us to spend some time apart.  Because I have fricken hemorrhoids.  Or at least I think it’s hemorrhoids.  The area that would be responsible for housing such a nuisance is killing me.  But I am absolutely not willing to go to a doctor and have that region examined to find out if it is truly hemorrhoids or not.  I finally broke down and went to Target yesterday to buy ointment for my presumed ‘rhoids.  While there I did some shopping for a baby gift for a shower I was going to.  While hanging out in the baby section and internally oohing and ahhing over little baby things I started chatting with a good looking younger couple that were expecting their first baby.  We talked about the joys of having a baby right before Halloween so they can have their first costume when they are little and squishy.  We talked about childbirth (only good stories).  We talked about the most efficient breast pump to buy.  We finally parted ways when my oldest kid called me on my cell phone from his cell phone to request my presence in the Lego section of Target.  I convinced the boy to wait until next week to purchase the Lego set he really wanted and taught him how to hide the one he wanted that only had two left behind the set that had about ten boxes left.  Then I totally forgot that I promised The Boy a few brand spanking new dollar bills if he would buy my hemorrhoid cream because I was really embarrassed.

I was heading in the pharmacy section and couldn’t find any section that looked right.  Eye Care, Colds/Flu, Anti-itch (that was close), but I was starting to think I was going to have to ask the person at the pharmacy counter.  I didn’t want to buy the stuff myself and I was going to have to ASK FOR IT!?!  Well, in the nick o’ time I did find it.  Turned around and there it was.  And turned a little more and there was the really adorable couple expecting their first baby!  I had to leave.  This couple was too adorable and I did not want them seeing me in the hemorrhoid cream section!  What would they think of me?  That I wasn’t the cool and charming seasoned mom with sage advice or that I lied that having three kids come out of me was so great that here I was needing something to soothe the regions near my regions because of the umm pressure of three kids that came out of me? 

I left.  Went back to the Lego aisle, got my son, wandered around a bit until I was sure that the cute, non-hemorrhoid couple were gone, got my cream and found a check out lane.  Then I had the dilemma of going through the line of the older clerk who might just look at me with sympathy or the very young clerk who might look at me like, "damn you are old if you are buying this and what are hemorrhoids anyway?"  I went with younger, and acted as nonchalant as possible.  I think it worked.  She didn’t snicker or look at me weird or anything.  Then I remembered that I probably could have used my Medical Savings Account Debit Card.  I decided just to skip it rather than have to discuss whether that purchase would be eligible or not.  Why push my luck since I still hadn’t died of total embarrassment yet and why push my luck? 

So, here I am.  Totally hot, totally untouchable husband who is NEVER home right now.  My ass is killing me.  Oh, yeah and now my period decides to start being regular (I used to be every 6 weeks and now it’s more like the typical 4 weeks…this sucks).  All I have to say is that my kids deserve way more than a dad who is really really busy the same week that their mother is in such disrepair.  

After I made a couple of aprons for teachers last year word got out that I could sew. And even I started to believe it. It was a lie. A teacher asked me today if I could sew a poodle skirt for her granddaughter–she’s also a student at the school and there’s a "Sock Hop" tomorrow night for the kids and families.

Well, the teacher gave me the pattern (and it said Easy on it), some fabric (not the kind the pattern specified), and a poodle applique. No matching thread, no zipper, no clue that I had no idea what to do with a zipper anyway. I decided to go for it. I can sew a straight line, damn it! I decided to make the opening a little bigger and use elastic instead of a zipper. Of course she didn’t buy elastic. I improvised on all of the stuff not included.

I had just enough pink from a random bobbin with the last of the pink thread at my house. I took a piece of elastic out of an old pair of raggedy time-to-throw-them-out pajamas. And I used the plain cotton-y fabric instead of the suggested wool or felt. The hardest part of all of it was sewing the hem on the bottom. Since the fabric was basically one big circle with a circle cut out for the waist, the hem was bigger on the bottom which ended up being the top once I pressed (yes, I ironed) the ends over. Because of the extra material on the bottom (which became the top of the hem part) the skirt is bunchy on the inside/bottom part of the skirt. I shouldn’t have made such a big hem I guess. Whatever.

The teacher offered to pay me. I’m going to tell her that payment is for her not to tell anyone that I made it. Then we’ll be even.

When my Boy was born he didn’t excell at anything except being beautiful.  I wasn’t the only person who thought that he was beautiful–there was a woman at a grocery store who came up to me and told me that it looked like I was holding a doll because he was so beauiful.  But other than his looks he wasn’t one to try to hard at anything.  He waited until the last possible moment to master skills in order to not be labeled delayed.  He was just really good at laying there and looking beautiful. 

Things changed right around age 4 when he started a Pre-K program at a Montessori school.  Suddenly he was the kid that motivated other kids.  Every other kid wanted to read just like him and undertake projects with him (he and another student finger loomed these little pieces of material to make some long thing that probably could stretch half of a football field just so they could measure it).  He was writing letters to his little sister.  He loved doing math games.  He was making eleborate groupings of words with the moveable alphabet (it’s a Montessori thing) until he made a crossword puzzle type thing begining with the word supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (spelled phonetically, but still!).  Other students wanted to be like him and there were parents who looked at him while their kid was rolling around on the floor and picking lint out of body crevices.  I could tell parents were impressed.  And it made me proud.  And it made me obnoxious. 

Not only was the Boy excelling academically he had game.  We first put him in soccer, but it was basketball that he really loved.  One of my all time favorite memories ever in the world was a weekend at a nearby school yard when the Boy was not even in school yet.  We were letting him play on the play ground equipment and taking advantage of the open sky with a kite that wouldn’t make it far before tangling in a tree or eletric line if we stayed at home.  When we were leaving we walked by a group of Big Boys (can’t remember the age, but probably middle school) playing some basketball.  My Boy walked up and just asked if he could shoot.  The really nice Big Boys said sure like they were gonna throw this little kid a bone and then move on with their day.  Well, my Boy sunk it.  And then walked away.  It was beautiful.  You could tell the Big Boys were very impressed with this runt who came in and "swish" put the ball right where it was supposed to go.  The best part was that he just wanted that one try and he looked so cool walking off after.  It was another proud mom moment.  Another accelorator towards obnoxious on my part for sure. 

As the Boy got older he stopped soccer and alternated between coach pitch baseball and basketball.  I wanted him to fall in love with and be great at baseball.  That’s my favorite sport and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my one goal in life is to have a son that plays major league ball (there I said it!).  But still, it was basketball that the Boy loved and was great at.  He could dribble with both hands.  Shoot with both hands.  He grew his hair long because it made him like Steve Nash, his favorite basketball player.  He was called a "little Danny Ainge" because of the way he moved on the court. 

Then he was sick.  That’s what we call it.  Someone asked once what we call what happened because she knew others who named big events in their lives and so she asked.  Things are either "before the Boy was sick, "when the Boy got sick," or "after the "Boy became sick."  That’s how we track time.  And I’m sure most of you know what I mean when I say it, but on the chance that there is someone reading this that doesn’t I will say what "sick" means.  Sick was when there were lots of seizures, a hospitalization, a brain tumor, a brain surgery, more hospitalization, and to this day still occasional seizures.  And my Boy now mostly resembles who he was "before he was sick," but not entirely.  He didn’t die, even though I thought he might, but there are still times I know that we do mourn the "before sick" Boy.  I should just be happy because he’s nearly who he was before.  But then something happens like a basketball game. 

The Boy still plays regularly on a basketball team made up of kids that he’s played with for years.  His teammates hesitate to pass him the ball.  And for good reason.  He catches the ball and looks scared and passes again really quickly–sometimes to fast to really see who is open.  He hardly ever attempts a layup.  On the rare occasions that he shoots the ball he misses nearly every time.  I talked my husband into us buying a really nice basketball hoop for our driveway so that he could practice more.  Alone he does better, but when he’s playing against others he’s timid.  Like that?  Timid sounds better than he sucks.

Accademically the Boy now seems average.  I should be happy, but he used to be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, remember?  He went from being great at nearly everything (he skipped a grade right before the sick thing happened) to being average.  And very nearly below average in a few things–according to the standardized testing he did at the end of last school year.  And so now, nearly 3 years after "sick" happened I am starting to either stop being dellusional or start facing facts.  I’m going to be looking into whether or not my Boy needs an Indivdualized Education Plan (IEP) to help him out in school.  Maybe he just needs a little bit more time to take tests.  Maybe he needs to learn to type and get him a laptop for writing.  Maybe he does have some "cognitive" issues (husband’s words) that I need to just accept.  I’m having trouble with acceptance right now.  I’m having trouble watching my kid that was so far ahead start falling behind.  I wonder which me is more obnoxious?  The one that glowed to brightly around others when her kid seemed perfect in every single way?  Or the one that can’t be happy with what is and still dwells in the past when supercalifragilisticexpialidocious was the norm?

Today is my 15th Wedding Anniversary, and I love to get or make a present that’s part of the traditional gifts thing.  You know First Year is paper, 25th Year is silver, etc.  Last year the gift was ivory.  Ummm….illegal!  We both got each other Ivory Soap.  I gave him the bars and he wrapped my gift (a watch that I lost, but I don’t wanna talk about that!) with the Ivory Soap wrappers.  15 years is crystal.  I bought some pretty Austrian Crystals and a few other things and used the keys that were left at our house as offerings.  And viola!  A pretty wind-chime!  Below are the steps I took to make it.

Step 1:  Put a whole in the box….wait…no, that’s not it.

Step 1:  Find materials.

Step 2: Get more materials.

Step 3:  Put a bunch of stuff together and get ready to put it all together.

Step 4:  Hang and admire work.

We pinkie promised, so I can give no specifics.  Let’s just say we (4 Mamas + 11 Kids) had a good time!  I think the kids will have some great memories from another summer adventure.  Living in the heat of Phoenix gives few opportunities during summer vacation to just let loose and have a good time, but drive a few hours North and that’s what you will find. 

Opportunities to run in freezing hail.  Opportunities to throw all of your clothes out of a window and try to figure out just how you will get them back (I may have gone against my pinkie promise slightly on this , but I’m not naming names!).  Opportunities to try to fly.  Opportunities to get scabs, bruises, bug bites (maybe even in interesting places).  Opportunities to find opportunities. 

This year we had a cabin for four nights.  Two of us stayed the entire time, one family stayed the first two nights, and one family was there the last three nights.  There was the one evening when it was all four mamas and all eleven kids–ranging in ages 1 to 11.  We let the kids have some freedom as long as either the 10 or 11 year old was "supervising."  Freedom was usually called a hike, but was more like a nature walk within yelling distance. 

Things were different from last year and part of it was some of the mamas and kids were different, we were all older and wiser, and we learned from last year’s errors.  The only error I will mention was the menu planning.  Last year we all were to take turns cooking and the menus were the healthiest eats that could be imagined.  And about a day and a half into it a couple of us snuck off to the closest grocery store and shopped like college students with a serious refer habit.  This year I suggested we cut the crap and just shop how we would really want to eat when stuck in a cabin with 2 or 3 other women and kids in every corner of the dwelling.  That meant we were prepared with a big bag of sugar, several packets of Kool aid, the necessary ingredients for rice crispy treats, tons of root beer, Cheetos, and Oreo cookies.  We did have to drive to the nearest market for more sugar, but otherwise we were way more prepared. 

I will cherish my memories of summer with my kids because of trips like this.  I really hope they do to.  And if they want (or need) to share the more specific details later in life to a trained professional I will try to understand.   

Going on another trip to the North with friends.  We did have a blast last year and I can’t wait to get out of the heat of Phoenix. 

I’m merely procrastinating for a few more minutes before I hit the road.  I won’t have internet and so I think I’m having some trouble breaking free from my computer.  I’ll be fine though.  I’m bringing cards, a book, some craft stuff, and a few DVDs.  I should make it.  Right? 

Off to meet my car pool buddy.  Wish us luck.  This year it’s 4 moms and 11 kids.  A few less than last year, but a lot still. 

See ya when I get back, Dear Computer…

Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale…

Breathing is important.  I thought I learned that pretty well in the hypnobirthing class I took when I was pregnant with my second actual baby (as opposed to my second actual pregnancy–I’ve been knocked up 6 times all together, but I’ve had a series of unfortunate miscarriages or busting fallopian tubes).  I learned at hypnobirthing class that holding your breath while pushing was stupid.  Duh, you should be working hard to breath your baby out rather than turning blue because you are holding your breath while some crazy people yell at you to PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!PUSH!  When it came time to actually give birth using my newly learned and frequently practiced hypnobirthing breathing I don’t remember how the hell I was breathing, but it worked.  And it worked again about 18 months later with my third actual baby. 

I don’t remember with either births if I actually did the very slow breaths in and out that I had practiced, but I do remember the visualization of breathing down.  So, for me I was convinced of the power of breathing.  But thinking about it now how could I be so surprised?  I have always been a fan of breathing and oxygen…well, at least since high school.  Two things happened in high school that made interested in breathing.  One was my chemistry teacher, Mr. Hess who used to walk up and down the aisles of desks when we were taking tests and would remind us to breath.  I flunked the class and didn’t graduate from my high school because of it, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t breathing. 

The summer before the first year I tried to pass Mr. Hess’ class I started thinking about how breathing affects our mental and intellectual capacity.  And I was thinking I was pretty darn smart, but I was also thinking other people were not.  So I decided to periodically hold my breath for the betterment of others.  I felt it important when I was around people I felt were particularly in need of a little extra oxygen (like my stupid ass brother) to hold my breath for as long as I could to give the dumber people a little extra.  (I wasn’t counting on needing that oxygen myself later in order to pass chemistry either my junior or senior years at Pueblo High School.)

All kidding aside, I was faced with the realities of the importance of oxygen a few years ago when my oldest kid first started having seizures.  Maybe he was just thinking I needed a little extra oxygen (back to joking for a second…ok done) because he would either stop breathing a little or sometimes a lot.  I began seeing oxygen masks regularly and once I watched as a tube was shoved down his throat so that a machine could help him breath.  When our son has had seizures at home we haven’t had a handy dandy device letting us know how well our son is breathing.  We always relied on just watching and yelling "Breath, son!  Breath!"  (It’s a lot like Run, Forest, run!" now that I think about it.)  It’s always been crazy to hope for the best without the benefit of machines telling us how worried we should be. 

It’s truly difficult for me to see how well my kid is breathing when it’s a small movement of the chest area normally, but a seizure is huge jerks–for our kid anyway–of head, arms, and body.  I keep replaying the last seizure in my mind.  It was about three nights ago now.  I was alone with him (and that’s a lot of pressure by the way).  It was up to me to make sure we were both breathing.  We must have been.  I acted in a calm manner (not at all usual for me) and he came out of the seizure and post-ictal phase* pretty quickly. 

I don’t that what I’m making any sense.  But I just wanted to put it out there that if there was a fan page on Facebook for breathing I would totally become a fan. 

*Google it, it’s 2am and I’m too tired to put a link to explain it even though I’m not tired enough to go to sleep.   

Awhile ago I mentioned curtains I was making with some beautifully colorful fabric.  The curtains have been done for awhile and there was extra material that I  ended up making an apron and a pot holder out of.  The projects turned out really great.  I did ask the husband to hang the rod a little crooked so that no one would know that the curtains were a wee bit crooked, but I don’t know that it worked.  And I also wouldn’t pick up anything too hot with the pot holder.  But otherwise…

My Boy came home taller.  He seemed so grown.  He told me he had a great time, but I wasn’t listening as much as I was holding on to him and reconnecting after the longest time he’s ever been away from me. 

I asked if many kids had seizures (it was a camp for kids with epilepsy, afterall).  He said a few did.  There was one girl who had to wear a helmet because she had the kind called Drop Seizures which can lead to injuries from…well…dropping.  She had the most (but there was no prize–I have expected this camp to have prizes for most, longest, creativity).  The way he talked about them was so "matter-of-fact" and he explained how the counselors reacted by just being near the person and maybe rubbing their back.  I wonder if that helped him feel better about the times he’s had them. 

Unfortunately with me as his mom he would come out of seizures with a panic stricken lunatic hovering or crying rather than some calm person just lightly rubbing his back like friends did for me back in the day when I’d be hunched over gravel puking up my guts on Mill Ave.  I am going to try to take a lesson from this and if (God, I hope it doesn’t really happen) My Boy has a seizure around me I’m going to just sit by him and rub his back and leave the panic stuff in the past.  He deserves to come out of seizures without the panic of others making them worse.  But I will always hold on to the hope that there will be no other one. 

My Boy is looking forward to going back next year.  And I am looking forward to it also.  Maybe next year I can convince my husband that we can take a trip during that time.  He will be ok.  We will be ok.  We could be ok in Nappa Valley.

It has been nearly a week since we dropped The Boy off at Camp Candlelight.  That’s the camp that the Arizona Epilepsy Foundation puts on for kids with epilepsy.  So, that means that first of all I have to admit that The Boy has epilepsy and then I have to drive him about 2 hours away to Heber, Arizona (Ok, I didn’t do the driving…I did the sleeping while The Husband did the driving).

The Boy was very excited about this week long "camping" experience.  I was only a little nervous.  Not about how he would do, but about the way my mind would be cruel during the week of his absence.  I have managed to stay busy and have only had a few minutes.  Mostly to feel guilty that it can be very relaxing not to have to worry about a child.  I could still worry long distance, but it’s a different kind of worry when you are the only adult at home all day that is supposed to be in charge.  I spend my days trying to give enough space and also not forget to check on him at least periodically.  I mean, what if he had a seizure and I didn’t hear it and he fell and I didn’t go check on him and I don’t know what would be next.  It would probably be okay unless he played that "I don’t think I’ll breath" trick that he used to do.  He has only had two seizures in 2 1/2 years, but still I worry and still I feel guilty because I’m relieved to not be the adult in charge for a full week. 

Then there’s that other place I was afraid my mind would take me.  The place where I thought about how this is what life might be like all the time if the worst had happened when he was sick–the life of only having two kids.  I was afraid that I would be reminded of all the times I thought about how I would survive if I lost a child.  How I thought (non-stop at times) of how to keep my son’s memory alive to his sisters–one who was only 3 when her big brother was sick. 

But that’s silly, right?  My son did live.  And he rarely has seizures.  And the last two weren’t so severe that he stopped breathing.  And he comes home tomorrow!  I’m hoping to hear all about the activities, but more importantly what he felt meeting other kids with epilepsy (this was his first time meeting other kids with the same diagnosis).  I won’t be making the drive (even as a passenger) to pick him up.  I will see him at 6pm when he will be coming to see me graduate from a class I have been taking.  It will be a bigger graduation in my mind having given my son his first week of freedom from my crazy thoughts and overprotective nature.  (I will not be telling him of my crazy thoughts, so that’s just like they never happened, right?)

I can’t say no.  I think it will be good for the kids.  I want to be helpful.  I know others would do the same for me (and they have). 

Those are some of the reasons that might ramble around my mind if I wonder how I ended up with extra kids a few days a week during the month of June.  But do you think the parents of the kids that I’m watching know just how much I don’t pay attention to the kids I am responsible for?  I try to do my best to just stay out of their way and hope for the best.  My philosophy is kind of "I won’t bother you and you don’t bother me." 

Should I have told this to the parents of these extra kids so they could make an informed choice? 

I really want my kids to have fun and I don’t think that means having me plan every minute of their day for them.  I want them to invent their own games.  I want them to make up their own rules.  I want them to solve problems they might get themselves into.  I was about 11 when I had to figure out that I should probably eat something to get the cigarette smoke off my breath before going home to tell my mom that I had a broken arm.  I just want my kids to have some of those kind of problem solving skills. 

Would I be happy to know that my kids’ friend’s parents are just as relaxed (or lazy depending on your perspective) when my precious babies are visiting others?  I hope so.  I know the only feeling I remember having is one of complete failure when my kids come home from other people’s houses with a batch of homemade cookies that the mom helped them make.  But that’s ridiculous because I have helped some kids bake cookies.  And one time I let The Boy and another boy in his class create something called Dangerous Pie in my kitchen with very little guidance.  The boys destroyed my kitchen that day.  I guess what I hope is that some of my kid’s friend’s parents are willing to let my kids help destroy their kitchen a little.  And that I remember that what those other parents don’t know what hurt them and what I don’t know won’t hurt me.  Right?