I Wanna…Blog Some

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?