I am seriously considering getting a new doctor. It's a shame, really, because this guy seems to know his stuff and trust me to give him accurate information. But his assistant is an idiot. Normally, that doesn't affect me too much, and I've been willing to cope with it to have a good doc who can deliver. But recently, during the disability evaluation, a woman from the Social Security office called about a note that was in my medical file. "Are you employed? Because it says here that you've been checking your blood pressure at work." Um, no. Not employed. No work. Can't work, remember? Maybe it's a reference to my blood pressure being high because of my work a year ago? She sounded extremely dubious, and I don't blame her. What the heck? I'm thinking it was a note meant for someone else's file and it got put in mine by mistake.
But then there was my latest adventure, and I'm ready to commit bodily damage on the dimwits who work at that clinic. It started when I noticed that I was getting a little low on my pain meds and decided to call for a new prescription. (Percocet requires a new paper prescription written every time you get a new supply, it being a mind-altering drug and all.) This was last week-- i.e., the third week of September-- remember that.
I guess the trouble started because I needed the new script to be the same strength as I'd been using for a long time instead of the new one the doc had given me the last time I was in. (My discount plan doesn't cover it, so it costs an arm, a leg, and most of the small intestine.) I called and explained the situation and specified the strength and dosage that I needed. The doc's assistant (Idiot Girl) called back and said I could pick up the paper. Great, I said. The Man (TM) picked it up and fortunately brought it home before stopping at the pharmacy. "Um, this is only for half the amount I need," I muttered. It being Friday evening, I had to wait until Monday to call back and ask them to correct the mistake.
So Monday morning I called, thankful that I still had a couple days' worth of pills left. The person who took my call apologized, but the doc wouldn't be in again until Tuesday. OK, fine. Except of course that TM doesn't have a free minute on Tuesdays (or Thursdays) while the clinic is open and will be unable to get it until Wednesday. Well, fortunately, I had enough meds left to survive that long.
On Wednesday, TM being worried about me, he took the script directly to the pharmacy and had it filled. When he brought it home, I took one look and screamed. It was twice the dose it should have been, so it cost well over $150. Money, I need not add, that we couldn't spare. Dear heavens, how hard is this? How many times did I specify what strength and dosage I needed? (Yes, I was in full "critical Mom" mode.) OK, the clinic's still open, let's see if we can get this fixed today. I called and left yet another message but again had to wait for Idiot Girl to call back and tell me it was ready.
Well, she didn't call on Wednesday. Thursday morning, her bright but dim voice came over the line, "We've got it right this time. Sorry for the inconvenience." Inconvenience? Really? I have exactly one more pill left-- that's 6 hours' worth-- no car, and no way to get this thing filled today. And in fact, no way to get it filled tomorrow until late afternoon. So, in fact, I faced nearly 24 hours of not just unmitigated pain but (what I didn't know) the excruciating torment of opiate withdrawal. Oooh, inconvenient, that.
By 7:30 p.m. Thursday, the Percocet had worn off and my muscles were seizing up. I took a large dose of ibuprofen, but it had no effect. By midnight, my every nerve felt as if it were on fire. I couldn't sleep, but at some point, the pain overwhelmed me and I passed out. It also woke me a bit later. I repeated this cycle several times before morning. When TM and the older kids left for school, I was having a hard time breathing because it hurt too much to move even that little bit. I couldn't even croak out, "Only 9 more hours." I wanted to blog about it; my brain was still alert enough to find the situation interesting, but I physically couldn't do even that much.
Punkin Boy was pretty good, and didn't jump on me or head-butt me or anything, and that helped a lot. Still, it was a marathon. And I was just wondering whether I could make it through that last 2 hours, when miracle of miracles, the garage door opened and in rushed TM with a pharmacy bag in his hand. He looked like nothing less than an angel of mercy bringing deliverance to a tormented soul. It took a while for the effects of the withdrawal to leave me, but much of the pain took a most welcome powder and I was able to smile again.
I'm feeling better, but I'm still looking for a new doc.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
In Security
I had this post all planned out in my head last night. I was going to write it up during the day, but then I thought it might be tricky accomplishing that with a preschooler hanging off my elbow or stepping on my shoulders. So I put it off. Naturally, by tonight, I am brain dead and glassy-eyed and can only vaguely remember the topic, which was The Response from the Social Security People to my Disability Application.
When The Man (TM) handed me the envelope and said, "Social Security sends their love," I had the sinking feeling that they had rejected my claim. I didn't want to open it. But I didn't want anyone else to open it, either. So I waited until after dinner (like my appetite wasn't already ruined), popped it open, and scanned down through the bureaucratese to the good stuff. Yep, they rejected me, all right.
Now, I wasn't really surprised and I wasn't really being negative about the situation. TM had thought I was, but then he talked to a bunch of people at school and around town about it, and they all agreed that everyone gets rejected the first time; some even said it takes an average of three tries before you get accepted-- unless you hire a lawyer for your appeal. Then it's almost automatic.
I think it's important to note that in general my esteem for various government agencies is a lot higher on average than most people's simply because I've worked for and with them. (This will come up again later.) But boy, my respect for the SS people just sank.
I remember part of my rant (and believe me, it was going to be a rant-- and probably still is) involved my first reaction to their pronouncement-- specifically, the words "Are you stupid, or just evil?"
Well, my first reaction, after I stopped laughing enough to breathe. Because although they did accept my statement that I can no longer do the job I worked at most recently (i.e., magazine editor), I should easily be able to return to my previous career as an intelligence analyst! Oh, of course! Without the ability to sit or stand very long and with my mind constantly clouded by the pain medicine... sure, involve me in our country's security, have me writing reports that our president will use to determine whether to choose peace or war... sure.
OK, some of you out there are cynically nodding to yourselves and going, yeah, I always knew that was what went on there... except it doesn't. If I even applied to get my old job back, even provided that I had a chance of moving back to the suburban D.C. area, they'd take one look at my test scores and laugh me out of town. Seriously. I'm still laughing, and it's not even funny. (But that link is. Click it and weep.)
OK, so here's the deal. They tell me I have 60 days from receipt of this letter (and they know when I got it, of course) to ask in writing for a hearing in court. Then I have to sign form xyz-590/3 etcetera, etcetera. Then I have to complete an appeal form telling more about my medical condition since I filed my claim. THEN, a judge will inform me (by the ever-trusty US Postal Service) when my appeal hearing will be. It is bound to be impossible to make. They feel the need to tell me, however, in BIG BOLD PRINT that it is important to go to the hearing. 'Cause I'm stupid or something.
Only, apparently, I'm not. This was their reasoning behind denying my claim. And I quote:
No, seriously. I'm starting to get the feeling that the answer to my earlier question is the second option. But then TM picks up the letter from where I've dropped it in my gales and convulsions of laughter. He starts reading about the hearing stuff. "You have the right to an attorney... if you cannot afford an attorney... groups who can help... Wait. If you hire an attorney, we will withhold 25 percent of your benefits." Uh huh. And this is because what? Oh yes, because if you hire a lawyer, you're almost certain to win the appeal, and therefore....
I think we have our answer to the earlier question: evil.
When The Man (TM) handed me the envelope and said, "Social Security sends their love," I had the sinking feeling that they had rejected my claim. I didn't want to open it. But I didn't want anyone else to open it, either. So I waited until after dinner (like my appetite wasn't already ruined), popped it open, and scanned down through the bureaucratese to the good stuff. Yep, they rejected me, all right.
Now, I wasn't really surprised and I wasn't really being negative about the situation. TM had thought I was, but then he talked to a bunch of people at school and around town about it, and they all agreed that everyone gets rejected the first time; some even said it takes an average of three tries before you get accepted-- unless you hire a lawyer for your appeal. Then it's almost automatic.
I think it's important to note that in general my esteem for various government agencies is a lot higher on average than most people's simply because I've worked for and with them. (This will come up again later.) But boy, my respect for the SS people just sank.
I remember part of my rant (and believe me, it was going to be a rant-- and probably still is) involved my first reaction to their pronouncement-- specifically, the words "Are you stupid, or just evil?"
Well, my first reaction, after I stopped laughing enough to breathe. Because although they did accept my statement that I can no longer do the job I worked at most recently (i.e., magazine editor), I should easily be able to return to my previous career as an intelligence analyst! Oh, of course! Without the ability to sit or stand very long and with my mind constantly clouded by the pain medicine... sure, involve me in our country's security, have me writing reports that our president will use to determine whether to choose peace or war... sure.
OK, some of you out there are cynically nodding to yourselves and going, yeah, I always knew that was what went on there... except it doesn't. If I even applied to get my old job back, even provided that I had a chance of moving back to the suburban D.C. area, they'd take one look at my test scores and laugh me out of town. Seriously. I'm still laughing, and it's not even funny. (But that link is. Click it and weep.)
OK, so here's the deal. They tell me I have 60 days from receipt of this letter (and they know when I got it, of course) to ask in writing for a hearing in court. Then I have to sign form xyz-590/3 etcetera, etcetera. Then I have to complete an appeal form telling more about my medical condition since I filed my claim. THEN, a judge will inform me (by the ever-trusty US Postal Service) when my appeal hearing will be. It is bound to be impossible to make. They feel the need to tell me, however, in BIG BOLD PRINT that it is important to go to the hearing. 'Cause I'm stupid or something.
Only, apparently, I'm not. This was their reasoning behind denying my claim. And I quote:
"Although these conditions may cause you concern, a recent exam showed that you are able to think, reason, communicate, remember and follow instructions, and act in your own best interest."Because any condition short of Terri Schiavo's is not the same as, or anywhere near as bad as, being disabled. I begin to sense a plan here. A plan to save Social Security. The means are simple: Never pay out any claims again! Mwahahahahaha!
No, seriously. I'm starting to get the feeling that the answer to my earlier question is the second option. But then TM picks up the letter from where I've dropped it in my gales and convulsions of laughter. He starts reading about the hearing stuff. "You have the right to an attorney... if you cannot afford an attorney... groups who can help... Wait. If you hire an attorney, we will withhold 25 percent of your benefits." Uh huh. And this is because what? Oh yes, because if you hire a lawyer, you're almost certain to win the appeal, and therefore....
I think we have our answer to the earlier question: evil.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Talkin' 'bout Pirates
Well, our pirate household enjoyed Talk Like a Pirate Day. Pirate Boy was particularly good and only said "Shiver me timbers!" when he was on the playground and not in the classroom. It was one of our long and painful days, so I had to use the threat of keelhauling to get the little pirates to go to bed, but they didn't make me follow through.
After that, I turned to the most appropriate entertainment I could think of, and fired up the Pirates! game. It's got great atmosphere any old time. But do you know what it does on September 19?
It talks like a pirate, of course.
After that, I turned to the most appropriate entertainment I could think of, and fired up the Pirates! game. It's got great atmosphere any old time. But do you know what it does on September 19?
It talks like a pirate, of course.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
A Backward Glance
This week has been a time to stop and look back for many people. I let my mind wander back 5 years to my thoughts and feelings as the world got a little more dangerous, a little crueler. I didn't dwell too long on my feelings relief and accompanying guilt, but maybe I should. Maybe I will sometime.
This week (in fact, today) marks another disconcerting anniversary: I've officially been out of work for 1 year. For a whole year now, my family has been living on donations, student loans, temp jobs, and whatever else we can scrounge. I don't like it. I especially don't like it now that the disability determination people are looking askance at my claim that I can't work enough to support our family, and our bank is sending notices that gee, a few days ago we didn't have any money at all in our account (wouldn't it have been nice to know at the time-- no, they slam us with half a dozen fees and then send the "please deposit..." note).
Sorry. I know it's my fault for not having enough money in the account in the first place. It's supposed to be there, and it would have been there but somehow that phone call to the VA didn't get made this month and gee, there goes a thousand dollars we really needed. Aaauugh! Waaaah...
OK, stop. I'm moaning and complaining again. It's back to the desperate scrabble for us, but it's really amazing that we're still living indoors and keeping our children fed and clothed. In fact, it's a miracle. And for that miracle and all the others, I am grateful.
And... tomorrow is another anniversary-- this one of a much different type. Tomorrow is the birthday of my sweetheart husband. We're growing old together, and it feels pretty good.
And hey, on Tuesday, I get to talk like a pirate. Heh.
This week (in fact, today) marks another disconcerting anniversary: I've officially been out of work for 1 year. For a whole year now, my family has been living on donations, student loans, temp jobs, and whatever else we can scrounge. I don't like it. I especially don't like it now that the disability determination people are looking askance at my claim that I can't work enough to support our family, and our bank is sending notices that gee, a few days ago we didn't have any money at all in our account (wouldn't it have been nice to know at the time-- no, they slam us with half a dozen fees and then send the "please deposit..." note).
Sorry. I know it's my fault for not having enough money in the account in the first place. It's supposed to be there, and it would have been there but somehow that phone call to the VA didn't get made this month and gee, there goes a thousand dollars we really needed. Aaauugh! Waaaah...
OK, stop. I'm moaning and complaining again. It's back to the desperate scrabble for us, but it's really amazing that we're still living indoors and keeping our children fed and clothed. In fact, it's a miracle. And for that miracle and all the others, I am grateful.
And... tomorrow is another anniversary-- this one of a much different type. Tomorrow is the birthday of my sweetheart husband. We're growing old together, and it feels pretty good.
And hey, on Tuesday, I get to talk like a pirate. Heh.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
9/11 Tribute: Jeffrey Earle LeVeen
Jeffrey Earle LeVeen, killed at age 55 on September 11, 2001. This is what I started from: a name and a photo. Well, just a name first. And I wondered what else I could learn about him by searching the Web. Quite a bit, it turns out. This was a man who truly lived.
Jeff LeVeen, a partner and senior vice president at Cantor Fitzgerald, enjoyed his financial and career success, reporting for work at the WTC by 7:30 most mornings. He loved to play golf and had won many trophies in various tournaments. But most of all, he reveled in his roles as a husband, father, friend, brother, and colleague. He was full of life and love and shared those abundantly with others in his life. You can find some tributes here. (I hope. The link wasn't working when I tried it tonight.)
Here's a quote from my favorite article about this energetic man who thoroughly enjoyed life:
His wife Christine called him "the most positive person I ever met." When the time came to find individual pictures of him for the memorial Mass at St. Mary's in Manhasset, Christine faced a difficulty that typified her husband's life: He was almost never photographed alone.By day, Jeff LeVeen of Plandome, N.Y., was a chieftain in the financial world, a partner at Cantor Fitzgerald, an Ivy Leaguer and the owner of two well-appointed homes and a golf handicap of 3. By night, he was a rock groupie who attended nearly a dozen Dave Matthews concerts a year.
This beautiful couple had five children, Jeff Jr., Betsy, Andrew, Katie, and Meg, who were their father's proudest achievement."All our photos showed him with his arm around the kids or they had their arms around him. He was never alone," she said. "That's the kind of man he was."
Jeff LeVeen, it's a privilege to have met you. See you after the show.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Up All Night
I don't even want to be typing this here. I want to be in bed. Asleep. Preferrably with my sweet husband, but he's working tonight. And I can't sleep.
You see, I heard a cough.
#1 Son has insomnia these days. He says it's been going on for a while. He came out of his room at 10:30 last night complaining of being unable to sleep, and I pointed out that perhaps if he changed from his school uniform into some pajamas and laid down in a reasonably made bed, he might feel differently. He just blinked at me. And twitched.
He does that a lot. Just looks at you, blinking uncomprehendingly. Sometimes it's almost a R.E.M. sort of movement, quick, jerky, back and forth. I think sometimes it's an effect of the redirection therapy he had a couple years back to deal with the trauma of being molested. This is a kid with a lot of repressed issues, I totally know that. I just worry that he doesn't have the coping strategies to deal with the onset of puberty and the realization of what really happened to him that will probably accompany those changes. I worry a lot.
I want to be able to just trust that everything will be OK, but there's no telling, there's just none. I want to bury my head under a pillow and hope it all goes away. I want to call up RAINN and spill my guts: "Help, I'm an adult survivor of multiple sexual assaults, two of them in the same fricking WEEK so my mom thought I was just reacting to the date rape and didn't believe me about my brother, so she didn't tell my dad so he couldn't tell HER he'd caught the little bastard at it before with my sisters and we could have gotten HELP and he could have been STOPPED before he went on to victimize kids in other states and even other countries and maybe I wouldn't have quite so many nightmares now that my stepson has been molested at his own mother's house by a kid who shouldn't even be his stepbrother except that people are so STUPID and now he's having to deal with this stupid stupid STUPID family-solidarity thing where the criminal is accepted and idolized and is his main role model of how to be a teenage boy so now he bashes his head against walls and screams that he doesn't want to be a teenager and he sleeps only 15 feet from my precious little angels and I can't just lock him in his room and I can't stay up forever, I have to sleep sometime and I want to trust him but the only way to really know whether I can is to catch him in the act of violating that trust and my little babies and at that point it will be too late for us all and what if I did catch him and go berserk and rip his throat out or smash his head in or throw him down the stairs, it's not his fault, it's HERS and it's the OTHER one's and oh just please please HELP....." I want to vomit.
You see, I heard a cough.
#1 Son has insomnia these days. He says it's been going on for a while. He came out of his room at 10:30 last night complaining of being unable to sleep, and I pointed out that perhaps if he changed from his school uniform into some pajamas and laid down in a reasonably made bed, he might feel differently. He just blinked at me. And twitched.
He does that a lot. Just looks at you, blinking uncomprehendingly. Sometimes it's almost a R.E.M. sort of movement, quick, jerky, back and forth. I think sometimes it's an effect of the redirection therapy he had a couple years back to deal with the trauma of being molested. This is a kid with a lot of repressed issues, I totally know that. I just worry that he doesn't have the coping strategies to deal with the onset of puberty and the realization of what really happened to him that will probably accompany those changes. I worry a lot.
I want to be able to just trust that everything will be OK, but there's no telling, there's just none. I want to bury my head under a pillow and hope it all goes away. I want to call up RAINN and spill my guts: "Help, I'm an adult survivor of multiple sexual assaults, two of them in the same fricking WEEK so my mom thought I was just reacting to the date rape and didn't believe me about my brother, so she didn't tell my dad so he couldn't tell HER he'd caught the little bastard at it before with my sisters and we could have gotten HELP and he could have been STOPPED before he went on to victimize kids in other states and even other countries and maybe I wouldn't have quite so many nightmares now that my stepson has been molested at his own mother's house by a kid who shouldn't even be his stepbrother except that people are so STUPID and now he's having to deal with this stupid stupid STUPID family-solidarity thing where the criminal is accepted and idolized and is his main role model of how to be a teenage boy so now he bashes his head against walls and screams that he doesn't want to be a teenager and he sleeps only 15 feet from my precious little angels and I can't just lock him in his room and I can't stay up forever, I have to sleep sometime and I want to trust him but the only way to really know whether I can is to catch him in the act of violating that trust and my little babies and at that point it will be too late for us all and what if I did catch him and go berserk and rip his throat out or smash his head in or throw him down the stairs, it's not his fault, it's HERS and it's the OTHER one's and oh just please please HELP....." I want to vomit.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
A Little Cheering Up
For those of you who, like me, could use a good laugh right now, I give you two:
Geoffrey Chaucer meets the Dread Pirate Roberts
Star Trek Inspirational Posters
(That last one's for you, Julia. Especially page 2.)
Geoffrey Chaucer meets the Dread Pirate Roberts
Star Trek Inspirational Posters
(That last one's for you, Julia. Especially page 2.)
Oh, the Humanity!
I mentioned recently that we've had mice in our house again, which is something that I truly hate. When I shop for mouse-control, I go to the "whack 'em" or "poison 'em" section and load up. The Man, always on the lookout for something new, brought home one of those supposedly "humane" mouse traps-- you know, the catch-and-release kind that's basically a box with a one-way door.
Now aside from not wanting to deal with what to do with a live mouse (where on earth do you release the little boogers, and won't they just come back into a house, although possibly not yours?), I also don't want the guilt triggered by their anguished little squeaks from under my sink. Among other things.
It turns that these traps aren't as humane as all that. I'm not sure how it happened, but when we checked our trap a couple nights ago (upon hearing scritching and squeaking in the kitchen), we discovered three mice in it: two live and one dead. So very dead as to render it nearly a plurality. At least one of the other mice in the trap seemed terribly distraught about this turn of events. I think the other one might have given up or possibly had a heart attack. Maybe it was playing possum.
In any case, being buried alive doesn't strike me as a very humane fate. I think I'll skip it from now on.
Now aside from not wanting to deal with what to do with a live mouse (where on earth do you release the little boogers, and won't they just come back into a house, although possibly not yours?), I also don't want the guilt triggered by their anguished little squeaks from under my sink. Among other things.
It turns that these traps aren't as humane as all that. I'm not sure how it happened, but when we checked our trap a couple nights ago (upon hearing scritching and squeaking in the kitchen), we discovered three mice in it: two live and one dead. So very dead as to render it nearly a plurality. At least one of the other mice in the trap seemed terribly distraught about this turn of events. I think the other one might have given up or possibly had a heart attack. Maybe it was playing possum.
In any case, being buried alive doesn't strike me as a very humane fate. I think I'll skip it from now on.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Carpool Tunnel Vision
Warning: deep chasm of self-pity ahead. Proceed at your own risk.
There, I warned you. For anyone who's still reading, here's my rant.
When The Man came home on Friday with (finally!) the school's list of parents who want to carpool, I was overjoyed because it was about 11 pages long. Surely, someone on that list must live within 10 minutes of our house and have fewer than 3 children. Surely. Someone must.
It turned out that 3 families had listed the same neighborhood school we did. (If you'll recall, this is the ultra super-duper classical/Core Knowledge charter school in the next town; it has a waiting list a mile long and then you only get in by lottery.) Well, 3 wasn't many, but it was something, so we called. The first number had been disconnected. The second turned out to belong to a business. The third, we got an answering machine, and I don't think the people ever called back.
So we branched out a little. We had already talked to some families we knew in town, but they already had carpools worked out. We started calling families from other areas of town, randomly-- somehow there just weren't that many. Saturday morning, we managed to get hold of one (yes, exactly one) family with 2 kids who didn't already have a carpool arranged. We set up a meeting with them for Monday, and everything seemed to be working out fine. Yes, they lived on the other side of town and their older kid had to be at school earlier than everyone else, but it was worth it to know that our boys would be able to get home from school.
This morning, The Man drove over to their place, picked up their kids, and got everyone to school on time (I think). The other kids' mom was scheduled to collect the kids after school and bring them home. Our place is on their way back to their house, so it shouldn't be a problem, and I was anxiously looking forward to seeing the boys after their big "first day of school" this afternoon.
Well, I waited. And I waited. And the longer I waited, the more anxious I got. School ended at 2:45; I figured they might not get away until 3:00. So 3:30 would be a reasonable time to see them home. But 3:45 came and went. And 4:00 came... Nobody had called, so I was sure everything was fine. I mean, this isn't your standard kidnapping method, certainly. It was just... odd.
When the boys finally walked in the door, I was so relieved I almost didn't notice the two plastic bags in Pirate Boy's hand. The car that had dropped them off had already left, and I didn't ask any question about the ride. We spent several minutes going over the excitements of the day, including not making too big a deal about the fact that my shy little boy had apparently had trouble getting permission to go to the bathroom (twice-- sigh) during class. First day of school is so overwhelming.
Well, we were all sorted and I managed to keep everything under control and even fix dinner before The Man got home. (I haven't even mentioned how cranky Punkin Boy was after getting up at 6 a.m. and having no nap-- or how cranky I was about it either.) Just as we were sitting down to dinner, the phone rang. It was our carpool people saying that they just couldn't take the stress of driving our boys around or the inconvenience of having to drive the extra, what, 5 minutes total out of their way, and did we know that our Pirate Boy had peed his pants? They hated to be a bother, but they thought we should start looking for a new carpool. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle someone.
The Man, ever calm, took it in stride and after dinner took up the carpool list again. There was one number we hadn't tried yet, so he called it. The number had been disconnected, so he tried the new one. Had to leave a message, then he had to leave. (On Tuesday/Thursday, he gets to come home long enough to eat dinner with the family for about a half hour during his 14-hour school day.) On his way out, he mentioned that he will be home late (as compared to the usual 9:30 p.m.) because he has to go get some help from the study group at the dorm. Absolutely must. Tonight. I wouldn't want to be here, either.
Fortunately, I'm not a suspicious or jealous wife. Just desperately upset and hormonal. So I shuffled the boys through baths and jammies and "what-did-you-think-you-were-doing-soaking-the-entire-bathroom?!" and so on. During this process, our last best hope for transportation returned TM's call and said, "No, sorry, we live in YZ Town now." Sigh.
I had managed to get the little punkins into bed and we were just doing our nightly ritual of prayers and songs when the phone rang again. It was the Carpool Poopers. The husband said his wife would kill him if he didn't just come out and say they wouldn't be driving with us again, ever. Sorry for the inconvenience and all. Sure.
So I end up sitting on the end of the boys' bed just sobbing for all I'm worth. After all we've gone through to get these kids into the best school possible, after the fights with Satan, after all these years of juggling schooling for The Man, after the confusion that almost left Pirate Boy without a school to go to this year... (I didn't mention that, did I? I thought "all's well that end's well"; ha!) After all the sacrifices for our family's well-being, we're being beaten down yet again. I hate that.
Sniffle. Thanks for listening. I feel better now. Carpool-less, but better.
There, I warned you. For anyone who's still reading, here's my rant.
When The Man came home on Friday with (finally!) the school's list of parents who want to carpool, I was overjoyed because it was about 11 pages long. Surely, someone on that list must live within 10 minutes of our house and have fewer than 3 children. Surely. Someone must.
It turned out that 3 families had listed the same neighborhood school we did. (If you'll recall, this is the ultra super-duper classical/Core Knowledge charter school in the next town; it has a waiting list a mile long and then you only get in by lottery.) Well, 3 wasn't many, but it was something, so we called. The first number had been disconnected. The second turned out to belong to a business. The third, we got an answering machine, and I don't think the people ever called back.
So we branched out a little. We had already talked to some families we knew in town, but they already had carpools worked out. We started calling families from other areas of town, randomly-- somehow there just weren't that many. Saturday morning, we managed to get hold of one (yes, exactly one) family with 2 kids who didn't already have a carpool arranged. We set up a meeting with them for Monday, and everything seemed to be working out fine. Yes, they lived on the other side of town and their older kid had to be at school earlier than everyone else, but it was worth it to know that our boys would be able to get home from school.
This morning, The Man drove over to their place, picked up their kids, and got everyone to school on time (I think). The other kids' mom was scheduled to collect the kids after school and bring them home. Our place is on their way back to their house, so it shouldn't be a problem, and I was anxiously looking forward to seeing the boys after their big "first day of school" this afternoon.
Well, I waited. And I waited. And the longer I waited, the more anxious I got. School ended at 2:45; I figured they might not get away until 3:00. So 3:30 would be a reasonable time to see them home. But 3:45 came and went. And 4:00 came... Nobody had called, so I was sure everything was fine. I mean, this isn't your standard kidnapping method, certainly. It was just... odd.
When the boys finally walked in the door, I was so relieved I almost didn't notice the two plastic bags in Pirate Boy's hand. The car that had dropped them off had already left, and I didn't ask any question about the ride. We spent several minutes going over the excitements of the day, including not making too big a deal about the fact that my shy little boy had apparently had trouble getting permission to go to the bathroom (twice-- sigh) during class. First day of school is so overwhelming.
Well, we were all sorted and I managed to keep everything under control and even fix dinner before The Man got home. (I haven't even mentioned how cranky Punkin Boy was after getting up at 6 a.m. and having no nap-- or how cranky I was about it either.) Just as we were sitting down to dinner, the phone rang. It was our carpool people saying that they just couldn't take the stress of driving our boys around or the inconvenience of having to drive the extra, what, 5 minutes total out of their way, and did we know that our Pirate Boy had peed his pants? They hated to be a bother, but they thought we should start looking for a new carpool. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle someone.
The Man, ever calm, took it in stride and after dinner took up the carpool list again. There was one number we hadn't tried yet, so he called it. The number had been disconnected, so he tried the new one. Had to leave a message, then he had to leave. (On Tuesday/Thursday, he gets to come home long enough to eat dinner with the family for about a half hour during his 14-hour school day.) On his way out, he mentioned that he will be home late (as compared to the usual 9:30 p.m.) because he has to go get some help from the study group at the dorm. Absolutely must. Tonight. I wouldn't want to be here, either.
Fortunately, I'm not a suspicious or jealous wife. Just desperately upset and hormonal. So I shuffled the boys through baths and jammies and "what-did-you-think-you-were-doing-soaking-the-entire-bathroom?!" and so on. During this process, our last best hope for transportation returned TM's call and said, "No, sorry, we live in YZ Town now." Sigh.
I had managed to get the little punkins into bed and we were just doing our nightly ritual of prayers and songs when the phone rang again. It was the Carpool Poopers. The husband said his wife would kill him if he didn't just come out and say they wouldn't be driving with us again, ever. Sorry for the inconvenience and all. Sure.
So I end up sitting on the end of the boys' bed just sobbing for all I'm worth. After all we've gone through to get these kids into the best school possible, after the fights with Satan, after all these years of juggling schooling for The Man, after the confusion that almost left Pirate Boy without a school to go to this year... (I didn't mention that, did I? I thought "all's well that end's well"; ha!) After all the sacrifices for our family's well-being, we're being beaten down yet again. I hate that.
Sniffle. Thanks for listening. I feel better now. Carpool-less, but better.
Monday, September 04, 2006
In Memoriam
In honor of his Crikey-ness, the Croc Hunter, who died earlier today, I am playing Adventure Quest tonight. Specifically, I am visiting the Frogzard Hunter, who was modeled after Steve Irwin and is mildly entertaining in a similarly fun way. Go check him out if you can get on the server. Just don't tell him how badly drawn his pants are.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Nick of Time
With back-to-school day right around the corner, we've been trying to get #1 Son to read up on some of the classics that he might encounter in school (e.g., Greek and Roman history and mythology) or that he might just enjoy for their content (e.g., Frankenstein). But he hasn't seemed terribly excited about them, calling the latter book "boring." Now, knowing the book and being the irritatingly dedicated problem-solvers that we are, The Man and I decided to quiz him on the content to see whether he was having comprehension problems despite the boy's assertion that he does totally understand, it's just really dull.
[TM reads a passage from the explorer's narrative, which mentions sending a letter on a merchantman headed the right way.]
#1 Son looks bored.
I ask: "So, what's a merchantman?"
#1 Son: "Umm... a man who's a merchant?"
Me: "Hmmm, no." But I have to admit it's a reasonably logical deduction. Turning to Pirate Boy, we pose the question again: "What's a merchantman"?
Pirate Boy: "It's a type of ship!" Of course.
So the conversation went on like this and we determined that yes, #1 Son was having some comprehension issues that could probably be resolved by the judicious use of a dictionary. Or they could if he realized that he doesn't understand the words. School is starting up none too soon, I'm afraid. In another recent episode, #1 Son kept insisting that 6 + 6 = 14 and got irate when I suggested he might want a slight review before classes begin.
On a similar topic, Pirate Boy informed #1 Son and me the other day that "in the War of 1812, the British were trying to gain control of the Mississippi River, so Jean Lafitte and I helped the Americans defeat them." There was something about the comparative casualty rate and a letter he'd sent to the British commander. He ended with a knowing nod: "Then the British retreated."
Dear heavens, school is starting none too soon... I wonder if they cover the War of 1812 in 1st grade?
[TM reads a passage from the explorer's narrative, which mentions sending a letter on a merchantman headed the right way.]
#1 Son looks bored.
I ask: "So, what's a merchantman?"
#1 Son: "Umm... a man who's a merchant?"
Me: "Hmmm, no." But I have to admit it's a reasonably logical deduction. Turning to Pirate Boy, we pose the question again: "What's a merchantman"?
Pirate Boy: "It's a type of ship!" Of course.
So the conversation went on like this and we determined that yes, #1 Son was having some comprehension issues that could probably be resolved by the judicious use of a dictionary. Or they could if he realized that he doesn't understand the words. School is starting up none too soon, I'm afraid. In another recent episode, #1 Son kept insisting that 6 + 6 = 14 and got irate when I suggested he might want a slight review before classes begin.
On a similar topic, Pirate Boy informed #1 Son and me the other day that "in the War of 1812, the British were trying to gain control of the Mississippi River, so Jean Lafitte and I helped the Americans defeat them." There was something about the comparative casualty rate and a letter he'd sent to the British commander. He ended with a knowing nod: "Then the British retreated."
Dear heavens, school is starting none too soon... I wonder if they cover the War of 1812 in 1st grade?
Dilemma
So in a fit of curiosity a while back, I signed up for one of those "find your old school friends" services online-- just the free kind, 'cause I'm not that crazy. But of course most of the people I care about talking to again aren't listed on those things, or I already know how to get in touch with them, so I'd kind of forgotten about it.
However... this evening I got a notice that someone from my past was interested in getting in touch with me. This is a girl I hung out with in my old neighborhood (4th-8th grade), which I have to tell you, wasn't a very nice one. The neighborhood, I meant, but it's true of the girl too. There are those who would have called her family "white trash"; I didn't know what the term meant.
I could mention that she's now a single mom of teenagers and living in North Carolina, cleaning stuff for a living. So probably she hasn't really changed much, although I'm admittedly biased. I remember her laughing uproariously at her older brother's fart jokes. I remember the plaid shirts she used to wear before grunge had made them cool. I remember her stringy red hair and freckles, sometimes under a cowboy hat. Her wide grin, her brassy voice-- usually making a rude comment disguised as humor.
My mixed feelings about whether to reply to her note are curious to me. The years I spent in that place were not mostly happy ones, and the fact that I hung out with people I didn't like or respect embarrasses me. The fact that they feel good about having had me for a friend is nice, and I really want to be a friend to people... love thy neighbor and all that. So I guess I'm having a hard time accepting that I don't love my neighbor when she makes my skin crawl. Must work on that.
However... this evening I got a notice that someone from my past was interested in getting in touch with me. This is a girl I hung out with in my old neighborhood (4th-8th grade), which I have to tell you, wasn't a very nice one. The neighborhood, I meant, but it's true of the girl too. There are those who would have called her family "white trash"; I didn't know what the term meant.
I could mention that she's now a single mom of teenagers and living in North Carolina, cleaning stuff for a living. So probably she hasn't really changed much, although I'm admittedly biased. I remember her laughing uproariously at her older brother's fart jokes. I remember the plaid shirts she used to wear before grunge had made them cool. I remember her stringy red hair and freckles, sometimes under a cowboy hat. Her wide grin, her brassy voice-- usually making a rude comment disguised as humor.
My mixed feelings about whether to reply to her note are curious to me. The years I spent in that place were not mostly happy ones, and the fact that I hung out with people I didn't like or respect embarrasses me. The fact that they feel good about having had me for a friend is nice, and I really want to be a friend to people... love thy neighbor and all that. So I guess I'm having a hard time accepting that I don't love my neighbor when she makes my skin crawl. Must work on that.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Thursday 13: End of Summer
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The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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Friday, August 25, 2006
Back-to-School Whine
The Man went back to school this week (after nearly two weeks off--woohoo!), in case you were wondering where I've been. (That, and I was plagued by another round of migraines and started some new blood-pressure medicine. Oy.)
Because TM is in school full-time, I've been home all day, every day, with all the kids. Under some circumstances that wouldn't be impossible to deal with. In fact, I suspect that most moms do not get so stressed by their children that they begin their days by threatening homicide. But I have to be different. Or rather, my kids do.
So they cannot simply walk on the floor (even when it's clear of toys and trash); oh no, they must run and jump and fling themselves on the furniture, preferably head down so that their little necks look like they will surely snap. Of course. And they cannot simply talk to people who are standing within 5 feet of them in a room less than 10 feet square. Oh no. They must yell at volumes calculated to carry in a baseball stadium-- during the World Series. And when they get really excited they must utter sudden and piercing shrieks over and over like a flock of possessed gulls.
This is when they're on their good behavior, mind you. Today they... weren't. It's been building up all week-- Monday, they were pretty good (Monday is also a short day), Tuesday, it was quite a bit harder (TM is gone for about 12 hours on Tues/Thurs and I'm still coping with crippling pain and coma-inducing medications). Today was the worst. After TM came home, I'd wanted to just crawl into a corner and cry, but instead I had to help keep the monkeys under control while he very kindly fixed dinner. And it almost wasn't enough.
After dinner, I did go crawl under a blanket and shake violently from the stress, but the animals found me anyway. While their dad was on the phone trying to persuade his brother to move in with us, the kids swarmed over my bed, sat on me, and whacked me with books to indicate that it was story time. But I couldn't even do that. I, who used to study Chinese and Russian simultaneously in the middle of the night with my eyes shut, couldn't even open my eyes and read Go, Dog. Go!
I wanted to be back on my feet before time to tuck the little brigands in, but I simply couldn't move. And within minutes, there were violent screams and wails from their end of the house. Apparently TM had had a bad day too. I managed to pry myself out of bed and totter on pain-pierced feet down the hall, collapsing across the end of the littler pirates' bed. I pulled the door shut and announced, "We are all going to sleep now." Oh, how they fussed! I just laid there. The Punkin jumped and bounced and turned acrobatic flips off the walls and onto his brother's head. I moved him over but otherwise just laid there. He howled and complained. "We are going to sleep now," I repeated. And in only 30 minutes, both of the little pirates were unconscious. Truly a miracle. One week down, 14 more to go-- this semester.
And now, really, I am going to sleep too.
Because TM is in school full-time, I've been home all day, every day, with all the kids. Under some circumstances that wouldn't be impossible to deal with. In fact, I suspect that most moms do not get so stressed by their children that they begin their days by threatening homicide. But I have to be different. Or rather, my kids do.
So they cannot simply walk on the floor (even when it's clear of toys and trash); oh no, they must run and jump and fling themselves on the furniture, preferably head down so that their little necks look like they will surely snap. Of course. And they cannot simply talk to people who are standing within 5 feet of them in a room less than 10 feet square. Oh no. They must yell at volumes calculated to carry in a baseball stadium-- during the World Series. And when they get really excited they must utter sudden and piercing shrieks over and over like a flock of possessed gulls.
This is when they're on their good behavior, mind you. Today they... weren't. It's been building up all week-- Monday, they were pretty good (Monday is also a short day), Tuesday, it was quite a bit harder (TM is gone for about 12 hours on Tues/Thurs and I'm still coping with crippling pain and coma-inducing medications). Today was the worst. After TM came home, I'd wanted to just crawl into a corner and cry, but instead I had to help keep the monkeys under control while he very kindly fixed dinner. And it almost wasn't enough.
After dinner, I did go crawl under a blanket and shake violently from the stress, but the animals found me anyway. While their dad was on the phone trying to persuade his brother to move in with us, the kids swarmed over my bed, sat on me, and whacked me with books to indicate that it was story time. But I couldn't even do that. I, who used to study Chinese and Russian simultaneously in the middle of the night with my eyes shut, couldn't even open my eyes and read Go, Dog. Go!
I wanted to be back on my feet before time to tuck the little brigands in, but I simply couldn't move. And within minutes, there were violent screams and wails from their end of the house. Apparently TM had had a bad day too. I managed to pry myself out of bed and totter on pain-pierced feet down the hall, collapsing across the end of the littler pirates' bed. I pulled the door shut and announced, "We are all going to sleep now." Oh, how they fussed! I just laid there. The Punkin jumped and bounced and turned acrobatic flips off the walls and onto his brother's head. I moved him over but otherwise just laid there. He howled and complained. "We are going to sleep now," I repeated. And in only 30 minutes, both of the little pirates were unconscious. Truly a miracle. One week down, 14 more to go-- this semester.
And now, really, I am going to sleep too.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
It's Alive!
I've been reading an interesting book lately, in between chasing children and weeping uncontrollably. It's called The Monsters: Mary Shelley & the Curse of Frankenstein. The Man brings home all sorts of bizarro stuff from the library, and being a half-comatose invalid, I basically take what I can get and read it all. Some of it's bad. Some of it's good. This book is fascinating.
Mostly I say that because of the research that obviously went into it. Now, the people who wrote this book, Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler, were consummate professionals at researching biographies by the time they got to this one. The "Also by" page lists another 18 nonfiction titles to their credit. Their specialty seems to be analysis and interpretation of the facts, not mere reporting of each one. Their skill at this impressed me, and as many of you know, that's not easy to do.
But about the story. As you've guessed, the book traces the life of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the author of the novel Frankenstein, but it goes so far beyond that that you may forget who this "Mary" person is they mention from time to time. Her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, is obviously a major factor in her life, but long before he arrives on the scene, we experience the stories of Mary's parents, who were also important and well-known in the literary and philosophical circles of late 18th-century Britain. As the book progresses, we learn in great detail how deep Lord Byron's involvement reached in the Shelleys' life (along with some fascinating tales of his personal habits and character).
We watch the heartbreak of women who, in the attempt to live according to their principles, lose parents, children, husbands, lovers, fortunes, reputations, homes, health, hope, and happiness. I was fascinated to note how pivotal in the saga was Mary's stepsister Claire, who seems to have had less strength of character and intellect than nearly everyone, yet seems to destroy nearly everything she touches. Maybe I'm overanalyzing things. Anyway, it's a fascinating read. If you happen across this book and have a couple extra days lying around, pick it up. Read it. Devour it. Ponder it. But for heaven's sake don't let it near your kids.
Mostly I say that because of the research that obviously went into it. Now, the people who wrote this book, Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler, were consummate professionals at researching biographies by the time they got to this one. The "Also by" page lists another 18 nonfiction titles to their credit. Their specialty seems to be analysis and interpretation of the facts, not mere reporting of each one. Their skill at this impressed me, and as many of you know, that's not easy to do.
But about the story. As you've guessed, the book traces the life of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the author of the novel Frankenstein, but it goes so far beyond that that you may forget who this "Mary" person is they mention from time to time. Her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, is obviously a major factor in her life, but long before he arrives on the scene, we experience the stories of Mary's parents, who were also important and well-known in the literary and philosophical circles of late 18th-century Britain. As the book progresses, we learn in great detail how deep Lord Byron's involvement reached in the Shelleys' life (along with some fascinating tales of his personal habits and character).
We watch the heartbreak of women who, in the attempt to live according to their principles, lose parents, children, husbands, lovers, fortunes, reputations, homes, health, hope, and happiness. I was fascinated to note how pivotal in the saga was Mary's stepsister Claire, who seems to have had less strength of character and intellect than nearly everyone, yet seems to destroy nearly everything she touches. Maybe I'm overanalyzing things. Anyway, it's a fascinating read. If you happen across this book and have a couple extra days lying around, pick it up. Read it. Devour it. Ponder it. But for heaven's sake don't let it near your kids.
Careful What You Ask For
It occurred to me yesterday that I'm finally where I expected to be when I grew up: a stay-home mom chasing multiple children around a little house in a little town while my husband tries to finish school so that we can have a better life. Oh sure, I expected to be here in my early twenties instead of my late (VERY late) thirties, but I'm here. Yay me.
Friday, August 18, 2006
I'mGonnaDieI'mGonnaDieI'mGonna...Live? Really?
Happy dance, happy dance, I got paid today!!! Whew, whew, I can breathe again. I can't even believe we survived this long, but every time we needed just another hundred dollars or two, it turned up, or someone generously shared a bushel of food, or something weird happened to save us, but MAN, that's a hard way to live. Faith-building, I won't deny, but exhausting. And now, we have room to breathe and recover our strength for another month or so until the financial aid comes in, and so we'll be OK until about the end of the year. Whew!
**And there was much rejoicing...**
Oh, yeah, and I had a good birthday, too.
**And there was much rejoicing...**
Oh, yeah, and I had a good birthday, too.
Monday, August 14, 2006
For Better or For Worse, or Love Conquers All
Tomorrow, Tuesday, is my 8th wedding anniversary. Eight years of being married to my soul mate, literally the man of my dreams. Eight years that, despite the occasional (or more than occasional) trauma, have sped by like lightning. The most wonderful eight years of my life, in fact.
In those eight years, he's been with me through five years of college (his), four pregnancies (mine), three debilitating injuries, two career changes, and the death of one child. He's been with me in the emergency room and the Phantom of the Opera room, 3000 feet in the air and 30 feet under the sea, laughing so hard the tears ran down our faces and crying so hard that the tears ran out...
How do you thank someone for that? For being the perfect spouse? For loving you exactly the way you are, even when the way you are is ugly, angry, whiny, hopeless, helpless-- or unemployed in Greenland? And for all the while assuring you that you are in fact the most beautiful, lovable, wonderful human being they've ever met? In short, for being completely, certifiably crazy?
As long as he's crazy about me, I'm happy. And he is. And I am. And we are.
Happy Anniversary to the most wonderful husband in the world.
In those eight years, he's been with me through five years of college (his), four pregnancies (mine), three debilitating injuries, two career changes, and the death of one child. He's been with me in the emergency room and the Phantom of the Opera room, 3000 feet in the air and 30 feet under the sea, laughing so hard the tears ran down our faces and crying so hard that the tears ran out...
How do you thank someone for that? For being the perfect spouse? For loving you exactly the way you are, even when the way you are is ugly, angry, whiny, hopeless, helpless-- or unemployed in Greenland? And for all the while assuring you that you are in fact the most beautiful, lovable, wonderful human being they've ever met? In short, for being completely, certifiably crazy?
As long as he's crazy about me, I'm happy. And he is. And I am. And we are.
Happy Anniversary to the most wonderful husband in the world.
Freak Show
You know, I almost posted again Thursday night. Some weird little things had happened, but here's me trying to stay positive and not distract attention from the Thursday 13 post... yeah. Now I know to follow my instincts. Remind me of that later.
So today we get the fallout from one of the psychotic eXpisodes (go read The Man's post about it; you won't regret it). For those of you who are putting off going there, I'll sum up: TM's ex is a psychotic who totally projects her own crimes on others and loves to accuse TM and me of neglecting and/or abusing #1 Son, even though she has no other reason than her own psychosis. A while back, she called 911 because all of us assured her that #1 Son had not sustained a serious injury when a small rock hit him on the head. We must be lying about the extent of the injury, she insisted (though somehow she believed the bit about its existence), and although she was nowhere within 100 miles of us or the boy, she filed a report with the cops. (Yes, this has been going on for more than 8 years now, and no, we are not amused, and no, the authorities still haven't caught on.)
So, today, right. Today the Child Protection Services shows up on our doorstep. Someone (gee, we can't imagine who) has reported that our children are being starved and that all they get to eat is scraps of banana bread. OK, we did have an awful lot of banana bread there for a while, but nobody in their right mind... Oh, yeah. All right, lady, come on in and take a peek in the pantry... the fridge...the freezer too if you want, but watch out for falling chickens. Yeah, take the kids aside and ask them what they've had for dinner recently. We'll wait. (Note that Pirate Boy gives a more accurate account than #1 Son, despite being only 6. The kid's got a great memory.)
So it turned out OK, I think. We talked a lot more about the molestation situation, and how no, sending #1 Son to live with "Mommy" would probably not be the best thing for him, considering her attitude about making a family for him with the Molester. And the CPS lady totally agreed with me that #1 Son needs to be watched carefully as he enters puberty, lest he continue the cycle-- she stressed that the aforementioned "family" situation could make it worse, could encourage him to idolize the older boy and follow in his footsteps, thank you very much. Idiot-freak-psycho-EX! I am so angry about that; gee, it probably shows, too. Sigh.
And one more thing, while I'm on the subject. If she cares so deeply about whether we have any food in our house to feed HER child, why doesn't she consider just maybe paying more than $90 a month in child support? Just a thought. Oh, and now we've got enough zucchini to bake about 2 dozen loaves of bread with. Wanna bet there'll be another freakish phone call?
So today we get the fallout from one of the psychotic eXpisodes (go read The Man's post about it; you won't regret it). For those of you who are putting off going there, I'll sum up: TM's ex is a psychotic who totally projects her own crimes on others and loves to accuse TM and me of neglecting and/or abusing #1 Son, even though she has no other reason than her own psychosis. A while back, she called 911 because all of us assured her that #1 Son had not sustained a serious injury when a small rock hit him on the head. We must be lying about the extent of the injury, she insisted (though somehow she believed the bit about its existence), and although she was nowhere within 100 miles of us or the boy, she filed a report with the cops. (Yes, this has been going on for more than 8 years now, and no, we are not amused, and no, the authorities still haven't caught on.)
So, today, right. Today the Child Protection Services shows up on our doorstep. Someone (gee, we can't imagine who) has reported that our children are being starved and that all they get to eat is scraps of banana bread. OK, we did have an awful lot of banana bread there for a while, but nobody in their right mind... Oh, yeah. All right, lady, come on in and take a peek in the pantry... the fridge...the freezer too if you want, but watch out for falling chickens. Yeah, take the kids aside and ask them what they've had for dinner recently. We'll wait. (Note that Pirate Boy gives a more accurate account than #1 Son, despite being only 6. The kid's got a great memory.)
So it turned out OK, I think. We talked a lot more about the molestation situation, and how no, sending #1 Son to live with "Mommy" would probably not be the best thing for him, considering her attitude about making a family for him with the Molester. And the CPS lady totally agreed with me that #1 Son needs to be watched carefully as he enters puberty, lest he continue the cycle-- she stressed that the aforementioned "family" situation could make it worse, could encourage him to idolize the older boy and follow in his footsteps, thank you very much. Idiot-freak-psycho-EX! I am so angry about that; gee, it probably shows, too. Sigh.
And one more thing, while I'm on the subject. If she cares so deeply about whether we have any food in our house to feed HER child, why doesn't she consider just maybe paying more than $90 a month in child support? Just a thought. Oh, and now we've got enough zucchini to bake about 2 dozen loaves of bread with. Wanna bet there'll be another freakish phone call?
Thursday, August 10, 2006
T13: Is It Thursday Already?
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Someone's really looking out for us.
We're gonna make it. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Hallelujah
Someone's been reading my blog. It must be that. How else would someone know to leave a couple bushels of food on our porch right about now? How would they know I love M&Ms and could probably use some chocolate? Yeah. I think I know who it is, too. Bless you.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Mouse Potatoes
Tonight as I sat at the desk and The Man lounged on the couch with the laptop, I burst out laughing. He asked what was up, and I managed to stop snorting long enough to tell him to check CNN.com's tech section. After a brief discussion of Sen. Joe Lieberman's predicament, he found the right article. "Wow," I managed. "They have a term for what we do every night." And for some other stuff, too. Some of it may be gone from the lexicon by morning, but I'm keeping my favorite, which describes us perfectly: electroverts.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Nobody's Going to Make It Stop, Are They?
I ought to know better. Just when I think "I can make it only another hour and no longer," I ought to realize that at the end of that hour I will find the means to go on after all because I haven't got any choice. Not really, I don't. Turn the kids over to their own self-destructive tendencies and just walk out the door? No, I can't do it. I have to go on, no matter how late The Man comes home, no matter how little sleep I've had, no matter how my head throbs from all the screams and whines, and no matter how badly the pain makes me want to throw up. Day after day after freakin' day.
So what I need to do is figure out how to live this way without losing hope, sanity, and self-control more than once per day. (Oooh, you're lucky you didn't hear me tonight. My family may never recover from all the screaming I did. One whine too many as I fixed dinner through my own sobs.) It helps to hear from my sister who is facing possible breast cancer and to read about other moms with chaotic lives. It does. To quote Morgan Freeman, "You are still alive."
Oh yes, and I need to figure out how to feed a family of 5 for the next 3 1/2 days on nothing but 3 loaves of bread and 2 fishes-- no, 2 containers of sour cream. And some mushy tomatoes. We have a little bit of cheese left, and... let's see... some canned peaches. Very little else, outside the spice/baking supplies cupboards. It's going to be a tight squeak until the windows of heaven open again on Friday. But we'll be OK. We will. What choice have we got?
So what I need to do is figure out how to live this way without losing hope, sanity, and self-control more than once per day. (Oooh, you're lucky you didn't hear me tonight. My family may never recover from all the screaming I did. One whine too many as I fixed dinner through my own sobs.) It helps to hear from my sister who is facing possible breast cancer and to read about other moms with chaotic lives. It does. To quote Morgan Freeman, "You are still alive."
Oh yes, and I need to figure out how to feed a family of 5 for the next 3 1/2 days on nothing but 3 loaves of bread and 2 fishes-- no, 2 containers of sour cream. And some mushy tomatoes. We have a little bit of cheese left, and... let's see... some canned peaches. Very little else, outside the spice/baking supplies cupboards. It's going to be a tight squeak until the windows of heaven open again on Friday. But we'll be OK. We will. What choice have we got?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Thursday Thirteen: The Princess Quotes
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[Update: My husband pointed out that I had the same quote twice. So I changed #12. This should help the attitude problem these quotes seem to have.] Links to other Thursday Thirteens! |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Monday, July 31, 2006
Rescue Me
Day 4 of Migraine Week...
Ouch. Whimper.
It's Getting Dark in Here
Somewhere between waking and sleeping this weekend, a horrifying realization crept into my head. You know that letter The Molester gave to #1 Son recently, detailing his crimes against the boy? It's not just a confession and a key to his freedom. Oh, no:
It's a blueprint for future child molesters.
Puberty right around the corner, that letter in his hand, and children in the house. Of such things a mother's nightmares are made. And this mom can't seem to wake up.
Ouch. Whimper.
It's Getting Dark in Here
Somewhere between waking and sleeping this weekend, a horrifying realization crept into my head. You know that letter The Molester gave to #1 Son recently, detailing his crimes against the boy? It's not just a confession and a key to his freedom. Oh, no:
It's a blueprint for future child molesters.
Puberty right around the corner, that letter in his hand, and children in the house. Of such things a mother's nightmares are made. And this mom can't seem to wake up.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Still Here, Send Help
A quick update to say I'm still alive and stuff. The kids are alive, too, which sometimes does not go without saying. I feel like I've been unconscious for most of the past week, but I'm certain I remember doing something lately, mostly trying to stop the kids from killing themselves and each other.
I've been worrying, too, but not as much as I'd expected-- probably because of the aforementioned lack of consciousness, which was induced by some meds my doc gave me to lower my blood pressure. You know, that wasn't on my list of ailments, doc. You really didn't have to. He says, "This stuff will probably make you tired." Oh, yeah, add that to the Percocet, the anti-anxiety pills, and the pain. How will I be able to tell? I wondered. Well, not waking up, ever-- that's a sign. That and not being able to move or even talk for the first hour after I wake up.
So here's the score: 3 rowdy boys, 1 comatose mom who's supposed to be watching them, 1 frantic man who has to somehow go to school, fix dinner, do homework, see to evening baths, clean the house, and run errands-- oh, and maybe get his homework and stuff done-- but who decides that we absolutely need to bake 3 dozen loaves of banana bread during the middle of the hottest days of the year... a mortgage and half a dozen other bills that need paying and a nice notice from our bank gently nudging us to please put some money into our account, and that nice fat check I was supposed to be getting has turned into vaporware...
So unconscious is a nice place to be, but I'd rather be capable of independent movement and rational thought about now. How about you?
I've been worrying, too, but not as much as I'd expected-- probably because of the aforementioned lack of consciousness, which was induced by some meds my doc gave me to lower my blood pressure. You know, that wasn't on my list of ailments, doc. You really didn't have to. He says, "This stuff will probably make you tired." Oh, yeah, add that to the Percocet, the anti-anxiety pills, and the pain. How will I be able to tell? I wondered. Well, not waking up, ever-- that's a sign. That and not being able to move or even talk for the first hour after I wake up.
So here's the score: 3 rowdy boys, 1 comatose mom who's supposed to be watching them, 1 frantic man who has to somehow go to school, fix dinner, do homework, see to evening baths, clean the house, and run errands-- oh, and maybe get his homework and stuff done-- but who decides that we absolutely need to bake 3 dozen loaves of banana bread during the middle of the hottest days of the year... a mortgage and half a dozen other bills that need paying and a nice notice from our bank gently nudging us to please put some money into our account, and that nice fat check I was supposed to be getting has turned into vaporware...
So unconscious is a nice place to be, but I'd rather be capable of independent movement and rational thought about now. How about you?
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Picking Up the Pieces
It's been such a day. I'm so glad I posted that 13 list last Thursday 'cause I need to have it in front of me while I sort things out. The notice that our bills aren't getting paid this week is just one of the last little touches that came in with The Man (TM) when he arrived at 10 p.m. with #1 Son. Sigh.
Last night, TM was pretty upset because he'd found the letter from the Molester and read it all the way through. This was supposed to be the final step in the Molester's getting "rehabilitated" (i. e., given a "get out of jail free" pass from the law and going back to a normal life, including contact with the victim). He had to write a nice letter, admitting everything he'd done, admitting that he knows it was bad, and saying "Gee, sorry." Why doesn't every teenager go out and commit crimes, I'd like to know?
So anyway. The court system in the county where the crime took place called and asked TM a while back if it would be OK to have #1 Son meet with the Molester and have him read the letter and whatever. TM said he'd have to see the letter before passing it along and would feel better not having him meet with the guy. So they said OK and sent him the letter. That's what we found last night, and with #1 Son coming home today, he was going to see it. TM spent all night lying awake in a cold sweat, thinking about the effect this would have on #1 Son. I did, too, having been through a similar trauma and knowing that even if it doesn't affect him much now, it will eventually. And it will make such a mess of his life.
Today, TM was still tied in knots, so I tried to be as supportive as I could, despite feeling very, very sick. I had a sharp pain parked right over each kidney most of the day, which made everything just a little more difficult. I worried that it was the worry doing it, and I worried that it wasn't. I tried really hard to keep the little pirates in check all day, but as hyper as they were and as sick as I was, it didn't really work well. But I didn't want to worry TM, so I didn't say much. He spent a few hours at school and then most of the rest of the day and night on the road to get #1 Son, and he had worries of his own.
I'll give just an example of how my day was going while I worried about my husband. At bath time, I persuaded Pirate Boy to go first in the tub (yes, we do the old-fashioned "use the same bathwater" trick; I've mentioned how poor we are). Once he got into the warm, bubbly water, he was feeling pretty good about the whole bath idea, and so was his little brother. I tried to keep Punkin Boy out of the bathroom while his brother was bathing, mostly because he tends to try to add battery-powered toys to the bath water. But just briefly, the boy got away from me. I could hear splashing, which at our house is never good, and was on my way down the hall to stop the mayhem when the phone rang. It was a call I'd been waiting for, and it wasn't the news I'd hoped to hear, so that distracted me for a minute.
Then I heard the splashing again. I hurried to the bathroom and was halfway to the tub when my feet flew out from under me and lodged in various uncomfortable places (e.g., wedged under the cupboard) and at really uncomfortable angles. I was so shocked at the pain radiating from my hip that I forgot to yell for about 2 whole seconds. It took me just a little longer than that to figure out that no, I would not be getting up anytime soon. (At this point, TM was about 3 hours from getting home, so there would be no help.)
As maddening as the situation was, part of me was glad to have an object lesson that maybe the kids would remember for more than a minute, about why we don't splash water all over the bathroom floor. Punkin didn't care, of course. He climbed on my legs and sassed me when I asked him to step out of the bathroom. But my sensitive little Pirate Boy cried because of the consequences his actions had had for his mama. He not only buckled down and actually finished his bath, but he promised to get dressed immediately afterward and clean up the mess he'd made in the bathroom. He was as good as his word. I hope this lesson sticks, 'cause I really don't want to have to give the object lesson again.
So OK, you get the point: We had a challenging day today. At about quarter to ten, Henry Morgan (instead of Mama) went into the boys' room and threatened to keelhaul any pirate, no matter how small, who did not immediately stop fighting, put away his sword, and lie quietly for the rest of the night. They obeyed and were asleep before TM and #1 Son arrived maybe 20 minutes later.
And do you know what? All that worry was for nothing. Well, sort of. The evil maniac who calls herself #1 Son's "Mommy" had already reintroduced the Molester into our boy's life during his visit this summer without so much as mentioning it to anyone who would, say, have to cope with the fallout. 'Cause they've got to be a family, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong... She wouldn't know what "family" means if an open dictionary hit her in the face.
The Man will be posting about his day soon, I can feel it. Go read it. I'll link here when it appears.
[Update: Here it is. Heartbreaking.]
Last night, TM was pretty upset because he'd found the letter from the Molester and read it all the way through. This was supposed to be the final step in the Molester's getting "rehabilitated" (i. e., given a "get out of jail free" pass from the law and going back to a normal life, including contact with the victim). He had to write a nice letter, admitting everything he'd done, admitting that he knows it was bad, and saying "Gee, sorry." Why doesn't every teenager go out and commit crimes, I'd like to know?
So anyway. The court system in the county where the crime took place called and asked TM a while back if it would be OK to have #1 Son meet with the Molester and have him read the letter and whatever. TM said he'd have to see the letter before passing it along and would feel better not having him meet with the guy. So they said OK and sent him the letter. That's what we found last night, and with #1 Son coming home today, he was going to see it. TM spent all night lying awake in a cold sweat, thinking about the effect this would have on #1 Son. I did, too, having been through a similar trauma and knowing that even if it doesn't affect him much now, it will eventually. And it will make such a mess of his life.
Today, TM was still tied in knots, so I tried to be as supportive as I could, despite feeling very, very sick. I had a sharp pain parked right over each kidney most of the day, which made everything just a little more difficult. I worried that it was the worry doing it, and I worried that it wasn't. I tried really hard to keep the little pirates in check all day, but as hyper as they were and as sick as I was, it didn't really work well. But I didn't want to worry TM, so I didn't say much. He spent a few hours at school and then most of the rest of the day and night on the road to get #1 Son, and he had worries of his own.
I'll give just an example of how my day was going while I worried about my husband. At bath time, I persuaded Pirate Boy to go first in the tub (yes, we do the old-fashioned "use the same bathwater" trick; I've mentioned how poor we are). Once he got into the warm, bubbly water, he was feeling pretty good about the whole bath idea, and so was his little brother. I tried to keep Punkin Boy out of the bathroom while his brother was bathing, mostly because he tends to try to add battery-powered toys to the bath water. But just briefly, the boy got away from me. I could hear splashing, which at our house is never good, and was on my way down the hall to stop the mayhem when the phone rang. It was a call I'd been waiting for, and it wasn't the news I'd hoped to hear, so that distracted me for a minute.
Then I heard the splashing again. I hurried to the bathroom and was halfway to the tub when my feet flew out from under me and lodged in various uncomfortable places (e.g., wedged under the cupboard) and at really uncomfortable angles. I was so shocked at the pain radiating from my hip that I forgot to yell for about 2 whole seconds. It took me just a little longer than that to figure out that no, I would not be getting up anytime soon. (At this point, TM was about 3 hours from getting home, so there would be no help.)
As maddening as the situation was, part of me was glad to have an object lesson that maybe the kids would remember for more than a minute, about why we don't splash water all over the bathroom floor. Punkin didn't care, of course. He climbed on my legs and sassed me when I asked him to step out of the bathroom. But my sensitive little Pirate Boy cried because of the consequences his actions had had for his mama. He not only buckled down and actually finished his bath, but he promised to get dressed immediately afterward and clean up the mess he'd made in the bathroom. He was as good as his word. I hope this lesson sticks, 'cause I really don't want to have to give the object lesson again.
So OK, you get the point: We had a challenging day today. At about quarter to ten, Henry Morgan (instead of Mama) went into the boys' room and threatened to keelhaul any pirate, no matter how small, who did not immediately stop fighting, put away his sword, and lie quietly for the rest of the night. They obeyed and were asleep before TM and #1 Son arrived maybe 20 minutes later.
And do you know what? All that worry was for nothing. Well, sort of. The evil maniac who calls herself #1 Son's "Mommy" had already reintroduced the Molester into our boy's life during his visit this summer without so much as mentioning it to anyone who would, say, have to cope with the fallout. 'Cause they've got to be a family, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong... She wouldn't know what "family" means if an open dictionary hit her in the face.
The Man will be posting about his day soon, I can feel it. Go read it. I'll link here when it appears.
[Update: Here it is. Heartbreaking.]
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Thursday 13: Counting My Blessings
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What are you thankful for?
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The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Updates and Stuff
I have updates on some of the things I've mentioned lately.
- I got some results back on my diabetes test, and yes, it looks like I've got the early stages of it. I'll be talking to the doc again on the 21st about what to do next. I won't be giving up chocolate. That's my plan, and I'm sticking to it.
- Ta-da! Dorothy and her family got their house, by virtue of a last-minute miracle. It's quite a relief for everyone who cares about them. I can't wait to go visit.
- My Geocities site is still missing. They say they're working on it. Whatever.
- I was just about to send an invoice for the white paper I worked on this spring, billing by the hour, when the guy in charge of the project sent me a note. "Please invoice me for $400 per page" he said. Holy freaking cow. That'll more than double the bill. All righty then...
That's the news and I...am...outta here!
Little Loves
I've been a little stressed and cranky this week for various reasons, including my inability to afford those little hormone pills anymore, and I've been hurting worse than usual for similar reasons. So, by the end of the day I'm often completely wiped out.
Such was the case Monday night. When it came time to put the kids to bed, I was half-dead, and they were wound up. My painkiller was fading in/out between doses, and although I knew it was only a matter of time before I felt better, this was the time I was dealing with.
So after some struggle to get the boys to calm down for prayers and lullabyes, I was about this far from smacking someone, and that wasn't going to be OK. On impulse, I said to Pirate Boy, "Would you like a hug?" He stopped bouncing on the bed and looked at me intently. "Do you need a hug, Mama?" "Oh yes, baby, I do," I quavered.
As Pirate Boy plopped on my lap and squeezed me, a little voice reached my ears. Punkin was playing on the floor with some plastic people, and he was saying, "Are you all right, sweetheart? Is everything OK?" Puzzled, I asked who he was talking to. His response? "You, sweetie. Are you all right?" "Yes, baby, I'm fine now."
Such was the case Monday night. When it came time to put the kids to bed, I was half-dead, and they were wound up. My painkiller was fading in/out between doses, and although I knew it was only a matter of time before I felt better, this was the time I was dealing with.
So after some struggle to get the boys to calm down for prayers and lullabyes, I was about this far from smacking someone, and that wasn't going to be OK. On impulse, I said to Pirate Boy, "Would you like a hug?" He stopped bouncing on the bed and looked at me intently. "Do you need a hug, Mama?" "Oh yes, baby, I do," I quavered.
As Pirate Boy plopped on my lap and squeezed me, a little voice reached my ears. Punkin was playing on the floor with some plastic people, and he was saying, "Are you all right, sweetheart? Is everything OK?" Puzzled, I asked who he was talking to. His response? "You, sweetie. Are you all right?" "Yes, baby, I'm fine now."
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Arrgghhhhh!
No, I'm not being particularly piratical; that was a scream of frustration. My pirate Web site has disappeared, and Geocities/Yahoo is claiming it no longer exists. I had just posted a new entry! I'd been doing various things on it for nearly an hour, and suddenly it doesn't exist? Grumble, grouse.
I was already feeling cranky because of the rigamarole I had to go through this morning. I was getting my blood tested to see if I have diabetes yet, or if we have to look elsewhere for the cause of my feet hurting all over, all the time. It wasn't so bad at first; even though I had an empty stomach (except for the pint of exceedingly sweet soda syrup), I felt fine and I had a book to read for the 3 hours I was (supposed to be) there. The first couple of blood draws weren't bad, either. After the second, I had cotton taped to the inside of both elbows, but it wasn't painful. The third one came and went; I had a second poke on one of my elbows, but again, not too bad. At this point, I was getting pretty thirsty, and the lab assistant said she'd bring me some water. Well, she didn't, and before too long, I was feeling dizzy and sick. When they called me in for the fourth blood draw, I was so dehydrated they couldn't get into my veins-- any of my veins. And believe me, they did try. The backs of the hands are the worst, and they didn't work either. Eventually, they managed to find some blood in my forearm and sucked it out quickly while I fought back the tears.
Then and only then did they offer (and mean it) something to drink. I slurped down some orange juice and staggered to the door. The lab techs had left me alone-- and they'd left my last vial of blood on the counter. I told them about it as I left, but I didn't stay to see whether they went back for it. I was too anxious to get home. It was nearly noon, and I was near fainting. Considering that, I did remarkably well when, a mere 50 yards from my street, a train decided to park across the road for half an hour.
So anyway, it really wasn't that bad. Really. But in my attempt to keep my stomach empty for this test, I didn't take my anti-depressant meds this morning (nor, may I add, my painkiller), and as a result, I'm a bit moodier than usual.
I guess I need to focus on my blessings and caring more about others. Like my dear soul-sister Dorothy, whose family might be out on the street tonight because some people (including her own biological family members) refuse to pay their bills to the point that Dorothy and her husband and kids are about to lose their new house. I could just scream. Arrghhhh! Ah, that's better.
I was already feeling cranky because of the rigamarole I had to go through this morning. I was getting my blood tested to see if I have diabetes yet, or if we have to look elsewhere for the cause of my feet hurting all over, all the time. It wasn't so bad at first; even though I had an empty stomach (except for the pint of exceedingly sweet soda syrup), I felt fine and I had a book to read for the 3 hours I was (supposed to be) there. The first couple of blood draws weren't bad, either. After the second, I had cotton taped to the inside of both elbows, but it wasn't painful. The third one came and went; I had a second poke on one of my elbows, but again, not too bad. At this point, I was getting pretty thirsty, and the lab assistant said she'd bring me some water. Well, she didn't, and before too long, I was feeling dizzy and sick. When they called me in for the fourth blood draw, I was so dehydrated they couldn't get into my veins-- any of my veins. And believe me, they did try. The backs of the hands are the worst, and they didn't work either. Eventually, they managed to find some blood in my forearm and sucked it out quickly while I fought back the tears.
Then and only then did they offer (and mean it) something to drink. I slurped down some orange juice and staggered to the door. The lab techs had left me alone-- and they'd left my last vial of blood on the counter. I told them about it as I left, but I didn't stay to see whether they went back for it. I was too anxious to get home. It was nearly noon, and I was near fainting. Considering that, I did remarkably well when, a mere 50 yards from my street, a train decided to park across the road for half an hour.
So anyway, it really wasn't that bad. Really. But in my attempt to keep my stomach empty for this test, I didn't take my anti-depressant meds this morning (nor, may I add, my painkiller), and as a result, I'm a bit moodier than usual.
I guess I need to focus on my blessings and caring more about others. Like my dear soul-sister Dorothy, whose family might be out on the street tonight because some people (including her own biological family members) refuse to pay their bills to the point that Dorothy and her husband and kids are about to lose their new house. I could just scream. Arrghhhh! Ah, that's better.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
It's Still a Little Glitchy...
...but I've started a pirate Web site, just for fun. Visit me there if you want. I'll get it polished up when PageBuilder decides to work again, but meanwhile, I've posted a few things. Let me know what you think.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
On a Lighter Note...
To lighten the mood a bit and celebrate my FINALLY being done with that awful technical white paper I've been working on since February, I give you:
Meaningless Memes!
My aura is bruise-colored:
My Inner European is...
I'm BATMAN
You scored as Batman, the Dark Knight. As the Dark Knight of Gotham, Batman is a vigilante who deals out his own brand of justice to the criminals and corrupt of the city. He follows his own code and is often misunderstood. He has few friends or allies, but finds comfort in his cause.
Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0
created with QuizFarm.com
...and Einstein
So, what are my ideal careers?
Strange, not a single action hero on the list.
Meaningless Memes!
My aura is bruise-colored:
| Your Aura is Violet |
 Idealistic and thoughtful, you have the mind and ideas to change the world. And you have the charisma of a great leader, even if you don't always use it! The purpose of your life: saying truths that other people dare not say Famous purples include: Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., Susan B. Anthony Careers for you to try: Political Activist, Inventor, Life Coach |
My Inner European is...
| Your Inner European is Russian! |
 Mysterious and exotic. You've got a great balance of danger and allure. |
I'm BATMAN
You scored as Batman, the Dark Knight. As the Dark Knight of Gotham, Batman is a vigilante who deals out his own brand of justice to the criminals and corrupt of the city. He follows his own code and is often misunderstood. He has few friends or allies, but finds comfort in his cause.
Batman, the Dark Knight | 71% | ||
Lara Croft | 67% | ||
Maximus | 63% | ||
The Terminator | 63% | ||
Indiana Jones | 63% | ||
Neo, the "One" | 58% | ||
El Zorro | 54% | ||
The Amazing Spider-Man | 54% | ||
James Bond, Agent 007 | 54% | ||
William Wallace | 46% | ||
Captain Jack Sparrow | 46% |
Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0
created with QuizFarm.com
...and Einstein
So, what are my ideal careers?
Career Inventory Test Results
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Friday, June 30, 2006
The Mommy Track
I was going to work on my novel tonight. I was. But then I decided to visit the bloggers who've recently visited me, and what with one thing and another, I've got something on my mind.
Kailani told about her journey of miscarriage and heartbreak between her first and second daughters and how blessed she feels. Here, Interstellar Lass was pondering over her ability to get pregnant without even trying much and her subsequent tubal ligation after two children. Now in a happy (2nd) marriage with a childless man, she's wishing for more children, with him. It's a tough thing. I won't burden you with my thoughts on their situations; go read their posts.
As I read and responded to these posts, my train of thought zoomed down some well-worn tracks. The memories followed me as I did the dishes, my mind got tangled up in knots, and eventually I realized I had to get this out of my brain or I'd be paralyzed. So here goes.
First, I have to say that as I grew up, I always wanted to get married young (20-ish) and have kids, preferably several of them. It was just something you did. Just so you don't worry, I also wanted to be a glamorous international spy, a hard-nosed editor, and a writer of movies and books. I'm still working on the last one.
However, my plans for marriage and parenthood went awry. When I was 24, I married my college boyfriend and agreed to put off children for a couple of years. It's a darn good thing I did. Not that I thought of it as good at the time. Especially when my biological alarm clock went off. Once he did agree we could start "trying," the process was a constant source of misery to me (especially while my hormones weren't being regulated by lovely b.c. pills). It was made worse at the time by my ex's attitude, which can be summed up in these quotes:
"I don't want to have children until I've done something with my life!" (spoken in a wail, and prompting the inevitable response: "Well, when were you planning to start?" He was 26 at the time, and had been out of college for 3 years. He still didn't have a job.)
"You'd make a lousy mother. Even your plants die; how do you think you could keep a child alive?" (Idiot. And I was an idiot for even considering this idea seriously.)
"I read that masturbating at least once every 24 hours keeps the sperm count too low to fertilize an egg." (Apparently this was true. He thought I wouldn't catch on. Gack.)
Without knowing anything else, you can see why that relationship didn't last much longer. The rest of it wasn't any better. And I had wasted most of my 20s on it.
When I was 30, I married a sweet, wonderful, and intelligent man who was also a single father. #1 Son was 3 at the time, and The Man agreed that we ought to start trying for a baby right away, so that they'd be semi-close in age. Well, I got pregnant right off the honeymoon, and we were ecstatic. (I think I've blogged about this before.) Eleven weeks into the pregnancy, the doctors found a lethal birth defect, and at 17 weeks, the baby was born and died. Leaving the maternity ward with no baby to take home was much more painful than the 30 hours of labor that preceded it.
Trying again was nerve-wracking in a way I'd never experienced. Chucking my beloved career, leaving Hawaii, and taking a low-paying job in a place I'd never been, I could handle that. But taking the risk of losing another baby... ouch. It was scary. I had an emotional breakdown on the anniversary of my baby's death. I panicked when the doctors sent me for ultrasounds; knowing that the previous problem was a one-in-a-million fluke didn't help.
At seven months, I had to be hospitalized for a heart...well, problem. I described a similar episode here... Once they got my heart stopped and started again, they put me through a ton of tests, including an ultrasound scan of my heart. None of the good results did anything to convince me that this pregnancy was going to be any more successful than the previous one, despite having lasted longer. I couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how long I was pregnant, I was simply incapable of producing a viable offspring.
On my due date, I had a major panic attack while in the doctor's office. I was hospitalized again and sedated heavily. That Friday, they promised, they would induce labor if the baby hadn't come yet. Well, he didn't. (In fact, to this day, I've never spontaneously gone into labor, unless you count--- well, that will come later.) Early Sunday morning, my Pirate Boy was born by c-section after a LONG and excruciating labor. And do you know what? As I held him in the recovery room, he was all I could think about. He was my whole world.
That's one wonderful blessing that comes from having known the pain of losing a child: Any child you have in the future becomes more precious to you than you could have imagined. Especially the one that comes first. It was probably best that I was that devoted to this baby son, because I had to go through some stuff for him. But I would have given my life if necessary. And even though I knew what was involved, I felt that I'd like to have another baby.
We started trying when Pirate Boy turned 2, and I got pregnant right away, though I didn't have medical confirmation. In fact, it was just about the fourth week when I started to bleed, so I thought I'd been wrong. But no, I wasn't. I was on vacation, it was my anniversary, and I was having a miscarriage.
We kept trying, and succeeded again right away. This time, my suspicions of pregnancy were confirmed by the fact that I had a small tachycardia every day starting in the fourth week. I spent most of my pregnancy having to lie down for a couple of hours every afternoon. My feet started swelling in the first trimester, and I felt like the entire pregnancy was a little touch-and-go. But the tests showed no problems, and when my red-haired punkin was born 8 days early by elective c-section, he was tall and strong and ready to play football.
As I lay on the table waiting to be stitched up, the doctor asked again whether I wanted her to tie my tubes while she was at it. I was sorely tempted. I decided against it at the time, although The Man and I had no plans for more children. Since then, I've second-, third-, and fourth- guessed my decision. Birth control is expensive, and I'm not close enough to menopause. That one small act would have saved a lot of money and worry.
However-- I didn't do it, and here's why: it's the "can't" syndrome. I have this problem in relation to treats and things, too. If there's chocolate (or ice cream, or whatever) in the house, I can take it or leave it, and I usually leave it. If I know I don't have any of the thing I want, it's all I think about. Hence, if I couldn't potentially have children, I'd want to, desperately. And that's not what I really want. If I can't be more mature, at least I can recognize it.
So where are we now? Well, we're out of birth control because I can't afford it anymore. But we will not be having any more children. If we did, it would be over my dead body.
Kailani told about her journey of miscarriage and heartbreak between her first and second daughters and how blessed she feels. Here, Interstellar Lass was pondering over her ability to get pregnant without even trying much and her subsequent tubal ligation after two children. Now in a happy (2nd) marriage with a childless man, she's wishing for more children, with him. It's a tough thing. I won't burden you with my thoughts on their situations; go read their posts.
As I read and responded to these posts, my train of thought zoomed down some well-worn tracks. The memories followed me as I did the dishes, my mind got tangled up in knots, and eventually I realized I had to get this out of my brain or I'd be paralyzed. So here goes.
First, I have to say that as I grew up, I always wanted to get married young (20-ish) and have kids, preferably several of them. It was just something you did. Just so you don't worry, I also wanted to be a glamorous international spy, a hard-nosed editor, and a writer of movies and books. I'm still working on the last one.
However, my plans for marriage and parenthood went awry. When I was 24, I married my college boyfriend and agreed to put off children for a couple of years. It's a darn good thing I did. Not that I thought of it as good at the time. Especially when my biological alarm clock went off. Once he did agree we could start "trying," the process was a constant source of misery to me (especially while my hormones weren't being regulated by lovely b.c. pills). It was made worse at the time by my ex's attitude, which can be summed up in these quotes:
"I don't want to have children until I've done something with my life!" (spoken in a wail, and prompting the inevitable response: "Well, when were you planning to start?" He was 26 at the time, and had been out of college for 3 years. He still didn't have a job.)
"You'd make a lousy mother. Even your plants die; how do you think you could keep a child alive?" (Idiot. And I was an idiot for even considering this idea seriously.)
"I read that masturbating at least once every 24 hours keeps the sperm count too low to fertilize an egg." (Apparently this was true. He thought I wouldn't catch on. Gack.)
Without knowing anything else, you can see why that relationship didn't last much longer. The rest of it wasn't any better. And I had wasted most of my 20s on it.
When I was 30, I married a sweet, wonderful, and intelligent man who was also a single father. #1 Son was 3 at the time, and The Man agreed that we ought to start trying for a baby right away, so that they'd be semi-close in age. Well, I got pregnant right off the honeymoon, and we were ecstatic. (I think I've blogged about this before.) Eleven weeks into the pregnancy, the doctors found a lethal birth defect, and at 17 weeks, the baby was born and died. Leaving the maternity ward with no baby to take home was much more painful than the 30 hours of labor that preceded it.
Trying again was nerve-wracking in a way I'd never experienced. Chucking my beloved career, leaving Hawaii, and taking a low-paying job in a place I'd never been, I could handle that. But taking the risk of losing another baby... ouch. It was scary. I had an emotional breakdown on the anniversary of my baby's death. I panicked when the doctors sent me for ultrasounds; knowing that the previous problem was a one-in-a-million fluke didn't help.
At seven months, I had to be hospitalized for a heart...well, problem. I described a similar episode here... Once they got my heart stopped and started again, they put me through a ton of tests, including an ultrasound scan of my heart. None of the good results did anything to convince me that this pregnancy was going to be any more successful than the previous one, despite having lasted longer. I couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how long I was pregnant, I was simply incapable of producing a viable offspring.
On my due date, I had a major panic attack while in the doctor's office. I was hospitalized again and sedated heavily. That Friday, they promised, they would induce labor if the baby hadn't come yet. Well, he didn't. (In fact, to this day, I've never spontaneously gone into labor, unless you count--- well, that will come later.) Early Sunday morning, my Pirate Boy was born by c-section after a LONG and excruciating labor. And do you know what? As I held him in the recovery room, he was all I could think about. He was my whole world.
That's one wonderful blessing that comes from having known the pain of losing a child: Any child you have in the future becomes more precious to you than you could have imagined. Especially the one that comes first. It was probably best that I was that devoted to this baby son, because I had to go through some stuff for him. But I would have given my life if necessary. And even though I knew what was involved, I felt that I'd like to have another baby.
We started trying when Pirate Boy turned 2, and I got pregnant right away, though I didn't have medical confirmation. In fact, it was just about the fourth week when I started to bleed, so I thought I'd been wrong. But no, I wasn't. I was on vacation, it was my anniversary, and I was having a miscarriage.
We kept trying, and succeeded again right away. This time, my suspicions of pregnancy were confirmed by the fact that I had a small tachycardia every day starting in the fourth week. I spent most of my pregnancy having to lie down for a couple of hours every afternoon. My feet started swelling in the first trimester, and I felt like the entire pregnancy was a little touch-and-go. But the tests showed no problems, and when my red-haired punkin was born 8 days early by elective c-section, he was tall and strong and ready to play football.
As I lay on the table waiting to be stitched up, the doctor asked again whether I wanted her to tie my tubes while she was at it. I was sorely tempted. I decided against it at the time, although The Man and I had no plans for more children. Since then, I've second-, third-, and fourth- guessed my decision. Birth control is expensive, and I'm not close enough to menopause. That one small act would have saved a lot of money and worry.
However-- I didn't do it, and here's why: it's the "can't" syndrome. I have this problem in relation to treats and things, too. If there's chocolate (or ice cream, or whatever) in the house, I can take it or leave it, and I usually leave it. If I know I don't have any of the thing I want, it's all I think about. Hence, if I couldn't potentially have children, I'd want to, desperately. And that's not what I really want. If I can't be more mature, at least I can recognize it.
So where are we now? Well, we're out of birth control because I can't afford it anymore. But we will not be having any more children. If we did, it would be over my dead body.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Thursday Thirteen: Take it Easy
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Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Life Goes On
We now own two honkin' big stand mixers, courtesy of my mother-in-law. The Man's tuition has been paid, courtesy of my dad. And The Evil One has discovered the frustrations of parenting an adolescent. Naturally, she says it's all our fault. What. Ever.
My pirate boys are now a pirate Jedi (Captain Yoda--whose idea was it to make a Lego Star Wars game anyway?) and a pirate Sith Lord (Blackbeard Sidious). The curtain rod is seriously about to pull out of the wall, despite the solid bolting, because they won't stop swinging from the back of the couch to the center of the room.
I'm back working on my NaNo novel, which is good in places and really needs work in others. I suppose that's a good average. I may post another excerpt here in a bit. Let's see, what else is going on...?
Oh yes, I went to the doctor yesterday because of the neuropathy in my feet and the general feeling of constant excruciating pain. I'm getting tested for diabetes in a week or so; did you know that unexplained weight loss is a symptom of diabetes? It is. If the test comes back negative, the doc says the problem might be a B12 deficiency. What is up with that?
My pirate boys are now a pirate Jedi (Captain Yoda--whose idea was it to make a Lego Star Wars game anyway?) and a pirate Sith Lord (Blackbeard Sidious). The curtain rod is seriously about to pull out of the wall, despite the solid bolting, because they won't stop swinging from the back of the couch to the center of the room.
I'm back working on my NaNo novel, which is good in places and really needs work in others. I suppose that's a good average. I may post another excerpt here in a bit. Let's see, what else is going on...?
Oh yes, I went to the doctor yesterday because of the neuropathy in my feet and the general feeling of constant excruciating pain. I'm getting tested for diabetes in a week or so; did you know that unexplained weight loss is a symptom of diabetes? It is. If the test comes back negative, the doc says the problem might be a B12 deficiency. What is up with that?
Friday, June 23, 2006
Overheard in Passing
Walking down the hall at church the other day, I was only vaguely aware of one woman complimenting another's dress. The "dress" woman caught my attention, though, with her response: "Thanks, I got this one for the Academy Awards a couple years back..." I grinned. A quick glance wasn't even necessary to confirm her identity; the door she was standing at gave it away. She's the nursery leader, and has been for a couple of years now. I love that. I love it that everybody just serves in our church in whatever way they're asked to, and they don't say, "I'm a vice president of HP, I'm not going to chaperone teenagers at camp!" or "I'm just a gas-station attendant, I can't be Sunday School president (or bishop)!" Or, "I'm dean of the Harvard Business School, and I don't want to move to Idaho..." They just do it. I love that.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Out of the Blue
I just wanted to share a cool thing that happened today. Around 10 a.m., I got a call; the voice was somewhat familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. Even when she said her name, it took me a moment, because it was the same as The Evil One's.
Then it hit me: My best friend-cousin! I've only seen her a handful of times in the last 15 years because we live thousands of miles apart, but we used to be like sisters. This morning, though, she said she was less than 75 miles away and heading in this direction; could she stop by? Could she?!
Well, I cleaned the house as best I could, cleaned myself up, and had things reasonably presentable by the time she arrived with her van full of kids (5 of them, from 8 months to 9 years I think--her oldest was staying with relatives for a bit). She is driving back across the country with them (but not her husband) after a family reunion west of the Rockies. Brave, brave woman.
And it's weird, because I'm not used to seeing her as a woman, but I did today. She was always this cute little girl with bright blue eyes and a blonde pixie haircut. Well, she's still got the eyes. But nobody would mistake her for a little girl now-- even without the kids around. Last year, she weathered all those hurricanes, but really, how hard is that when you've got a toddler, four other kids, and one on the way? When you can handle five little kids and a newborn and still send your husband off to work every day without crying? I can't even imagine it. Remind me of this when I complain how hard my life is.
When we were kids, I was the big strong girl that my little cousin looked up to. Now, she is totally my hero, and I want to be like her when I grow up.
Then it hit me: My best friend-cousin! I've only seen her a handful of times in the last 15 years because we live thousands of miles apart, but we used to be like sisters. This morning, though, she said she was less than 75 miles away and heading in this direction; could she stop by? Could she?!
Well, I cleaned the house as best I could, cleaned myself up, and had things reasonably presentable by the time she arrived with her van full of kids (5 of them, from 8 months to 9 years I think--her oldest was staying with relatives for a bit). She is driving back across the country with them (but not her husband) after a family reunion west of the Rockies. Brave, brave woman.
And it's weird, because I'm not used to seeing her as a woman, but I did today. She was always this cute little girl with bright blue eyes and a blonde pixie haircut. Well, she's still got the eyes. But nobody would mistake her for a little girl now-- even without the kids around. Last year, she weathered all those hurricanes, but really, how hard is that when you've got a toddler, four other kids, and one on the way? When you can handle five little kids and a newborn and still send your husband off to work every day without crying? I can't even imagine it. Remind me of this when I complain how hard my life is.
When we were kids, I was the big strong girl that my little cousin looked up to. Now, she is totally my hero, and I want to be like her when I grow up.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Mixed Nuts
I've lost count of how many mixers we've had in our house today, but it was far too many. Let's see, there was our old one with the missing blades. There was the neighbor's that TM broke the other day making donuts. There was the one we borrowed this week so we could make scones. (This one did not break; it's a lovely heavy-duty and incredibly old thing.)
And then three or four more arrived in the mail. Why? I don't know, really. One of them was supposed to replace the neighbor's broken one. OK. So, we broke a hand mixer, and ordered a hand mixer from Amazon. But then they decided they wanted a bigger mixer and were willing to pay the difference. They specified the basic type and color and sent TM out to conquer on e-Bay.
In this process, TM bid on like fifty bajillion mixers and actually won more than one. So today we had multiple deliveries from e-Bay, including one disguised as a delivery from Amazon... Oh, he was in heaven, let me tell you.
Now, where was I? (Australia.) Right. Well, there was supposed to be a delivery from Amazon, as I mentioned, but that didn't show up until later this afternoon. So now we had no less than seven mixers in the house, of which two now belonged to us but didn't work and the others belonged to our friends and neighbors, and worked fine.
At this point, I'm getting a little edgy. "Can we please get some of these out of here so that we have room to move?" I'm not even asking where the money for all this came from; now I understand why we can't pay the mortgage.
TM gets on the phone & has a chat with the neighbors. Turns out (no surprise) they want the nicest, biggest of the mixers and he's going to be taking it over to them. Fine, great. I try not to think about what we're going to do with the others. He comes back a little while later and says that they like it, it's just the right kind, but they don't want it after all. Huh? It's silver, not chrome. They wanted chrome. Mmm-hm. But, they wonder, maybe we can sell it on e-Bay?
Anybody want to buy a mixer? I have to tell you up front, it's not chrome.
And then three or four more arrived in the mail. Why? I don't know, really. One of them was supposed to replace the neighbor's broken one. OK. So, we broke a hand mixer, and ordered a hand mixer from Amazon. But then they decided they wanted a bigger mixer and were willing to pay the difference. They specified the basic type and color and sent TM out to conquer on e-Bay.
In this process, TM bid on like fifty bajillion mixers and actually won more than one. So today we had multiple deliveries from e-Bay, including one disguised as a delivery from Amazon... Oh, he was in heaven, let me tell you.
Now, where was I? (Australia.) Right. Well, there was supposed to be a delivery from Amazon, as I mentioned, but that didn't show up until later this afternoon. So now we had no less than seven mixers in the house, of which two now belonged to us but didn't work and the others belonged to our friends and neighbors, and worked fine.
At this point, I'm getting a little edgy. "Can we please get some of these out of here so that we have room to move?" I'm not even asking where the money for all this came from; now I understand why we can't pay the mortgage.
TM gets on the phone & has a chat with the neighbors. Turns out (no surprise) they want the nicest, biggest of the mixers and he's going to be taking it over to them. Fine, great. I try not to think about what we're going to do with the others. He comes back a little while later and says that they like it, it's just the right kind, but they don't want it after all. Huh? It's silver, not chrome. They wanted chrome. Mmm-hm. But, they wonder, maybe we can sell it on e-Bay?
Anybody want to buy a mixer? I have to tell you up front, it's not chrome.
American Lit
A bad memory isn't necessarily a bad thing. For instance, mine keeps me from worrying about the things I can't do anything about. Like not having enough money currently to pay TM's summer tuition AND the mortgage. Or any of the other bills. I feel like the dad in Vonnegut's "Harrison Bergeron"-- you remember, he was too intelligent, so he had to have his brain signals constantly interrupted in the name of making everyone equal. Well, I'm not too intelligent anymore... Sigh.
On the other hand, on those odd occasions when something has gone missing (like TM's paycheck from that one day), it would come in really useful to be able to actually recall ever having seen it, and possibly even where that was. Or to be able to remember that bills are due, before they're OVERdue. Things like that. I used to be the memory bank for this family. Now, I'm bankrupt.
Sometimes it's just little things that I forget, like that I might have wanted to do a "13" list for Thursday, after I had such fun with the one last week. Nah, it didn't even cross my mind yesterday. Not once. Might've been all that pain-- but that didn't stop Harrison Bergeron. No, a shotgun blast did.
On the other hand, on those odd occasions when something has gone missing (like TM's paycheck from that one day), it would come in really useful to be able to actually recall ever having seen it, and possibly even where that was. Or to be able to remember that bills are due, before they're OVERdue. Things like that. I used to be the memory bank for this family. Now, I'm bankrupt.
Sometimes it's just little things that I forget, like that I might have wanted to do a "13" list for Thursday, after I had such fun with the one last week. Nah, it didn't even cross my mind yesterday. Not once. Might've been all that pain-- but that didn't stop Harrison Bergeron. No, a shotgun blast did.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Keeping You Posted
Just passing through to jot down some things that have been going on in the past few days:
Thursday evening: We incorporated. At least, we filed the paperwork. Waiting for confirmation that it's official. The motivation for this? I forget what gave us the idea originally, but this time it was for the purpose of applying for a small business loan to buy that game store. Oh sure, it could happen. And what if it did? Not going to go there right now. Moving on...
Friday: I heard from an employment agency that wanted to recommend me for a tech writer position in town. Good pay, full time, benefits of some sort, sounded good... but when I couldn't master the pain enough to drive 4 miles to fill out the application paperwork, I (finally) came to the realization: I'm not capable of working a full-time job anymore.
So I sat down with The Man (TM) and talked over the ramifications. Not only am I not going to be bringing home much bacon anymore (I did file for disability and am waiting to see how that turns out), but I'm not going to be able to spend 3+ hours driving people hither and yon every day. I might not be able to drive at all, depending on the medication situation. We were already facing a big conflict between TM's school schedule and the kids' schedule-- the kids were 7:45 to 2:45 and TM was more like 11 to 6.
We talked over the situation and I think I managed to get him to realize there was a problem. Unfortunately, we didn't get any closer to a solution. He swears he can't change any of his classes (so who was going to run the store?), and we can't just keep our kids home so that TM can go to college. Bother.
Saturday: We were going to have Captain Kid's birthday party Saturday afternoon, but about a week ahead of time (just before we invited his friends), I discovered an invitation from one of them to his party, the very same time on the very same day, same general location and same invitees. And of course, he'd sent invitations earlier. So, we talked it over and Captain Kid decided that he'd like to go to his friend's party and get together with his best girl for ice cream sometime soon.
So he went to the party and had a good time. His best girl was there, as were some other friends from kindergarten. TM went and hung out with the other parents, where he discovered that our boy is at the center of a minor soap opera. Apparently, one of the other girls from his class had told little Abby to leave Captain Kid alone because she (a fiery redhead) wanted him. After some consideration, Abby decided to stand by her man. The redhead's going to have to look elsewhere for a boyfriend. Captain Kid, of course, was totally puzzled by the entire episode. I see interesting times ahead.
Sunday: Captain Kid's 6th birthday! We celebrated with boatloads of pirate loot again, another treasure island cake, pirate figures, plunder for him to share with the crew, and so forth. His great-grandma gave him the best present of all: a treasure chest with all sorts of good stuff in it, and he is just deliriously happy with that.
Sunday evening, we watched the broadcast commemorating the handcart pioneers. It was really neat, all the more so because we got to see the little pirates' aunt Dorothy and her beloved husband, His Worship, singing in the choir. I thought just for a moment or two I could hear her voice among the others-- but only because I know it so well, so don't worry, girl.
Later, my mom called to say Happy Birthday to Captain Kid, who babbled excitedly at her about all the great things that were part of his day. He had to tell her all the pirate nicknames of our family, during which his little brother corrected him on one point: "I'm not Blackbeard, I'm Marquis Montalban!" She was so tickled, she asked for pirate nicknames for her and my dad. After some consideration, the kids dubbed them Stede Bonnet and Jean Lafitte. Respectively.
Monday: TM started his second summer class today. I did a brief editing project for my friend Kelli the ice-cream queen. (She owns the shop down our street. I suspect she picked that spot just because she knows how much I love ice cream.) I spent a couple of hours semi-conscious from the pain and exhaustion when I was supposed to be taking care of the kids. (They oughta revoke my mothering license.) Fortunately, they were good most of the time, playing (pseudo) Lego pirates joyfully and energetically.
This afternoon, another shipment of loot arrived for the kids. Now Captain Kid has a singing sword and Marquis Montalban is plotting to steal it. I sense more adventures on the horizon...
Thursday evening: We incorporated. At least, we filed the paperwork. Waiting for confirmation that it's official. The motivation for this? I forget what gave us the idea originally, but this time it was for the purpose of applying for a small business loan to buy that game store. Oh sure, it could happen. And what if it did? Not going to go there right now. Moving on...
Friday: I heard from an employment agency that wanted to recommend me for a tech writer position in town. Good pay, full time, benefits of some sort, sounded good... but when I couldn't master the pain enough to drive 4 miles to fill out the application paperwork, I (finally) came to the realization: I'm not capable of working a full-time job anymore.
So I sat down with The Man (TM) and talked over the ramifications. Not only am I not going to be bringing home much bacon anymore (I did file for disability and am waiting to see how that turns out), but I'm not going to be able to spend 3+ hours driving people hither and yon every day. I might not be able to drive at all, depending on the medication situation. We were already facing a big conflict between TM's school schedule and the kids' schedule-- the kids were 7:45 to 2:45 and TM was more like 11 to 6.
We talked over the situation and I think I managed to get him to realize there was a problem. Unfortunately, we didn't get any closer to a solution. He swears he can't change any of his classes (so who was going to run the store?), and we can't just keep our kids home so that TM can go to college. Bother.
Saturday: We were going to have Captain Kid's birthday party Saturday afternoon, but about a week ahead of time (just before we invited his friends), I discovered an invitation from one of them to his party, the very same time on the very same day, same general location and same invitees. And of course, he'd sent invitations earlier. So, we talked it over and Captain Kid decided that he'd like to go to his friend's party and get together with his best girl for ice cream sometime soon.
So he went to the party and had a good time. His best girl was there, as were some other friends from kindergarten. TM went and hung out with the other parents, where he discovered that our boy is at the center of a minor soap opera. Apparently, one of the other girls from his class had told little Abby to leave Captain Kid alone because she (a fiery redhead) wanted him. After some consideration, Abby decided to stand by her man. The redhead's going to have to look elsewhere for a boyfriend. Captain Kid, of course, was totally puzzled by the entire episode. I see interesting times ahead.
Sunday: Captain Kid's 6th birthday! We celebrated with boatloads of pirate loot again, another treasure island cake, pirate figures, plunder for him to share with the crew, and so forth. His great-grandma gave him the best present of all: a treasure chest with all sorts of good stuff in it, and he is just deliriously happy with that.
Sunday evening, we watched the broadcast commemorating the handcart pioneers. It was really neat, all the more so because we got to see the little pirates' aunt Dorothy and her beloved husband, His Worship, singing in the choir. I thought just for a moment or two I could hear her voice among the others-- but only because I know it so well, so don't worry, girl.
Later, my mom called to say Happy Birthday to Captain Kid, who babbled excitedly at her about all the great things that were part of his day. He had to tell her all the pirate nicknames of our family, during which his little brother corrected him on one point: "I'm not Blackbeard, I'm Marquis Montalban!" She was so tickled, she asked for pirate nicknames for her and my dad. After some consideration, the kids dubbed them Stede Bonnet and Jean Lafitte. Respectively.
Monday: TM started his second summer class today. I did a brief editing project for my friend Kelli the ice-cream queen. (She owns the shop down our street. I suspect she picked that spot just because she knows how much I love ice cream.) I spent a couple of hours semi-conscious from the pain and exhaustion when I was supposed to be taking care of the kids. (They oughta revoke my mothering license.) Fortunately, they were good most of the time, playing (pseudo) Lego pirates joyfully and energetically.
This afternoon, another shipment of loot arrived for the kids. Now Captain Kid has a singing sword and Marquis Montalban is plotting to steal it. I sense more adventures on the horizon...
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