Thursday, August 24, 2006
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
|
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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