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August 2004
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October 2004

It's not pretty from in here, either.

So, WHO wants a glimpse into a PMS’d mind? Hmm? Well, YOU DO, right? Of COURSE you do! Fortunately, my mind is JUST SUCH A MIND today, and here, free of charge, is your glimpse.
Driving Grandpa over to see Grandma today, I heard myself say, “I just think it’s amazing that…” One part of my mind detached from whatever asinine thing I was saying and proceeded to berate me with the following soliloquy:
You just think it’s AMAZING, huh? Do you know how OFTEN you begin sentences like that? ALL THE FREAKING TIME. I bet your friends gag when they hear you begin another sentence with your proclamation of amazingness. GET OVER IT. There simply isn’t THAT MUCH in the world that’s actually amazing. You know what’s AMAZING? Over use of hyperbole. Oh yeah. NO WAIT! That’s just IRRITATING.
Another, slightly more rational portion of my mind, broke in with a timid response:
Um…don’t you think you’re being a little HARSH? I mean, *sniff* why ya gotta be a hater?
Response?
Yeah, you’re right. It’s JUST AMAZING, isn’t it?

So now I’ve sworn off the word AMAZING entirely, and I give you permission to slap me if you hear me say it. Particularly if I begin a sentence, “I just think it’s AMAZING…”
Really. Do it. It seems like a good idea.

I took the boys to the library, and when I got home I told Max he could watch the video he’d checked out. He faced me with solemn brown eyes and confessed that he couldn’t find the video or book he’d just checked out. WE HADN’T GONE ANYWHERE ELSE. We’d walked out of the library, to the van, and gone home. WHERE WERE THE ITEMS? I quizzed him, he looked helpless. I searched the van, found nothing but old food and discarded shoes. My blood pressure was rising, so I sent Max to lie down on his bed, with the stern admonition, “It is IMPORTANT to take care of books – especially library books. You need to THINK ABOUT THAT.” He went quietly, and actually fell asleep and took an hour and a half nap. He clearly needed the sleep, which didn’t make me feel ONE BIT BETTER when I found the book and video in the FRONT SEAT, under my purse. Apparently I carried them to the car. No memory of that. Yeah. If it were based on MY merit? Sooooo going to hell.

Later that day I was driving home from errand-hopping, and I passed a local high school. The school zone lights were flashing, so traffic had slowed to the appropriate crawl. I watched the students walking home as I inched through the school zone, and was suddenly touched by all these cars, SLOWING DOWN for the kids. I mean, they may LOOK like hookers and gang members, but they are OUR CHILDREN. They don’t have to like us, WE LOVE THEM and we CHERISH them and we SHOW IT by slowing down in the midst of life’s hustle and bustle. We give them these moments because it’s TRUE, they are our FUTURE.
I wiped away a little tear, thinking, It’s just amazing…
OH DAMNIT.
Now I have to go smack myself.



A short and rambling post that is all my mother's fault.

Ok, I gave blood today, followed by an afternoon of fun and birthday frolic for my cousin’s twelve year old son. Bumper boats were ridden, go karts raced, and lasers used to tag. Well, all I did was follow Raphael and kept him more or less out of harm’s way, but still. Exhausting.
All of this is said defensively, to explain why this particular post will be sort of short and pitiful. Blood loss! Birthday fun! The only reason I’m actually POSTING is that my MOTHER is sitting next to me, not speaking to me. Until I blog, you understand. So. I really have no choice, do I?
Here is something you may not know: If you have to go pee, and you are three years old, AND you happen to be Superman, going to the bathroom will require the removal and energetic flinging of your shoes, shorts, underwear, AND cape. Complicated business, being Superman. And three.
After having lunch today at a noodle place with my dad, I left the boys with him and went striding down the 16th street mall to the blood mobile. Did I mention I gave blood today? Oh yes I did. Which makes me a) automatically a pretty good person, at least for today, and b) a little ditzy. Yes. I did mention that. Ok then. Anyhow, there I was, no children in tow, walking down the street, surrounded by downtown people in their business attire. I was NOT in business attire, but I was dressed nicely enough. I mean, I fulfilled my main objective when getting dressed, which is not to be naked, and PLUS my clothes were pretty much clean. Which is not a given, with the boys around. Anyhow, I was obviously feeling pretty good about myself, almost like I could pass for a person who belongs downtown, and not that guy who was sitting under a sidewalk table, talking to a Pepsi can either. After a few blocks, I happened to glance down at my feet as I stepped off a curb. And there, glued to the side of my black Mary Jane, was one piece of elbow macaroni, which flapped a bit when I walked.
Yeah. So. Almost cool. You know, if cool people wear remnants of their children’s lunch on their feet.
Anyhow.
Tre told me the other day he has a crush on Hannah, at school. Oh, for pete’s sake, if you KNOW Tre, don’t tell him I told you, ok? Anyhow, he said Hannah used to TEASE him all the time, to which I responded, “Oh, she probably likes you.” He looked at me like I’d sprouted horns.
“No, she TEASED me. She wasn’t nice AT ALL. She called me Tre Bey all the time.”
“Yeah, I understand. Sometimes girls act like that when they like someone and they don’t know what to do about it.”
He thought about that for a minute, then said, “I think Megan likes me too.”
“Really? Why do you say that?”
“Well, the other day she told me that she likes me.”
See how ASTUTELY he picked up on those clues? Oh yeah, he’s got girls allll figured out. *snort* I predict a long and successful dating life. *guffaw*
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see what I can do about getting Hannah and Megan moved into another school district, state, country, whatever. Hussies.


Set aside

b4b.jpg
This is my entry in the Blogging for Books contest at The Zero Boss. The theme for this month's contest is adaptation. Specifically, about a time you had trouble adapting to a major life change. Three guesses which one I wrote about?

The day of the divorce shouldn’t have been such a shock. My husband had moved out nine months before, and then there were all those lawyers and papers. I mean, I knew what was happening.
I knew, but I didn’t believe it.
I sat in the courtroom, shivering in the July air conditioning, feeling as though I might snap. Not go insane, just simply break under the weight of the day. The judge pronounced our marriage to be “set aside,” a phrase I found shocking for its casualness.
Set aside.
My husband – now my ex – strode out of the courtroom without a backward glance. I stared elsewhere as he walked away. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. My mom eventually took my arm, and I followed her to the car.
When I got home my eldest son met me at the door. He knew where I’d gone, and he looked at me, searching for hope that it hadn’t happened. I hugged him, and told him quietly, “Yes. Your Daddy and I are divorced now. But you know we’ll always love you –“
He pulled away, uninterested in hearing again all the reasons this shouldn’t tear him apart. He didn’t want to hear promises from me just then. He wasn’t angry, not directly. He was awash with anxiety, his hands fidgeting, his face pinched. He danced from foot to foot, and wouldn’t make eye contact. I reached out for him again, but he turned and ran away. I watched him for a moment, then walked up the stairs.
For some reason the thing I felt I needed to do – right then - was to call the credit card company. For months I’d been trying to get my ex’s name off my Visa, and after phone calls, and signed affidavits, and letters, I’d given up. I just didn’t have the energy to pursue it. But now it seemed like the most important thing in the world.
I dug out my card and called the number on the back. As I waited for a person to talk to me, I paced back and forth in my bedroom. I watched myself in the mirror and thought, how old you look. Old, discarded. Set aside.
Eventually someone answered and I explained what I wanted. She listened, and then paused.
“I can’t do that for you,” she said.
“Well, then please transfer me to someone who can.”
Back to the hold music, and in a few moments a man came on the line. I told him what I needed, only to hear the same pause. He apologized, but he couldn’t help me.
“Why?”
“Well…you don’t have enough income to qualify for the credit limit you and your husband had.”
“So lower my credit limit!”
“I can’t do that. If you’d like to close this account and apply for a new one in your name alone, you can do that. I don’t know if we’ll be able to approve your application. But I can’t keep this account open without his name on it.”
At that point I became dimly aware that I was hyperventilating.
“That’s MY card. It was mine before I got married – I only added his name to it a few years ago.” My voice was rising, and my hand was gripping the phone so tightly it hurt.
“I understand…but I just can’t give you this high a limit in your name. If you want to keep his name on the account – “
“NO. I can’t DO THAT. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? He LEFT! Today he DIVORCED ME, and I have to figure out the rest of my life for me and our sons. He TOOK EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. I had this life, this future, and now it’s like I don’t even EXIST. You’re telling me I can’t even have my OWN CREDIT CARD!” I was screaming. I could feel my throat going raw.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I went through a divorce myself a few years ago. It was awful. I really wish I could help you…” He trailed off, helpless.
“Close the account,” I snarled, and hung up. I took the phone and hammered it against the floor. I was rocking back and forth on my knees, sobbing, when my mom walked in. She sat down behind me and wrapped her arms around me. I sank into her.
“They won’t let me have my card,” I cried, “I can’t even have a credit card without him. MY credit card.” She held me and murmured words of encouragement. “I can’t do this, Mom. I can’t do this. I don’t have anything left.” She wiped the hair off my face and repeated firmly the same words she’d told me when I was in labor with my firstborn, and panicking.
“You are doing it. You’re doing just fine.”

That day was the low point of the breakup. All the losses and wounds led up to that day. I had once said of my marriage that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. If that was true, the disassembled parts were certainly lesser. I didn’t know who I was or what direction to take my life in.
But slowly I fit the pieces back together. I not only rediscovered my own life, I discovered that I still wanted to live it. Bit by bit the souvenirs of our marriage were boxed up, pushed to the back of the closet, or simply gotten rid of. The other day I came across that credit card. For some reason I’d stuck it between two books on the bookshelf, and when I pulled one out, the card slipped free and fell at my feet. I picked it up and looked at it for a moment, remembering that day, and how wounded I’d been.
Then I set it aside.
I’m doing just fine.


Cat food and writing

It’s late and I’m about to give up. I’ve been sitting here, fussing with something I’m working on. An essay that’s just not coming out right. I’ve moved the beginning around, futzed with the end, and pushed back from the computer to stare at the ceiling and ask myself, “What EXACTLY was it I was trying to say here?” After a few hours of trying, I’m just not sure anymore.
Well, time to put it away for a while. You know, sometimes I feel like Claire, our cat. Her food bowls have to be put up high, out of the reach of Heidi. Heidi is my grandparent’s miniature schnauzer, who is allergic to meat, and lives to get into Claire’s food. So we keep Claire’s dishes up on my bathroom counter. Up there Heidi can’t reach them, but Claire can jump up.
Mostly. I’ll see her, crouching on the floor, tensing for the leap, and I have to stop to see if she’ll make it. Sometimes she’ll simply detach from gravity, sail up to the counter, and land without a sound. She looks smug, and saunters over to her food. Then other times she’ll ready herself, and look up anxiously. She adjusts her stance, wiggles, and adjusts again. Finally, she’ll spring – and catch the counter with her front paws. She scrabbles for a moment, and then falls back to the floor with a thud. After a moment to repair her pride by licking herself randomly, she’ll lower into leaping stance again. Sometimes it takes three or four tries to get up there, but she keeps trying. Because it’s her FOOD.
Sometimes I sit down to write something, and I can practically hear the sentences in my head. I can barely keep pace with my typing; the thoughts are coming together so fast. It’s like dancing. It’s my favorite thing. Ever.
Then, other times, it’s impossible. I sit down with a rough outline in my head, and instead of it spilling out, I have to chisel it free. Every sentence sounds wooden and trite. Tonight has been that sort of night. I’ve been Claire, flailing and falling. Nights like this I ask myself what the heck I think I’m doing. I mean, unlike Claire, this isn’t my sustenance. I won’t die if I walk away and preserve my dignity.
Oh, but I can taste it.


Two Examples

One Example Of How I Am Not Nearly The Mother I Should Be.

This afternoon I was hard at work, organizing the cupboards and shelves that hold our school supplies. We haven’t started school yet this year, in part because I hadn’t done my fall “tear apart the school room.” So today I committed myself to it. I threw trash away, sorted papers, and arranged books. Tre and Max came in to discover their shelves, newly stocked with school books for the fall. They started pawing through them.
“I remember this one!” Max called out. “This is the handwriting book! I love this one! Hey! Do I get to use this book?” He held up a grammar book Tre had been using up until recently. I nodded and he started leafing through it, mightily impressed with himself. Tre was busy flipping through his new math book.
“Wow, division. LONG division. I bet that’s hard. But I’m a whiz at math, right, Mama?” I nodded again, busy wrestling with an unruly sheaf of construction paper. He moved to the history books. “Wow, the civil war? Cool! Can we build one of those paper models again, like the Viking village?” He started pulling out more books, looking for a paper model.
I’d had all I could take in my organizational mode.
“STOP THAT!” I ordered. “Put those books BACK and go watch TV or something. I’m trying to sort things here and YOU AREN’T HELPING.” I shooed them out of the room and off to some other, less educational task.
I just love homeschooling – encouraging my children in a natural love of learning. I’m practically Charlotte freaking Mason herself.

Now, An Example Of How They Deserve Me.

Raphael had unearthed, among the many school-related items littering the dining room table, a slide whistle. It didn’t take more than a few moments of him enjoying this new instrument for me to decide that it was most certainly an OUTSIDE toy. I instructed him to put it away or to enjoy its earsplitting joy in the back yard. He happily went outside and practiced making birds fall from the air from the sheer decibel assault. After a while he decided he’d prefer to be inside. I saw him moving toward the door, and held up a warning hand.
“Don’t blow that whistle inside, or I will take it away.” He looked at me, narrowed his eyes above the beloved whistle, and stepped one foot inside the door. And gave a little shriek-slide on the whistle. I strode over to him and took it away. As I turned to put it on a high shelf, he called after me,
“Mama! Ah don’ wanna play wif da whistle any more! Mama! Put it away now!”
Yeah. Nice try, kid.
It’s gonna be a long year.
But hey, my school room’s ready!


I'm so cool.

Guess what I did today? Go ahead, GUESS!
*stares at you annoyingly for a moment*
Ok, I WENT ROLLER SKATING!
Yes, I am very cool. You know, about twenty years ago, that is. TODAY all I am is a 33 year old woman who should know better. But today I dragged two dear friends along to the roller rink. We left all our children at home, and strapped on old skates and hit the floor. Um…literally in my case. More on that later.
It was sooooo much fun. The rink was having a Labor Day skate special, and the place was packed, but we still had a great time. It didn’t take long for Amy, Tracey, and I to get a little more comfortable on our skates, and we tore the place UP! Or…went around the rink repeatedly in an orderly fashion, occasionally shooting stern looks at swift-moving children. But STILL!
At one point they had a SPEED SKATE, wherein they allowed all the age/gender groups to take turns skating AS FAST AS THEY COULD. They started with all girls under the age of 10, and eventually moved up to girls over the age of 16. Well, with Tracey, Amy, and me, that made about six hearty souls that got out there to speed skate. And all the young twerplings waiting on the side? Sooo impressed with us. Oh yeah.
Some kids leaned over and held out their hands for us to slap on our way past, surely thinking, “Wow. I hope to be THAT COOL when I’M ancient.” I was so thrilled with my coolness – and speed – that I tried to smack every young hand that was reached out.
And I totally wiped out and tumbled right into the wall.
Yup.
‘Cause, did I mention how cool I am?
And now, to emphasize how very OLD I am, here is a list of things I thought today that I probably DIDN’T think the last time I went skating, about twenty years ago.

Wow, I’d better take some ibuprofen when I get home.
Uh-oh, I don’t think I left a number where my parents could reach me. I’d better call them.
Ouch.
Does this count as weight-bearing exercise?
Why does the music have to be so LOUD?
Ouch.
I could go for some tea.
What’s with all the small people darting in front of me? HEY! You’re supposed to go AROUND. In an orderly fashion, thankyouverymuch.
Ouch.
I wonder if they disinfect these skates well between people?
I’d better get going home soon if I’m going to have time to clean the bathroom.
Ouch.
Geez, I could use a nap.
Ouch.


About six months ago my mom’s parents moved nearer us so we could help them. Up until then they’d lived on their own. Grandma’s been in a wheelchair for a while, but Grandpa took care of her, and they did fine. But then Grandpa developed a problem with his back, and in an amazingly short period of time, he also needed a wheelchair. So they moved up here. Two blocks away, in the independent living senior residences.
And so began a new phase in our family’s life, wherein we worked to support the illusion that Grandma and Grandpa are living independently. I don’t want to go into all the details, because it would sound like complaining, and that’s truly not what I’m trying to do here. But suffice to say that a huge effort has gone into supporting them and making their life work. Particularly for my mom, it’s been life changing.
A few weeks ago Grandma fell, getting out of bed. She broke her leg. A broken leg means she cannot transfer herself from bed to wheelchair, etc. So she went to a care center for a week of physical therapy. After a week it was determined that no further physical therapy would help until the leg healed more – in about four weeks. So she moved to a nursing home, so she would have the care she needs while she awaits more physical therapy. Grandma and Grandpa have been married for 62 years and hate to be apart, so we bring him over there every morning, and home every night.
As we try to make all the pieces fit, Grandpa and Grandma both strive to assure us that this is temporary, that they will be “back to normal” soon.
I’m dumbstruck when they say that, because although I hope there will be improvements, that Grandma’s leg will heal well enough for her to go home, this new phase of their life is not temporary. I wish it were, but it’s just not.
Sometimes I want to grab them by the shoulders, to sternly instruct them of the reality of their situation. But it seems to me they are grieving. They are fiddling with the details of their life to avoid looking at the whole picture.
So at every opportunity, they hasten to remind us that this is temporary, that they won’t need so much help soon. When I went to see Grandma on the day she was moving from the original care center, she gripped my hand and said, “You know, this next move is just a step to getting home to our own little apartment.” I didn’t know what to say. I hope she’s right, but it’s not something I can promise.
When I drive Grandpa over to see Grandma, he sits in the passenger’s seat, and cranes his neck to check oncoming traffic before I make a turn. He quizzes me on street names, and assures me he will be driving soon.
“Don’t worry; I won’t be taking up your time like this any more. I’ll get back to driving and you won’t have to take time out of your day like this.”
I always assure him that it’s ok, I don’t mind, but what I can’t say is that the thought of him driving is what actually worries me.
I don’t blame him for feeling anxious. The details of his life, that used to fit comfortably within his cupped hand, have spilled out. Now everyone except him is gathering them up, carrying them for him, assuring him, “It’s ok, don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
But it’s his life. And he is left, staring at his empty hand, fretting about how he’s going to assimilate it all again.
The other day we were driving along the Dam Road, a road that traces the apex of the dam that forms the Cherry Creek Reservoir. Grandpa looked down at the boats bobbing on the water below, and (ever the professor) it sparked in him a lesson.
“You know the sound a boat makes when it’s moored, or at anchor?” he said. “The water moving against the hull makes…” he gestured with one open hand, as though he were reaching into the air between us for the right word, “a sort of sploosh noise. After some time, that noise can get to a man. It can drive someone crazy. You can’t get away from it – you’re stuck. But do you know what they call that noise? Scupper music. When you call it that, it takes on a life of its own. It becomes soothing, something to enjoy.”
For Grandpa, it was just another of life’s interesting details he’s collected like his own private jewel collection. But I wished he could really listen to what he was saying. If I had the nerve - or the right to comment on his life - I would have taken him by the hand and said, “Relax for a minute, Grandpa. I know this isn’t where you want to be, but listen. Just let us help. Let it be scupper music.”


I knew you'd want to know this...

Here are a few of my thoughts from Pukefest 2004.

1 – Why are all the clocks in the house set to different times? I’ve successfully conquered the clock on the stove and the clock on the microwave, synchronizing them to the joy of my little heart. But EVERY OTHER CLOCK claims a different time. Two of them are battery run clocks that have not shaped up with the gift of a new AA. One of them is my mother’s antique mantel clock that PERSISTS in losing time. I’ve SPOKEN to her about it.
“Mom!” I said with great passion, “Please fix your clock. Do that THING you do to make it keep the right time.” She looked at me, puzzled.
“You’re the one who showed ME how to do it. You fix it,” she replied in a helpful manner designed to pay me back for my adolescence.
But the thing is, I DO NOT KNOW HOW. So I’m declaring here, in this public forum, either A) I was NOT the one who showed you how or B) I have suffered sufficient brain damage to cause this knowledge to seep out my ears. This was PROBABLY caused by the TRAUMA of clock unsynchronisity. Which I declare to be a word. Right now, I just did.

2 – We have, instead of a front screen door, a front GLASS door. It is one large pane of glass that takes in the afternoon sun, and acts as a solar heat collector. In the summer months this nifty thermal accumulation causes the area between the front door and the screen/glass door to get SO HOT that the doorknob becomes untouchable. As if THAT weren’t nifty enough, this large pane of glass ALSO collects fingerprints. It collects so very many fingerprints at such an alarming rate that observing said glass after a few days’ rest from the Windex is like an archeological study. You know, of the last few days. Ah yes, I think, there is Max’s handprint from where he leapt up in the middle of breakfast to go get the newspaper. See the outline of toast crumbs? And here is Raphael’s nose print from where Appa went to the store without him, causing Raphi to wail and smear his sodden face on the glass.
And so on.
I hate the screen/glass door. I think I’ll remove it with my very own Phillips screwdriver tomorrow, causing the neighborhood to DESPAIR of us and our odd ways.

3 – Cleaning around the toilets after a few days’ break from my usual toilet vigilance, I am reminded of a basic fact of life. Boys are simply disgusting. Don’t get me wrong, you all KNOW I LOVE MY BOYS. I’m like a cheerleader for the boys. “GIMME AN X! GIMME A Y! WHAT DOES IT MEAN? HECK IF I KNOW! YAAAAAAY BOYS!” But truth is truth, and the absolute, unvarnished reality of it is that Boys Are Disgusting.

4 – Once, when I was a mere pup of about twenty, I went on a first date with a very nice guy. Over dinner he told me a joke. When he got to the punch line, I sat and stared at him for a moment, then leapt up and ran from the table. I just made it to the sink, where I threw up my socks. I went on to fall hopelessly in love with said guy, and from there on to him breaking my heart completely.
SO. I moved to Denver, where I met my ex. On one of our first dates I leapt up in the middle of the movie we were watching to race to the bathroom and (you guessed it) throw up. Yes, I am so VERY adorable that I can actually THROW UP on a date and still continue to be irresistible. Or at least I was that adorable in my twenties. Now…well, who knows?
Anyhow, my POINT was that throwing up is bad for everyone, but for ME? It reminds me of FALLING IN LOVE. So, for me it’s like a case of the stomach flu PLUS post traumatic stress disorder. I’m just saying.

5 – So on Tuesday I threw up and threw up. I’m fairly sure I horked up my liver at one point. Actually I only threw up about four times. But I THOUGHT, this had better make me skinny, about…four thousand times. Because shallow is deeper than me.

6 – Raphael being sick is bad. Raphael being sick FIRST is unimaginably bad. Because by the time the rest of us were sick Raphi was well enough to BOUNCE RELENTLESSLY on our heads. And today? When we were just beginning to drag ourselves out of bed and into the light? Raphael was crazed with boredom. Tonight he was marching around, chanting, “Sheeme wahme sheeme wahmee,” which I fear means, “If I have to spend another day in this house I will KNOCK YOU DOWN and EAT YOUR LIVER, old woman.”
But the joke’s on him, because I’m pretty sure I puked it up on Tuesday.