We talked for close to an hour, last night, and then after we'd said our goodbyes and I had retired to the couch with Otto, my phone dinged. It was a picture of Chickadee in her Halloween getup, with the comment, "Looky mommy! I'm fantastical." I complimented her on the ensemble, and a minute later received: "u should put a pumpkin on my head and put me on ur blog." I said I would, but apparently I was not speedy enough. An hour later, another text: "Look at the pics I made for u!" Because I am a kind and loving mama, I responded, "GO TO BED, YOU HAVE SCHOOL TOMORROW. (Love you.)" She's so...
Chickadee is finishing up her first week of classes at her new school, and so far, so good. She doesn't tell me much, but I am trying to step back a little, plus I am often all doped up when we talk. She did mention wanting to use the x-ray of the hardware in my hand as her screen wallpaper, which I'm gathering to mean that breaking my hand in a really stupid way is---in her eyes---the coolest thing I've ever done. Her father was kind enough to send along the obligatory first-day picture: Those combat boots could use a little polish, but that's okay. Keep flying, girly.
Before Chickadee left, she made me load Draw Something onto my phone. "It's super fun," she said. "We can play together and you will love it, I promise!" My drawing skills are rudimentary at best, but on my tiny phone screen with my suddenly-fat-feeling finger, there are kindergarteners who look like Da Vinci compared to me. My drawings are straight up terrible. The only way she can possibly guess anything I draw is when I write hints over the top of my scribbles. "You're real super good at this," she commented one day. You wouldn't think sarcasm could drip off of a phone screen, AND YET....
My mother-in-law's funeral was lovely. I know people say that---"Oh, wasn't it nice!"---and it always seems weird to me because what exactly is nice about a body in a box? But it was the perfect mix of respectful and irreverent. I think she would've approved. We flew home first thing on Friday morning, and drove straight from the airport to the hospital. Half an hour of paperwork later, Chickadee was free and clear. She hugged us and chatted on and on and bounced through most of the ride home. Once there, we sorted through a week's worth of mail while Chickie began digging around in her room...
I am 41 years old, and my experience with death of loved ones is remarkably scant. My parents are still alive. My grandparents' deaths were long ago and I was mostly shielded from whatever rituals were executed after their passing. I have a relatively small family and a small group of friends, and the fortune of not having lost anyone from those circles in adulthood. Until my ex's father died, I had never been to a funeral. (I tell people that and they think I'm exaggerating or joking. No, really. The first funeral I ever attended was for my then-father-in-law, and I had no idea what was...
Left to my own devices, I don't often find it hard to write. My head is always full of STUFF---some of it important, plenty not---and the STUFF gets tangled up with pesky FEELINGS and then there is something about the act of extracting those things from my skull and committing them to letters and punctuation and letting other people see it that helps me make sense of things. It helps me to make sense of ME. That's inherently selfish, and I know it. Then again, a lot of things are. I'm not convinced the way I'm compelled to write is any worse than anything else, but I know this about it. I do...
I always find myself looking forward to the weekend with a fervor that borders on religious, particularly by Thursday or Friday. It's going to be SO NICE, I think, and I will SLEEP LATE and RELAX and RECHARGE. And then Monday rolls around and I am just as exhausted and cranky as usual. It seems unfair. [Side note: I did finally make an appointment to see my doctor, on account of recent life stressors do seem to be taking a slight toll on my health, possibly. Weird, right? I mean, who knew that constant months of high stress might make you less than perfectly healthy or something? So I called...
One of the things I love most about Hippie School is that it exists just about a step and a half to the left of flat-out Lord of the Flies when the kids are playing outside. (And of course they play outside for hours each day, unlike those good ol' fifteen-minute-long recesses at public school; and come to think of it, as a middle schooler, there's no recess at all, of course.) The kids have gardens and forts and sometimes they go fishing and for a while they were big into catching turtles and building habitats for them. (I confess I found this slightly confusing. "Weren't they ALREADY in a...
I think I mentioned that Monkey is taking a couple of virtual school classes this semester, and as part of filling out the hospital/homebound paperwork for Chickadee it was suggested that she do so, as well. (Translation: Oh, we are legally obligated to send a teacher out to tutor your kid, but she's too far away for us to feel like doing that, and we are too lazy to coordinate with the district where she's currently residing, so instead how about we pay for her to take virtual school courses and you don't sue us? OKAY!) Actually---now that I think of it---the craziness started really early...
