A little while back I suspected that Monkey might be having some trouble seeing. (I think this was because he'd developed the habit of reading with the book resting within an inch of the tip of his nose.) I took him to the optometrist for an exam and they said no, his vision was only very slightly off (like, maybe 20/30 instead of 20/20), and he was fine. Probably we should tell him to hold the book a little further away. I told him to hold the book out further, and he did. End of story. Except that while Monkey was away on this last trip with his dad, my ex called me up one day and said, "I...
We have reached the part of our program where people who love me place a gentle hand on my arm and say things like, "What are you doing for you?" This always makes me want to laugh (inappropriately). Oh, I'm just eating bonbons and kicking back, you know. Because why not? It feels like the sky is falling, sure, but I'M WORTH IT. Generally I stammer something about how OH I am managing, you know, and Otto always makes sure we have some ice cream in the freezer, and not to worry, I'm just fine. Or, you know, not fine at all, but it's okay. There's a twisted part of my brain that feels like if...
I kept thinking that once I knew for sure what was happening, it would be less overwhelming, and then I could say "Hey, here's the story, I've finally unclenched long enough to tell you." I could sit down and figure out what to tell, how to tell it, and then I could assure you that everything was going to be okay and not to worry. That was a good idea, I guess. I mean, it would've been, if it had worked. It doesn't work because I don't know if everything is going to be okay. A rather large portion of my brain is convinced that nothing is ever going to be okay ever again, but even if I manage...
She says "I can't, I can't," and I keep telling her that she can. And she hates me for it. (I don't really blame her.) I think "I can't, I can't," but I don't get to say it out loud. I get to talk to doctors, talk to the insurance, brightly assure her brother that she's fine, just fine, they're taking good care of her, we have to believe she's getting better; let's go do something fun together while I'm home; let's see if Lemur or Mario can play! I don't get to "I can't" because she needs me and because if I can't, who can? One foot in front of the other. Because I can until she can,...
While we were camping and tormenting small dogs with boogie boards, Chickadee was spending a week with her dad. One of the things I shouldn't say out loud---but will, because I've learned by now that everyone in a similar situation feels it, and guilt about it is just stupid---is that it was a relief to be apart for a few days. Not because we don't love her (we do), not because we weren't worried about her (we were), but because she is, at this point, due to many factors out of her control, completely and totally exhausting. A child with a chronic illness is a challenge to a parent's...
The best thing to do when you've spent a week in a different time zone and you're still adjusting to that giant Time Hangover where you never want to go to bed at night but you're dragging around exhausted in the morning is to pack up again and go camping. Well, no; that is absolutely NOT the best thing to do, but Otto apparently doesn't realize that. Heh. Kidding! I kid. I totally wanted to go camping. Kind of. Right after I take a nap. Anyway, we decided to drag Mario's family to one of our favorite campgrounds, and the way it worked out was that Mario got dropped at our place and came up...
It seems like I should have more to say about the end of middle school, but I've been a little too verklempt to manage it. [Talk amongst yourselves! Here, I'll give you a topic: Attendance awards; universally annoying or only to bitter parents of chronically ill children who feel like other kids getting medals and certificates for having good immune systems is bullshit? Discuss.] In the end, it was sort of anti-climactic. Chickadee hasn't been feeling great, and in the post-moving-on-no-we-are-most-certainly-not-calling-it-a-graduation-ceremony hubbub as I tried to corral her and some...
It turns out there's nothing quite like living the one-day-at-a-time-at-the-hospital life to make you REALLY excited about middle school graduation. Part of me still can't believe this almost didn't happen, and the other part is afraid to breathe, just in case I'm asleep. Today is a good day.
I lamented to Otto this morning that "I don't have anything interesting to write about!" Otto---deeply embroiled in the home stretch of grading and finishing up the semester---gave me several suggestions of guffaw-worthy student gaffes, none of which I'm actually going to share. That's mostly because they're not my stories, but also because I don't want Otto to lose his job. He's so nice to the students' faces; there's no need for them to know he makes fun of them here at home.* Um. Oops? See, the problem is that all I want right now is... nothing. No drama. No excitement. I want boring and...
