What goes up, must come down
It’s been just over a month since I finally dared to say it out loud, that we believed Chickadee was getting better, that our long nightmare of a year might—finally!—be headed somewhere more hopeful. Meds were changed, improvements took hold, and I felt like we could hope without holding our collective breath.
Since then, life here on the “outside” has marched on without my daughter. Monkey started school; Otto started back to work; when I drive past the high school in the late afternoon and see the cross country team out running, I quietly count to myself how many of the kids we know, and find myself predicting where in the long line of jostling teenagers my Chickie would be, if she was there with them as she’d originally planned.
When friends ask, I smile and tell them we’re hanging in there. But after the first couple of times, yeah, I changed up my schedule so that I no longer pass the high school when the kids are out. It hurts to look at them. The little stabs of tangled up longing-and-fear they inspire make it hard for me to breathe.
We are hanging in there. But it’s gonna be a long hang. read more…
My $.02 on rape
It’s Tuesday, so that means I’m over at Feel More Better, but today I couldn’t muster up something funny. In the wake of yesterday’s comments by Rep. Akin and the resulting discussions of what rape is and isn’t and what it can and can’t do, I find myself realizing things about the world (and myself) that I wish were different.
So really, I owe Akin a thanks for this rape epiphany, I guess. (Not that I can quite bring myself to thank him without my tongue lodged firmly in my cheek, on account of he’s a jerk.)
Older, if not wiser
This weekend Licorice and I had our birthdays. That’s how I knew she was meant to be my dog, you know—the rescue had assigned her a birthdate, I guess, and it’s the day after mine. She is now maybe-six (really, they’re just guessing on her age) and I am now forty-none-of-your-damn-business-but-trust-me-I-feel-old. Or 41, if you insist.
Otto and I ran away for the weekend and left the dog at the kennel. Because we’re both so much older and more mature, now, this morning Licorice proceeded to prance around our bed a full hour before the alarm was set to go off, and later this morning—after I’d prepared breakfast and packed lunches—I set about making some mango salsa to go with the fish tacos I’ll be making for dinner, and on the VERY LAST ITEM I needed to cut up, yes indeed, I used all 41 years of my brainpower to cut towards myself and of course the knife slipped and I sliced open my finger.
So the answer to “What’s for dinner, Mom?” will be “Fish tacos with mangled fingertip salsa.” I wonder if Monkey will have seconds? read more…
Unrelated random things
I was thinking this morning—after I managed to stick my foot deep into my own mouth in front of a bunch of people, YAY!—about various cliches. Like, there should be something to describe the feeling of entering the third month of your kid’s hospitalization and still not knowing 1) when she might be coming home, 2) if she’s truly getting better, 3) if the #*&%^ Medicaid approval is ever coming, 4) if life will ever feel normal again. That’s far too long and messy, and you know what? 90% of people do not want to hear about it, anyway.
In the end (of the foot-in-mouth scenario) I had to settle for meekly apologizing, citing my current status as “a big ball of hurtiness” thanks to recent events. It felt inadequate, but saying “every time I think I’ve reached some sort of acceptance about all of this, a great big wave of THIS SUCKS I HATE IT hits me again” feels whiney.
Somehow the phrase “wearing my heart on my sleeve” popped up in my head. And then I thought that the meaning isn’t quite right for what I’m going through. This, this is more like having my intestines pinned to my shirt. And then I thought Intestines On My Shirt would be a good band name. And it’s really hard to imagine how I manage to continually say the wrong thing in social situations, isn’t it? It’s a puzzle, truly. read more…
The texting generation
So, I have a confession to make: Today’s post of mine over at Feel More Better, about how today’s teens text more than they talk, is a little more grumpy than it seems on the surface.
Yes, I’m wondering about the parallels between what they do now, and the note-scribbling, constant-phone-talking existence I led as a teen. Sure.
But really, deep down? What I was thinking about when I wrote it is that Chickadee’s received exactly two contacts from friends since her hospitalization: One lengthy letter from a lovely young woman who also emails to ask me how she is, and one card from a friend whose mother probably made her do it. That’s IT. Because if they can’t text or email someone, they pretty much cease to exist. And that… kind of sucks. Though Chickie herself tends to feel that way, too, so it’s possible I’m more bothered by it than she is.
Does it mean today’s teens are less connected, or does it mean I’m just being oversensitive? Come weigh in because I honestly have no idea.
Of shoes and sundaes
This morning we set alarms (and got woken up early, anyway, by our trusty I-saw-you-breathe-it-must-be-kibble-o’clock prancing canine alarm) and got up early and the boys went back to school.
Monkey’s first day back to Hippie School, and Otto’s first day back to teaching. Of course I made them pose.
(Please disregard the fact that Otto really needs to polish his shoes and instead focus on the fact that Monkey’s feet suddenly do not seem all that much smaller than a full grown man’s. ACK.) read more…
By request
Portrait of the artist at the computer in the kitchen, completing a unit on Scientific Method while still in his pajamas. Not the first day of school, but still. (Pictured: One foot resting on the drawer where I keep my muffin tins. Not pictured: Me exhorting him for the umpteenth time to take his foot out of the drawer, or does he enjoy delicious banana-foot-funk muffins?)
Yesterday was hard, and you made it less so. Thank you. Today is a little better.
This is not a picture of shoes
Those of you who’ve been around here for years know that it’s been my tradition ever since we moved to Georgia to post a picture of my kids’ shoes on the first day of school. It not only works well with that whole Witness Protection Program thing my kids have going on, to me it’s always felt like the most iconic representation of the new school year. Even once it became “uncool” to sport new kicks on the first day.
If I’d bothered to think about it, I guess I would’ve imagined that the first day of high school would’ve been the same way—a picture of shoes, an excited but nervous launch into the next chapter, and maybe even the realization that my days of shoe pictures have only a few more years to go. (Unless Chickie wanted to send me a picture of her shoes from college, which actually seems like something she might do, come to think of it. Or would’ve done, prior to… you know. All of this.)
Instead, today is supposed to be Chickadee’s first day of high school and it isn’t. Despite the hard work I’m doing every day on acceptance and living in the moment and staying positive, last night this kind of hit me like a ton of bricks, and this morning isn’t much better. It’s supposed to be today. Today is supposed to be a day full of promise for her, and I’m sad it’s not. I don’t know how not to grieve this. read more…
Here’s your medal for existing
Today you can find me playing the role of crusty ol’ curmudgeon over at Feel More Better, where I am lamenting the role that rewards have come to play in our children’s lives. Not a new topic, to be sure, but driven home for me yesterday in an unexpected way.
Kids today, man. Pretty sure they’re not going to be able to get out of bed for anything less than a ticker tape parade and a life-size trophy.
I swear I am not making this up
It’s official; we have reached the portion of 2012 where things have been so incredibly suckalicious that my hands hover over the keyboard while I wrestle with the very real fear that you will just stop believing what I’m saying. Because it’s outlandish. How can one family have such incredibly bad luck? Surely I am just making some of this up, or embellishing, or I’ve just completely lost my marbles or I’m just screwing with you now.
(It would be nice if that was true, kind of. Except for the part where I’m either crazy or sadistic.)
Anyway. EVERYONE IS FINE. Let’s start with that. At last count everyone is still alive and has all their limbs, so not to worry! It didn’t kill us, it just made us wish it had made us stronger!
So. When last we spoke, my parents had arrived, and Monkey was on his second day of high but mysterious fever. I even noted that “he seems fine.” Cue the ominous music! read more…