Amidst the Cold of Winter

Into this weepy and bewildered bleakness, my middle son (that little fuzzy headed fellow) pokes his aforementioned fuzzy head to announce that "'Ho Ho Ho' means 'God is with us'."

Hmm..

Perhaps if I remember the latter when I hear the former, the light will come.

L.

Because I can't

Writing about this is thinking about this and thinking about this is grieving and guilting about this. And I can't just now, so this post is recycled from one I shared with some beloved friends. We are bound to each other by our stretchmarks and our secrets and while we don't see each other much at all, but we are always and absolutely shoulder to shoulder and shoulder for shoulder. Thank you,Dear Friends.

I know that Solstice will come and light will return, but for now I am dark.

I'll try to minimize the backstory as much as I can. D. (that little red headed fellow) will be
tested for autism spectrum disorder soon. I cannot begin to tell you
the depth of my fear and grief. And it's not even a
surprise. We've been dealing with spectrum stuff for the last two
years, and I've been adjusting to it, or so I thought, but THE test.
THE diagnosis. Knowing it and saying it are two very different
things. I have to tell you that he is my heart. He is precious and
singularly beautiful to me. When I hear "Silent Night" there's that bit about "Love's pure Light" and the clean beauty of the line and the melody are exquisitely my son to me.
But this is hard. Hard in so many ways.
It's hard to take everyone places. It's hard to explain to people.
It's hard to do everything, every-freaking-thing. There are things I
know and things I feel and those things are miles apart. I can't
begin to explain my guilt. You wonder what you did, you know? or
didn't do. yes, I know the answer, but a mother's heart isn't logical
like that. Did I miss something? Have I been in denial at his
expense? Am I just bad at this? I'm exhausted and scared and right
now, there's no one to talk to. And it is grief and guilt, and you
can't talk sense to either of those. I've cried more this week than I
can ever remember. And there's a lot of other stuff, Dh is working
evenings now, I've got some medical things, family things--it's just
very, very bad right now. My doctor is blown away by all the crap
factors. A few weeks back she offered to put me in the hospital for
respite. Seriously. And there's nothing to be done. No, I mean it.
I don't need to learn more about autism, I need to grieve. My
beautiful boy--love's pure light. The one most like me, the one I hold most closely to my heart. God help me. How will his life be? How hard will it be? How did this happen?
Who Did This? I wish I could be stronger--my children don't
need this crazy weeping woman dishing out chicken nuggets at them over the dutch doors, god
knows, but I am so weak about it. I know it could be worse. yes, I
know. I know, I know, I know. But I am still screaming.

Not exactly the shiniest holiday catch-up card, is it? Oh, and just this morning, I made my therapist cry. I didn't say mean stuff or anything, just um...gave her the holiday catch-up.
Yeah.

This Hole-y Time of Year

Hearken back, if you will, to my sweet double dutch doors and to my teeny wee bit of glee at finally, (oh please dear God) finally constructing a respectable safety barrier between that little red headed fellow and All Things Dangerous, Poisonous, Sharp and Tasty. Oh my innocence! My short-sidedness! Oh...damn. He's done it again. Over the Gate and Through the Kitchen to ATDP&T He Goes. Three times now I have removed, refilled, redrilled, re-leveled, and re-screwed this lock, which surely must be cast of spun sugar and certainly has no business whatsoever even resembling a lock by virtue of all that re-re-ing I've done just keeping the noun verbed. The door and surrounding areas are peppered (if you're using good-sized green peppers, mind you) with enough holes that people are compelled to ask about our gun policy. Three big ol' damn holes and counting. Dag, he's good. Picture, if you will, TLRHF mounting this door, gaining foothold (where there intentionally is none, nada, nyet), swinging his arm over the ledge (I was so freaking proud of that ledge, too...so sure of myself and my ledge) and flick-click-slap-click-flick--unlocked, opened, cleared, shut, re-locked. He re-locks it. That kills me. Now, I have previously been hesitant to grease the door, probably for all the same reasons you don't grease yours, but I am out of options. And wood putty. I'm out of wood putty.

Have a Very Peri (menopausal) Winter-Based Celebration, including, but by no means limited to those of a judeo-christian origin

Could be an interesting time in our lives. And not just for the obvious dearth of decent holiday music.

It would/could/might be that I have begun that "ten, maybe fifteen" year long journey into perimenopause. And it would/could/might (ha!) be that I'm not such an un-complex and shoddy mother thinking that Virginia Woolf jumped the gun (no suicide puns, I swear) a teensy bit about that whole rest cure thing because Gawdalmighty, I am tired and I hurt and I would like to rest. No, it could be that I am really just PERI MENO PAUS AL. I will, of course, strive to remain the same dysthymic and unipolar mess we know me as, but who can say?

Put that in your hat and smoke it.

There exists the most diaphanous and ephemeral possibility that the hairball of physical and mental woes I daily bear has due cause. PERI MENO PAUS E. Yesterday I saw an EN DO CRON OL OG IST with a Ph. D in hairball and he said, "looks about right to me."

Flame on, I say.

Seriously, this is some awful shit (sorry Jenny). PMS, Pregnancy, Labor, Nursing, Mastitis, Baby Belly, all that stuff is cake (carb loading) compared to this. If this is something that can be fixed...aww, what am I saying? That's about as likely as a black president.

Oh. Well, Good for me. On both counts. And good for my children. On both counts.

In the Land of Cotton

For all that I might bemoan my untimely burial in the Heart Of Dixie, I must tell you that I felt lucky-- no, blessed to be here on Election Day. My adopted state is a pitiful lesson in civil rights history, but on that day, I flat-out felt something Holy moving through. Truly, it was as if we collectively and finally remembered that way-put-away thing we call hope. Dragged it out, dusted it off, tightened it's wobbly bits and set it up high and bright for all the world to see. Our children called it a magic day, and we told them no different, but it was the simple light of our old-new pride that shined the day so brightly.

Glory, Glory.

How to get through the passings of people you really didn't know when you have way more important stuff to do

For the record: Yes, it is quite possible that I am a big fat hypocrite because I know I wasn't anywhere in sight. Your mother can explain it better than I can.

Dear My Best Friend's Beautiful and Busy Children (even Nathaniel),

I know that I lack the integrity of someone who actually came to the funeral (see your mom about this--I have a note), but a polite person will always send a gift in their absence and this is that gift for you--these thoughts that most people don't get until it is too late. There will come a time when it is too late (we all get at least one) and you will know immediately that of which I write.

I knew your grandmother for a million years. She welcomed me into her home when my own became too much to bear. She was benign with her criticisms (and they could have been legion--again, ask your mom) but she simply let me have a place to be. A huge gift to a difficult kid who was in way over her (my) head in about 400 parts of her silly (more than most) little teen-aged life. She took me to the beach and let me and your mom just be who we were. I would not, have not seen that again in my almost 42 years (note: your mother will always be older than I, just for the record you should always know that). Thank you Miss Ceta.

You were, for the most part, not around your grandmother. I do understand that you didn't know her very well until she was more of an intrusion and a bed-taker than a beloved guest. I understand that she was a huge weight on your parents' shoulders and that it is a relief that she has passed. All that is to be expected and not held against anyone at all.

BUT.

I want you to understand that no matter the condition in which you met her or saw her last, she was much, much more than that physical and mental limitation. You will never know her as she was, but I would ask you to trust those who did when they tell you how colorful and funny and loving your grandmother was. How she smoked like a chimney (a very busy downtown chimney with a 24hr furnace) until Brittany got sick. Then there occurred in the town of Essex, a flat-out You-Can-Call-Me-Jesus-And-Hang-On-While-I-Calm-This-Here-Storm-for-You-Miracle. She worked it out w/God that if she quit smoking, Brit would recover. Sweet, yes? Brittany, you're lovely and smart and everything in your path sparkles with promise, but Baby, you have got to know your grandmother LOVED her some smoking. Loved it. But she loved you more.

I realize that your visits to her house were not entirely pleasant or comfortable as you might recall. The human condition sucks as we age. Her house was smaller than you needed and perhaps dirtier than you liked, but she offered it to you on a (okay, not so clean) platter. Just like she did to me. Remember that. Even as she was unable to provide fabulous housing for you, she offered what she had with a glad heart. It's rather like what we have to offer God. Not so much, but with a glad heart. And God, who shows us how to be, accepts our grubby offerings with a glad heart and without critical words.
Your grandmother did not come to a gentle end, despite the efforts her children made. She was absolutely as comfortable and cared for as circumstances permitted. But you must know that her children would have done anything to give her more. It's like that sometimes. As much as we can, it is not enough. Human Condition sucks.

Perhaps she was not the person you would have chosen as your grandmother. Perhaps. But she was the person God chose for the job. Now, Granted, He rarely calls me into into His Office (okay, He never does, no matter how smart I think I am and how many degrees I have but whatever), but He's really quite savvy about such things. So know that and think on it, even if you don't accept it. God doesn't mind if we roll things around in our silly heads like tennis balls in a dryer for a bit.

Ohh, how she loved every last lovely one of you. Oh My Gosh. You all were beyond her wildest dreams and hopes. You amazed her. That sort of thing may or may not happen again-- Amazement is hard to come by, so hold it tightly, treasure it in from your grandmother. Aside from that, she taught your mother how to love. And your mother loves y'all pretty darn good. I adore my kids, but I think you'd all end up huddled in my carport under an old blue tarp if you were here more than a day or two. By your own choice. And you'd really be pissed if nobody under the tarp had a cell phone. I'm just saying. You were five golden points on a glorious, brilliant star for your grandmother. And where she fell short for your mom (as moms always do) that's where your mom learned to do better. And your mom is good. No really.

The other thing is that your mama's losing her mama. This is certainly not the least of the hard stuff here, but I would ask that you please, please be gentle on your mama because this whole MLM (mama losing mama) is horrifying and frightening and cold, no matter what kind of mama a mama might lose. Even if you don't realize it, it puts you a tiny bit closer to the head of the line in terms of this mortal coil. No matter what you believe comes thereafter, when your own mama passes, there's a draft whisping around the corners of your life and it whispers, "swifter...sooner....sadder." I could improve that image, but you know how it is. Might come back to it.

Your mother needs you to know that she is grieving for someone you might not have known so well, or liked so much and that This doesn't matter one teeny weeny micro-atom sized bit for you. Read that last sentence again. Outloud. You are called to pray and grieve for and with your mother because she is your mother. There's no homework pass for that. I think maybe there's even a commandment about it, but as your mother and father can tell you, my theology is not especially similar to your own, even as much as I respect your beliefs. I know that if you respect life, so then you must grieve for the loss of it, especially, especially if it is a life on which your own has been built. Please, my best friend's beautiful children (even Nathaniel), I want so badly for you to learn this now instead the dreaded "too late." Too late will show up, and dag, you think THIS is a pain in the buttocks, oh, you have no idea the pain of too late. BTDT.

In these times, as hard as it is, just as you are finding out who you are, please try to put that aside for a speck of time. You will be you for a really long time(I think that's true even in Star Trek episodes) and the funny part is that you never will figure out most of it and if you do, you will be completely bored by it. So take a break, and for right now, for just this minute, and simply be your mother's children. Be that. Be also your grandmother's beautiful, glorious, blinding star. Always, always you should and will be that, even when you go back to being you. But especially now, remember the women who love you most and offer up yourself up to them for this brief time. Be the child and the grandchild. It matters. They will be impressed, and you will learn from it. And, best friends beautiful children (even Nathaniel), the lesson and the learning is the thing. (Also, it's all I have in my bag of tricks, since this old teacher couldn't even manage to get her sorry self to Maryland to say it in person.)

I adore you, every one, even Nathaniel, and I am sorry that I don't see you very often because you really are a great pleasure. Now, if that's how I feel, all down in Alabama with the fire ants and all, then consider how much more your grandmother felt. Just consider it. Getting through the passing is pretty quick--two viewings and a funeral, maybe a trip to the cemetery. Learning from it is the hard part.

So, my best friend's beautiful children (even Nathaniel), it won't cost you anything to read this or think on it. Won't cost you to pray on it. Really, it won't cost you to do it, but that's your own business. You will be busy for your whole lives. Pause just for now and think of what might look good to God. And your Mom.

Okay. You can crumble it up now. And Nathaniel, I'm just messing with you.

Sorta.

Best Friend's Mommy

My childhood best friend called me Friday. Just as we're entering the critical staging period for our annual Halloween/Harvest/HappyBirthday to Oldest Son Party. More about that later, as the party is over and I can only say that it was one of those parties in which articles of clothing were left behind (Okay, Truth: a kid took off his/her socks and shoved them under the trampoline and I found them on Monday).
Am tearing around awful, sticky, who-set-off-the-crap-everywhere-bomb house, mostly trying to hide initial bad impressions and my dear friend called. Her mother had just passed away. Like not 30 minutes before. Of dementia. Remember how dementia makes those clever, clever lungs eventually forget the in and out act that makes them so important? yeah. And remember how snivelly (sp?) and self-centered I can be (am) in situations where big-girlness would be well-regarded? yeah. Crap. So I didn't go home for the funeral. Could Not Face It. Nope. Did my Apostles on Maundy Thursday Act.
The two things I couldn't face (not justifying, just listing) were that I would have to see my own mom and I would have to see how it ended for bf's mom. It was the really that first one that I couldn't do. Am (me, me, me) in pretty bad shape down here all by my lonesome. And no one up north has to know. (shhh....ROBERT THAT MEANS YOU. Sweetie.) I did confess all this to my beloved friend and she was (too tired, maybe?) perfectly understanding about it, but I know I dropped the ball here. Yeah, we sent flowers and yeah, I am extending all the sorry-for-your-loss sentiments, but I know I should be there. I grew up around her mom. When the skies shook on 9/11, when my bf had just birthed her last child while stationed in Israel, I called her mom. Pulled that phone number waaaay from the back of my memory and dialed it just like when we were two white trash-ish high school girls working out some zany 80s scheme. Her mom and I spoke for a bit about whether anyone had heard from bf...was she coming home? Did she need baby stuff? (Oh, I was all over that, let me tell you.) And bf's mom, a rather colorful character summed the whole thing up very tidily. She said, "Osama My Ass!" Those three little words. I offered them to bf's dh who is doing the eulogy, but he declined. Anyway, I (me, me, me) am distracted and out of whack (have new doc who is horrified by my general situation and demeaner--more later. About Me.) and deeply shaken by this turn. And I can't think of any more stuff to write. And I have stupid insurance survey to take before bell tolls midnight. So I should go. Oh hell, who is kidding whom? Right this minute, I suck. And I'm hiding. There.

Mommy's Mommy

Remember my mom? I only ask, because she pretty much doesn't and my kids sure as hell won't. Damn. Yesterday she and my father went to the electroshock doc (I know they're not actually called that, but it would be cool, wouldn't it?) finally after a year of first my father not wanting it (not your head, Dad, not your head) and then my mother not wanting it ("I just don't." Oh Jesus) and now the shock doc (okay, it ends here) tells them that he suspects more dementia than depression. Crap. Oh Double Crap and Damn. Because while these two conditions are similar and can fuel and/or disguise each other, and they quite frequently present together, the prognosis, folks, the outcome is waaay different. See, depression can conceivably lift, either via meds or procedures or talk therapy. Depression only feels permanent. You know how in the middle of winter you try to think what it's like to be outside in shorts and you can't imagine how that's ever possible? Feels like winter is just constant, so weighty and opaque and bone-aching. In truth tho, odds are good that summer might just show up again. Depression is like that sometimes. And dementia (crap oh crap oh crap.) differs from depression in that it is a veritable Ice Age. Don't nobody go looking for the shorts and sunblock because Summer has left the building. End. Of. Story. Okay, so there are twelve types of dementia, not including pseudodementia (wha?), and they all pretty much grind an iceberg into the brain until not even those clever class-valedictorians, the lungs can remember the simple in and out of breathing. I'm no genius (as has been clearly demonstrated in prior posts), but even I know what happens when you stop breathing. Damn. There's nothing in the medicine cabinet to help that.
Oooooh, so I'm (It's not about me, but still, you know) mad. I'm scared too, b/c I have no idea how to be the biggest girl in the family, but mostly I'm mad. For all the years I've had kids, I have begged, wheedled, asked, nagged them to spend time w/their grandchildren.How awful could a visit with three admittedly quirky, but surprisingly handsome boys be? Visits end. Everything will be right where you left it. No one will move your remote, I promise. Look, I grew up in the house next to my grandmother and her sister lived next to her, and my dad's parents visited every Sunday and so forth, so I know how important grandparents are. That's why they're call GRANDparents (Okay, that was scary Hallmark-y. Sorry) But they always had a reason. Their parents...their animals...their house improvements...and I am boiling mad because all those reasons are gone with the wind, but now, ironically enough, so is my mother. The last reason she won't get to know her grandkids is her own self. I just wanted this for my kids, you know? I mean, I grieve my own grandfather in ways and at times and with such fury that it shocks me. And he was ready. I would not have asked him to stay if I could. But my mother is, no no no, it's not time. My children, Your grandchildren, they need you. I need you. You never showed me how to can vegetables. I can live with that. But you never got to know my children and they are worth knowing, even with their uh...quirks. Always something more important. Eight years of very important stuff, apparently. I am sorry and ashamed for it, but I am mad. I want my mommy.

If I have learned nothing else about down in the past few months, I have learned that there is no bottom. People will tell you, you know, that it (insert troubles here) just has to get better b/c it can't get worse (chuckle, chuckle), but that is such regoddamndiculous crap I can't stand it, because there is no bottom. You can go down down down and never even stop for gas.

No. No. No.

I'll wrap this up now because I can see by re-reading that my selfish anger is really quite unnatractive. That, and I'd rather you not see me cry. I get real red and puffy.

Anniversaries are so special...Don't you think?

And today was a special anniversary for sure. It has been one month since I asked Dh to help assemble my treadmill. Ah...time certainly does fly when you're having fun (or staring at a half-open box of treadmill guts day after freaking day). When I asked him to help (one month ago today), he said "we'll do it wednesday." I could hardly get to sleep on Tuesday night. Why, it's Treadmill Eve! All joy is fleeting tho, because Treadmill Day came and he announced that "he needed to take it slowly because it was pretty complicated." Right. Gotcha. Okey Dokey. Well, I had no idea just exactly how slowly he'd be taking it. Apparently he was modeling his schedule after the guys who built Stonehenge. Days to weeks...weeks to month...*sigh*

So this morning I, me, myself AND moi put the damned thing together in like 90 minutes. NINETY MINUTES. I mean from laying out the guts to striding that first mile. Yeah. 90 minutes. Tops. I am complicated and should be taken slowly. The treadmill, on the other hand, was not. See, I do so know the difference.
I love him, I do. But sometimes he's just another guy hanging around here with a cowlick and a penis (all of them have the same cowlick, penis, not so much.)

And how does all this affect my disposition?

Well, now, that's complicated.

The Truth about Bourbon

It's time to come clean about a topic that has surfaced on several occasions here in Lahlahland. Yes, I'm talking about the brownest of the brown, the mellowest of the mmmmmmmmmms, the sweet mama-hold-my-hand-while-I-drink-it-neat bourbon. While I do enjoy it upon occasion (yes, Bobby, I do recall that magical mid-summer night during which we were granted the super bourbon-drinking powers but not the waaay more useful-- trust me, super hangover-survival skills), I feel rather silly because while I may cry for it at the end of a post, it's a bit of a conceit. All that bourbon would cloud up my standard bitchiness, I really think it would. Bourbon-based bitchiness is a whole 'nother stop on the toll road to Hell. (Yes Bobby. I know Bobby. Enough Bobby. ) My bourbon-induced tallulah bankhead/auntie mame/dixie carter (early seasons of Designing Women--you know, before she got so preachy) is precious because it is so very rare. I don't have any real sources for that last statement, I'm just assuming that it's precious and best if rare.

I'm too old for all that stuff. There's no respite after a hard night on the Bonbourbon. More likely there's a four year old sitting on your head arranging his stuffed animals so that they're all just looking at your old hungover mommy self with no small bit of marble-eyed disdain. I have had this happen. Not an urban myth.

I'm glad we got that all cleared up, aren't you?

Hard Times in the Land of Lah

Since there may just be someone who has crossed the borders into LahLahland, whether intentionally or not, it would seem to be simple good manners for me to explain my recent absence.
Things are tough here. Not adjusting at ALL to Dh's work schedule--it's messing w/my sleep and my already tenuous grasp on sanity, and not necessarily in that order either. It's like my whole life is suddenly on one of those slanty walk things you might see at a fair. Nothings really changed, but it's all just really slanted , so then everything has changed. Profoundly. Deep, no? Or it's like wearing someone else's glasses. I don't want to explain that one b/c I'll just mess it up, but surely you've tried on someone's glasses simply for the hilarity of it, right? Well, it's like that. Only w/o the hilarity.

It would seem (acc. to those clever internet quizzes and years of experience with the disease) that the combined crap soup of schedule/kid/dh/home stress and the crazy mother/father counselling nightmare, I have twirled myself right on down into a depressive episode. Now, I will be modest and not call it a major episode, if only because that sounds like something I'd have to plan and I just don't have it in me right now to plan anything beyond hot dogs for dinner tonight. And that's iffy right there.
This is not a new seat on the bus for me. BTDT. But if you will recall, my doc retired. Poof. Gone. Aloha. Sooo I have to try to work it out via other routes. Routes not familiar with my dysthymic terrain. Routes that don't have my records. Routes that don't know that I'm far enough down the hole to not even remember to take the red-flag- on-my-chart meds b/c they're sched. II and altho I have always respected the drug and its properties, good and bad, you know how docs get all itchy and blinky about stuff like that. Yeah. Not overmedicating. Not bothering to overmedicate. If you knew me in the 80s I will give you a moment to re-gather yourself and process that "not overmedicating" thing. There. All better? Maybe I'm just not remembering. Does it matter which?
Kids are fine, but they'd like bedtime stories instead of being hustled off like cattle. My mother is preparing for intensive electroshock therapy (see me not holding my breath for this one). Dh loves what he does and can't figure why oh why oh why I must always um...piss on his party (sorry Jenny). He thinks I should go back to work. He thinks that's a good idea. I think it's a good one, all right. I asked him who, in the event that I should go back to work, would do my job here? Oh...you know, the housework, the yardwork, the maintenance, laundry, blah blah blah. The man looked at me like I'd grown a third eye (I wonder if that would come in handy...). He really so doesn't have any idea. And don't say, "well, stop doing all that stuff and just you see...he'll get the picture mighty quick" because he won't. Nope, not a bit. He will not even know that a picture is coming around, much less get ahold of it. And I will gain only a larger variety of sticky, smelly and quite possibly congealed household situations. Also, he has conveniently forgotten that teachers work a lot. And some teachers really need to stay at school to get stuff done. Some teachers are not whizzes at the planning thing in the first place, and also don't have fax/printer/copier thingies at home. Some teachers are kinda bad about forgetting stuff and so must stay in one place so as to keep aformentioned stuff handy. And some teachers are still at work at six in the evening. All of this I have lived and he has forgotten.

So you see how it is, here in the land of Lah. Maybe it's hurricane season in these parts, I don't know. I just know that I'm feeling just a bit taut and weepy and more than just a bit exhausted. And I don't care. And that's not how Mama rolls, my friends. Not how Mama gets it done. So I need to be thinking and praying and spending time in the late-year sunlight. Oh, and Bourbon. I do need some Bourbon.

Thanks a LOT Ladaaaays...

There's this kid who's been showing up around here just about every damn day since oh...I'll say the middle of October almost 8 years ago. So we feed him and make small talk and all that sort of thing, you know, and I'll venture to say we've come to a rather comfortable conviviality between us. He stays over at night and keeps a toothbrush and some extra clothes around, so you see how it is.
Well. I don't know where this kid went, but he is gone like $2 gasoline. Got this other kid now who really could be the other kid's brother, honest to God, but this kid is different from the old kid. Really different.

Now, I'm not one to make waves (hush now), so I figured we'd all go along with the new kid for a bit and see how it all pans out. So far so good. They wear the same size and go to the same school and all that, but this new kid, he came with hair gel. Hair gel that he bought with his own money (so you KNOW he's not my kid if he's picking up the tab). Some dollar store vat of blue goo with Sport on the label.
Don't nobody panic. They can smell fear.
So tonight this hair gel-carrying kid decides he wants to take a bath and relax. RELAX.
WTF? be cool, mommy, be realll cool.
Kid comes out of the bathroom after what I must assume was a relaxing spa-esque event and every last bit of his general hair area is sealed, plastered, decoupaged in blue sport goo. I mean his hair is blue, that's how much blue goo there is. I know. How much blue goo is left? How much could be left? Rest well, dear friends, it's a big vat.
He likes it. He says his hair smells "fresh." And it's "shiny". (Oh ho, yes baby, it is de-fi-nitely shiny) Tells me he "wants to get a head start on good hair for tomorrow." Oh sweet mercy. I mean, really. I frankly will be shocked if he's able to get that head of pre-gelled good hair off his pillow by the time that sport stuff dries.
And I am waiting on that Bourbon, Lord. (Isn't that part of a Psalm? Me and God, we joke, it's cool)
I do like this new kid. He's pretty funny and any man who brings his own toiletries is a-okay in my book, but I do miss the old kid. Lord, I had to set a simple box trap just to check his shirt buttons, but we had a good long run, me and him.
Now, I don't foresee that trouble with this new kid. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking we're looking at a whole 'nother kind trouble with sport goo kid.

Yup.

The Wheels on the Bus...

Put That Little Red-Headed Fellow on his Little Yellow Bus for the first time this week so he can go to his Special School. Now, I am sure mothers face more terrifying situations every day, but I am also absolutely sure that most of those mothers are naturally way braver about all that stuff they need to be brave about. Most mothers would not whine about an all morning stomach ache and then, after waiving gaily (maniacally, even) at the taillights of that baby bus with my baby on it (and only four other students and two accredited adults going to the one place and, after all, they get there just fine every other day, but this time they took my LRHF), most mothers would not hurl themselves into some SUDDENLY VERY IMPORTANT TRELLIS CONSTRUCTION and OTHER ABSOLUTELY THIS MINUTE NECESSARY GARDEN STUFF just to hide the weepies. Now, I'll grant you, I got a LOT of trellises built, but there comes a point when you have to ask yourself how many is too many?Dh didn't stop me until I was darn near finished a sort of limpy-looking pergola. It's for the best, really, that thing would never have survived any actual plants with leaves and stuff. .
Oh, my baby. My sweet LRHF. On that little bus in his little public school uniform. Going into the city (it's not Manhattan, folks...believe me). Word School, we call it. So he can get his words, we tell his brothers. It's pretty much the truth, too, so it makes sense to them too. And the Fuzzy Headed Fellow is boiling jealous over the bus thing. He thinks he could use some of that there Word School, too. I lean more toward boarding school for him (insert the weak laughter of a half-joking late-day mother here).

It was a very long day for the not-brave mommies. A long looking-out-the-window day. To be fair, tho, we must remember that I am not what you might call a "let's keep busy and get our jobs done" kind of mommy in the first place, so don't get all concerned over that.

He made it okay, just fine even, my Beautiful Boy on His Bus. Arrived home to cheering crowds who certainly would have hoisted him upon their shoulders had the driveway hill not been such an a trip up the Andes in the first place. Instead, Mommy got to carry all 46 lbs of LRHF all the way up that s.o.b. hill. I don't care. There was triumph and there was joy. I thought for a second that there was ticker tape, but turns out that his bookbag was open and stuff was flying out in the breeze.

You can bet, though, you can be absodamnlutely sure, that for all time, in my mommy heart and in his LRH heart, we had us some fine tickertape coming down on us that September day.

He goes back tomorrow.
*sigh*

"The Ladaaays Like It When You're Handsome..."

These words, a direct and unedited quote from Big Red Headed Boy, as he stands in my bathroom, just one month shy of his 8th year, with a big boy hand full of runny mousse (my good mousse at that) all ready to splat it upon his big red head. Have Mercy. Have Mercy on me right this very minute Lord, because I am just about falling out of myself over this. He used my blowdryer last week. Now, my children, none excepted, have a perfect genetic hybrid of my hair and dh's hair. So it's rather um....equine-tail-like. Brushy. Coarse. Thick. Same cowlick in all three, right smack over the left eye. I can say with all the certainty of the Resurrection that none of my babies will ever sport those obnoxiously long "bama bangs" because that hair in that cowlick spot will never ever go along with the necessary gravity. As a matter of fact, all three boys get taller as their hair gets longer. LRHF, LFHF and BRHB. It grows up, like zoysia grass. Daddy's hair does just the same, faster if he's been drinking a bit.

Oh, but this morning. My boy telling me all about combing his hair (brush cut, mind you, maybe 1/3 inch long. Maybe) while he smears mousse in it. That was some mighty sharp red hair that left our house bound for second grade on this fine morning.

Be kind to my boy, Dear Ladies. You don't want to be on my bad side.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmm

Remember how the lawnmower was held together by drapery hardware? Remember how awful it was? I shudder at the recollection as well, but my neighbor came over and prounounced T.O.D. on ol' Red this past Sunday. Nothing to be done. R.I.P. in Briggs&Stratton heaven, Good Friend. You were loved and will be missed. I saved up my own lil pin money and bought that ol' Red long time ago. Just this past Mother's Day, I learned how to take the blades off and sharpen them with my orbital sander. I know, the gift that keeps on giving.
But it was time to let go. I know. She was ready.

Fortunately, I managed to weave through all the stages of grief in time to go buy a new damned mower. Not easy and not without psychological consequence, but I needed it. Our neighborhood needed it. It's bad enough that we decorate for Halloween with a certain earthy abandon that can only mean we're witches (b/c either you are a Baptist or you are a Witch and I believe in Transubstantiation and some other uppity unliteral stuff and am therefore not a Baptist), but the unlovely lawn, well, that was call for a thrashing of some sort, I'm sure.

Got out all my tools. wrenches, pliers, gator grip thingies, ready to roll. Put that "replacement" lawnmower (that will never be part of this family, you can take that to the bank) together and just get the job done without sentiment or affection. I don't need a lawnmover to fulfill a need, you know? But have mercy, you know they come almost completely together now? That last one, well, I practically needed to soder parts of it before I could use it. Almost anticlimactic.

She's a sweet push, I'll tell you what. Yessir. In and out and around the gardens and up and down the hill in front...she did the job. All the neighbors were waving at me (always genteel in my overalls and bandanna) and it was nice.

Let me be perfectly clear here: It was not Red. Never could be Red. But it was okay. Nice, even. I may come to love again.

I don't know.

Oh, the Humanity!

If you read yesterday's post and you are the least bit familiar with bodily functions, you will need no further explanation regarding today's abbreviated entry, except to say that the long-awaited event did not occur within hygienically-acceptable parameters and there were no missiles launched.

There were no survivors.

How Could I Ever Suspect Such a Precious Angel-Baby?

I suppose I have not yet said much about my middle child. That Fuzzy Headed Fellow. First born of the twins--eyes wide open (scared the doc) and a head full of crazy (not that kind) dark hair. Now, I just don't have that kind of baby, so if I hadn't been there to see it, I might wonder. Some days I wish I could wonder, but as I say, I saw him arrive and I truly don't think the ob had a throw-down infant up his sleeve when he got down to business, so he is mine. (By the way, YOU try giving birth on an operating table with no stirrups or nothing. It's like being on an ironing board stacked on top of a washing machine.

Anyway, TFHF said his first words at 8 months and hasn't slowed down since. He's totally dominant over the red headed fellow and he's pretty sure that he could take the seven year old . I'm not sure I could put up too much of a fight regarding that there. He's brilliant and elfish--sort of a Curious George after a really good waxing and he knows his stuff. This works out well for him because everything is his stuff. No really.
*sigh*
The only thing is, well, my darling middle child, my brilliant angel with the crazy professor hair...well, he has another talent. He can withhold bowel movements (I'd say poop, but you know, older folks get so touchy) apparently forever. Or at least until he requires the installation of what he not-so-fondly calls a "butt missile." Dunno if you've ever administered something like this to a very wiry (in spite of the constipation, ah youth!) four year old with a verrrrrry strident yell, but I can keep it all nicely vicarious by simply offering to deliver him again rather than administer the butt missile. I guess that's not uncommon, but I really mean it. So he's on one of his not- excreting kicks. This kick usually triggers a not-eating kick, for all the obvious gastronomic reasons.
So I hand the kid his dinner. Not my culinary highpoint, I realize, but still. And he takes it to the table and there it sits. It's gotten to where he cannot watch his beloved "Spongy" until he furnishes (probably) concrete evidence of the necessary bodily function. I mean business when Sponge Bob is in play. About 20 minutes later, my angel-baby brings me his plate. His clean plate. I mean it has been washed. Whaaaaa? Now, I did not fall off the Mommy-Truck yesterday, folks. And I certainly did not fall off the He-Gets-It-From-His-Father-truck recently either. I gently, gently wonder aloud where that food went and how that plate got clean. Hmmm...Have I watched enough Law& Order? The boy is just about to lawyer up when I suggest we take a stroll back to the bathroom. Just for kicks, you see. Just some quality time, him and me. I don't need to go any further here, do I? You get it. Trashcan, Sink, Clean Plate. Yeah.

I am in hell. Got my mother and my four year old starving themselves. Really speaks to my nurturing side, doesn't it? More like a nurturing angle, I guess
.
Go to bed, Children.

My gosh, I'm tired. My gosh, I hate dh's hours. My gosh, my house is messy. My gosh, my kids are challenging. My gosh...

We're low on Bourbon.

Hang on Heart of Dixie--Crazy Mama Comin'!!

Yes, I know that there are those who would say, "Well, Honey, you've been in Alabama for a good long time now...how is it that 'crazy mama' (e.g. me! go figure) is just now arriving?"

Ain't me, ya'll! It's the Mother of Crazy Mamas. My own precious Living-Life-Less Interested-with-Lithium- Cheerio & Laxative-Loving Mama.

Oh God. Oh GodohGodohGod. (is that a song from Godspell? I really think it might be...)

Just got off the phone w/my dad. God, what a mess. What a nightmare. Who goes batcrap at 68? ( Mama, now just prop that hand right up there, because sure enough, you did just that very thing.) My dad is soooooo not cut out for this situation. He was not cut out to raise children, for heaven's sake, so how can he take on this anvil in his sunset years? I'm not standing up for him, no, no, we've not much gotten along for, oh...since I was born, and he's a very broken soul himself in many ways. In fact, we had an out and out screaming match just this past december during which he raised his hand to me. And not to say hey. Fortunately, he is old, and I am strong and I caught his hand before it made contact with my face, but I am 41 years old and oh, please, you get the picture, don't you? I left my childhood home that night and vomited in the garden (takes me back to the 80s, that does) on my way back to my sister's house (next door). Swore I wouldn't be back until somebody sent me pics of urns with both dates filled in. Come to think about it, I swore a lot that night.

But are any of us undamaged? Aren't we all a pretty messed up bunch of snotty overtired toddlers? I think that's how God sees us. There's a line in an Emmylou Harris song--"You're a mess but you're My child" and I aspire to work super-hard and maybe get it together enough for God to say that to me. I just have to work out some uh...issues...and uh...keep refilling my meds...and uh...someday...

Anyway, I am trying. Am not great, or all forgiving or even half forgiving, but I am trying. He is in pain and I do know enough about crazy to help him understand crazy. Yes, Mercy I do. And I will learn from this, I know. I am learning. It's sort of like those silly ol' aesthetics who slept on rocks and wore itchy store-brand clothes. Well, not quite. I have suffered enough at his hand (no pun intended, but what a slip, yes?) But I do kind of get the distinct feeling that it helps me to be less of a mess in some ways. That God breathes a clarity into my addled and coffee-starved brain and this allows me to help my father. Any lessons I might pick up along the way are just bonus.
I know, helping my father should not be or take an act of God. This, I know. I am not all honor-y or holy or Christ-y for doing this. I know. Don't mean to imply any of that. I suppose I'm just in awe of how God works. Dag, yeah, love thy neighbor, but Loooord (all whiny), he's my father and he just about broke all three of his kids (my sibs take waaay more meds than I, fyi). Love him anyway, Lord says. Damn.
So then I told him to ship her crazy binge/purge ass down to Dixie. Open ended. Yeah, because I need more distraction. Something to really rattle things up. Yeah. But I said it and he's doing it. He needs it. That's the thing. He's been a caregiver to his parents for the last 15 years (not good at it, mind you) and now he's got Mamalottacrazy till death do they part. Oh and there are firearms all over that freaking house. (I know this because I asked the last time the kids were up) Behind clocks and shit, like five or seven of them. WTF? So uh yeah...might be good for this pair to have a time out.
I'm rambling. Am always so mortally sad after talking w/him.I miss my motherand hate that my kids don't know her like did. I am realy doing shoddy work in the helping dad department. Well, I try to point out how much he's changed and learned (maya angelou--"when we know better, we do better" heaven help me if he ever finds out who maya angelou is) but I know it's cold comfort. I know. I'm sorry. Other than the graham cracker crumbs, two hotwheels cars and a yellow crayon, it's all I have in my bag of tricks right now.

So Southwest her ass on down. Yeah, that'll be fun.She thinks that you MUST print out your boarding pass at the exact 24 hour mark from the time you will board the plane. If you know Southwest, then you know that you GET 24 hours in which to do this. Last time she came, the twins ate a candle. How does that happen, I ask you? Why would an open flame be within proximity of those two? Aw, why ask why?

Patience, Lord. I ask for Patience. And Bourbon. Definitely Bourbon (notice how the name of our Lord and the name of the drink are both in caps. Sad really.) The big bottle. And Lord, Let's avoid the cheap stuff, okay? Yeah, that and Patience. I am sure that those two things will get us through this.

Aren't you?

Double Dutch Doors

When a child begins to propel him/herself in an independent and successful fashion with some regularity, a responsible parent takes measures to insure (ensure?) that said child will remain in a safe, comfortable, and stimulating environment. We call this the baby gate period.

At some point in a child's development, he/she will master either climbing the babygate or even (you clever baby!) opening the baby gate without adult assistance. It is at this juncture that a responsible parent will take particular care to safeguard surrounding areas while simultaneously developing a weirdly precise parent-radar. We call this the baby-proofing period.

In the normal course of events, once a child is shepherded safely through those perilous first two periods of development, the child can be allowed (within reason, of course) to free-range roam the residence. We call this the who-the-hell-pushed-all-my-tampons-out-of-the-applicator period.

In the case of my children, and most pointedly That Little Red-Headed Fellow, a responsible parent would certainly have a better grip on the general whereabouts of the children. I, however, am not a member of that particular parental organization. No, I charge up the reciprocating saw and cut a door in half and install each half in the two main portals to all that is sharp, permanent, and not meant for human consumption. With sliding bolts. And ledges (all the better to prevent climbing, my dear)

LRHF has outwitted this aged and slow-witted mommy time and time again with the baby gate thing. i really tried. Lived in a fantasy world, really. I moved it up. I moved it down, but added a panel to the top. I removed the panel, moved the gate again and re-installed the panel on the other end. The panel, by the way, was the top of one of those mini coolers. Really gave the whole process a lot of thought. RefreakingGardless, he was up and over and into all that is sharp, permanent and inedible before I had my drillbits away. These gates, these contraptions, inventions, they simply existed to boggle adult minds and injure adult private parts, to mystify and annoy the cats, and they were fun at parties.

But with each tweak, each adaption, LRHF would simply, patiently watch as I drilled and anchored and leveled and cursed and drilled again (because I cannot level anything. ANYTHING. Ask anybody. It's a nightmare). Upon completion, I would (metaphorically) stand back and admire my handiwork, brush the sawdust from my hands and gather up the tools. Bout three squeaks and a thump later, LRHF was at my heels. Gee, that gate was fun too, mommy. Now let's staple stuff to the catbox and taste the surge protector.

God, I just wanted to keep him safe, you know? It's not Sing-Sing here. I'm by myself with them a lot (A LOT) and ever since I admitted to myself that there are no servant/ fairies (that's the first step you know, admitting it), I am often engaged in tasks are best completed, well, without their help.

There. I said it.

I have many tools. Some are sharp (see entry re: upholstery stapler), some are heavy, and some are um...surprisingly quick-bonding. So I need to know that he's safe while I'm trying to be safe (again, see stapler entry).

So far so good with the dutch doors. There's a lot of knocking, but mostly, he likes to balance his cup on waaay up on the ledge (all I see is the little hand and the cup--like some crazy noir puppet show) and I swear he times me to see how long before his refill arrives.

But I can't get that song out of my head. Double Dutch something or other. Because I really need more nonsense up there. And you and I both know that the only proven cure to this sort of thing is the theme song from the Banana Splits Show (How old are YOU??). Ah, but the cure trumps the condition , believe me.

*sigh*

One banana, two banana, three banana four..., sing along, you know you want to...la la la....

A Car...a Car...Shining in the Night...

What have I gone and done with this day? I swear, it was right here last time I checked. The whole damned thing was right in front of me and now...
*sigh*
Bought a car today. Um...a most unholy union of suv and wagon, I guess you 'd say. Look, it was my final shot to break out of the MommyVan. Tear down those childproof windows, I say. Of course, had I not totaled said MommyVan, we'd all be in a much happier (albeit MommyVannish) place with no car payments and third row seating, but what can you do?

I think it took all day. That's all I can figure. It must have taken all day. Ever since I stopped w/the coffee (don't even ask how that's going), I, uh...I ain't the quickest bunny in the hutch. But yes, we were definitely in the car place at least twice today and the first time I went w/ my dh who was never closer than 8 or 20 cars away from me and my trusty notebook of blue book/mpg/mechanic's advice so that I had to whip around and call for him about sixteen times and then w a i t f o r h i m t o w a l k o n o v e r from wherever the freak he was, and then the second time was when I went back during rush hour with all my kids and an extra one (god bless my dear friend who drove me) for the actual purchase which I can only compare to what we know of masonic rituals as described on the history channel. By then it was definitely nightfall and definitely raining.
Now, I had me some Lasik a few years back b/c I needed my glasses to find my glasses and I love being able to see. Love it tons and tons. Great stuff. Every morning is a surprise. Showers, of course, aren't so great a surprise because for the first 40 years of my life I was naive about my naked self, but that's what God made eyelids for, yes? Anyway, the sole downside of the Lasik Miracle is that I have a bit of a halo effect after dark. No big deal. When it's not raining. When I'm not driving a new (in 2004 it was) car. When I'm not driving a new(see prev. interjection re: actual newness) car that is a manual after 7 years of automatic glissade. You may recall that the catalyst (read: accident) for this vehicle occurred in the rain. BTW, those places do NOT appreciate big-eyed questions about what that funny looking extra pedal is for.
So, after a halo-ey (hallowed?) five speed drive and forgetting to downshift at the final hill before our freaking driveway (duh), we're home.

Is this the beginning of something, this rearing up from the MommyVan? Could there be some chrysalis-sy type thing going on? I wonder about stuff like that. Not for long because you cannot wonder such arcane things and pry the limbs of small children apart w/o causing permanent damage, but I do wonder. In between that other stuff.

And sometime I will tell you how this car thing is exactly and honest to god just like my wedding dress thing. No kidding. It's almost a mad-lib.

Now you go wonder about that.

He Gets it Honest, that Little Round Headed Fellow

All his sensory stuff. Downright mitochondrial, even. Can't figure whether I'm amused or mystified (or horrified) by the stuff I will do just to avoid folding laundry and emptying the dishwasher. Dh is of the latter two schools of thought on the subject, poor thing.

Just finished building me a hummingbird feeder out of an antique diet rite bottle, a wire hanger, the rubber wheely thing from a kid car, some makeup sponges (clean), a bit of surgical tubing, and (best for last) a cube from the "Don't Break the Ice" game.

Yup. Mighty proud just now. Now, I won't say it was easy and I won't say it was necessary, but it was what I did instead of emptying the dishwasher. There were no injuries sustained, and isn't that really the important thing? Oh wait, it also had the gasket thing from an old Avent bottle. Yeah, can't forget that.

Ooh, I love to "see if I might could figure out how to maybe (insert project here)." Not particularly good at it (see entry regarding washer repair and hand stapling) but I do so love to get into stuff. Just like the little fellow. He gets it honest.

So there I am, riding the endorphin high of fait accomplait (not that the hummingbirds even noticed--they can be such carbo-bitches) and I see a fan. Regular old plastic computer-colored fan.

hmmmm.....

No more. No sir and no thank you. No more mousy little fan for me 'cause I tricked that baby out baaaad. (oh god, even *I* think maybe you should stop here). Painted that baby--they come apart you know--a rich liatris purple and then did the blades in silver. Fab? yes. Fin? no. Put some sparkles on the blades and then laid some polished glass beads over the part that says breeze machine or whatever. Now fin. Fab, Fin and Fine.

Poor dh. He'll not even notice. Even if he can see it over the piles of unfolded laundry and unmatched socks. Even if an ephemeral sprite of light from one of the fanblade sparklies catches his eye in the early morning light.

*sigh*

So much texture. So much sparkle. So much color. Possibly too much for the little fan that mostly sorta hangs out in my bathroom, I dunno. I do know the LRHF will be all about it when he sees it. He will be in sensory heaven. We two will really enjoy this disco tricked out bad-ass fan. We're just alike that way.

Yessir, that's my baby. That bauble didn't fall far from the chandelier, if you get my drift. (if you didn't get my drift replace bauble with apple and chandelier with tree and that should help).

I have no idea about the dishes and laundry. Ah well.

Somewhere Over the Spectrum (disorder)

Had the little round headed fellow's IEP mtg this a.m. My Spectrum Sunshine Sugarbunny. I used to go to 'em when I was a teacher (hey, got me out of teaching a class, no?) so it was no big deal. Moved some goals and junk around. Let DH hear a perfeshional smarty person say that I'm actually a capable, fit, and (wtf?) excellent mother. Neither of us really buy it, but it's nice to hear when one is blessed with a quirky child. Or two. Or gene pool. Whatever.
LRHF is gonna ride the little bus to school. He's four. He's my baby--arrived 38 minutes after his twin b/c he was wanting some alone time with me. He's the embodiment of the magic that I don't dare embrace. Loves rainstorms. Loves wind. Loves water. Very elemental, this kid. I get that. More than I like to admit, I get that. No, I don't eat rocks (ahem) or crayons, but I probably would like it if I did. Who can say? We're a lot alike.
I try to see him as a mother and as a teacher. I think that this means I use a mother's heart and a teacher's words. I do see progress. He makes progress and I totally miss it b/c his brothers are shoving sticks into each others' belly buttons and imitating train whistles. He's all there. I tell people that the pantry is fully stocked, but the door's hard to open. Receptive language is good. If he feels like it. He's also a man of my dh's bloodline and so what he can do and what he will do are two very different menu options. I'm learning a lot from him. He, simply by virtue of being himself, has shown me a facet of God that I am definitely too thick to see on my own. So, thank you little round headed fellow. We'll figure the rest out. The little bus. The other kids. The IEPs. All the condiments that come with a spectrum sugarbunny. (Like hunting down and eradicating the annual crop of bright shiny red nandina berries before someone decides to be a birdy and taste them)

It is exhausting and I am too old for even a passel of regular old boykids, much less this brood. It's a lot. I know this for a fact because people are always telling me that it's a lot. So I tell you the same. To me, it's just a lot of just how it is. This is not to imply that I would win any mommy awards, believe you me. My children get corn syrup stuff and chicken nuggets. My children usually need haircuts and baths. My children (sit down here) have no computer games or whatever those thingies are. Sometimes, I think my children have no sane mother figure. I dunno. When I was a teacher, my mentor explained how kids find the teachers who best sooth them through hard days. She was a million times right. I found her, didn't I? Anyway, I believe that it is just the same for mothers and children. I don't want to believe it because it's hard, hard, hard, and a lot of it involves screaming children and body fluids, and everybody else's kids seem so freaking normal, but what can you do? Oh, it would bring you to tears to hear this child's version of Hark the Herald Angels Sing (trans:" hardee heh angelssng, goryto nubon kin" but with sweet, sweet perfect little voice.

Oh, he's a million gifts to me. And a million trials. Trials and gifts. checks and balances. Hmm...did I just learn something there?

Nah.

I have to go. It's not all spiritual awakenings and smiling angels in LahLahLand. Right now, for example, I'm getting a faint whiff of permanent marker from the living room so uh...more later.

thanks.
lah

Enclosed Please Kindly Find:

One big rant. One big rant about stuff that doesn't work. Stuff that doesn't or hasn't worked in awhile. Mainly, but not limited to, stuff that doesn't/hasn't worked this summer.

I may digress. You know how I get.

This minute, this very second the lawnmower doesn't work. Gosh, maybe b/c dh took it apart and lost all the bolts and now it is held together by gorilla tape and freaking drapery hardware. Maybe that's it. Now, this is my darling lawnmower. I am the Hank Hill in this family regarding lawnery. When I was carrying the twins, I was forbidden to mow and it got to where I just couldn't even look down when I went outside. I love the man, but a mower, he is not.

Oh, and also this very minute my left hand isn't looking too good. Not working too well. Yeah. Well, I stapled it. Upholstery stapled it. Right there in the fleshy (yet surprisingly musclular/tendony) part of the thumb. This happened about three minutes after I'd finished giving my generally well-regarded stapler safety speech to the friend whose chair I was working on. Honest to heaven, I'd just wrapped up the big "safety goggles" portion and closing with references to tetanus shots and the importance of long pants when she went to check on the kids.

Ka-chunk. That's a sound you don't want to hear when there's nothing actually being stapled between you and the stapler. Hey, that's really deep in there. Wow. That's a lot of blood. Will that come off the porch floor? Hmmmm....should my thumb be numb like this? I wonder...This is almost as much fun as the big ol' black eye/nosebridge cut I had a few weeks back from cleaning out the linen closet. Apparently, I had more than linens in there, no? So hand and mower. Hurts hand to try and start mower. The front lawn is morphing into the opening credits from "little house on the prairie" except it's just grass, no wildflowers. Okay, so that's just this past two days.

My van doesn't work. Actually, to be more succinct, my van is gone. Totaled. That happened on tuesday at the very end of Fay. I registered the twins for pre-k (No, he's not quite potty trained, he's a spectrum kid...you pre-k guys KNOW THAT) and was on my way to drop off a bunch of stuff at the thrift store. Now that right there should have been a dead give away. I drop nothing off if isn't children. I have "Depression mentality." Not that kind of depression. The one after the stock market crashed. All things can find new use. But there I was with a van full of old toys to drop off. Silver van sitting on the median in foggy ucky rain gets hit by silver car. I am silver van and it is my fault. I inched out too far, I guess, the wind was blowing the trees and I couldn't see. It's an easy crossing, really, no beating the clock or anything. But there goes my bumper. Here come the police. Here come new police b/c original police were already on a call. Right after new police arrive, here comes a new accident. Bad one this time. Three cars. One drove over my bumper which was carefully lain on the grassy strip. By the time dh got there, the parkway was closed, fire, ambo, police etc. etc. And I'm on the corner soaking wet, waving madly so he knows that *that* was not my accident. Regardless, the van is a loss. Didn't look like a loss. The bumper and headlights were a loss. Yes. The passenger tire had a blister. Yes. But a loss? Apparently, everything under car had been moved about one inch to the left. Just enough to piss me off. So I have no car. Let's recap: Mommy stuck at home can get stuff done and is glad to do so on two principles. One is that the stuff works. The other is that Mommy can work. See notes regarding lawnmower and hand. All bets are off. Mommy at home w/bum hand is asking for trouble in ways I honestly cannot begin to fathom.

*sigh*

More stuff--neighbor found a day old kitten yesterday. Called me. Did what I could (dad's a vet and I'm a slushy for kittens) but it died. Good feeling. How do they let me keep the kids?

Hmm...washer overflowed, took washer apart (kind of know what I'm doing there) could not find toggle to adjust water level, opened my right hand up pretty good getting that damned back off, got pissed, cut all the wires (pretty pretty colors) and got a front loader. I never just "get" stuff, but you may get the sense that I'm a bit taut of late, so yeah, I just went out and got a front loader. It's a beaut. I love it. It makes me happy every time I see it using 50% less water and a tbsp of detergent and 20% less energy. Mostly I just like the roundy round the clothes do. But that leaves the laundry room flooded from previous occupant. Rug steamer to the rescue. Except...(can you guess this next part?) the rugsteamer got all choke-y and started to smell all rubbery and then got verrrrrry quiet. It went gentle into that good night. Damn.

ahhh...other stuff that fits into this here category of stuff that doesn't work, but in a condensed version: Mitre saw is dull. Carpet in laundry room (not my damned idea, I'll tell you what) is awful and icky. Toilet in second bathroom also relying on drapery hardware to function. Dishwasher leaks somewhere I can't figure. Have still not been in basement since storm. Vacuum cord got scary. flourescent lights in bathroom burned out. (WTF????) Powdery mildew killing the yellow squash. Can't figure how to potty train the twin with the sensory disorder. Oh, and I haven't even begun to consider writing about how dh's new job hours don't work. So don't work. So so don't work.

And the best part of all of this, I have saved for last. It would seem, you see, that MY PROZAC DOESN'T WORK. This happens every now and again and it's no big deal except that my shrink doesn't work (retired) and my insurance doesn't work (crap) and I really, really, really need the prozac to work, you know? If it would just work for another week or so...really, because there is no piece of drapery hardware to fix this situation. That there's an absolute truth for you.

Does this happen to other people? What am I supposed to learn from this? My mantra is always "Nothing is Simple" (always through gritted teeth, tho, so I don't know if it actually works as a mantra). I can't handle this new "Nothing Works" mantra.

It just doesn't work for me.

And did I mention...

That my mother is having her first really debilitating depression episode (poor thing, had my first in 7th grade, old timer here) oh, and she's tagged on a truly spectacular eating disorder in case anybody misses the depression part? No, I think I would remember mentioning that. So, yeah, she's um...68 and has been spiralling slowly down into that black pool for oh, gosh, let me think...it was after the summer my brother tried to kill himself....hmmm....oh, so it's been since about 2002. And as any physicist will confirm, matter gains speed as it descends. So it is with my mother. We're really crossing our fingers that ECT will have some effect. Hopeful about the outcome of connecting little electrodes to the old woman's head and zapping the crap out of her brain. Nice. But these past two years have been really incredibly painful and I want so badly for my kids to know her, only she's just gone in so very many ways. When I have not the strength to go into detail I just say, 'Mama just done up and flown outta herself."
How does a 67 year old woman pick up anorexia/bulimia anyway? Who does that? WTF?
1/4 cup cheerios for breakfast, my butt. Rounding out (no pun) the day with endless fat free yogurt cups...huh? Last time she visited me for a few days (looooong ago) she insisted that I buy her a scale. Why might I not have one? (Come closer, I have to whisper) I'm a freaking bulimia survivor, for mercy's sake. Yeah. I know the game. Not only was I trained to know the game as a teacher, I've played the game. And believe you me, the game could have killed me at 18, so it certainly will have no mercy on 68.

(I know you're thinking, "well, she probably learned it from you..." I was out of the house by that time. Believe me, I've checked the timeline.)

There is considerable backstory to all this, as you might suspect. Did you ever read Joyce Carol Oates We Were the Mulvaneys ? It's sort of like that, only there was no rape and dad hasn't died and we never lived in a farmhouse. There are other differences, but you get the idea.

God, there's so much...too much for me to even begin to think about putting it down on screen. I will, tho. I think I will. I think I need to. Pat Conroy says that the best gift anyone can give a writer is a dysfunctional family. Somebody got my wish list, yes? Like those companies that send out coffee every month, except it is dysfunction. Lifetime subscription. Wait! Let's double the offer!

*sigh*

As always, when I sit down, I think I've taken on more than I can process at this time, this hour, this phase of my life. It's just that I was missing her. My mom. She's so gone...so out and yet so confined and bound by this cyclic nightmare. I need to call my dad (a whole 'nother cyclic nightmare) so he can "talk." I've been his eldest daughter since, gosh, the day I was born, but now he needs to "talk"to me. Finally, I have a purpose! And I let him talk because I am far away and can hang up the phone and also because I think I'm supposed to learn something holy from comforting this man who just about crippled all his kids with his anger and disinterest (and the back of his hand, fyi). Sort of a foot washing thing. Ann Lamott would know what I mean, but don't think too much on it. It's like I have to streeeeetttttch my soul out as far as it will go and we all know the benefits of a limber soul .

So I was just thinking about how I miss her. How I still want my mama. Is that silly?
I'm 41 and I want my mama but she just done up and flown outta herself. I wonder where that takes her, you know?

Rain Rain and More Rain

Fay is dancing with us here in the heart of dixie. I have taken the past seasons' droughts very personally and so I think it would be wrong to complain about rain so I won't, but then, I haven't been in our basement yet.

Anyway, we were stage 4 drought last year with surcharges and water police and neighbors busting neighbors for watering "off schedule and beyond allotted time" and eventually it was necessary to euthanize my gardens for the season. Very bitter about that. Couldn't figure why God would withhold such a simple joy...my beloved gardens. Made a bunch of rainbarrels and hooked up a half-butt grey water system from my washer. Note: Rainbarrels sans rain are not rainbarrels, they are, in fact, very big mosquito malls. Found out that despite the water police and the dire situation (really, car washes and other water-necessary businesses closed...landscapers went out of business, it was a mess), my grey water system was not street legal. Fortunately, it was in the backyard. It was just a damned hose leading from the washer discharge, have mercy!

But herein lies one of the many contradictions of deeply southern thinking. Lawns are nothing short of a reflection of the character of the mower here and apparently, so are sidewalks because they all got automatically sprinklered despite the diminishing lake levels. Got to love a vibrant, lush sidewalk, no? Gardens here are a bit like pampered pets. Some folks just would not think of depriving them even a teeny bit.

Now, I am in love with my gardens because it's dirty and honest work and it feeds me somehow in my soul--explains a lot about God somehow, but they are in no way pampered. They are more like fond neighborhood strays who don't get into much trouble, but could never pass for house pets. I put gardens in where I don't feel like mowing. Not much planning. A lot of daylillies and re-seeders. Compost bin. Worm bin. Not the pretty side of gardens.

But where was I? Oh, yeah, rain. Well, when the ground is dry enough for long enough it sort of turns into something that won't absorb water. Maybe it's called hardpan? Dunno. But I'm wondering when/if the ground will ever accept this hard-won rain instead of letting it roll down hill and into the streets so the weather guys can threaten flash floods even in the absolute middle of kids' shows so that one of your twins gets very concerned about tornado safety to the point of near hysteria. And F.Y.I. a 4 year old is pretty much riding out the year in a state of near hysteria, so if you pump it up at all, for any reason, it might could turn a mite crazy. Crazier. I totally meant crazier.

So that was today. Getting that rain, loving that rain and watching that rain just roll on past my scrappy patches right down to the everblooming sidewalks.

There's got to be a reason, right? Got to be a lesson in there somewhere. Unfortunately, rain (as with just about everything else) makes me tired, so I might think on it some other time. I'll get to bed now and I'll crack the window just enough to hear that crazy rain roll by.

Just Two Weeks...two weeks...

So I am really not a blogger. I mean, back in the day, I sort of blogged, but we called them "boards." A board got me through my first deep south deep summer deep depression pregnancy long long ago. We were an intimate and nurturing crew, some of whom are here on this very site.

I do write, but when people say, "oh you should blog" I am mystified because a) my life is not as glamorous as it may look (we'll get into that later, lol), b) my time is mostly spent scraping a variety of substances, organic and other off the the floors, and c) if I write it down, then I'll see it in writing and that changes things.

I'm full up on change these days. Actually, been full up on change for a good long time now. Moved from my homeland, family, job, friends to another time zone. That's an old change, but it still chafes sometimes.

Thought about maybe sorta kinda having a second child because, well I was probably too old and we weren't really trying and dh was a long distance cyclist and at least we gave it a shot (heehee) and in the two weeks that I was un-contracepted--TWO WEEKS in my late thirties after a rough 80s decade (ahem) with no thought to ovulation or regulated sex, mind you, in those two weeks I made two changes.
The first change was about the second kid. No thanks, decision made.
The second change was that I had already conceived.
Bonus change: Twins.
Double Bonus plus value points: One twin is a spectrum kid. (surprise bonus is that I aaaaaaaaaaaadore him for all his beautiful differences)

Pretty much that's just to explain the title of this post. I really have no idea wtf I'm doing so please be patient.

Today's a lousy day to begin blogging anyway, I think. Recent changes have left my days in-freaking-terminable and yet I get nothing done. Maybe I should mention that I am prone to lousy days. Psychologically, the term is dysthymia (sp?) which means long term low-medium grade depression of organic/genetic origin. For our purposes, it means chronic tendency to sigh.

*sigh*

Yeah, today's not good. I am heartily sorry for this first impression. Here in the deep south, we understand the importance of such things, and I just go on tossing lousy first impressions around like it's Fat Tuesday and I'm riding a float.

*sigh*

But I think I need to write, even or especially on these days. Nobody has to read it, really, that's okay, I live with four males who don't pay me any mind, so don't feel bad about that. It's just that, well, I think I need this. Been told I need this (no copays). So away we go...(could we? lol)

For the record, yes, I admit I have more children than I'm wired for, and I will never, ever, let you forget it, but I do adore them and learn from them and love them fiercely. Also for the record, I feel that same way about dh. Except for the having too many part. Just the one. Ten years and counting. My beautiful dh. Adore him. Could slap him (never have) but am passionately in love with him.

Still, the most recent changes here in Lahlahland suck. More later.

*sigh*

Um...thanks. I'll be back.

lah