It's Good Friday. We didn't go to church last night, and that always makes me feel off for starting Easter weekend. However, for the second year in a row, we have sick boys on Easter, so we are stuck at home.
To be precise, I'm currently stuck in bed with Christopher, waiting for his fever to start coming down from 103.8. He's miserable, poor thing. Mallory isn't too thrilled with it either since she sits next to him at dinner, and tonight he threw up all over the table. Nothing like vomit as a side dish.
Anyway, Easter. It's the one holiday that Kevin and I have really different memories of from our childhood. He remembers big family get togethers and presents for all the kids. I remember church and a very modest Easter basket, but mainly church.
We are compromising now. The Easter baskets for the kids have a small present in them and some candy, but that's it. And we would certainly go to church if our children could remain well on the date. I'm doubting that is going to happen this year, and I'm really really sad about it.
I think a lot about Mary around Easter now. I guess it has to do with being a mama. I don't think I could have stood by and watched my son take the path that hers did. Before I had my own boys, I didn't really ever consider Mary, and now? I can't seem to stop.
So tonight, I give you one of my favorite Patty Griffin songs. Forgive the misspelling of her name on the video. I put an "i" where there should have been a "y," and seeing as how I've battled that with my own name forever, I'm greatly annoyed. Not annoyed enough to go back and fix it, mind you, but annoyed.
Hope your Easter is filled with renewal, hope, and fulfilled promises of life to come.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Mary
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A better fit
One morning last week, as Christopher was walking into preschool, he dropped some of his Easter eggs. I had his backpack in one hand and Colin on my hip, and was slow in helping him. Another mother stooped down to pick up an egg for him. She was chatting 90 miles an hour with a mother who looked exactly like her and didn't even look at Christopher. She just held out the egg and kept talking.
She noticed the egg, but didn't notice the little boy.
It's a good school. It's where we go to church. It would be alright if he stayed there.
But he isn't going to stay.
In the two years he has been there, we have had exactly one playdate with another child at the preschool. That means that not only has he not been invited anywhere, but also that I have not invited anyone anywhere either.
They just aren't our people, and neither are we theirs. It's not a matter of liking or disliking. It's just a matter of fitting.
I know that feeling. I spent my entire high school career not really fitting in, but not really being that upset by it. In Jackson though, my parents believed that there weren't a lot of choices, and I did get an excellent education.
However, this isn't Jackson, and I don't have to defer to what seems like the path I should take just because of history. This is Raleigh. This is my turn to be the parent. This is my responsibility to find somewhere that my children can thrive in all aspects of life.
So I've pulled him from his preschool and enrolled him in an arts immersion preschool. I'm so excited I can hardly contain myself. At the same time, I'm so nervous I can hardly think about the switch.
The "supposed to's" are so ingrained. I rail against them, and I fall into them for security. I use them as a crutch, getting by for awhile and not realizing that they don't really fit until they start to blister.
"Now, Marty, tell me how you ended up at White? Because you just don't seem like a White kind of person."
This is what the mom at the one playdate said to me. It wasn't an insult, so please don't read it like that. It was just a curious question of how we ended up at that preschool. It's easy to stand out when everyone else looks pretty much the same (and DAMN if I know how all of those mama's of preschoolers are all a stinking size zero).
That was the moment I knew.
It was when I knew I wanted to make a change. I wanted to keep stretching my comfort zone to be the kind of parent that my boys need me to be. It was the same kind of light bulb moment when I decided to leave my OB's office and move to the Birth Center.
Scary, but oh so right.
If you grew up in the deep south, you probably get this. It's hard to be someone you aren't, but it's even harder to figure out how to be who you really are if you don't fit the common mold.
I'm breaking that cycle now. Starting this fall, I'm giving Christopher the kind of education that will allow him all of his drama, his eccentricities, and foster his love of music and art. It's the least I can do for him - allow him to figure out who he wants to be.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Random much?
Baby Colin started walking. He also dropped his morning nap. I also gave up Diet Coke (which I'm not even lying is harder than stopping smoking and also harder than not drinking). Point being, I frequently go to sleep before 9:00 now.
I'm freaking exhausted.
It is apparent that I need to quit calling Colin, "Baby Colin," as though Colin is his middle name and Baby his given. He is walking, communicating, eating anything and everything now. He is a full blown toddler.
Which is why this past Tuesday morning, when he did need a bit of a morning nap, instead of putting him down for a nap, I sat on the couch with him. He nursed himself to sleep in my arms, and I held him for the hour, watching him sleep, looking for the little baby he was just a little while ago.
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And that - that part up there? Was written a week ago. Clearly blogging is not a priority for me right now. It's funny, because not only have I not been writing, but I haven't been reading either. This morning, I opened up my Google Reader to catch up with everyone, thinking that I would have a million posts to read. Turns out though, most of my bloggy besties have been quiet themselves lately too.
Good for us. Living life in the real world.
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The reality of the decision that Kevin and I made to have two children is hitting me hard. I was alright with it. Then I wasn't. Then I was. And wasn't again.
Now, today, I am alright with it. I like our family of five. I like how Colin fits in as the youngest. I like how Christopher gets to be both a little brother and a big brother. I like that soon, we'll be able to take the boys to Mallory's events. I like that soon, they will be old enough to leave for a bit, and I can have some one on one time with Kevin.
Last night though, I took dinner to a new mama in the neighborhood, and I saw the most beautiful, most delicious baby boy ever. I left wondering if he really was THAT perfectly perfect and gorgeous, or if it was just the baby bug getting me. I'm pretty sure he was really just that beautiful. I ached a little, thinking about the "never again."
I just have to keep reminding myself that it's nine months of pregnancy, a few hours of labor and delivery, and then it's a lifetime.
I think that I have enough children to keep my lifetime occupied. It's just hard thinking about being done.
That makes no sense. I'm well aware. I'm afraid you'll have to look for logic elsewhere today.
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Happy 5th blogoversary to Bon at Crib Chronicles. Hers was one of the first blogs I started reading when I got started five years ago. Her writing is beautiful. Stunning really. You should go by for a visit.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Daredevil
No need to wonder why my anxiety induced eczema is flaring like crazy lately. Just take a peek at my little daredevil.
He'll be 14 months old on Sunday and he is already climbing up and down the stairs; on and off of tables, chairs, sofas, and beds; in and out of the tub; and anywhere else he can find.
His favorite thing to do though, is to fly down the driveway as fast as possible on this little red riding car.
My next trip to Target will include:
1. Band Aids
2. Polysporin
3. Hair color to hide the greys
4. Helmet for Mr. Melon Head
It's a darn good thing I don't drink anymore. This kiddo would have me pouring some mommy juice with my second cup of coffee in the morning.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Pimento cheese for people who hate pimentos
I love pimento cheese.
I hate pimentos.
This has presented a problem for me most of my life. A problem, that is, until I came up with this genius solution.
No-Pimento Pimento Cheese
16 oz. shredded sharp Cheddar cheese
6 oz. softened cream cheese
1/2 C mayonnaise
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1 can of chopped green chilies
Blend in food processor until creamy.
Voila. And, you're welcome. I recommend a big fat sandwich on wheat bread with slices of avocado.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Monday, Monday
Apparently, I have needed a hiatus. I didn't know I needed a hiatus, but it's been a little over two weeks since I wrote anything, and I haven't opened my Google Reader in over a month.
I'm just a little stabby.
Random things get to me. Things that don't have anything to do with me, and yet I find myself ticked off at them. A friend warned me that it would happen. Life goes on around you, and all of the sudden, you find yourself mad because none of their crap matters. Oh, your car broke? Fine. My daddy died. Oh, your house won't sell? Fine. My daddy died. Oh, your cat has cancer? Fine. So does my mother and my best friend AND MY DAD DIED. So shut up.
See? Totally ridiculous. And yet, I find it bubbling up randomly.
********************************************************************
Colin still isn't walking. He can, he just doesn't. It's fine by me. He'll do it when he is ready. In the meantime, he is busying himself by climbing up and down the stairs faster than Christopher does.
He also climbs up onto their little Ikea table. Giving him a place to stand, raise his imaginary stick and ROAR at the bad guys on Scooby Doo.
And into chairs. Enabling him to reach anything and everything that I have moved out of a less monkey like 14 month old.
And onto riding toys. Flinging himself down the driveway as fast as he possibly can, with a wild eyed grin on his face - one that stares back into my terrified gaze and says, "Get out of the way, Mom."
Colin still isn't talking either. He can, he just doesn't. He likes to point and scream. He also likes to mimic whatever you say so distinctively, it's creepy. Like whole sentences back to you. I've never heard a baby do that before, and it's kind of bizarre.
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Barney has infiltrated our home. It's my own fault. And the fault of Netflix. I regret it already.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Grumpy
I'm just grumpy. No fun to be around. Grumpy.
Stupid spring. Stupid trees budding and making my allergies try and kill me. Making me grumpy.
My mind jumps around so quickly that I can't even remember what I was going to write about by the time I open the page. It's frustrating.
Know what annoys me? When you have a friend request out to someone on Facebook, and their privacy settings are such that you can see when they become friends with someone else. But they just leave your friend request outstanding. Dude. Grow a pair and hit "ignore." Whatever. I just click over and rescind the request. It's not a big deal. Just annoying.
Know what else annoyed me? The really stupid flower delivery person who walked into the hospice room next door to my daddy's with a basketball shaped balloon that said on it, "Bounce Back Soon." I was standing in the hallway with Daddy's hospice case worked and tried to get her to stop the delivery person, but she didn't even get why. Um, really? "Bounce Back Soon?" Granted, it turned out that she was just carrying more than one delivery and that particular balloon wasn't for the hospice patient, but still. Couldn't make two trips? Really?
Know what else annoys me? Bras. My belly. My skin.
Also annoying? City of Raleigh home inspectors. Plumbing inspector #1 comes and wants some of the interior pipes changed. Plumber changes pipes. For the re-inspection, plumbing inspector #2 comes and wants the connection under the house changed. Really? You couldn't give us a freaking complete list of what needed to be changed the first time? No. You couldn't. Because Raleigh home inspection is based on the opinion of whatever redneck they happen to send out that day.
See? Grumpy. Snarky.
I could use a donut. But we are trying to give up refined sugar. That. Is also. Annoying.
Know a good joke? I could use a chuckle.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Almost two weeks gone
I miss him. I didn't expect to miss him, but I do.
Monday, February 14, 2011
In his passing
We are home. My boys are sleeping in their own beds for the first time in two weeks. Two of the four of us have a stomach bug. The dogs are somewhat happy to see us, but not altogether glad to be sharing the leather sofa again. I've opened the mail, thanked the neighbor who cared for the pups, and made a list of the appointments I need to reschedule.
Life is back to normal.
Except that this past Saturday, we buried my daddy.
Daddy died sometime within a half hour of me writing the post, "It's Time." In fact, if I hadn't written it and had gone on to the hospital, I would have been there when he passed.
I don't think he wanted that though. He took his last breath while my momma had closed her eyes for a much needed cat nap. She slept for about 20 minutes and woke up to find that he had stopped breathing.
Thank God.
My daddy has been healed. He no longer suffers from Parkinson's Disease. His mind is no longer tortured with dementia.
At least, that is the attitude I try to take.
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I haven't cried much. The day of his service was a day I spent being proud of him. His casket was draped in the American flag, and Taps was to be played at the end of the graveside service. Granted, the soldier didn't check his horn before he got there, and it didn't work, leaving us all sitting in extended awkward silence, but I was still proud. Proud of my daddy, the Vietnam veteran.
The front parking lot of the church was almost full when we arrived for the memorial service. There were friends there from my high school days. There was a life long friend who drove in from Nashville and surprised me. There were people who helped raise me in that church. There were more people than I could have imagined - who all came to honor the man I was lucky enough to claim as my daddy.
The music was beyond perfect. New Orleans style jazz arranged by my professor - rather, my dear friend. He and his wife provided all the music for the service. The solo was the jazz arrangement of Amazing Grace that my daddy loved. We marched out of the sanctuary to the most fabulous arrangement of When the Saints Go Marching In that you will ever hear. That Daddy didn't get to hear.
I keep expecting to have a break down. Be angry. Be devastated. Be inconsolable.
It hasn't happened yet.
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Sitting in the room with my dead father was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, I think. I wanted to run. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be anywhere but there, but at the same time, I wouldn't have been anywhere but right there with my family.
His eyes were clear and focused for the first time since I saw him in hospice. I couldn't stop staring at them, wondering what it was that he saw as he took his last breath.
It came time to leave him, and I hadn't touched him or spoken to him. He was dead. I didn't see much point. But something kept me from leaving without telling him good bye one last time.
I walked back to the bed and leaned over to kiss his head. His skin was cool. I let my tears fall, and I didn't wipe them from his face.
Monday, February 07, 2011
It's time
I thought I had. There was my Uncle Dadie, who I watched have a rapid decline during my third semester of college. He died days before my final exams. I remember the exaggerated bone structure of his face and how it looked like his skin was so stretched over those bones that he couldn't close his mouth.
I remember my grandmother and how it seemed as though you could see both bones in her forearms and every detail in her shoulders. I remember how shallow her breathing became.
I remember my granddaddy. My granddaddy could still speak the last time I saw him. He grabbed my hand and begged me not to go. He was scared, he said, and he wanted me to stay with him.
Truth be told, I couldn't have taken it if my daddy had done that to me, and I think that is probably the deeper reason that I didn't come right away.
I don't have to worry about that though. My daddy can no longer speak.
He can't eat.
He can't drink.
He can't even blink.
They can't get his blood pressure to register.
There is absolutely no logical reason that he should be alive, and yet he still instinctively fights. I am both proud of him and slightly exasperated at the same time.
It is exhausting to watch someone you love die. You have to still live while doing it. Momma still has to communicate with the seemingly millions of people who want to know about Daddy.
She still has to eat and drink.
She still has to take her chemo everyday.
She still feels like she has to be the momma, when in reality, her husband is dying.
She is losing her soul mate. The absolute love of her life. Her very best friend.
As much as I'm going to miss my daddy, the hardest part of this is watching my momma hurt and not be able to help her. She loves him so much, and it didn't matter what state he was in - she just wanted him to be with her.
We are all tired. I know Daddy is the most tired of all.
He looks like a skeleton with skin. His unblinking eyes are so deep in their sockets. It's time.
It's time, Daddy.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Change of mind, not heart
I changed my mind.
Probably not a surprise, but I packed up the boys on Sunday and headed to Tennessee. It wasn't my heart that changed. I still feel as though every time I've said good bye to Daddy in the past few years, that I've been saying good bye for good. In a way, I have been because each time I see him, more of him has been gone.
However, the longer he has held on, the harder it became to not be here, so here I am. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, but present.
There is so much to say, but nothing I'm quite ready to share. Just holding these moments close to my heart for now.
From 2007, here is a little something to get to know my daddy better.
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Still though, his life is defined by how well his medications work that day. Forgetting to take something means that it will be a bad day. Waking up at 3:00 AM and thinking it is 6:00 AM, thereby eating breakfast and taking your 7:00 AM medications at 4:00 AM means, that it will be a bad day.
A bad day: A day in which anxiety and nervousness overtake Daddy's ability to function. Eating is out of the question. Dressing himself is out of the question. Sitting down or getting up by himself is out of the question. Sleeping that night will most likely be out of the question.
While in California, my momma consistently told me that I didn't understand what he was really like because I wasn't there from day to day. "You've just caught him on a bad day," she would say when I would call him on the phone and he wouldn't know who I was.
Now that he is in Tennessee, both my mother and my brother give me reports on him. My momma's reports are tempered in hope, or possibly stubbornness. A bad day can possibly be followed by a good day. A bad day can possibly be fixed or prevented with medication. A bad day is just that - a bad day. In my momma's voice you can hear her defiance against the Parkinson's and Alzheimer's. You can hear her missing her husband above all else.
My brother's reports are more to the point. How much weight Dad has lost. How many times Dad got lost in the house. How little Dad is sleeping. How I need to be coming to see Dad soon before too much more of him slips away. In my brother's voice you can hear frustration. I think that I hear resolve some days for being the chosen one to have to deal with it. I know I hear strength.
But me. My firsthand information only comes from too short visits and phone calls. Daddy perks up on the phone with me. I know he is trying to put on his best. I have done the same for him all of my life. Even on a bad day, he will get on the phone with me and tell me that he is making it. His voice cracking and shaking with the Parkinson's induced anxiety, "I'm getting by, Sweetheart. Don't worry about your Daddy," he'll tell me.
Today, Guy and I went to see a lawyer about drafting our wills and other legal documents. As we went through the questionnaire with her about our assets, insurance, and such, we came to the section about "what if we both meet an untimely death or are incapacitated simultaneously?"
Who would we want managing our finances while we laid in the hospital in our comas? In a shared room of course, with mourners, secret twins, and a dramatic soap opera soundtrack in the background.
I opened my mouth to say, "My daddy."
When all that came out was an audible squeak, I looked at Guy, and he said, "Schmoopie, you're crying."
And I was. Right there in the lawyer's office. I started to cry and I had a hard time stopping.
All of the things I used to rely on my Daddy to be, he can't be now, and all of a sudden, I missed him desperately. I wanted his advice on selling my house. I wanted his advice on buying a new car. I want his advice at least once a week, and it is not available anymore. And I saw my mother and how much she misses him in a whole new light.
Asking for his opinion or for help causes his anxiety to go through the roof. There is also the factor that whatever answer he might give you to your question was valid most likely 30 years ago. Or it is to an entirely different question. The main problem though is that it brings on the anxiety that is so bad for him. So I do not ask.
The last time I was with my daddy was in December. We were visiting for Christmas and I lost the baby while we were there. I didn't want my parents to come up to the hospital because I knew that would send Daddy right over the top. The next day though, I wanted him. I wanted him to comfort me, to hug me, and to be my daddy. So I requested a snack. Our snack. Peanut butter and Nilla wafers. He fixed me three little sandwiches and brought them back to the bedroom. He sat clumsily on the edge of the bed and put his stiff bony arm around my shoulders and patted. He patted and said, "I love you, Babe."
Parkinson's and Alzheimer's will never touch Daddy's heart.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Little monster in the closet
I thought I had outgrown the need to look under my bed and check the closet before getting into bed.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Open letter to the hospice floor
Dear 9th Floor,
Later today, my daddy will be joining you. You don't know him, and unfortunately, you never will; he has been gone a long time.
He was a Southern lawyer. A good one, too. His office was downtown on the sixth floor and overlooked the atrium with a fountain and huge plants. I loved to visit him there. He kept candy on his desk to entice people to stop in for a hello when they walked past his door.
Always looking out for someone in need, Daddy was a mentor to countless lawyers who joined the firm after him, going as far as to invite the ones with no family to spend Christmas morning with us. Our table never had an empty chair for holidays or Sunday dinner.
Daddy is a Presbyterian Elder. He loved the structure and organization of the Presbyterian church. He was a staunch supporter of what he felt was God's will in the life of the church, and there wasn't a member there who didn't look up to him. As moderator of the session more than once, he held the utmost respect of the congregation.
But just when you thought he was satisfied being a leader and polity maker, he starts teaching Sunday School. In the two-year-old classroom. Those children loved Mr. Tom like nobody else could.
Daddy was always full of surprises.
Daddy pitched for the law firm's softball team. He played the alto sax. He was in charge of breakfast at our house. He loved English Mastiffs. He wished my momma would cut the biscuits bigger. He liked going to New Orleans. He really liked playing his John Phillip Sousa marches as loud as Momma would let him.
We used to go to the Jackson Mets games. I love baseball because of Daddy. When I was in the fifth grade, I was determined to play Little League. He signed me up. I was one of two girls in the league, and he never flinched. He helped me practice pitching, and he supported me the entire season. He might have even been a little disappointed when I didn't sign up again, but he didn't let me know it.
You might just hear Daddy ask you for a cookie while he is on your ward. The man loves sugar like nobody's business. Donuts, cookies, ice cream, Momma's pound cake - he would live on nothing but sugar and carbs if he could. He frequently got up during the night just to have a snack (little powdered donuts from the grocery store). There wasn't a Snickers bar that was safe within 100 feet of him, and he could find a Dairy Queen with his eyes closed in a town he had never been to before.
That is just a glimpse at the man you are caring for now. That is just a tiny bit of what I know about Daddy.
What I don't know about Daddy is how much he is aware of right now. I don't know if he hurts, if he is scared, if he knows that you are the hospice floor. I don't know if he knows that he will die soon.
You have to understand. That is what scares me. Not the passing of my daddy, because he has been so sick for so very long - I have prayed that God would make him whole again, even if the only way to do that was to take him. But I'm scared that he is scared and can't tell us.
So I'm counting on you, his nurses, his doctors. I'm counting on you not to call him "dead weight" when you have to move him, because he might still hear you and understand you. I'm counting on you to help him eat the few bites he can get down because he used to love food so much. I'm counting on you to keep him safe and take care of him just a little while longer.
He's somebody's husband. He's somebody's father. He's a father-in-law, a PawPaw, a G-Daddy, and a dear friend.
He's not just a man with Parkinson's. Please remember that while you are caring for him. You are caring for a man who has cared for so many others. You are caring for my daddy.
Sincerely,
His daughter
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Happy third birthday, Little Bird
We haven't had an easy year, you and me. We've done a lot of yelling at each other and a lot of crying with each other. I don't think you were very happy to be sharing your mama with another baby. I hope you know that I still love you. More than ever.
You have your G-Daddy's sweet tooth. If it's made of sugar, you want to eat it. I spent the first 15 or more months of your life making sure that you had a perfectly perfect diet. I nursed you until, well, until today. I held out on candy until some time this past summer - and BAM! It just took that one time. You were hooked.
In September, you started preschool. I'm not sure that it's the absolute best fit for you, but you do like to go. I like that you like it and are making friends. I don't like that I don't know what you do there and that the teacher made a passive aggressive remark about your temper. You will be happy to know, however, that I kept my temper when she did it. You come by that temper honestly, and I promise you - I am trying so hard to model a more peaceful temperament for you.
This year, you started watching TV. Way too much TV, actually. It's been so helpful when Colin naps, and for some reason, it seems like one of you is sick ALL THE TIME, so TV has been introduced as your second vice. After sugar. You love Toy Story. You love it so much that we took you to the movie theater to see Toy Story 3 this past summer. I thought it might be too much for you, but you sat mesmerized the entire time. This weekend, we will have your Toy Story inspired birthday party - mainly Woody, but Buzz will make appearances too, I'm sure.
You definitely have it harder around here. Being my first, I still expect you to do things on a certain time table or a certain way. I realize I do this, but I'm not quite sure how to change it. I have a hard time just leaving you alone to let you develop at your own pace and in your own way. I only know this because I see how I deal with your little brother. I know that because you have been successful in something, that I can quit stressing about it - I need to stop stressing for you. I know I do. I see how it fosters the frustration and anxiousness in you. I promise you that in this, your fourth year as my son, I will work even harder to stop hovering.
This morning, you patted me on the back. I rolled over, and you whispered, "Mama? I need some nuh-nuh." I flipped down my nursing tank and nursed you for the last time. You are three years old. It may be hard to understand, but it is time for us to be done nursing. I still love you, and you will always be my baby, but Mama is tired, and the nuh-nuh's are freaking exhausted. Feel free to instill guilt by continuing to reach up and pat them, while saying, "I love your nuh-nuh's, Mama."
I feel like you are getting the shaft a little on this letter. Your G-Daddy is very sick, and I'm a little distracted tonight. I should have started this a lot sooner, but I just don't write like that. Open, type, publish. That's me. Your spontaneous Mama.
I hope that you are a happy three year old. I promise to play more this year. I promise to listen better. I promise to love you. I promise to try harder all the time to be a better mama for you.
Happy birthday, Christopher. You are my favorite three year old.
Love,
Your Mama
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
I don't have a penis
Until he did.
We put him in some "Mater pants" and haven't looked back.
The peeing is going better than the pooping, but from what I hear, that's normal. I honestly think he just doesn't want to sit still long enough to do the big deed - because if he is there to pee and happens to get more than he bargained for, he's totally excited about it. Just doesn't want to initiate that part yet.
What has surprised me is that Christopher learning to use the potty has not been all that dissimilar to Colin learning to use the potty. As long as I kept him on a schedule and took him to the potty in reasonable intervals throughout the day, he never peed in his pants. And in just a couple of weeks, he has learned to tell me ahead of time when he needs to go.
Makes me wish I had done EC with Christopher as well. Of course, I say that about a lot of things with Christopher, but this isn't about me, so I'll spare the list of woes.
Three mornings now, Christopher has woken up with a dry diaper and announced that he has to pee pee first thing. I'm so stinking proud of him. First thing in the morning, Colin always sits on the potty too, so now, we have this bizarre little potty party where the three of us all sit on our potties together in the bathroom and toast the morning sunshine.
There is also usually a conversation about who has a penis and who doesn't. I'm pretty sure that Christopher feels very sorry for me and my penislessness.
I suppose the final step is to move him out of a diaper at night. He has been asking to wear his big boy pants while he sleeps, and he does fine at naptime in them. It's totally selfish on my part.
I've been ending up in the bed with Christopher and Colin in the middle of the night, and quite honestly? I don't want to get peed on. Nor do I want to change sheets in the middle of the night.
So, since we are cloth diapering, I figure it's not too much different to just wear a diaper at night. At least, that's what I'm going with.
I think that 2011 will be the end of diapers around here. That would be awesome.
Unless of course, someone else comes along that might need them . . .
Monday, January 24, 2011
Happy first birthday, little man
Today you are one. You were born at 5:23 in the morning and by noon, we were headed home with you. It was altogether the hardest and easiest experience of my life. Definitely the most amazing.
You and I are joined at the hip, as they say. I haven't left you often, and when I have, you have let us all know how much you wanted me back. There are days that I can't even walk out of the room without you screaming. It's flattering, but it's also time for you to realize that I am always coming back for you.
Just over the past month, you have really started to express yourself - that is, beyond the screaming when I leave the room. You have learned games to play (Colin's got a silly hat on his head), started using everything as a "phone," and learned to walk wherever you wanted to go by holding on to the back of your Pooh train.
The dogs love you, and you love the dogs. It's frustrating to cook for you only to have you toss it down to your buddies. You think it's hilarious though, and it's no surprise that your first consistent word (other than Mama and Dada) is "woof."
You are a terrific eater (when you are sharing with the dogs). It doesn't matter what it is, you will try it. You love peas, bananas, yogurt, mac & cheese, broccoli, and a multitude of other things. Basically, anything we have, you reach for and won't stop until we share.
I love the way you have started singing along to songs in the car. The best is when you call out "duh duh duh, ahhhhhhhh" during the "speck of dust" verse from the violin song by They Might Be Giants. It's adorable.
You can't keep your hands off of a drum, guitar, or any other musical instruments. The Boomwhackers have become little baby didgeridoos, and you have been a rock star on the kazoo for months now.
The wrestling matches you have with your brother make me incredibly nervous. The two of you will tumble around on the bed, diving on one another; I'm predicting many bumps, bruises, scrapes, and possible trips to the ER. I hope you will prove me wrong.
These are just a few of the things I want to remember about you right now, on your first birthday. I'm sorry about your baby book, or lack thereof. I vowed not to slack on that, but somehow didn't follow through.
And now? I have to go check on you. You still cry for me a few times a night, and tonight especially, you need me due to the major pukefest we had at bedtime. Nothing says "happy birthday" like throwing up your cupcakes.
I love you, little man.
Your Mama
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Absolutely
Oh, Daddy.I have long said that your sweet tooth would be the death of you. Midnight powdered donuts. Pecan Sandies right before dinner. The inability to pass a Dairy Queen without stopping for a malt.
Really. You didn't have to take me so seriously. You didn't have to be so literal.
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My parents' health issues prompted me to start blogging. There was always a trauma. Always a certain amount of time left for them. Always a last goodbye.
And yet, they are both still here. I know that I'm lucky.
A little over a week ago, Daddy fell onto the driveway after spilling an ice cream sundae in his lap in the car. Dairy Queen, how I hate you.
He hit his head quite hard. So hard that it was how Momma realized he had fallen. She heard his head hit like a melon from the other side of the car.
What got him though, was his hip. He broke his hip.
We saw that coming a mile away. He's frail. He's shaky. He's stubborn.
He has had surgery to repair the break, and we are told that it went well. What didn't go well were the 20-30 mini strokes he had sometime after the surgery.
He didn't wake up for days.
Now, I'm told he is unresponsive. Or sometimes I hear that he is a little responsive. He can't talk. He can talk a little bit. He can't get up. He's sitting on the edge of the bed.
I'm slightly confused.
It's hard to know what is going on when you aren't there to see it yourself.
There is talk of hospice. Feeding tubes. No feeding tubes. The Parkinson's will keep him from recovering fully from the strokes. I think. As I understand it.
I'm getting new tires for the Jeep so that I can go if I need to. But I'm not going until Momma says she needs me, or until Daddy is gone.
Daddy and I are good. I don't need to see him that one last time. I need to remember him from his visit in November.
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Last night's episode of How I Met Your Mother was a little hard for me to watch. Marshall's father died suddenly. The episode centered around his father's last words to everyone.
Marshall's dad's last words to him were "Rent Crocodile Dundee III." Which, if you know my daddy, is really funny, because his favorite movie is, in fact, Crocodile Dundee.
In spite of all the information I've received about how unresponsive my daddy is, today, I talked to him on the phone. I have no freaking idea what that is all about, and I'm not sure I even believe it myself.
I was talking to my momma when I heard a very mumbled, "Who is that?" to which Momma replied, "It's Marty. Do you want to talk to her?"
The next thing I know, I'm TALKING ON THE PHONE to my daddy who we just were talking about going into hospice. WHAT? I know.
I didn't understand much of what he said. It has been difficult to understand him on the phone for quite some time, but today was different. It was stroke talk on top of Parkinson's talk. Just garbled. What I did get was this:
Me: I hear you fell out of the car because of an ice cream sundae.
Daddy: Someone is pulling your leg.
The man made a joke.
Daddy: How are . . . (he couldn't find the names)
Me: My boys?
Daddy: Yes, and Mallory?
Me: They are doing just fine. The boys have birthdays coming up, you know.
More garbledness.
Daddy: I have to go now.
Me: I know. Thank you for talking to me.
Daddy: You bet.
Me: I love you.
Daddy: . . .
Me: Do you still love me, Daddy?
Daddy: Absolutely.
And in case I didn't understand the first one:
Daddy: Ab.So.LUTE.Ly.
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I don't know what to think. If those are his last words to me, then I'm a lucky daughter.
The Suttles are known for rallying and beating the odds though. Maybe he's going to pull through this after all.
I sure wouldn't be surprised.
But I have to say, I'm okay if it's his time to go. He shouldn't have to work so hard to recover just to still be so sick with Parkinson's. I'm alright to let go of him if he needs me to. We're good.
Absolutely.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Let's all be copycats. Raising money for Cricket's Answer.
A few months ago, there was this emotional disaster. It was my hair that served as the proverbial straw.
Here's the thing. I didn't admit because it is tres embarrassing. You see, there was a picture of a haircut that I took when I chopped my locks. It wasn't Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts.
It was Kristen Chase.
(pausing to die of embarrassment)
I'll be the first one to tell you that I adore her. I've stated many times that hers was the first blog I ever read. But I can also say that I don't want to BE her. Not like creepy stalker BE.
I just liked her haircut.
Of course, on me, it looked like a mullet, but that's water under the bridge.
There is something FAR MORE PRODUCTIVE that I am going to copy from Kristen now. And that is a donation to Cricket's Answer for Cancer.
While we wait for answers, action, movement - wait to be lifted from limbo - I'll collect your comments. For every comment you leave, I'll donate $1 to Cricket's Answer up to $100. I'm pretty sure I can scrape that together in these tight times. It might require me to hit up Craigslist for some random selling of stuff, but I'll brave it.
It's a great cause. Cricket's Answer is teaming up with LympheDIVAs to provide medically necessary, yet not covered by insurance, compression sleeves for the lymphedema that so many breast cancer survivors experience post mastectomy.
$100 will require all five of my readers to make up different accounts and each comment 20 times. It will also provide just one sleeve, but one sleeve that someone didn't have before.
So. You can leave me a comment and send a dollar. Then, you can click over to Kristen and leave a comment and send another dollar. THEN, you could decide to write a post in this same vein and donate your own dollars. You know. If you wanna.
I'll leave comments open on this post until I wake up Thursday morning. I would say something fancy and professional like Kristen, and close them at 12 EST Wednesday, but I think we've established that I'm no Kristen Chase.
Oh, and GO TEAM WHYMOMMY!!!
Friday, January 07, 2011
Lymphedema sleeves for every survivor
After my mom's mastectomy, there were lasting repercussions.The scar that marked where her breast used to be could be hidden by clothing and an expensive prosthesis. The prosthesis wasn't medically necessary, but her insurance covered both the prosthesis and the special bras that she needed to use it.
Lymphedema is localized swelling and fluid retention due to removal of the lymph nodes during a mastectomy. For most breast cancer survivors, this means that her arm swells tremendously throughout the day and that she has to be extremely careful not to burn, cut, bruise, or get a bite on that arm. For the rest of her life.
The arm is the visual marker for my mom. And I guess because it's such a public part of your body, people feel no obligation to not stare or ask invasive questions about why it might be swollen in the first place. My mom's arm couldn't be hidden and kept her from doing things she used to do in the past, like playing tennis.
Sometimes, Momma would wear a dark tan compression sleeve during the day to keep the swelling down. It was ugly, hot, and uncomfortable though. She didn't have the option of LympheDIVA, and I don't know that she would go for it now. But I can totally see her rocking this:
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Always
I don't usually know what to say,
But I always will know how to listen.
I don't know the answers to your questions,
But I will search for you and validate your need to ask.
I won't blow anymore sunshine.
I won't hold back anymore tears.
Because you need to know these things:
I know the time will come.
I trust your strength.
I believe in your family.
And this is also true:
I ache with you.
We support each other, and we both hurt.
We are both angry.
We are both scared.
Neither of us needs to apologize for it.
Do you know that it is so hard to give to someone like you?
I want to give everything I can to you, but you - you are always
Arms outstretched
Searching the crowd
Ready to teach, to give, to share.
It's hard to catch you without your arms open to give. It's hard not to take from you all the time.
That, by the way, was a compliment.
I am the woman who will play it straight with you.
No more sugar coating from me, I promise.
I am the girl with whom you always played straight.
There will never be pompous bags of sand with lit candles in front of my home. In your honor.
You are my favorite one.
The one who restored my faith in lasting friendships, time and time again.
I will stand as strong as I can for you. Following your example of what a friend really is.
We will be always friends. Always.
