Evolution of a Mom

Have you ever thought about your journey as a parent?  How you got to the place where you are?  How different it is than you imagined when you planted the seed of being a mom into your head?

As I type, Casey is asleep.  Spelling words completed, Halloween finished - Luna Lovegood costume a success, Griffyndor T-Shirt laid out for the next day.  Travis is in the basement, playing X-box,   hooting into his microphone to his friend in Chicago as his Football Team alternately scores and sucks.  At times I want to yank the thing out of the wall.

I just watched the Season 2 finale of Sons of Anarchy, which I would have never known about had I not had a Son of my own.  I realize now there would have been a lot of things I wouldn't have known about had I decided against having children.

When you get right down to it, there was really no decision at all. At least not one that I carried to fruition.  When we planned a pregnancy, I miscarried. Every time I got pregnant and actually made it to delivery, they had decided to have me.  At the most inconvenient times of my life, no less.  Twice.  What is that they say; "Man plans, God laughs"?  Well she had a side splitting time with me, no doubt.  

I suppose if I would have been a little a lot more careful with the alcohol consumption + diaphragm use formula,  my pregnancy convenience factor would have been more favorable.  But it was what it was, and I got my babies.  One that was six weeks old when I started nursing school, and one eight years later that came after I busted my ass to lose 75 pounds and had come to terms with having an only child.  There's Karma, as only I would get it.

These children changed our lives, as all children do.  We embraced the brave new world of 5 minute just do it sex, driving aimlessly around the neighborhood to quiet a screaming baby, catching barf in our bare hands, and the realization that restaurants with 2 year olds are never, ever a good idea.

I slept on the floor next to the crib praying to the Laughing At Me God not to let my girl be brain damaged from seizures.  I held a sobbing Travis in my arms in post op while he declared that   having his adenoids out was "not fun at all and why did everyone lie to me and say this would be fun?"  I held fish burials and cleaned fish tanks that I didn't want and intervened when Travis and his twin buddies tried to dig up the poor dead cat because we buried him with a baseball that they now needed to play with.

I fought the good fight.

Yet, I am not a perfect mommy.  Just ask the Stepford mommies at the elementary school Casey attends.  The ones who pull into "their" parking spot ten minutes early, get out and walk their kids into school with shoes on,  their hair done and make up intact, busting with eagerness to suck up to the teacher.  When I pull up at one minute to the bell, I have yanked a hat on my head and my make up is on, baby. Because it's the stuff I didn't wash off from the night before.  Alice Cooper has nothing on me at 8am on a Tuesday.

I avoid PTA, PTO whatever the hell you call it now like the plague.  I don't head fundraisers and go to mommy coffee clatch.  I don't do Girl Scouts/Brownies/Bluebirds. I am the one telling my kid to return the candle/cookie dough/wrapping paper/cheap ass whatever they are trying to sell that year forms the day after she brings them home.  I get carsick on buses so field trips are not my thing.

Does that make me a bad person?

Nah.  Know why?

I learned.  I learned from the trial child, Travis.  The one I killed myself doing all that crap for.  The one who looked at me blankly when I posed the question:  "Do you remember when I volunteered for that committee in 2nd grade and you had that amazing party and we bought the teacher the best gift ever?"  "Do you remember the reindeer cookies I made and the sweet little Halloween goodie bags we gave to your first grade class"?

Yeah. Not. So. Much.

When I first pondered becoming a mom, when the "you're so pregnant" stick had two lines and I alternated wanting to puke with puking, when the formerly flat stomach began swelling and stretchmarking and filling with feet that kicked my bladder, I had some grand delusions.  My baby would sleep. I would put it in the jogging stroller and off we would go - every day getting our exercise.  I was going to be the room mommy.  The hot mommy.  The cookie baking, car pool driving, organized,  healthy snack mommy.  I was going to work, parent, keep my house clean, keep my husband happy and wear my size 10 jeans to my kid's first birthday party.

Silly, silly, Kim.  Duck as the fist of reality heads right at your face.

Please pause now, and flip your dial over to the Actuality Channel. 

Here is Mom Kim, staying up until 2am to assemble the 4th Grade Arctic Wolf diorama she forgot after she threw the reminder note out in a fit of clutter reduction.  Here she is breathless, running out of the house in a nightshirt because she set the alarm for 8pm instead of 8am.  Watch as Kim parades through the house with a garbage bag full of Legos that she threw out in a fit of rage when one lodged between her 2nd and 3rd toe.  Observe as she "swears she hasn't seen" the too tight Harry Potter T-shirt that gets worse every washing. See her struggle not to cry when she has nothing that fits to wear to the Christmas Concert (or the Graduation, or the Swim Banquet.)  Tune in as she heads to Meijer at 3am to look for Monster High Dolls with the drunks and Middle Eastern population.

Hear Kim scream "WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WANT FROM MEEEEEEE?" to the infant that has been crying for six hours straight.  See her stomp outside in her nightgown and boots at 4am to throw down with the neighbor who is shoveling snow under screaming baby's window.  Observe as she leaves a dog biscuit under the pillow of the boy who tried to trick the tooth fairy by leaving the dog's lost tooth there.  And on, and on, and on.

On paper, I kind of suck at Momming.

But really, what are the moments you remember about your mom?  Is it dioramas or Monster High Dolls that broke 10 minutes after you got them?  Is it what she was wearing when she took you to school, or the fact that you got there safely?  What did you get your 3rd grade teacher for a holiday gift?  Did you think your mom was pretty?  Do you remember when she screamed at you when you had colic?

I think not. And mercifully, beautifully, my kids put a different spin on what makes a good Mom.

My kids go crazy when I announce that it's meatloaf and apple pie night.  My kids wear Chuck Taylors because I do.  They listen to great music because I exposed them to it.  They have a million pictures of the things they have done because I took them and made them albums.  My kids were taught hand made cards are best, so they make cards that alternately make me laugh and cry because they are so hilariously spot on.  I contribute to things at school under the radar because it's inner joy, not recognition, that I crave.  My kids are clean and loved and immunized and don't smell like cigarette smoke.  My house doesn't look like an episode of "Hoarders". Their friends like to come to our home, and they are (almost) always welcome. And while my kids sometimes make me want to tear my hair out, they know I would go to the ends of the Earth for them.

Travis appreciates that I worked two double shifts to buy the Xbox he screams at his friends on.  Casey smiled in the realization that no one in the school had a cooler, more original costume than Luna Lovegood. She is told she is beautiful, strong and sweet because we pray she stays that way. They attend guitar, swimming, baseball, dance and vocal lessons because I took the time to find them and sign them up.  They hug and kiss us and tell us they love us because it was told to them a million times, from the minute they came into the world.  They laugh, because they were raised with humor and taught the value of self deprecation. They are happy, because they appreciate life.

On paper, or maybe to the model mommies, I may suck.  But in the real world I am not so bad, after all.  Because I can take it when God laughs.

(Your) Precious

The A plus number one thing about ER nurses?  Nothing is off limits.  We put it out there, literally and figuratively.  We hold up droopy testicles, floppy old titties, yucky pannuses and whatever else is in our way to get where we need to be.  And then we talk about it. Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, do we talk.


That told, this entry practically writes itself.


The scene: 4 a.m. in the almost vacated ER.  Only the row of four psychiatric admissions sleeping  off their ativan remain, snoring while their "sitters" do word searches or study their nursing school textbooks (Godspeed, children).  Four nurses, a tech and a doctor pretending not to listen to us are gathered at the nurse's station, drinking our coffee and finally, finally, finally, getting to sit down.


Dawn is the one to fire up the conversation. She begins with, "You guys".  On cue, we all roll our chairs a little closer, knowing that this will be a good one.  Once we are huddled appropriately in a gossip circle she begins: "I handed my patient a specimen cup tonight and asked her to give us a urine sample.  She looked at me like I was on crack and said 'Girl, ya'll think I can fit my big pussy in that little bitty jar?  You crazy.'"  Dawn, having excellent critical thinking skills but lacking a poker face, excused herself to fall apart in the utility room before returning with a much larger "urine hat" to place in the toilet.  After obtaining the sample, Dawn returned to Big Pussy Lady's room to find the urine hat washed, dried and in the patient's belongings bag.  The patient said, "Now that little bathtub can help a girl wash her pussy right".  With that, Dawn returned to the utility room, attempting to prevent her own pee from running down her scrub pants as she laughed.


Big Pussy?  Who the hell says that?  (Tony Soprano excluded).  BIG Pussy.  Even I, adoring of bluntness and having an occasional lack of moral fiber, finds Big Pussy a little bit over the top.


Big Pussy Lady led us into a conversation about vaginas.  Having never attended the Vagina Monologues but having a fair amount of experiences with my own and a couple thousand more vaginas, (work vaginas - not the lesbian fantasy stuff that keeps house in Bill's brain) I think I have a pretty fair grasp of all things Private.  Most of us do, actually, whether you view them on a daily basis or are limited to occasional deviant vagina exposure.  It's a good thing to know your body, respect what it can do, care for it properly and of course let it take you to new heights.


But what do you call it?  I ask you, blog worthy friends, what do you call your vagina?


Herein lies the entertainment section of our story.


Dawn turned, as she often does in times of desperation and cheating on trivia questions, to her iPhone.  I see her typing U-r-b-a-n D-i-c-t-i-o-n-a-r-y as fast as her little fingers can touch screen.  I hear her sigh as she weeds out the obvious.  I grab a pen and paper as she  rattles off the following:


Peach.  Flowerpot.  Pink Cadillac.  Beef Curtains.  Midge.  Apricot Slit.  Promised Land.  Red Gash.  Pink Taco.  Honey Pot.  Cherry Pop.  And finally, Poontang.


"Now,with Poontang here," Dawn announces as we sit with rapt attention, "we are going to get schooled".  The gossip circle tightens a bit more, and she begins:


Did you know that Poontang is a Filipino term for vagina?  Did you also know that Poontang has subspecies?  I bet not.  But here for you, ladies and Joe, I unfold the levels of Poontang. (Unintended pun).


Poontini:  the vagina of a baby.


Poonini:  the vagina of a young girl. 3-19 years old.


Poontang:  the vagina of someone in their prime. Specifically ages 20-35.


Then, the kicker:


Poonono:  An old vagina with a fairly large muff.  Ages 35-110.


Poonono. I am a Poonono.  I am aghast. And then, I erupt.  "THIRTY FIVE TO ONE HUNDRED AND TEN? Thirty five. To. One hundred and ten.  So I am lumped into this broad, large muffed category with Nana, Betty White and Paula Deen?  Blasphemy!  At least you could use the politically correct, Southern charm oozing term "Mysteries", which any elegant woman would be proud to say in public!"  For God's sake, a Poo-NO-NO?


At which the doctor who is pretending not to listen to us appears to have a spasm at his desk.  At which none of us get up to help him.


My monumental offense at the word has inevitably earned me a new nickname.  Mrs. Poonono is typing at you this very instant.


Dawn is dubbed Midge, as it is a term for one with red, um, hair. Dawn being short, Irish and mahogany haired (on top) is a perfect little Midge.


Carolina born Faith is christened Precious, since her Grandma taught her that all things Precious were housed between her legs and she was not to let any boy "get at her Precious".


Which leaves our tech; Joe.


Joe is a boy, and a very cool one at that.  He can girl talk with the best of us.  Joe offers up that his sister was the owner of a "Woo Woo", his wife had "Privates" before he "made them public" and that this whole bottom of the barrel conversation reminded him of when he was a paramedic and ran on a woman whose husband met them at the door to announce that he probably "broke her cummer" after she had a seizure during sex.


Hail Joe, proud new recruit of the Midnight Nurses Vagina Club.  Long may you bikini wax.


So that's the latest entry into the Vagina Diaries.  (Pun totally intended). This story is a blast to share. When I want to make someone laugh (and learn yet another name for vagina) I tell them about Big Pussy Lady.  Props to Big Pussy Lady.  We thank you for blazing the trail of vagina hygeine, for opening our minds to Filipino slang terminology, and for making me laugh far too loudly in the middle of Meijer when I bought this:

Because if you are going to clean Precious, it should be done fast and effortlessly.


Party on, clean vaginas of the world.

The Yoga Chronicles

It's autumn, which means I am a mentally labile girl.  I jump between my pool closing induced depression (which I still have not completed but will do Sunday), my "They are back to school I have the house to myself" euphoria (limited now thanks to Travis commuting to college from home),  the "It's not so bad I can wear a sweatshirt but still flip flops" self comforting mechanisms, and the "You'll be OK now, there is still alcohol" segue from crisp white wine to full bodied reds.


Oh, and yoga.  Back to yoga.


Yoga is not a summer activity for me.  I am sure that makes the true yoga lovers, (yogis? yougos?) blanch in their Uttanasanas, but I can't stomach the idea of sweating like a pig and face planting on a slick yoga mat in the middle of July. Those yoga people are all about too hot rooms and sweaty bodies, but I am not on that bus. Unless they come up with polar bear yoga in an air conditioned studio, you'll see me in September. I am not one that will wake at dawn and perform Sun Salutations, so yoga remains a cool weather sport for me. 


With the onset of Autumn, Friend Moe and I made a pact to attend at least one yoga class per week.  In the past I have written about my classes with Jeanne the Queen Yoga Mother, who pushes me to embrace my inner goddess.  I love Jeanne but I am a smidge disappointed to tell you that I have not attended a Jeanne led class this fall.  Instead, Friend Moe pulled a bait and switch and we go to Wednesday Vinyasa Yoga with Instructor Lauri. Here is Lauri, with the butt like a perfect peach and the arms like a gunnery sergeant.  Lauri, who tricks you with the peaceful reflection at the start of class, gently moving you into the warming stretches that lubricate your creaky middle aged joints, then, rapid fire BAM BAM BAM is kicking your ass from here to Rhode Island. And beyond.


I grew up an athlete.  Baseball, volleyball, softball, swimming, water skiing, basketball, I played them all.  On the field, court or in the pool I am a hard worker that is somewhat blessed with the ability to grasp a sport and be fairly competent at it.  Until Yoga.   I suck, suck, SUCK at yoga, people.  Compare and contrast my flexibility with that of a river rock, a hippo, or a Catholic School teacher.  Translation: I have no flexibility, which makes yoga really, really difficult.


I try not to look. I try to concentrate on my breathing and be in the moment but I cannot help but gawk at the chosen ones who can twist like pretzels and headstand like statues.  I catch myself thinking that their boyfriends and husbands (and maybe girlfriends too) must be over the moon about their ability to pull their legs around their ears and balance on their coccyx.  I am green with envy, which kind of shoots the whole Namaste theory to hell.  "The spirit in me is insanely jealous of the pretzel gene in you" is a closer version of the Namaste going through my head.


Yet I press on.  I balance on my wobbly legs and try poses that make the old lady hip cry out in protest.  I look like a drunk sorority girl on a Twister mat.  I thrill with every small victory, every touch of my big toe when bending from the waist, every ten seconds that I manage to hold a pose that everyone else is locked into for thirty.  I don't give up.  My hands dodge the sweat droplets that fall on my mat in the fear of slipping and landing on my face in front of the Goddesses. I really try. I work so hard I turn beet red.


Every now and then I catch Moe's eye and we smile.  I am grateful that after all these years she cares enough to push me to try things that I normally would count out because I am still working this weight battle.  Fat girls at yoga? Ridiculous. Or maybe not so much. Who would have thought yoga could change your body?  


Me. Who wakes up feeling like a Mack truck mowed her down, that's who.  The girl in the t-shirt who is not comfortable rocking the tight tank tops, but who usually has the cutest feet in the class. (I really do have adorable toes).  The girl that decided that every class she takes is a step closer to a stronger mind and  healthier body.  The girl that felt happy inside when Awesome Arms Lauri told her "I'm proud of how hard you work in my class".  The girl that is slowly, surely, finding a new sport to add to the "you have no choice you must move your body" list.


Namaste, ya'll.

Nana's Day

Nana and I had her favorite outing yesterday.  The Visit to the Doctor Outing.

Let me begin by saying I adore Nana's doctor, Carl Karoub.  (Often interspersed with Nana's name for him: Dr. Kaboo.  As in "Kimi, I think we should see Dr. Kaboo, I haven't had a BM in a day and a half").  Dr. Karoub is an internal medicine physician who specializes in the geriatric population.  The average age of his patients is 85.  Eight-five, ya'll! Would you ever? My brain would be so sore from dealing with the 85 and up club every day, and my vocal cords scarred from trying to talk loud enough to bypass their crappy hearing aids.  So in my book, Dr. Karoub and staff are angels on Earth.

Nana has not been feeling well, perpetual obsession of her bowels aside.  Nine months ago her blood work came back supportive for a form of leukemia called myelofibroma.  There is no real treatment for it if you are 94 and not a candidate for a bone marrow transplant, so we made the decision to wait it out and keep her comfortable in the meantime.  I cannot wrap my brain around living to 94 years old.  Old people's days revolve around pain, challenges and poop.  I find nothing encouraging about any of that.    Nana has slowed down a lot since she broke her hip, but she still cried and protested "I'm not ready to die yet, I have things to do" when we told her about the myelofibroma.

Nana has things to do.  That can only mean one thing:  I have things to do as well. So off to the doctor we go.

Dr. Karoub has a welcoming waiting room.  In it he has coffee, tea, and snacks all lovingly set out by his mother and her senior citizen friends.  Yes, I said snacks.  Dr. Karoub's waiting room is like Costco with easier handicap accessibility, and the Senior Citizens make the same "I haven't been fed in a month" bee line to the snacks as they do to the Costco sample table.  God help you if you are in the way, because while they may be old, they still pack a mean hip check.

I grab a coffee and ask Nana if she would like tea and a cookie.  She proclaims to the entire room that she could not possibly have a cookie or tea, she has Depends, two pads and paper towel in her underwear but that may not be enough and if she "lost control" she would "just die".  No food since 8am.  It's 4:15.  I wonder if her blood sugar will be 26 when they check it.  If it is, I know where I am NOT going, and it's to the ER.  We will hustle back to the waiting/snacking room instead, and load up on sugary treats.  There's more than one way to skin a cat.

Onwards to the lab area, with Nana stopping along the way to hug staff as well as people she has never seen before that have been polite enough to smile at her.  When they ask her how she is, I inwardly cringe knowing that we have just added five extra minutes to our journey.  Nana tells anyone who will listen about her dismal home life with Cousin Dorothy, the macular degeneration that is slowly killing her, and the fact that Travis is now in college with a scholarship (reminding me that I still owe OU $4300 that the scholarship did not quite cover).  I let the kindly people suffer for a minute or two before I herd her along like a border collie.  Nana gets her blood drawn, stops at the scale to learn that she weighs 98 pounds, and heads into the EKG area, where her favorite medical assistant is waiting.

Tracy the MA is another angel on Earth who loves the geriatric set.  She has a loud voice, a willing ear and the patience of a saint.  Nana adores her, and tells me often that I should get a job like Tracy's so I don't have to "take care of drunks and hookers".  She declines my offer to cover the pay cut I would take doing so.

Tracy sets up her EKG machine while Nana unbuttons her blouse.  She looks down at her boobs and states that she has no idea why she even bothers with a damn bra anymore, that she should just tuck them into her waistband and be done with it. I tell her for the millionth time that I will buy her a sport bra and she will be more comfortable and she tells me that she will wear Playtex 18 hour bras until I put her in a casket.  I tell her that she weighs 98 pounds, and Casey weighs 90 pounds, so maybe we will shop in the girl's department for our next bra run. She waves me off, clearly finished with the conversation and anxious for Tracy's attention.

Tracy asks Nana how Cousin Dorothy is, which is the equivalent of pulling the pin from a grenade.  I settle back on the stress test exercise bike to watch the show.

"Oh Tracy, well I can tell you these things, Dorothy is NO GOOD.  I get up at 5:30 every morning and set her breakfast table and she meanders in at 10:00 sometimes!  Sleeping half the day away and eating all that candy that's bad for her di-beeties.  She hasn't had a permanent wave since I don't know when and she looks like a cave woman with her mess of hair.  I clean up after her all day long.  She never cleans her mattress, she may have bedbugs. I don't know what I am going to do with her, I just don't know."  She then announces "But she's REAL GOOD".

I translate:  Dorothy is fine.  She likes to sleep.  When I am 97 I will eat chocolate and drink wine and sleep whenever the hell I want to, too.  She is waiting for her social security check to get a perm at the end of the month, and she does not look like a cave woman.  (That much).  She certainly does not have bedbugs, she simply doesn't want her mattress flipped and vacuumed every other week like you do. Nana, leave poor Dorothy alone.

This earns me a dirty look and confirms the fact that Nana hears quite well when she feels like it.

And it only takes Tracy five tries to get an EKG printout that requires Nana to not talk and be completely still.

Nana unloads that I have not taken her to JC Penney, Kohls or Target "in months" and she "looks like an old bag lady" in her clothes.  She neglects to mention I wash, set and style her hair every week and manage her finances and shop for the groceries that she forgets to buy when Sandy the Helper/Housecleaning Angel takes them grocery shopping.  Because of this I don't feel too guilty about the bag lady clothes.  JC Penney is hell on Earth, and I avoid it like the plague.  Besides, at this point she can wear some of Casey's stuff.  Maybe I will take Nana to Justice.  She could use some sparkly peace sign shirts.

Finally we reach our destination; Dr. Karoub.  A man I adore. He works incredibly hard and has a heart of gold.  His little office is jammed with thank you notes, pictures of patients that have hit 100 years old (he sends a cake and flowers to every one), and a line up of products that can only be described as "Senior Necessities".  Pepto Bismol, magnesium citrate, Miralax, Senna Tea, Quaker Oats and more.  He does this so he can show them what to look for in the store.  The other genius level thing he does is record the entire visit's conversation on his computer, complete with pictures.  Like this:

In summary:

Nana's picture:  "Oh hell, I look like an old bag".

Problem 1 we have covered.  The bed already has a nice thick pad, plus Nana has multiple layers of pads, and a total of four touch to light lamps on the way to the bathroom.  Not much more we can do with that.

The response to:  Things are going well with you and your cousin Dorothy Bruder was: a snort.  Followed by a harrumph.

Problem 2:  Nana's feet look like the picture.  For real.  When being shown this paper, she pointed to McDonald's and said "Well, I don't like him".  To Campbell's Soup: "Well I have to eat those so Casey's school gets the labels".  And to The Colonel:  "Now, him, I like.  Do I have to stop seeing him?".  As if these were bachelors number 1, 2 and 3.  When Dr. Karoub showed her the picture of the lady with her feet elevated she shot back "Dorothy would never let me lounge around on the davenport like that, but Kimi can go buy me a pillow for my feet and I will use it in bed".  When I reminded her that she has a Lazy Boy recliner she told me that she doesn't like to bend that way because it binds up her ab-DOH-men and she can't poop.  I am picking my battles, and don't pick this one.  I make a mental note to look for the Bed Bath and Beyond coupon I stashed somewhere and get her a damn pillow.

Problem 3 makes me laugh my ass off.

Problem 4 makes Nana happy because she gets to go to yet another doctor as well as the hospital "where everyone knows Bill".

Nana's cholesterol is better than Casey's.

And lastly, I may live to be 94 just so I can celebrate the day that someone tells me to gain weight.

"Don't Fall".  Short of bubble wrapping Nana, I have nothing here. "Don't Fall" is the equivalent of "Don't spill your milk", "Don't get in an accident" and "Don't drink too much on the golf weekend, Babe."

"Thanks to Kim for bringing you in today".  You're welcome Dr. Karoub.  I love you, and wish you an early retirement, but only after Nana's gone.

After conversation about people Dr. Karoub has never met, situations he knows nothing about and places neither of us had been born yet to experience, Nana is hustled out with a hug and a kiss and a promise for a follow up visit in December.  We head south on Woodward to Sign of the Beefcarver, where I am the only one in the place without a walker or a four pronged cane.  Nana eats scrod and I turn my nose up at the bland roast beef that Al enjoyed later that night.  I drive Nana home lights and sirens because "I ate all that scrod and now I have to poop".  I kissed Dorothy goodbye, wished her luck and went home to have a much needed glass of wine with Bill.

December 20th will be here before I know it.  Stay tuned.

Acts of Confliction.

The writing bug is an intermittent virus with me.  Sometimes I feel like I am going to combust if I don't spill the things loaded up in my head, and other times I can stare at a blank screen thinking "where did all those thoughts go?"


Today, I have both symptoms.  I am angry from yet another act of ignorance displayed by those around me, but as I sit here I have no idea where I want to start. I am also frustrated because whenever I sit down to write, I have a metronome in my brain ticking away to the tune of "you have exactly ten minutes to get this down before X has to happen or you have to pick up Y or handle Z".  Confliction.  It's everywhere.


Bill would meditate and empty his mind.  Bill would tell me to breathe.  And I try.  I really, really do.  I am just, as my daughter would say, an epic fail at those things.  So here, with you, I will release my combustion the only way I know how.  With words.


I cannot for the life of me fathom why people have this need to be "the one" to announce a tragedy.  Having a job where I witness bad news being given on a regular basis, I see little gained from being present to see the devastation in someone's eyes, the cry of pain, the chaos that follows the deliverance of bad news.  Plainly put: it sucks.


I am not going to lie to you, I share things with those closest to me.  I repeat stories, gossip and relay weird events.  I slap my hands over my mouth and giggle when the same inappropriate things are shared with me.  But people, I do these things in my home, in person, in private exchanges.  I do not do them on Facebook.


Oh yes, here we are again.  Facebook.  I wonder on a regular basis how many lives are damaged, marriages tanked, friendships ended because of our favorite social media.  I think people take the disclosure of their (and others) personal lives way too far.  I found myself livid when someone decided that announcing the death of Casey's classmate in a Facebook post was a good idea.  Who does that? Who does that? I will tell you: someone whose ego needs to be pumped. Someone who cannot wait to be "the one" to tell the horrible news.  Someone who is, in my eyes, a very, very small person.


To note - the metronome has been ticking for four days now, while I come back and forth to complete this blog entry.  Again, X,Y and Z have combined to strip my writing time down to a minimum.  Every time I return, I read what I wrote, delete some of it, and find myself a little less angry.  I think in spite of myself I do empty my mind.  It just takes longer to drain down.  Don't get me wrong, I still think it is incredibly disrespectful to tell people a child that you barely knew died on a social media site.  But I realize that in order to be a bigger person, you have to move past the things that burn you up inside and find something to make that burn heal.


Today is September 11th.  I chose not to turn on the TV or read the papers today, because I despise America's obsession with picking scabs to the point that they take forever to heal.  I don't forget the day, the people that lost their lives, and especially the first responders that died doing their jobs.  I bless the firemen and paramedics I work with every day, saying a silent prayer for their safety as they walk out the ambulance bay into the night.  I thank them, I laugh with them, I sing their praises.  Because they are the ones who carry the image of Casey's friend with them.  The kid they tried to save, the kid they feel they failed.  The kid they'll never talk about on Facebook.  I wish them a peaceful heart, an empty mind, a metronome that ticks as slow as molasses.  And that, in turn, brings me peace.  

18.

There is a vibe in my house that is electric and magical, a vibe that I can remember as if it was yesterday.  It's the vibe of adulthood, and while I am sometimes considered an adult, it's not me. It's my son.

On Friday, May 27th, I will become the proud owner of an adult.  At least on paper.

For this momentous occasion I feel the need to share words, so I wrote Travis a letter.

Dear Travis,


Eighteen years ago I was 28, swollen, afraid and lying in a hospital bed trying to keep you inside me.  Ahead of me was nursing school, a full time job and a new marriage. None of those things mattered, however, because the only thing that mattered was you.


I am sad you are a boy only for one reason - because you will never know the visceral, soulful magic of being a mom.


I would have stayed in that bed, miserable and frightened for a year if it meant keeping you safe.  Someone was entrusting me with something huge, way bigger than myself and your Dad, yet something only the two of us could create. So in that bed I stayed until they decided that you were better off out in the world than in the safe harbor of me. It's odd, because that is a metaphor of how I feel today, as we prepare for you to graduate and head out into your life as an adult.


I will never forget your Dad's voice cracking as he saw the tip of your head, and the awe I felt as I pushed one last time, and you tumbled into the doctor's hands.  At that moment, nothing in my life would ever be the same.


You were the baby that people would stop me on the street to say how perfect, how beautiful, how angelic you were.  Your voice was one I could pick out among a thousand, your tears brought my tears, your laughter segued mine.  I held you and rocked you and read to you and fought for you and then one day, I went to kiss you but I had to look up instead of down to do so.  It happened that fast.


We grew up together, you and I.


So Travis, as you head into a world that doesn't always give you everything you want, I want you to remember these things.  Carry them in your heart, live them in your actions, house them in your soul, because these are things that are going to make you the man I know you are capable of being.


Be kind.  Be kind knowing that you may not get kindness in return.  Be kind when you want to turn away, when it is inconvenient or time consuming.  The light you shine into someone else's darkness may be a beacon for them, and your life will better because kindness always returns to you tenfold.


Be smart.  You are, I know.  My honor student, the math whiz I could never be, the studious Senior that I never was.  Academic smart is important, but gut smart is what you will need to get you through life.  If something feels wrong, it likely is.  If your gut tells you "this is the right thing to do", if people who know you and love you tell you to run with an idea, you should.  You know I believe in a higher power, and that power resides in you.  That little voice telling you to do the right thing is actually a really big voice that is trying it's best to guide you.


Say it.  The words that are in your heart have the capacity to grow when they leave your mouth.  If someone means the world to you, tell them.  If someone hurts you, let them know.  Dad has accused me of wearing my heart on my sleeve, but the other thing he tells me he loves is my passion for what I do and what I believe.  That passion can only be released when you put it out there for the world to see. Say I love you.  Hug people.  Look them in the eye when you speak.  This is trust.  This is what you need to be whole.


Be able to say you are sorry. Humility is the single most important trait a man can have.  You will be wrong sometimes, whether it is in your job, your marriage or your parenting.  The ability to say, "I could have done that differently, and I wish I had" will allow you to grow from your mistakes and make those you respect understand that you will never stop trying. To look someone in the eye and say "I am so sorry" puts another thread into the seam of a relationship, and makes it stronger.  The most meaningful moments of your life will often follow the most frustrating ones.


Be strong. In times that you think you cannot take another hit, remember something that you are grateful for.  I often thought of you, your sister or your Dad when I was bone tired at work or at my wit's end with my family. Gratitude will help you dig deep and remember the reason you are pushing on, whether it be in school, work or personal growth. Never give up. I learned this on a deeper level over the past year, and I don't want you to wait until you are 46 before you learn it too.


Take care of yourself.  Please.  Learn from my mistakes and make yourself a priority.  Eat well, move your body, read great books, laugh hard laughs, and surround yourself with good people who inspire you.  The best times I have ever had are also the simplest ones.  Find joy in sitting in the yard with the person you love, listening to music and looking at the stars. Find peace spending time with your dog, floating in a pool, or making something beautiful that once wasn't. Make music on your guitar and let others continue to enjoy it like we do.  Make people laugh. Inspire. Love. Grow. Be.


You will never know how much I love you.  I am here for you, wherever the road takes you.


Happy 18th Birthday,


Mom

Surly.

The word surly is defined as: Bad-tempered and unfriendly.  I love this word, and sometimes, I love being surly.  You love it too, I know it. You just aren't going to put it out there in blog land.


So today, I call surly.  I announce bad-temperament and embrace unfriendliness.  And I have to do it all before 7pm when I punch in to work because while my employer encourages surly through their pay scale and staffing matrix, they do not encourage it in patient care.


I believe surly is viral.  I have caught it from exposure to the following:


Facebook.  My love hate relationship.  It appeals to the immature voyeur in me, the person who loves to know what's going on, who is happy to sign on at 3am and know that there are others in the world working, not sleeping, bored or drunk.  However, I have posted and rapid fire deleted more comments than I care to admit because I think from the hip.  So here, in my somewhat safe blog haven are the things I have deleted.


No one cares how far you ran today, how many minutes on the elliptical you logged or what Zumba class you went to.  All you want is for the world to know that you did something they may not have done, which is move your ass from the computer.  I don't care about your exercise schedule. And until you do the Ironman, I remain unimpressed. You tire me. I have hidden your posts.


I think you are very blessed to have a baby.  However, I have reached the point where I see your child more than I see my own.  Your baby never changes because I see it fourteen times a day through the magic of pixels on FB.  Unless your baby/toddler/child is doing something funny, dangerous or remotely impressive, please limit our exposure to once a week.  I have clicked the hide button, yet again.


You have a spouse.  You live together.  Why must you continually communicate on FB?  I get the once in a while stuff, but all the time? Are you too lazy to walk up the stairs? Do you secretly live in different homes? Do you want to prove that you have this fabulous relationship chock full of love and adoration? Because a lot of us see through that facade.  Click. Hidden.


Vaguebooking.  You can't give it up?  Then shut it up. Or take up fishing, since you like throwing a worm on a hook out to the world. Attention seeking is so unattractive. Delete that post.


Whining.  Four little letters: STFU.  Solve it, shelve it, do anything but complain about your miserable existence on a public forum.


I could go all day about Facebook irks, but I won't since there are more surly triggers to cover.  Let's move on.


Pajama pants.  People! Quit! Now!  If you are over 30, wearing a camisole with no bra and have the word "Pink" anywhere on your clothing I reserve the right to publicly humiliate you. No doubt there are ugly faded butterfly/heart/flower tats under there somewhere too. I only wish there was a hide button for you.


Smoking around your kids.  This is me, rolling my eyes as I help your child out of their stinky jacket while you swear that you "only smoke outside".  You wonder why your baby's asthma has been so bad lately while I have flashbacks to 80's bars and hair that reeked of smoke and hairspray.  You ask for free medication, yet you can buy $50 cartons of cigs.  You suck.


My dear sweet beloved children.  You are not exempt from surly.  Your ability to trash a room ten minutes after I clean it, your inability to wear something more than once before tossing it on the mountain of laundry and your general cluelessness for the effort involved in raising you properly makes me bad tempered and unfriendly. Sometimes. But I still love you. I will not click the hide button for you.  Ever.


People, this post is not my finest moment.  But I had to get it off my chest.  If you're reading it, you can rest assured that you are not the target of my surly.  I love you.  You keep me balanced. You keep me sane.  We should drink wine.

The Elements and Us

Thanks to my friend Moe, who calls herself Melissa now that we are grown up (sort of) I now attend yoga.  This is a new love affair for me, and I could kick myself for waiting this long to incorporate it into my life.


I won't go crazy singing the praises of yoga, I will just suggest you find a good teacher and give it a try.  You will be amazed at how it challenges you to stay in the moment and how it works muscles you never knew you had. You may, as I do, walk out of the class with a feeling of peace and harmony with yourself that lasts longer than the "I just went to the gym and knocked off another hour of my life" feeling.
Trust me, just give it a try and let it take you to a new place.


The instructor at yoga is Jeanne, aka my Fairy Godmother.  A retired nurse, she is a tiny little sprite of a woman with really short salt and pepper hair and a presence as big as Texas.  She scrapped nursing as we all fantasize about, and now does what makes her feel fulfilled and happy.  In a way, she never left the profession because she helps me feel better about myself, which in my opinion is what nursing is all about.  There is a place in heaven for Jeanne, and it's filled with incense and yoga mats.


Jeanne teaches different levels of yoga classes.  I have been to basic Hatha yoga, which teaches you some poses and breathing, Chakra yoga; where I balanced my Mudlahara Chakra by putting my hands over my  "mysteries" and breathing deep.  Been there, used batteries. Never the less, I had great fun and relaxation in my Friday Yoga class.


When I got home, Bill built a fire for us, and even though it was 40 degrees, we sat out there until almost 3am chatting and drinking wine.  


I love to chat with Bill.  I love when he opens up and tells me things he is thinking, because 90% of the time Bill is listening to me and solving my problems.  But sometimes he just talks, and that is when I sit back, wrap my blanket a little tighter and just listen.


As Bill talked, and although at this time I cannot remember what it was he was telling me, I had an epiphany.  I realized that we are opposite elements.  Bill is fire - warm, sunshine, early morning day person, up and at 'em, meditating at dawn.  I am water - cool, moonlight, night owl, darkness, starlight - liking my fire in the form of a candle flickering in the night, preferring a lake or a pool with the stars shimmering overhead.


Bill could no sooner work night shift than I could work day shift.  I talk his ear off, he listens, throwing Yoda-like euphemisms at me to keep me always pondering, pushing, chipping away at my goals.  He meditates with all the serenity of Buddah, I sneak peeks out of the corner of my eye to see what's happening, lest I miss something important.


Yet it works somehow.  


Twenty five years of being opposite elements have taught me that it's OK not to be joined at the hip.  It's fine to sometimes sit without words, and that some people really are "not thinking about anything" when you ask them what they are thinking about. (That one took a lot of work to grasp, thanks to my ADHD).  It isn't always perfect, but it is always real, without the posing I suffered through watching as a child. We carry on, Bill and I, through rough spots and financial messes and lack of family support and not nearly enough time to do the things we dream about.  And while I thought at 20 that marriage was supposed to be presents and roses and spontaneity and surprises, I am grateful that I learned to embrace the presents of presence, the dandelion bouquets from the little girl we made, the spontaneity of a Friday night fire, and the surprise of the fact that dependability can be a really sexy thing. 

Chapter Over

I put in my notice at the Assistant Manager job yesterday.  In the blink of an eye this week, I lost a friend, I got a phone call, I interviewed for a job, accepted it and made some significant changes.

I don't think I am cut out for management.  I love people.  But I don't love people who can't deal. Thus, I don't manage(r) well.   Let me clarify; I can do it, I just am not happy doing it.  Last month my director put in his notice and left nursing to be, of all things, a Pastor. I believe he realized that the profession of nursing can suck your soul dry if you let it, so he chose to do something that fulfilled his soul instead.

You inspired me to emulate, Director Jeff.  I did some soul searching too.  I hate not taking care of patients.  I hate kissing ass. I hate driving in rush hour traffic.  I hate Saturday night call.  I hate 14 hour days.  I hate young nurses whining that they "have to work three Fridays out of six and how I am going to go to the bar with THAT schedule?"

That's too much hate.

So I accepted a transfer (and a demotion) at a hospital three miles from home.  I will be happy there, because when I hit the time clock on my way out, I will leave work.  Literally and figuratively.  I can take fabulous great care of people and then come home and take fabulous great care of my own people.  Without the luggage of management. Nice luggage; fancy, ego building, but not for me, at least not here.  Maybe I will try it again some day.  Maybe not.

My mind is peaceful.  My head is clear.  I will be a little bit broker, but a whole lot richer. And did I mention my new job is red neck heaven?  Oh the stories I will have to tell you...

Transgressions...

Today I heard the word "transgressions" today more times than I ever want to again.

My friend Kathy lost her fight with leukemia, and at 44 years old, we buried her today.  For 18 months she lived in the hospital, never getting to return to her home, her garden, her husband or her son since the bone marrow transplant she had on November 9, 2009.  Eighteen months.  A roller coaster ride from hell of relapses, hopes, prayers, nightmares and anguish, with the grand finale of a painful, frightening death.

I sat in the church today listening to the Greek Orthodox mass that was offered up for her.  I looked at the pink casket that housed the shell of the friend I have known for 22 years, whose wedding I stood up in, whose love of golf and hippos and gardening I shared, and I listened while the priest implored God to "forgive Kathy her transgressions", over and over.  And I got angry.

Doesn't lying in a hospital bed with poison flowing through your body act as a sort of bitter karma? Does missing every moment of your son's ninth year count toward your God kudos? Because I think it does.  And I am questioning the God that takes a mother from her child in such a cruel way.  Any of Kathy's transgressions have been paid back tenfold, in my opinion.

In the end, the mass wrapped up in a neat little package, as masses always do.  This is where I was forced to do the thing I hate the most: stand in front of the casket and say good bye.  I avoided the casket the day before.  That wasn't my friend Kathy in there.  That was someone so tattered and torn, so unrecognizable to me that I couldn't bear to look at her.  So today, when having no choice but to walk to the front of the church and stand before her, I chose instead to gaze at the stuffed hippo that accompanied her to the hospital on the day she didn't get to look back. The hippo that she threw on the floor over and over again while she raged with ICU psychosis. The hippo that she rested her head on when she wanted to smell home. The hippo that was placed in her casket to go with her on the last leg of the roller coaster ride.  I thanked that hippo for staying with her for eternity, and for being there when I couldn't.

I looked around the church at friends I have known forever, people I have laughed with, drank with, danced with and loved.  And I promised myself that the next time I saw them it wouldn't be at a funeral.

Kathy, I hope your new world allows you to shine like you did on Earth.  You fought the good fight, and now you can rest, transgression free.  I love you.