Monthly Archives: March 2014

How Could I Have Missed This?

red flagThere was a time in my past, that time when Fartbuster started making a real effort to be happier.  He got contact lenses.  He started working out.  Bought some new clothes and experimented with hair products.  I found myself saying, “He’s getting better.  He’s taking care of himself.”  Duh!  He exhibited every cliched sign of a cheating man–right down to the lipstick on his collar.  Once the lies came to the surface, I sat all alone in the ruins of my life and said, “How could I have missed this?”  I was so ashamed that someone had fooled me like that.  How could I have been so stupid?

There was a time in my past, that time when Richard couldn’t seem to shake that cold.  He had no energy.  Sometimes, he’d spike a fever.  He finally went to the doctor but the doctor said it was bronchitis.  The antibiotics didn’t clear it up but it was the end of the semester so he was feeling exhausted anyway.  That was probably all it was.  His grandmother died and he felt low.  He had bruises,  but said they were from skiing…back in March?  And now it was May?  Then there was that blood vessel that burst in his eye and didn’t get better during two weeks of vacation.  His vision began to cross so he finally went to an ophthalmologist who thought there was a chance he had a retinal bleed.  When Richard mentioned that he hadn’t been feeling himself for a while, the doctor ordered a CBC.  Within 48 hours, Richard was at Johns Hopkins on the oncology ward.  A few days later, our film from that vacation came back and when I saw the pictures–him resting on a driftwood tree, his legs covered in a solid swath of bruises from yellow to purple–I was so ashamed that I had “let him” walk around like that, so obviously sick. I hid the pictures.  And I asked myself, “How could I have missed this?”  How could I have been so stupid?

Red flags.  Why didn’t I see them?

I know, I know–it was never my job to police a cheater.  And I know, I know–leukemia is easy to miss in an otherwise healthy 37-year-old man who doesn’t like to go to the doctor.  No one blamed me because I didn’t order a CBC right away.  But because I’ve been spun sideways by a couple of doozies like these, I sometimes feel like I am just living in wait, waiting for some shoe to drop.

I thought that shoe had fallen back in December when I took my darling son in for his well visit and left with a handful of red flags.  Filling out those social/verbal/motor skills inventories threw me for a loop.  I thought he was independent, a free spirit….but maybe he doesn’t know how to interact with other people?  I thought he talked when he wanted to talk…but he’s falling behind his peers.  Where’s the line between a hard-headed little boy and a syndrome, a condition, a diagnosis?   When our doctor said, “I don’t think he has autism, but let’s get him screened now that he’s three,” the first thing I asked myself was “How could I have missed this?”  How could I have been so stupid?

Now it turns out that my son has some kind of language issue.  I haven’t wanted to talk about it here (and as soon as I typed that, my stomach knotted up and I thought about deleting the whole thing for the 1000th time) because it’s still hazy.  He’s getting speech therapy and he’s making swift progress.  The doctor is encouraged.  I’m encouraged.  And the fact is that he’s still my baby boy, no matter what.  I write about personal things here, but usually it’s things that are resolved.  Lot of rear view mirror stuff on Baddest Mother Ever.  Not things that are “we’ll see.”

The whole thing got me thinking about this reflex of saying, “How could I have missed this?”  Because when I sat across the table from a speech therapist who says, “Yeah, he’s not making sentences,” I felt like an idiot.  How could strangers be telling me something about my own son?

The same way a doctor knows how to read a CBC.  It’s what they do.

Now I’m looking for red flags EVERYWHERE.  I won’t be fooled again.  I will figure this OUT and by sheer force of will I will……

….what?

I will accept whatever comes along.

Because that’s what I learned from the other doozies.  Even if I HAD seen the red flags from Fartbuster and Richard, I couldn’t have changed anything.  I can’t “fix” what happens with other people, even my own kids.

All I can do is love them where they are, how they are, who they are.

I am hopeful for Carlos.  On the first day he started getting speech therapy, I picked him up and decided to spend some car time working on his conversation skills.  The therapist said he needs to learn to express “Yes” and “No” and I could help him with that by asking simple questions.  We also want to increase his “mean length of utterance” to an average of 3.  So I asked him, “Is your name Carlos?”

His reply?  “That’s funny, Mommy.”

Then he started saying his colors in Spanish–he LOVES Spanish.  I pointed to my shirt and asked, “Que color?”  He said, “Wojo!”  I said, “Si!  Mi camisa es roja!”  Then he said a few more color words.  I was at a stop light, so I picked up my knee and pointed to my black pants.  “Que color, Carlos?”  I lifted my knee higher and waggled the fabric.

He caught my eye in the rear view mirror and said, “Drive car, Mommy.”

The Big Five…O…M…G

doomcakeThe other day when I wrote about moments that I’ll remember for the rest of my life….we had one.  G’s celebrated a birthday this week.  The big 5-0.  

After many years of NOT believing him when he said that he doesn’t like a big fuss on his birthday, I’ve come around to doing things his way.  A present or two, cards from the kids, a steak dinner, a little bit of cake.   That’s what he likes, so that’s what he got this year.  Even for his fiftieth.  

We took the kids out for dinner.  Carlos didn’t have much energy.  He’s had a cold and it was turning into bronchitis–the kind of cough that makes people at other tables turn and stare.  In the car on the way over, I had taught him to say, “Happy Birthday, Daddy” but by the time we got to the restaurant, he wasn’t feeling up to it.  

We came straight home after dinner.  I put the candles on the chocolate truffle bar cake–five candles and one to grow on.  Vivi turned off the lights in the dining room and we all sang “Happy Birthday” to Daddy.  G blew out the candles…then Carlos blew out 3 candles and Vivi blew out 6.  There’s enough wishes to go around at our house.  I cut slices of cake for everyone and passed them around to the kids.  It was delicious. 

Carlos ate about half of his slice then started coughing.  G patted him on the back until the coughing subsided.  Carlos looked at him and said, “Huggy?”  Of course!  G pulled Carlos onto his lap and gave him a cuddle.  Carlos said, “Horsey?”  Of course!  G set Carlos atop his shoulders and Carlos folded his little hands over G’s bald head.  His head sank down to rest upon his hands.  So sweet.  So cute.  So lovely.

So not going to stay that way.

When the next coughing fit hit, Carlos coughed so hard that he…..

hp cake….remember that scene from the Harry Potter movie, I think the Goblet of Fire, when Dobby floats the cake over the mean lady’s head then lets it drop all over her?  

Yeah, Carlos did that to G, but it wasn’t quite so magical.  It was more gastric.  

As G sat there, dripping, he said, “Well.  Happy Birthday to me?”  

And that’s when Carlos remembered what we had practiced earlier.  He swayed there on G’s shoulders and mumbled, “Happy Birthday, Daddy.”  

G swears that it was a good birthday.  It’s certainly one we’ll talk about for a long long long time.  

Cherry Blossoms

I remember one Easter when my nephews were small–they grabbed handfuls of cherry blossoms that had fallen from the trees in Nana and Papa’s yard.  Jackson and Grant flung the pale pink petals in the air so they floated down to dust baby Jake’s head.  We all laughed as the boys sang, “It’s snowing!  It’s snowing!” while Jake squealed with joy.  That’s been a dozen years ago and I still remember the sound of their laughter and the astonishment I felt at loving these small, new people so keenly.

Isn’t it holy to live in a moment and know that you will remember it for the rest of your life?  Cherry blossoms remind me to look up.  We are alive, beneath the cherry blossoms.

 

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Seven Signs of Spring

1.  A dog named Bunny who likes to hop.  Hop on top.

nana bunny

2.  Broody hens who listen to Billy Joel in the coop.

nana chickens

3.  Lenten roses.  Helleborus orientalis that all grew from two plants.

nana hellebore

4.  Is that flowering quince?  Oh, and Bunny.  Nana says it was cute at first but now it’s getting a little annoying.

nana hop

5.  Scampering.

nana run

6.  Papa may have gone a little overboard on the tomato seedlings.

nana tomatoes

7.  Rows of tulips all lined up for the Easter parade.

nana tulips

Sunday Sweetness–Summer Is Coming

Today, Vivi asked me, “How many weeks before we clean out the pool so we can go swimming?”  I told her about two more weeks.  We’ll see.  But the question made me remember last summer, and this piece I wrote about joy and gratitude and a swimming pool.

Click into this swimming pool if you want to read the story!

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bitch face

Don’t Pass It By

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After Edith Wharton (author of novels The Age of Innocence, The House of Mirth, Ethan Frome) began publishing her work in her middle years, she struck up a correspondence with the already respected author, Henry James.  She admired him greatly.  (Insert yawn here because Henry James has that effect on me.)  The two writers communicated by letter for three years before they ever met in person.  When they finally did meet, they became good friends. (Insert image of Daniel Day-Lewis in a frock coat having a fraught with meaning but sexually repressed and whispered conversation with Michelle Pfeiffer in a fussy bonnet.)  

My joking aside–here’s my point.  Like so many people who create, Edith Wharton went through a period when she struggled to find her voice.  She wandered uncommon paths for a woman of her position.  Wharton had been born into an old New York high society family, and was thus expected to marry well and live a presentable life.  Instead, she found herself stuck in a miserable marriage and yearning for her freedom.  (Ahem…Fartbuster, with a far superior dowry.)  She questioned whether anyone would care about the inner workings of the privileged world she knew. 

Henry James encouraged Edith Wharton to stick with writing about the New York City she knew so well–even though she disliked it. He said, “Don’t pass it by — the immediate, the real, the only, the yours.”

This life, the one we spend every day slogging through, is the straw we spin into gold.  We pass by so much in the search for something “important” or “meaningful.”  We climb over mountains of straw in the search for gold, not realizing that it’s lying all around us, waiting for us to work our magic!  

I hope you’ll take a look today at the immediate, the real.  What’s around you that’s beautiful or interesting?  What’s inside you that’s beautiful or interesting?  

No Spaghetti

spaghettiI don’t think I’ve ever made reference to this before, but my children may not be perfect in all ways.  And I sometimes worry that I’m not the Best Mother Ever.

I KNOW.  I’ll give you a second to regroup.  Put your head between your knees if you start to see sparkles.  

So I was blowing off to my friend Nicole yesterday about my worries regarding my kids and she said, “Hey, this is no spaghetti.”  

There’s nothing like having your own advice quoted back to you.  Here’s the story behind “no spaghetti.”  

Back in 2004 when Richard was sick, I spent 10 months traveling back and forth every other week between home and work in Athens and Baltimore where he was getting his treatments.  On a typical week, I would leave at lunch on Wednesday, take the dogs to Griffin, drive to the airport and fly to Baltimore that night.  Stay for a few days with him, marking hours in the hospital, running errands, waiting.  Then back home on the Sunday 7 p.m. flight.  Drive from the airport to Griffin where Daddy and Big Gay would have my puppies and a big Diet Coke waiting on me.  Then a two hour drive to Athens.  Hit the bed about 2 a.m. and get up for work Monday morning.  

One Monday morning was particularly hard.  That weekend, Richard had gotten bad news about his response to the latest treatment.  It was getting really hard to believe that he was ever going to get better.  He had been readmitted to the Oncology unit with pneumonia on Saturday.  After all that and the long journey home, I was used up by the time I got to work on Monday.  

At lunchtime, I dragged down to the cafeteria.  The line snaked all the way to the entrance because it was Spaghetti Day.  Our cafeteria makes some kickass spaghetti–tasty, cheap, and healthyish with turkey.  I got in line to wait my turn.  I was so tired I leaned up against the counter by the dessert case.  The line crept along.  

After a while, only one woman remained in front of me.  She automatically said, “Spaghetti for here.”  The steam tray that had been filled with spaghetti was scraped clean.  The woman behind the counter answered, “I’m sorry, we’re out of spaghetti.  Can I get you something else?”  

WHAM!  The disgruntled employee slammed her plastic tray down on the serving counter so hard that her silverware bounced into the air and scattered.  She snarled, “I’ve been waiting half my 30 minute lunch and y’all are out?  This is UNBELIEVABLE!!”  She turned to me like it was time to rise up in rebellion and asked, “Is this not unbelievable???”

The sudden noise and her ridiculously infantile behavior sent me over the edge.  I burst out in maniacal laughter.  “My fiance is 38 years old and DYING.  THAT is unbelievable.  THIS?  THIS IS NO SPAGHETTI!  NO SPAGHETTI!  GET OVER IT!”

She scooted over to the sandwich line without another peep.  

No spaghetti.  It’s good to have friends remind you of your own advice sometimes.  Pump the brakes, Ash, this is no spaghetti.  Thanks, Nicole!

 

My Friend, Ashley

Dont-believe-everything-you-think

OK, for about a week I’ve been in a slump.  

And kind of down in the dumps.

Try to write, but I get stumped.

With a case of the grumps.  

Which leaves me feeling like a big ole lump.

What a chump.  

For the last few nights, I have trudged down to that peaceful writing room in the basement so that I can sit in front of the computer and beat myself up for not having anything worth saying, not being able to say it the right way, not being able to…be able.  Or just be.  At 11 p.m., I clomp back up the stairs and put myself to bed, feeling like I missed my chance.  

The feeling of foreboding grows. Because on days when I don’t write, my brain gets mean.  It turns on me.  

I start to question myself.  I conclude that no one gives a shit anyway and if I just slink off to silence it won’t make a rat fart of difference.  I slide, in everything.  

The internal negative messages ramp up.  Constant judging.  I’m brushing my teeth and think, “Jeez, when’s the last time you plucked your eyebrows, Sasquatch?”  I help Vivi get dressed and think, “I bet other mothers don’t send their kid to school in socks they don’t like.”  When Carlos babbles something to me, my mind snarls, “There’s something you’re missing here and if you really loved this child you would fix it and he would talk just like every other kid in his class.”  I leave 15 minutes late–of course, because I’m a lazy slob.  My car makes a funny sound and that’s my fault, too.  I’m being too honest right now and that’s probably a mistake, right?  

After I drop Carlos off at his school (where he cries and doesn’t want me to go but I do anyway–I need to be a heartless mother so I can get to work late and mess up more things there, son!) I sit in the car waiting for a gap in the traffic.  A woman walks by with a cute turquoise purse.  She waves and gives me a bright smile but my first thought is, “It’s the wrong season for that color purse.  It’s still winter…for two more days.”  

Seriously.

Judging judging judging.  I instantly feel guilty for judging someone else so I bring the verdict down on myself.  “Or MAYBE she likes the color and it makes her happy and she gives herself permission to be delighted because she’s not as fucking rule-bound as you are!”  

And I burst into tears.  

(I sure do cry a lot in my car.  It’s like the only place I have privacy some times.  Is that wrong, too?  Probably.)

That’s when I finally say something to the voice in my head that has been hounding me all morning:  “Shut it.  That’s my friend Ashley that you’re talking about and you’re not allowed to talk to her that way.”  

The shit I say to myself about myself on a daily basis–would I EVER let someone else talk like that to a friend?  

So I’m going to be nice to my friend Ashley today.  I’m going to tell her that she’s doing tough things but she is tougher.  I’m going to tell her that she matters.  That she is allowed to be whatever she is this day, this minute, this life.  She’s OK and I’m proud of her.  

And now I’m thinking that I probably shouldn’t have spewed all this nonsense out there, but my friend Ashley told me it was a good idea.  Sometimes she’s brave.  

What’s #1 On Your List?

go do them

Yep.

You should.

And you CAN!

What’s the number one thing on your bucket list?  Mine used to be “Be someone’s mother.”  Check!  “Go skydiving.”  Check.  “Sail the Greek Islands.”  Kinda Check (it wasn’t a sail boat!).  Right now, my number one adventure dream is to see the Northern Lights, preferably from one of those glass igloos in Finland.

I’ve learned four essential principles for crafting a bucket list over the last 13 years.  Click on this sweet kitten in a bucket to go over to my post at Work It, Mom! and get to the bottom of the bucket!

bucket kitty