...of Christmas Past

Every year we have a Christmas carol sing along party. Here's a snap from 2 years ago. You can see Grandma holding on, and you can see that my better half is a truly talented musician because not only is he accomodating the would be band member but he does so while being used as a jungle gym. Obviously that was not how he'd planned to play.
 Nothing about this year's carol party (tonight) was as I'd planned when I planned it last month. Grandma isn't home, the gymnast now wants to be a piano soloist and I had a house full of people I didn't expect and most everyone I'd expected was missing. There were some loud boys, and small children and jelly filled cookies were carried where they don't belong (punctuation optional).
 But this is a Christmas story so you will not be surprised to hear that I went from dissappointed to resigned toleration (with a just little sainted martyrdom thrown in) to being the recipient (not the giver) of the first real Christmas cheer I'd felt this year bathed in those sweet young voices singing about that nativity. Then they went and sang more to my mother in her rehab room bringing her to thankful tears. You will not be surprised to hear this because at this time of year you can just see the happy ending coming -if it's the Hallmark channel, or a blog at least. But I didn't see it coming and it made me feel kinda giddy. And one of the girls, a younger one, suggested we all pray together and we did and by that time I was definitely 20 something again. Just as silly, just as hopeful, just as ready to go on and on about how good God is and all that.   One of the girls who sang to the end thanked me for opening my home to them and focusing on the "real" Christmas -and I forgot to tell them I hadn't. OK, definitely the best caroling party EH-VER.


Blog from the end of the world

A week ago I woke to hear my husband say my mom had fallen in the ealry morning and the middle son had carried her back to bed. That would be the one with the newly repaired ACL. So I maturely went shopping all day looking for something festive to go with my new red shoes.  We did check in by phone via the eldest son on Grandma but forgot to ask when told she was fine if she could move. She kept telling him she was fine but ... So stuff, calls, ERs, etc. xrays. End of story (world, whatever) she had broken her pelvis on one side and her sacrum and none of it is treatable and lots more stuff and here she was the next day with her straw in the side of the cup invention so she didn't have to tilt it and raise her arm too high. Since I had shopped and then ERed all day I had only heard Christmas songs on the radio and she starts too ramble about terrible shootings and children and I knew, we knew, she was losing it. Lying there in pain all day she had confused some tv movie and the mall shooting and was muddled from the pain and fatigue. I pretty much told her so. And then she said "I'll bet you a nickel," and I wasn't so sure. She never bets unless she's right.

   Still the medical types asked her who the president was at every opportunity, and, as seen in the picture, even on morphine she was clever. At least until no one checked her oxygen sats -or just didn't follow up on the low ones Sunday and the percoset made her loopy and she went from telling us what was going on in the world to no memory of where she was or why these terrible "harpies" (her vocabulary has yet to fail her) were torturing her. Then I got the flu. This is all so minor. But my clever, funny, loving mother angry and fearful and lost and confused, whispering the pain is "a ten, ten" might as well be the end of the world. Just a little world I know, and only mine, and near the end in any case. Just spinning a bit out of control. Or maybe it's the flu... 

 

 So now things are a bit more stable and she is less loopy and I am more and the world didn't end today (yet). 

Uniquely not Special (or special but not unique?)

I took this picture just 2 days ago. I'm very proud of it but then I realized it looks like every other butterfly picture you can Google.

Grandma is having alot of bad days (see previous blog, or don't) and then she tries hard to say nice things to cover it up. So she tells me how very wonderful the be-crutched grandson is, and how she's sorry she insisted he fetch us even though he assured her he would stay with her during a heart-racing episode (a.fib.). I assured her he understood and then she adds, "Well he went to get you -but you know how fast he is." Ha ha. It is always difficult politics when one vulnerable group is being insensitive to another vulnerable group. Make it my mother and my son and I am feeling that none of my vulnerabilities  have been spared.
 Apparently there were some spared (past tense). Yesterday provided further evidence that the University I work for is moving further away from using adjuncts. What had seemed, a few years ago, like an indefinite gig, has become spotty and may now be moving to ... spotless? I'm still teaching an undergraduate class in the spring. It hasn't been ruled out that I could still be the choice of last resort in the fall and might be used again next spring. The former would require a perfect storm of unavailabilities and the latter that I keep a rather fussy course director happy and confident in his mentoring skills and the undergrads entertained enough to give the class high marks. I could now launch into a tirade against educational systems and standards. I really could but clearly that would not be unique or special.
 But here's the thing. If they do stop hiring me at this unnamed institute of higher learning I don't have any equivalent teaching/job opportunities. And when I say "equivalent" I mean ones that will sound as impressive. If I mention I teach and am asked what grade? people are at least mildly impressed I teach at a college level (only if pressed did I reluctantly admit graduate school) and if  asked   is it at the local community college?,  then I say (looking humble) I'm at . Yes, that's me. Dr Somebody at Impressive School, teacher of future Dr. Somebodies (or at least somebodies with extra letters behind names), definitely not tired-mom-of-weird-bearded-guy-on-crutches or (really it's and) harassed-daughter-of-toothless-old-woman-with-colostomy. My supportive husband suggests this last would be a good country song but really I'm thinking -not so much.

Bubbles don't last

Can you see the bubbles? They were beautiful bubbles. That was just 4 days ago but it always seems like another life when we are at Grandma's house. She was happy at this particular moment but the day before she was regretting being there, having the house, pretty much being alive.  And the coffee is never weak enough or hot enough or strong enough or sweet enough.  My eldest is too slow and the youngest too loud and the other two too away. I know her pain is bad.  And it has to be hard to be so dependent when you prided yourself on your independence etc etc etc. I just can't "go there" any more. I can't try to feel like I'm 94 too. I remember the day I realized I couldn't live my life in constant empathy with my first born. Or rather I couldn't live always feeling guilty for not being able to empathise, for enjoying a working body. I shouldn't mention this in all probability but it improved relations with my husband enormously. That is as in relations  because in retrospect I realized that nothing* quite kills the mood like saying, "honey do you think those new orthotics are really going to help the baby walk?"  

 

But that mood was beside the point. That day I knew, in fact the heavens seemed to pretty much open up and shout it at me,  that being miserable for my child would do him absolutely no good. And God wasn't offering me a trade. I don't have CP or a shunt, or seizures and if I did he'd still have his. It was clear and it freed me up alot.

 It just doesn't seem so clear with my mom because I'm not always sure it is so clear to her. I'm not sure she's not mad sometimes because I'm "still young" and because when we're in pain we don't make alot of sense. I'm going to write myself a note and give it to my children in 20 or 30 years. "Hey guys, don't feel bad about being able to get around easily. I had my turn." Oh, except I won't give the note to my eldest. He still hasn't had his turn.

* except discussion of one's mother's colostomy - that'll bury a mood pretty good.

weeding would be nice

Yes, somewhere under there is a garden. meanwhile Grandma is crying because she "can't figure out a way out of this mess our country is in." I thought pointing out that if she did no one would listen.  I figure these things out all the time and no one listens. Certainly not the new associate pastor (remember this is an anonymous blog so I'll deny it if you quote me) or the church ladies that make me crazy. Fortunately there are the church ladies who keep me sane - that's what church is for -it brings balance to my life. 
  Besides I can move on to complaining about the 2nd grade teacher who may be the first woman I've seen with a Napoleon complex. Not that she's trying to over subjugate all of Europe -unless you substitute all of Europe with "7 year old boys". She is attempting to bring them to heel.
 Meanwhile the eldest is settling into his basement digs nicely and Grandma duties and I when he was late getting her lunch and she tried to be funny (or was it encouraging) by saying, "Well at least you can walk.." and something else but I missed that because I was busy walking away so I wouldn't point out that what he does is barely walking.
 The other two offspring are away in their various educational pursuits so I only worry about them when they call. Or when they don't. I imagine that if they would just find some lovely Christian spouses and settle down and provide grandchildren all my worries would be over (at least regarding these two). I never said I wasn't delusional.
Also there's funny goings on in academia and I am sure I did a good job with that undergraduate class but 3 of the 8 who turned in evaluation didn't so my "bottom line" score is "of concern" and now I am forced into using run on sentences just to get over it. In my defense let me point out one complained I went too slow, one that I said too much and one that I didn't post my notes. That one even used the word "punitive" to describe this despicable insistence on note-taking. I was impressed.
 But the garden gets weedier everyday and I am beginning to despair of recovering it before the winter. There was no real point to this point except I hadn't posted in a few weeks. No insights. No funny story. Just weeds.

ducks in a row

Grandma comes back next week. Or rather we bring her back. And 2nd grade starts and I hear the teacher is way strict so how my little chatterbox (no clue where he gets that) will do is up in the air. Naturally with all the parenting experience we have this is no big deal. Our perspective just clarifies things. And this picture is right side up.

 OK, the experience piece does make us a bit calmer about getting the perfect teacher match -because the sure knowledge of the futility of trying to find that dampens the whole thrill of the hunt. Our perspective makes it perfectly clear we generally have no idea what we are looking at.

 I always thought my ducks would be in a row at this age. After all I don't struggle with why bad things happen, even to good people, the whole "problem of pain" doesn't bother me. It's a mean old world. Nobody promised us a rose garden. Even bad lyrics cover these dilemmas. But here's one I don't get. Why do bad things happen to good people due to other good people? That one stumps me. Also, why when I have all these years of experience and could help my children avoid all the mistakes I made (and several I didn't) is my advice (to put it mildly) not appreciated, much less taken? Or at least not consistently.

If we all have to learn from our own mistakes then what's the point of making them?
 Also, why, when I have always wanted to be a real writer (I think that means paid but I try not to examine this concept real too closely) and I now equally desire to lose weight. I am still not a real writer (yes, I think I do mean paid) and the weight is coming not going. Why, why, why? I am waiting so patiently. I snack while I wait of course. And I play solitaire and I think about writing. Still it baffles me -almost as much as it baffles me that it baffles me.
 At least these ducks are in a row.

bitter...sweet...bitter....sweet

The 7 yr old looks the most like his oldest brother of all the sibs I produced. His eyes are the same color. He has the same temperament. Same hair color. But he's left handed and he is not handicapped (except by his disturbed father who makes sand faces that look awfully like self-portraits). So sometimes when we watch him running for a second we think that could have been his brother racing in and out of the waves, dancing in the sand, counting the dolphins that so quickly appear and disappear. Only for a second because that second almost stops my heart. I shut my eyes and shake my head. My sand sculpting other half looks suddenly breakable. He squeezes my hand. I take the sweet.

 ...and on a lighter note I dragged the 7yr old to a free program about Rachel Carson since we were stuck, I mean blessed to be, together for the evening, while at the beach. There were PowerPoint's! light refreshments! Slides showing how there's more autism (and asthma) and there's lotsa chemicals in everything -you do the math, also the obvious conclusion  is based on data! Also some of these chemicals alarmingly cause low sperm counts (which I need not explain to the 7 yr old because he checked out attention wise several graphs before that). So... since "population" was earlier listed with other bad things that can happen to the environment then wouldn't "low sperm count" count as a good thing? Bitter or sweet, or maybe even suh-weet, as they say at 25?

flitting on

Swallowtail on Joe Pye Weed on the Blue Ridge

Upon re reading my previous blog entry I can't help but think, "Wow, I am shallow." How can this be? I mean I have a really interesting family, at least from a medical point of view. And for heaven's sake I have a PhD. Also I cry easily. I  drink stout, preferably from small breweries that use bourbon barrels. I think some very deep thoughts. Profound even. Yet somehow in the act of  writing them down they just seem to go all thin and wriggly and spread out all over the place. So in my defense let me point out, First: Real life is pretty shallow.  Really, if we are concerned with the big things (true love, life & death, meaning) once we've got them we move on to what's for dinner (or where to park). I personally have been amazed for years by having my best friend, all round cute guy for a spouse -with whom I never seem to have enough time and still I worry over other relationships. Relationships which would only take away more of that time. No clue why  other than possibly still hoping to be Homecoming Queen (or President). Age only tones down the campaign (unless you're actually running for POTUS) it doesn't make it any more rational (especially if...).
  Second: Solomon, Paul, CS Lewis, Dave Barry, and of course, Georgette Heyer already said most everything  I'd like to claim as my own and mostly (depending on the translation and typesetter naturally) better. Peggy Noonan too. On the other hand none of them have or had, to my knowledge, a PhD or such medically and age challenged families. Therefore my concurment should give them a boost. Or maybe it is concurring with them that makes the case for my not having a total lack of not shallowness. In any case...     what they said. I concur. And vote for me.

 (Also do you think some oxytocin might help the politicians?)

Actual photo illustration

I was wondering what photo went with crazy and then I remembered  way back to ... this afternoon. It's a little hazy since I took it through the windshield which was silly since I had to get out of the car anyway to be sure no one was coming so we could turn around. And even if the guy had made this turn he wouldn't have made the next half dozen. What's even crazier is about a year ago we had to turn around in the same spot because another (at least I'm assuming it wasn't the same one) truck had done the same thing.

 It is a long drive to find another road off the Blue Ridge Parkway and by then 81 has wandered off some distance.

   In case you drive an 18 wheeler take my advice and do not attempt rte 43 to  Bedford VA. For one thing it doesn't cross the Parkway, it becomes the Parkway for 5 or 6 miles. Therefore if you did defy the laws of physics and bend your rig around these curves you would come to the "No Commercial Traffic" signs. Of course that wouldn't bother you much since you ignored all previous signs clearly indicating that large vehicles can not head up 43 from Buchanan anyway.
  It's crazy. Why drive this route? Why go over and over an email to be sure I have not offended anyone and that I don't say too much but still convey my heartfelt sincerities and then be unable to sleep because I sent it and now maybe they (it could be you even) won't like me, or will think I sound desperate or pitiful? Which I desperately and pitifully do not want to sound because that is so annoying and I do not want to annoy anyone or have mosquitoes bite them when they are in my yard because then they might not want to come back and play (not the mosquitoes mind you). And I am fully aware that this is crazy but I can not back down the road anymore than this idiot could.
  So although I could be up worrying about the desire of both my youngest and eldest to have the free puppy they were offered at my niece's wedding reception (which I'm told is unusual at receptions but we do have a unique family on both sides), and my guilt over saying NO -instead I am up with some relationship angst that is probably due to (if you keep up with science as reported by Yahoo) my oxytocin levels being either too high or too low. Or because the sun has set and frankly I am simply not happy without sunshine. In any case you can see the almost miraculous suitability of this photo. I can only assume that when the sun rises the road will be clear again. (Curse my metaphor addiction)

Irresponsibility etc.

 Status Update: (I'm not a Facebook-er (ee?) in real life but I play one in my blog). Grandma is with the other daughter (hers not mine). Speaking of my daughter, my mother accused her of "hiding the jewels" as a"game" which my mother did not appreciate. It took a bit to sort this out but it's true her granddaughter helped sort some jewelry LAST summer. Vicodin helped achieve forgiveness if reality didn't so much.
  She doesn't  have any signs of dementia other than these sporadic fits of convincing herself someone is moving her things** but this was the first time I've ever heard her refer to her "jewels". I would like to find them myself as they must have been well hidden a long time ago.
  The night before the big transfer I woke up in a sweat (well, more of one than usual this still being my early 50s) because I realized I had neglected to schedule her follow-up appointment with the spine gluing doctor -and while I was at it I also neglected all of the appointments for the eldest that he was due (or over) for this summer.
 I did clean out the basement so he could move down there and have more room and take that major step forward in life of being the weird guy who lives in his parents basement. And I threw away all the old AFOs* I'd saved in case they made a TV movie and wanted to use them on the actors playing his adorable younger self. No- even I didn't really think of this at the time. It was just always so difficult to toss something that had cost that many (many) thousands. Really -thousands, at 50% coverage because they are "durable medical equipment" -just like wheelchairs except for the part where they don't last and have to be thrown away. The last pair were fiber glass and steel and cost more than a wheel chair -an electric one.
   They need to be replaced (the AFOs, not the various  family members mentioned) but I am going to enjoy my irresponsibility a little longer.
* for years I thought AFO stood for a technical term beyond my ability to understand for these orthotics that held his ankle and foot in better position -it stands for ankle-foot orthotic.
** of course we do move her things all the time so it's not really paranoia but I swear no one hid the jewels

Me under a big tree

 Can you see me under there?
What is that saying about being lost in the forest and missing the trees -or is it missing the forest because of the trees? My trees and forests are all mixed up.
  Grandma is better but not ... well, better. She's "grandma" now so much more than my mom -except when she notices the waffles are soggy because I forgot the oil (cooking tip...).
  The eldest has moved to the basement -now he will have more room but it feels as if I have admitted he is not going any where else. I have not admitted this. I only fear it when I can not sleep. Will he be the weird guy (or is he already?) living in the basement? When did it stop being right to  mother him? How do I not?
  My daughter feels inadequate and unlikable and I'm afraid I have bequeathed her all my self-doubt and then some. I haven't been supportive enough, I am too critical... nothing new here. She still wants a mom and she does not want a mom. We are so the same.
 And all day long the 7 year old can keep up a sing song "you're the bestest mommy in the world." until I am pretty much ready to let him play his video game as much as he wants if he'll just be a little quiet. I can not bare to think of when these days are gone.
    The other research assistant has never learned to use quotation marks so I have spent a week trying to sort through a literature summary that is mostly quotes but I can't tell where they begin or end. I can think of nothing cute to add.
 It is hot. I am not so heat tolerant.


...but it is shady under the tree. And lost in the forest at least it is a little cooler.

A hardened spine: softened life

Friday one could not much avoid the news but it seemed even more distant than usual. I was on hospital time. My mom had 4 vertebrae cemented, or glued or plasticized -I'm not really sure. Unlike my younger self I don't even ask. All I needed to know was would there be much recovery time? No. Little enough anathesia that she only seemed mildly drunk for an hour or so. Naturally nothing started on time, but I was determined to still make it out of town by 7 -and we did. We left my mother with my daughter and eldest, grabbed the youngest and went to... Grandma's house.
 We did check on the cats. We did pick up laundry and look for things Grandma wanted and measure for new windows in the garage. With a friend and her younest to keep us company we also swam and sat... and sat some more.  Our life is so hard. This is the sky as seen from the middle of the river with a good breeze.
 After 4 days I can say the kyphoplasty procedure was a success. She is now merely miserable some of the time, 94 all of the time, and in agony none of the time as far as we can tell.  I've run into at least 4 people who have a family member who just had or will have the same done. It's nice to know that for once my mom is in with the in crowd. My clever husband has decided when I turn 70 (that really isn't in the immediate future) I should just go in and have my whole spine reinforced just in case.
Then I can lie on my back and stare at the sky some more.  For another 24 years?  Only if the drugs are better.

Gray day

 This afternoon they will cement 4 "levels" in Grandma's spine. The consult yesterday with the specialist was (approximately) 30% filling in forms in the waiting room -or would have been except they are trying out a new electronic system. Still, "tapping out" forms sounds silly.
 Then 50% with the PA who told me 1) I couldn't have given my mom naproxen with out a prescription, 2) perhaps I meant "napersin" and 3) Aleve is "certainly" not naproxen - or "napersin" - 4) it is ibuprofen. She absolutely insisted on this last point even when I insisted on questioning it. So I caved and realized how silly of me it was to pretend to any medical knowledge and I should probably never give an aspirin to my family without supervision -if indeed they are aspirins. It took me the ride home to realize I wasn't the one who should have been embarrassed.
 This leaves 5% of the visit seeing the consultant. (I can do the math, but I feel this answer is a more realistic reflection of my feelings at the time and therefore a better representation of the truth -as I see it).
 Last night I tried to talk to my mom about when WWII started. Where was she? How did it feel? She told me about the friends they were visiting when Pearl Harbor was attacked. I extracted a little more -what about her own feelings? Well she tried to join up -yes, I knew that and all the services rejected her because she has 2 joints too few (be careful cutting wood). But what next? I think, but this part was tricky to sort out, "times were bad" and she couldn't go home. Ah, history. I probed more -was it the rationing? the fears? what? It was her father. Her father who we only hear stories about his brilliance. That father... and her "times" with him. It was growing up and moving out and all of that. It's not just for me that these things drown out the news. They did in history too.
  Maybe with T-10, L-1, L-2 and the vertebrae whose name I keep forgetting are fused this afternoon even WWII will look better.

jellyfish:enhanced

\

This is a recent image of an actual jellyfish. It has been digitally enhanced. In the original it fades into the color of the water too much. If I'd had a better photo editor I would have sharpened it as well but I was just using Microsoft Office and the options were limited. No need to remove red-eye.

 We always called them nettles. I never hear that anymore.

 So as to my own enhanced life. Monday I called my mother's primary care office and said outraged  things about never being called back so they tried to have the office manager speak to me but I then explained that if a nurse would just speak to me I didn't need the office manager. The nurse helpfully told me that we couldn't go up on the Vicodin so we should see an orthopaedist - me: we don't have one of those since she last saw a guy who did kifoplasty (made up spelling) to glue the previous compression fracture. Her: go see them. Me: them's not orthopaedist. Her: GO see them. End of consultation. I handed this next phone call off to my man.

 Is it a man thing? Because he made a phone call. They called him back. Within hours they'd looked at the x-rays from the ER (ok sometimes the digital world has advantages) and they'd crammed my mom into the doctor's schedule today, scheduled an MRI for the previous day and outpatient OR time the next day to be ready for a decision to do the procedure. And just like that my week was planned. Or unplanned, or however you want to think of it. My mom cried when I first told her  -she's so hopeful this will bring her relief. I tried to temper that by pointing out we had several hoops to jump through (albeit very quickly), one being Medicare approval. Then I went outside. Then she had my daughter call the man, at work, and she proceeded to insist on talking to her lawyer because we weren't going to have her treated until we got "welfare" to cover it and pay for our care-taking and also a lot of stuff about being cut off from medical care because she is 94. Really. Not that he wanted to upset me but my man did have to check with me to find out exactly what I was saying to my mother.

 Later she didn't want dinner -or to speak to me but some how I got through to her that insurance pre-authorization is just a fact of life -completely apart from Obama care (can you tell she watches too much Fox News?) and we'd had to jump through this particular hoop many times, especially for our 1st born (my ace in the hole for all things medical). She admitted she'd been listening to too many dire health care scenarios -she didn't explain why she'd think we would be looking for welfare handouts -except to remind me she's 94 and m i s e r a b l e.

 Me, I'm a sea nettle. All squishy and wind blown and at the mercy of the tides. Digesting any fishy thing caught in my tangled tentacles. But I have nematocysts. Lots of them. Ask my kids.

texting in the car

...or why women in their 50's just can't text and drive. On the other hand texting is a great way to communicate from the ER or on your way there (as at this moment captured with the same thing one texts on) - isn't technology amazing!?!

 Now the Grandma update: She is miserable between vicodins and that comes out in a lot of little digs but then when the pain is under control she is very full of love and gratitude. Most of the time she can't figure out why she's still alive -depending on the pain control that makes her weep or laugh. Us as well. We did have fun at the table when she couldn't see well enough to tell what the yellow tomato was. Whatever it was we assured her it would taste like chicken. We thought this was funny but admittedly there's only so far you can go playing with the visually impaired. Also we save this sort of thing for when the vicodin is full strength.

A long way off

  I am still sticking with pictures from last week! Clearly I am on shore in this one (hence the view).

On Wednesday the first phone call of the day was to inform us that while Grandma had said call the squad at 7am, at 7:15 she changed her mind. We were still on the phone when they arrived.
 It took us until maybe 11ish to get there and (miraculous, except not the one we wanted) the hospital was discharging her already. With a  "probably" new spinal fracture and instructions to do exactly what I'd been telling her to do for the past week. On the "plus" side my mom had figured out it would be easier to do this in a house with central AC and that she wasn't going to be able to get back to her bed anytime soon. BTW the above picture was not taken out her bedside window but it could have been. Whereas the view from her bed downstairs (a spare hospital bed in the living room) is of the ivy growing up the windows. So my beloved helpmate took her home and my daughter and I sacrificed and bought she-crab soup and bbq to eat back at Grandma's house as a break from packing up and feeding the cats and securing the boat etc. etc. The breeze was lovely.
 Back at home the view was not so. I immediately tried to get caught up on my work (the kind I get paid for) and to miscommunicate as much as possible with my helpmate. He practiced miscommunication with the daughter and we both regretted drinking too late with the neighbors the night before. In 29 (almost) years of marriage I can count on my fingers (OK. I do need both hands) how many times we've gone to bed that angry at each other. Then I started thinking about how much we had (maybe) neglected the needs of our eldest (remember him? The one on crutches) the past few years. You can imagine the sleeping that followed.
  Maybe this will all look better from a distance.
Next blog I will explain everything there is to know about mother-daughter relationships, how I went from being a marvellous cook to unable to heat coffee correctly and figured out I can't please every(or is that any?)one.

Who are these people?

...and why are they smiling? It could not have been the weather. 102 in the shade and I'm not sure the parasols count. This brief moment was inevitably followed by a a desperate need to lie quietly in one of the air-conditioned rooms. Curtains were hung across the stairs to keep that conditioned air from falling into the rest of the house.
  Since Grandma couldn't make it further than the bathroom at the top of the stairs it didn't seem to matter too much. Naturally as the weather got set to cool we left. Except for the Grandma of course and my baby girl.
 The actual baby of the family told us as we left how terrible we were always taking him away from his sister. The sister called us 10 minutes out to say that Grandma wanted to see a doctor immediately and they would have to call the rescue squad.
 They didn't. We kept driving. Bad weather was on it's way etc. etc. By the time we got home the storm was just hitting us (oh, did you think I was being metaphorical?) and those left behind were without power from their own storm (now that could have been metaphorical but it wasn't). Frantic phone calls and then the power came back and our storm blew over. Metaphorically speaking.
  No real point in trying to convey the content, or context or anything of all the calls the next 48 hours. Phone calls while I was driving on 95, phone calls while in Walmart, phone calls while trying to find my email (another story). Where is your daughter? Why can't Grandma get up? Why should Grandma get up? What to do? Isn't this the same blog I wrote a week ago?
  Not quite the same because this time my beloved husband is/was fixing the dishwasher (saving us money) as I type. Until I have to stop typing and find the breaker for the pump and open all the valves in the house. Then I find alot of towels. Then I turn back on the pump and close valves. Mostly. I ask the 7 year old to turn off the ones upstairs. You know that sink never drained well? Then my husband rediscovers after 29 years of marriage that I don't know my left from my right so the valve he thought I'd shut under the sink to the dishwasher I'd opened so in fact all the excitement was un-necessary. But the loyal little one told him he was a much better "fix it guy" than the man who came here yesterday because nothing so exciting happened then. Then my husband went to bed -and discovered the sink that still had the faucets open. To give credit where it is due I am the one who figured out where all the water was going and placed the buckets in the basement, 2 floors below.
 So who are these people? Well not great home health nurses and definitely not plumber's helpers. And they are smiling because they were living 2 days ago.

Warnings can be so helpful...

 If only yesterday had come with one. Like this one in Walmart which I so appreciated because I had actually been about to light up right there since I was tired of smoking in the pet food section.
 We sent the little one off with his sister a few days ahead of us to Grandma's. He wanted to be with his sister who has been traveling. She was going down to take care of Grandma in Grandma's own house. We were planning on spending the 4th through the weekend there. I needed some undistracted time to work on some research grants. No swim lesson for another week. The perfect plan. Honestly it only hit us at dinner time that we had no one else to feed but ourselves and could do pretty much whatever we wanted. Not quite alone but the eldest is happily computer gaming too much so we might as well enjoy it. Then the phone rings. Before we'd even called the Chinese restaurant.
  Grandma has fallen and she can't get up. ...and she won't let her very offended grand daughter help her up. So for some 4 hours we are back and forthing on the phone. Rescue squad? Rescue us? Pain meds? Where's the little brother? How much T.V. has he watched? Don't be mad at Grandma! Don't be mad at your granddaughter!
  Finally everyone was settled for the night -but us. That took a few drinks and some pie. And some old Chuck episodes. Which meant it was really late when we went to bed -which in and of itself should have alerted us to the fact that we would have an early morning call. Why doesn't your daughter hear me calling (that would be because it is 7am and the window AC units)? What medicine should I take? ...and many more  questions for her son-in-law the doctor. It's just unfortunate that he's an electrical engineer.
  We have still resisted going there and tried to get the work done we stayed home to do -but the whole wow-we-have-time-alone thing is pretty much shot. Tomorrow as early as we can we'll drive on down and spend the next 5 days in a house with no AC except in the bedrooms, and a miserable old woman -and Grandma too. Visitors welcome... but you've been warned.

Fairness

Nothing is fair.                    My mom doesn't say it's unfair exactly but she certainly doesn't sound as if she thinks it is fair that we can still walk and bend and see with both eyes (well more or less). Or that I went to college and she didn't, or that I'm not a widow. Sometimes I actually have asked her if she would want me, at my age, to be in the same condition she is?

  The 7 year old has been whining that it is not fair that his dad and I watched tv without him several nights (don't tell Social Services  but it's true -we did watch tv without him -unless you count the whimpering from the balcony).

 The twenty-somethings find it unfair that we have our own computers and cameras and food-supply. Or at least I assume their attempts to redistribute these things more evenly indicate such a finding. Also they've actually told me it's "not fair" that their father and I were already together when we were their ages. Or something like that. Sometimes it's a bit difficult to sort out but it's clear that while they are glad we have a happy marriage it probably isn't fair.

 The one offspring who you'd think could complain the most about fairness rarely does but his exceptions to this rule are generally quite impressive.

 So if you haven't picked up on it by now I'm not feeling all so fairly  my self. Grandma is at her home being cared for by her grand-daughter (my baby girl), who is being relieved by her brother so she can come back to spend time with a friend who is spending the rest of the summer out of state caring for her grandmother -and guess who is being asked to help with gas and food and etcs?  It's hot, I'm tired, I lost my temper twice today (1st with the debt collection company trying to collect a medical bill I don't think we owe -but it's a long story, and 2nd over inefficiently washed dishes -not so long a story but certainly as silly (did I mention the dishwasher is broken?)) (the double parentheses; my favorite). 

  Not to mention I'm discouraged that a movie about male strippers and another about a foul mouthed teddy bear are filling the theaters while the newspapers are crowing about the president's amazing victory (although to be fair it's not all that victorious).  Who was it who first mentioned trips in handbaskets?  Why is popular rule such a good idea? Oh that's right. It's fair...

 Still we did get our toes wet last week at grandma's. When we got all the way in  we didn't see the snake until we got out. What could make life more fair than that? 

      

Feed me. Feed me.

 I told my mom about blogging that I called her a bad word but added that we had both apologized and she said (exact words here), "Yeah but I don't think either of us meant it." My exact reply, "Yeah I said that too ... because we are so related."

 She is with my sister right now so I was talking to her while shopping in Lowe's and I saw work gloves on sale so I told my mom, "Work gloves on sale!", and with no time to spare she asked, "Is there a man in them?" What this shows you is that one of us is still making witty conversation

"He didn't know beans from buttercups."
-Grandma recently describing some idiot at a plant nursery

But you know this is on her good days. On the bad ones she is not so funny. Growing older (I can't say old since at 94 that's done) isn't so funny. And I'm right behind her.

Just a little fly

Today my eldest reminded me we needed to vote. Someone had given him a brochure and he read it and someone else had sent an email and he had considered and decided. Me, not so much. Also it was raining. But then I discovered the polling place was in the elementary school and it was my turn to pick up so what could be easier?
  The rain was pouring. After my good citizen decided to use the restroom he was at the front door -but no ID. No time (crutches+rain = anxiety) so I decided I'd have to make a 2nd trip.
  That meant waiting until after piano lessons  but at least by then no more rain. The sun is shining.
 At the polling place I immediately see an old friend and as soon as I "check-in"  and get my voting slip (some little piece of paper that I guess says I can vote) I go back to greeting. The voters were few. I and my eldest and my youngest are the only non-workers present. Meanwhile Eldest is awaiting his turn so once I vote I wave him over to the booth.
  But it seemed he hadn't checked in -I assumed he had as I chatted and he assumed I knew what I was doing waving him over to vote. The check in lady got excited, "You have to be registered to vote." I still thought they'd checked him in but were not finding him -or something so I said well he is. She looked perplexed -"Are you voting?" she asks him . No, I think  it was, "Is he voting?" to me. When the answer was yes they all looked surprised but she really looked it.
 Which is when I realized no one had seemed to think he was there to vote so they hadn't called him up to the table. They assumed he was just waiting on me rather than his turn. To be fair  maybe there is some other explanation (but as I've pointed out before this is my blog).
 No harm no foul since he then checked in and voted. So perhaps it's unkind to say the woman looked taken aback at his voting and knowing what was what. But I think it'd true and it startled me. It left me feeling a little bruised.  Did I mention this woman had been in charge of special education when we moved here? She didn't seem to think he knew much then either. I didn't think they wanted him at the table then either (so to speak).  I'm not bitter though. ... Just a little ragged around the edges.

Notable Achievements

  Yesterday, with only 4 days left of being a first grader, my baby held a baby goat. Someone else had to catch it for him so it may not be worth as many points. 

That's OK because tomight he caught FOUR lightning bugs and had them all safe in his hands. He let them go and caught another set. In his pajamas. And with barefeet. And all by himself. He had to stretch way up high to get some. He flew after them.  

There were so many lightning bugs and the gardenia is blooming and the blooms are so white they shine out too.  I caught several fireflies (I like both names) but mine always escaped when I tried to catch more. Bedtime boy was more careful. I promised we'd put some in a jar next time. He wants to keep them forever. So do I.

If you look carefully here the yellow streak on the right is a lightning bug. You can;t really get a picture of it. You have to be there. You really do. But it counts as an achievement. You get a gold medal for catching four at once I'm pretty sure.

Still a bipolar life

I was thinking today how nearly perfect my life is sometimes. How rich and wonderful to have all my family about and all the stages and ages together.
 And then I got home. My grey(ing)-bearded one pulled up right behind me. The little one ran out to meet him -and complain that the next oldest son (which means 18 years older remember) had been teasing him. Then that one came to explain that he'd only been trying to find out why Grandma was yelling. Apparently she was, let us say disgruntled, because the eldest son of mine had brought her very little for lunch and when I leave the house she doesn't seem to leave her bed. I spoke with the old boy and he clearly felt he was being asked to do too much. He pointed out that all activities take him twice the energy it would for an able bodied person (clearly it was a mistake to share with him an article we once saw that said children  with CP burn twice the calories). He was angry, unhappy, put upon. So I went into my mom. She was angry, unhappy and put upon. I went to bed and curled into a very small ball and cried.
 I got up and checked email and read (or to be honest that's the way I read it)  the class I worked so hard on will not be mine again and I know that since it is a core class and I am a limited-part-time adjunct with no research experience to boast of  (and did I mention angry, unhappy and put upon ?) this is perfectly reasonable. Also the professors currently teaching have already thanked me for my "very helpful" Power Point slides and course material* I shared. 
   Naturally the seven year old decided to be extra whiney tonight. The evening was rounded off by tornado warnings postponing our trip to Grandma's house where there was to be a ceremonial changing of the guard - i.e. she spends June with her kinder daughter.
So  that's nearly perfect, right? At least a perfect storm of self pity.
Oh, the bug was in the middle of an otherwise perfect magnolia bloom. My symbology is not subtle.


 
*honesty alert: well, when I prepared those I also first worked from  previous profs' slides and I don't actually know how much of my material anyone else is now using. I just imagine it is alot  because my final slides were beautiful (intellectually speaking) and this is my blog.

speaking of age (as usual)

 You see why this had to be a separate post. Although he is also not as cute as he seems. He's actually much cuter.
 It was his idea a few weeks ago to wear the flower to church so he would look like "a getting married guy." All part of his plan to win over the red-headed girl. I am not making this up. She kissed his hand as they walked down the aisle when dismissed for children's church. I've also had to tell Romeo here that no arms around the waist in church but I didn't have the heart to ban the hand holding. The hand kissing I haven't tackled yet.
  What I was thinking about today as I watched the other mom's picking kids up in the school cafeteria was how we're defined as mothers by the age of our youngest. Mothers' of infants, mothers' of toddlers then preschoolers, mother's of "school-age" children -which I don't believe includes teens since they have their own category. This means that there is this big jump from the preschool to school-age mothers. I might as well have a 12 year old. I've left forever the ranks of  "young mothers"- even if I hadn't really ever quite rejoined them. I could pretend, after all there has always been a little ambiguity about who the young referred to, mother or child. Now I'm afraid even my baby has figured out I'm not a young mother anymore. He knows I'm not quite like the other moms. When he recently saw an older, but not gray haired, woman with 2 probably grand-babies he eagerly asked her how old she was. She didn't answer, or look too happy and how could I explain he was hoping he'd found a mom who was also over 50 like his mom?     No longer the mother of a toddler, or even a preschooler but a full blown school-age child.
  So why I wonder do we spend so much time (and money) and attention, defining ourselves by it even - on this brief period in parenthood when all the rest goes on and on and on and on after that? Are we crazy? Is it marketing? Is it just because babies are cutest? Because if that's it I'm not so sure school-age can't give them a run for their money. On the other hand there's no denying there's nothing cute about what comes next. Been there done that.

Just plain guilt

See this cute little old lady? You know when my eldest was little he was pretty cute. Cute little crutches and before those a really cute teensy little walker. So maybe when he's old he'll be cute again. And who can be mad at little crippled children or white haired old ladies?
 So 2 days ago I called my mom a bad word. She actually often uses this word as an adjective as in, "I'm itchy." Only with the bad word. And I did not use it as an adjective. No, I said to my pain riddled, miserable, 94 year old mother, "You are an itch." Well, not exactly those words. As a friend said, I am so going to ell. It even took me a while to be sorry and I'm still not sure I'm as sorry as I should be. At the time it seemed appropriate. We made up of course and I apologized and she came as close as ever to apologizing -she is always sorry "things got out of hand," or some such thing which leaves it wide open as to whether she actually did anything wrong. I had not as a matter of fact said the bad word out of the blue. By which I mean she is not always as cute as she looks. She has in fact never been someone anyone (at least her daughters) would call cute. She has never wanted to run anyone's life but her own -and now she can't. I guess that makes you itchy.
   But, here's the rub. If I try so hard to feel for her I find myself a bit itchy too. A few months ago I had to remind myself that my life was not almost over and as much as 50 was not 20 (amen and amen) it still wasn't 94 -or 84. Even between here and 74 there is a whole lot of living that can happen. So I have had to pull away and I think she knows it. I have to watch from the shore and I see her a little differently from a distance. So I reminded her that we were neither of us going to be saved by being good, that we just can't do it, and, although she has never been a big fan of grace (runs her own life, remember?), she owned this was true. She said she was glad "Jesus came". Now since it worked out so well I'm off the hook for the bad word, right?

Guilty pleasures

We let the 1st grader play hookie Friday so we could go to the Andrews AFB airshow. To make up for it we took Flat Stanley. If you do not know about Flat Stanley you do not have a child currently in elementary school. Here is Flat Stanley holding an Osprey up at the airshow.
 Neither my first born nor my mother were with us. I didn't actually give Grandma the option. I did give the bearded one (did I ever mention shaving is hard when you can't really stand unassisted for long, or see very well, or that shunts cause puberty to hit years earlier so he's been hairy for a long time? Clealry this is a tangent but it does relate to my guilt because I fuss at him for not shaving) a choice. But then I offered to pay him for staying home with Grandma and I knew he was short on cash. And I also knew I still can't find the handicapped parking permit and the DMV never sent the replacement and it would be a lot of walking and we already had Flat Stanley to worry about.
  And the 25 year old wanted to come but to get in he'd have to come with us for the DOD entrance and he had a committment way back home from Andrews at 5pm and I didn't want to be that rushed and we were invited to dinner nearby. So I didn't make that work. And I always try to make these things work. I did happily take the daughter, home from college, and with whom the 7 year old wants to be with every minute. And I let him.
   In theory I don't think I should feel badly about the 3 adults I didn't include or the one I took advantage of. I think. On the other hand one is my mother and the rest, I'm theirs. It's hard to let go either way. It's hard to know what is theirs and what is mine. I can't even tell where I begin and they end -or when they begin and I end or...
  Or why when I was so good about putting sunscreen on everyone else I forgot my low (but only by Presbyterian standards) neckline? I haven't had this bad a burn in years. It helps with the guilt.

Strength

 This is not a recent picure but it flashed up on my desktop background the other day (set to random picutres in the "critters" file) and it's hard not to love. The eldest wanted to get near the burros but the crutches freaked them out. Oddly enough neither the old guy nor the 4 year old freaked them out.
 Anyway the point of this entry (OK not really a sharp point) is that I was watching a "viral" video on the web with pediatric cancer patients lip syncing to the song "Stronger" -"What ever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger..." and I tried to tell the family members at the table why I had tears running down my face. Unfortunately the members present were my very literal first born and my 94-year-old-not killed-yet mother. The former started laughing and the latter snorted. I tried to correct them. The former insisted it was really ironic and the latter said, "Yes dear. You really should show it to me sometime." (As if after 51 years I don't know a head pat when I get one). My point is not that the video isn't incredible -it really is. But, just maybe, the former and the latter have some points.
                    After all they earned them.

Snakes

Now don't you think that is triangular little head headed for me? He didn't make it to me. He went through a crack and under the house. Which explains less signs of mice. And thanks to the internet I now know not only that I am hosting a Eastern Black rat snake -but he has a bacterial infection -you can't quite see it in this picture but there were several brown lesions on him and apparently it's  pseudomonas. Really.
  I watched this snake wiggle towards me and my 7 year old and I could see the rough brown patches on him and I wondered but I was suprised when ther they were on a snake pictured at a wildlife center. So see I don't only keep up with the Edwards family on the internet. There are many snakes to watch. OH. Sorry. Cheap shot (and possibly obscure).
  Now the winner of the college kids say the darnedest things award for this semester is the email I got after posting a take home exam -12 days in advance of its due date -asking if I could help the student find the answer in their notes because (and I quote -hence the quotation marks) "I have already spent quite a few minutes combing through my notes." I think I spent 3 days walking around foaming at the mouth repeating "Quite a few minutes" over and over again.  Fortunately when I responded that frankly I'd expected "quite a few hours" the student (helpfully) clarified that they only meant on that "particular question" and the entire test had taken (again the quotation marks) "several hours". That took several more days of foaming and repeating.
  And Grandma is back with us which is wonderful and not of course. The little guy loves his captive audience. But then I feel like a captive as she explains to the eldest that we can't teach table manners since we don't stay at the table with her -really we don't stay at the table with our eldest. I mean we start off there but he eats for a long time and it's not just little brothers who don't have the patience for this sort of thing. So we had another mother daughter moment. Or did I already write about this? It's all beginning to blur together. Even the snakes -I thought I'd get better at telling them apart but then I stare at the pictures and the juvenile versions and they all start to look scary.  Was that a rattle? Was that a hiss? You tell me.

Contrasts

 So does anyone know how to handle these kind of color contrasts? All my cameras when left to their own devices seem to lose their little electronic minds trying to capture the red azaleas. This one for instance is intense but it doesn't actually hurt your eyes as it appears here. An excellent metaphor for my life (you could see that coming right?).
 Grandma is back after a little less than a month and she still wants her coffee really hot. And she still wants silverware with her food -which is more understadable but as often forgotten. And I know she is here as I sit down to start grading and I feel guilty for not being with her and a little annoyed for the comment about "having done my duty" as I leave her. Not mind you that I was going to go do my duty when I do my work but as if having had breakfast with her now I am free.
  When my daughter called the other day to tell me about some really weird thing a professor had done and how she now had an extra 20 points "towards her final" every "uh hunh" or "wow" or yeah" I said she was sure had some tone and she declared she would not tell me another story. I declare I had no tone - or at least if I  did it was more about what I had for dinner andbeing past my bedtime. I remind myself that as my mother sounds to me I sound to my daughter. It's not that I'm like my mother, or even that my daughter is like me -it's just that special filter between every mother and daughter. Whatever the mother says is criticism, and whatever the daughter says is rebellion. Or maybe it's not a filter. Maybe that's just the truth.
  So at least the 7 year old is very happy to have Grandma back because she listens to his stories no matter how long they are (and sometimes her eyes are even open). He has saved up a month's worth.

Focus

The jumping boy is whining at me because we are visiting his sister at her college and unreasonably we aren't taking the cat and she loves cats. And even 'worser' he then learned that one of his older brothers is not coming. Guess which one?
 Or rather guess which one at 27 still has no particular choice -or at least little to choose from. We were discussing slavery the other day and this older brother said he has no freedom. I tried to argue he did -but even to me it sounded weak. Maybe that is what got me going on this present jag.
 It's always there but mostly I ignore it. The non-normality, the lost dreams (oh, I hate the melodrama). Twenty-seven year olds should be getting married. I would say like all his friends but he doesn't have any. Too stark a statement for me. I like things nuanced but some days there is no finessing it. He has family and a computer. He is a brother and a son and a grandson but there are so many other things he is not. It is so heartbreaking in a small child, these disabilities that separate them from so much but past a certain age, and with a certain amount of facial hair it is just kinda creepy. Clearly I am not supposed to say that but you know it is. Not always, not when I have the right attitude and the sun is shining and we are laughing together. But at night, when I am tired and I think of all the things I have not done right and all the things I should have done and should be doing and maybe one more docter or program or push to get him to have some plans and hope himself, and when there are so many marriage plans and baby's due and he has no plans and nothing due and not even any connection to those who do -then. The eternal perspective gets a bit blurry and I can't remember why this is really all ok. I forget. That all life is moving fast and you just keep jumping. I forget that the verse I chalked on my door means it when it says, "If only for this life we have hope in Christ then we are more to be pitied than all men." I am too busy with the pity... and whining about what I can't bring along.

Crystals Balls (no not the politician)

Just now I was crying at the end of the movie A Dolphin's Tale as they showed the real footage of amputees visiting the real dolphin with the prosthetic tale. So my 7 year old put his arms around me and this is what he said, "It's OK mom. It's OK. People have different disabilities. Like my brother." These were his words of comfort. You see -to him this was really comforting. Don't cry about this because we know about it already. Also I didn't say "disabilities" -he did and if this had been movie dialogue I would have found it extremely unrealistic for a just barely 7 year old. None of it is what I expected.
My other half is on travel all week. The eldest is staying with his other grandmother, the grandmother who normally inhabits my blog is with her other daughter, and all my other children are doing other things (no need to find an other word). Even the youngest had a playdate this afternoon (pre-movie) and I had an empty house. I literally can't remember the last time that happened. I graded papers, worked on my powerpoints and fielded calls from absent family members. Still I was on my own. I ate lunch with no thought to anyone else's tastes, I went outside witout telling anyone. I wrote a new quote on the front door (it doesn't really surprise you that I write on my house does it?). I didn't even miss my missing half. For almost 5 hours.
Now I am taking comfort from little arms and still sniffling over all the missing pieces because even when they can be replaced it's never quite what you expected.

Fantasy...

...TO DO List while my mom is with (her) 1st daughter for a few weeks and (my) husband is on travel:

Item 1: Clean entire house

Item 2: Wash chalk messages from last summer off front door

Item3:Get out summer clothes (since the temperature has dropped 20 deg., of course?)

Item 4:Put away winter stuff in an organized way

Item 5: Reorganize my mom's closet and "supply" storage

Item 6: Find husband's lost Kindle since he swears he didn't leave the house with it

Item 6: PLant those plants I keep pickinh up at Garden Centers -it wouldn't be so bad if I just picked them up but I actuaaly paid for them

Item 7: Pay medical bills (semi-annual)

Item 8: Better organize time...oops, gotta go to the old ladies exercise class....

(you'll have to figure out the conection between picture and list)

How to be happy

Go to the National Botanical Garden in DC. First on a random day with your 6 year old and your husband. Then on Valentine's day with just your husband. Then during your college daughter's spring break and dress in cute little print dresses so although you know that no one thinks you are her sister you can pretend they do. Go there at least 3 times in 2 months. And take lots of pictures to stare at when you are tired... because flowers don't ask for alot of understanding. Even Solomon never dressed this well after all.

Of course that's not the whole secret to happiness - but if I gave it all away now I'd have nothing left to blog about.

My compass

Almost 7. But not there yet. He explained to my mom that even though she is "spoiled" we still do things for her because she "is old" and when I am old he and his wife will take care of me because that is what God wants us to do and he can not wait until he and his wife take care of me. I told him to make sure to tell the girl of his choice (a certain red head as a matter of fact) this plan as soon as they start dating. A win win for me.
As for my direction, it seems much clearer when I take the time to talk to those involved and not to imagine myself on some heading out to sea. Especially when I haven't left the shore yet. You'd think I'd learn this by now.
At 6 every direction is new. I'd shout out, "North North East" and he'd find it and run that way until he came to some obstacle and then start again. "Tell me another Mom." Every time an adventure -and of course he is right.

O, Oh my

A week ago this was my view so let me tell you my view point this evening. First some background, after 2 calls to the rescue squad which I may expound on at some later date, my mother is on a steady dose of benadryl. Also she was up most of the night in the ER. So she's a little shall we say vague? She rolls (walker wise) to the table and the little guy points out, "Grandma, you have a bandaid on your arm still." She does but she can't see it and says no it's gone. He starts talking about bandages falling off and she thinks he is saying "bag" falling off and so she checks. Sure enough there is no bag - I check too and there is nothing where it is supposed to be. Upsy daisy, let's roll back to the bathroom.

Now for some more background. When I was growing up my mother did not believe in any bathroom talk. I wouldn't have even said potty. She wouldn't say "pee" and instead she said "o" (because it was the letter next to p and that struck her as funny -and it still does). One simply didn't discuss what happened in a bathroom. I still can't say the "f" word, I mean the other "f" word. Seriously, I did not know the word for diarhea at the same age she'd taught me how to identify Amanitas and Boletus and the delicious Ink Caps. It does seem a little strange to me now.
But that God, He has such a sense of humor because now I am in the bathroom with that same woman and she sits on the toilet so I can confirm that not only is the pouch not on but neither is anything else (colostomies are complicated let me tell you that) and as she sits I hear... shall we say running water? - and I say, "Mom, did you also forget to put your underwear back on?" and she says, "Sounds like it." And then we both start laughing and I can't stop giggling the entire time I'm putting her gear (hey, that's a new one the colostomy supply ads could use) back on.
The point is, her hearing is still good.

Don't pity me -I have that covered.

This frog is sideways. I don't know why but I re-uploaded it 3 times and every time it gets turned sideways. But that seems appropriate, Today, after (minimal details) 24 hours of some sort of icky (technical term) virus, I checked email and there was the Summer and Fall schedule of classes and I am not there. I had small hopes for the Summer but I had expected a Fall class. I didn't teach last Fall but I'd been hoping that was a fluke. I'd even tried to ask at the time if this was a sign of a new pattern and was told probably not. Or something admittedly vague but to which I could still pin some hope.
And here's the thing. I am 51. I do not look impressive as an academic on paper. Or is that as a paper academic? All of this doing things late in life sounds very cool but now instead of a biological clock ticking in my ear it is an academic clock. When will I get something published? Will I ever be more than limited-part-time-adjunct-we'll-call-you-if-we-need-you-not-quite-faculty-technically-professorial-lecturer? And I am so over working for nothing with the idea that someday it will pay off because my somedays are shrinking.
And then when I am still a bit dizzy I have to check my mom's bag (I mean pouch) because she's worried the wafer against her skin needs changing. I decided it didn't. And I was deeply, deeply grateful that it did not. It was like a little miracle that I could just say not today.
And I could go back to obsessing over my lack of academic future and trying to figure out what I should do now. If you are reading this blog and you need an old but new epidemiologist please call. Of course because of the 1st grader (hanging on my arm at this very moment) and the various crutches and canes all over my house I'd prefer to work from home (do not ask me why). Just call.
Also I do frog rescue. This one was chirping for several nights in the bottom of a planter in my mom's room. I put it out near our little tadpole filled garden pond. I hope it is happy now and not sideways.