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