FEAR Realized » realizing

Long Tall Sally

NaysWay — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 15:25:58 +0000

Today is Mooter’s last day of school. Since I am a working mother, I never get to do the cool stuff stay-at-home moms get to do. I don’t get to walk her to school on her first day. Don’t get to pick her up. Don’t get to join the PTA. Don’t get to volunteer chaperon services for field trips. Don’t get to bake cookies. Don’t get to attend jump rope contests. And I don’t get to be there to greet her as she runs out of the building in sheer joy for her last day of school.

I feel like I miss some pretty important moments in her life just by not being there. As she’s gotten older, her questions and irritations about me having to work have matured a bit. What used to be moans and tears has recently graduated to a few sighs mixed with some “it’s OK, mom”‘s here and there. I used to think she was condescending in her understanding. You’d think it impossible for an eight-year-old to project such an emotion. But, then again, you’ve never met Mooter. It’s totally in her DNA. That broad is me reincarnated, so I get it.

Lately, as a show of good faith and empathy to the situation, she’s given me little vignettes of her day with re-enactments. One of the projects we’ve yet to tackle in Project: Home Maintenance is removing a linen pole from the backyard. Right now, it serves its purpose as prop for Mooter during one of her retellings of new moves she’s learned on the playground.

And, as I’m taking the picture…

…I’m realizing, I can’t take a picture of her…

…without turning my camera to the side.

When did she get so tall?! I mean, I’m 5′ 10″, so I knew she had the potential to head in that direction. Limbs, hair, and feet.

Seems like I blinked and missed more than baking cookies.

FEAR No. 067 – Down The Rabbit Hole

NaysWay — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 15:01:27 +0000

Last weekend, I consulted with my resident landscaper – my mother – for a free session of analysis on my ailing backyard. Given how awesome I am at gardening (read: things die at my hand), it was more of a seance than an analysis. I need the gods of all things green and lush to give me a special healing on that place. It is stank!

To my credit, it was like that when we moved into the place, and BFam and I were all YEAH! OUR HOUSE! OUR YARD! WE’RE GONNA ROCK IT LIKE WE WANNA! OW! And then, the yard laughed at us because trees, while gorgeous, have roots that can kill – MURDER! – a yard.

What was I saying? Oh, yes…

So we’re walking and surveying and (my mom, God love her) sees the bright side in the disaster that is my backyard. A few encouraging words, pointing out a couple of flaws and, in a matter of minutes, I feel like I’ve just been visited by the Mary Poppins of landscaping. I’m all chim-chim-e-ny, and she’s all spoonfuls of sugar. And all the while she’s standing there, I’m actually feeling like what she’s saying will work. Yes! Accomplishment! In my mind!

Then she went home.

Bah!

During our inspection, we happened on a hole in the ground. A hallowed tree stump with brush and muck, the thing of Alice In Wonderland folklore. And even though I didn’t see any rabbits coming or going from the hole, we have been ambushed by quite a few happily frolicking in my disaster of a yard which leads me to use my masterful skills of deduction. Add the pots of herbs my mother tasked me with maintaining over the summer, and the bunnies are frolicking and nibbling and DUDE! YOU’RE EATING MY GREEN THUMB!

And it’s basil! I like basil. Furry little cute mongrels.

This past weekend, the family and I sat down to watch the revamped, Tim Burton-version of Alice In Wonderland. Mooter, ever my child, had never wanted to see the movie when it was playing in the theater because “it looks scary”. But, Moo. You’ve seen the cartoon! “That doesn’t look like the cartoon. I don’t wanna see it.” It was mostly the Mad Hatter’s fault. Johnny Depp has a tendency to throw himself into Tim Burton movies. But it’s why I HEART HIM!

Pledging to guard her should any scariness jump out and attack her, and with a few goading remarks from the midget of the group (“Wassa matta, Mooter. You scayerd? You watch duh moovey, and you cry like a liddoh baaaay-beeee?”), we braved the flick. Surprisingly, the character that scared her the most ended up being her favorite.

Yesterday, while Mooter and I played with Bo in the backyard, I broke out my camera for a few snaps of the assumed rabbit hole. “Hey,” Mooter said, “just like Alice In Wonderland! Would you wanna go down there just like she did in the movie? I wouldn’t.”

And, just like that, the never ending bond that is the mother-daughter connection I share with my eldest reared its ugly head. No. I would not like to go down the rabbit hole. In fact, as I watched the movie, it was all I could think about: That girl is so dumb. What would possess someone to go down a hole just to chase after a rabbit? Who does things like that? And who just drinks a bottle of junk just because it says “Drink Me”? And who eats cake, after drinking from the bottle and shrinking, just because it says “Eat Me”? And how much dope, exactly, did the author smoke before he wrote this book?

Who would want to jump into the unknown? Fearless people. Adventurous people. People willing to grab that rabbit by the ears and ride it to who-knows-where. That’s who.

Curse you, life lessons. Stay outta my entertainment, already!

FEAR No. 065 – Directionally Challenged

NaysWay — Mon, 17 May 2010 19:49:33 +0000

Before I start today’s post, hi. It’s been a minute where minute equals one week. Stem to stern – one full week. And I’m not saying that to impress you, or explain (though I probably should, and I will, just not today) but, instead, I’m saying it to remind myself what exactly was going on in my life at the time. So that when I read back on my posts, there is some sort of reasoning behind the full week gap of information missing. Now then…

I am directionally challenged. I’ve mentioned this ailment of mine here before and, unfortunately, with age, it hasn’t gotten any better. In fact, with age, it should probably get worse just by deterioration standards of my mind and body. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work, or something? I’m not expecting much in the way of improvement in this area. I’m comfortable with GPS devices even though, a few times, they’ve insisted I drive into walls and rivers. Can’t be any worse than what I would have assumed given my directionally challenged condition. And the fact that I’d have to be blind not to see that wall or river. No matter. We shant split hairs. GPS is a nice thing to have for those who don’t know their way around cities they were born and raised in. Most of the time.

Lately, me and my GPS (I call her Gerty – like Drew Barrymore in E.T., because she’s always running her mouth and never hushes up, and seems to scream at me when she’s scared and, yes, I need help) we’ve been tight. Only once has Gerty led me astray and made me late for an appointment and made me sweat so profusely I was sure I’d need a shower once I got there. But that was only the one time. We’re good. She makes me look like I know where I’m going. That sense of false confidence is all I need.

Apparently, my subconscious has decided to give me a wake-up call in the form of dreams. The past few nights, I’ve been having dreams of needing to get on a freeway. The on-ramps are littered with signs, ones that actually exist, ones sending me to Nowhereville, Dreamland U.S.A. And I’m driving, and I pick the on-ramp taking me to what I suspect is my desired destination. Yet no sooner am I on the on-ramp that the signs change and I’m heading South instead of North. Or I get on one exit too late, and the sign of my intention laughs mockingly in my rearview mirror. Bastard. STOP LAUGHING AT ME!

This past Saturday night, while BFam and I lay passed out on our family room couch, I had the dream again. And it was so vivid and irritating, that it woke me. That and BFam’s snoring materialized as a Mack truck riding behind me and honking in my dream. When I jumped up from sleeping at 2 AM, covered in sweat, he – as is our usual Saturday night routine – drunkenly tells me to go take my shower. I kid you not. Every Saturday night, exhausted from house-cleaning, yard work, soccer practice, and softball practice, we put the kids in bed and pass out on the couch. Fully clothed, sometimes with shoes. We never mean to. We want to watch a movie, or talk, or just sit still for a spell – you know, the things grown-ups should do after their kids go to bed. But we’re so tired, our “let me just sit here a minute” turns into a coma. And we’re both so delirious and walking into walls just to bathe and crawl into respectable sleep attire, that we vow never to do this again next weekend. Until the next weekend.

This time, the dream vexed me so, I was determined not only to remember it, but wake BFam to discuss. Sometimes, I take long showers. So long, in fact, that BFam has exited the couch, changed his clothes, gotten into bed and fallen back to sleep. Surprisingly, when I finally got into bed from my shower, BFam was wide awake. It wasn’t until I verbally described the dream aloud to him that I felt the loud smack of common sense smack me in the head. Figuratively, I must be going in a direction I’m not happy with. However I’m doing it, whenever I’m doing it, I’m missing the mark. I can see the direction I want to go in, but yo no habla Engles.

My dreams always have a way of telling me things I don’t want to hear when I’m awake. Things that are obvious, but I tend to ignore nonetheless. I’ve been running endlessly, driven into the Grand Canyon, and I’ve even had James Taylor try to kill me. Yeah. I still don’t know what that last one was about, but the dreams are talking and, even if I choose to ignore things in a wakened state, someONE is trying to tell me something.

I hear You.

Cover image: Freeway by *pedroqn on deviantART

FEAR No. 060 – Tough Love

NaysWay — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 15:37:41 +0000

Friday morning, BFam was the only one of us unlucky enough to have to suffer through a day of work. I did everything in my power to make him stay home. But, when you work for a figurative prison such as BFam, your vacation and sick days are put in a hat where the masses are asked to take a chance and draw their lucky number. No one is ever really lucky.

The job is taking a toll on BFam. Two years ago, when he started there, his hair had begun to show slight strands of gray. Now, two years later, he is 65% white. He’s 34. Granted, he may have just been destined to gray early. Case in point:

This is his dad. He’s 53. If it weren’t for clippers and straight razors, this man would probably be completely white.

In BFam’s case, it is stress. I know it is.

BFam took me to a bowling alley in the early stages of our relationship. His family was heavy into bowling and, every Saturday, they’d trek up to the local alley to participate in the church league. It was there that I was introduced to BFam’s illness. I wouldn’t know it was chronic at the time, but after an episode of spasms and writhing around on the floor with his family pretty much bowling as usual around him, I was told after he’d regained his composure that he suffered from “a stomach issue”. Well, what kind of stomach issue? We wouldn’t know that for years. Episodes and years into our relationship later, we’d had testing done. Tubes stuck down throats, ultrasounds, CAT scans, prescriptions of Pepcid for misdiagnosed acid reflux. You name it, we tried it.

Friday morning, BFam barely made it out of the house. He was having a stomach issue. It happens so frequently, that the kids know what to expect. My family knows what to expect. We all know what to expect. This was business as usual. Off to work he went.

Friday afternoon, I got a call from BFam. I’m not feeling too hot, he said. My stomach is really off, he said. Come home, I said. I can’t, he said. This he-said-she-said went on for a few more sporadic calls throughout the remainder of the afternoon. So while the kids were doing this…

…BFam’s stomach looked like this:

It wasn’t long before my next phone call was of BFam asking me to pick him up from work. This, of course, was preceded by a sound of writhing pain and agony, then a phone drop. My next call was from his manager saying to meet him at the hospital. EMS was taking him away.

Awesome.

So a day of this:

…ended in the ER with tubes of saline, Prevacid and pain meds coming from BFam’s arm for his “stomach thing”. He hates for anyone to see him helpless. Usually, he’d ramp up the crum in his already curmudgeon behavior. But he was in so much pain this time, that he opted for his children to be in the hospital bed with him. This was especially necessary for Mooter. Being a kid, Mooter was disappointed she had to leave the park. We were having fun and Daddy was ruining it with is interruption. Once we were made aware of how serious the interruption, I couldn’t get her to stop crying. Hospitals mean dead people to little kids and, I don’t care how much salve I tried putting on the wound, Daddy was dying. She would need to see him. Once she did, all was well.

“Buck up,” I told her on the way there. “You need to be my big girl! I can’t have you falling apart right now!” Tough love. It worked for me as a kid. Got me to stop crying because, in my mind, the adults needed me! I had to pull it together.

This is where I’m supposed to start realizing that, while my child and I are alike in some instances, we aren’t alike in all of them. I didn’t think it was possible, but my child is insanely more sensitive and emotional than I ever was. Tough Love Mommy would have to go away for now.

Hours of testing and waiting later, BFam was finally diagnosed. With stomach flu. Given all I’ve just told you of his stomach issues, do you believe that diagnosis?

Good. Me either.

But this is the ER. Get You In, Get You Out should be their motto. A follow-up appointment with his regular doctor gave us a more believable diagnosis: Gastritis… with a side of stomach flu. Dang.

BFam has not been able to go back to work since Friday. He can’t eat. He’s still in pain. It will take time for his stomach to heal. In the meantime, I have spared no expense in reminding him that I’ve been with him long enough to know he’s received this diagnosis before. He has to be diligent about his health. Needs referrals to specialists, then needs second opinions. Needs to do something because, along with his stomach issues, he’ll have my foot up his butt to contend with.

Tough love, baby.

FEAR No. 059 – Lemons And Lemondade

NaysWay — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 15:40:49 +0000

I love lemons. As a kid, I saw one of my babysitters half one, salt it, then chomp on it like an apple. I couldn’t imagine wanting something, already so bitter, salty. But I was heavy into salt and bitter at the time, so it made sense that eating halved lemons doused in salt would be my next logical step. Years later, the consistent combination of acid and sodium chloride wore down on the enamel of my teeth, making my two fronts almost see-through. It’s a miracle my blood pressure didn’t top out at such an early age. I was a lemon abuser, and I was paying the price for my habit.

Everything in excess is bad for you, I’ve heard. Feh.

As much as I love lemons, I am not a huge fan of lemonade. Call me weird. Go ahead. No, really, BFam does all the time. Another one of my oddities? Love oranges, hate orange juice. I know. Real head-scratcher. Lemonade is – wait for it – too bitter for me. I totally understand if you’ve just washed your hands of me. I’m so curious, I stump myself sometimes. But don’t blame me. Blame my tongue. I have no control over that thing or its residing taste buds. I want to like lemonade, I really do. It just makes the most sense if I gave it a chance. But, alas, my tongue wants no parts of lemonade unless it’s fortified with enough sugar that a good shake or stir before drinking is the only way to stomach it. BFam, a true lemonade aficionado (by his standards), won’t drink lemonade in the same room with me. Won’t buy it for me, won’t make it from me. Won’t let me share it from his cup should he purchase some from a restaurant. “You taint the experience of lemonade with your… your… SUGAR!”

I had no idea I was drinking such refinery. In that case, I’d like the 1982 Lemonade Blanc. While you’re at it, let me smell the cork on that thing.

I want nothing more than to appreciate this goodness BFam claims I’m tainting by drinking lemonade in it’s most pure, tart form. I love lemons, for crying out loud! What is wrong with me? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe it’s deeper than what’s in that glass.

Leave it to me to make something deeper out of nothing.

You know the saying: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I’ve been handed quite a few lemons in my life. Who hasn’t? But I don’t like lemonade, so what am I supposed to make? There’s another saying: When life gives you lemonade, make grape juice. Then sit back and let everyone wonder how you did it. I like grapes but, you guessed it. I don’t like grape juice. Crap! I’m going to be awfully thirsty at this point.

As good as I am with taking my bitter, hard, rind-covered situation in its origin without batting an eyelash, I fail at making something better from it. I just eat it and take the seeds, and that’s no way to live. My assignment: Take the lemon. Be the lemon. Then crush the lemon in the juicer and drink ‘er down. Who knows. I may get more out of a glass than the fruit if I squeeze hard enough.

Anyone got any sugar?

Cover photo: Lemon Splash by AHMED… on Flickr