I'm still here!

We made it. The boys are now officially out of school for their Christmas break. We did the classroom Christmas parties, I purchased my last gift purchase today, and three out of the four are in bed. 

Let the vacation begin! 

Well, not really, but I am looking forward to not having to cart anyone back and forth at 8:30 in the morning. And having Mike around. And baking lots of yummy treats. And cuddling. If there's one thing we've been short on, it's the cuddling time. I've had to send at least 2 out of the 4 to school without their cuddle time. There are not enough hours between 6:30am and 8:30am to get all our cuddling in! Not if they want breakfast anyway. 

Speaking of which, I started the morning off by burning the only two bagels I had left in the house. Someone had turned the toaster settings up to five, instead of their customary two, and before I knew it: black crusts for breakfast. Before that, I had spilled all the coffee grounds everywhere except the garbage. I was still vacuuming them out of the potato basket at lunchtime. 

But the day got better with Cole's classroom holiday party with their graham cracker gingerbread houses. That was fun. Ben overdosed a bit with the candy canes, but overall, it's been a really pleasant day. Pizza and a holiday movie or two. Chocolate advent calendars. 

I love Christmas break!

#2's first day of Kindergarten: in a poem

moment of truth
he takes it well
this moment of inevitable separation
this stutter-step stalling into boy hood
he takes off feet first
moving faster than the ground beneath him
his steps buckle
but hold
he is a boy who knows what he wants
even if he doesn't know what that means yet
doesn't know how rare that is

to meet change with such open armed acceptance

and this is the point 

where the path diverges

where i will know his story only second hand

Where he becomes less of me 

And more of himself

Less of what I thought I saw 

In the grainy light of ultrasound

Less the imprint of fingertips 

On windowpanes or clay 

More a name grown into itself

The prickly rose

Grown past my pruning

Reaching past my locked doors

To touch sky and stars and sun

He will travel the night

Without me 

See things and weave stories

I had only imagined in dreams

He will live for himself 

And never for me

I will reflect the colors of sunset and summer thunder

And touch sun and stars and sky 

Guardian to his memories 

In picture books and ripped green thermal blankies

And he will remember love as his beginning 

His ending 

And bridge in between

Fall

We've had two overnight frosts this past week. I actually had to pull out the extra-extra blankets, scrape my car windows almost every morning this week, and don the dreaded 'puff' winter coat. 

That coat was so the thing in high school, but it probably should have stayed in the days of MC Hammer and buzz cuts. I'll forgive its' fooginess though, if only for the fact that it is the warmest coat ever. But I digress. 

After three, four days of overcast, cold, generally colorless days, we get this morning: clear blue sky, sunny as all-get, and a nice almost warm bite to the air. I got the rosemary inside (I'm going to try to keep it alive through the winter this year), all the frost-killed vegetables out of the ground, and the rest of the front pathway in. Being outside, putting my hands in the dirt--- Kinda makes it easy to forget that the world is gonna be ending in another year or so. 

Just something about these clear fall days that make me feel very optimistic. 

The boys had their trunk or treat at their school last night, which meant, of course, that I was scheduled for an evening shift (although, for the first time in almost 3 years, I am not scheduled on Halloween night... thank you!). Anyway, they had a good time hanging out with Mike last night, and are (24 hours later) now out of Halloween candy. They went so far as to chart out a trade exchange for all their candy. To get a 'mystery' dum-dum sucker cost 5 candy bars. 

The dum-dum was the golden standard for some reason. Next on the list was the kit-kats. 

Personally, I stand by my rolos. 

Wow. Officially a month since I fell off the edge of the cyber-world. Again.

But, today is a good day to come back, seeing as its' Mike's 33rd b-day. That's right. I'm married to an old man. Who's married to a slightly less-older woman. We had our red velvet, our lunch date, then our dinner date together. I'm going to risk sounding a bit hyperbolic right now, but I truly believe I have luckily married one of the best men in the world. He has been such a strength to me, and such a God-send as a father to our boys. He constantly amazes me with his tenacity, his insight, and his unfaltering faith and love in me and in our family.

He is constantly making me smile. And that's just by being himself.

Anyway, stepping away from the pinnacle a bit, let me go into a bit of what else has been happening.... which is not a whole lot, but, I will try to fill in the month's gap of time.

Ben has continued on the early intervention pathway and has been evaluated through the school district for speech and occupational therapy. And then today, he was evaluated for cognitive function, which was all very technical stuff, but basically boils down to this: Ben does what Ben wants. Period.

The evaluating staff was kind enough to drop it after the first 40 minutes of testing this morning, and allowed us to come back in the early afternoon. Which he then promptly screamed his way through. All they wanted him to do was stack a couple of blocks on top of each other, match some cards, do some mild algebra.... nothing major, but it was a no---go. Which is, to wildly understate the case, exasperating. Because Ben is brilliant, and everyone should know that. Not that one test is gonna determine anything definite, but.....

If he wasn't so annoying with his defiance, this whole situation would probably be cute. Maybe.

organicista

The temperature has been dropping the last few nights, it rained yesterday, during the day, and I've been craving a sweater in the mornings this last week. So, fall is definitely in the air. Oh! And our tree out back has been putting out lovely. We're talking big juicy apples.

I feel so organic.

Speaking of, I had a new experience a week or so back. I, mild mannered woman that I am, got my nails done.

I know. It was delightful. And mostly because, contrary to some of the stereotypes I have been harboring, not all nail professionals like to chat.

I mean--- phew!

So, my nails have been a nice shade of 'chellac' and 'french.... um.... something.... anyway, I'm in the clear for continuing to work in a health care setting, because, these fabulous nails? Happen to be mine. Uh-huh.

Anyway, it was fun. I don't know that I'll maintain it or not, considering my pattern with these sorts of things. I took the plunge and got my ears pierced, which quickly grew back over. I chopped my hair to its most possible shortest length without shaving the darn stuff off a couple years ago, and then kinda forgot to get it cut for a year, and now it's the longest it's been since 7th grade.

I don't know, I go with the wind on these things. But, this nail thing might be a sale for me. I've only broken through two, which, considering how I treat my nails sometimes, is actually a bit of a miracle.

This might be a harbinger of good things to come?

The feminine arts and coral

http://www.ted.com/talks/view/lang/eng//id/519

Whoever happens to be following this blog, or really, anyone alive, should watch this video (linked above). Just one word: in-credible.

Really. Check it out.

On a slightly related note, I've been able to take advantage of some of the quiet-er time during the day when I have just my baby with me to crank out some crochet work. It has been, in a word, FUN. I'll have to (for reals this time) post a picture of my latest project. It's supposed to be a potholder of sorts, but which will, with any luck, morph into a rug or something bigger. Essentially, it's a bunch of crochet 'buttons' done up around root-beer caps. Adam calls them my 'coral polyps'. I have a good 48 made up right now. The only thing holding it up now is that I've used up all caps at my disposal. But, then, I discovered today I can still stitch up the 'polyps' without a cap. It's just a little, uh... limper than the others. I have all sorts of ideas on how to assemble these.

This whole 'thing' is bringing back memories of the summer Andrew was born and I decided that selling my crochet wares (which consisted of an uncanny number of baby hats... even for someone with three young kids) at the Cheney farmers market would just be the best idea ever.

Yes, selling winter hats in the middle of August was one of my better ideas.

Actually, the hats went pretty well. It was the cheap scratchy yarn baby blankets that didn't fare so well. Or the full size adult scarves.

Good memories though. Baby Andrew would sit on my lap in our designated mostly-shady spot from 12-4 every Wednesday afternoon, even now and then disappearing mostly under his blanket to eat. Now and then having to borrow the local thrift store's notorious bathroom to change an occasional (3-4 in a four hour period) diaper.

Hmmm. I really do remember it fondly though. Not sure what I was thinking, but it seemed important at the time.

--one last note: once you get to the link, just press the download button. You should be able to watch the video without any trouble.----

dog days are over

Okay, so turns out, Cole really was expecting a letter from China. Which he got late last week. The story is, while at Grandma's, Cole discovered that most toys have the label 'Made in China'. So, he decided to compose a letter to the "China people" to find out how and where they made all this amazing... stuff. Grandma told him she had an in with a friend that traveled frequently to China on business. Hence, the China letter.

Bit of a let down though, when the only information forthcoming from said China businessman was that he could find toys made in China in any store chain in America!
Not really the detail Cole was looking for, but it was pretty cool to get a letter.

From China.

So..... the boys have started school. The three oldest have come home everyday this past week wanting to write out stories or show me their science experiments or read their books. I really really love the school year.  I really really really love that they love it so much.

Today was my first day shift of the school year. I started part time hours this month, which translates to 1-2  day shifts a week, since I still work my every other evening weekend. Today was the only day shift of the week, so, not a bad way to ease in. I dropped my baby off at childcare, spent my day around adults, trying to pass as a professional, and generally---- it was a really good day. I had all their lunches and stuff ready last night, so it was just a matter of getting dressed and in the car.

It was altogether ridiculously simple, especially considering how nervous I was last night. When I picked Ben up, it was with a report from the caregiver that he 'jumped right in. We hardly have any kids who are so comfortable with doing that.' Additionally, he made a best friend, ate 100% of his lunch (which I guess they provide... so much for the snacks I left) and slept during nap time. Our classically mute boy had no problem communicating the bare minimum of what he needed and only had one accident.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Especially when he actually ran towards me when I came through those doors at 3:30. That... not a bad end to a good day, I think.

Me: "Cole, you have a letter in the mail."

Cole: "Is it from China?"

And, no, it was not from China, but, almost as cool, it was a letter from his soon-to-be first grade teacher. Hand written. I think this is gonna be a pretty good year for our Cole.

You are not your stuff

That whole 'Fight Club' speech Tyler gives.... well, the other Tyler.... about your stuff starting to own you and how you are more than what you accumulate was running through my head today. Right there next to Betty Friedan's argument about the sexual sell. Which leaves me, once again, reeling with the implications of.....

Well, it's all still coming together. I've decided that I'm approaching one of those 'changing gears' portion of life. Three out of my four are going to be starting school in a few short days. And I'm realizing that, really, I am becoming less necessary in their continued purely physical survival. I mean, given the absolute need, they are totally capable of making their own peanut butter and jam sandwiches. And of dressing themselves. They even look both ways before crossing the street without so much as a reminder from me. Which I remind them of anyways, because, apparently, habits die hard.

So, my brain is coming to grips with this. That I am really becoming less needed in the day to day busy work of their days. They comb their own hair. They wash their own parts. They can ride their bikes and jump off things and roll in the dirt and make their own beds and pour their own milk. And this is good. This is the natural order of things. And haven't I been just chomping at the bit to get two seconds where they aren't needing me for every little thing, every little moment and accomplishment needing my two cents--- which, honestly, I don't mind..... until I'm into the tenth hour of 'yes, hon, that is aweome!'--- then, it becomes something of a 'Iswearyouaskmeonemoretimeandiamgoingtoscream'. There's something to be said about constantly affirming everyone else's life except your own. Because after a while, when everyone really important in your life is counting on you for everything, you start to lose sight on what that even means: to have your own life. Your own thoughts. Your own, dare I say it, agenda. Plan.... whatever.

I once had a plan. I'm sure we all do, and I still tend to think they are great places to start. For me, it was to get through school as quickly as possible, with a degree that would yield an actual income, mostly because I knew I wanted a family with, you know, kids, and I was damned if I was going to do that without some kind of actual proof that I could be doing something else other than... well, you know, kids.


At that time of my life, I don't know that I thought of having kids as a choice, I just thought of it as the next step. College, marriage, kids. There wasn't a discussion of 'humm, I wonder if now, that we're in the process of educating ourselves to be productive members of society, if maybe we really should have kids at all'. It was always a matter of when, not if. Which I don't regret. At all. My boys are incredible and have expanded my world in a million and one ways. In a lot of ways, they've made me whole. And I include ALL my boys in that statement. But, how cool would it have been if I could have said, I not only think I should do this, but I want to do this. And again, maybe it was better that way. Maybe, given the time, I would have chickened out. Cause having little people...is hard. And awesome. And closes your reality to a very narrow existence of having to live with yourself and your shortcomings and the little people's shortcomings in a world that becomes virtually yours and theirs alone.

I love Mike to the ends of the world, and even he can't fully understand the implications of that sacrifice. To put yourself aside to raise someone helpless and completely dependent. And not destroy yourself or them in the meantime. Maybe it's just a necessary step to finally growing up. You have to take that leap, of caring for someone more than you could ever dare to care for yourself. And maybe... maybe, if you're very careful and do it right, maybe, then, after all that.... you can learn to take care of yourself. The full circle and all that.

 I have plenty that I want to do with my life. First on the list is not cleaning the bathrooms, having another baby, or going back to school. Nothing that serious. I just want to be able to be recognized at my place of employment, instead of the whole 'who are you? and how long have you been working here?' followed by the less standard 'you have how many kids?!' (not so common anymore... the novelty is wearing off.....) ANYway, just little things. Like people outside of the five people I kiss goodnight every evening (four of which I had to create to get, by the way) to know me outside of 'that girl who says she works here'... you know, as a person. With interests. I want to work more with the birds out at Raptor Rehab. I want to finish writing my book. I want to learn Spanish. And then I want to speak Spanish. I want to run a 10k. I want to finish another sweater. And most of all, I want to sleep. I want to meditate and do yoga and see London and not have to explain or justify any of it.

I just want to be more than someone's mother. Or mommy. Whatever. I guess I get to figure out what that means.

p.s.

And it's long enough to be a dress.

My sweater, I mean. My sweater that I made that will look less like I made it---given time. I hope.

Meantime, I have a brand new sweater-dress, or as it will be fashionably called when this trend of mine catches on: the sweatress.

On a bright note, I do think it does wonders for my caboose.

Yes, I said caboose. On the internet.

this one's for the books

I have finished a sweater. That I started in a time forgotten. But I have finished it.

Last time I tried to crochet a sweater, Adam was still in diapers, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out the sleeves, even though I tried it several different times, the sleeves always ended up not fitting over the darn shoulders. And Adam was a little guy.

I started a sweater for myself a good year ago. I got to the 'assembly' part, and I put it away in a basket, telling myself that I'd finish it soon. And then I promptly started other projects. Anything that wasn't the assembly of the darn sweater. I finished a mat for the front porch (my first foray into jute), a blanket for Cole, and two 'draft' blankets for my bed (I think I finally have the color scheme I want. Really).

 I finally pulled it out tonight, and decided I'd just take a stab at it. And I had some interesting thoughts as I was going through the steps of 'assembling'. I was avoiding finishing it, because as long as I didn't, it still had the potential of being a good sweater. Once I finished it, it would either be still good or not so good. I don't know if anyone else spends their free time looking at free crochet patterns on line, but the other day when I was browsing, I noticed several patterns that definitely had that 'amateur' look. I want a sweater that I made for myself, but I don't want a sweater that looks like I made it for myself, if that makes sense. But, if I'm gonna learn anything, I have to make more than a few mistakes along the way. There's almost just no way around it.

BTW, the sleeves totally fit. A year down the road, five minutes of consulting experience and that mysterious sense of developing spatial relationships, and I got it.

why I hate my job sometimes

The truth is, I will go home tonight, throw my scrubs in the hamper, change, hugs my boys, laugh at some mediocre sitcom, and never again have a thought of you enter my head.

To be physically incapacitated, fed through a tube, tied to a hospital bed for your own safety, to have years of poor care and rough living seep their yellow tell-tale mark over the whites of your eyes, the very skin of you tired and heaving and helpless.... this I will not dwell on. I am a nurse, but there are things even medicine can't fix. Some things medicine shouldn't try to fix, shouldn't try to prolong. So, I will fuss over the timing of medications, replace electrolytes and call the doctor when a critical calcium threatens to throw the whole precarious balance over the cliff's edge your body is hanging onto, but I will not cry for this. You were once somebody who knew themselves, and I refuse to see this reduction as my chance to play savior.

You will not remember my hand in yours, an gesture I can't help, even given what I know. That this will kill you. That this is killing you. And that it never should have been this that killed you.

You are 52, younger than my mother. Thirty years plus into my future. And the truth is, I can't forget you, but not because I ever knew you., but only because, some time in the future, I know my memory will bring you up, and I will relay to a younger, greener nurse what hepatic encephalopathy looks like.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure,  I present: my front yard.

P.S. I'll have to post it when it's all done, it's already looking a lot better than this.

And this, to the left here, is the one strawberry from my garden that escaped my three year old, and therefore lived to maturity. Photo credit to Mike of course. Hence, the arty-feel to it. I generally do not like what I look like when I know I'm being photographed. I have this "I know you can see me and it makes me uncomfortable" smile, and it drives me nuts. Here, is what I look like when I instead have the "did you get the strawberry in the frame? How bout now?"-look.

 In short, a portrait I don't feel half bad about.

without you

Between last Thursday and now, I have worked 32 hours, vacillating between day and evening shifts, while my family has been in Spokane having fun without me. Actually, it was kinda nice to have some time to myself, just to rest or catch up on MY projects, sleep when I wanted to..... generally, just be completely selfish for a few days. 

But, then a funny thing happened. I got really lonely for my boys. 

I know! Nutty. Somewhere between getting my garden spruced up (finally...), picking 18 pounds of blueberries, finishing up a zombies vs plants blanket for Cole, and enjoying a luscious 2 hour coffee break with a co-worker on my day off, I really really started to feel heart sick for my boys. 

I missed them so much, I ended up making mac n cheese with ham, fresh blueberries on the side (yes... I shared my blueberries) for dinner. I really don't care for mac n cheese, and tend to hold the philosophy "you get what you get and you don't throw a fit!", but I made an exception for tonight. 

Tomorrow, we'll get back to the black bean burritos and cucumber dill salad, but for tonight.... it was just nice to see them. Talk to them. Smell their dirty feet. Just, everything feels better now. The balance of the universe is back on par. 

Although, some day, with a lot of practice, I could see myself getting used to the late mornings and quiet evenings. 

Just not yet.

the great safe guard of society was that opinions were not acted on.

I've been returning to my childhood/adolescent passtime of reading things waaaay over my head, this time in the form of Middlemarch by the great George Eliot. I have a feeling I will be milking my way through this one for a while.

I stole one of her lines there for my title today. Very clever. And kinda pertinent to where I am in my life right now. The rest of the quote goes like this: "Sane people did what their neighbors did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might know and avoid them."

The one thing that people we meet and get to know tell me and Mike is that we are "interesting", which usually means that we end up saying things or doing things that people aren't expecting us to say or do.

Anyway, good or not, that quote really hit with me. And made me laugh. Cause, crap, but if I'm not the lunatic.

And..... I about killed myself with my three mile run this afternoon. It's really gotta stop being so darn hot! Except, not really, because my second round of peas and beans need to finish and give me lots of happy vegetables.

I'm never gonna know you now, but I'm gonna love you anyhow.

Tragedy seems to hit my life from the periphery sometimes. I don't mean your grandma dying after a long and fulfilling life or the everyday work and wear of life that everyone mucks through with some regularity. I'm talking horrible, heart breaking adversity. Like when a high school cross-country teammate shot herself with her father's gun. Or finding myself bonding with a patient (whatever the reason...) and finding out through her medical intake that she lost her baby in the seventh month of pregnancy when her boyfriend decided to express his opinion regarding a late dinner with a bat to the gut.

I think of the events of this last weekend with my cousin in some random parking lot, and it strikes me again.

None of these are my tragedies. They are not my loss to feel. I remember giving a hug to the best friend at that high school reunion. I remember what that punch in the gut feels like when you know what's been lost is never going to be replaced in the here and now. I remember all that, and then I remember the two minutes I once spent convinced to my absolute core that it was my child being pulled unconscious from the swimming area. And I know there's no comparison between the two.

It's somber times like these that remind of something my Aunt Theresa told me when she very quietly and dependently distracted my children from entering an active construction zone while I was distracted and (take a guess) yakking. I was bending over backwards thanking her for not only keeping them safe, but also for being so patient and kind in the process. I felt like I hardly knew my aunt, since she lives more than a few states away and I only talked with her maybe every two years. For five minutes at a time. But she said something that I'll never forget and that rung so true for me that, dare I say it.... it makes me downright emotional remembering the occasion.

She just looked at me like it was the simplest thing in the world, gave me a hug and said, "Oh honey, you're family. You'd do the same for me." And just like that, distance had no bearing whatsoever. Of course I would. And that's when some very important perspectives starting coming together for me. We are all connected and we are all responsible towards each other in a very real way. We all come from the same place, and we all need the same things. If I give nothing else in my life, I want to give love and kindness freely, without price and without expectation. That's the lesson that Theresa showed me that day. There are no 'assignments', there is no 'duty',  there is only love. And that is ultimately what connects us.

And that is absolutely the sappiest I will get for tonight. It's been one of those 72-hour gaps where the appearance of a butterfly makes me want to sob.

Then, of course, one had to choose our driveway as his final resting place. Let's just say that was a final straw in the haphazard pile holding up the entirety of my mental health.

Come Wednesday, we're taking off to Spokane and I'm gonna give my brother and sister a huge hug.

Hair

My hair is about as long as it's been in several years.

So, naturally, I'm this close to getting it chopped. Summer is an interesting time of year for a lot of reasons, but cosmetically, it's downright humorous. Everything is too hot and close and intrusive. For example, my hair. I wake up in the middle of the night trying to free my ears from its tenuous tendrils, and it just doesn't go anywhere else, except glued to my cheeks and neck and everywhere else. My skin goes back to high school for three months as I break out in hives, pimples and general discoloring of my natural opaque coloring (aka: freckles. lots and lots of freckles) til I look like I'm a natural canister for all things greasy.

I am having fun tying it back though. Since I have, overall, been keeping my hair shorter, I am no longer in possession of a basic set of hair accessories (like rubberbands or hair brush, for instance), so I'm having fun working it out with clips, rubberbands from the daily newspaper, headbands and my boys' comb.

And the salon lady thought I was joking when I asked her if conditioner was really one of those necessary things.

'Just like putting lotion on your skin!'
'That's what that's for?'

Yeah, I was hilarious. Okay, half of that was a joke. I do know what lotion is for, but I tend to view beauty products (with the exception of toothpaste and deordorant.... and shampoo and soap) as mere... suggestions. Something fun to try if you happen to be really bored one day. I don't know that I've tried mascara since early college years, when I was attempting to care what I looked like to others.

All it did was make my eyes water, and subsequently turn red.

Anyway......
The summer continues on its' course here. The boys have settled into their routine of sleeping, eating, playing, etc. I've taken advantage of having a second parent around and have been up to my eyeballs with my apraxia literature.

I believe that I'm in the 'anger' phase of dealing right now. It's so frustrating to hear Ben 'speak' to me and not really know what he's even hinting at. I'm hungry for more than just a sign for 'all done' or 'more'. Body language is gonna get him what he needs with me, but how the heck it gets him through preschool or with other adults is beyond me.

I am aching for him every time I find myself thinking about it. Which is a lot.

And with Adam, my sweet boy, and his behavior stuff... I'm more at an acceptance with. That he has some challenges to work through, but that he'll ultimately be okay, because we have the support and follow through with people who have been down this road before and have worked successfully with kids like Adam before. I feel pretty blind with Ben. And I'm getting so much conflicting information. The books and websites will tell me one thing, but then the speech pathologist gives me another answer, and I just need to know I'm covering what I need to for him. Cause Lord knows, I do not know what I'm doing.

Which is why I'm gonna start supplementing with omega fatty acids. Can't hurt 'em, and it might just help.

More updates to follow, as always.

tradition vs the world

Just got back yesterday afternoon from our annual summer camping trip. For some reason, this year went really remarkable smooth. We all got sleep each night, no major injuries were incurred (only one minor burn and three bandaid-able offenses), plus, we stayed basically within budget (meaning we didn't have to pay for an unexpected motel stay because our camping site got rained out).

It's becoming a bit of a tradition that we take the kids to the ocean, and at least overnight camping in the woods. We drive up to the Forks region, pick a site nearby and used the daylight hours to tide pool and hike. Last couple years have been a bit less planned than this year, but the itinerary has basically been the same.

As in, we march them through the moss-covered forests, ooh and awe at the slugs and elk, try and convince the third of our family under 10 that mud is evil, run away from the incoming tide (over and over and over and over til our pants are simply too waterlogged to run any more), climb through the vast array of drift wood washed up to high tide mark (AKA: the best playground ever!) til finally collapsing next to the campfire we've (AKA: dad) has just spent half the night on and gorge ourselves with cheap hotdogs and marshmellows.

All in all, not the worst vacation ever. Even when you consider that I personally have spent two weeks perusing eye-witness vacation guides to the Hawaii islands.

It's odd how everything not-home can look so appealing. Just, better in almost every way. That's what I like best about summer vacation I think. It gives me a chance to catch my breath and remember what surrounds me every day of the year. Which isn't half bad.

I mean, really. Ocean approximately a day trip away? Rain forests and mountain ranges. Locally grown produce (not everyone can find local blueberries, you know?). Raptors, elk, sea life.... slugs? Right? We each live where we live and it's all pretty amazing and unique to that place.

Which brings me to what today is, naturally. I've been thinking a lot about heritage and culture, and how, as a white American, I feel pretty darn boring sometimes.... okay, most of the time. There is absolutely nothing exotic about me. Really. But, I think as I've kinda become fascinated with other cultures and tried to learn and absorb as much about them as I can (without ever really going anywhere, mind you), I've become more aware of what makes my perspective and life style and (dare I say it) culture what it is. Fireworks on Fourth of July for example. Christmas lighting festivals. Trick or treating. The special preschool songs that we all know. Those every day things I pass on to my kids without even thinking about it because they were passed on to me. How to tell yarrow from fern (who doesn't know this?), how you talk to someone older than you, what burgersmeasly consists of, yankee doodle..... I can't even put down half of what ran through my head, but it was a new thought for me. That I have a cultural identity and place in the world as part of a larger whole. That I'm not just a singular ugly American. Rather, I exist in this plurality.

Yeah. So, I'm totally spending Christmas in Paris.

explanation post...

I have been telling myself that I would be getting this particular topic up, if only for the sake of clarity. Being so close to it, I feel like I have already exhausted the subject forwards, backwards, upside down and inside out, but I will try to be brief and to the point.

Not always my strong point, but I will try.

Okay, so the deal is this: I've known for sure since last October that my youngest (who turned three in March) has a speech delay. Specifically, last October, he was determined to be at a 13 month development level for his verbal output, while his receptive language (how well he can understand what's spoken to him) was and continues to be right on par. Yada, yada, yada, he's been doing the speech therapy thing for the last several months, and in the mean time, got diagnosed with apraxia. Meaning, he understands everything (he can follow basic, and even slightly complicated directions--- as in 'get your shoes Ben' or 'pick up the red block Ben'), but something between the processing sounds and getting them to come out in actual words is a little stuck. Basically, he's come to depend on a lot of pointing, grunting, signing, inflection, etc. Anything but actual intelligible words. I can tell he's saying no because he'll make his angry face, for example. Sad when he covers his eyes.

Anyway, because it's more than a speech delay and an actual speech disorder, it's affecting other faucets of his development. I have him enlisted for the free developmental preschool offered through the school district, which he will, all willing, be attending come September. Meantime, his speech therapist is switching tactics from getting him to say actual words to concentrating on basic vowel sounds first. Which will be followed by consonant sounds. Which will be followed by combination of vowel and consonant sounds.

This is where the 'in the long haul' starts taking on a little more meaning. Basically, Ben has to learn speech from the ground up, because he can't simply mimic what he hears and understands. Typically, these kids (with apraxia) experience a lot of frustration and will stop trying to communicate at all. Thankfully, Ben hasn't reached that point yet. He definitely got the talking bug from his mom. I really can't wait for the day when he'll be able to tell me with more than a screech or a pull on my shirt what exactly he's trying to say.

All that being said, Ben does have a handful of words he's learned and held onto. Why these words, heaven only knows, although I have my own ideas. They are: up, bye-bye, yah, ow, granpa, and spon-bob.

Would it kill the kid to add a mom in there? I'd be thrilled with a mmm even.

Oh well. I'll just have to do with the cheek kisses and neck hugs for now.

One last note: ear tubes are totally overrated.

If I had words to make a day for you

School is out.

I was going to add more about that, but I realized that my brain is in a bit of a freeze right now. I feel like I haven't really stopped to take a breath all week, unless you count when my head hit the pillow whatever time it was that I happened to make it there.

I can't really remember particulars right now. I feel like I know what blindness smells like, and it's all adding up to a whole bunch of peanut butter breath constantly sneaking up on me, intent on taking my legs out when I least expect it.

My hips went out sometime between Monday and now, which I thought had cracked back in place sometime between yesterday and now, but tonight, I can't seem to walk straight. Which is ridiculous. I'm 29, not 82 (no offense to anyone 82, of course). I should have plenty of hip-working years left.

This might have something to do with the fact that my boys like to greet me by jumping on me. And not just the normal jumping either. This is how it's played out:

I walk inconspicuously enough across the crosswalk, wave hi to a few fellow parents, glance at my phone, jingle my keys, and generally watch quietly for my boys to be done with school. Invariably, a conversation will be struck, which I will be politely engaging in, when, out of nowhere, a considerable force from the side/back/front will be launched upon me, either almost knocking me over, or very nearly disembarking my pants. When I come to, either the 6yearold or the 8yearold (or both) will be pulling me back across the parking lot.

I'm not one to exaggerate.

But truly. They think this is funny. They will actually hide when they see me and then ambush me from the most awkward possible angle. When it became obvious that this was still funny to them (and that, a-ha! this is why my hips feel like ground up beef!), I finally took them by the shoulders (in the presence of teachers, aides, parents and the holy crossing guard themselves) told them to knock it off before they hospitalized me.

What's that mean? That means mommy has to go away for a long long long time where people will poke her with pain medication and have to teach her how to walk again. Believe me, kid. I know these things.

Anyway, they've mostly stopped with the ambushing, although the jumping..... well, we're learning.

I just hope my hips survive.

It's doing nothing for the 10k training I'm trying to pressure myself into.

It's 'The Birds' from summer camp all over again

I have a literal murder of birds in my front maple tree. As in, dead birds are showing up at an alarming frequency in the surrounding plant beds.

At first, I thought, hey! Poor baby bird lost its way on the way out of the nest! Tragic, but ultimately understandable. Then, the next day (#1 has been carted off by this time to regions unknown), #2 shows up maybe a good foot from where the first one met in its grisly demise. Still, two can still be coincidence, right? Okay. Two days ago. #3 descends in a pile of maple leaf seedlings that my boys (in all their boy wisdom) jostled out from the center crook of the main branches, only to end up, still dead, in the middle of my driveway.

Is survival rate really this horrible? I guess I should hope so, considering the unholy screeching the number of still-livings members of the species manage to make between themselves. Maybe I'll just chalk this one under the 'disturbing but really okay because it means at least three less greedy beaks going after my lavender/sage and I'm beginning to suspect, tomatoes.

In related news, I think the aphids are winning. While a total of three from the gaggle of fred-meyer provided lady bugs 'organic pest control packet' are still diligently clearing out my decimated dill plants, there are about a hundred or so napping on the dirt directly underneath said dill plants.

I wonder if I should have taken the 'spray with water every three hours' instructions a little more seriously.

I swear I saw Marley leaning against the fence post

We're in our third year of an actual tradition for Mike and I. Yes, I am referring to the great-as-it-ever-was Sasquatch Music Festival at the Gorge. Although, this year, for the first time ever, we spent a full three decadent days instead of the usual one. As in, dropped the boys off, climbed in the minivan and didn't look back.

Some highlights included (and this is the short list): Sharon Van Etten, Wheedle's Grove, Basja Bulat (who hugged me), Robyn (a crazy brand of Euro pop; very fun), Wolf Parade, Beach House, Gayngs, YeaSayers, and of course..... Bright Eyes.

Before I go any further, let me clarify what I assumed was a well known list of concert going etiquette, be it the inside/polite no-clapping-between-movements-you-ignoramus, or the outdoor I-should-have-been-born-a-hippy outdoor come rain or shine kind of event. Listen carefully. I'm only saying this once.

1) If, by mere circumstance, you find yourself in the pit section of a band you do not know, or do not care for, and you happen to be surrounded by persons who are obviously enthralled in the experience, remove yourself as promptly as is safely possible. No one is there to hear you moaning on and on about so-and-so to your just-as-oblivious friend.

2) If, by mere circumstance, you find yourself in another pit of a band you do not know and obviously do not appreciate the scope of said music experience as it passes you by, please at least have the decency to fake some level of interest. Just standing there, without the courtesy of so much as a clap....again, remove yourself before someone else does.

3) There will be mud. No, it is not urine. This is called 'the outdoors', as in 'mud', not the third world in the year 1266.

4) If someone happens to ask you politely to sit down, and you happen to actually sit down, this means that your right to cuss out the person doing the asking is now null and void. Stand back up if it means that much to you!

5) No one born in the 90s should have enough money or time to spend three uninhibited days in the middle of nowhere. Period. Give those of us from the 70s and 80s a turn first.

6) Musicians are not meant to be used as a source of fashion advice. Unless you're actually a fellow musician.

7) If you happen to have been born in the 90s, and you're (despite rule number 5) still attending a three-day concert in the gorge you have no business attending, please keep in mind that you may not in any way shape or form complain about anything. Not lack of sleep, not the weather, not the crappy overpriced food---- nothing. What you get to do is shut up and let the rest of us bask in what has become the one place us actual adults can go to be what you're trying to be but have not figured out how to properly be yet---- and that is, of course, young.

BTW, I don't really have anything against the 90s. They were very good years for me. It just happens that there is such a thing as paying your dues. Putting your time in as society's martyrs so you too can get out there, get a job, populate the planet and otherwise bury yourself in all the things that take up your time that aren't concerts or art or fun or spring break or whatever other word you want to put on it. Only when it's passed you by will you discover that your whole life up to this point has been a spring break. You don't need a week to commemorate your entire lifestyle.

And.......moving on.......I have shaken the hand of Bob Boulin. Bow to me, people who have not shaken the hand of Bob Boulin.

you must have been

Andrew has reached level 14 of angry birds. My four... excuse me... five year old needs a new hobby.

Like cleaning his room. Or doing the laundry. Or maybe eradicating the dust bunnies.

Actually, he's pretty good at all the above. He's an excellent sock sorter, way above average at sighting the dust bunnies and cleans up his messes with a thoroughness that I should try to mimic.

So, needless to say, plenty of hobbies.

In other news, Andrew has officially registered for kindergarten. Which is impossible, because it was only last year that I was gripping his one tiny baby finger around mine, wondering for the third time how in the heck someone so perfectly beautiful could come from me.

A lot of things could be described as beautiful, but until you see your very own eyes, staring into yours from a vestige of something so whole and pure that you know you'll never experience again.... well, nothing really measures up to that.

Not even tap.

Moving on, Andrew is totally not old enough to be a kindergarten-er.

For at least another 4 months.

I was just gonna go with a container of pansies, but your way's good too

Here's to finishing one thing at a time.

So seriously harder than it sounds.

And.... I'm talking about my garden. Which hasn't really reached the point of being able to be called anything beyond 'green shoots stuck in the ground at random', but it is coming along.

If only this could've happened without me digging up half of my front yard. But, some things can't be helped when you're a sad combination of visual learner/impulsive.

And hence my next thing of awesome.

One of my clearest memories of my mom is her planting things. And then digging up those things and planting them somewhere else. Her moving sprinklers with a thoroughness and attention to detail that I never really got.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I get it. And for the record, sorry to my mom for not getting it before.

I don't know if it's the same thing she felt, when she went plant shopping or plant planning or when she actually got the darn things in the ground, but there is something so very..... refreshing is such a small way of putting it, but I can't think of a better word right now. I got my elder box bush in the front corner, framed in the back by strawberries. And then my lettuce rows. Which are gonna be bordered by the nastiriums, which will further be bordered by the lavender bushes, which will border the halfway dug-out walkway.

Why I decided to do this all in the front yard.... the short answer is a book told me to. The long answer is I got excited. Very excited.

I'm really not the sort of person who should ever need caffeine.

Right now, we're at the point where the excitement has ridden out and what we're left with is sore shoulders, first name greeting with the mailman and way too many people seeing my work 'in process.'

I can't wait to get my thyme in though. With some chick and hens in between.

Yum, right?

no quiero

I've gotten through another weekend of work.

Enough said about that.

Exciting news about Ben. The kid needs tubes in his ears, with the idea that once his ears are unclogged, he will start distinguishing the difference between 'book' and 'bike' and 'door' and 'drum' and be able to start communicating in more than just consonant sounds. And pointing. Lots of pointing.

According to his doctor, once the tubes are in, Ben should be out of speech therapy in 2-3 months tops. I am beyond relieved, especially since it seemed the more we've tried, the less progress Ben has been making with his word acquisition. He passed his hearing test, because the kid can hear sounds. Turns out, he just can't hear very clearly. Here's the kicker though. Because my baby is only 3 and prone to the wiggles, he will be under sedation. In the OR.

Outside of being buried alive, circular preschool songs, and the occasional flashback to childhood gas station trips, the one thing that can turn my blood cold is surgery. Yeah, I know. RN talking. But, I wouldn't work in an OR if they paid me to.

Do you know how low they keep the temperature in those places? I'd freeze to death within the first week.

Anyway.... the idea of my baby going under so the nice doctors can stick tubes down his eustachians have me a bit squeamish. But, I'm trying something new for me. I've decided I'm not going to think about it. Most of my problems in life seem to result after periods of extended thought. I think I need to start making changes and do research and that's when I end up doing crazy things like pulling up the front yard sod or impersonating a Spanish interpreter.

Although, for the record, sod is completely overrated. Especially in front yards.

The point is, if I let myself think too much about it, I'm going end up with a pile of books on hearing disorders, staying up all hours researching tube placement procedures on the internet, which is just gonna lead to me strong arming myself into the operation room to 'observe', which is just gonna make me that much more crazy for having witnessed.

Let's assume it's safe to say I need any sanity I have left at this point. Although, really, what's the point of sanity if all it gets you is a seat in the waiting room?

no man, I don't have a quarter

My left rear tire lost its elastic integrity somewhere between me parking it at my mommy's group and coming out two hours later, laden as I was with teacher appreciation hand-made gifts (thank all deity that 'craft' day only comes once a month or so). Ben chose this morning to have an epiphany regarding the toilet, and so was sans one wet diaper, which I was going to rectify as soon as we got home in my fully functional dodge caravan 2000, color:gray (I've said that so many times today, I'm having a hard time thinking of my car in any less cold clinical terms). Only... so much for the functional. So, yeah.... an hour later, thanks to the help of a very helpful church employee, my spare (which, if you own a dodge caravan 2000, resides below the rear of the car, where no one who isn't auto-minded would think to look) is attached, and I am driving the 15minutes it takes to get to the local Les Schwab in no less than 30 minutes.

Where we spend the next hour or so eating crappy Taco Time, keeping a three year old on my lap, facing me because he's soaked through his blue overalls.

Actually, Andrew and Ben did awesome. Andrew, who had never in his life experienced a kids meal that came with thumb puppets of masked mexican fighting legends, was, needless to say though I will say it anyway, thrilled. And Ben, won over by the cinnamon twists in place of the boring apple slices he usually gets, screamed louder by the time we got back to our car than the whole time combined. And that includes when mom tried cleaning cinnamon sugar off his face with a taco time napkin dipped in his cup of drinking water.

We didn't get home til 2pm, an hour before I had to turn around and pick up the brothers from school. Suffice it to say that my routine was thoroughly messed with today. A messing with that I don't handle well. Although today, I managed it without yelling at the boys. Yup. Progress, my son. Prog-ress.

Taco Time does make them some mean chalupas. I will give them that.

it's been a long december

Woke up with a very sore throat and ears full of something heavy and sloshy pushing against the drum part of said ears.

Not happy about the heavy sloshy sore part of all that, but am mightily relieved to finally have the dam of indifferent ennui break a bit.

I feel better about not feeling better if I can at least pinpoint the source. Now everything comes together. Everything makes sense now. I understand it all now.

Ben still has a runny nose and is a cranky little bugger. I'm a little cranky too, but you know, even cranky isn't nearly as cranky when you know why you're feeling cranky.

Yeah.... my pattern of physical illness is usually to get all loopy and weird in the absence of drugs. Then, when I get drugs, I tend to just pass out. The added amount of weird into my system is just too much for my brain to handle.

Which is why I advocate for the whole 'natural' childbirth experience. Not because I'm harboring masochistic tendencies, but because me off drugs and in pain is weird enough without me adding extra chemicals to the mix. Like, I like to feel like I'm actually thinking the thoughts that I'm thinking....

Did I mention my throat is hurting? Like, a great deal?

Sigh.

But, I'm making an effort to stay awake today. To which success I credit Devotchka. And all the gypsies.

Gol, but I love the gypsies.

spring

I can always tell it's really truly no-joke spring time. And not just by noticing that it's sunny outside or that the thousand and one tulip plants the last owner left hidden around the yard are starting to bloom.... although, honestly, those are my first clues.

I can tell it's really truly no-joke spring and not just lovely weather out when I start inventing excuses not to take a nap. Because, as honestly wonderful said nap sounds, I know I'm just gonna wake up to the same sunny weather, except, when I wake up, I would have slept through most of it.

Sleeping through 20 degree weather just doesn't bug my physche in the same way.

Course, cause it was Saturday, I still slept through the first couple hours of daylight, but was outside, pretending to clean up my yard area before 9-ish. I want to try an edible kind of landscape thingy in the front yard. I got my mint and chives out in a contained pot, but that's it for now. Mostly, it's a function of figuring out where the sprinkler lines are and where not to dig.

More complicated than it sounds. I mean, I know we have a sprinkler system out front. I just can't find any of them yet.

Boys had their first annual go at the pruning tweezers with all the rose bushes I killed over the winter. Although, killed would signify that it took deliberation on my part. So, maybe we can just say I manslaughtered the roses. I don't think that's right either though.

Luke, Seth? Help me out here.

don't be a drag

Fellow dancer is promising death if our practice sessions end up on you-tube.

I am soooo right there with her. I mean, who knew that heel-toe, step ball change, toe-heel.... whatever.... could be so complicated?

Just like walking. One foot in front of the other. Okay. Cool.

Now do it, like, 50 times faster.

But, my friends, I'm feeling optimistic. Because, being there, learning a new skill, I'm not a mom or a wife or a nurse, or anyone else that needs to make things pretty for those around me. I'm just a person with two left feet.

Put us all out on a dance floor, and, suddenly, everything tends to even out, don't it?

Except for all the kids that got made fun of in high school for being effeminate and spazzy at the stake dances. All those kids are dancing circles around the rest of us.

To which I say: Good for you. I can't really capitalize on any of the reasons I got made fun of in high school, except maybe that 'dork' has slowly evolved to mean 'eccentric'.

Anyway, I'm having fun learning the steps. And checking out the clothes. Totally up my alley. This is the kind of stuff I'd wear everywhere, if I had the guts.

Or the budget. I think if I could do my life over, at this very young point of my life, I would have definitely invested more in tutus.

my place of employment is in no way responsible for any of my opinions expressed on this private blog

So, I got through spring break. It was nice enough, only much too short. Spring break is such a tease. Timed just right, there just as the weather is really getting nice, just at that time of year when you really need a reason to get out. Me and Spring Break? We're tight. But, really. Such a tease. As soon as you're just getting used to adequate sleep and catching up on getting the house not looking like a crumb lined tarp wasn't dragged through by its teeth, well, then it's over. And you have to wake up and go back to reality all too soon.

I've been a bit spoiled with Mike being able to be off when the kids are off though. Well, most of the time. Half the time, he has meetings or has to go and actually grade a paper or two. But, mostly, he gets to be here when the kids are. And that is nice.

I don't think I'm ever gonna not feel tired. Although, today was a nice change. I resisted the urge to throw in the towel and actually exercised instead of taking a nap. Surprise! I felt a tad better about myself. Plus, I actually went a full 4 today, instead of my regular between 2 and 3.

It's good to know my body is still capable of some things.

Had a bit of a hellish night at work Monday. The ER was at capacity, and by the time I left around midnight, they still had 10 admits waiting for beds downstairs. I took 2 admits, plus the crazies I had before that. Honestly, it wasn't bad. At least no one died in the middle of all that. That kind of stuff can totally throw a wrench in the whole rhythm of your shift.

One particular man had no memory of why he had come in. All he could remember was helping a friend trim a tree, then falling and hitting his head. I clarified the situation for him by explaining that it was the police that had found him, up a tree in the middle of the night at a public park. I didn't know what had happened to his head, but they suspected that it was a result of maybe some bad interactions with the drugs he's taking.

Or taking too much of.

I make sure he's comfortable and doesn't need anything, and I'm about to say good night when the man gets a bit teary and says 'I'm not crazy.'

Man. That got my heart. So, I rub his shoulder a bit and I tell him not to sweat it too much. We all get sick at different times for different reasons, and sometimes, being at the hospital and getting some rest is the best thing. That it's okay for him to rest and give himself time to feel better.

Fact is, I have no clue what to say. And I left feeling like a bit of a douche. But I meant what I said. Addicts are people too, and their sickness is real. Or at least, the sickness that results from the addiction is real. One of those things I wouldn't wish on anyone.

I do like my job though. So long as I don't have to deliver no babies or talk down any laboring women, I'm good. Been there and done that.

this is not a vagina monologue

...but why is it I feel unbearable guilt in pursuing anything that does not involve cleaning my house or strictly interacting with my kids? And I'm not talking about not getting the necessary grind out of the way. Yes, I feed my family, I wash our clothes, I generally look after their hygiene. And I spend time with them, playing their jedi-pokemon battles, going on our 'nature' walks, etc. My point is, every moment of my day seems taken up doing these things. Which is okay.

But, then, say I have something I want to do that is strictly not necessary or meant for them like, at all. As in, I'm not going/doing whatever it is I'm pursuing so I can be a better mother, so I can fill my tank to then turn around and fill theirs. In a word, I'm going/doing simply because I WANT TO.

Now, granted, I don't feel so bad when I've arranged well ahead of time to have someone cover on the home front for me. This is usually not for more than an hour or two, if that, and I know that this person I've used to cover for me is gonna have me 'pay it forward' for them soon, so no guilt there. Whatever.

Okay. So, here's spring break, and Mike is home, and everything that I usually just blow off guilt about because my friends are covering for me or I'm paying someone to keep my kids from impaling themselves on... well, I guess if you really tried, you could impale yourself on anything... point being, with friends, no guilt. With my husband and father of said children? I feel soooo guilty just taking off and leaving him with the boys. Even though 'taking off' entails a carefully orchestrated schedule of here and there, when the boys have been fed, lavished attention upon with a list of options if/when they happen to be needy for more.

What is wrong with this picture?

If you stumped, let me help you out. Mike, the daddy, is fully capable of entertaining, feeding, changing, preventing injury, etc. for all of his kiddos. I know this because he's been sharing this job with me for the past decade, give or take. And you know, I never feel guilty about it if I know I'm making a paycheck while I'm 'out'. But going out just for my pure enjoyment? That's hard for me to justify. And why? Because somehow, having someone pay you legitimizes any joy you might have with a particular activity.

Talking to Mike about this is interesting, cause we both seem to be on the same ill conceived guilt trip, of 'oh-but-you-do-more-so-you-take-a-break-I-don't-deserve-one-yet-I've-suffered-less'.

I mean, wow.

Have to say, it's nice to hear that Mike views my time here taking care of the boys while he's actually earning money as valuable. And that he agrees that it's okay to enjoy getting out of that for a little while. On a regular basis.

Also, a short side note: Eve Ensler is totally my hero.

resurrection

Made a trip to Costco the other day, and lo and behold! Verily, verily, I believe!

Yeah, but for real: cucumbers and lettuce (lettuce!) from British Columbia! Which, yes sir yes! IS LOCAL!

Or at least, miles more local than California, Mexico or (which I recently discovered is a Central American country and not a South American country) Honduras.

Once more, with feeling: Yeah!

That just makes me feel good. Like, inside.

Squee!!!!!

While it's hard to beat local fresh vegetables in March, I am gonna step it up a beat and give you this: My bruised writer's soul has picked herself off the ground and attempted to submit yet one more piece that will probably be rejected in the next 48 hours or so. And in even better news, I seem to have picked up my muse from its' homeless condition of wandering downtown alleys to actually pulling something out half decent.

At least I feel like my sentence structure is coming back to me.

Not to mention... hello! Spring Break!

that's what she said

Wow. Ten days. And some significant things have happened in that time. Like my son turning three. My baby is three! But, he was kind and gave me a nice nostalgic taste of the new born days. Yup. For a few hours running up to said birthday, and then again for a couple days following said birthday, Ben was in serious need of cuddling. Translated, this means me, on the couch, pinned under a grouchy furnace of a puppy-boy, looking criminally adorable. For untold hours.

Anyway, I didn't exactly catch up on my sleep from the last time one of them decided to catch whatever bug is going around, but these last two have moved through relatively fast. One puke later, and they all seem pretty functional. They definitely have their energy levels back.

Now if only mom bounced back as quickly.

Actually, I'm doing alright. Outside of the time when I'm attempting to wake myself up, and then later, when I'm attempting to put myself to sleep, my body has been feeling pretty good. With the whole transition from sleep to wake and vice versa, I think through the years of having my normal rhythms generally messed with, my brain can now not decide if I'm a morning person or a night person. Which means, I end up being neither. I guess that could mean I'm a 'day' person, but that doesn't really fit either, because I work enough split shift that I know, honestly, whenever I'm supposed to be awake, I'll stay awake, right up to the very point in time where I don't have to, and then, I'm a goner.

Weekends are hard on my brain that way. Technically, I have no where to be, and nothing that absolutely has to get done on a certain timeline. And my body is convinced that means I have to sleep. Now. For as long as possible.

Meantime, my kids are asking why we haven't had breakfast yet, it's 8:30 mother. Then, why aren't we having breakfast yet, it's 9:30 mother.

That's right around the time I'm really regretting teaching them how to read the clock. Or use the clock. Cole, for an unknown mysterious reason, likes to set his alarm for 6 every morning, regardless of what morning it is. When it goes off, no matter how that kid is feeling, he'll get himself out of bed, usually to end up standing at my side of the bed saying, 'Mom, I'm tired.'

To which I say (calmly of course), 'Then why the hell aren't you in your bed?!'

If it makes y'all feel better, it actually comes out a lot more like 'wmuff cado- sish....' To which he responds with 'Moooooooooom.... I'm hungry.'

big fat SIGH.

And to think that I used to think sleeping was a waste of time.

Yes, I was born a personality A. Which I think is safe to say I've mostly overcome at this point in my life.

* * *

Moving on, I think I may have discovered the next 'thing of awesome' in my life. There's been the crocheting (still awesome), the raptor rescue (still awesome), the rock climbing (not as awesome as I expected, but wait til I get my own wall installed on the side of the garage), and now, I have discovered an adult beginner's tap class.

Yeah. I know.

Only problem is that it is scheduled right over the top of Adam's karate night. I have just enough time to drop him off, but I have to get someone else to pick him up, which Mike is totally excited to do. Actually, his first response to my new found thing was 'That doesn't sound fun at all.', right after staring blankly at me like I was about to jump out from behind the couch and yell 'Surprise!' like Cole likes to do whenever anyone leaves the room.

Yeah. No, I'm serious. Has anyone out there tried this? Serious fun.

But, like everything, we'll see how it goes.

it's official. the dream is dead.

i broke down and bought not only a case of OJ, but celery, brocoli, and carrots to boot. None of which grow at this time of year in Washington state. At least, not any that sell at the local grocer's. I'm left with ever decreasing options here. 1) Grow it myself *which will require actual planning and patience* 2) eat nothing but apples, radishes and 'grapples' for the next few months. OR 3) starve.

Okay, I guess I won't starve, but I've kinda gotten used to this new habit of centering my diet around food that eventually rots. I perused the snack aisle today for the first time in.... a while, and surprise! Oreos are not grown in the NW.

It's depressing.

However, Safeway does make some mean bagels. And I have about a week (give or take a few days) of celery, carrots, broccoli and OJ to enjoy.

Don't ask me how this happened, but Cole loves celery, Adam broccoli, and Andrew carrots. Yeah. I don't remember gushing about raw broccoli when I was Adam's age. I think it was corn for me.

But, then, you can't beat fresh corn on the cob grown in your backyard genuine NW article.

Sigh. I can't wait 'til the summer.

Worms

Got some nice rainfall today, which, of course, meant we had to go out for a worm hunt. And a belated garbage hunt in the front lawn. Turns out, passerbys are getting the idea that our lawn is the place to place their expendables. More often than not, their alcoholic beverages. Really? Who is walking outside drinking? Do you business inside like all the rest of us.

Geez.

Anyway, between the five of us, we found a total of maybe 4-6 nice sized worms. Ben was right into it, giggling at the wiggly little things. Adam, not so much. Which is ironic, if I have the meaning of that word right. Adam is our animal-knowledge encyclopedia, but when it comes to actually touching one or being close to one? Not much of a fan. Although, he's gotten better with reptiles and the birds as he's had more access to them.

Worms? Turns out still freak him out.

And under the category of 'possibly best news ever', Adam and Ben's collective ear infections were caught on only the second day of suffering.

Hell yes, I'm getting better!

some suggestions...

I've gotten back to my old stomping ground of juvenile fiction, and I am LOVING it. When I was my son's age, I was a huge fan of Avi and Rinaldi. I was not a horse, teen drama kind of reader. I liked the epic drama, historical fiction kind of reader. But, I tried something new the last time I was at the library with my boys. It's all about being random.

Which is about all I have time for anymore, which, it might turn out, is not that bad. What it turns out looking like is this: I grab the first two books nearest me from the kids chapter books, then the one nearest me from the adult fiction.

This strategy has led to some very interesting literary experiences.

The first few books I ended up reading (and really enjoying) were titled Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go (which ended up being a play on Dante/Virgil, heavy on the humor), Toad Rage (another funny one about the adversity of cane toads in Australia), Kafka's Shore (a seriously out there surreal novel by one of Japan's most popular authors... although, yeah guilty! I had never heard of him before), and The Dechronization of Sam McGruder (a fictional account of a atypical time traveler by some very well-known paleontologist named George Gaylord Simpson. Pretty quick reads for someone who's into reading whatever is lying around. And really fun to boot. It's kinda nice to pick up a book with no expectations whatsoever and find it genuinely enjoyable.

The one other I can remember is called Dragonbreath, which my boys absolutely love! So, that's been fun, to have a book I picked out that they are enjoying sharing with me. Course, it helps that it's about dragons, iguanas and sea serpents! I mean, come on! Who doesn't love that combination.

And last night, Mike spotted an owl in our front yard tree. I had heard over NPR that Washington state is the home to the most species of owls in the entire USA. I've been working as a volunteer over at the Raptor Rehab House that takes in local hurt raptor species and returns them to the wild, so I've seen my share of owls, especially barn owls, who, as babies, have a tendency to bury themselves in hay stacks and thereafter fall off the back of trucks.... but I'd never seen an owl in my neighborhood, let alone my front yard! That was awesome!

It sat there hooting at us for a few minutes til we finally made out this furry little ball with shining eyes staring at us from one of the many crooks in our ancient tree that perpetually looks like it was the victim of a very bad haircut this time of year. Then, a couple minutes later, as I was turning back to go inside, Mike reports that it flew off across the street.

Completely awesome, but it might put a bit of a damper on my plans to have some free range chickens in the back.

spilling guts coming through

First of all, let me apologize in advance. Metaphorically only of course, because it would be a moot point to post something like I'm going to post and pretend to be apologetic about it. That would be the opposite atmosphere I'm trying to cultivate here.

I was glazing over a bit last night, surfing through my favorite pages, one of which is this blog of mine. I skimmed through 2009 and 2010, some of this new year, and I came to an interesting conclusion.

Accepting myself as I am, as I was, as I hope to be, is a very new sensation in my life. And it is so reflective in my writing, that I'm not sure I even recognize the person who was writing in here in 2009.

This last year at a family reunion, I shared a semi-autobiographical short story regarding a near-collision with another car in the elementary school parking lot. Last night, I realized that it was the most honest thing I've ever shared with my family. Not the first of things I've shared with my family. Not even the more intimate of my moments I've shared with family, but by far, it was the most honest.

That was just a goofy one-shot about me as an adult learning to try to act like the adult. Nothing deep or soul searching or expository. Just me. Presented as me. Starring me.

Anyway, I'm feeling apologetic for that reason. In my defense, blogging, for me anyway, was never supposed to be about honesty in the first place. It is the world I live in, the 'living out loud' generation that created face book and texting and twitting and the dozen other ways we communicate with each other in ways that are worlds away from the over the fence evening chat. Creating a blog just seemed like the simplest of all these alternatives to keep in contact with family and friends that otherwise would be lost between the cracks stretching between the tech savvy world and my own lack of said savvy.

This place was meant to record my life as I needed others to see it, the bits and pieces that I knew were acceptable and expected. My mothering. My kids.

My kids, my kids, my kids.

Whom I love. Thought I should clip that little fact in here somewhere. Honestly, if you spent as much time around the suckers as I do, you would too. Love is no great accomplishment.

But, now to my actual point. Even though this blog will only ever be a vicarious sharing of my life for people that I wish I could share more of my actual living with, I can no longer use it as a stage for the person that I think others need me to be. I don't know how long I've be doing it, and I'm by no means blaming anyone for this odd phenomenon of personal insecurity, but the person I was in 2009 can't be found on this blog. The woman I was in 2009 was battling under an oppression of chaotic anxiety and depression. This woman of 2009 was struggling with her will to live and her idea of faith. This woman in 2009 wasn't sure if she liked her kids, let alone if she wanted to continue playing the odds to try and get them raised right... by her, this person who would then get on here and chat away about how the laundry got done and the kid's clothes got sorted, and how the boys spent their allotted time outside each day.....

This was the woman who was waking up each day just drowning. You may think I jest. Just remember who you're talking to.

Or not talking to, as the case may be.

The truth is, the woman who walked away from that misrepresented 2009, who thought that salvation laid in a done to-do list, gave birth to someone that I couldn't have comprehended then.

Or maybe I've been in denial this whole time.

Maybe I'm not so much different from who I've always been as I'm not hating who that is so much anymore.

In fact, half the time, I'd say I'm even mildly amused (accepting?) of who that person is turning out to be.

At least, I don't particularly feel the urge to kill myself off at this point.

Which is a good thing.

I am who I am folks. My views lean liberal, as in, I think Obama is actually an okay president. I'm disgusted by easy cheese, and I think capitalism is a selfish enterprise that rides the backs of the poor in shameless ways. I don't mind showing up in public minus makeup and/or fashion accessories. I think corn is overrated, I like the smell of coffee, and I am medicated. I'm short, I tend on the side of mouthy, I talk way too much all the time, but especially during movies. I'm not great at thinking things through, but I am awesome at following through. I read too much, I tend to hog the hot water, and I am not the most careful or considerate driver you will ever come across. I don't believe in religion. I killed my car when I was 19.

Just wait. There's more. But, fortunately for you all, I think you get the point.

Which turns out to be: I am me. And that is a blessing.

James Franco is my new hero

I mean, come on! The guy drops out of school to pursue acting, then gets his degree while pursuing said acting (make that two degrees now), publishes a book of short stories, and survives an epic 127 days stranded in a canyon which he only escapes by chopping off his own arm.

I mean, really! How can you not love the guy?

Plus, he looks really good in a dress.

Okay, not really. He is, in truth, a really ugly looking lady, but, evidently secure enough in his manhood to don a fabulous red number for the sake of comedy.

Need I say more?

I think not. I'll move on.....

Ben and me have a new game going on. The speech therapist was modeling it for me. What it consists of is pretty much this:

-Ben, do you want the pig puzzle piece or the farmer puzzle piece?

-Gah!

-Which one Ben?

-Gah!

-Say please Ben.

-Gah!

-Say please, Ben. (insert me taking his hand and rubbing it on his chest in the sign for 'please')

-Gah! (insert Ben hitting his chest like a crazed gorilla)

-Please....Puh-leeze, Ben.

-Gah!

-Please, like puh-puh-puh.

-Gah! Puh-Puh-Puh! GAHHHHHHH!

-Good job Ben. Here's the puzzle piece.

And so on and so forth.

Eventually, he's supposed to fold and repeat actual words.

And Andrew has discovered the new game of "every time mom says 'not now' 'later' 'i'll think about it' or the actual dreaded 'NO', flop on the ground in knee-crushing sobs and ask one more time". Really? Although, I guess there are worse things. A kid in his preschool carries an artillery of golf balls with him everywhere.

Now that would be a pain to be tripping over all day.

I don't know if it's the antibiotics or just the fact that this strep is a wicked force of nature out to make me stop moving, but I have been feeling just a tad.... spacey lately. Like, dizzy in a brain sense. Not so much a 'I stood up too fast' sense as much as a 'that train of thought that just made its way through my head is making my thoughts dizzy and now my hands seem unusually big'. A clear day seems other worldly bright, and I can't get over the pestering suspicion that a little goblin is running around my house hiding my socks.

Seriously. I don't know where all my socks went. Which is probably my sign that I need to wash my sheets. Seems like as soon as I wash my sheets, all the socks come out of the woodwork.

Don't ask me. I don't know how these things work.

But, outside of the sock situation, today has gone very well. Us homebodies all got a nap, the two oldest went to school and stayed there. No phone calls at noon dutifully reporting the presence of febrile stomachaches or marked lethargic moodiness. Also, we actually made it to the library today! Dare I say it, but it almost felt like one of those... what do you call them? Normal days! Adam grabbed his dinosaur book, Cole grabbed two fat cookbooks, while Andrew and Ben grabbed random picture books so that they could go look at the movie selection. All in all, we got away with a pretty hefty haul.

So now, Adam can tell me even more I didn't know about dinosaurs while Cole tries to tell me exactly what I will be making him for breakfast (this morning, it was icecream smoothies) while Andrew begs for movie time and Ben tries to use his hardcover as a shield in his new found sport of offensive wrestling.

But, at least they're not sick.

alfalfa is deceiving

I don't know why, but today, I was thinking about a certain alfalfa field in Idaho that me and my cousin trampled all over while we were supposed to be manning the sign-in book at another cousin's wedding reception (or the gift table... or possibly nothing. It was a while ago... what's relevant is that when me and said cousin went off to 'explore' on our own at these inevitable family gatherings, it always felt like a 'great escape' kind of situation.). We thought it was weeds. Or at least, that's what I thought. Which I ended up sharing with irate Idaho farmer when he asked what the H-E-double hockey sticks we were doing.

Well, kind sir, we're running through your lovely field of weeds.

It's an easy mistake to make people. Of course, my first clue should have been that these particular weeds were strangely well organized. Decidedly untouched, if you will, when me and my cousin made up our minds to trample (the word bears repeating. Again. No other really will really justify) through this kind humble farmer's livelihood.

I felt terrible. Really. I did. I felt even more terrible when I discovered that said cousin, who had ducked her cute little grass stained red hair under the neck high alfalfa once said humble farmer started cursing us (wait... no, there was just me) was not about to offer any explanations of her own.

You see though... this has been my problem. When people ask me a question, I assume that I'm supposed to answer them. Like when Sister Hawkins asked the senior primary what their new year resolutions were a month into me being the new kid in said senior primary. I raised my hand and shared with the class that I was resolving to flush the toilet when I was done. Sister Hawkins turned red, everyone laughed, and guess what? I was actually confused. I thought it was a brilliant new years resolution. Mom was always bugging me to flush the darn toilet, which, honestly, I never thought was all that important, because, with three brothers in the house, the toilet would get flushed. Believe me. By the time I got a turn, I figured, what's the point? But, in the spirit of being a better daughter, I thought, hey, I can try that.

And I wondered why I was having trouble making friends that 6th grade year.

Just to be clear, I didn't resolve that year to wash my hands. I already had that one covered from the year before. So, check and check.

proceed with caution, ye who enter here...

Found out I've been giving 6yr old twice the dose of abx that he was supposed to be getting.

whoops.

Called the pharmacy and they told me that it shouldn't hurt him, but that now, he'll probably need more antibiotics because you're supposed to be on them for so long.

6yr old has been staging a coup in his pjs. Has yet to change out of said pjs for the last four days or so. I've informed him that he will be wearing clothes to school tomorrow. He informed me of "You wanna bet?"

Stay tuned. I'm fairly confident in my magic ways of persuasion. And honestly, if I could just get him to change into a different pair of pants (anything other than the flannel sweat pants---really. Even his off-colored green sweat pants with the odd off-white line up the side that makes it look like perpetual puking is taking place. Even that).

For the record, I can't remember how we acquired that certain piece of clothes. Of course, the fact that I could care less for it means that my son fell in mad fashion love with it the moment he saw it.

How come it always works that way? By the way, this is the same kid who won't wear anything with buttons. Like, not even fake buttons. Which means that I'm constantly finding mad awesome button clothes for him. Which now his younger brothers are sure there's something wrong with because if Cole says they're the evil inherent, then what are you gonna do?

You're not gonna wear the cute sharp looking shirts that mom just invested the full 2 for $5 at Walmart.

Which I'm no longer frequenting for personal reasons.

Although I must get my car's oil changed, and because of related health costs that have amassed over the last few months (epilepsy, bloody stool, allergic reactions, finger tumors, strep) will probably have to be done at Walmart because they are so bloody cheap.

The same car that does not stink at the present time, thank you very much.

At least, it shouldn't. I can't really smell anything since the strep....stuff. But, we're gonna assume that it no longer smells, since the boys helped me throw out the half eaten banana peels and wet diapers.

I know. Gross. It's probably grosser ('more gross?' I know not people.) that I don't particularly find it all that gross. Surprising sometimes. Smelly, sure... but, not really gross on a relative scale.

Gross is rotting flesh tunneling under rotten flesh. Gross is being farted at in the face when giving someone a suppository. Gross is normally healthy robust individuals not maintaining a minimum level of hygiene. Gross is when that same individual asks for extra mayo for his ham sandwich.

So... all relative.

And then there was one

Mike is the only one left standing, as of last night, around 7:30, I was officially brought down by the mighty strep.

Not that, functionally, this has made any difference in how today went, compared with the 20 or so days proceeding it. Or maybe it's only been 15 or so. At this point, it all just feels like one Loooooooong day anyway, so whatever.

The point is, I am now on medication and should start to feel more like my usual healthy strapping self any day now. The one catch was that, now that I'm officially on medication, neither my prescribing doctor, nor the nursing super would allow me anywhere near my job for the first 24 hours following my first dose. Which, okay. I get it. As an RN, I'm supposed to be helping others heal physically, not infecting them with some virulent strain of strep. I get it. But really, how long have I been contagious? I'll give you a clue. It didn't start last night, that much is true.

But, we'd be lost without some form of procedure wouldn't we? It's like in my patient notes: continuing to monitor.

And, really. Pat on the back to me for fessing up to having strep in the first place. I could've just gone to work anyway, and none would be the wiser. I could've washed my hands just as carefully as I do every time I lay hands on sick people. I probably couldn't have gotten any of them sicker if I was trying, heart crossed.

Then again, there has to be some things that are more important than filthy lucor (or however you spell that... seriously, someone get me the correct spelling for 'lucor')--- although there are few things more unforgiving than a cut in one's finances.

Such a balancing act we walk sometimes.

Sit down y'all....

But, it's true. I am being published.

By a local parenting magazine. That can't pay me and accepted my inquiries because they're new enough that they'll take any effort given them. Actually, I want to include in here that the editor did say that my article was 'well written and organized.' Plus, she thought the photo I sent for my contributor's bio was cute.

I will take it.

Meanwhile, I got rejected the other day in record time. Two days was all it took for a return email. Which I'm pretty sure was mass-produced.

But, back to my successful foray into the publishing world. My article is all about this free strings class offered by a local mom. She's been doing it for the last couple years and has built up a student base of approximately 80 students, divided up in six different skill levels. Suffice it to say that this woman, who is also pregnant and has three other children, possesses some mad skills.

Until this last week or so when she informed all of us (thru mass email.... isn't technology awesome?) of her husband's downsizing experience and their need for immediate relocation.

Which just goes to prove that life is cruel and unfair. Until you consider that, built purely from the goodwill this particular mad-skills mother has produced, both the school that has been housing her rehearsals and the volunteer teachers that have been assisting her have committed together to continuing the program regardless of what happens from here on out.

People know a good thing when they see it I guess. The whole thing is very encouraging to me.

Also, I spent most of the day yesterday sleeping off the kid's strep-induced madness and a couple hours today back in the company of actual adults, so, I'd say, overall, I'm feeling encouraged anyway.

Amazing how an actual full night of sleep can do that.

is this getting old?

two more down. This time, 6yr old and 2yr old. So, another day of pampering sick children with lemonade flavored gatorade, apple juice, and yogurt. Got them both on abx on the first day though, so my learning curve is definitely adjusting in a good way. 6yr old should get back to school by tomorrow. 2yr old should be on the mend soon after.

But, sickness aside, here's some gems from sick 6yr old today:

-'Mom! I know why I have a temperature!"

"Why Cole?"

"Because I haven't used the bathroom yet!"

-"Mom! I'm not sick! I'll just swallow my saliva and I won't have to cough!" (and yes, my 6yr old says 'saliva'. These are the advantages of growing up with a nurse as a mom).

-"I have to get my balance!" said right before sticking his arms out to the side of him like they taught him in gym class.

It's interesting to watch the different reactions to sickness depending on which personality is struck. Adam gets sullen. And really really cuddly. Cole goes into denial and can't stop talking. Andrew gets very very sad. Like, edge of desperation sad. And Ben just plants himself on my lap and yells whenever I try to move.

But, they all have to conk out sometime. (Note from Cole: "I was not sleeping! I feel better now!". Second note: when he starts saying things like this, it's time to get the puke bowel.)

And what does all this matter to you, reader of mine? I had a thought last night that will no doubt sound so much less amazing than it felt to me last night, and eventually, I'd like to polish out the idea of this to something a little more succinct, but basically, my thought went a little like this: We all crave a witness. As in, someone else to see what we see, to somehow have a inkling into what our experience is. To say, yeah, she's right, that's what I saw too.

That's all we all ever want right? To be right and have someone agree with us. Of course, I'm right anyway (lol... but really, I'm right), but having someone agree with that sentiment? Priceless baby.

I don't believe in much, but I believe in duct tape

In the interest of full disclosure, I got that beaut of a one-liner from the season finale of Lost. A truly miracle of modern TV writing.

Okay. Really. Lost gets 6 seasons, plus a two hour season finale, while Arrested Development gets a lousy 3, while slinking off into the shadows with its tail between its legs.

Just... really.

But, credit where credit's due. That was a good one-liner.

Those are the most difficult to come up with.

post day 1

Think we might be making a turn here in sick-land. In fact, all 4 were acting near... happy today, if I dare say it. Adam ended up nodding off every few minutes this afternoon, getting some good sleep in finally. Went to a playgroup this morning. At the church. Where I haven't been attending for a few months at least now.

It was okay. But definitely different, feeling like I'm on the outside looking in now. I have a feeling I'm supposed to be learning something here. I'm trying to listen so carefully to that voice inside me that tells me where to place myself, how I'm supposed to be living my life. And I've been happy with how I've been doing that. But, how are you supposed to follow against the grain of something that has been with you your whole life? The only morality you ever knew.... or thought you knew. Knew so well that you didn't even realize that it was never really your own to start with. It was just there for the having, and you thought that was the same thing.

I wonder if any of these other mothers, who seem so sure of what they're doing and why they're doing it, I wonder if they've ever wondered. Or if they'd tell me if I asked. It seems sometimes that even admitting to that kind of doubt is a sin.

But, I guess I've moved past that level.