Thank you all for your faith in my prison success skills. I have big plans to go knock over a bank so I can test my theory.
Meanwhile, I have all these half-finished blog posts floating around in my head, none of which have made it into coherent, published posts. I would blame it on my full-time job, but, um, I've actually had this week off, so my argument is a little moot at this point (or "mute," as about 80% of the people I work with--educators, mind you--think the word is). Two ideas seem diametrically opposed, but such is the mishmash of my brain these days. Both thoughts come to me after having spent several days in a row with my sweet son. The first is how often I feel, pettily and immaturely, fucking irritated at the inherent inequalities of parenthood in the first year. A friend did warn me about this, and other moms (especially those who breastfed) have confirmed that's just the way it is, but I am irritated by it nonetheless. The second post that keeps composing itself is how veryveryvery much I love him and how fucking appealing he is these days. This is the bait and switch baby they put in the store window to get you to come in for a test drive.
And yet, being as how it's after 10 and the babe is asleep and I must needs hasten to that state myself, of neither of these shall I write tonight. I will, I want to write about both, but they are both full of big emotional thoughts, and I am...well, not, right now. Instead, I am a little focused on my teeth.
One of the things on my to-do list for this week was "call and schedule dentist appointment," because it has been over a year since I've been. In fact, I was in last in October of 2008, when I was about 4 1/2 months pregnant with Tankbaby, and in the chair, getting my teeth cleaned, was the first time I felt him kick. I had felt movements before, but they were...not unlike certain biological functions, shall we say, and I wasn't sure if they were him. But something about the angle of the chair, the vibration of the cleaning tool, or the scrape, scrape, scrape of the...scraping tool thingy apparently resonated down in the ol' ute, and Tank was kickboxing. I came home and tried to convince MOTH to make "dentist noises" so that he could feel it as well. Do I need to tell you what his answer was?
Anyway, it's been poking around in the back of my mind for months, and I finally went ahead and wrote it down for this week (sidebar: does anyone else out there add piddly or previously-accomplished things to your to-do lists solely for the pleasure of being able to cross them off? Like, "8. Put away laundry. 9. Get new tires on Honda. 10. Make to-do list." Well, looky here, I can cross off number ten already!). Notice how I'd manged to postpone the unpleasantness until Thursday. I expected to get in sometime over my spring break, so imagine my surprise (and chagrin) when they told me I could have the 5 pm cancellation. Today.
I should probably explain the chagrin. Wait, I bet I don't have to. Does anyone out there look forward to going to the dentist? Yeah, that's what I thought. Well, while I exactly enjoy any part of the dental experience, I also dread going because I have bad teeth (these are the words of my former dentist, who I actually loved. Actually, what he said was, "Yep. You have your dad's teeth." Dad's teeth have been known to crumble into bits while he eats crunchy foods like...bread.) and genetics, plus a lapse in professional cleanings while I lacked insurance, mean that there's usually an unpleasant surprise for me. I will admit to a weakness for sticky, gummy candies, but I also have pretty darn good dental hygiene. I mean, I actually do floss every frickin' day. I make the requisite little circles at the gumline. I chew sugarless gum after meals, and peelu bark if I can't find gum.
So in I went, stifling a nauseated moan at that very particular...dental office odor. You know the one I mean. It's not exactly medicinal, nor is it particularly offensive, but it's so very...dental. And I was worried about what fresh horrors awaited me, as every time I go in, I get these sadly gentle reprimands about how my teeth are basically rotting out the center of my skull. I have also gotten conflicting advice. One hygienist told me to brush my teeth for five minutes, but then the next one was appalled and told me two minutes was plenty as long as I brushed them well. Today's masked marvel told me that I was brushing too hard, and now my gums are receding (pretty!) and somehow she sold me on an electronic brush that apparently applies even pressure (I'm assuming that I am still going to be holding it though, so how does it make sure that I'm holding it evenly?). Also, there's this crazy magical paste that I'm supposed to smear on after brushing that's supposed to decrease sensitivity and erase these annoying white fluorosis spots, as well as help rebuild the weak spots in my teeth by holding on to the minerals, or something. (See! The informed consumer make important medical choices!)
Anyway, after the scraping and polishing and poking (and the subsequent discovery that one of my fillings is cracked, so despite my non-worsening-levels of decay, I still get to go back in for another appointment--this time with the drill. Yay!), they painted this fluoride varnish on my teeth. I was instructed to wait for at least 30 minutes to eat, and then not to brush my teeth at all tonight, so that the varnish could really...do whatever it does. So now I'm sitting here, about to go to bed, very aware of the fact that I had feta cheese in my dinner omelet, and wondering if, just maybe, those jelly beans I defiantly ate AS SOON AS I GOT HOME FROM THE DENTIST weren't a good idea.
Mmm. Who wants to give me a big ol' kiss first thing in the morning?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Life in the Big House
Several years ago, when we had cable, I came across a series of pseudo-documentaries (in that they were documentary in nature, but produced by Newsfrontline or Breakingnewsdate or whoever, so they came complete with ominous voiceovers and dramatic music) about life in US prisons. I have never been to prison, don't plan on going, but I was intrigued and watched a few back-to-back hours about our fine penal system.
(Heh. "Penal.")
One of the segments focused on women's prisons and the issues particular to them. As an early childhood/infant mental health person, I was very interested in the programs that allowed inmates to stay with their infants, sometimes for a few months, sometimes until toddlerhood (a report about these prison nurseries is here, if you're interested. It's a fascinating idea). And this was my explanation for MOTH when he came home and found me glued to the TV, randomly calling out prison factoids and questions: "Hey! Did you know that a tattoo of a clock face without hands signifies doing time? Get it?" MOTH: "Um, I'm just putting away groceries, lady." What started as an idle curiosity became professional curiosity, which would have been fine, except that I stayed on the couch until it became idle again, which lead me to call to MOTH, "I think I'd do well in prison."
MOTH disagreed. With snorting, as I recall. He refused to buy my logic, but he wasn't watching the show with me. I was learning about how, while men in prison tended to join gangs for protection, women often formed more intimate relationships for protection, yes, but also for companionship. My thinking was thus: I'm funny. People like me at parties. As soon as I dropped some of my patented wise-ass remarks around the yard, I'd be golden. (This is the same thinking, by the way, that leads me to believe that if I'm ever cornered by a bear or other wild beastie in the woods, singing in dulcet tones will turn the growling predator into my bosom friend.)
Despite what was obviously flawless logic, MOTH continued to disagree with me. I believe his exact words were something like, "You'd be shanked by dinner."
Over the years, we continued to have this discussion, by which I mean I would, apropos of nothing, blurt out, "I still can't believe you don't think I'd do well in prison," and MOTH would sigh and say, "Fine. I'm wrong. You'd be the queen of prison," but I'd know he didn't mean it.
I was recently talking to my BFF, and I can't remember how it came up (but it did, and without me forcing the issue, I swear!), but I said, "That reminds me...don't you think I'd do well in prison?"
After a beat, he replied cautiously, "I think...you would survive. But you would be verrry unhappy."
"No, no, you don't get it. I mean I think I'd do pretty well for myself. MOTH doesn't get it either. Listen, I'm funny, right?"
"Yeeeessss..."
"So, I think I'd be OK." I gave him a quick rundown of what I'd learned from that one TV show six years ago, the extent of my knowledge even to this day (but really, how much can have changed?) about how female prisoners tend to bond together. "I make friends pretty easily, so I just have to make friends with someone who can protect me. Why are you laughing?"
"No, no...look, I see what you're saying. I maintain you would be verrrry unhappy. You'd survive, though. I'm not saying you wouldn't."
As if this sop to my ego was supposed to be reassuring. "Just hear me out. Here's my thinking: I figure out who's the alpha, right? The queen bee. Then, I make her laugh and she takes care of me. I have it all figured out. Like, I know that I'd likely get roughed up at first, because, you know...but I'd make a couple quick, sassy remarks, and the alpha, she'd call off the goons and say, 'I like you, kid. You got moxie.'" (Because, apparently, I'm going to prison in the '40s.)
"You do know, right, that there isn't, like, one big room? With one woman in charge, sitting over in the corner in a throne or something? Snapping her fingers to wave away her henchwomen?"
Which is a little sobering, because obviously I know that. But that is kinda what I've been picturing...
Anyway, I don't remember the rest of what he said because of all the laughing, but I hung up feeling...less than vindicated.
Nobody gets me.
Come on, you guys think I'd do alright, don't you? I got moxie.
(Heh. "Penal.")
One of the segments focused on women's prisons and the issues particular to them. As an early childhood/infant mental health person, I was very interested in the programs that allowed inmates to stay with their infants, sometimes for a few months, sometimes until toddlerhood (a report about these prison nurseries is here, if you're interested. It's a fascinating idea). And this was my explanation for MOTH when he came home and found me glued to the TV, randomly calling out prison factoids and questions: "Hey! Did you know that a tattoo of a clock face without hands signifies doing time? Get it?" MOTH: "Um, I'm just putting away groceries, lady." What started as an idle curiosity became professional curiosity, which would have been fine, except that I stayed on the couch until it became idle again, which lead me to call to MOTH, "I think I'd do well in prison."
MOTH disagreed. With snorting, as I recall. He refused to buy my logic, but he wasn't watching the show with me. I was learning about how, while men in prison tended to join gangs for protection, women often formed more intimate relationships for protection, yes, but also for companionship. My thinking was thus: I'm funny. People like me at parties. As soon as I dropped some of my patented wise-ass remarks around the yard, I'd be golden. (This is the same thinking, by the way, that leads me to believe that if I'm ever cornered by a bear or other wild beastie in the woods, singing in dulcet tones will turn the growling predator into my bosom friend.)
Despite what was obviously flawless logic, MOTH continued to disagree with me. I believe his exact words were something like, "You'd be shanked by dinner."
Over the years, we continued to have this discussion, by which I mean I would, apropos of nothing, blurt out, "I still can't believe you don't think I'd do well in prison," and MOTH would sigh and say, "Fine. I'm wrong. You'd be the queen of prison," but I'd know he didn't mean it.
I was recently talking to my BFF, and I can't remember how it came up (but it did, and without me forcing the issue, I swear!), but I said, "That reminds me...don't you think I'd do well in prison?"
After a beat, he replied cautiously, "I think...you would survive. But you would be verrry unhappy."
"No, no, you don't get it. I mean I think I'd do pretty well for myself. MOTH doesn't get it either. Listen, I'm funny, right?"
"Yeeeessss..."
"So, I think I'd be OK." I gave him a quick rundown of what I'd learned from that one TV show six years ago, the extent of my knowledge even to this day (but really, how much can have changed?) about how female prisoners tend to bond together. "I make friends pretty easily, so I just have to make friends with someone who can protect me. Why are you laughing?"
"No, no...look, I see what you're saying. I maintain you would be verrrry unhappy. You'd survive, though. I'm not saying you wouldn't."
As if this sop to my ego was supposed to be reassuring. "Just hear me out. Here's my thinking: I figure out who's the alpha, right? The queen bee. Then, I make her laugh and she takes care of me. I have it all figured out. Like, I know that I'd likely get roughed up at first, because, you know...but I'd make a couple quick, sassy remarks, and the alpha, she'd call off the goons and say, 'I like you, kid. You got moxie.'" (Because, apparently, I'm going to prison in the '40s.)
"You do know, right, that there isn't, like, one big room? With one woman in charge, sitting over in the corner in a throne or something? Snapping her fingers to wave away her henchwomen?"
Which is a little sobering, because obviously I know that. But that is kinda what I've been picturing...
Anyway, I don't remember the rest of what he said because of all the laughing, but I hung up feeling...less than vindicated.
Nobody gets me.
Come on, you guys think I'd do alright, don't you? I got moxie.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
DO NOT BREAK BALANCE!
We recently had a training at work, and as part of it, we were divided into groups and asked to play various preschooler games. At my table, we were given a game where two people took turns gingerly setting plastic monkeys on a plastic mountain which balanced on a small plastic rocker. The idea was to try to add each monkey without tipping the whole thing over. Now, this game is nothing I'd use with kids in my classroom, as a general rule, because it requires a) patience and b) fine motor skills, and my kids tend to struggle with one or the other, if not both. However, I did find something redeeming about the game: I could use photos of it as a cheat-y way to do a blog post.
So far, so good. Do not break balance, kids. Let's play by turns.
I appreciate the "please" here. And let's do make turn to put monkeys...somewhere.
The next time my kids play a game of Candyland or Cariboo or whatever, I'm going to be sure to refer to the other kids as "your rivals."
HOW MANY? HOW MANY?!? THE MIGHTY BATTLE DEPENDS ON YOUR ANSWER!!
Aw. In this last picture, it's clearly hoping that everyone wins. Of course, this isn't what happened in our group. Instead, whoever toppled the mountain was instantly cast out of the group for bringing much shame upon us.
It's possible we weren't terribly attentive to the original point of the exercise.
So far, so good. Do not break balance, kids. Let's play by turns.
I appreciate the "please" here. And let's do make turn to put monkeys...somewhere.
The next time my kids play a game of Candyland or Cariboo or whatever, I'm going to be sure to refer to the other kids as "your rivals."
HOW MANY? HOW MANY?!? THE MIGHTY BATTLE DEPENDS ON YOUR ANSWER!!
Aw. In this last picture, it's clearly hoping that everyone wins. Of course, this isn't what happened in our group. Instead, whoever toppled the mountain was instantly cast out of the group for bringing much shame upon us.
It's possible we weren't terribly attentive to the original point of the exercise.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Insert Clever Title Here
Sheesh. I'm so behind in writing, reading, and commenting on blogs. I hope the Internet still exists.
I've mentioned that MOTH is busy working on the show he's currently doing props for. It opens this weekend, which means that last weekend he was at the theater from 9 AM until after midnight both days. He's also been there much of this week, with Tankbaby strapped to him in the Ergo, until I can come home at night, after which MOTH goes right back to the theater. I hear him shower at 1 AM. I'm not sure what or when he's eating. But don't feel too sorry for him, because I want you to feel sorry for me, since this means that I've been Tankbabying solo for most of the past week. I'm not sure why it feels so much harder to be the only parent on duty in the evenings than during the day, but it does. Maybe because there's a deadline of bedtime looming, and so many tasks around dinner, lunch prep, etc. that need to be accomplished in a few hours. Plus, everything takes muuuuuch longer when you have to stop approximately every 3.4 seconds to wrest something dangerous from your baby's grubby mitts (to wit: the toilet brush, the garbage bag, the hairball from within the garbage bag, the Roomba, the diaper sprayer toilet attachment, the dirty diaper bag, a dirty diaper, the dog food, the dog water, the dog's tail). Lately, I can reach my target heart rate while brushing my teeth.
I've mentioned that MOTH is busy working on the show he's currently doing props for. It opens this weekend, which means that last weekend he was at the theater from 9 AM until after midnight both days. He's also been there much of this week, with Tankbaby strapped to him in the Ergo, until I can come home at night, after which MOTH goes right back to the theater. I hear him shower at 1 AM. I'm not sure what or when he's eating. But don't feel too sorry for him, because I want you to feel sorry for me, since this means that I've been Tankbabying solo for most of the past week. I'm not sure why it feels so much harder to be the only parent on duty in the evenings than during the day, but it does. Maybe because there's a deadline of bedtime looming, and so many tasks around dinner, lunch prep, etc. that need to be accomplished in a few hours. Plus, everything takes muuuuuch longer when you have to stop approximately every 3.4 seconds to wrest something dangerous from your baby's grubby mitts (to wit: the toilet brush, the garbage bag, the hairball from within the garbage bag, the Roomba, the diaper sprayer toilet attachment, the dirty diaper bag, a dirty diaper, the dog food, the dog water, the dog's tail). Lately, I can reach my target heart rate while brushing my teeth.
So, remember that new friend I met a few months ago? She e-mailed me again and we had dinner tonight. By all accounts, it was lovely...comfortable, informal, absolutely something I would do again. And STILL, I'm all paranoid now that she didn't like my risotto (Bacon-Butternut-Squash Risotto? What's not to like?) or thought that I was too disorganized to be a mom (Tankbaby managed to find--on the floor I just swept, I swear!--an Aleve tablet and put it in his mouth without me noticing, because I was so busy chopping squash while trying to be funny. Luckily, I checked on him and caught the confused look and dissolving pill coating and fished it out of his mouth, chuckling manically all the while, like, "HEY NEW FRIEND WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO BE A DHS MANDATED REPORTER, THIS IS A TOTALLY FOREIGN OCCURRENCE THAT IS AN UNFORTUNATE BLEMISH ON MY OTHERWISE SPOTLESS RECORD HA HA HA!") or maybe she could tell these braids are actually because I haven't washed my hair since Sunday, I don't know.
This is too stressful. I'll just have to learn to work with the friends I've got now.
And, because apparently a coherent theme is beyond me right now, I'll share with you the moment of my day that encapsulates my job. Z, a four-year-old with autism, was using a play microphone and it was time to clean up, so I said, "Time to put the microphone away." She refused and ran over to the corner. I followed her and, because she was clearly getting worked up, stopped giving directions in long sentences and instead just paired a simple gesture and single word (the idea being that, for kids who have trouble processing language, the fewer words the better when you are giving directions).
Me (putting my hand out): Z, microphone.
Z: No.
Me: Microphone.
Z: No.
Me: Microphone.
Z: No!
Me: Microphone.
Z: NO!
Me: Microphone.
Z: Chocolate.
It was like doing a Meisner exercise with one of the Marx Brothers.
This is too stressful. I'll just have to learn to work with the friends I've got now.
And, because apparently a coherent theme is beyond me right now, I'll share with you the moment of my day that encapsulates my job. Z, a four-year-old with autism, was using a play microphone and it was time to clean up, so I said, "Time to put the microphone away." She refused and ran over to the corner. I followed her and, because she was clearly getting worked up, stopped giving directions in long sentences and instead just paired a simple gesture and single word (the idea being that, for kids who have trouble processing language, the fewer words the better when you are giving directions).
Me (putting my hand out): Z, microphone.
Z: No.
Me: Microphone.
Z: No.
Me: Microphone.
Z: No!
Me: Microphone.
Z: NO!
Me: Microphone.
Z: Chocolate.
It was like doing a Meisner exercise with one of the Marx Brothers.
Monday, February 8, 2010
To Call This Fluff Would Be an Insult to Fluff
A quick thought-dump before bed, as the Tank is cutting teeth, with all of the lovely night-waking that implies...
Thank you all for your kind words about my uncle. I really appreciate it. Times like this make me want to tell people I have a blog, so that I can brag about the nice people in the computer.
***
I was talking to my terribly smart friend C (of "it's not meth" fame) today and she was telling me about an argument she'd had with her husband the night before, and she described her feeling today as "having a fight hangover." Don't you love that? And you totally know that feeling, right? That day-after, not-still-mad-but-not-really-happy, fatigued-all-talked-out-yet-rewriting-the-conversation-in-your-head place. And you tiptoe around each other, smiling and being extra considerate, but the peace is fragile and tentative, like paper that's been taped back together. Total fight hangover.
***
If you can keep a straight face when a four-year-old (who happens to be known for his temper) walks around cheerfully singing Darth Vader's theme at the top of his lungs, you are a better person than I.
***
We have a set of these salt and pepper shakers. Recently, a friend over for dinner casually said, "Huh. Why do you have KKK salt and pepper shakers?"
Um, what now?
First of all, what about these little huggy ghosts screams "Klan" to you? Secondly, what about me makes you think, even for a second, that I would own KKK salt and pepper shakers? Thirdly, the hell?
***
OK. Must go lay (lie? Can anyone definitively explain the lay/lie thing to me?) down now...MOTH is in tech week for the show he's working on, so I had the boy solo for the whole weekend, and I am waving the white flag. It was such a delight to go to work today and be able to pee without simultaneously trying to keep little grubby hands out of the trash/off toilet brush/away from the diaper sprayer. I am a woman of simple pleasures.
Thank you all for your kind words about my uncle. I really appreciate it. Times like this make me want to tell people I have a blog, so that I can brag about the nice people in the computer.
***
I was talking to my terribly smart friend C (of "it's not meth" fame) today and she was telling me about an argument she'd had with her husband the night before, and she described her feeling today as "having a fight hangover." Don't you love that? And you totally know that feeling, right? That day-after, not-still-mad-but-not-really-happy, fatigued-all-talked-out-yet-rewriting-the-conversation-in-your-head place. And you tiptoe around each other, smiling and being extra considerate, but the peace is fragile and tentative, like paper that's been taped back together. Total fight hangover.
***
If you can keep a straight face when a four-year-old (who happens to be known for his temper) walks around cheerfully singing Darth Vader's theme at the top of his lungs, you are a better person than I.
***
We have a set of these salt and pepper shakers. Recently, a friend over for dinner casually said, "Huh. Why do you have KKK salt and pepper shakers?"
Um, what now?
First of all, what about these little huggy ghosts screams "Klan" to you? Secondly, what about me makes you think, even for a second, that I would own KKK salt and pepper shakers? Thirdly, the hell?
***
OK. Must go lay (lie? Can anyone definitively explain the lay/lie thing to me?) down now...MOTH is in tech week for the show he's working on, so I had the boy solo for the whole weekend, and I am waving the white flag. It was such a delight to go to work today and be able to pee without simultaneously trying to keep little grubby hands out of the trash/off toilet brush/away from the diaper sprayer. I am a woman of simple pleasures.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Tonight, On a Very Special Falling...
If any of you have been kind enough to stick around while I went through yet another lapse in posting, you are not about to be rewarded. I'm gonna get a little maudlin, a little navel-gazey, and not at all relevant to anyone not related to me.
Can't say I didn't warn you.
My uncle died on Wednesday night. Technically, he's my half-uncle, but we always called him Uncle Paul. He was my mom's half-brother, from my grandfather's first marriage (well, we found out after my grandfather's death that it was actually his second marriage, meaning my grandmother was actually his third wife, but that's another story...). Grandpa was twenty years older than Grandma when they met (um, and for the rest of their lives, I guess), which caused quite the scandal back in 1940-something. They met--and isn't this the perfect sepia-toned old-timey movie meet cute?--at a dance hall where my grandpa was playing with the band. Grandma fell in love, and faced her parents with a much older suitor who also happened to have an ex-wife and a son. Now, in 2010, I don't know many parents who would be thrilled to have their 19-year-old daughter bring home a 39-year-old man with an ex and a kid. In 1940mumble (note to self--check actual date)? That took guts.
When my mom told me this story, I was kind of stunned, because I'd never thought of either of my grandparents as particularly trouble-making, tradition-breaking types. They were grandparents, you know? Grandpa played organ and banjo, and Grandma made little crocheted reindeer placeholders where you could squeeze the jaw and find the hidden Hershey's kiss inside. Hardly Sid and Nancy. I knew about the age difference, but in my selfish young adult way, hadn't thought about what that must have looked like when they met. After all, sixty and eighty look very similar to 18-year-old eyes.
Anyway, growing up, my mom knew she had a half-brother, but they hardly ever saw each other, for reasons I'm not totally clear on. My sister might know, as she took a trip with my mom and aunt where they reminisced about all matter of family gossip while she "stayed very still in the corner, eavesdropping, and hoping they wouldn't remember I was there." But as adults, mom and Paul sought each other out and became very close. He had kids from his first marriage, and we got to see them a few time while growing up. Amy was a couple years older than me, and for a while we were pen pals. As teenagers, we flew out for her wedding, a few years after her brother Andy's. I thought they were both glamorous, tall and good-looking and tan. They lived in California, after all. They had limes growing in their backyard. They were a world apart from the pasty pre-teens like myself that I hung out with in the midwestern suburbs.
When my mom was getting progressively grimmer diagnoses, Uncle Paul would send e-mails to her with links to various studies or centers that were trying new cancer protocols. One visit home, she tasked me with going through these links and seeing if there was anything we hadn't already tried or discussed with the doctors, because it had gotten to the point where she was too exhausted to do the research. And too tired of being disappointed. But she didn't want to hurt her brother's feelings by not responding to his hard work. And I don't think it even occurred to her to try to tell him, "Enough."
Mom visited Paul right before things went really south health-wise, about six months before she died. The plan was for him to then come out and visit her. She died the week before his travel date. He couldn't get the flights switched in time to come out for her funeral, but Amy came out, an unexpected gesture which meant the world to me. Paul came out as scheduled, the following weekend, and was there for the internment of the ashes. I could certainly understand his need to participate in some sort of grieving ceremony, but at the time I was beyond devastated myself, plus I was horribly ill, so the whole time I mostly wanted to lay down and not speak to anyone. I remember being so sick, and so ashamed of myself that I couldn't seem to manage to be the picture of hospitality and grace that my mom would have. I mean, there was dad, my aunt, and Uncle Paul, at least managing to make conversation, and I was just trying to keep my head up, literally and figuratively. I felt awful for Paul, who was so sad and so disappointed that he hadn't gotten to see "Sis" one last time, but I also was so overflowing with my own grief that I was still mostly numb.
About six months after mom died, MOTH and I had purchased this, our first home, and were nowhere near unpacked when Paul e-mailed me to say that he and his wife and MIL would be driving through Portland and could they take us out for dinner? They graciously ignored the crazy status of the house, the way that, with five people, one person always had to be standing. They took us out for an amazing meal, and if I had to have a Last Time I Ever Saw Paul, I couldn't complain about that evening.
A few weeks ago, Andy e-mailed us with news that Paul was in the hospital. They weren't sure what was wrong. It looked like the swine flu, but all the tests came back negative. They still don't know what happened, but decreased lung function turned into a ventilator which became kidney shut-down and flatlining and resuscitating ...the last e-mail from Andy said that all Paul's vitals were stable, and that no news was probably good news. I cried when I opened it, because I had just gotten off the phone with Amy, who told me that he had died.
I hated getting that phone call. For myself, I am sad that Paul died, because he was family. But I wasn't particularly close to him, mostly due to basic geography. But for his kids and grandkids? For his wife? For them, I am heartbroken.
What's weird? Is that I keep getting sad for Mom. Like, I find myself thinking about how devastated she'd be if she were alive. And then thinking about how devastate Paul was when she died. And back and forth. The hell, brain? Why would you keep coming back to this weird, depressing, and stupidly illogical morbid Mobius strip?
In other moments, I am able to find some peace in the overly simplistic, very Christian idea of "they're together now." I do believe in God, and I do believe in an afterlife of some sort, although my thoughts about both are found in no bible or church that I know of. I don't really think of this whole other plane where Mom has been waiting, reclining in her resplendent white gown for Paul to check in at some ethereal front desk so that she can show him around. I don't know how it works, but I'm pretty sure that's not it. (First of all, in Mom's heaven, I think she'd get to wear sweatpants, and there'd be no lying around, unless there was also a stack of trashy novels beside you.) I dunno. I guess I like the idea of Mom having someone around, though.
Amy told me that, as they held Paul's hands when the doctors unplugged the vent, they told him, "Sis is waiting for you." I like the thought that this brought some small measure of comfort to someone in that room. That's what Mom would have wanted.
Can't say I didn't warn you.
My uncle died on Wednesday night. Technically, he's my half-uncle, but we always called him Uncle Paul. He was my mom's half-brother, from my grandfather's first marriage (well, we found out after my grandfather's death that it was actually his second marriage, meaning my grandmother was actually his third wife, but that's another story...). Grandpa was twenty years older than Grandma when they met (um, and for the rest of their lives, I guess), which caused quite the scandal back in 1940-something. They met--and isn't this the perfect sepia-toned old-timey movie meet cute?--at a dance hall where my grandpa was playing with the band. Grandma fell in love, and faced her parents with a much older suitor who also happened to have an ex-wife and a son. Now, in 2010, I don't know many parents who would be thrilled to have their 19-year-old daughter bring home a 39-year-old man with an ex and a kid. In 1940mumble (note to self--check actual date)? That took guts.
When my mom told me this story, I was kind of stunned, because I'd never thought of either of my grandparents as particularly trouble-making, tradition-breaking types. They were grandparents, you know? Grandpa played organ and banjo, and Grandma made little crocheted reindeer placeholders where you could squeeze the jaw and find the hidden Hershey's kiss inside. Hardly Sid and Nancy. I knew about the age difference, but in my selfish young adult way, hadn't thought about what that must have looked like when they met. After all, sixty and eighty look very similar to 18-year-old eyes.
Anyway, growing up, my mom knew she had a half-brother, but they hardly ever saw each other, for reasons I'm not totally clear on. My sister might know, as she took a trip with my mom and aunt where they reminisced about all matter of family gossip while she "stayed very still in the corner, eavesdropping, and hoping they wouldn't remember I was there." But as adults, mom and Paul sought each other out and became very close. He had kids from his first marriage, and we got to see them a few time while growing up. Amy was a couple years older than me, and for a while we were pen pals. As teenagers, we flew out for her wedding, a few years after her brother Andy's. I thought they were both glamorous, tall and good-looking and tan. They lived in California, after all. They had limes growing in their backyard. They were a world apart from the pasty pre-teens like myself that I hung out with in the midwestern suburbs.
When my mom was getting progressively grimmer diagnoses, Uncle Paul would send e-mails to her with links to various studies or centers that were trying new cancer protocols. One visit home, she tasked me with going through these links and seeing if there was anything we hadn't already tried or discussed with the doctors, because it had gotten to the point where she was too exhausted to do the research. And too tired of being disappointed. But she didn't want to hurt her brother's feelings by not responding to his hard work. And I don't think it even occurred to her to try to tell him, "Enough."
Mom visited Paul right before things went really south health-wise, about six months before she died. The plan was for him to then come out and visit her. She died the week before his travel date. He couldn't get the flights switched in time to come out for her funeral, but Amy came out, an unexpected gesture which meant the world to me. Paul came out as scheduled, the following weekend, and was there for the internment of the ashes. I could certainly understand his need to participate in some sort of grieving ceremony, but at the time I was beyond devastated myself, plus I was horribly ill, so the whole time I mostly wanted to lay down and not speak to anyone. I remember being so sick, and so ashamed of myself that I couldn't seem to manage to be the picture of hospitality and grace that my mom would have. I mean, there was dad, my aunt, and Uncle Paul, at least managing to make conversation, and I was just trying to keep my head up, literally and figuratively. I felt awful for Paul, who was so sad and so disappointed that he hadn't gotten to see "Sis" one last time, but I also was so overflowing with my own grief that I was still mostly numb.
About six months after mom died, MOTH and I had purchased this, our first home, and were nowhere near unpacked when Paul e-mailed me to say that he and his wife and MIL would be driving through Portland and could they take us out for dinner? They graciously ignored the crazy status of the house, the way that, with five people, one person always had to be standing. They took us out for an amazing meal, and if I had to have a Last Time I Ever Saw Paul, I couldn't complain about that evening.
A few weeks ago, Andy e-mailed us with news that Paul was in the hospital. They weren't sure what was wrong. It looked like the swine flu, but all the tests came back negative. They still don't know what happened, but decreased lung function turned into a ventilator which became kidney shut-down and flatlining and resuscitating ...the last e-mail from Andy said that all Paul's vitals were stable, and that no news was probably good news. I cried when I opened it, because I had just gotten off the phone with Amy, who told me that he had died.
I hated getting that phone call. For myself, I am sad that Paul died, because he was family. But I wasn't particularly close to him, mostly due to basic geography. But for his kids and grandkids? For his wife? For them, I am heartbroken.
What's weird? Is that I keep getting sad for Mom. Like, I find myself thinking about how devastated she'd be if she were alive. And then thinking about how devastate Paul was when she died. And back and forth. The hell, brain? Why would you keep coming back to this weird, depressing, and stupidly illogical morbid Mobius strip?
In other moments, I am able to find some peace in the overly simplistic, very Christian idea of "they're together now." I do believe in God, and I do believe in an afterlife of some sort, although my thoughts about both are found in no bible or church that I know of. I don't really think of this whole other plane where Mom has been waiting, reclining in her resplendent white gown for Paul to check in at some ethereal front desk so that she can show him around. I don't know how it works, but I'm pretty sure that's not it. (First of all, in Mom's heaven, I think she'd get to wear sweatpants, and there'd be no lying around, unless there was also a stack of trashy novels beside you.) I dunno. I guess I like the idea of Mom having someone around, though.
Amy told me that, as they held Paul's hands when the doctors unplugged the vent, they told him, "Sis is waiting for you." I like the thought that this brought some small measure of comfort to someone in that room. That's what Mom would have wanted.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Please Excuse Falling From School...
Boy, I just don't know how to make this funny or even interesting, but I'm sick. Two days home from work, with likely a third tomorrow. I could write some nice long descriptions of the last few days, including how Tankbaby vomited everything he or apparently any other baby had ever eaten...all over me, necessitating a 10:30 pm shower, laundering of sheets, and disposal of one pillow. But let's not, shall we? Because if you have had a baby, you know of the horrificness of which I speak, and if you haven't, any details would only serve to render you immediately, gratefully sterile.
I promise that I'll be back to my normal level of being-behind-on-reading-and-commenting-on-blogs just as soon as I can remain vertical and still retain vocabulary skills.
I promise that I'll be back to my normal level of being-behind-on-reading-and-commenting-on-blogs just as soon as I can remain vertical and still retain vocabulary skills.
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