Filed under: Family
I had a weird little conversation with one of my small humans this morning. One that managed to ruffle my righteous indignation and sense of justice. It went a little something like this.
“How was school, Jack?”
“It was fine. I had some trouble with the racist teachers not letting me play with my friends.”
“I’m sorry, say that again?”
“My teachers, the racist teachers… they won’t let me play with my friends that I want to.”
” They won’t let you play with these friends? Why? Which friends?” I can feel my hackles start to raise. Mommy don’t play this game.
“All of my friends,” he said. “I have all kinds of friends.”
He is pretty awesome, if you ask me.
“You should be able to play with whomever you want to, Jack. Having lots of different friends is what makes life interesting.” I was mentally scheduling time in my day to call the teachers and see what was going on. There is no way this was happening in 2019.
“That’s what I said,” he replied. “I just want to play with everybody… but then they tell me it’s time to go back into school.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, when recess is over. The racist teachers make us go inside.”
“The racist teachers?” I asked.
“Yes, the ones that watch the playground while we play.”
“Your recess teachers?”
“Yes, what did you think I said?”
“Your racist teachers.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“People who don’t like people who look different than them.”
“Well that’s just stupid.”
Crisis averted. No one is corrupting my sweet boy. And there is hope for the future, since hating someone who looks different is stupid. Next we work on our enunciation.
Filed under: Cancer, Family, Health, Pink | Tags: Cancer, chemo, fighter, Health
So, I am almost done with chemo. Out of four sessions, I have one left to go. All of this has happened so very quickly, which is a blessing in disguise. I think if I had too much time to dwell on things it would be much harder. I find I do better in a whirlwind. (I will give you all a moment to find your surprised face.) Here are some of the lessons that I have learned throughout the chemo process, however.
Glitter In The Air
When you dye your hair pink and it starts to fall out, there is a bit of cognitive dissonance. When I decided it was time to buzz it all off, it didn’t seem like my hair. It looked more like a Muppet had exploded on the back patio. Then, as that started to fall out, in the sunshine, the pink bits of hair could almost be mistaken for glitter. I have to admit that I loved the idea of bald Muppets and being followed by a trail of glitter more than I probably should have. In the few days before session two, I said goodbye to my almost all of my hair.
Now The Hard Part
Luckily, my doctors have been pretty great about keeping the sickness at bay. I am on more anti-nausea meds than I can count, but it keeps the really yucky side effects to a minimum. I am tired and run down, but only for a few days. A few extra naps and some pampering from my family and I tend to bounce back.
The hard part, through this has been twofold. The first, and most admittedly the vain part, is the loss of my hair. I could deal with a really, really short ‘do. I could even handle things with a buzz cut, all things considered. The patchy baldness, I could definitely go without… but I have some pretty cool hats. I have become a master of penciling in my eyebrows too. And I have some pretty cool wigs, that if I were less of an awkward human being I might even be able to wear in public. (The first wig lasted all of an hour before I was batting it out of my face and picking it out of my teeth.)
I think the hard part is never feeling dressed up, or put together. I looked at my buzz cut as my combat look, as I battle this stupid disease. And while I have never been one to shy away from combat boots with formal wear (thank you 1990’s) it does make it harder to feel girly. In the scheme of things, I guess this just means that my definition of “girly” is just going to change… as will the phrase fight like a girl. This is not and will never be an insult to me again. 
And The Even Harder Part
The harder part is learning when to ask for help. I am admittedly a little controlling, a little bossy… we will just say I am FULL of leadership skills. But when you are down for the count with a cocktail of poison swimming through your veins it is hard to do all you need and want to do. This is the position I am least comfortable with. I have always been the “do-for-yourself” type, and reluctantly ask for help. Which is why, all of the notes and the calls, and the text messages mean so much. Because there are a lot of people out there who know that I don’t ask for help… and yet they keep offering. There are a ton of people who simply know that the best help is to just reach out and say hi. And there are plenty who don’t take my (bullshit) no for an answer. Admitting that I need help is the hardest part sometimes, but knowing that I don’t always have to admit it… well that just makes me one lucky girl indeed.
So, from fuzzy wuzzy, the woman who is willing to fight like a girl, thanks for all of the support. The best is yet to come. On the 14th of December I will ring the bell at my final chemotherapy treatment, and while my fight is not over; this will be a bit of the battle that I feel like I have won thanks to a pretty amazing group of friends.
My face upon learning that cookie butter does not have the same amount of protein as peanut butter.
So, when life hands you lemons… amiright? I have decided that since I have only this body that I should try to take better care of it. I started watching what I eat, trying to be more active, and in general, trying to treat my body like a temple rather than a carnival. I would like to say that this is an epiphany I discovered out of a spiritual desire to be healthier. In reality, if I have to go through cancer and multiple surgeries my light at the end of the tunnel is that I want to look smoking hot when it is all said and done. So I have started operation #hotmombod (super deep, I know.) This means using an app called MyFitness Pal to help track everything I am doing.
Working Out Is Hard To Do
It has been eyeopening to say the least. One thing that comes to mind is that I don’t move around nearly as much as I thought I did. Also, it is apparently ill advised to have an appetizer doughnut before your main course doughnut. Chinese knock-offs of fit-bits are both awesome and terrible. Awesome, because the model that I bought seems to want to inflate my steps like an overzealous bestie… Let’s face it fat-bot, you and I both know that I didn’t walk 250 steps from my couch to the bathroom but I like that you are trying to make me feel better. Terrible when, after a couple of weeks, your fat-bot starts to malfunction… (or I have mastered the art of time travel) I know that fat-bot did not record my activities in 2008 nor is it 2020, so I think it may be dying. I think I can burn at least a few calories taking a hammer to the stupid thing. It can only be classified as a mercy killing at this point.
I am trying to be more mindful of my activities now, which is a good thing. And MyFitness Pal has quite an array of activities to choose from. I was super bummed to know that my favorite yoga move, the corpse pose, doesn’t burn as many calories as I had hoped. By apparently laundry burns a decent amount, and my family is ALWAYS willing to contribute to that activity, so there’s that. I do feel that MyFitness Pal is missing some of my favorite exercising activities however, and I am genuinely curious as to how many calories these burn.
A simpler time, when doughnuts reigned.
My “Favorite” Exercises
- Putting on a sports bra on a wet body
- Taking off said sports bra after “arm” day
- Wiping the face of three year old
- OMG we over-slept, let’s make it to the school bus sprints (the adrenaline has to count for extra calories here.)
- Typing, and then rapidly deleting and re-typing that snarky comment that you can’t send (but kind of want to.) Is rage typing a thing?
- Reloading the dishwasher after someone loaded it WRONG
- Competitive sock hunting
- Speed reading a REALLY good book, flipping pages FAST! What if its a really thick book? Weights?
- In a related vein, speed crocheting (yes, I am an 80 year old woman at times)
- Carrying all the groceries in one trip. Laziness for the win.
- Hot laps around Target (may be canceled out by the GINORMOUS latte purchased at Starbucks in the front.)
Am I missing any? I will start to petition MyFitness Pal to include these in their activity offerings. I will keep you posted on my progress. Ridiculous petitioning… that has to be worth at least 30 calories, right?
So, it appears, it is time to dust off the old blog again. This year, has been a wild one and it is only going to get wilder. It was in this year that I turned forty. In this year I celebrated my eleventh wedding anniversary. And it was this year that I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Obviously, some parts of this year have been better than others.
So, the short version of what has been a really long story. I was diagnosed with stage one cancer in early June. After the diagnosis my life became a whirlwind of doctors appointments, initial consultations and second opinions. It also became a time of a lot of self reflection and more than a little self doubt. It became a time to withdraw inward, and figure out next steps.
At Least I Like Pink
I also have an AMAZING stylist. Who chopped my hair and dyed it pink… in honor of breast cancer month.
Lucky for me, the cancer was caught early and my prognosis was (is) good. Despite the early diagnosis, I made the decision to undergo a double mastectomy. The surgery itself went well, and my margins came back clear. (The cancer did not spread to my lymph nodes.) Post surgery, my test results indicated a really aggressive cancer; one that would require chemotherapy to ensure that it was truly gone and not coming back.
What can I say about this so far? It sucks? Yeah, it kind of sucks. I mean, the two things that I have always been okay with in terms of body image were my hair and my boobs. It’s not that they helped to define me as a woman, but from time to time they made me feel more womanly. And so, as luck would have it… both were going to be gone.
So I wallowed, for a little bit. I wallowed and wailed in a sea of misery until I got all pruny. And then it was time to stop. It was time to put on the big girl panties (pink in honor of breast cancer month) and remember all that I had, rather than what I was losing.
The Bright Side
Let’s face it, I have an awesome support system. I have fantastic friends who I know will stick with me through thick and thin. I have a job that will support me 100% (and has been amazing as I schedule surgeries, and doctors appointments… and more surgeries.) I can work anywhere there is WiFi, and the hospital’s WiFi flies.
I get a brand new set of boobs, PERKY ONES! I live in a city that is chock full of FANTASTIC doctors, and I have the insurance to help me through this. I have a family that loves me and will help me the moment I ask, and sometimes even when I don’t ask. And I have an unbelievable partner who has wept with me, and held me. Who has shown me in every way possible that he will be by my side through everything, for better or worse, in sickness and in health… and that is more than some people get in lifetime.
So, dear readers, if you want to follow me on this journey while I do my best to kick cancer’s ass? Well, please do! I would love to have you along for the ride. Just remember, on Wednesdays we wear pink.
It has been a long time since I have written here. For months I have tossed around the idea of getting back to my little blog, but I haven’t made the time. But today, in honor of a 35 pound bundle of terror, I feel compelled to write; to finish the story of Hank.
Hank joined us 13 years ago, a Christmas gift from Greg. He earned the name Hank, because from the beginning he was a little shit, in all the best ways. (Southpark fans will recognize the character, Hankey the Christmas poo.) In 13 years he shaped our lives in so many ways. With Thanksgiving around the corner, I want to take a quick moment to give thanks to the demon beagle who added so much to our family.
The dog could sleep anywhere.
Thank you Hank, for being a top notch garbage can tester. Over the years we have tested various trash cans, all with claims of being pet proof. And yet, no matter how dog-resistant the cans claimed to be, Hank always found a way.
Thank you Hank, for introducing us to all of our neighbors. No matter where we have lived, Hank made sure he introduced himself to the neighborhood; helping himself to our neighbors trashcans as well. Very rarely was there a door that could keep him out for long. He would let himself in as they brought in their groceries or took out their trash. When that failed, a well placed paw or two on a doorknob and Hank was in. Just a few weeks ago we were stopped by a neighbor, introducing themselves to us they mentioned that Hank had been in their house a couple of times. He helped himself to their dog’s food, sniffed out a trashcan and then escaped back from whence he came; the one beagle welcoming committee.
Thank you Hank, for making us amateur vet techs. We now know what to do when a dog ingests an entire container of double dark chocolate brownies or when a dog eats a glass Christmas ornament. We can handle a canine emergency when a dog eats 2 pounds of raw sausage and when they eat an entire rope toy. In fact, we can tackle almost any dog ingestion emergency. Thank you for teaching us how to properly show grace under pressure.
Hank has a long history of sharing a bed with his family.
Thank you Hank, for being a snuggly foot warmer on cold nights. Your determination to get under the covers by pawing at us until we lifted the blankets only highlights your instinct to help us out, regardless of what we wanted. When a well placed paw wouldn’t work, barking at us until we relented only shows how important it was for us to let you “help” us. In your later years, your proclivity for hopping from our bed, to Jack’s and then to Maddie’s only shows your willingness to spread your love. Even when your 35 pound frame managed to take up more than half of the bed.
To that end, thank you for scaring away any potential threat to our well being as we slept. One can only assume that the lack of night time prowlers can only be attributed to your “old man” snoring and your toxic farts. No bad guys would dare darken our doorstep with such a stench.
Thank you Hank for helping us clear the table as soon as our backs were turned. You efficiency at scraping plates was second only to your ability to go from being sound asleep to hopping, silently, onto the table and getting to work. The dishwasher will have to work extra hard without you to help “pre-clean” the plates whenever we turn around.
Thank you for being a semi-willing Halloween beagle, acting as the perfect accessory to a young girl’s Halloween dreams. You have been a frog to a little princess, a squirrel, a monkey and a devil; which wasn’t really a costume but more of a reflection of your impish ways.
Goodbye demon beagle. We love you.
And finally, thank you Hank for being an amazing dog; even if you thought you were really a person. For thirteen years you have made our life more interesting. You have licked away tears from ouchies, from skinned knees to broken hearts. You have made us laugh, when you were good and when you were bad. You have made friends all over, with countless friends having their own “can you believe Hank” stories.
Last night you left us, with a demon-beagle shaped hole in our hearts. Our trash cans will go unmolested and our beds will be more spacious, in all the worst ways. They say that only the good die young, which may account for your thirteen years with us on the planet… but you were the best “bad” dog we could ever have hoped for. Thank you for being a part of our lives. Have fun tipping trashcans in the sky.
Are you ready for more tales of a demon beagle? We will continue our saga of Hank, although if you haven’t already I suggest you check out Part 1. And so, dear readers, our tale continues where it left off; with a devilishly smart beagle.
We moved into a new house a few months ago. We left the forests of Castlewood for the wilds Ellisville, a scant three miles away. As we settled into suburban bliss we all adjusted to the subtle changes; more space, more people, more traffic… just more. Madison loved the paved streets, perfect for learning to ride her bike while Hank chased her. Jack would watch and just laugh. Life was good.
Then, on one not so spectacular Friday afternoon, all hell broke loose. It started off as a typical day. I went to work and the kids were at home with the baby-sitter. Greg had the afternoon to toil at the duck club, cleaning out the barn. I was just stepping out of a meeting when I received a tense call from Greg. There was an accident and he had managed to poke himself in the eye with a wire. I will spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that it was gross and he needed a doctor ASAP. I was at the other end of town at the time, but fortunately his parents were home to help. We all sprang into action; I rushed home while Greg was whisked away to the eye doctor. Luckily the injury, while pretty deep and very serious, would not cause permanent damage. Greg was given medicine and put into bed for the night.
To add to the chaotic nature of the evening, I was scheduled to baby-sit for a good friend. Madison had been looking forward to having the twins over for a week and quite frankly I was looking forward to having someone over to keep my little monsters occupied. With Greg settled comfortably in bed I went to pick up pizza and the kids. It wasn’t until I returned home with dinner and a couple of miniature house guests that we realized that the beagle was not begging for his slice of pie. I looked in bed with Greg, a frequent haunt of the beagle, and to my surprise he wasn’t there. I searched the house while the kids ate and then the neighborhood trying to find Hank. He was gone.
We made frantic calls to our neighbors both current and former, the animal shelters, the police and finally posted pictures on Facebook. Even though Hank was micro-chipped, we worried that he would wander into traffic and get hit by a car. We worried that he might tangle with a wild animal (Hank sometimes has “big dog” syndrome and thinks that he is tougher than he is.) We worried that he wouldn’t come home. It was the crappy icing on an already crummy cake. With a few friends we wandered the neighborhoods surrounding ours calling out for Hank, with no luck at all. We went to bed that night minus one little demon beagle.
The next morning, after more calls to our vet and the micro-chip company, we resigned ourselves to the waiting game. We got dressed and were just getting ready to leave (to another doctor’s appointment for Greg’s eyeball) when the doorbell rang. Greg and I looked at each other and ran to the door. There was a tall blonde woman, holding Hank on a leash. “Is this your dog?” she asked. Hank ran in the house and flopped on the couch. “I thought he might be yours,” she said with a smile. Then she told us how Hank had spent his evening.
Hank, sensing an opportunity in the chaos, snuck out of the house sometime in the early afternoon that Friday. Around the corner and several doors down are a couple of small businesses that operate out of older homes. One of these businesses is a tree service, whose sales force was not always good about latching the door all the way. Hank, returning to his felonious roots, took the opportunity to break in and scope out the food situation. The owner was out, running errands and wrapping up her week when she received a call from one of her salesmen.
“Did you know that there is a dog in the office?” he said.
“What do you mean a dog in the office?” she replied. “Like a living breathing dog?”
“Yep, it looks like a beagle,” he said.
“I think he may belong to the new neighbors,” she said. “I’m on my way.”
She picked up Hank and brought him home but no one answered when she knocked. Hank’s timing was perfect, I had just left to get the kids and Greg was knocked out by pain pills. Not wanting to leave Hank to his own devices she thought the best idea was to take him home with her and try back in the morning. Hank was more than willing to hop into her car and go home with her, where he romped and played with her dogs and cuddled with her husband before dining on a steak dinner. They put Hank in the garage for the evening and went to bed. Around two in the morning her husband woke up to go on a fishing trip.
“Be careful not to let the beagle out of the garage,” she cautioned. “I don’t want him to run away.”
“The beagle isn’t in the garage,” he said.
“WHAT!” she exclaimed, sitting up in bed.
“Nope. Look down,” he said pointing to a lump in the covers. “When I woke up the garage door was wide open and the dog was in bed with us.”
In short, Hank broke into an office. Took a ride out to Washington, MO where he spent a relaxing evening dining on steak, playing with dogs and snuggling in some random bed. While we wandered the neighborhoods looking for him Hank took a little vacation with fine dining and lavish accommodations. It was no wonder that he was exhausted when he came home to us on Saturday. We thanked the woman profusely while Hank snored away on the couch.
We bought Hank a new collar with new tags, since he managed to lose his old tags just prior to his little adventure. (Murphy’s law in full effect, the dog will only go missing the day after he has lost his tags.) We updated his profile on the microchip to account for his new address, his greying coat and little weight gain thanks to his pillaging ways. I doubt this will be the last time that Hank pulls a Houdini and escapes for a little adventure. I tell you this story as a cautionary tale, since Hank’s sneakiness knows no bounds. Who knows, the next house he breaks into could be yours.
Hide yo’ food. Hide yo’ wallet!
Lock your doors and bolt them tight, since the demon beagle haunts the night. Hide your trash and guard your food because there is no stopping this sneaky dude. And should the beagle ever grace your door, be forewarned he has the tendency to snore. I will tell you what will lay ahead, empty plates and a beagle in your bed. That is the sole purpose of today’s blog, to warn one and all about the demon dog.
This even looks like a mug shot, doesn’t it?
Let me start by saying I love dogs. My dogs are part of my family, my furry children. I have two. We have Charlie who is equal parts chocolate lab and unconditional love and then there is Hank, who is part beagle part devil sent to test my patience. We are a dog family, so much so that dodo (which means dog) was both of my kid’s first words. It is with a mixture of love and annoyance that I now tell the tale of Hank, demon dog extraordinaire.
Hank is a smart dog. No, it is more than that. Hank is an evil genius. He is a little super-villain trapped in a 35 pound, furry body. Like every super-villain he has one key object of desire. Lex Luther had a lust for power, Dr. Evil craved millions in cash, Hank the Demon Beagle has an insatiable appetite for people food. You would think that we never feed him the way he pines for pizza or dreams about desserts. Trust me, this dog eats. He eats his food, he eats Charlie’s food and still he turned to a life a crime to get his fix.
That’s right, my dog is a criminal. At first his misdeed’s were limited to our house. He would get on the counter and help himself to anything he could find. Then he discovered the trash can and all of its disgusting food scrap glory. Out of concern for his health we tried to keep his people food addiction in check, after all he wasn’t making good food choices. His favorite, it seemed, was double dark chocolate brownies. (Which he ingested the evening Greg and I had tickets to the World Series. His timing proves that he is a super-villain.) Hank has eaten chicken bones, mouse poison, Legos and finally a glass Christmas ornament that he thought was food. We became very well known at our vet’s office.
We Hank proofed the house, keeping all of the food well out of Hank’s reach. The cookie jar was moved to a tall shelf, because Hank had learned to push the nearby kitchen chair to the counter. The trashcan was locked in the pantry and the only food Hank was permitted to have was in his food bowl. That is when my beagle turned to a life a crime. Hank started breaking into my neighbor’s houses.
I told you Hank was a smart dog. If he had opposable thumbs we might all be living in the kingdom of Hank. Even without dexterous digits Hank has mastered opening doors. He has figured out that if he puts his body weight against the door while pawing at the handle he can make his escape… or his illegal entry. While living in Castlewood, out in the middle of the woods, Hank would bust his way out of our house from time to time. He always came back in an hour or so, we didn’t think much of it. We thought he was taking little beagle romps through the woods. That is until my husband, while tinkering in the lawn, waved to my neighbor who was taking the trash out.
Jerry, the neighbor, is an interesting guy. He is pure Castlewood,which means equal parts ingenuity and kindness with a liberal splash of redneck and a pinch of crazy. He is an awesome neighbor. He is also a confirmed bachelor who lives on pizza, BBQ and Busch Light beer. He also forgets to lock his door on a regular basis, apparently. On this day, while taking out the trash, Greg overheard Jerry’s grumbling rant.
“You can always tell when Hank has been over,” he mumbled. “The trash can is knocked over, the pizza boxes are licked clean and the cat food is gone.”
“Jerry, what are you talking about?” Greg asked.
“Oh, Hank lets himself in about once a week and helps himself to the cat food and anything else that might be sitting around,” was Jerry’s reply.
Greg apologized profusely the asked, “Jerry, how long has Hank been doing this? ”
“Oh, just for the past 6 months or so,” came the reply.
“Jerry! Why didn’t you tell us sooner?!”
“Well, it is survival of the fittest at my house. If the cat wants the food the cat should defend itself,” Jerry said.
Like I said, part kindness and part crazy equals VERY understanding neighbor. Little did we know that this was just the tip of the iceberg of Hank’s criminal activity. He had broken into 4 of my 6 neighbor’s houses. Taking advantage of an open door while unloading groceries or a screen not quite latched properly he would make his move. Every time he went in on a search for food. At one neighbor’s he ate the rottweiler’s food, proving that he was fearless in his pursuit of culinary crime. At the other neighbor’s he cleaned up some leftover oatmeal from breakfast.
He was well known in the neighborhood, despite our efforts to keep him on the straight and narrow. Whenever our backs were turned he would escape and head out on his criminal escapades. Our neighbors would kick him out and send him home. Hank would crawl into bed at night content in the knowledge that he had the world (or at least Castlewood) on a string.
That is until we moved, and Hank went missing.
(Stay tuned for part II)
Filed under: Parenting | Tags: Boston, family, parenting, superheroes, tragedy
I have a six year old. She is a sponge. I know that seems redundant, every six year old is a sponge. She soaks up information from me, her dad, our families, school and the world at large and regurgitates it with a six year old spin. I know that things get lost in the translation from time to time. Somewhere in that beautiful and brilliant little brain of hers the information gets jumbled and comes out slightly off kilter. Most of the time it’s funny; it’s a game for mommy to try to pick apart the fact from the filter.
There was the time, around president’s day that she explained that they learned all about the president’s. They learned about Washington, who was first but now he is dead. They learned about Lincoln, who made everyone the same but sadly got shot so he is dead too. She worried about Obama, since he seemed nice and didn’t want him to be dead like all of the other presidents. History is complicated, especially to a 6 year old. I could only imagine the thought process there, almost like the American people send the president’s off to some “farm” when they complete their tenure. It took a little bit, but I managed to explain that they were simply learning about some of the older presidents, that died because they lived long ago. That it wasn’t a job requirement to die at the end of your term, and there are plenty of living presidents still around. She told me it was a good thing, since there was a volcano by the White House that Obama would have to worry about first. Her friend Ben had told her so. There was no amount of convincing that could change her mind. So now she believes that Obama’s job as president is to keep an eye on the volcano. He is kind of like a super hero. Oh, and he is my boss. Apparently the only person that can trump a mommy ruling is the president of the United States. I am okay with this logic.
I know she picks up lots of stuff from the media; the radio, movies and television. I can tell by her uncanny ability to pick the most annoying pop song currently on the radio and sing it ad naseum. I try to limit her exposure to this because I find it overwhelming sometimes, and I have a fully formed frontal lobe. (At least I think I do.) But there are the moments we forget, the weather report she is regurgitating to me as I give her brother a bath… “There is a line of thunderstorms approaching the St. Louis metro area, mom,” she says. “Please be aware of the potential for hail and high winds,” she repeats; echoing the weather man word for word. She takes her cues from me. If I am not flustered by it, all is right with her world. And so she watches the pretty colors on the radar, deciding she really likes the dark purple the best even if it means lots of thunder. She goes to bed secure in the idea that nothing can happen to her, her parents will keep her safe.
Then Monday happened, the Boston Marathon Bombing; one of a series of horrible events to occur in her short lifetime. The news played in my kitchen on a loop while her brother napped and she was in school. I was shocked and horrified at the wanton violence, the reckless and callous disregard for human life. I was angered as the events unfolded, an eight year boy and two young women among the casualties. I tuned into Twitter and the radio to learn more over the past few days. I did all of this while she was away, careful that my little sponge would pick up on this tragedy. I sheltered her from the news; instead playing outside, reading books and coloring pictures. She is young enough that I can do that without worry that some classmate will bring it up at school.
I know that time is not on my side, that the world will find a way to come crashing in. I know that I can’t prevent every tragedy nor do I want to shelter her from life in all its nuances. I want her to learn to cope with a scary world; I want her to process not only the good but also the bad in life with equal parts sadness, empathy, balance and hope. I want to help build her foundation so she knows that despite the evil in the world there will always be more good as long as there are people like me, and her daddy, her teachers and our family. There will always be those helpers who rush in to protect the innocent and fight the bad guys. I will teach her this every chance I can by reading books and playing games, reminding her always that I am here. She knows now that her parents will keep her safe, no matter what. It is my job right now to keep the world at bay. But when she is at school, and her brother is napping I sit, I watch the news and sometimes I cry.
I cry for the families wrenched apart by senseless violence. I cry for happy moments denied. I cry for a world that is a little darker today. I cry at all of the wonderful stories of human kindness unfolding from tragedy, proof that there is indeed more good than bad in this world. I cry for a moment for all of these things, and then I stop because above all the last thing I want my little sponge soaking up is my tears. Some days it tough to be a mommy.
So now I will go, for the hundredth time, try to convince Madison that there is no volcano at the White House. And if there is, well we can remain calm; at least Obama is there to protect us.
Photo Courtesy of Jib Jab
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Chaos, Criminal Minds, Dessert, family, kids, Recipe
Hi. Long time, no see. You may have been wondering where I have been for the past several months. In short, I was busy. The long story, I was busy with the following:
Filed under: Family | Tags: Alice in Wonderland, family, imagine, impossible, kids
“Sometimes I have believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” Lewis Carroll from Alice in Wonderland
I have always loved Alice in Wonderland; the zany and mad tale of a girl lost in a land that revels in the absurd. I, for one, think the absurd is far too underrated and often amuse myself by thinking of absurd things all day long. For example, when my daughter made the rule that we must dress as our favorite princess for Halloween I reveled in the idea of putting my six foot four husband in a sparkly blue Cinderella dress. (I still maintain that he would look fantastic; blue is his color after all.) I have a month to make it happen.
This got me to thinking though, what impossible things could I believe before breakfast? Or better yet, what impossible things do I wish I could do? Here is my list:
- I would invent and utilize the morning machine as seen on the Jetsons. You know the one; simply hop on the conveyor belt on one end and arrive on the other dressed and ready with a cup of hot coffee in hand. It would make mornings in my house a much more pleasant experience.
I wish it were this easy.
- I would have a chat with my great-grandpa Pop O’Brien; my dad’s grandfather. He died when I was little and the stories I have heard about him over the years has elevated him to superhero status in my mind. An Irish immigrant, he came over at a time when the Irish weren’t very popular and managed to raise some of the coolest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. (Including my saucy and fun grandma.) I wonder sometimes, though, what it would be like to talk to him as an adult. To get a true sense of who he was outside of the myth.
- To that end, I would also have a chat with my Great Grandma “Happy”; who died the year I was born. How cool is the nickname Grandma Happy? Although later I learned she was named after the dog… a little less cool now that I think about it. I know she too would have amazing stories to tell me, as a Mexican immigrant in a small town. Her husband left her soon after they immigrated, with thirteen children and not even a basic understanding of the English language. I would like to thank her for raising an amazing woman in my grandmother; who has taught me everything I know about hard work and determination. (Basically, she is the person who taught me how to be a stubborn steam-roller. Blame her.) Really, there are so many in my family that have come and gone that I would like to talk to as an adult. My grandpa Elmer Everett, or Mac as everyone called him; what would he have thought of my kids? I think he would have appreciated his little namesake, Madison Everett; the one who thinks we all need to dress as princesses. These are the people that have shaped our family and in turn made me… well me.
It looks like Grandpa Mac liked the absurd too, at least I hope that is what this picture is about.
- For this impossible coffee talk with my ancestors I would invent a magical chocolate chip cookie that tastes fantastic, clears up your skin and helps you lose weight (and does not involve ex-lax as an ingredient.) If I am going to dream the impossible I may as well dream big.
- I would find a magic bottle (labeled drink me of course) that would keep my babies young, happy and healthy. Then I would need a tea cake (this one labeled eat me, duh) that would help me raise well adjusted, smart and successful adults. Between the two we could revel in the best that life has to offer; the joys of being a young parent with the satisfaction of seeing your kids grow up with none of the messy heartache in between.
- Oh, and I would solve that whole world peace thing too. I mean dream big or not at all.
It dawns on me now; I think I can believe these impossible things. Well maybe not the Jetson machine or the magic cookies. But I can meet my great-grandparent through conversations with the family I have now. I can learn about them through the stories that I wasn’t quite old enough to hear as a little kid, I only have to ask. I can freeze time for my kids by writing down all of these little stories and antics now so I can share with them as they grow older. This idea seems all the more poignant this morning as learned that my dear friend has lost her grandmother last night. I can believe in at least three impossible things before breakfast, I simply must take the time to do so. Because time, as my friend can attest, runs out before you know it.
So the time has come, as I must say, to talk of many things. Not shoes and ships and sealing wax, but family and kids, fiction and facts… and because we are Irish, cabbages and kings.
a life just ordinary 