"I'm truly sorry, deeply...for all the wasted years I wasn't trusting in you. For all the years I was not seeing how you really were in everything, looking ahead for me..."
"I know."
"I am sorry I tried to be in charge of everything...I believed in you, I prayed (and I admit, mostly when something was going horribly wrong). But it was no where near what I am finding now..."
"Yes."
"I had a real problem with organized religion for a very long time...I got past some of that, and I see the reason for gathering in your house now. I hope its all right...but I still have a problem with the idea of certain doctrines being the only way..."
"I am glad you think about it."
"You are??"
"You live a long way from California, don't you?"
"Well, in human terms, yes. A VERY long way."
"If you were to drive it, how would you go?"
"Well...I don't know. I guess I would have to look at a map and figure it out. An AAA Triptik would probably give me the best route to follow..."
"In terms of what?"
"Oh, they take into account road conditions, whether road construction or repair is being done, time, etc."
"So is their way the way you would go?"
"Not necessarily."
"Hmmmm. And your husband is a very seasoned traveler, much more than you are. Would you necessarily, going it alone, go the way he did?"
"Well, I value his opinion. But he would probably understand if I needed to alter his idea of the best route some."
"Why's that?"
"Well...because I am not good in a lot of traffic, because I detest cities. I would much rather take a more scenic peaceful route than arrive hours earlier. I just tend to need....I don't know....a quieter way to go."
"Uh huh. Answer your question?"
"What?"
"Why I don't mind that you question doctrines?"
"OHHHHHH! You are saying there is more than one way to reach you!"
"Yes, certain things apply of course, just as in driving to California. There ARE certain rules of the road....but a lot of roads."
"I understand."
"I thought you might."
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Legislators? Are You Listening?
My husband always called them "Serenity-isms". I gathered them into a collection called "The Wee, Wiley, and Wise". The fact is that my granddaughter, Serenity, at aged five could come up with some things that would make the wisest old man of the mountain give pause. Here is a REAL conversation I had with her when she was in kindergarten. I think we could all learn something from this kid!
"Nana? I thought school was supposed to teach you things?"
"Well it does, honey! Haven't you learned a lot this year in kindergarten?"
"Nana! I mean impor-nant things!"
"Well honey, you have learned important things! You know your alphabet and days of the week and how to count. You can even read a little bit!"
"Nana, I am telling you. A lot of kids don't know how to do something impor-nant!"
"What, honey?"
"Well at lunch, they don't say their prayers! And the teachers don't know how, either!"
"Nana? I thought school was supposed to teach you things?"
"Well it does, honey! Haven't you learned a lot this year in kindergarten?"
"Nana! I mean impor-nant things!"
"Well honey, you have learned important things! You know your alphabet and days of the week and how to count. You can even read a little bit!"
"Nana, I am telling you. A lot of kids don't know how to do something impor-nant!"
"What, honey?"
"Well at lunch, they don't say their prayers! And the teachers don't know how, either!"
A Textbook Case
I spent twenty-eight years in education, and watched it disintegrate from a world in which "common sense" ruled to one that was baited by the "almighty test" and driven from the first day of school to the last by that hook. I could rant for hours about the lack of "common sense" and the lack of genuine education and preparation for life that our educational system has come to. I thought of it as a mission field of sorts for twenty-eight years, and sometimes I feel as if I "bailed out" (which I did), but I can't say I miss it...
My family was one that threw away nothing. The least scrap of twine was tied to the end of another and rolled in a ball to be saved "in case". A piece of aluminum foil was carefully washed and folded away in a drawer to be used again, and again, until it finally wound up in pieces so small it could be used for nothing. That is how I wound up the family archives for a hundred years worth of old textbooks. They have all enthralled me...from the early books my grandfather went to primary school with in the 1800's, to the ones my father used in the 1930's and 40's.
I always hated math (to the chagrin of my father, an engineer, and my mother, a bookkeeper), and one day when I was well grown, I took a peek into my father's algebra book from high school. Instead of gibberish and numbers, signs and symbols, it was filled with word problems and explanations of how to use algebra to solve them. But these were not just ANY word problems...they were REAL LIFE word problems, and a farm boy could use them to figure how much acreage he needed for so many cattle, etc. etc. In other words, for the time and the life that boy would be entering (or girl...there were those things too), the book made SENSE. One could see the reason behind the numbers and signs and symbols....and I thought, "Now if MY algebra book had been like that, showing me the connection between the gibberish and things I would need to know or be able to figure...then I might have actually LIKED it, at least felt like the effort...rather than despising what I considered a complete waste of time."
Last night I picked up another of my father's old textbooks: "Treasury of Life and Literature", copyright 1938. I was searching for some favorite old poems and some well known early poets of the twentieth century. What I found was exactly that, interspersed with short stories and essays, all divided into topics such as: "Protecting Useful Birds", "Living Within One's Means", "Being Loyal to One's Work", "Saving the Forests", "Developing Bodily Vigor", "The Triumph of Good Work".
I was stunned. Our literature books today reflect our culture...and it is all about "me" and "personal freedoms" to "find oneself"...on a "me" basis. This book sought to build character using literature...where has that gone?
Now can you imagine how "politically incorrect" it would be to include this in literature books for students now? Can you imagine how "politically incorrect" many writers would consider this? How many would DARE to write of this kind of morality in these strong words even here? Yet....isn't THIS what made our country strong? And isn't THIS what we are lacking now?
"'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
Try again."
-William Edward Hickson
"Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it-
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire-
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand
Work!
Thank God for the pride of it!"
-Angela Morgan
My family was one that threw away nothing. The least scrap of twine was tied to the end of another and rolled in a ball to be saved "in case". A piece of aluminum foil was carefully washed and folded away in a drawer to be used again, and again, until it finally wound up in pieces so small it could be used for nothing. That is how I wound up the family archives for a hundred years worth of old textbooks. They have all enthralled me...from the early books my grandfather went to primary school with in the 1800's, to the ones my father used in the 1930's and 40's.
I always hated math (to the chagrin of my father, an engineer, and my mother, a bookkeeper), and one day when I was well grown, I took a peek into my father's algebra book from high school. Instead of gibberish and numbers, signs and symbols, it was filled with word problems and explanations of how to use algebra to solve them. But these were not just ANY word problems...they were REAL LIFE word problems, and a farm boy could use them to figure how much acreage he needed for so many cattle, etc. etc. In other words, for the time and the life that boy would be entering (or girl...there were those things too), the book made SENSE. One could see the reason behind the numbers and signs and symbols....and I thought, "Now if MY algebra book had been like that, showing me the connection between the gibberish and things I would need to know or be able to figure...then I might have actually LIKED it, at least felt like the effort...rather than despising what I considered a complete waste of time."
Last night I picked up another of my father's old textbooks: "Treasury of Life and Literature", copyright 1938. I was searching for some favorite old poems and some well known early poets of the twentieth century. What I found was exactly that, interspersed with short stories and essays, all divided into topics such as: "Protecting Useful Birds", "Living Within One's Means", "Being Loyal to One's Work", "Saving the Forests", "Developing Bodily Vigor", "The Triumph of Good Work".
I was stunned. Our literature books today reflect our culture...and it is all about "me" and "personal freedoms" to "find oneself"...on a "me" basis. This book sought to build character using literature...where has that gone?
Now can you imagine how "politically incorrect" it would be to include this in literature books for students now? Can you imagine how "politically incorrect" many writers would consider this? How many would DARE to write of this kind of morality in these strong words even here? Yet....isn't THIS what made our country strong? And isn't THIS what we are lacking now?
"'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
Try again."
-William Edward Hickson
"Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it-
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire-
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand
Work!
Thank God for the pride of it!"
-Angela Morgan
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Every Moment With You
Dedicated to my husband, Ed. He is always there for me, but lately a lot has gone down that I have needed his support to endure. As always, he has been there without fail. I wrote this a year or so ago for him. It was an award winner in a Blue Mountain contest....but the REAL Award Winner is Eddie.
Every moment with you…
I love.
After twenty years and more,
Every moment with you,
I love.
I love the shining gladness
In your eyes
When we have been apart and
Come together.
I love the lilt in your voice
When you answer the phone
And know it is me.
I love reaching over
With a hand or a foot
To feel your warmth
Beside me in bed.
I love that I can talk to you
About anything,
Anything at all,
And you listen.
I love that you think,
Really think,
When something is
Important to me,
And you try to answer
Honestly, and without
Judgement.
I love that I can trust you
With anything,
Even immaterial things,
With things of the spirit
And soul,
With secrets of the past,
With anything at all.
Every moment with you,
I love.
Thank You, Papa God, for giving me this man.
Every moment with you…
I love.
After twenty years and more,
Every moment with you,
I love.
I love the shining gladness
In your eyes
When we have been apart and
Come together.
I love the lilt in your voice
When you answer the phone
And know it is me.
I love reaching over
With a hand or a foot
To feel your warmth
Beside me in bed.
I love that I can talk to you
About anything,
Anything at all,
And you listen.
I love that you think,
Really think,
When something is
Important to me,
And you try to answer
Honestly, and without
Judgement.
I love that I can trust you
With anything,
Even immaterial things,
With things of the spirit
And soul,
With secrets of the past,
With anything at all.
Every moment with you,
I love.
Thank You, Papa God, for giving me this man.
Jailhouse Apathy in Hypothetical? Dialogue
Jill shifted uncomfortably on the bench. She felt humiliated and embarrassed here. She felt dirty here. She glanced toward her grown daughter beside her.
"I can't stand this."
"I know, Mom."
"This is not who we are! Not who our family is!"
"I know, Mom."
Jill glanced around at the people lining the walls, filling up the few hard benches, leaned against the walls. She could not believe how many children were running around the place.
"Can't believe they bring kids in here! Aren't they ashamed??"
"Shhh! Mom, they'll hear you!"
"Ought to just have a playground outside. Seems like this is a family outing!"
"Shhhh!"
"Well they do! They act like it is a social gathering!"
"Mom...for some of them...it probably is a pretty regular habit."
Jill hushed. She glanced at her watch. She did a double take. She looked again.
"The sign said visiting hours were at 5:00! It is 5:30!"
"Yup, an' apt to be six afore they git here." The skinny woman in blue jeans sitting on the next bench spoke for the first time.
"What?"
"Man opens the door...sometimes he don't git here til six, sometimes seven."
"Then why does the sign say 5:00???"
The woman shrugged, resigned. She flipped her shoulder length brittle gray hair over a bony shoulder. "He works sommers else first. Don't git off til nearly six."
"Well then they need to change their information posted!"
The woman shrugged again. "What list you on?"
"What??"
"What list you on?"
"To get in? Is there more than one? I don't know...maybe I need to check and see if I got on the right one!"
"Nah. They just put out one at a time. What time you get here?"
"4:30"
"You probably on the first list. You'll git in soon's he gets here and they git em downstairs. Unless yours on lock down. Good thing."
"Why?"
"Cause you git on the second or third list, it is apt to be 9:00 fore you git in."
"WHAT? The visiting times are in fifteen minute increments. That can't be right! Second list should be 5:15!"
"Ain't how it is. They bring em down when they want. An' sometimes they let one bunch visit nearly a hour. Depends on whose in it."
"What???"
The gray haired woman shrugged again. "That's how it is."
Jill looked incredulously at her. The woman looked like she knew what she was talking about. Jill didn't know whether to be incredulous that this woman seemed so well acquainted with the foreign environment, or incredulous that apparently a government institution had such disregard for the public.
"Then someone needs to talk to the jailer!"
"Good luck findin' him. I been comin' here fer nigh on six months. Ain't seen him yet. An' the rest of em ain't gonna talk to you either."
"Isn't this an ELECTED position??"
The woman shrugged.
Jill went to the restroom off the waiting area. There was no toilet paper. She returned to her daughter in a huff.
"NOT ONLY was there no toilet paper...there was not even an empty roll! NOR was there even any sign there had ever been a place to hang one! This is absolutely RIDICULOUS!"
The gray haired woman smiled faintly.
Jill watched another couple, who looked like they were a bit "better calibur" enter the waiting area, looking around uneasily. She felt for them. She understood quite well how "dirty" this entire experience felt to them. She could strangle her own son for putting her through this.
The couple stopped, and spotting Jill, apparently seeing in her "one of their own" asked, "Is this where we wait to see a prisoner?"
"Yes. But you need to sign the list over there..."
"Thanks."
They did, and came back to stand uneasily against the wall. The woman turned to her.
"We drove over two hundred miles...and thought we would never find this place!"
Jill nodded.
"There is no website, nothing! We tried to call, and couldn't get anyone to answer the phone."
"I know. If I had not had someone in town who could come up here and find the posted hours, I would not know when to be here either."
"And we sent a money order here so our son could have commissary, and he wrote us he never got it!"
A well endowed woman with bleached blonde hair and two inches of dark roots spoke up.
"You cain't do that. Got to be a postal money order, got to be made out right." She stabbed at the bulletin board with one thumb. "Ain't just like that, exactly like that...you can ferget it. An' don't go makin' it out for more than twenty bucks a week neither, cause they jus take it an' you don't git it back neither. All you can have at one time."
"But we live two hundred miles away!"
The bleached blonde shrugged.
"He said he wanted something to read, so we brought him some books..."
"Won't let him have 'em."
"What??"
"Won't let him have 'em. Gotta be new books, sent straight from a bookstore or somethin in the mail."
"Not even a Bible????"
"Nothin'"
"He said he hadn't even had clean underwear since he has been here!"
The gray haired woman stifled a laugh. "Nope. Ain't gonna have either unless you give him money to buy underwear at their prices in the commissary! You can't wash what he's already got and bring it in. They run the store!"
Jill gasped. The couple who had driven two hundred miles looked horrified...."What???" the woman fairly strangled trying to grasp this new reality. She swallowed hard. "What...what about people who live as far away as we do? And...and...what about the ones in here that don't have anyone to make sure they have just...well...just basic things??"
The gray haired woman shrugged and looked bemused at the folks who didn't seem to grasp that this was "how it was."
Jill looked at her daughter. "This isn't right!!!"
"Well, Mom. They're prisoners."
"Yes, but WE aren't!!! WE didn't do anything wrong!!!"
Her daughter shrugged.
"I can't stand this."
"I know, Mom."
"This is not who we are! Not who our family is!"
"I know, Mom."
Jill glanced around at the people lining the walls, filling up the few hard benches, leaned against the walls. She could not believe how many children were running around the place.
"Can't believe they bring kids in here! Aren't they ashamed??"
"Shhh! Mom, they'll hear you!"
"Ought to just have a playground outside. Seems like this is a family outing!"
"Shhhh!"
"Well they do! They act like it is a social gathering!"
"Mom...for some of them...it probably is a pretty regular habit."
Jill hushed. She glanced at her watch. She did a double take. She looked again.
"The sign said visiting hours were at 5:00! It is 5:30!"
"Yup, an' apt to be six afore they git here." The skinny woman in blue jeans sitting on the next bench spoke for the first time.
"What?"
"Man opens the door...sometimes he don't git here til six, sometimes seven."
"Then why does the sign say 5:00???"
The woman shrugged, resigned. She flipped her shoulder length brittle gray hair over a bony shoulder. "He works sommers else first. Don't git off til nearly six."
"Well then they need to change their information posted!"
The woman shrugged again. "What list you on?"
"What??"
"What list you on?"
"To get in? Is there more than one? I don't know...maybe I need to check and see if I got on the right one!"
"Nah. They just put out one at a time. What time you get here?"
"4:30"
"You probably on the first list. You'll git in soon's he gets here and they git em downstairs. Unless yours on lock down. Good thing."
"Why?"
"Cause you git on the second or third list, it is apt to be 9:00 fore you git in."
"WHAT? The visiting times are in fifteen minute increments. That can't be right! Second list should be 5:15!"
"Ain't how it is. They bring em down when they want. An' sometimes they let one bunch visit nearly a hour. Depends on whose in it."
"What???"
The gray haired woman shrugged again. "That's how it is."
Jill looked incredulously at her. The woman looked like she knew what she was talking about. Jill didn't know whether to be incredulous that this woman seemed so well acquainted with the foreign environment, or incredulous that apparently a government institution had such disregard for the public.
"Then someone needs to talk to the jailer!"
"Good luck findin' him. I been comin' here fer nigh on six months. Ain't seen him yet. An' the rest of em ain't gonna talk to you either."
"Isn't this an ELECTED position??"
The woman shrugged.
Jill went to the restroom off the waiting area. There was no toilet paper. She returned to her daughter in a huff.
"NOT ONLY was there no toilet paper...there was not even an empty roll! NOR was there even any sign there had ever been a place to hang one! This is absolutely RIDICULOUS!"
The gray haired woman smiled faintly.
Jill watched another couple, who looked like they were a bit "better calibur" enter the waiting area, looking around uneasily. She felt for them. She understood quite well how "dirty" this entire experience felt to them. She could strangle her own son for putting her through this.
The couple stopped, and spotting Jill, apparently seeing in her "one of their own" asked, "Is this where we wait to see a prisoner?"
"Yes. But you need to sign the list over there..."
"Thanks."
They did, and came back to stand uneasily against the wall. The woman turned to her.
"We drove over two hundred miles...and thought we would never find this place!"
Jill nodded.
"There is no website, nothing! We tried to call, and couldn't get anyone to answer the phone."
"I know. If I had not had someone in town who could come up here and find the posted hours, I would not know when to be here either."
"And we sent a money order here so our son could have commissary, and he wrote us he never got it!"
A well endowed woman with bleached blonde hair and two inches of dark roots spoke up.
"You cain't do that. Got to be a postal money order, got to be made out right." She stabbed at the bulletin board with one thumb. "Ain't just like that, exactly like that...you can ferget it. An' don't go makin' it out for more than twenty bucks a week neither, cause they jus take it an' you don't git it back neither. All you can have at one time."
"But we live two hundred miles away!"
The bleached blonde shrugged.
"He said he wanted something to read, so we brought him some books..."
"Won't let him have 'em."
"What??"
"Won't let him have 'em. Gotta be new books, sent straight from a bookstore or somethin in the mail."
"Not even a Bible????"
"Nothin'"
"He said he hadn't even had clean underwear since he has been here!"
The gray haired woman stifled a laugh. "Nope. Ain't gonna have either unless you give him money to buy underwear at their prices in the commissary! You can't wash what he's already got and bring it in. They run the store!"
Jill gasped. The couple who had driven two hundred miles looked horrified...."What???" the woman fairly strangled trying to grasp this new reality. She swallowed hard. "What...what about people who live as far away as we do? And...and...what about the ones in here that don't have anyone to make sure they have just...well...just basic things??"
The gray haired woman shrugged and looked bemused at the folks who didn't seem to grasp that this was "how it was."
Jill looked at her daughter. "This isn't right!!!"
"Well, Mom. They're prisoners."
"Yes, but WE aren't!!! WE didn't do anything wrong!!!"
Her daughter shrugged.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
My Son, My Sun
Dedicated to two very special friends (you know who you are) who feel this pain as deeply as I do. And to all the other mothers out there who have known the same.
God gave me a son
Who was my sun.
He gave me a son
And a cloud.
And I am still
Trying to find the son.
The sun is behind a cloud.
Since I can't see
What's in store for me,
Or worse...far worse...
For him...
God, please take care
Of my son
Find the sun...please...
For him.
Like a Child
Like a Child...
Like a child...
I block out the "logic",
I tear down the walls.
Like a child,
I open it, my chest
Vulnerable,
And say,
"Here I am Lord,
As much like a child
As I can be...
Do what you will."
And you do...
Except for what
I do not let go of.
And there always seems
To be something.
Like a child,
I always hold
Something back
In my greedy grasp.
Like a child,
Help me pull back each
Grasping finger
And let it all go...
Just let it all go...
And hold my open
Psalm.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
I've Had Better Days
Most creative sorts manage to mark a passage of their lives with something of themselves. A musician might write a song...an artist paints a picture. "I've Had Better Days" marks the passage of the last few weeks for me. :) I'm feeling better. So I am selling the outlet of my frustration. He is one of a kind and he is located at: http://www.etsy.com/listing/57316447/had-better-days
:)
No Accidents
A very long time ago, when my son was having a very hard time of things, I did a little homework and a little research, and I wrote him this little piece to remind him in yet another way how very special he was. I was astounded myself at what I learned. It became a lesson for myself, as well as a lesson for him.
This is how special you are...
If you had been born in this country 200 years ago, you would have had less than a 20% chance of reaching the age of ten. If you had been born in most of the world today, the same is still true. But this is not the most wondrous part of who you are. Listen...
For only a few hours of one week of one month in a certain year was it even possible that your conception could even occur. There was one in 450 million chances that the sperm that created you did so. Had it not you would have been another child. When you were conceived you received 23 chromosomes from your mother and 23 from your father, but all of those were a toss up from millions. If one chromosome had been different, you would be a different child. Theoretically, any one of 64 trillion children could have been born...yet it was YOU. Add to that the fact that even after you received the chromosomes that led to your creation, they have a quirky little habit of "crossing over", changing pieces and parts of each other and this made for eight million MORE possibilities of you being someone different from who you are. If one chromosome had switched one part with another...you would not exist...
And yet you do. You were born in this country in this time to this family. You were conceived within the only few hours that were possible for you to exist. You beat the odds of one in 450 million to receive a particular sperm, you beat the odds of one in 64 trillion to receive just the right mix of chromosomes, and you beat the odds of one in eight million that no switching was done afterward except that which produced YOU.
Have you any doubt that you are meant to be, meant to exist? Have you any doubt that there is some very special purpose for you on this earth?
Just a thought,
This is how special you are...
If you had been born in this country 200 years ago, you would have had less than a 20% chance of reaching the age of ten. If you had been born in most of the world today, the same is still true. But this is not the most wondrous part of who you are. Listen...
For only a few hours of one week of one month in a certain year was it even possible that your conception could even occur. There was one in 450 million chances that the sperm that created you did so. Had it not you would have been another child. When you were conceived you received 23 chromosomes from your mother and 23 from your father, but all of those were a toss up from millions. If one chromosome had been different, you would be a different child. Theoretically, any one of 64 trillion children could have been born...yet it was YOU. Add to that the fact that even after you received the chromosomes that led to your creation, they have a quirky little habit of "crossing over", changing pieces and parts of each other and this made for eight million MORE possibilities of you being someone different from who you are. If one chromosome had switched one part with another...you would not exist...
And yet you do. You were born in this country in this time to this family. You were conceived within the only few hours that were possible for you to exist. You beat the odds of one in 450 million to receive a particular sperm, you beat the odds of one in 64 trillion to receive just the right mix of chromosomes, and you beat the odds of one in eight million that no switching was done afterward except that which produced YOU.
Have you any doubt that you are meant to be, meant to exist? Have you any doubt that there is some very special purpose for you on this earth?
Just a thought,
Friday, September 24, 2010
A Finally "Feel the Love" Potion
I didn’t know if it was day or night…
I felt like kissing everything in sight…
Remember that old song? And Love Potion No. 9? Well several years back, I got a dose of that. It happened after: I had survived cancer and thought it was all the side effects of too much surgery, too much treatment, too much stress. I was a nervous wreck, inside and out. Inside I was a quivering mass of jelly and outside I shook like a leaf. I could not sleep. My hair was falling out in clumps. My skin was dry. The only good thing going on was that weight was falling off like crazy…but I did not know why. And then I learned why.
Graves Disease. And the disease I had never heard of had my thyroid literally off the charts.
Enter radioactive iodine treatment to kill half the thyroid. Enter “Love Potion No. 9”…synthroid for the rest of my ever lovin’ life and every single day of it if I intended to live, much less live a “normal” (whatever that is) life. It has entered my mind more than once, so what if there is some worldwide or national crisis? What if I am stranded on a desert island? What if I actually do win the lottery someday (never mind you have to play to win…and I don’t) and get kidnapped and held for ransom? What if I develop amnesia and don’t know I am sposed to have it?? Duh…rather paranoid thoughts I know. But if you know you have to have something every day or else…well, you are prone sometimes to paranoid thoughts.
And sythroid to me was “Love Potion No. 9”. Cured it all. Sanity restored.
So…I should have known. I should have but I didn’t. I didn’t because I have been dutifully taking my synthroid. I didn’t because it has not been all that long ago since I had seen my endocrinologist…less than six months actually. I didn’t because …well because, shhhh! I am menopausal.
So I figured it was that kind of hot flashes only. I figured that was the insomnia. I figured that was the mega meltdown crying jags (I NEVER cry usually...well not except for some moist eyes during sad books or sad movies). I figured that was why I sometimes had the “shakes”. I figured that was why everything some days seemed bigger and more horrible than it was…the middle aged “mellow me” had gone into hiding…and I figured that was why. I figured that was the …well everything.
And it kept getting worse instead of better. I mean one year of this stuff is enough, right??? Shouldn't it be easing??
Well scuse me…but today I was assured the panic attack earlier in the summer was not such at all and should not have been diagnosed as such. Today the mantra of symptoms suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Suddenly I made sense. Today I was assured that my synthroid dose was not only not working for me, but has been working against me…and probably a whole lot of the problem. In other words? My system had gone topsy turvey and I was NOT crazy. You have to understand that this was a HUGE relief to me. I was seriously starting to wonder about myself. I got a brand new prescription matched to the changes my body has undergone in the last six months.
I feel like I have been given a brand new “Love Potion No. 9”. And from this day forward if/when my moods seem “outta whack” I will be hightailing it back to that endocrinologist who finally got to the bottom of it. I will never again figure since I was in his office “not long ago” that means I am still “ok”.
Bottom line? I got to thinking….how many people out there have symptoms of this and have never had it checked out?? Many probably. So this is my little offering to those out there who need to check it out…please do. I know what it is like…insanity…and there really is a Love Potion No. 9 to cure it.
I felt like kissing everything in sight…
Remember that old song? And Love Potion No. 9? Well several years back, I got a dose of that. It happened after: I had survived cancer and thought it was all the side effects of too much surgery, too much treatment, too much stress. I was a nervous wreck, inside and out. Inside I was a quivering mass of jelly and outside I shook like a leaf. I could not sleep. My hair was falling out in clumps. My skin was dry. The only good thing going on was that weight was falling off like crazy…but I did not know why. And then I learned why.
Graves Disease. And the disease I had never heard of had my thyroid literally off the charts.
Enter radioactive iodine treatment to kill half the thyroid. Enter “Love Potion No. 9”…synthroid for the rest of my ever lovin’ life and every single day of it if I intended to live, much less live a “normal” (whatever that is) life. It has entered my mind more than once, so what if there is some worldwide or national crisis? What if I am stranded on a desert island? What if I actually do win the lottery someday (never mind you have to play to win…and I don’t) and get kidnapped and held for ransom? What if I develop amnesia and don’t know I am sposed to have it?? Duh…rather paranoid thoughts I know. But if you know you have to have something every day or else…well, you are prone sometimes to paranoid thoughts.
And sythroid to me was “Love Potion No. 9”. Cured it all. Sanity restored.
So…I should have known. I should have but I didn’t. I didn’t because I have been dutifully taking my synthroid. I didn’t because it has not been all that long ago since I had seen my endocrinologist…less than six months actually. I didn’t because …well because, shhhh! I am menopausal.
So I figured it was that kind of hot flashes only. I figured that was the insomnia. I figured that was the mega meltdown crying jags (I NEVER cry usually...well not except for some moist eyes during sad books or sad movies). I figured that was why I sometimes had the “shakes”. I figured that was why everything some days seemed bigger and more horrible than it was…the middle aged “mellow me” had gone into hiding…and I figured that was why. I figured that was the …well everything.
And it kept getting worse instead of better. I mean one year of this stuff is enough, right??? Shouldn't it be easing??
Well scuse me…but today I was assured the panic attack earlier in the summer was not such at all and should not have been diagnosed as such. Today the mantra of symptoms suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Suddenly I made sense. Today I was assured that my synthroid dose was not only not working for me, but has been working against me…and probably a whole lot of the problem. In other words? My system had gone topsy turvey and I was NOT crazy. You have to understand that this was a HUGE relief to me. I was seriously starting to wonder about myself. I got a brand new prescription matched to the changes my body has undergone in the last six months.
I feel like I have been given a brand new “Love Potion No. 9”. And from this day forward if/when my moods seem “outta whack” I will be hightailing it back to that endocrinologist who finally got to the bottom of it. I will never again figure since I was in his office “not long ago” that means I am still “ok”.
Bottom line? I got to thinking….how many people out there have symptoms of this and have never had it checked out?? Many probably. So this is my little offering to those out there who need to check it out…please do. I know what it is like…insanity…and there really is a Love Potion No. 9 to cure it.
From My "To Pen: Perchance to Scream!" collection...
Passion, After a Fashion
Come live with me and be my love,
The apartment for rent is right above,
And if you will just pay my share
And kindly wash my underwear…
I will promise undying support
And promise never ever to court
Another finer lass than thee…
As long as you take care of me!
(apologies to Marlowe)
Original version: Christopher Marlowe, "Passionate Shepherd to His Love, 1590's"
Ah...let me count the ways!"
I love thee each date
Of all the calendar days!
I love thee so much
It swells my fair breast.
I love thee more than
The span round your chest!
I love thee more than the
Hairs on thine own head.
Tho they be few,
Still I would thee wed!
I love thee the number
Of zits on thy back,
I love thee despite
Quickies in the sack.
I love thee! O I love thee!
And these words are for you!
Written in desperation!
Won't you please love me too??
Apologies to Elizabeth's Parrot Browning..oops....I mean Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Original version: Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1806-1861), Songs from the Portuguese, "How Do I Love Thee?"
Come live with me and be my love,
The apartment for rent is right above,
And if you will just pay my share
And kindly wash my underwear…
I will promise undying support
And promise never ever to court
Another finer lass than thee…
As long as you take care of me!
(apologies to Marlowe)
Original version: Christopher Marlowe, "Passionate Shepherd to His Love, 1590's"
And yet another from To Pen: Perchance to Scream!
I Love Thee! O Desperate Plea!
"How do I love thee?
Ah...let me count the ways!"
I love thee each date
Of all the calendar days!
I love thee so much
It swells my fair breast.
I love thee more than
The span round your chest!
I love thee more than the
Hairs on thine own head.
Tho they be few,
Still I would thee wed!
I love thee the number
Of zits on thy back,
I love thee despite
Quickies in the sack.
I love thee! O I love thee!
And these words are for you!
Written in desperation!
Won't you please love me too??
Apologies to Elizabeth's Parrot Browning..oops....I mean Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Original version: Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1806-1861), Songs from the Portuguese, "How Do I Love Thee?"
Thursday, September 23, 2010
GOSSIP
The ghastly whispers came creeping around us
Like cold fingers
Touching, lingering, ever grasping
Grasping in the corners of our minds,
Reaching without ceasing, reaching while
I waited breathlessly
To see what they would find.
Would they find my deepest darkest fears?
The ones I kept wrapped in so many snowy blankets?
The ones I never unwrapped, and liked to see
All wrapped up like little neat bundles, so neat
No one would ever think, or even want to
Disturb?
Would they linger over the bindings of all those
Snowy swaths? Would they caress the smooth
texture, run fingers around the strips of snow?
Could they feel? Could they feel that though
The texture was fleecy, soft, it was also cold?
So cold no fire could ever warm it? So cold
The swaths of cloth must hide remnants of some long ago
Ice Age?
Would they feel it? And if they did...
Would they have to explore, unwrap, layer by snowy layer?
Layer by Ice Age layer?
Would the fingers peel back the layers to expose
All the truths of a long ago past,
Oh so many eons ago, so many mammoths ago,
So many wooly mammoths ago.
Would the fingers pause as they came to that last layer...
And feel the cold so deeply it burned the flesh
And burned the bones of those ghastly whispers,
And ached to creep into the voices of them?
And what of the others?
Did they wrap their eons, their ages, their mammoths
In snowy blankets too, and push them back,
Far back, into the dust and cobwebs of forgotten yesterdays?
Did they do that too? Was this universal?
This cloaking of truth in softness, in purity,
In hidden places that even they could not discover again?
Well I can tell them...
Ghastly whispers come creeping.
They come creeping around us all
Like cold fingers
And they find us all out,
They peel the snowy layers of all that is hidden,
And they ache, they burn
Until the whispers grow in strength.
Cold fingers are attached, you see,
To cold hearts.
Like cold fingers
Touching, lingering, ever grasping
Grasping in the corners of our minds,
Reaching without ceasing, reaching while
I waited breathlessly
To see what they would find.
Would they find my deepest darkest fears?
The ones I kept wrapped in so many snowy blankets?
The ones I never unwrapped, and liked to see
All wrapped up like little neat bundles, so neat
No one would ever think, or even want to
Disturb?
Would they linger over the bindings of all those
Snowy swaths? Would they caress the smooth
texture, run fingers around the strips of snow?
Could they feel? Could they feel that though
The texture was fleecy, soft, it was also cold?
So cold no fire could ever warm it? So cold
The swaths of cloth must hide remnants of some long ago
Ice Age?
Would they feel it? And if they did...
Would they have to explore, unwrap, layer by snowy layer?
Layer by Ice Age layer?
Would the fingers peel back the layers to expose
All the truths of a long ago past,
Oh so many eons ago, so many mammoths ago,
So many wooly mammoths ago.
Would the fingers pause as they came to that last layer...
And feel the cold so deeply it burned the flesh
And burned the bones of those ghastly whispers,
And ached to creep into the voices of them?
And what of the others?
Did they wrap their eons, their ages, their mammoths
In snowy blankets too, and push them back,
Far back, into the dust and cobwebs of forgotten yesterdays?
Did they do that too? Was this universal?
This cloaking of truth in softness, in purity,
In hidden places that even they could not discover again?
Well I can tell them...
Ghastly whispers come creeping.
They come creeping around us all
Like cold fingers
And they find us all out,
They peel the snowy layers of all that is hidden,
And they ache, they burn
Until the whispers grow in strength.
Cold fingers are attached, you see,
To cold hearts.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
A Lover's Vow I Give to Thee!
A lover's vow I give to thee!
A lover's trust that thou might see
My love is thine! And thine alone!
I love thee and I love thy bone!
I love thy sloppy slobbery kiss!
I love it that thou dost so miss
Me when I am gone and come to greet
The owner that gives thee a juicy treat!
I love thy big fat thumping tail
I even love thy hound-dawg wail!
I love thy flopping ears with ticks
And the way you fetch those big ole sticks.
I love thee, dawg, for thou art true!
Of all my loves, I love most YOU!
A lover's trust that thou might see
My love is thine! And thine alone!
I love thee and I love thy bone!
I love thy sloppy slobbery kiss!
I love it that thou dost so miss
Me when I am gone and come to greet
The owner that gives thee a juicy treat!
I love thy big fat thumping tail
I even love thy hound-dawg wail!
I love thy flopping ears with ticks
And the way you fetch those big ole sticks.
I love thee, dawg, for thou art true!
Of all my loves, I love most YOU!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Grass is Greener On the Other Side of the Road...
So pardon me if I deviate from my agenda of enlightening you on the life of a campground attendant...my attention span is....oh look!!! A butterfly! Anyway, I can write about whatever it was...what? The Grass is Greener? OH! I remember that old saying...
Yes...let's have a little fun with that... found one my manuscripts (stuck to the fence).
Paris Hilton: Ooooo! It is? Well take my little dog over there to use it then!
Bill Clinton: I only inhaled once. So it really doesn't matter.
OBama: That's right! So get your gr-ass over here to my side of the fence!
McCain: You are deceived. It is not green. Let's all be real Americans and mow it down.
Bush: Ain't no grass in Texas. But I know where there are some damned fine tumbleweeds. (and a few oil wells)
Brittany Spears: I am really not even interested in that anymore.
Brad Pitt: That is exactly what we have been saying. So don't adopt locally.
Sheriff: Fire up the helicopter, boys, and let's go!
Willie Nelson: Grass? Where?
Cow poking his head through barbed wire: Yup.
Yes...let's have a little fun with that... found one my manuscripts (stuck to the fence).
Paris Hilton: Ooooo! It is? Well take my little dog over there to use it then!
Bill Clinton: I only inhaled once. So it really doesn't matter.
OBama: That's right! So get your gr-ass over here to my side of the fence!
McCain: You are deceived. It is not green. Let's all be real Americans and mow it down.
Bush: Ain't no grass in Texas. But I know where there are some damned fine tumbleweeds. (and a few oil wells)
Brittany Spears: I am really not even interested in that anymore.
Brad Pitt: That is exactly what we have been saying. So don't adopt locally.
Sheriff: Fire up the helicopter, boys, and let's go!
Willie Nelson: Grass? Where?
Cow poking his head through barbed wire: Yup.
So...You Think You Want to be a Campground Attendant...Part I
Never fails. All summer long we get probing comments/questions and sidelong envious glances from folks who have idealized our jobs and think they want it. About this time of the year they even get downright pushy, breathing over our shoulder like rabid vultures waiting for the season to end and wondering if we "will be back next year".
Since we are too old to sweat, know we do a good job at what we do, and we were't looking for this job when God saw to it we had it in the first place ...we manage to smile without grinding our teeth. Besides, the fact is...we used to do the same thing!
The truth is...running a campground is NOT like "getting to camp six months" out of the year. If you are outside you are on duty. Period. Regardless of what the sign says on the gatehouse. That is why we have had exactly one campfire in the last five months. The truth is, if you are INSIDE you are also on duty. No matter what time it is. Pick a time in the wee hours: 2:00 AM, 3:00 AM, 4:00 AM...I don't care what time you choose...because whatever it is, someone has come banging on our camper door and usually for something inconsequential.
I don't mean to discourage those who think our job is the "next thing to heaven". Clearly there are benefits. And we DO work with and for some of the best people I have ever had the pleasure to work with. The majority of the regular campers have become almost like family. In fact most people who stay at this campground are family oriented/fishermen and really are not a great deal of trouble. But there are a few thunks to think too:
a) Do you mind sitting outside your camper on your off hours and being interrupted at least once every five minutes? Can you still be courteous, professional and smile?
b) Do you mind being awakened at any hour of the night or morning by someone who has either not read the hours on the gatehouse or does not care? Can you smile even though your sleep apnea machine is tangled around your ankles?
c) Can you live with your spouse in a camper or motorhome for six months without being indicted for murder in the first degree?
d) Can you live without a single day off in six months? If you manage to slip off for a day or so, can you be ready to return at the drop of a hat if your spouse (who is left running it) gets sick or the campground gets suddenly busy? And forget weekend slipping off at all. Ain't gonna happen. Also isn't allowed.
e) Are you prepared to miss family birthdays, reunions, funerals, weddings, etc.? The campground must go on...and this is what you signed up for. Family just has to deal with it. And you do too.
f) Are you prepared to work fourteen hour days through the holidays and busy season? (That is "on the clock" hours...it may actually be more like sixteen to eighteen).
g) Are you prepared to plan your dental procedures and medical complications around the number of campers expected in during a particular time of the week...and probably attend to your own surgery or root canal without your spouse there to hold your hand?
h) You do realize you are paid the same regardless of the hours worked that week, regardless of the extra things that occurred, regardless of the number of times you had to attend to someone/thing on your "off hours", regardless? You do realize you are given no medical benefits, sick leave, personal leave and are responsible for paying your taxes and social security on your own?
i) You DO understand you are working SEVEN days a week for SIX MONTHS and there is no one to "fill in", don't you? That's right. We have not had a day off since April. Or a night.
Ok, if you read all this and you think you can still smile and be professional through it all...and it is possible. Hubby and I do. If you read all this and think that, then you MIGHT be material for a job like this... But hang on. I have some fun to share with you.
The writer in me couldn't resist. And as we have had this adventure, I had to document... :) Check back tomorrow!
Since we are too old to sweat, know we do a good job at what we do, and we were't looking for this job when God saw to it we had it in the first place ...we manage to smile without grinding our teeth. Besides, the fact is...we used to do the same thing!
The truth is...running a campground is NOT like "getting to camp six months" out of the year. If you are outside you are on duty. Period. Regardless of what the sign says on the gatehouse. That is why we have had exactly one campfire in the last five months. The truth is, if you are INSIDE you are also on duty. No matter what time it is. Pick a time in the wee hours: 2:00 AM, 3:00 AM, 4:00 AM...I don't care what time you choose...because whatever it is, someone has come banging on our camper door and usually for something inconsequential.
I don't mean to discourage those who think our job is the "next thing to heaven". Clearly there are benefits. And we DO work with and for some of the best people I have ever had the pleasure to work with. The majority of the regular campers have become almost like family. In fact most people who stay at this campground are family oriented/fishermen and really are not a great deal of trouble. But there are a few thunks to think too:
a) Do you mind sitting outside your camper on your off hours and being interrupted at least once every five minutes? Can you still be courteous, professional and smile?
b) Do you mind being awakened at any hour of the night or morning by someone who has either not read the hours on the gatehouse or does not care? Can you smile even though your sleep apnea machine is tangled around your ankles?
c) Can you live with your spouse in a camper or motorhome for six months without being indicted for murder in the first degree?
d) Can you live without a single day off in six months? If you manage to slip off for a day or so, can you be ready to return at the drop of a hat if your spouse (who is left running it) gets sick or the campground gets suddenly busy? And forget weekend slipping off at all. Ain't gonna happen. Also isn't allowed.
e) Are you prepared to miss family birthdays, reunions, funerals, weddings, etc.? The campground must go on...and this is what you signed up for. Family just has to deal with it. And you do too.
f) Are you prepared to work fourteen hour days through the holidays and busy season? (That is "on the clock" hours...it may actually be more like sixteen to eighteen).
g) Are you prepared to plan your dental procedures and medical complications around the number of campers expected in during a particular time of the week...and probably attend to your own surgery or root canal without your spouse there to hold your hand?
h) You do realize you are paid the same regardless of the hours worked that week, regardless of the extra things that occurred, regardless of the number of times you had to attend to someone/thing on your "off hours", regardless? You do realize you are given no medical benefits, sick leave, personal leave and are responsible for paying your taxes and social security on your own?
i) You DO understand you are working SEVEN days a week for SIX MONTHS and there is no one to "fill in", don't you? That's right. We have not had a day off since April. Or a night.
Ok, if you read all this and you think you can still smile and be professional through it all...and it is possible. Hubby and I do. If you read all this and think that, then you MIGHT be material for a job like this... But hang on. I have some fun to share with you.
The writer in me couldn't resist. And as we have had this adventure, I had to document... :) Check back tomorrow!
Monday, September 20, 2010
Spousal Conversation: Midlife Changes
"Honey, we have to talk."
"For heaven's sake. Do we have to go into this again??"
"Why won't you listen to reason? We agreed on this when we got married!"
"And that was twenty years ago, and you haven't let up in the last ten! I changed my mind!"
"We aren't getting any younger."
"Look....I just can't go through all that again."
"I will get up at night."
"I am too old to cope with the stages."
"I will cope with the stages."
"Uh huh. And you won't cope with what starts to happen when it turns thirteen."
"At this rate, I won't live long enough to remember!"
"Honey, honestly...I can't do this."
"Then what if we just get a small one? Say...a dachshund?"
"For heaven's sake. Do we have to go into this again??"
"Why won't you listen to reason? We agreed on this when we got married!"
"And that was twenty years ago, and you haven't let up in the last ten! I changed my mind!"
"We aren't getting any younger."
"Look....I just can't go through all that again."
"I will get up at night."
"I am too old to cope with the stages."
"I will cope with the stages."
"Uh huh. And you won't cope with what starts to happen when it turns thirteen."
"At this rate, I won't live long enough to remember!"
"Honey, honestly...I can't do this."
"Then what if we just get a small one? Say...a dachshund?"
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Because I Could Not Stop for Death
Because I could not stop for death,
He kindly stopped for me,
And knock-ed on my cottage door
To serve me poisoned tea.
"I know you're young," said this man Dread,
"Yet even youth take time to be dead.
I have never been a respector of youth!"
"And you," I answered, "Are most uncouth!
How dare you bring your rot to me?
You with your obituary?
For I am not finished, I am not done,
I will have my say, every single one.
And God is standing at my side,
Away on His Plan I intend to ride!
The story may yet come to an end,
But you will not an addendum rend.
For my story, there is a SEQUEL!
And you, Mr. Death, are not God's Equal!"
(Apologies Dear Emily, I love thee....but I like my version better!)
He kindly stopped for me,
And knock-ed on my cottage door
To serve me poisoned tea.
"I know you're young," said this man Dread,
"Yet even youth take time to be dead.
I have never been a respector of youth!"
"And you," I answered, "Are most uncouth!
How dare you bring your rot to me?
You with your obituary?
For I am not finished, I am not done,
I will have my say, every single one.
And God is standing at my side,
Away on His Plan I intend to ride!
The story may yet come to an end,
But you will not an addendum rend.
For my story, there is a SEQUEL!
And you, Mr. Death, are not God's Equal!"
(Apologies Dear Emily, I love thee....but I like my version better!)
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The Big C
The Big C
Came knocking at my door,
And it did not rap gently.
I saw it walking up the street
And I knew it was coming to my house,
But I pretended it was going to keep
Meandering and choose some other cottage
To disrupt.
I pretended because I did not have time for it,
Because I did not want pitying glances,
Because I did not want my loved ones to be upset
Over me and my visitor,
Because I did not want to die.
It came without meandering at all,
In a very straight determined line, with a
Very firm clipping step,
And it knocked at my door
With no gentleness and with
Incessant persistance.
I ignored it until the holiday
was over.
That was easy to do with all the laughter
In my house, with all the rustling
of brightly colored papers,
With all the scents of promising
dishes, and all the love
Lingering.
They left my house still laughing,
Clutching contents of pretty boxes,
and followed by all the warmth
Of love breezes still clinging.
They didn't even notice
My ugly visitor
Waiting on the porch.
I let them go.
I opened the door again.
I told Big C,
"You can't come in.
You aren't welcome here.
But I can see, you are going to stay a while.
So sit there on my porch,
While I go back inside
And figure out how much of me
I will let you take."
Came knocking at my door,
And it did not rap gently.
I saw it walking up the street
And I knew it was coming to my house,
But I pretended it was going to keep
Meandering and choose some other cottage
To disrupt.
I pretended because I did not have time for it,
Because I did not want pitying glances,
Because I did not want my loved ones to be upset
Over me and my visitor,
Because I did not want to die.
It came without meandering at all,
In a very straight determined line, with a
Very firm clipping step,
And it knocked at my door
With no gentleness and with
Incessant persistance.
I ignored it until the holiday
was over.
That was easy to do with all the laughter
In my house, with all the rustling
of brightly colored papers,
With all the scents of promising
dishes, and all the love
Lingering.
They left my house still laughing,
Clutching contents of pretty boxes,
and followed by all the warmth
Of love breezes still clinging.
They didn't even notice
My ugly visitor
Waiting on the porch.
I let them go.
I opened the door again.
I told Big C,
"You can't come in.
You aren't welcome here.
But I can see, you are going to stay a while.
So sit there on my porch,
While I go back inside
And figure out how much of me
I will let you take."
Friday, September 17, 2010
10 Things I Learned from My Kids
10. If you hear a puppy crying in the breezeway all night, and you don't own a puppy, you do now.
9. If the ceiling suddenly starts springing water, and plaster lands at your feet, your son has left the water running in the upstairs sink (again).
8. If you spot your son's teacher at the grocery and she looks at you blankly when you gush about the award she just gave him...he forged it.
7. If you call your own phone number only to get a recording of a youthful voice explaining that when his parents "get out" "from serving 8-10" he will have them return the call...count to 10010 before going home.
6. If your daughter swears up and down the kitty you finally allowed her to adopt from her little friend at school is a BOY kitten....check it out before the mother of the little friend you don't know drives off.
5. If you THOUGHT you were seeing things....there MIGHT be a mouse in the house...but there could not possibly be multiple WHITE mice.... you probably are not seeing things. Check with your eldest son. (Remember that community play he was in at Halloween? Remember what they used as props, caged of course? Well...after the play...they had to go somewhere....)
4. Never ever tell that same son to load the dishwasher without explaining the differences in detergents...not unless you want to wade through three feet of bubbles in your kitchen floor.
3. Remember that same son? Remember that weird sound you heard overhead? Yeah, he was riding his bicycle off the second story roof. His siblings will tell you about it in about ten years.
2. If your fifty foot pine tree is swaying in the wind...but there is no wind...check and see where four of your children are.
1. Do not lose your mind. Sons (and daughters) more often than not have a way of growing up, becoming (hopefully) responsible citizens, and apologizing for all the gray hairs they gave you (of course they are laughing as they do so!!! But this time, so are you!!!).
9. If the ceiling suddenly starts springing water, and plaster lands at your feet, your son has left the water running in the upstairs sink (again).
8. If you spot your son's teacher at the grocery and she looks at you blankly when you gush about the award she just gave him...he forged it.
7. If you call your own phone number only to get a recording of a youthful voice explaining that when his parents "get out" "from serving 8-10" he will have them return the call...count to 10010 before going home.
6. If your daughter swears up and down the kitty you finally allowed her to adopt from her little friend at school is a BOY kitten....check it out before the mother of the little friend you don't know drives off.
5. If you THOUGHT you were seeing things....there MIGHT be a mouse in the house...but there could not possibly be multiple WHITE mice.... you probably are not seeing things. Check with your eldest son. (Remember that community play he was in at Halloween? Remember what they used as props, caged of course? Well...after the play...they had to go somewhere....)
4. Never ever tell that same son to load the dishwasher without explaining the differences in detergents...not unless you want to wade through three feet of bubbles in your kitchen floor.
3. Remember that same son? Remember that weird sound you heard overhead? Yeah, he was riding his bicycle off the second story roof. His siblings will tell you about it in about ten years.
2. If your fifty foot pine tree is swaying in the wind...but there is no wind...check and see where four of your children are.
1. Do not lose your mind. Sons (and daughters) more often than not have a way of growing up, becoming (hopefully) responsible citizens, and apologizing for all the gray hairs they gave you (of course they are laughing as they do so!!! But this time, so are you!!!).
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Rebel With a Pause
The last few years I have been soooo proud of myself. I finally felt like I "had it all together", was "aging gracefully", had "wisdom to go with my years". My daughters tell me I have "mellowed". My son says "don't take this wrong, Mom, but you are a whole lot nicer since you had cancer." Ummm. I liked to think I had learned what was important and what was not, learned to slow down and appreciate, learned not to get excited or upset. I was pretty proud of myself.
Well...that was before...you know...
The last time I experienced anything like this I was about eight months pregnant. That would be nearly thirty years ago. So don't get the idea I was preggos...fat chance of that...no pun intended.
Two days ago a half dozen little fists were pounding at the back of my eyeballs and tears were streaming down my face. A lump the size of a grapefruit was blocking my throat and the screams were bottled up behind it but fast escaping around the edges. In short I was on a crying jag and having a Monster Meltdown.
In the last few days...oh, may as well tell the truth...in the last few SECONDS:
*I have been mad at answering machines in general and government facilities using automated non-voices in specific. No. Scratch that. I have been LIVID.
*I have totally forgotten why I was trying to call in the first place. Who?
*I have giggled ecstatically over finding a CHOCOLATE bar.
*I have had a good cry over the fact that I cannot rip the paper off the chocolate bar like a normal person with my teeth. I don't have any on the bottom and no way of obtaining any (I had oral cancer, a prosthesis won't work, nor will a "denture plate")....my mother always said my mouth would be my downfall. At any rate I couldn't rip the chocolate bar open with my teeth and I could not find a knife. It was definitely a reason to boo hoo. So I did.
In short, pick a channel. ANY channel, and if I am the show you can see horror, sitcom, comedy and the food channel all in the space of a few seconds. I am a regular Dish Network.
Well...that was before...you know...
The last time I experienced anything like this I was about eight months pregnant. That would be nearly thirty years ago. So don't get the idea I was preggos...fat chance of that...no pun intended.
Two days ago a half dozen little fists were pounding at the back of my eyeballs and tears were streaming down my face. A lump the size of a grapefruit was blocking my throat and the screams were bottled up behind it but fast escaping around the edges. In short I was on a crying jag and having a Monster Meltdown.
In the last few days...oh, may as well tell the truth...in the last few SECONDS:
*I have been mad at answering machines in general and government facilities using automated non-voices in specific. No. Scratch that. I have been LIVID.
*I have totally forgotten why I was trying to call in the first place. Who?
*I have giggled ecstatically over finding a CHOCOLATE bar.
*I have had a good cry over the fact that I cannot rip the paper off the chocolate bar like a normal person with my teeth. I don't have any on the bottom and no way of obtaining any (I had oral cancer, a prosthesis won't work, nor will a "denture plate")....my mother always said my mouth would be my downfall. At any rate I couldn't rip the chocolate bar open with my teeth and I could not find a knife. It was definitely a reason to boo hoo. So I did.
In short, pick a channel. ANY channel, and if I am the show you can see horror, sitcom, comedy and the food channel all in the space of a few seconds. I am a regular Dish Network.
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