Bad Words

impossible girl

2012-01-27T21:47:00.000-05:00

Around five years in, Al and I discussed, and made the mindful decision to never have children.  Al harbored serious concerns about something going horribly awry. I was just lazy.

We didn't last six months. Looking at each other thinking;

Ok. So. This is it. Us. Just. Us. Forever. You. And. Me.

We (meaning mostly me) decided that we (meaning mostly me) wanted kids and shazam! We were expecting Owen.

My younger sister is so very much like me. A few years ago, she and her husband decided they did not want children. He enjoyed his hobbies. She was just lazy.

Within a year or so, the decision no longer fit, and babies were on little Sister's brain.

They tried.

And tried.

And failed.

Little Sis worked at an OBGYN office.   Tests were done. Procedures even. Referral to fertility clinic was made.

More tests. For Sister and husband. Fertility doc gives her odds. Slim at best.

Complex medical history, few good eggs, motility issues, yadda yadda sorry no baby yadda...

Little Sis is in pain. Bad pain. Worst pain ever. Wanting to make pain go away, I offer up my eggs;

"Old and full of holes they may be. But they're yours if you want 'em."

For many reasons, it wasn't going to work.

Sister with more hurting. And me with wanting to make it go away.

"I'll carry the fucking thing for you. But just so you know? I have a shitty track record; if it comes out all fucked up, it's your problem."

For many reasons, that wasn't going to work either.

Not about to give up, Sis endures procedures, chances improve, insurance on board, she heads back to fertility clinic.

Cost of drugs to place baby in Sis is enough to feed third world country for a year. Neither Sis nor anyone in family has that kind of cash.

Baby dream squashed anew, Sis dives deep into dispair, quits job at OBGYN  where pregnant bellies mock her barrenness daily  and makes valiant attempt to get through the next minute of her life. And the minute after that. And the minute after that.

A couple months of minutes go by, and on a Monday, Sis and her husband are back at fertility clinic grasping for strand of hope. Thin strand is granted, but is sketchy at best.

Ten days later, on a Wednesday, thin strand in hand, Sis shows up to watch Bea for afternoon. She is early. And cranky. With weepiness and sore boobs and other PMS symptoms.

In her purse is pregnancy test which she is refusing to take because;

"My period isn't even due til tomorrow and I know I'm not anyway. I'll just wait til tomorrow."

Of course I direct her to bathroom and demand she piss on that stick, 'cause you never know.

You just never fucking know.

And of course she emerges from the bathroom crying. And trembling.

And crying.

And she showing me the stick.

And neither of us believe what we're seeing:

She's knocked up.

Yup.

Knocked the fuck up.

And in the however many weeks since, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not believing that this impossible thing was true.

Even though impossible babies have happened in our family.

But today? I got to sit beside her and see with my own two eyes:

Brain? Check. Spine? Check. Heart? Check. Arms? Legs? Hands? Feet? Check.

Healthy looking BABY GIRL?

Fuckin' right!!

Check.

And?

Squee.

The One That Got Away

2012-01-12T22:29:00.000-05:00

The fact that I'm going to watch them die doesn't stop me from loving my old nursing home peeps.

In fact, the more I love an oldie, the more I want to be the one who is sitting with them when they go.

Dolly was 97 when she came to us, so knowing that our time together was likely going to be short, I fell hard and fast in love with her.

She came to us alert and oriented, walking and talking, mostly taking care of herself and damn proud of it. She made sure everyone knew how old she was;

"Can you believe I'm 97?"

"You don't look a day over 87. And you need to tell me what product you've been using on your face, 'cause I think I have more wrinkles than you."

Her magic potion turned out to be genetic, nothing but plain old Oil of Olay had ever touched her face.

Chatting like girlfriends in her bathroom as she got ready for bed, the fact that she was naked a non issue;

"You had six kids and your boobs look that good? Really? I might have to hate you for that."

They were perfect. Like her skin, far nicer than mine. Her secret? She'd always worn a bra to bed.

We had things in common. She was the mother of five daughters and a son.

"I have four sisters and a brother!"

She'd been a nurse her whole life. She gave me a scrub top she'd worn; tan with pretty embroidered flowers along the neckline. It's my favorite shirt.

And she liked her alcohol. When her daughter moved away, she appointed me her procurer of Brandy.

Every couple weeks she sidle up to me, all sneaky like, slip a $20 into my pocket and wink at me.

Entering the facility after a Dolly errand, the director of nurses stopped me in the lobby and questioned the tell tale brown paper bag;

"It's Dolly's Brandy."

"Oh isn't that nice of you."

"Meh. Just making a deposit in the Karma bank. Someone better bring me booze when I'm an old lady."

Whether she was on my assignment or not, every evening I worked, I'd bring her a Brandy on the rocks before supper.

And whether she was on my assignment or not, every evening at 7pm I'd go to her for a hug and a kiss goodnight. Sometimes she'd appear to be sleeping."

"Dolly?"

"Oh! I was just laying here, asking the Good Lord to please come and take me in my sleep."

"For you, I hope he does. For me, I hope I'm here for it."

"Me too."

I'd go in for my hug and get a nose full of vanilla, and Jean Nate and mouthwash.

A kiss on my cheek and "I love you."

She stayed healthy. She continued to take care of herself. She turned 98.

I'd taken a week off last summer and late one night I got a message from a nurse friend that Dolly would be gone the following day.

I thought I'd dreamed it, and went about my day. Then got a panicky feeling and checked my phone. It wasn't a dream.

I rushed into work. Was already crying when I got to Dolly's room. Handing her a plastic cup of brandy and sitting on her ottoman with my own;

"It's not supposed to end like this, I don't know how to do this."

She was ready to go though, she insisted it was time.

She'd packed up what was left of her 98 years. It sat in brown boxes at our feet.

She was going to be near her daughter. A couple hours away.

So with a hug and a kiss and a clink of blue plastic cups we said our goodbyes.

And I left her feeling I hadn't quite done my job.

I was supposed to be there til the end. Til her end.

And now I wonder. Is she gone? How did she go?

Maybe I should just remember her forever 98.

With flawless skin.

And the perkiest boobs.

On Exploding of Furnaces and Silliness of Universe.

2012-01-05T10:52:00.000-05:00

The week before Christmas:

Shopping.

Cleaning of house.

Working.

Cleaning of house.

Wrapping of presents.

Cleaning of house.

Baking of treats.

Cleaning of house.

Shopping.

Putting together of teacher/physical therapist/occupational therapist/speech therapist/interpreter/aides/ASL teacher/bus drivers - I've surely forgotten someone's - Goodie bags.

Cleaning of house.

Shopping.

Cleaning of house.

Attending of parties.

Cleaning of house. *I have a problem.*

Working.

Day before Christmas Eve:

Prepping of meal for next day's party.

Keeping children's heads from exploding with anticipatory excitement.

Eating of Chinese food as kitchen must remain clean, and fridge is stocked with nothing but treats and other party provisions.

Christmas Eve:

Heads of children reaching maximum capacity, explosions imminent.

Al and I artfully dancing around each other as we get ready to prep and cook and cook and prep for party of 30ish people in smallish house.

Upstairs fridge full. Al takes beer to downstairs fridge. You know the one? The one in the cellar? Near the furnace?

The furnace which is spewing water all over the basement.

On Christmas Eve.

Of course.

(Two years ago? Owen opened EVERYONE'S presents in the middle of the night thus ruining Christmas. Last year? He was so sick he lay around like a limp rag barely able to have the littlest bit of fun and came *this close* to landing in the hospital, thus ruining Christmas. Considered going far away next year? But plane would surely crash.)

Call to furnace guy, who's nice enough to arrive in a half hour. To tell us that the furnace is all the way dead, but he'd be happy to get us a new one. For only $4500! And sometime the next week.

We have neither $4500 nor til next week.

Wringing of hands and saying of very bad words.

And not letting kids know that something has gone horribly awry.

The party will go on. With fire in fireplace and no hot water.

Friend Sally provides wood to burn and much needed shower.

Sally's husband Mark learns of misfortune and appears on doorstep with $1400;

"I can't take this!"

"I got a huge cash bonus. You need it more than I do."

"I don't care if you're not a hugger, you're getting hugged."

Somehow don't cry over generosity of friends.

Al knows a guy. Being married to a tradesman? Win. They always know a guy.

New furnace not $4500. Same furnace $2500. On Monday.

Yay guy!

Party happens. House overstuffed with people? Nice and toasty.

Hostess who'd been slaving away for weeks to have perfect party nearly ruined by exploding furnace and who'd made the most delicious batch of white wine sangria?

Totally. Wasted.

People leave. Stockings hung. Kids tucked in. Aero bed in front of fire for Mommy and Daddy.

*shenanigans*

Two hours of sleep before wailing of small child. Bea heard Al put a log on fire. Thought it was Santa. Is scared shitless of Santa.

Spend rest of night 'sleeping' with Bea in her teeny little bed.

Christmas Morning:

Head hurty. Body achy. Brain furry.

Children lucky:

Nintendo DS
Leapster
Barbies
Superheroes
Puzzles
Games
Books
Clothes
Lots of other crap.

Mommy and Daddy exchanging of small things only, as plan was to purchase new large fancy TV.

Plan revised in light of spendiness of new furnace.

More party at cousin's house. More opening of presents. More eating of food. More eating of treats.

No drinking of alcohol.

Monday brings shiny new furnace. Able to pay for furnace thanks to nice friends and fact that we don't care if mortgage gets paid. It's so not getting paid.

Vacation week.

Kids play and play and fight and play and play some more.

I pick up extra shifts in hopes to recover from furnace hit.

New Year's Eve:

Scheduler fucks up and leaves me off schedule. Pissed about loss of money for shift.

Tickled to have New Year's Eve off.

Check mail.

Check IN the mail. For me. $500. Out of nowhere. Is long story which starts last summer and ends in my stupidity sending me $500 when I really needed $2500.

Yay stupidity!

Happy New Year!

Work at 3pm. Hug many old people.

Text from Al regarding stupid fucking fantasy football which has consumed him for the past many months;

"I came in second in my league. Won $1500! Booyah!!!"

Of course.

Hear Universe giggle.

Silly Putty Pegs.

2011-12-12T13:24:00.138-05:00

My decision to have Owen grow up a Signing Deaf person was based mainly on getting information into his brain without any barriers. The fact that he'll have a place to belong in the Deaf Community, if he so chooses; bonus.

If his choice is to reside mainly in the Hearing world? Totally cool. He'll have all the tools he needs at his disposal to succeed in either world.

And after a summer living outside of the Deaf bubble, I wasn't surprised that he'd begun to lean to one side;

Bea: "Owen. When you're all growed up? Are you going to marry a Deaf girl?"

Owen: "No. A Hearing girl."

Me: "Why Hearing? Why not Deaf like you?"

Owen: "I not Deaf. I Hearing."

Me: "Ok Sweetie."

And I let it go at that. Because I know where it came from.

His teacher this year is Deaf. All the way Deaf. With zero residual hearing and zero speech. He speaks so sees himself as different from her.

Totally cool.

I love that he has a Deaf teacher. He has enough Hearing role models. The more Deaf ones? The better.

I met with her a few weeks ago for parent/teacher conference. And again, wasn't surprised when she told me that Owen prefers to express himself in English. But receptively, relies on ASL.

In the true spirit of Total Communication, Owen will be encouraged to express himself in whatever mode he's most comfortable. But his ASL skills will also be tweaked.

I fucking love his school.

As much as I love my ASL teacher. Who allowed me to switch from the Friday morning class; which I've been attending by myself, to the Thursday evening class; to which I can bring both Owen and Bea.

We had a blast last Thursday. Bea signing 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer'? Shit your pants cute.

And Owen coming downstairs Saturday morning, appearing in the kitchen, proudly signing;

*Voice Off*

Grabbing his 'Kung Fu Panda' book and marching into the playroom to do this?

Seriously?

You just shit your pants.

So this past Saturday I took my Speaking Hearing Signing Deaf kid to a holiday party, thrown by the local 'support group' for parents of kids with hearing loss.

I feel a distinct Us and Them vibe at these get togethers. More than half the kids in the group are mainstreamed; they don't use ASL.

So the Deaf kids play with the Deaf kids and the Hearing Impaired kids play with the Hearing Impaired kids. And the Deaf kid mommies chat with the Deaf kid mommies while the Hearing Impaired kid mommies chat with the Hearing Impaired kid mommies.

The only Deaf mommy and daddy gravitate toward the Deaf kid mommies. They are patient with us novice signers and I'm dying to ask them how they feel about the choice most of these parents have made to deny their children their world.

Eavesdropping on a conversation amongst Hearing Impaired kid mommies, I hear about their kids' struggles; being the only kid in class with hearing aids, difficulties making friends, problems hearing the teacher...

Square pegs. Round holes.

Sitting on the floor, a little one toddles by wearing hearing aids. I say something to him and his blank stare reminds me so much of Owen at that age. I sign to him. Still with the blank stare.

His mommy sits down next to me. Friendly conversation ensues.

He'll be three in a few months, and no, she hasn't chosen a school for him yet.

That thing she's wearing clipped to her shirt? A streamer that sends her voice straight to his hearing aids.

He still doesn't respond to her voice. She's frustrated. He's not speaking much yet. He's frustrated.

She asks me how I do it.

"What do you do in situations like this? It is so loud in here, he can't understand me even with this." Giving the gadget an annoyed flick.

I try really hard to not sound like a smug jerk, 'cause inside? I'm all smugness and jerkness;

"I sign."

I hope she heard me.

3:13am Is The New 6:13am. Or The Other Way Around. I Don't Fucking Know. I'm Tired.

2011-12-08T21:07:00.001-05:00

I get by on no more than six hours of sleep a night. I'm rarely asleep before midnight and always awake by 6am. Ish.

And I get up at least once to pee.

It's not that I don't like to sleep. I fucking love it. My life just isn't conducive to a whole lot of it.

When I hear the kids at 6ish, and I begin the task of dragging my carcass out of its cocoon, my first thought it always;

I can't wait to crawl back into this cozy warm quiet awesomeness.

So. Last night I hear Bea call out;

"MOM!!!"

I don't fish around the darkness for my glasses. I squint hard enough to squish my eyeballs enough to decipher 3:13 on the clock radio. I'm pissed.

Stormage down the hall to find out what emergency has Bea wailing for help at 3 fucking thirteen AM.

Her big toe that had peeped out of the blanket needed covering up. And?

*whining* "I'm not tired. I can't sleeeeeep."

"Well. You're going to. It's the middle of the night. Everyone's asleep. See you in the morning."

Quick glance to make sure Owen is still unconscious. His bed is empty.

Fuck.

Stompage down stairs in search of Owen, whom I scare the bejeezus out of as his face is glued to the computer in the playroom, and sans hearing aids, he doesn't know I'm about to burst in signing angrily;

*Not morning! Look! Outside dark. Mommy, Daddy, Bea all sleeping. Need go bed. Now!*

Follow his grumping ass back upstairs and see him tucked back in bed.

*whining* "I not tired."

*Mommy very tired. Mommy need more sleep. You try sleep more. See you later.*

Stompage back to my room. Resist slammage of door. Collapse into warm cocoon.

"What the fuck was that all about?"

"Little shits are awake. Bea needing blankets adjusted and Owen on the fucking computer. At THREE in the fucking morning! Fuckers!!"

"What are you talking about? It's almost six thirty."

"Fuck. Me."

*gropegropegrope*

"Not like that!!! Gawd!! Fuuuuuuuuuuuck."

The Late Thankful Post. And Balls.

2011-11-27T18:59:00.001-05:00

So. I never got around to doing the Thankful post.

I was too busy working, and kid wrangling, and getting ready for overnight visitors.

And finishing up my shopping. Christmas shopping that is.

Yeah. I'm just about done. Like you needed another reason to hate me.

For whatever reason, a most highly anticipated DVD, purchased for Owen was in my purse. Bea saw it.

I swore her to secrecy, promising very bad things would happen if she dared tell him what she saw.

The next morning, Al wakes me up with the news;

"Bea is downstairs telling Owen about the Captain America DVD."

"That little bitch!!"

I was in her face, dragging her away from Owen within seconds.

Before applying another thick layer of emotional scars, I probably should have made sure that Owen had actually heard her spill the beans.

'Cause he hadn't.

Thankful.

*******

So. Thanksgiving happened. I ate a horrifying amount. I consumed a respectful amount of alcohol. Family visited.

And on Friday morning, I engaged in my favorite day after Thanksgiving activity;

I decorated the fuck out of the house.

I'm a big fan of the twinkly and the sparkly.

And balls.

I like balls.

Lots of balls.

'Cause I'm an eight year old. And so is my sister. There was much snickering about the balls.

Instructing kids on proper ball hanging technique;

"You need to use two hands and handle the balls very carefully."

And after finding some delicate balls hanging precariously from a flimsy needle and not the firm part of the branch? I said flimsy and firm.

"Look guys. See? You have to make sure it's on there good and tight."

Turning around to snicker at sister, who had gone to the restroom, and then calling out;

"I said 'Good and Tight'!"

*snickering* "I heard ya!"

*******

Because Thanksgiving weekend isn't busy and exhausting enough, Owen's friend decides that a 10am party on Sunday is a good idea.

An hour away.

He didn't want to go. I dragged his ass anyway.

And wished I hadn't as soon as we arrived.

Fucking Cosmic Bowling. Loud music. Darkness. Seizure inducing strobe lights.

For a Deaf kid party?

The fuzzy one on the left is a very tired, very grumpy Owen. I'd practically pushed him onto the lane and demanded he have some fucking fun.

He didn't.

Neither did I.

Text to Al and sister:

"This place is so fucking loud I feel like I should be getting wasted and picking up a one night stand."

*******

While I was suffering visual and auditory assault at Deaf Kid party, Al and Bea were having a nice stroll in the woods:

Jerks.

And Owen was still grumping when we got home, and Bea was gloating about her fun time with Daddy and Olive. She was in that four year old mood when she thinks mimicking everything that a person says is just hilarious.

Owen did not find it hilarious;

"Mom!! Bea is teasing my words!!"

Which I found hilarious.

And found myself feeling thankful that I have a place to share such hilarity.

Hope y'all had as good a time as me and mine.

You Know What Greases My Cheeks?

2011-11-18T15:23:00.001-05:00

Fuck You Anonyhole;

I just love when someone musters up enough bravery to fire off a nasty anonymous comment.

I wish I had saved it instead of deleting it immediately after reading it.

The gist of the comment was that I am such a MEAN GIRL for calling out the Poor Me at work, the one who shirks her duties using her divorce as an excuse.

Guess what Anonyhole? Methinks your reading comprehension skills are a tad lacking as you missed the fucking point that EVERYONE has shit going on. Shit worse than a divorce even. And they still manage to get their job done. Without distracting everyone around them with the constant fucking whining.

And? Our job is to take care of old sick people. They are the ones we care about. Their needs come before any of our own. I wouldn't let this idiot take care of my Mother. And that is saying A LOT.

Also? I happen to believe in the survival of the fittest. It is the law of the land in the world of nursing.

This chick? Is an orphaned one legged Deaf baby gazelle.

The rest of us? Hungry hyenas. Protecting our elders.

That is all.

*******

Thank you Dani G. and Lynn;

For your wildly successful Skool Pickture Blog Hop.

'Cause I mentioned a gawd awful school photo of yours truly. Which you then demanded to see.

Here ya go ladies.

I apologize for promises of horrific stye action. In my memory, the stye was far more noticeable. But, if you look carefully at the left eye, behind hideous glasses, under equally hideous cowlick, you will see the swollen eyelid.

Big surprise I grew up to be such a mean girl eh?

And? Big surprise that once the awkward stage was done and the HOT stage begun, I was sort of a slut.

What?

*******

Thank you Museum of Science Deaf Kid iPod Program Thingie;

For getting us all in for FREE, even the boring Hearing kids.

Deaf kids loved dicking around with the fancy iPod Touches with their fancy ASL apps. You even provided an interpreter to explain how they worked:

Seriously? This shit just kills me.

We were happy to be your 'focus group'. And I was happy to provide feedback.

Thank goodness Owen actually used the app for a few minutes. ~~Even though it was sorta lame.~~

But I learned the sign for Vibrate! Win!

Fuck You ASL Interpreter;

For telling me I was doing the sign for 'warm' wrong.

I've taken enough ASL classes to know that the language allows for lots of variation of signs. I was using a widely accepted sign. The one my DEAF son uses.

Are you DEAF?

No.

Shut the fuck up.

*******

Thank you warning on bag of sugar free cough drops;

"Excessive use may cause laxative effects."

Like, if I ate the entire bag in one evening?

Yeah. Like that.

Actual text sent to my sister after most harrowing morning after, spent in bathroom:

"Has the phrase, 'Well THAT really greased my cheeks!' already been coined? 'Cause if not, I'd like to claim it...not sure in what context I'd use it... but is making me happy."

*******

Thank you dear sweet four year old daughter o' mine;

For being so fucking cute I can hardly stand it.

Even when you march into the kitchen, slam your sippy cup down on the counter, look me in the eye and say;

"Juice Lady."

And especially when you want to practice writing your words.

"How do you spell 'boat'?"

Awww.... with the backwards 'B' and the ginormous 'T'.

"How do you spell 'cat'?"

Awwwwww....with the fact that you signed the word 'cat' as you said it.

"How do you spell 'dog'?"

Awwwwwwwww... with the 'G' not resembling a 'G' in the least.

"How do you spell 'psycho'?

Awwwwwwwwwwwww.... wait... what???

*******

In Which All Is Right With The World

2011-11-15T09:45:00.001-05:00

I suck at being part of a group.

Sometimes I disappear.

In my interweb lurkings, I popped in on Write On The Edge (Formerly The Red Dress Club) and the Memoir prompt happened to be something that I'd planned on writing anyway.

Because I'm in a place where I need to keep these moments close. The ones where everything is ok.

The assignment this week is Pivotal Conversations.

Not sure how pivotal this was. Well. It sure was for the stink bug.

Asterisks instead of quotations as none of this conversation was spoken.

*******

It doesn't happen often, but I love when Owen needs me after he's gone to bed. After he's taken off his ears.

I get to tiptoe into his realm, into his silent bubble.

Last week, I got such an opportunity, and was in his doorway seconds after hearing his call.

*What wrong? What happen?*

His right pointer aimed over his bed, where the ceiling meets the wall. His left pointer, in his mouth being anxiously gnawed upon.

*Look. Bug.*

Dramatic gasp. Mouth agape. Hands on cheeks.

He mimics me perfectly.

*What name bug?*

*Think maybe s-t-i-n-k bug. Gross* Nose scrunched. Tongue protruding. Vomit pretending.

*What smell?*

*Like fart! Gross. Daddy butt. Same.*

Laughter squealing.

*Need bug dead.*

*Right.* Eyes wide. Smiling. *Idea. Have. Come. Quiet.*

He follows me giggling to the bathroom where I gather up a generous wad of toilet paper.

*This? Get bug. Squish!*

*Where put?*

Under the sink, I find plastic wrap from a four-pack of toilet paper. I fashion it into a bag and hand it to him explaining;

*You need help me. Important job you have. Mommy get bug with this. You hold bag. Mommy put bug in. You close bag. Quick! Understand?*

Giddy nodding of head.

With exaggerated stealth, in three big steps, we're back in his room.

*Ok. Ready?*

Nodding, hand over mouth suppressing snickers.

*Scared!* Feigning fear I climb ever so slowly onto his bed, looking back every few seconds at his smiling face, seeking moral support for my most dangerous mission.

*Do! Do! Do! Can!! Go!!*

I'm almost within reach of the bug when its hideous stank sends me crashing down onto the mattress, coughing and gagging;

*P-U! Bug fart on me!*

He finds my performance hilarious. Because it is.

*You crazy.*

A couple more aborted attempts for dramatic effect and the offensive beast is bested, wrapped up in the wad and thrust into the makeshift bag with truimphant flourish.

*Finish! Now. Put where?*

*Idea!*

Holding the bag as far away from his body as he can manage, he marches his trophy back to the bathroom, tosses it in the trash can and slams down the lid.

With a satisfied sigh and hands proudly on hips he gives me my leave;

*Good work. Good night.*

*Good night.*

*You crazy.*

And all is right with the world.

Golden

2011-11-10T11:50:00.000-05:00

There were days this past summer of the not very good variety. Of a not very patient me. Of not very willing to listen children.

On the worst of these days, I resorted to shutting my voice OFF. For hours I'd last - not speaking a word.

It drove the kids insane:

"Talk Mom! You have to talk!!"

*signing* " NO. You not listen. I not talk."

Once the kids realized that my limit had been exceeded and I was NOT going to turn my voice back on, they'd form a united front - against me. Which was a lovely thing.

"Come on Bea. Mom not talking. We can go to my room and play."

They'd tiptoe around the house, careful not to provoke the silent beast.

Moods would improve, patience would be restored and voices would choose to be heard once more.

I love having that choice. To use my voice or my hands.

Chatting with the kids last week, about Owen, and his school, and his Sign Language, Bea asked me;

"Mom? When Owen is all growed up? Is he still going to be Deaf?"

*gulp* "Yes Sweetie. He will. Why are you asking that?"

"I don't want him to be."

"What Bea say?"

*signing* "She want know; Will you still Deaf when you grown up."

"What you tell her?"

*signing* "Yes"

He came over to me, curled up in a ball on my lap. I almost missed his small sign;

"Don't want."

He didn't miss the tears on my cheeks. He hugged and kissed and comforted me.

I've been fighting a cold, Bea told me my voice was 'Wrong' on Monday.

Tuesday, when I awoke and tried to speak, I became immediately aware of a knot of twitching crickets that had taken up residence around my vocal chords. The weakest attempt at using my voice angered the crickets.

So I went downstairs and greeted the kids in sign.

Owen; "You mad Mommy?"

"No. Sick. Throat hurt. Voice gone."

Rubbing my back; "It's ok. You feel better tomorrow."

And the kids behaved beautifully for me and my sick voice. They played quietly. They didn't fight. They obeyed my hands.

And yesterday morning, the crickets were gone.

"You talk today Mommy?"

"Yes!"

And he squeezed me and patted my back, and gave me a double thumbs up, as if in congratulation.

And I thought, if I had the choice?

I'd give up my voice for his ears any day.

St. Jameson; Patron Saint Of Ann Maries Everywhere.

2011-10-13T11:07:00.002-04:00

Bea came to us four years ago. A frail wisp of a thing with a silly tuft of white frizz atop her head, a beakish nose, and very large eyes that didn't point in the same direction.

Pretty cute if one is inclined to find 90 year old ladies cute. I am so inclined.

I told her straight away how much I loved her name. So much so that I had a wee Bea of my own. She was tickled to hear it and looked forward to meeting the baby with her name.

With Bea that day was a younger woman of around 70, whom I assumed to be Bea's daughter;

"No. My husband and I wanted children. But they never came."

They never came.

I tend not to indulge in pity for a person's circumstances, but I always feel a pang of something when I meet an ancient to whom children never came.

The woman was Bea's youngest sister Eileen. Of eight children, Eileen was the baby, Bea an elder. When their mother passed away, Eileen was very young, and most of her mothering was left to Bea.

Children hadn't come to Eileen either. She visited her older Sister Mommy often and obviously adored her.

Another frequent visitor was the sisters' niece Ann Marie.

As much as the sisters were meek and mild and frail, Ann Marie was strong and bold and fierce. Some considered her quite the bitch.

They were correct.

She was my kind of bitch.

She demanded that Bea always look nice; hair done, outfits clean and matching. She made sure that Bea attended activities and socialized. She was on top of every medical issue that arose.

She did everything that a devoted daughter would have done for her beloved mother.

So when Bea began to fret, anxiously asking the walls;

"What am I going to do? Oh no. I don't know what to do. What am I going to do?"

every afternoon, for no apparent reason; Ann Marie sought relief for her Aunt.

The psychiatrist was called in. Medication was prescribed. Bea was snowed. Ann Marie stepped in.

The nurse pyschologist gave it a try. A new medication tried. A mostly sleeping Bea resulted. Ann Marie was displeased.

Ann Marie had an idea; if the doctor was willing to give an order for a daily dose:

Whiskey.

Bingo.

Whisky and Water, served up in a blue plastic cup, was delivered to Bea each evening after supper.

She relaxed. She smiled. She giggled.

She learned which nurses made the best bartenders, and would seek me out for her Whiskey drink, placing her order before supper was served.

For two years the Whiskey kept Bea mostly happy, which made Ann Marie mostly happy.

On a Tuesday, Bea wasn't feeling well. Ann Marie approached me crying;

"She says she's dying. She wants all her sisters to come. Is she dying? Do you think she's dying?"

"No. I don't think she's dying. But if she thinks she is; believe her. Bring in the sisters."

By Saturday, Bea lay in bed, surrounded by sisters - dying.

Withered frames and faces, silly white tufts, sharp noses, big eyes; all echoes of the oldest sister.

After the goodbyes, I promised Ann Marie and Eileen that Bea wouldn't be alone. I wrapped up my shift, leaving myself an hour to sit.

Is a lovely thing, to sit in silence beside a flickering life.

Dying people are my favorite. That doesn't sound wrong in my head. Their needs as simple as a bottle of morphine and fellow human to see them off.

She left a few minutes after I put my forehead against hers and told her she was loved.

The following Wednesday, coworker Tracey and I crashed Bea's wake. Hugged all the sisters. Made Ann Marie cry.

We made a stop on the way home. A dark dive of a place. Pulled up a couple stools.

"What'll it be ladies?"

"Two shots of Jameson."

"To Bea."

"To Bea!"

"And to Ann Maries everywhere!"

*clink*

Either Way

2011-09-20T10:40:00.005-04:00

*******

So. Sitting outside with the kids, Bea is at my feet coloring with chalk on the patio, Owen is nearby talking to himself, whacking a tree trunk with a stick.

Bea is four. Therefore she never stops talking.

Owen knows we're talking, but can't hear our words. He's tired.

"Stop! Talking!"

*signing/speaking* "Sorry. Bea wants to talk. Come over so you can hear us."

"No! I can't hear you guys! You need to stop! I can't hear ANYTHING!"

*signing/speaking/trying not to cry* "Come here."

He sulks over and sits on the chair in front of me. Hugging his drawn up knees, head down, he barely looks up at me;

"I don't want to talk. I'm all done talking. I don't feel good."

I know. He doesn't mean physical discomfort. I just know.

"Buddy? What's going on? You're sad?"

He can't look at me. He shrugs. He nods. A wave hits me.

Shame.

I've never asked him.

"Sweetie? Is it ok? That you're Deaf?"

Before he can answer, he transforms before my eyes. From the baby who didn't die, into the boy who has to live with who he is.

"No. Don't want to be Deaf. Want to be Hearing."

And I'm drowned.

*******

So. Sitting outside with the kids, Bea is at my feet coloring with chalk on the patio, Owen is nearby talking to himself, whacking a tree trunk with a stick.

Bea is four. Therefore she never stops talking.

Owen knows we're talking, but can't hear our words.

"Stop! Talking!"

*signing/speaking* "Sorry. Bea wants to talk. Come over so you can hear us."

"No! I can't hear you guys! You need to stop! I can't hear ANYTHING!"

*signing/speaking/trying not to cry* "Come here."

He storms over and sits on the chair in front of me. He's leaning toward me, eyes meeting mine in challenge, he seethes;

"I don't want to talk. I'm all done talking. I don't feel good."

I know. He doesn't mean physical discomfort. I just know.

"Buddy? What's going on? You're sad?"

His eyes don't leave mine. He shrugs. He nods. A wave hits me.

Anger.

I've never asked him.

"Sweetie? Is it ok? That you're Deaf?"

Before he can answer, he's out of his chair standing over me - he's huge, at least 6 feet tall - he twists my shirt collar in an angry fist;

"No. It is NOT Ok. None if it is OK. And it's all your fucking fault."

And I'm drowned.

With Relief From The Twitchiness

2011-09-15T20:56:00.001-04:00

Hey new nurse,

It's not that we don't like you. Well maybe it is a little. But you just happened to fill a spot that was occupied by our good friend for years. We loved her and miss her and you aren't HER.

So there's that.

And? The 'Poor Me' routine can stop any time.

You show up late; because you're going through a divorce.

You can't get your work done on time; because you're going through a divorce.

You shouldn't have to help with supper; because you're going through a divorce.

You shouldn't have to float to another floor; because you're going through a divorce.

It's not that we don't care about your divorce. OK fine, we don't care. Do you think you're the only one who has shit going on? You wanna have circle time and compare tales of woe?

How about 18 year old whose father overdosed and died last year and whose mother is an alcoholic. Who was told by drunken maternal unit to walk home. At eleven o'clock at night. Three miles. I drive her.

She never complains. Ever. I want to adopt her.

Or her gorgeous coworker, 19 years old. Mother ditched her when she was little. Dad married a crack head and kicked her out when she was 15. She works like a dog and never stops fucking smiling. Ever. I'd like to adopt her too.

Single mother of six.

Mother of son who is being deployed to Afghanistan. Reliving her brother's death in Vietnam.

I hear there is even a woman with a fucked up Deaf kid.

Maybe if you stopped whining long enough to get to know your new coworkers you'd feel more liked.

Until then; I'll be at my med cart at the end of the hall until you go home, bitch.

*******

Hey bus company,

How'd you know it had been far too long since I'd told anyone off and was starting to get all twitchy?

Last year Owen's commute to and from school was an hour and fifteen minutes. School being fifty minutes away.

That was fine.

This year? Two hours.

EACH WAY.

Four hours a day on a bus.

And? A few mornings? They got to school late. Totally cool, 'cause they're so far ahead of the pack, what with being DEAF and all, they can stand to miss class time.

And getting home at 5pm leaves very little time for dinner, bath, homework and possibly a few seconds of down time, as Deaf kid needs to be in bed by 7pm.

And I missed Open House the other night because how could I throw the kid in the car and drag him back to school after he'd spent FOUR HOURS in a vehicle already?

Fellow Deaf kid Mommy also concerned and was fairly certain the law states the ride can't be more than an hour.

So. We found the law online and burned up your phone lines all morning! We even got the school to call and rip you a new one!

What fun!!!

I did appreciate the thorough ass kissing I received too, even with all the cliche's;

"I'm rolling up my sleeves and getting right to it."

"I'm clearing my schedule until this is fixed."

"This is my #1 priority."

You're so full of shit.

You have until Monday, douchebag.

*******

Sweet Owen and Lovely Bea,

You know Daddy is going away tomorrow on his yearly fishing trip with the guys.

He's been looking so forward to it, I even helped him stock up on food and supplies. Put together a first aid kit for him. Even baked him chocolate chip cookies - to make up for constantly referring to the trip as his 'Brokeback Fishing Weekend.'

And tomorrow we're gonna have some fun without him. Have some friends over. A bon fire. Watch a movie. Stay up late!

And the plan for Saturday really has me excited. After swim lessons, your aunt has offered to have you for a sleep over! With your cousin and everything!

Which will leave me with an unprecedented 24 hours of no kids and no husband.

What ever shall I do?

Have friends over? Nah.

Go out on the town with the girls? Nah.

I've planned the most perfect way to spend those precious hours:

All. By. Myself.

Wine.

5,000 calorie batch of chicken alfredo.

Wine.

Netflix.

Pretzel M&Ms.

Wine.

Book.

Silence.

And then you informed me that you;

"Don't wannnnnaaaa gooooo. Wannnnna staaaaay with yoouuuu."

So to you my adored children, the apples of my eyes, the lights of my life, my very reasons for existence; to you I say:

Fuck You.

You're so fucking going.

It's Hard

2011-09-12T13:12:00.002-04:00

Spending time with Deaf kid. All day. Every day.

Repeating/signing every word that comes out of Bea's mouth so that he can have access to his little sister's world.

Refereeing children every time we get into car:

     Owen: "Music please."

     Bea: "Don't want music."

     Me: "Bea, it would be nice if you let Owen have music in the car because he can't hear our voices."

     Bea: "But the music is too LOUD!"

     Owen: "What she say?"

Watching Owen time and time again, approach a random Hearing kid on the playground, try to make a connection, and fail.

Wondering where on earth Bea would come up with;

     "Owen is stupid because he's Deaf."

Swallowing painful shards of guilt each time I have to chase Owen down as he scampers toward the water; to take his hearing aids out.

Losing my patience at the end of a long day at the end of a long summer when Owen has asked me for the gazillionth time in an hour to tell him what Bea has said, and then telling him too loudly;

     "You don't have to YELL at me!!"

Catching Owen faking it;

     "Did you hear him? You understand?"

     "Yeah."

   "Ok. What did he say?"

     "I don't know."

Witnessing my little fish's life out of his Deaf pond.

Knowing he fully belongs there,

And I never fully will.

Say For Me Love

2011-09-11T08:46:00.001-04:00

All Summer In A Day

2011-09-05T09:38:00.001-04:00

Awake to what sounds like the children playing Hunger Games. ~~Place silent bet with Universe, putting money on Bea.~~

Throw breakfast at kids, instructing Owen to hurry it up as camp bus will be arriving shortly.

Owen informs me that he won't be attending camp.

Flip the Universe the bird.

Quit blog.

Pack up towels, suits, swimmy vests, sunblock, snacks and drinks.

Throw kids in car and head to Auntie's pool.

Remind everyone every 13 seconds that while swimming? Owen Can't Hear You.

Buy new car:

Head home via grocery store. Remind children every 13 seconds to;

Stop fighting, pay attention, stop fighting!,don't touch that, stop. fighting. please.,NO you can't buy a DVD, stop it with the fighting already!,NO I'm not buying candy, are you ever going to stop fucking fighting?

Put groceries away. Throw lunch at kids. Do laundry. Clean bathrooms. Vacuum entire house.

Pack for New Hampshire!

Story Land:

Santa's Village: Where Deaf kids get in half price!

Caves:

Indoor water park where I smash my heel at bottom of stupid slide which gives me a bruised bone and a sexy limp for the rest of the fucking ~~summer~~ day.

Clark's Trading Post:

Relax in hot tub after long vacation day with margarita and light rain falling on face.

Sit in traffic forever on way home. With tired and cranky kids. And tired and cranky Al. And tired and cranky me.

Pick up favorite cousin Ned for sleepover.

Pack suits, towels, swimmy vests, sunblock, snacks, drinks, shovels and buckets and drag kids to pond.

Remind Ned and Bea every 13 seconds that while at pond? Guess what!

Owen. Can't. Fucking. Hear. You.

Go to work where I lose most beloved sweet old lady, and am sad.

Also lose least beloved, not sweet at all old ~~hag~~ lady. Not much with the sadness.

Come home. Clean house, do laundry.

Pack suits and towels and take kids to swim lesson.

Exhaust self with attempt at interpreting for Owen. Totally suck at it.

Home again.

Al tends to grill while I ensure children don't set each other on fire.

Chicken wings. Burgers. Corn.

Wine.

Wrangle kids into bath, jammies, bed.

Clean house. Do laundry.

~~Service Al.~~

Cuddle up with laptop and watch every episode of Torchwood.

Fall asleep with glasses on face and Kindle on chest.

Dream of short buses and preschool classes.

Indie Ink

2011-08-10T08:31:00.001-04:00

I submitted something months ago.

Then forgot about doing it.

Then went dark.

And today that post I wrote months ago, is up at Indie Ink.

That is all.

Figure It Out

2011-07-18T10:38:00.001-04:00

*hint* I'm NOT moving to Alabama.

Apparently There's No Place Like It

2011-07-11T08:17:00.004-04:00

*******

One Hundred And One.

Is a lot of days to wait. Considering your baby's first home a hospital room. Waiting to bring your first born home.

room 805 june '03

And after so many days, it mattered very little that the home we'd brought him to wasn't an actual home.

camper, july '03

The cottage in the little beach community was a far cry from the ten acre farm in the country, but it was bigger than the camper, and acres better than the hospital.

cottage, august 03

The sweet little ranch on the pond reminded us of country life in Vermont. Olive could run free. Al could fish. I could hang out in my kayak and pretend. Pretend.

pond, summer '04

It was in our home on the pond that Owen met his teachers from his school. Twice a week they came for speech therapy. To play with him. To sign with him.

Until he turned three, and it was time for school to stop coming to his home.

At age three, they wanted him six hours a day, five days a week in school. Away from home.

I wanted him home more than that. So we devised a plan to get him there gradually. To ease me him into it. Three half days, then three full days, then five full days. He was doing five full days by the time he was four.

Friends of normal children would turn green upon learning that my four year old was in school full time.

And they really wanted to hurt me when they found out his school had a six week summer program, held at his school until first grade, then at a Y camp.

"Well. That must cost you a fortune."

"Nope. Free. All part of his curriculum."

"Hmph. Well. It must be a pain in the ass to have to drive him all that way every day".

"Nope. Transportation also provided."

Artfully dodging the daggers shooting out of other Mommy's eyes.

We left the house on the pond and bought our current home when Owen was three. And promptly added another person to it.

ages 1ish and 5ish

And since then, this home has been filled with all the expected family noises:

TV- Loud

Music-Loud

Dog barking-Loud

Near constant bickering between Deaf kid and Hearing sister-Loud.

My voice-Loud

So I sort of dread those pesky two weeks between school ending and Owen's summer program starting. With some guilt of course, but plenty of dread.

How to fill the days? How to keep both kids happy when their favorite sport is being contrary to one another?

Going over calendar with Owen one day. I point out July 12;

"Camp Owen! That's when you start camp!"

"I don't want to go to camp."

He couldn't give me a reason, but it is not difficult to sort out.

He's around enough normal kids, neighborhood friends, cousins, that don't spend all summer in school. Owen's no fool. They call it 'camp'. It is at a Y. But it is still school. With all the same teacher's and aides and therapists.

Deaf kid wants a break. Deaf kid wants a normal kid summer.

We can pool hop. Go to the pond across the street. Spend rainy days in nothing but our underoos. Have sleepovers. Stay up late sitting around the bonfire.

I gave his school's director the heads up last week.

I gave Owen the weekend to make his final decision.

And on this day, when I quietly celebrate Owen's homecoming, I emailed the director;

"Owen is staying home this summer."

Four Year Old Gold

2011-07-06T21:41:00.002-04:00

Four years old needs to learn some manners.

"Mom! I need help!"

"You need help what?"

"I need help wiping!!"

"You need help wiping what?"

"My butt!"

"You need help wiping your butt what?"

"I need help wiping my butt because I pooped!"

There may or may not have been a day recently in which Bea refused to say please and literally chased me around the house yelling at me to wipe her ass.

Naked.

Chasing me around.

Naked.

Unwiped.

Ass.

*******

Eight years old should maybe be afraid of four years old.

Al and kids sitting around living room the other night.

Bea playing with Olive. Owen reading books a few feet away.

Bea talking to Olive;

Bea: "Bite Owen. Go on. Bite him!"

Olive: You could tear my ears off and I wouldn't bite you. I'm the sweetest dog ever remember?

Bea: "Come on! Bite him Olive! Bite him!"

Olive: I wouldn't even bite that evil woman who calls herself Mommy. She fucking hates me and I don't want to bite her even a little. Why would I bite Owen?

Bea: "Please Olive? Bite Owen! Just bite him!!"

Olive: Fine.

Olive walks over to Owen and licks him.

Bea to Al: "That was a mean lick."

*******

Four years old knows that everyone needs a Mommy.

I got a call from my sister. Her boyfriend's mother is 95, living at home with him, and had possibly decided to start dying. She wanted me to go check on her.

And I'm just so fucking nice, I threw the kids in the car and headed over to see Edith.

My kids come to work with me often. They know about old people. They know old people die.

"Mommy? Is Joe's Mommy sick?"

"Well. She's very old and is maybe sick."

"Is Joe's Mommy going to die?"

"I don't know."

"If Joe's Mommy dies then who is going to be his Mommy? Is Joe going to get a new Mommy?"

"Oh Sweetie!"

Followed by a string of unintelligible rambling verklemptedness.

*******

Four years old just may be my favorite.

"Mom! I want some juice!"

"You want some juice what?"

"Apple!!"

*******

And Also World Peace Wouldn't Suck.

2011-06-30T20:37:00.021-04:00

*******

I wouldn’t wish my first few months of motherhood on anyone.

Not a word of that ~~stupid~~ What to Expect book applied to Owen.

I used my ICU time wisely, thinking up ways in which get that book as far up the author’s rectum as possible.

One day, I’d be sure he was going to make it. And hope he’d just die and get it over with the next.

When his surgeon was encouraged by an x-ray or lab value, I would allow myself a tiny inner fist pump.

When his surgeon was alarmed by a downturn, I hid in the corner of my bunker to wait out the battle.

And on June 30th, 2003 we met with the great wizard for what we thought might be his last excursion into our baby’s insides.

The dead kidney had to go.

The fundoplication was necessary to protect those beat up lungs.

The feeding tube was a no brainer as Owen preferred gag/retch/aspirate over suck/swallow/breathe.

This was a good day. A great day. Like our favorite day so far since we’d been at Children's.

We trusted his team of surgeons a squillion percent. That’s a lot. And they were gonna fix him.

We weren’t worried. We walked around the city. Ate lunch. Shopped. I bought a pair of sandals.

We knew that this was our ticket home; with an actual baby.

We didn’t peer into the baby’s future. That was too scary.

That was eight years ago today.

And I’m thinking about what I might have wished for my son, if I’d dared a wish on that day;

Maybe that he could ride in the car without scolding me for talking. I shouldn’t talk in the car. It’s no fair. He can’t hear me.

Maybe that he wouldn’t fake it when spoken to;

“Yeah”.

“Owen, what did I just say?”

“I don’t know.”

Maybe that he wouldn’t burst into tears out of nowhere; “I miss my friends!”; because they all live so far away and rarely see each other outside of school.

Maybe that he didn’t have to watch his four year old sister whizz right up the rock wall thingie when he can’t pull himself up an inch.

Maybe that he could make a friend at the playground without me explaining him. Translating for him. Comforting him when the kid gives up on him.

That day, eight years ago was easier than most days now.

And I’m finding myself wishing that fixing him was as easy as removing a sick organ.

*******

Figures the one day I actually venture into blogland is an important date in Owen's history.

And I see that Sprite's Keeper's spin of the week is Wishes.

So we can all blame her for the above mushiness.

First Time Remembered

2011-06-21T09:00:00.008-04:00

*******

I was a late bloomer. Most people experience this rite of passage well before their 28th birthday.

Not me.

I'm not quite sure how I'd avoided it for so long. I was a normal, healthy, active girl.

Al would shake his head in exasperation whenever the time seemed near and I'd perform my much practiced technique to ensure it did NOT happen to me;

Scream. Flail. Run.

In that order. Worked every time.

Ever patient that Al;

"Just calm down. Relax. Don't freak out. Nothing bad will happen."

"Says you. It has happened to you countless times with your method. I'm gonna stick to scream, flail, and run thank you very much."

We'd been together three years when the day finally came. A beautiful late Spring day on the old dairy farm. Digging and weeding and mowing and planting and just loving up our little patch of earth as best we could.

I love me the sight and smell of a hard working man. Covered in dirt and smelling of fresh cut grass and sweat. I'd had enough of admiring Al from across the field and started making my way toward him.

Long grass tickling my bare feet and legs. The wind tossing around sounds of birds and bugs and rushing water. It was quite the romantic little scene as I skulked on over to my man.

And then it happened. It. Happened.

Before I could execute my patentend scream, flail, run, maneuver it was already happening.

I'd heard many a tale about how badly it can hurt, but I was unprepared for the sensation;

"Motherfucker! Motherfucker. Mother! Fucker!!!"

Dramatically grasping the insulted body part whilst hopping about shrieking obscenities.

As Al rolled around the grass in full hysterics at my display.

"I knew it would hurt but holy old fuck, I didn't expect it to hurt THAT much! FuckFuckFuckFuck!!!"

Still jumping and flailing and crying as much with laughter as with pain.

I dared take a gander at the affected area, still in agony;

And plucked the bumble bee out of the tip of my toe.

And that my friends, is the tale of the first time I got stung by a bee after 28 years of...not being stung by any bees.

*******

I still check the Red Dress Club prompts every week.

This week was a fill in the blank:

The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.

This was the first time that popped into my head.

And? A big fuck you to whoever told me that bumble bees don't sting.

And? A bigger fuck you to the yellow jacked hive I stepped on just days after the bumble bee incident. I couldn't count how many times I got stung.

Frankly My Dear, I Don't Give A Puck.

2011-06-16T09:59:00.002-04:00

Am not a sports fan. Not even a little.

Al is. Avid like.

So when one of our teams makes it to some big season's grand finale;
World Series, World Championship, Stupid Bowl, or Stanley Cup, I know that resistance is futile; I will listen to details and stats incessantly.

Well. Listen is a stretch.

Last night there was a game on the tv and I was in the room with said tv. Reading my book.

Glancing at the screen to the sound of a Canadian accent to see if owner of accent is good looking, Al mistakes this as actual interest.

"Blah blah blah, penalties, blah, finger biting, blah blah, broke his back, blah. blah. blah."

"Oh. I was just checking to see if he was hot. The hot guy broke his back? That sucks. I hope his face is ok."

"You're unbelievable."

Offer up silent thanks to the Universe for Owen being too much of a pussy to ever want to play such a violent sport.

More book. I bet Jamie Fraser would clean the fucking ice with any of these guys.

"Remember how pissed you were when I suggested that Tom Brady play football in assless chaps?"

Am nearly launched off the bed as Al leaps up and starts punching mattress whilst whooping and squealing in delight.

"Really?"

"They just scored a goal!" With the jumping and pumping of the fists.

"Look at you. Really?"

Grab laptop and commence dicking around.

"Cool!!"

"I know!! They scored another one! They could win this fucking thing!"

"No. Not that. I wanna see this movie!"

"It's the kid from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, and Spiderwick! I love that kid! He's all grown up and trying to bang Julia Robert's niece! Look!"

"Yeah. As soon as I grow a vagina I'll go see it with you."

Offer up silent plea to Universe to deliver me gay best friend.

Contemplate writing to friends in Vancouver who are parents of eight year old ultimate hockey fan;

Hey Skipper! You know if I cared any less about this hockey shit I'd be dead right? But if I gave even the smallest poop? Which I don't. Not even the teeniest little crumb, I'd want Canada to win. Don't tell Al.

Al insisting game is quite exciting, so spend minute or so watching.

"Hehehehehe."

"What now?"

"Listening to the announcer guys? You can make just about everything they say sound dirty;

'Butt ending'? That's not gay at all.

'Dead puck'? Didn't sound like 'Dead fuck' in my head. Nope.

'Double minor' ? Jailbait twins! Yay threesome!

'Poke check'? Yeah. I checked. I got poked.

'Three on one'? In your dreams babe."

"That's enough outta you. Aren't you going babysitting?"

Text from friend;

"Come down at eleven. No way I'm not gonna see them win this game!"

Hand Al tissue with which to wipe tears of joy from his cheeks as his team has emerged victorious;

"I'll never get it. Win or lose, those guys are still making millions and fucking supermodels. Win or lose you're still a working stiff barely making ends meet and not fucking anything resembling a supermodel. See ya later."

Wash up, don jammies, grab book and head to friend's house.

"Did you watch? Wasn't that awesome!!??"

"Apparently."

Cuddle up on couch and join Jamie in the wilds of 18th century America. And just for fun, dress him in a hockey jersey and assless chaps.

Sisterhood and Skid Marks

2011-06-05T14:02:00.003-04:00

*******

Bea: "Owen. Guess what? I have a sister. A pretend sister. Her name is Aylie and she's Deaf like you!"

Owen: "Awwww. I will be your sister Bea."

*******

Sisterly Love

*******

I've barely been online in almost two weeks, has been lovely, and I've always sucked at Twatter, yet I've gained followers over there almost daily.

What the fuck people?

You know what my first Tweet ever was?

"Why do I smell the brown stains?"

Really. Stop following me.

*******

As evidenced by profound skidmarkage on Owen's underoos, I questioned his arse wiping practices one day as I heard the toilet flush;

"Owen, did you wipe your butt?"

"I know I know I know!"

"Well did you?"

"I said I know! I wipe already!!"

"Did you really?"

"I said I DID!!"

"Are you lying?"

"YES!!!!"

*******

I'm in the kitchen, Al is doing yard work, and the kids are playing outside.

Owen comes in the house, talking to himself;

"Can't hear Bea nope. Can't hear Bea talking why? Daddy using the Grass Vacuum. Yup. Daddy using the Grass Vacuum so I can't hear Bea."

And from that day forward, the WeedWhacker shall be known as the Grass Vacuum.

*******

Methinks it is time to enroll the Elefanten sisters in some dance classes, as elder sister is showing some mad potential no?

And this is a rare occasion when I will allow one to feel pity for me. I am forced to endure this horrific Kidzbop version of this cheestastic song so loudly, I'm surprised the neighbors haven't complained.

At least he can't hear me laughing at him.

*******

Bea and Owen finish a race to the door. Because it is important to get to the door first as opening the door is some special privilege even though the fucking thing sticks and the winner almost always needs my help with the actual opening.

Bea wins.

Owen is pissed;

"I not your sister anymore Bea."

*******

Ridickulous (NSFW)

2011-05-24T12:52:00.001-04:00

Owen likes to dance. To LOUD music. With props.

This past weekend, he was getting down to All The Single Ladies with his little buddy Ernie in the living room while Bea and I played in the playroom.

When I checked on him, I found him stripped down to his underoos, which were stuffed with both of his socks. In the right place.

Ernie was...

Well...

We haven't heard from Ernie since the Special Victims Unit took him away.

*******

While trying to locate the accidental penis website to show Al,

I *ahem* came across these guys:

Large Penis Support Group

Really?

Really.

Made me think I need to start a group of my own:

Women with perfect breasts, no stretch marks, and no cellulite support group.

*******

I wonder if that support group has a thread discussing this episode.

No. I'm not checking to see if they do.

*******

Remember this?

*******

This morning, before being properly caffeinated, I was treated to this conversation;

Bea: "Mom? Is 'ridiculous' a good word or a bad word?"

Me: "Ridiculous is a perfectly silly word. Say it all you want."

Bea: "Owen! Did you hear that? We can say ridiculous!"

Owen: "Huh?"

Bea: "Ridiculous! Say it!"

Owen: "Wee- What? I can't say it."

Bea: "Re-"

Owen: "We-"

Bea: "No. RE-"

Owen: "We-"

Bea: "Ugh. Now 'Dick'."

Owen: "Dick."

Bea: "Yes! You said 'Dick!' Mom! Did you hear that? Owen can say Dick!!"

Me: *snicker*

Bea: "Now. say 'YOU'."

Owen: "You."

Bea: "Yes! Now 'LUSS'."

Owen: "List."

Bea: "Re-dick-you-luss. Ridiculous!"

Owen: "Wedickyoulist!"

*******

A Future So Bright

2011-05-19T22:51:00.001-04:00

So. Tuesday night at around 9:30 I called Bev's daughter, June.

I had a feeling it was time.

For two hours we sat on either side of Bev, June's husband Dave at the end of the bed.

What followed were the two most love filled hours I've ever witnessed. The things June was telling her Mom were perfection, heartbreaking, bittersweet, hope filled.

I was honored and humbled and a bunch of other corny crap.

I'm not religious, but certainly spiritual, and whatever higher power is out there, it had us wrapped up, warm and tight in that room.

Bev passed 15 minutes after I left.

I'm pretty sure she was waiting to have June all to herself.

*******

At some point during those two hours, a hot tranny mess (Hi Lynn!) of a hospice volunteer, showed up.

Seriously. Through sobs, June and I tried not to burst out laughing.

We decided this is the person they send in to scare the stubborn ones into the great beyond.

*******

Wednesday morning, as soon as Owen was on the bus, Bea and I headed out for a play date with a girl from preschool.

I couldn't wait to check out the Turnip Farm.

Yup.

Bea and Trudy played for almost three hours while Jane and I drank tea and chatted.

You know the first time you hang out with someone, you're not quite sure how much of yourself to reveal, you tiptoe around certain topics, it takes a conscious effort to avoid those awkward pauses in conversation?

There was none of that. We told each other as much of our life's stories as time would allow. Plenty in common. Personalities easily meshed. I could have stayed and talked all day.

Plans were made for trip to zoo as soon as it stops raining, like sometime next year.

And this morning? She brought me a dozen eggs from her chickens!

Yay new friend!

*******

After the play date, we picked up Owen for highly anticipated ear cleaning appointment;

Before I share those gory details, a little business to attend to.

Fuck You Rude Receptionist Bitch,

I hate being late. If I arrive for an appointment exactly on time, I consider that late, because in my crazy head, I need to be early for everything.

So when Owen's teacher didn't have him ready at the pre-arranged time, and then I hit traffic, and then I couldn't find your new location, my anxiety grew to such levels that I almost popped the Ativan that Owen was supposed to take to get him through the procedure.

At the exact time of the appointment, I called to let you know we were going to be late.

I just LOVE the 517 options I'm given to assist me in reaching the correct person.

And of course EVERY specialty except for Otolaryngology was an option. So I was forced to hang up and call again. While dealing with traffic and cranky children. And wait for the 'Make an appointment' option, which I chose, and waited. And waited.

And pulled into the parking lot eight minutes late, still on hold. And walked into the building.

Still on hold.

And approached YOU; STILL. ON. HOLD. And noticed that neither you nor your co-receptionist were on the phone.

And waggled my phone at you;

"I've got Owen Elefanten here for a his appointment, I tried to call and tell you we were going to be late, but I've been waiting on HOLD for five minutes."

And instead of the apology and thorough ass smooching that I clearly deserved you gave me;

"Oh. We'll see if the doctor will still take him."

Oh. You done bitched up the wrong Mommy.

"Yeah. We're a whole ten minutes late. Which is less time than we're usually made to wait when we're on time, so I don't forsee a problem."

"Hmph. *shoves pile of paperwork at me* You need to fill all this out and I'll see if the doctor will see him."

Sign few forms and just to be a jerk, tell asshat that I haven't filled out Owen's medical history. 'Cause that would take fucking hours.

"Well. You have to."

"Well. Everything that has ever been done to him is in your system. I'm pretty sure Dr. W knows how to acess his records."

"Hmph."

Fuck you.

*******

We do get to see the doctor. But after Owen's weight is obtained, which makes no sense as they don't weigh him after the wax is removed, and sometimes I think there would be a considerable difference.

His oxygen saturation is also measured. And I laugh at the number; 100%.

Assistant type person;

"Huh?"

"His lungs were smashed to smithereens when he was a baby. He shouldn't be 100%."

Gobs and gobs of crap are removed from his ears without injury to myself or doctor. Or Owen.

Owen high fives everyone in office and declares;

"I hear better now! We go to McDonalds?"

*******

Buying wine today. Clerk eyes me dubiously and asks to please see my ID.

Which makes my fucking day.

"I graduated high school twenty years ago today."

*******

I graduated high school twenty years ago today.

Caps and gowns not virginal enough for the all girl's Catholic school. Wasn't I pretty?

And I was as cool as one could be in that poofy thing.

I have no idea what I expected out of life on that day.

A husband and kids, good friends, maybe a job I didn't hate. Yeah, that was the extent of my ambition.

And not boring. Yes. I wanted something out of the ordinary.

******

I babysit for friend Sally two nights a week. Her husband leaves for work around 10pm and she gets home around 11:30.

So I show up in my jammies, book in hand, ready to crash on their couch.

"How's it going Mark?"

"Living the dream."

So it would seem.

*******