Blog, blah, blah

2006-10-26T18:42:00.001-07:00

2006-10-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

Experimenting . . .

2006-08-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

I have a new blog address! Please come see me at www.nurseblogger.net. See you there!

Another meme

2006-08-16T21:49:00.000-07:00

I am under orders from Jellyhead to re-post this meme. I posted it last weekend and took it down because I thought it wasn't very interesting. But she says otherwise. Hat tip to Paul for the meme.

When did you start blogging and why? I started blogging in June 2004 because Bev had a blog and I thought it might be fun. I've always kept journals and enjoyed writing. It helps me a lot to write my feelings down. It has been an exhilarating and sometimes uneasy experience to post my thoughts and get feedback. Now, I blog more often than I write in a journal. I am hooked.

How do you use blogging to build friendships? I've built some very close friendships because of the blog. In fact, it rocked my world the day I realized that I was as close, or closer, to my some of the friends I've made over the internet as I was to the friends I've made in the usual ways. But I also use the blog to stay in touch with friends from way back and several of them have blogs too. So, Marcey, Donna, Brenda, and Bev are actually bloggers whom I have known for years and years.

Who do you read every day, rain or shine? I read Sharon's blog every day because I love it and it was the first blog I ever read on a daily basis. Not many bloggers post every day but I try to visit anyone whose name ends up with an asterisk next to it indicating that they've posted.

How do you feel about meeting bloggers in real life? I recently spent the weekend with Laura, Melonie, and Sharon and we had a wonderful time. I came thisclose to meeting Moogie in June and I might get to meet Buffi next month. Plus, Jellyhead and I swear we will meet some day. So, I guess you could say that I have had positive experiences with meeting bloggers in real life.

Is there one blogger in particular that you find mirrors yourself? Um, I am not sure I understand the question? I don't really think anyone tries to write like me or anything. But there have been lots of times when I've read posts and just nodded my head in agreement, thinking, "I know exactly how that feels."

How would you describe your writing style? A friend of mine once told me that my writing is raw and honest and I guess that's true. I truly don't know how to write anything other than what I am feeling.

If you could spend time with just one person? I never know how to answer this question. There are so many people I wish I could spend time with. My great-grandmother, my grandfather who died when I was two years old . . .there are lots of choices. But honestly? Right now, if I could spend just one day with a loved one I've lost, I would want to spend the day with my puppy,Tinkerbell. That may sound shallow. But it is the truth.

What don't you write about? Why? I'd tell you, but I don't write about it. ;-)

What is your favorite thing that you wrote? The post I like the most that I've written recently is the one I wrote on my tenth wedding anniversary.

Have you written anything controversial? Yes, but not often. The one that comes to mind is when I wrote about a woman who was walking through the voting line as people waited to vote on the gay marriage issue in Texas. She was asking people if they were Christians and, if they said yes, she would say, "Then you know how to vote." I wrote that I was prepared to tell her I was a Christian lesbian just to see how she handled it. I was furious with that woman. But she never approached me.

Are you and your blogging persona the same person? Not really. I am more disclosing on the blog than I am in real life. I can talk about my feelings and actually make some sense when I write on the blog. In real life, I am tongue tied and I struggle to find the right words.

Have you ever anonymously posted on a site to flame them? I've anonymously posted on other blogs but never to flame them.

If you had a super power, what would it be? I'd like to fly.

Which five bloggers do you want to answer these questions? I've learned not to tag. Sorry.

Because I'd rather sleep than write . . .

2006-08-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

rodeo

2006-08-14T20:03:00.000-07:00

Well, the morning of the first day of school came and went and I can describe it to you in three words: RO-DE-O. Yes, it was a rodeo. And the reason is that Crash was all discombobulated because it was still dark when we woke him up. He ate breakfast, took a shower, . . . and crawled in bed. I told him he had to get dressed. He asked, "Isn't it time for me and Bump to go to bed?" "Nooooo. It is time to get dressed for your first day of school!" "But it is night time. And I just barely fell asleep!" "No, it is early morning and you need to get dressed." "I need more sleep." "GET DRESSED!" This conversation went on and on. He insisted right up until we got in the car to drive to school that he should still be sleeping. I can't really blame him. The reason he has so much trouble waking up in the morning is because he is my son. I, myself, was surprised to know that the sun wasn't out yet at 6:30 am. The reason being that I never get up at 6:30 am. Never, ever. We got the boys to school. Bump walked off to his class without even a good-bye. He was either excited to get to his room or else he was embarrassed to be seen with his parents. Maybe both. We walked with Crash to his classroom and helped him find his desk and waved as we walked away. His teacher was handing out a baggie with kleenex and a bag of tea with some sort of poem about wiping tears and having a cup of tea. After the hell my son put me through this morning, I can assure you I did not need a kleenex to wipe away tears as I walked away from the school. Rather, I said a prayer of thanks for all day kindergartens. I was in ecstasies as I drove home. Eight hours of freedom laid ahead of me! I'd been waiting for this day for so many years. So, I came home and :

Ate a leisurely breakfast.
Talked on the phone to my friend.
Read a gossip magazine.
Took a nap.
Went to lunch with Brad.
Surfed blogs.

Yep, that's what I did. I lazed about for eight hours. And it felt great. 3:15 pm found me back at the school where I entered Crash's classroom to pick him up. All of the other children were running up to their mothers and telling them about their day. Crash? He was asleep. His head rested heavily on his desk. I shook him to try to rouse him and was unsuccessful. I lifted his face off of the desk and a trail of drool stretched from his mouth to the desk top. He awoke with a slurping sound (sucking all that drool in), and looked sleepily at me. He had a red indentation in his cheek where his face had pressed against the edge of the desk. I grinned and asked, "How was your first day, buddy?" "Fiiiine," he said as he stretched and yawned. Then he got pissed because he couldn't get his backpack off of the shelf. Then he said he had to pee and refused to use the bathroom in his classroom until I told him it was either pee there, or pee his pants. Then he got mad, just because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Finally, we got into the very end of the queue of children and parents walking past the teacher who was handing out folders and telling the other moms, "Oh, Garrett was such a good boy today. Alyssa is such a little sweetie. Katie is an angel. Jimmy was so well behaved!" When we got to the front of the line, she simply said, "Goodbye, Crash." Not that he got in trouble or anything. He didn't have anything in his folder to indicate that he had been bad and later, when I asked him if he had a good day, he proudly answered, "Yup. I didn't get in any trouble. None at all!" But I know he probably wasn't the most social or pliable child in the room, either. *sigh* That child has a strong personality. And I don't know where he gets that from. In other news, Bump loved his teacher. He loved his classroom. The highlight of the fourth grade for him so far has been that he was assigned a locker. His little girlfriend sits just across from him. A friend he like well sits next to him. Life is good for Bump. After today, Bump will walk to Crash's class every day after school and lay claim to him and walk him out to the front of the school where I will pick them both up. He will also be the one to escort Crash to his class's line in the gym every morning. I figure Crash's attitide about school might improve if he feels cool walking around with his big brother. And it is a really good thing that I had a nap today because, I tell ya, riding herd on that kindergartener of mine is hard and tiring work.

don't blink

2006-08-13T17:06:00.001-07:00

I'm listening to the rumbling of thunder and the soft sound of rain splatting on to the parched ground as I type. We spent the weekend in Dallas and the storm very thoughtfully waited until we were safely home to roll in. I love storms, don't get me wrong. But I am terrified of driving on the Interstate during a storm. Several years ago, as we were driving home from the lake in a rainstorm, we came upon an overturned semi truck and all traffic was forced to stop. There was another semi behind us who didn't see that traffic was stopped until it was too late. I still remember watching the truck careen toward us in the rear-view mirror. I knew that I was going to die. I just knew it. But the driver tried to so very hard to avoid hitting us (or any of the other cars) that he actually steered off of the highway and his truck overturned in the median. I watched the grass in the median peel back as the truck skidded. I immediately jumped out of our car, against the protests of my husband and my father, and ran across the highway to see if the truck driver was injured. His nose was swollen and bleeding where he banged it against the steering wheel but otherwise he was fine. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I hate driving on the Interstate during a storm. School starts tomorrow. We are prepared. We have backpacks and lunchboxes. We have school supplies and school clothes. We have tennis shoes and socks and underwear. Yes, we are prepared to send the kids to school so far as material things go. But I am not quite ready to send them to school so far as emotions go. My oldest is going into fourth grade. How did that happen when only a few days ago he was toddling across my kitchen? He has a girlfriend whom he has talked to regularly on the phone this summer. He is wearing a size 4 tennis shoe. He uses deodorant. He has hairy legs! My son, he is a hairy-legged boy. Oy. He pays very close attention to his hair and his clothes and he has taken to taking more baths than necessary. I remember my brother going through this same phase. What does it mean? He is growing up, is what it means. His peer group is becoming more important to him than his parents. All we can do is gently guide him through the rough years and stand back and watch as he discovers who he is, deep inside. And we can be proud, for he is a good boy and his heart is always in the right place. My youngest, my baby, the child who still climbs in my lap and gives me kisses, is going to Kindergarten. It seems all wrong. He still has those precious baby cheeks and he rubs them against my face when I sit him in my lap and hug and kiss him. He still likes to crawl in my bed and cuddle with me in the mornings. He is always doing things for me and giving me gifts. "Look what I made you, mom. See? It's a picture of you and me." He runs his fingers through my hair as we talk about his day when I tuck him in at night. And now he's going into Kindergarten! My, my. Time does fly. Makes a person loathe to blink lest they miss a single second.

2006-08-09T21:27:00.000-07:00

Oy, what a day I've had. School starts Monday. My kids are in kindergarten and fourth grade. I am learning that it is far more hectic to prepare two children for school with school supplies, lunch boxes, backpacks, tennis shoes, and a few items of clothing that don't make them look like orphans than it is to do those things for just one child. About my day. Let's see . . . I started the day by taking the boys to eat donuts for breakfast because they like that and also because I am fairly certain the milk in the fridge is expired so eating cereal was not an option. After eating, we took the car to the car wash where the children were disappointed to learn that the wax that squirts out of the pressure wash thingy is no longer three colors; it is only a boring white. I proceeded to vacuum and shampoo the carpet in the car because one of the kids left a wet beach towel in the floor and the hot West Texas sun made short work of making the whole car smell like mildew. After that, we dropped the car off to get the oil changed, hijacked Brad's convertible and made our way to the mall. I took the kids into a dressing room at Dillard's and told Crash to take off his shorts so he could try on some pants. He hesitated and told me he didn't want to take off his shorts. "C'mon kid, take off your shorts and try these pants on so we can get outta here." He stalled, looking at his feet and murmuring, "I don't wanna try on any pants." Quickly losing my patience, I gritted my teeth and growled, "Take those shorts off right now!" At that point, he 'fessed up, "Um, Mom? I kinda forgot to wear underwear today." He pulled his shorts down, "See?" Yes, that's right. My youngest child went commando this morning. And not even because he was out of clean underwear! For once, the child had lots of clean underwear in his drawer and I know this because I washed it, folded it, and placed it in his dresser myself only two days ago! I should interject at some point that, when driving a convertible with black leather seats, it is always wise to touch one's hand to the leather prior to sitting down in the driver's seat. Otherwise, one might find themselves parting ways with the skin on the back of one's thighs. Our next mission was to procure school supplies and we highed ourselves to Target where our cart floweth over. The school supplies lists are always so specific. I suppose that could be a good thing except that the stores seem to get a thrill from stocking two pocket folders without brads rather than with brads, as requested by the schools. They also love to order excesses of college ruled notebook paper and spirals when all anyone needs is WIDE RULED. Even without buying some of the supplies that weren't stocked, I still spent a cool two hundred bucks. Of course, I didn't just buy school supplies. I also bought this t-shirt for Brad: As soon as we were done shopping, we rushed home to pick up the puppies and take them to my mother as she is puppysitting for us this weekend. Halfway to our meeting point, I was pulled over for speeding. Really speeding. Going 47mph in a 30 mph zone. I pulled over before the policeman had even turned on his lights because one glance at my speedometer and I knew I was screwed. The policeman walked to my window where I was already holding out my driver's license and insurance card. He asked, "Is there some sort of emergency, ma'am?" "No, I was just yelling at my son." "Yelling at your son?" "Yes, he was being too rough with the puppy and I was hollering at him to be gentle." "Well, I clocked you at 47 mph." *low chuckle*"Yes, I know. I looked at the speedometer as soon as I saw you and even I couldn't believe how fast I was going." "Ah, I see. Well, please wait here while I check on some things." And then he went back to his car and spent several minutes doing what I can only assume to be checking my driver's license and plate numbers. I sat in my car thinking about how unhappy Brad would be when we had to pay a $200 speeding ticket and feeling a little bit sick to my stomach. And then? The very nice officer walked back to my window and uttered these magical words, "I am letting you off with a warning, ma'am. But please slow down." I wanted to kiss that man. Really, I did. We made it to the meeting place and visited with my mother for a few minutes while the puppies ran around in the grass. At one point, my mom asked me, "Are you okay? I read your blog . . ." She was referring to this post. I tried to explain that I was okay, but I am not very good at explaining things face-to-face. So all I want to say is this: It is easy for other bloggers to understand posts that are a little bit . . . morose. Other bloggers know how therapeutic it can be to simply write when we are feeling down or unappreciated or lonely. But those who don't write as a means to vent may be distressed when reading such thoughts. I think everyone has feelings of loneliness and everyone has days where they feel depressed and anxious. But not everyone writes about them. And that is what makes it different. That's why I hesitate to write such thoughts. I don't want the people who love me to think that I am depressed or sad based on reading one post from one day. I want them to understand that I write in order to share my life with them but also, sometimes, in order to push negative feelings away on those bad days--days like everyone has experienced at some point. And the next day? Well, I am back to writing about how much I love my puppies and how happy they make me. Finally, we made it back to our town where we met Brad for dinner and the girl behind the cash register repeatedly screwed up my order but I couldn't bring myself to be mean to her because I always think about Sharon working behind a fast food counter when she was younger and how she said that wearing a uniform and a badge makes people think they can abuse you. I think about how upset I would be to see anyone be mean to her and I just can't get impatient or rude. Now the day is at its end and I find myself sitting in the family room with my husband as he brushes my hair to help it dry because he knows I love to have my hair brushed and played with. I smell the rosemary mint shampoo I washed it with and it makes me feel happy. I have a feeling I will sleep well. Funny how even the most hectic of days can result in such contentment. I was busy today, yes, but I spent the day with my children, I got to see my mother (Hi, Mom!), I had a hot fudge sundae after dinner, and my husband is gently brushing my hair. Life is good.

Fortune Cookies

2006-08-09T08:46:00.000-07:00

The boys and I had fortune cookies this morning. Mine said:

You have a strong instinct to take care of the people you love.

Puppies

2006-08-08T20:38:00.000-07:00

Awww! Don't we look happy in this picture? Can you tell we love our puppies? We love them so much that, rather than referring to them as "the dogs" or "the puppies," we refer to them as "the girls." As in, Brad walks in the door from work and asks, "Where're the boys?" "Playing a game in Bump's room." "And where are the girls?" "They're sleeping on the couch." And half the time, he goes to say hello to the girls first! We took the girls to Petsmart to be groomed this evening. When we picked them up, they were so soft and smelled so good and had adorable little doggy bandanas tied around their necks! Their perfect puppy cuteness inspired baby talk that would sicken most people. Such as: Oh, you're a pretty girl. Yes, you are. Pretty, pretty. And such a good baby. Yes, you're just a precious baby, that's what you are. Mommy loves you. Yes, she does! Buh-buh-buh-buh! Buh-buh-buh-buh! I know some of you are just dying to ridicule me for baby-talking to my dogs. Go ahead. I don't care. Because they are precious, pretty babies. Yes, they are.

Invisibility

2006-08-07T20:38:00.000-07:00

I know I've been gone. I'm sorry. I really didn't think anyone noticed until Melonie asked me, in a very steady, quiet voice yesterday, "Are you okay?" "Yes, I am okay" "Are you sure you're okay? Because I just went to read your blog and the top post is one from Memorial Day." So maybe I wasn't quite okay. Maybe I was planning to disassemble the blog. Maybe things have been a little rough. Maybe I feel like I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown and I am gulping down margaritas as I type. Maybe I gulped down margaritas as I cooked dinner tonight. Maybe I shall keep a margarita in my hand at all times until this awful feeling goes away. I just realized that I am describing the birth of an alcoholic. But I'm still going to finish my margarita, dammit. It's the best possible way to avoid a nervous collapse while also preserving my bottle of Xanax for another day. Things here have been a little rough. The reason I haven't been writing is because there are far too many people who are related to me either by blood or marriage who read this blog. There are also way too many people who are either a)my employer or b)close personal friends who know some of my relatives. My personal philosophy has always been that it is wise to share as little as possible about any disharmony in a person's life with their family and certain friends. The reason is that it is human nature to choose sides in any situation. Anyone who loves me will almost always take my side in any conflict I might have with Brad. But then? Two weeks later? When I am all happy and made up with my husband and think he hung the moon and stars? Well, the person I confided in will still be mad at him. And then it will be uncomfortable for me to talk to that person because I will feel the need to defend my husband. And then, pretty soon I will stop calling or visiting that person because it is just too stressful to know that he/she disapproves of a decision I made. And before you know it I've lost a friend and/or have an uncomfortable relationship with a family member. You can apply that same algorithm, with minor adjustments, to fit non-family situations that have nothing to do with spouses, too. So. My husband is driving me crazy. My kids are driving me crazy. My job is driving me crazy. My finances are driving me crazy. Pretty much, my whole life is driving me crazy. And I understand that the common denominator in all of the above? Is me. So, one could easily come to the conclusion that I am the one making myself crazy. Go ahead, say it. You'll hear no argument from me. It's just . . . sometimes I look back on my life and wish that I could have some sort of proof that I have made the right decisions along the way. I wish that I could look back and know for sure that I've helped those who've crossed my path. I wish I knew for sure that, when I am dead, people will say, "She was kind and good and blessed our lives." My fear is that they will say instead, "Thank God we don't have to put up with her emotional outbursts anymore. That was one high maintenance woman, I tell'ya." The thing is, I know I am emotional. I know I am high maintenance. I know I am melodramatic. I know I need a lot of attention. But I also know that I am kind and loving and generous and loyal. I just wish I could know for sure that my good traits outweigh the bad. I was walking through a store tonight and came across some big, beautiful vases full of flowers. I couldn't help it; I found myself trying to remember the last time I got flowers for any reason other than it was Valentine's Day. (My stepfather always buys me flowers on V-Day.) If I'm right, it was six or seven years ago when a patient sent me and my friend Carolyn a bouquet of flowers and thanked us for being kind to him during his hospital stay. It made me stop and wonder if it has been that long since I've been caring and kind to another person? God, I hope not. Then, I found myself wishing that, every now and then, I could receive some sort of tangible acknowledgement of the contributions I make. Something to make me believe that all of the loads of laundry washed and all of the dinners cooked, all of the homework checked and all of the baths drawn, and all of the encouragement given and conversations had with family and friends means something at the end of the day; that it isn't just hot air and actions performed by rote, without feeling. Because I do all of those things out of love. There are days when I feel overwhelmed, sure, and like I wish I could go hide in a cave where I can't bother anyone or be bothered. But isn't it kind of the point of loving someone that we will do even the things that are most tiresome or uncomfortable for us in order to make our loved ones feel happy and secure? But does that also mean that it is wrong to dream about a bouquet of flowers being delivered unexpectedly or a surprise date or a card in the mail or on my pillow? And I guess that is really the root of the problem; knowing that I need something but also knowing that I can't ask for what I need. I need to be not only loved, but appreciated. I need to know that I would be missed if something happened and I was gone tomorrow. I need to know that I am not invisible. Trying to be the best wife, mother, daughter, friend, nurse, employee and [insert all of the roles I've forgotten here], and yet finding myself feeling exhausted and unappreciated at the end of the day has contributed to my feeling that I am invisible. What I do doesn't matter. What I say doesn't matter. What I think and feel doesn't matter. The end result of feeling invisible is that I work especially hard to make others aware of my presence. I make them pay attention to me, one way or another. I am like the child who acts out because even negative attention is better than no attention at all. So, I have been doing a lot of acting out and a lot of pushing back. And it is exhausting. And I'd like to stop now, if you don't mind.

of swirling vortexes

2006-08-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed that I have a tendency to exaggerate things and also a tendency to worry. I once told Melonie, "I have a hard time relaxing," to which she replied, "No! Really? Gee, I hadn't noticed!" She's quite a smart-aleck, I tell ya. I seem to have passed this tendency on to my children. Bump had all sorts of irrational fears when he was a wee child. The water park near our house has showers that are there expressly for washing sand off of childrens feet so they can go from the sandbox to the pool. The spigots have a tendency to get stuck in the ON position. I can't tell you how this distressed my son. He was convinced the world would flood if we didn't make sure the foot showers were turned off. I kid you not. He also used to be afraid he would get sucked down the drain in the bath tub, get locked in the movie theater if we lingered too long after the movie, and get sick if he drank after anyone but me. (Apparently, moms don't have germs). He went through a phase where he lined the toilet seat with toilet paper before he would sit down on it if we were anywhere besides our house. He even lined the seat with toilet paper at his grandparents' houses. I always thought that was a riot because I can guarantee you the grandparents' houses were cleaner than mine. With time, some of his irrational fears have faded and been replaced with fears that are more seeded in reality. For example, he is afraid of tornadoes. He's never been in a tornado, but he is frightened of them nonetheless. He's always convinced he can see a funnel in any storm cloud. Something else about my children is that they are known for their large vocabularies and wild imaginations. So tonight, I had to laugh when Bump grabbed the back of my seat as we were sitting in the parking lot at Target and screeched, "Ack! Mom, can you see it?" I questioned, "See what?" His voice scaled up and he warbled, "It's a swirling vortex!" I need to encourage that kid to write, I swear. (By the way, there was no swirling vortex.)

Happy Birthday, Melonie!

2006-08-01T11:21:00.000-07:00

Today is a birthday, I wonder for who

I know it's for someone who's right in this room

So look all around you, find somebody who

Is having a birthday

My goodness it's YOU!

Happy Birthday, Melonie

From all of us to you (toot, toot!)

Happy Birthday, Melonie

May all of your dreams come true! (toot, toot!)

Yes, I know it's cheesy but it is the song my husband's family always sings in addition to the Happy Birthday song. The "toot, toot!" sound effects are always provided by my niece. ;-) Go wish Melonie a happy birthday! (I love you, Melonie!) *smiles sweetly*

roles we play

2006-07-31T20:02:00.000-07:00

When my husband and I became engaged to be married many, many moons ago (in the dark ages, if you ask my children), I was very reluctant to give up my maiden name. I wanted to keep it or at least hyphenate my last name. My husband obviously felt this was an affront to his manliness and we had quite a row over the subject. Eventually, I softened and decided to embrace my married name. But I still remember crying when I got the first piece of mail addressed to my married name after we got home from our honeymoon. All I can guess is that I was afraid that losing my name meant losing my identity. Which, of course, it didn't. I never wanted to be defined by my role as wife, mother, or anything else. I've always stalwartly refused to be pigeonholed. I remember once in college when I was sitting in one of my classes and I was dressed smartly in a very preppy outfit; slacks, t-shirt, vest, and loafers. I answered a question out loud and the teacher made some remark about knowing I was smart just by the way I was dressed. The next time I attended his class, I wore torn up jeans, old sneakers, and a faded t-shirt with my hair scrunched messily. I showed him. For years after I married, whenever someone referred to me as Mrs. -----, I replied, "Mrs. ---- is my mother-in-law. My name is Heather." When people used to ask me if I was Brad's wife, I would reply, "No, he's Heather's husband." Once he started working at the hospital, I got, "I didn't know you were Brad's wife!" alot. I would ask, "Would it have made a difference?" Yes, I am quite argumentative at times. But tonight I had to smile at how time has mellowed me. Probably, time and maturity have helped me to realize that it doesn't matter who anyone else thinks I am so long as I am absolutely certain who I am. And I know without a doubt that I am a strong, intelligent, compassionate and competent woman who can face any challenge thrown in her path. My mother-in-law is spending the night with us and she took us to dinner this evening. She and I were standing at a soda fountain when my husband said, "Mom, can you come over here?" and she and I both looked toward him and set off walking before it occurred to us to ask which one he was talking to. (In case you are wondering, Brad often addresses me as "mom" when we are with the kids.) Also today, the vet's office called and, when I answered the phone, asked, "May I speak with Mrs.-----?" My answer? "This is she." Funny how I've settled into the very roles and titles that I worked so hard to shun, isn't it? But what's even funnier is that I am okay with it. I am Brad's wife and Bump and Crash's mom. I am Mrs. -----. And I am okay with that because I know, even if others don't, that I am also so much more.

What I learned today . . .

2006-07-30T21:44:00.000-07:00

It's embarrassing when the puppy drags your pink pair of thong panties with the rhinestone heart in the back into your son's room while the neighbor kid is in there playing video games.

2006-07-29T17:22:00.000-07:00

I've tried to write several posts over several days and each time have gotten exasperated and given up. The reason, I think, is because I know what I want to write about but also know I don't want to irk, annoy, or bore anyone. I still want to write about my trip to Cedar Point or, at least, observations surrounding my trip to Cedar Point and the series of events leading up to my trip. And if it bores anyone? Oh well, it's my blog after all. When Sharon writes about our trip, she paints a vivid picture of the beach and the lake and the roller coasters and even the gift shop. She makes it easy for everyone to enjoy and appreciate how beautiful the scenery and surroundings were on our vacation. When Melonie writes about the trip, she easily recalls the fun and laughter experienced during our two days together. She calls to mind the inside jokes that we all share now and will always associate with those two days spent driving around in a big Cadillac and traipsing about our hotel. And Laura? Well, Laura memorialized an evening spent giggling over Italian food and wine by writing a hysterical and ingenious poem. Me? I appreciate the unique talents of each friend and love reading their posts and reliving the weekend. But I still have things to add. And, of course, my perspective adds yet another dimension to the telling of our story. Naturally, my perspective includes mushy and sentimental observations and violates Melonie's rule: No emotional, hand-holding posts! Sorry, Melonie. I came away from my weekend with my friends with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. I am so grateful to have such lovely friends and feel blessed to have met them at all. It takes my breath away just a little to realize that none of us ever knows when meeting someone new if that person is someone who will have a profound effect on our lives. To think that I could have missed out on such a wonderful friendship -- well, it's something I can't even bear to think about. We live in an age where it is increasingly common to meet friends and spouses via the Internet. I was always skeptical of such relationships in the past. In fact, if you had told me a year ago that I was going to fly across the country to spend two days with three women I had never seen in person, I would have laughed in your face. I never would have believed it. But, I did make a very close friend over the Internet and I did spend the weekend with her and it wasn't awkward or uncomfortable at all. Rather, it felt like we had spent lots of time together and were just taking up where we'd left off. And the reason is, we aren't "fellow bloggers" or "cyber-buddies." We are friends. We've nurtured our friendship for over a year now. I daresay we know each other better than we know some of our "real-life" friends. Spending the weekend with my friends was surreal. I think we all had just a little niggling fear that we would spend the entire three hour drive to Ohio in awkwardness. What happened instead is that we fell into easy conversation and, about fifteen minutes into our drive, as we chattered and giggled, Melonie said facetiously, "Gee, it's a shame we aren't all getting along better." There were relatively few surprises. Sharon and I tended to be reflective, sensitive, and just a little too happy to see each other for Melonie to handle. Melonie and Laura were vivacious and funny and gave us hell. I would have been completely entertained, even if I'd never spoken a word, just by watching the interactions between Sharon and Melonie and Melonie and Laura. I've talked a little bit about the weekend in other posts. You know about our dinner at the Italian restaurant with our waiter who spoke heavily accented English and grinned at us every time we started giggling because he was honestly just a sweet-natured, nice guy. Sharon and I ventured out of our room late at night for an ice cream sundae and had an adventure that left us both with aching sides from laughing so much for so long. When we went to brunch Sunday morning, Sharon and I refused to eat until they brought out newly washed plates and Melonie and Laura quoted from "Brokeback Mountain" across the table from one another as Sharon and I rolled our eyes. Later, Melonie dragged Laura onto roller coaster after roller coaster as Sharon and I floated in a double innertube inflicting the infamous sunburn that she is still sporting now--two weeks later. When the afternoon waned, we began making our way across the sun-baked and twisting lanes of Cedar Point only to end up in the First Aid station where I sat next to a cot soaking washcloths in ice water and laying them across Sharon's neck and chest in an attempt to revive her from semi-consciousness while Laura and Melonie set off on a noble quest to locate the Cadillac and cool it off for our friend, le petite fleur. What you don't know is how, every time I tried to pay for anything, there were protests from the others and, if I'd been any less stubborn, they would have paid far more than their share. They are a generous bunch. You don't know how Melonie tries so hard to act tough but still can't conceal her very kind and tender heart. You haven't heard how Laura made me laugh just about every time she could see I was on the verge of tears and how she proclaimed, "I like hugs!" just moments after meeting me and gave me a big ol' hug. You didn't hear the concern in Sharon's voice when I had to use my inhaler and she worried, "Are you okay, Heather. Are you?" You didn't see how she smiled the moment she opened her eyes Sunday morning. But the moment when I realized just how special the weekend had been and just how closely I had bonded with my friends was when we pulled up to my hotel in Pittsburgh. I'd already been crying for a few minutes by then and Sharon sat beside me softly shushing me and holding my hand. We all tumbled out of the car and pulled my luggage from the trunk and I tried very hard not to cry more as I hugged Melonie and Laura (yes, Melonie broke the No Hugging rule). Sharon walked in to the hotel lobby and announced my presence, "Heather is here! It's not her fault she is late! Do you still have her room?" The surprised clerk answered, "Yeeees. Of course!" I think she half expected a red carpet to be rolled out for me to walk across. We pulled my luggage into the lobby and I turned around to say goodbye to Sharon only to end up clutching her into a hug and crying into her shoulder. I cried out of sadness that I won't see my friends for a long time, yes. But my tears also came from a place in my heart that was just so grateful that we'd had such an amazing two days together. I couldn't watch as Sharon walked out and the three of them climbed back in the Cadillac and drove away. I kept my back turned for several minutes before I could look out to be sure they were gone. Big crocodile tears rolled down my face as I checked into my hotel room and the cute little clerk asked worriedly, "Are you going to be okay?" I just nodded my head and sniffled. I was going to be better than okay. It is impossible to put a price tag on the weekend I spent with my friends. A few tears is a small price to pay for the memories that were made. We've had to defend our friendship more than a few times simply because we met in an unconventional way. Now no one can say that we've never set eyes on each other or ask how we could possibly know that we aren't dealing with a serial killer or rapist who only wants us to think the other is a pretty redhead from West Virginia. But more importantly, we've proven to ourselves that our friendship is just as solid and real as any friendship founded in the "normal" way and that it was worth some of the difficulties we've endured. It was wonderful. It was magical. It was reaffirming and life-changing. It was everything we thought it would be and more. And it was so damn much fun! I salute my friends Melonie, Laura, and Sharon. They really know how to make a girl feel at home. OP-RAH!

2006-07-28T19:32:00.000-07:00

I've been a little under the weather this week so Brad has been taking up the slack around here while I lie about moaning and complaining. I love that about my husband. One of the tasks that he took care of so I wouldn't have to is getting the kids registered for school. It took more than an hour and several phone calls regarding shot records, emergency phone numbers, etc. but he got the job done. I was highly impressed and have promised him all manner of rewards once I am well. What? I am going to cook him enchiladas! Perverts. There's only one fly in the ointment. Tonight at dinner, we were happily discussing the coming school year and I told Bump, "I think you are really going to like fourth grade." Brad's eyebrows shot up and he sputtered, "Fourth grade?" Bump and I stared and him and said, "Yes, fourth grade! Durr." "Crap! I registered him for third grade." So, Brad still gets points for effort and for being so darn willing to spend his time and energy at the school so I wouldn't have to. But now he has to call the school on Monday and admit that he didn't know what grade his own son was going into. This I've got to see. ;-)

Senior Year of High School Meme

2006-07-25T18:08:00.000-07:00

I admit that when it comes to blogging lately, I got nothin'. And so I give you the Senior Year of High School Meme found at Freakazojd's Palace complete with my senior picture. Yes, my senior picture was a Glamour Shot. It was 1993, after all. Senior Year of High School Meme. 1. What year was it? 1992-93 2. What were your three favorite bands? I honestly can't remember. I remember I liked Wilson Phillips but I am drawing a blank otherwise. 3. What was your favorite outfit? I've always been a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl. But I remember a wrap-around, bright multicolor skirt that I wore with a purple tank top. I also liked this sweater a lot. That's my friend, Bev, in the picture with me. :-) 4. What was up with your hair? I had long, wavy hair throughout high school but I cut it to shoulder length just before graduation. I was going through a very rough time and I think I cut it so I would feel like I still had some control. If I remember correctly, Bev cut it for me in her bathroom. I had to get it cut again to even it up! 5. Who were your best friends? Angie, Donna, Kirsten, Bev. 6. What did you do after school? I stayed in the choir room after school. I always did most of the organization for our fundraisers and I worked on our stage sets or graded papers. I lived and breathed music. I didn't care what I did so long as I could stay in that room. It was my safe haven. 7. Did you take the bus? I drove myself to school. I had a GMC Sierra truck. I usually picked up Angie and Bev and drove them to school, too. Angie always ate toast and drank red Kool-Aid on the way to school because she was always running late. 8. Who did you have a crush on? My biggest crush was on a guy I actually dated for quite a while named Bill. In fact, I didn't attend my own senior bash party because he was there with his new girlfriend who happened to be my very good friend and I left in tears. I was a bit of an idiot back then. 9. Did you fight with your parents? We fought a lot during the last part of my senior year. It's one of the biggest regrets I have. 10. Who did you have a CELEBRITY crush on? Tom Cruise. Angie and I could quote every word from Top Gun. And Patrick Swayze. I also knew every word to Dirty Dancing. 11. Did you smoke cigarettes? No. I was severely asthmatic and had enough trouble breathing most days. I had a big case of medications and inhalers that I carried from class to class because many of them had to be taken four times a day. 12. Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker? I don't think I ever used my locker. But it was mostly because I had so many music classes that I just left all of my books in the choir room. My schedule my senior year was: choir, government, choir, assistant, choir, English, music theory, music assistant. No joke. 13. Did you have a 'clique'? I was in the clique with the group who was popular but not wild. There were kind of two popular groups. My friends and I never drank or did drugs or got into trouble. A typical weekend night for us was for us all to gather at someone's house and let Bev and Katelyn sing and Jay and Jim play guitar. 14. Did you have "The Max" like Zach, Kelly and Slater? I am not sure if I remember what the Max was? But we liked to hang out at Saturday's diner after school events. 15. Admit it, were you popular? Um, I guess? 16. Who did you want to be just like? I wanted to be just like my friend Temple. 17. What did you want to be when you grew up? I wanted to sing and dance on Broadway but knew I lacked the talent so I thought I'd settle for being a music teacher. Except I decided I didn't have the talent for that either. So, the first major I declared in college was Literature. I wanted to teach Literature. 18. Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now? I don't think I ever thought I would get married. The boy I thought I wanted to marry was not mine so I just didn't think about it. But I do remember that I always wanted to live in New York City. And here I am a mere 90 miles from my hometown.

2006-07-24T18:48:00.000-07:00

We spent the weekend at the lake with my father and stepmother. We had a grand time. We learned that our youngest son has inherited our thrill seeking genes and is likely to be an adrenaline junkie just as we are. At the outskirts of the lake town, my father stopped for gas and my stepmother moved to my car so we could go on to the hotel while my dad went down to the state park. Dad pulled out of the parking lot while I was still parked in front of the convenience store and my stepmom was inside. A few minutes after we hit the road, my cell phone rang and it was Dad saying, "You've got my wife with you, right?" Of course, I replied, "Your wife? Isn't she with you?" At which point he threatened, "She'd better be with you!" I conceded that yes, she was indeed with me. My stepmom giggled and told me I should have kept him going until he pulled to the side of the road and prepared to turn around. I told her that I may be 31 years old but I had no doubt that my father would have whipped my butt if I pulled such a stunt. My oldest son burst out laughing in the back seat and enthused, "And I'd pay money to see it, too!" The next morning at breakfast, we were having some light-hearted conversation and we joked to the boys that, if the police showed up, they were looking for Grandma because she had taken a couple of plastic forks when we stopped at a fast food place for a coke the day before. I asked my son, "Would you pay to see that, too?" He answered, "Nah. Because she wouldn't fight back like you would." I feigned indignance and said, "I don't know why you say that. I am as placid an individual as you will ever meet." At which point my father nearly choked to death on his bagel. Seriously though, it's true. I am a fighter. I always have been. Even at my lowest, I have always had a strong sense of self-preservation. I am hard on myself and you probably can't call me anything worse than I've called myself. The thing is, I am allowed to kick myself but no one else is. It's all very simple; push me and I will push back. My aggressive nature is something I have had to learn to temper. Now I aim for assertiveness. It sounds so much more positive than aggression, don't you think? I've had to learn to choose my battles and, as a result, I've won most of them. My tendency to fight like a hellcat when threatened has not always served me well. But I am definitely able to say that I have rarely played the part of a doormat in any relationship or situation. I hesitate to admit it but, when my son seemed so sure that I would fight when cornered, I felt kind of . . . proud.

2006-07-23T20:08:00.000-07:00

Brad bought a convertible this weekend. He asked me to take some pictures. He likes this one, because you can see the whole car. I like this one because, well, I like him. Of course, I had to have my picture taken with the new car too.

echolocation

2006-07-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

I read an article today about a teenage boy who has been blind since he was two years old. Rather than using a cane or a seeing eye dog or even feeling his way around, he uses echolocation to navigate. Just like a bat or a dolphin, he makes rapid clicking noises with his tongue and listens for the echo so he can get around without running into things. He said that he can tell the difference between wood, glass, metal, and plastic just by clicking his tongue. He can tell the difference between a truck and a car from several feet away. He rides a skateboard relying solely on echolocation to avoid collisions. It was an amazing and inspiring story. It made me start thinking about how all of us use a sort of echolocation to navigate our lives. When we reach out to another human being and wait for their response, isn't that essentially the same thing as echolocation? If we offer our love or friendship and it is met with resistance or scorn, we are likely to abandon that path and seek out another one. If we offer up a part of ourselves through a shared confidence and it is met with warmth and understanding, then we know that the path ahead is most likely safe. And sometimes, the echo is a little bit garbled and we choose to proceed, but with caution. Or we decide that it isn't worth the risk and turn around right then and there. That's all. Nothing deep. Nothing profound. Just thinking.

Real Life

2006-07-19T21:24:00.000-07:00

*sigh* I want to go back here. With her, her, and her. It seems unfair that I have to be rudely pulled back into real life after such a carefree and charmed weekend with my friends. I was so tired when I (finally!) made it back home yesterday that I spent most of the day trying to sleep. The operative word in that sentence being trying because my children were as uncooperative a lot as I've ever encountered. I couldn't really blame them. They missed me as much as I missed them while I was out of town and I think they were acting out to earn my attention. I ended up lying on my bed with both kids and both dogs. That was nice. But I was still tired. This morning I had to wake up and go to work when I would rather have been sleeping. I sat at my desk and found myself in Ohio with my friends by transcendental meditation. Maybe I am exaggerating. But I know I replayed the weekend in my head all day. I had to shake my head a few times to make myself concentrate on my work. The day continued being charmless when it became apparent that I would have to go to the grocery store. My five year old walked up, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "There's no milk for me to drink. None at all." My youngest child is not one for subtle hints. I asked, "What do you expect me to do about it?" His answer was that I should go grocery shopping. Apparently, I am the only adult in this house whose synapses fire fast enough to figure out that household items do not magically appear in our various closets and cabinets. I say this because I came home to a house totally devoid of toilet paper. And so the day progressed bearing no resemblance at all to the fabulous weekend that is fast fading into the past. The anti-climax has wreaked havoc on my emotions. I am tired. I have another weekend trip to prepare for, this time to the lake with family. I have laundry to wash, children and a husband to nurture, and puppies who are house training. This is real life. This is the part of living that makes it possible to spend a weekend laughing and floating in a raft with friends. I can live with that.

2006-07-18T10:58:00.000-07:00

I trekked across the country this weekend on a journey to see my friends. The trip was long and frustrating. In order to get there and back, I spent time in Texas, Illinois, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, and Florida. I spent one hour and thirty minutes in a plane on a tarmac in Florida while a storm raged outside with flashing lightning and deafening thunder that shook the plane. The storm was quite rude and I ended up missing my connection to Houston which meant that I also missed the last flight available to my home and had to stay the night in Houston. I asked the front desk clerk for a 6:30 AM wake-up call and somehow I got a 2:30 am wake-up call instead. My luggage stayed at the airport so I had no make-up, no toothbrush, no hairbrush, and no change of clothes. Anything that could go wrong seemed to go wrong. If I had known how difficult it would be to get home and how tired I would be, I would still have done it all over again. I'd do it again a thousand times. That's how lovely the weekend was for me. I've replayed the weekend in my head a million times and tried to decide what I would write. My first impulse was to not write about it at all because it was so special that I wanted to keep it all to myself. But I didn't want to make it seem unimportant either. It's a conundrum. I thought about telling you about the excitement that coursed through me when I stood in front of my hotel and saw Sharon, Melonie, and Laura waving excitedly with big grins on their faces and how I caught all of them in a big hug before they could protest. I thought about writing about how I got carsick as we drove out of West Virginia and into Ohio and laid my head on the middle arm rest and Sharon fussed over me and moved my hair off of my neck. I could tell you that the rental car agent was arrogant and that Sharon and I stood over him and glowered and that I swear that's why we ended up with a Cadillac instead of a Mazda or some such. But really what I want to document is the fun and the laughter of the weekend as well as the tenderness and poignancy. When I look back, I want to remember that my stomach hurt when I woke up Sunday morning from laughing so hard on Saturday. I want to remember walking along the beach with my friends and swimming in the pool under the night sky. I want to remember the tranquility of floating along in a raft all afternoon with my friend and never running out of things to talk about. The weekend was so wonderful and almost seemed life-changing in a way. There were four very distinct personalities present in that big Cadillac and they seemed to mesh perfectly. We laughed with each other and learned from each other. Or so it seemed to me. I've struggled for two days trying to say exactly what I want to say about how special the weekend was for me and how much I enjoyed the company of three such lovely women. Then, I saw an article that discussed Oprah Winfrey's relationship with her best friend. She said,

"Something about this relationship feels otherworldly to me, like it was designed by a power and a hand greater than my own. Whatever this friendship is, it's been a very fun ride."

That's exactly how I feel.

Read Sharon's post about the weekend. Read Melonie's post about the weekend. Read Laura's post about the weekend.

2006-07-12T18:31:00.000-07:00

Do you want to know how tired I am? Do you? Well, I am going to tell you. I am SO tired that I nearly fell asleep during a bikini wax today. I don't know if you've ever had a bikini wax but I can assure you that they are no walk in the park. At times today, I swore the hair in my bikini line was rooted to my spine. And, by the way, I do realize that I have reached an all-time low by writing about my bikini line on my blog. We're all grown-ups here. Put on your big girl panties and deal with it. Despite the excruciating pain of the bikini wax, I still managed to nod off during the moments when my skin wasn't being ripped off. Well, that's how it felt, anyway. I also nodded off during my pedicure and during my eyebrow wax. Which explains how 90% of my eyebrows were ripped off of my face. I really didn't care what the wax girl (I have no idea what else to call her) did so long as she let me rest my head on the back of the chair and close my eyes. The result is that I barely recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I've never had such thin eyebrows before. And before anyone makes a "poor little baby who spent the day at the salon" remark, I should tell you that I have worked late every night for many, many nights. The earliest I have returned home is 10:30 and the latest was close to 1 AM. And I have to go back to work to make up for the time I lost while suffering all manner of torture for the sake of beauty. I am going out of town and spending the weekend with some girlfriends this weekend. The excitement and anticipation of a weekend of girl time is the only thing keeping me upright. Every time I think about my weekend plans, I feel a surge of adrenaline and I murmur a small prayer of thanks. Otherwise I would be doing a faceplant on my keyboard. And now, if you don't mind, me and my tender bikini area and my eyebrow-less face are going to work. Listening to Ave Maria, Barbra Streisand

2006-07-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted anything of substance for a while because all I wanted to write about was our beloved puppy and how sad I have been since she was killed. I knew that someone who meant well would eventually tell me to stop writing about it and get on with my life. Well, the problem with that is that I need to write about it in order to move on with my life Several of you have asked what happened. One of the boys left the door from the utility room to the garage open. Tinkerbell loved to sneak into the laundry room where it is warm and quiet and take naps. On the night she was killed, she had been playing with the boys and my friend's little girl all night. She was exhausted and went into the laundry room to sleep. I am sure she saw the open door and decided to run outside to play with the cat or look for the children. It just so happens that our neighbors across the street, who she loved, pulled up in their driveway. She ran across the street to greet them and was hit by a car before she made it across. It was a horrible and traumatic event for our family. We loved our dog like she was a member of the family. For her to have been lying in my lap one moment and lying dead on a piece of cardboard in the driveway as we keened in the next moment seems to me to be one of the most unfair and unacceptable events of my life so far. We buried her in her pink fuzzy blanket. A kind neighbor helped Brad with the grim task of digging the grave. When the neighbor left, the four of us stood clutching each other and sobbing as we stared at the patch of ground and tried desperately to wrap our minds around the fact that we would never again hear the clicking of Tinkerbell's toenails on the wood floor or watch her slide around as she chased after her rubber ball. I asked if anyone wanted to say a prayer but the guys were all too choked up. Brad tried to speak but, in the end, could only shake his head. So, I pulled my family to me and prayed:

"God, thank you for placing Tinkerbell in our lives for a short time. She taught us to love better and more tenderly and to laugh easily and often. Please take Tinkerbell in your arms and love her until we can see her again. Please make sure she knows joy and happiness, for that is what she brought to our lives."

And then we walked slowly back into the house. We sat on the couch feeling stunned. The five year old asked to look at some pictures of Tinkerbell so we sat and smiled at all of the pictures where we had insisted that Tinkerbell be part of the photo, just because. We eventually went to bed. I slept little and woke to realize that I had started crying even before opening my eyes. I called Sharon at a very early hour and, while I cried, she sketched the beautiful drawing of Tinkerbell being held in the arms of an angel. I couldn't believe how comforting it was to me to look at the drawing. I shall forever be grateful. I've been so touched by the outpouring of love from friends and family. I was the recipient of so much kindness from the blogging community and I wish to thank everyone who commented or e-mailed. We loved Tinkerbell and I am sure I will still write about her, especially in the next few weeks and months. As a tribute to her and to help fill the huge hole in our hearts left by her death, we recently bought not one, but TWO puppies. They will never replace Tinkerbell and we never hope to replace her. But we love them and they love us and I know that Tinkerbell would want the boys to have puppies to love them. So, in the past week, I have learned that there are few things in life that can't be made easier when holding an armful of puppies and I have thanked God countless times for placing soft and cuddly puppies on the Earth.

2006-07-08T20:02:00.000-07:00

Your Aura is Blue

Spiritual and calm, you tend to live a quiet but enriching life. You are very giving of yourself. And it's hard for you to let go of relationships. The purpose of your life: showing love to other people Famous blues include: Angelina Jolie, the Dali Lama, Oprah Careers for you to try: Psychic, Peace Corps Volunteer, Counselor

What Color Is Your Aura?

One of those days

2006-07-07T20:36:00.000-07:00

There are days when I know God must be trying to teach me something but I am so thick that I can't figure out what it is. I did so much running around today that I will be severely disappointed if the scale doesn't reveal that I dropped a couple of pounds. If I have to rush around frantically all day, I should get some sort of fringe benefit. That's the way I see it, anyway. My children are spending the weekend with my parents at the river. I woke up early and finished up the last load of laundry and packed their suitcases in anticipation of them leaving no later than 10 AM. Alas, it was not to be. First, my mother was running late getting ready because she was suffering a headache. Then, she realized she had forgotten to pick up her prescriptions. Then, the trailer they were towing was wobbly so they had to turn back. Mostly, circumstances were outside their control and I certainly can't fault them for that. But still it was 3:15 pm before I waved and blew kisses as the boys set off for a weekend adventure with their Nana and Poppy. The running around occurred while we were waiting for my parents to roll up in front of the house. Mom gave the kids some money on the 4th and told them to buy a new Gameboy game to play in the car. Naturally, I waited until the last minute to take them shopping for those games. We were headed to Target when Bump exclaimed, "Oops! My Gameboy is in Dad's car!" So we called Dad and met him halfway across town to retrieve the Gameboys. We drove back across town to Target and they didn't have the game Bump wanted. We went to Gamestop. No dice. We went to Wal-Mart. No game. I looked at my eldest son and said, through clenched teeth, "Isn't there any other game you would like, dear heart?" He says, "I want to go back to Target and get a game I saw there. Okay. We got a game. Not the game. But a game, nonetheless. Finally. About that time, my mother calls and tells me that she forgot to buy Brad's birthday gift (a bag for carrying his softball equipment). I volunteered to go buy the bag for her. "You don't mind, Heather?" "Nooooo, I don't mind." Except that a sporting goods store is like the mothership to little boys and they had to look at and touch almost every item in the baseball section. Which is fine except for the extreme anxiety I get when they start swinging bats without looking around to see what or who they might brain when swinging said bat. I told them several times to Stop. Touching. Everything. It did no good. They couldn't help themselves. I am not proud to admit that I was begging by the time we checked out and left the store, "Please. I am begging you. Stop. Touching. Everything." By the time we finished running errands, it was time for lunch. My plan was to drive-thru McDonald's but the line was so long that we went inside instead. I spoke very slowly as I told the boys, "We are in a hurry. We are here to eat. Not play. " The five year old slumped over and dragged his feet as he walked, saying, "But I never get to play. Ever. You never let me play." "Okay, fine. You can play while I order the food. How's that?" "But it doesn't take long to order the food, Mom! I want to play for a long time." "Take it or leave it, kid. But for crying out loud! Stop that whining!" The child stomped off muttering something about how his mother never lets him play when he wants to play and, for that matter, never lets him buy gumballs when he wants them. Humph. Thirty seconds later, as I was trying to order, the same child tugs on my arm, interrupting the order and I say, "What?" "I don't want to play. There are kids in there." *sigh* You'd think that I could've relaxed, maybe taken a nap, once I sent the children packing. You would think. But today happens to be Brad's birthday and he invited another couple over for dinner so I spent the afternoon cleaning the house and making sure there was toilet paper and a fresh hand towel in the guest bathroom. Then, I spent the evening entertaining guests although I will admit that was a pleasant task. Pleasant, but still requiring lots of activity on my part. My husband threw hamburger patties and Bratwurst on the grill while I sliced tomatoes and onions, poured salsa and chips into bowls, made margaritas, set the table, buttered the corn, and ran to the store to buy some last minute ingredients. Then, he sat down and pronounced that the dinner he had slaved over was ready to eat. After dinner, we rushed across town to a showing of "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest" only to discover that every single showing was sold out. So we settled for a chocolate malt at a little diner. Now, here we sit on the couch and I am unhappy to report that my throat has suddenly started hurting every time I swallow. It's been one of those days. I am going to bed.

2006-07-03T21:27:00.000-07:00

Thank you to Sharon for this beautiful drawing which has comforted me and my family very much while mourning the loss of our beloved puppy.

Where To Bury A Dog

2006-07-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

There are various places within which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.

For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost -- if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.

If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call -- come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there.

People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing.

The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.

by Ben Hur Lampman

We loved you, Tinkerbell.

We interrupt this hiatus for a post . . .

2006-06-30T21:37:00.000-07:00

I must interrupt this hiatus in order to post because it turns out that I get twitchy if I can't write here ever so often. I even toyed with another blog on another platform but I can't get in the groove anywhere else. My blog, I will not forsake you because, apparently, I can't. A friend and I went swimming at Brenda's house this afternoon. During the summer, I think I probably spend more time at Brenda's house than she does. I called her at 5:00 and, when she answered, I exclaimed, "You're still at work!" She said, "Yes? And?" "Well, it's just that I have been asking you for days to come home and just hang out." "Well, Heather, I have to work!" "I know, but you've been working too hard. You have to take a break or you will burn out. Please try to come home and swim with us." After I hung up, it was brought to my attention that I sounded like a nagging spouse. I can't help it. One of my fatal flaws is that I can't seem to strike a balance between caring too much and not caring at all. I am a woman of extremes. I always have been. Ask any of my friends and they will tell you that I mother hen them to death at times. I worry over them almost as if they were my children. I know they get tired of it. I exasperate myself sometimes with my tendency to always play the role of the caretaker in any relationship. I find myself wondering why I am always the one bending over backwards and the answer is, because I am always so happy to do it. I wouldn't have it any other way. The flip side is that you can't find a more loyal friend who is more ready and willing to help out in any way possible in times of need. I think that's the only reason most of them put up with me. I am useful sometimes and so they let me hang around. There are many other aspects of my personality where there are extremes. For instance, I can't seem to find a happy medium between unbridled enthusiasm and profound disappointment. I get so excited about things that other people would be happy about but not bursting with joy over. Conversely, I am devastated by turns of event that others would shrug at and say, "Well, that's not the ideal situation but such is life." I spent most of Wednesday night and yesterday crying. No good reason. Something in me just snapped and I cried until I could be reasonably sure that I wouldn't fly apart from all of the built up anxiety I had been storing away. But you have to understand that I always get like this just after coming home from a long trip or when things are particularly hectic. When I get tired, I become almost impossible to deal with. Also, when I am tired, I take my honesty is the best policy approach to life a little too far. I usually end up saying things that I regret. As a matter of fact, I think I embarrass myself less when I am drunk off my ass than when I am exhausted. But, you know, being so emotional is another example of the extremes in my life. There was a time many years ago when I was so numb that I didn't really feel anything. I didn't have any strong opinions because I didn't care. I was happy so long as I could sit in my apartment and listen to Barbra Streisand. Beyond that, I didn't give a damn. Now, however, I have strong opinions which I am not afraid to share on just about any subject and I feel everything so deeply that it feels like I am equipped with an emotional amplifier, or something. I have to remind myself that the way I am now is an improvement. But damn, I sometimes hate being this way. It makes me wish I was different. Like in What's Up Doc when Judy says, "I know I'm different but, from now on, I'm gonna try to be the same." And Howard says, "The same as what?" and Judy says, "The same as people who aren't different." So, from now on, I am gonna try to be the same. I have a feeling, though, that I will fail miserably. I think most of you are stuck with me being exactly the way I am. And for that, I apologize. Listening to: One's On The Way, Loretta Lynn

Hiatus

2006-06-28T20:04:00.000-07:00

I'll be taking a hiatus. Hopefully a short one. Summertime is so busy with all of the traveling we do and I want to spend these few months taking my kids swimming, doing arts and crafts and eating at McDonald's for no good reason except that the kids like it. I'll be back . . .

Orlando: A picture is worth a thousand words . . .

2006-06-24T09:24:00.000-07:00

Flash Slideshow

another guest post

2006-06-21T05:37:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I'm just a guest poster, and a longtime reader of Heather's blog. I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to write in her stead today. This is my confession: how I really feel about blogging. And when I say blogging, I mean about my blog. I love Heather's blog. It's warm, it's funny, it's inspiring, it's uplifting. I could go on, but you know what I mean. It's just incredible. It's a funny thing about the Internet. You put something out there and there's just no knowing who sees it or what they think. I sometimes think blogging is the equivalent of a Catholic confession. There you are, on the bench in the darkened closet. Through the partition, someone listens. You can't see their face, their expression, what they thought. It's an open mike. Complete with crickets and dead silence. Why do it. Honestly? I don't know. Sometimes I think I write on a blog because I'm plagued by an imp (and always have been) who whispers in my ear and urges me to tattle on everyone and everything. Were you wronged? Betrayed? Mistreated? Had your heart broken? Write about it! That'll show 'em. Tell! Since I've started blogging I haven't had such self-indulgent thoughts since I was a child, imagining how sorry my mother would be if I died after we argued. Then (because I won't take that route, no matter how tempting) I think I write on my blog to flex it, as a sort of muscle, something to keep the imp at bay. If the imp wants me to write a stinging riposte, I'm going to turn it inside out and make it lighthearted and funny. Because a stinging riposte is just a way to lick your wounds and making a joke of it airs them out instead. Airing out makes wounds heal faster. So I laugh. Or I try to, and what's more important to me, I try to make other people laugh. Laughter is so much better. Because of this people assume that I'm a naturally upbeat and lighthearted person, and nothing could be further from the truth. It almost makes me feel fraudulent, as if I've encouraged some misperception of myself or presented myself falsely. When I'm alone with my thoughts I look very serious and grave. (Even as I type a post everyone else laughed along with later, my mouth is downturned and disapproving looking and I frown severely, as if highly displeased). To say I have a melancholy nature would be an understatement. There's so much to worry about. I'm obsessive-compulsive. ( I have to check, re-check, re-check-check things all the time -- did I lock the door. Turn off the coffeepot. Stop the dryer before we left the house. Like that.) I wake up with terrifying anxiety that engulfs me in cold sweat. I sit up some nights looking out the window or (if it's warm enough) sitting outside on the front step, looking up at the night sky. What kind of moon is out? Are there stars? Do other people see the same stars I do? It seems to me that a lot of life, if you're going to be responsible at all, is about doing the right thing all the time every time. And a lot of the time doing the right thing means there's going to be nothing in it for you. So that you end up some nights sitting out on that front step wondering if you're becoming invisible with all these seamless decisions. Have I sewn myself out of my own life? When's it my turn? Maybe it never will be my turn but then, I have to be okay with that too. This journey called life wasn't necessarily supposed to be so much about me as it was about all the wonderful people I met along the way. And I've met some. Really. I write to convince myself that I'm still here and doing okay, and that I can get up and keep swinging with a smile on my face even if, inside, I truthfully don't feel like it. Every day I post a new entry is an affirmation, a personal victory -- see, I found a way to make it funny after all. People respond and comment or even write to me to tell me how I've made them laugh. It's gratifying. I even start thinking maybe I haven't presented myself falsely after all -- maybe all of life is about working toward who it is you want to be. I may not ever even get there. But I'll always try, and it might be the effort that makes the difference, after all. --Guest Poster

"You're beautiful.....it's true"

2006-06-20T02:28:00.000-07:00

Hello, it's Jellyhead here - Heather's Aussie blogpal. Heather is still lazing by a pool in Florida, almost certainly with margarita in hand, hopefully having a blissful time! I've been sitting here, listening to music, hoping the Writing Gods would send me a lightning bolt of inspiration. James Blunt was singing "You're Beautiful"on the radio, and I began to think about that song. Although I like the melody, I used to find the words kind of irritating. The guy sees some girl, doesn't even speak to her, and then, merely because the girl is gorgeous, mourns the fact he can't have her? How shallow and mindless is that? Puh-LEESE. Then I saw an interview with James Blunt, in which he explained the story behind the song: James Blunt boarded a train one day, only to see his ex-girlfriend, in the company of her new boyfriend. Blunt's heartache and unrequited love evolved into a song - "You're Beautiful". Suddenly the lyrics no longer irked me; they seemed perfect and profound. Because I think everyone has experienced the way love transforms the people around us - our love renders them beautiful. Plain people become beautiful, beautiful people become more so. I have a friend, Bruce (yes, yes, just like the Aussie shark in Finding Nemo), who I've known almost 20 years. I think he's a really good-looking guy. He also happens to be wise-crack funny, smart, with a strong Christian faith. Yet when I first met him, I thought he looked a bit odd. I noticed his crooked teeth, the acne scars on his cheeks, his limp hair. I would never have considered him to be attractive. Now, I can't imagine how I saw him as anything other than a tall, blue-eyed, cheeky-smiling man - with a heart as big as his grin. He's a handsome man. On the other hand, there is "Tom", a bloke I knew at university. At first glance, Tom was striking. His large green eyes and even features bewitched women from afar. Yet within his manly frame was a tawdry, deceptive heart. He was unfaithful to his long-term girlfriend. He cheated in exams. He was forever schmoozing, flattering, and then asking favours of those around him. Within a short time of knowing Tom, I found his face repugnant. Every time I saw Tom's smarmy smile, it gave me the creeps. Last I heard, Tom had been deregistered by the Medical Board for sleeping with a patient. A patient who, at the time, was sixteen years old. Yep, Tom is ugly without a doubt. Over the years, I've come to realise that beauty really IS in the eye of the beholder. Our physical appearance is only part of what makes us visually appealing. If we are loved, even if only by one person in the world, we possess beauty through their eyes. So these days I'm trying not to scoff when my husband tells me I'm beautiful. It's hard. I think about all my physical imperfections, about all the parts of me that are too big, or too small, or too wobbly! I am certainly not beautiful. But then again, maybe I am. And that goes for you, too.

Floridays

2006-06-19T19:26:00.000-07:00

Pale invaders and tanned crusaders Are worshipping the sun On the corner of "walk" and "don't walk" Somewhere on US 1

While Heather is off enjoying Florida, I have been assigned to post something, but inspiration has deserted me. I am jealous that she is in Florida and I am not--although it is supposed to be raining there, which isn't that great for a holiday, but when faced with the dog days of summer in West Texas, rain doesn't sound all that bad.

Florida is the home base for Jimmy Buffett, and if you know me at all, you realize that Jimmy Buffett is to me what Barbara Streisand is to Heather. If you are cool at all, you realize that Jimmy Buffett is about a millions times cooler than Barbara. (I may not be totally objective about that, but I don't think anyone ever quit their job to follow Barbara on tour.) Anyway I've quoted from Floriday's, which is appropriate I think because Heather and Brad are pale invaders hoping to be tanned crusaders by the end of the week, if the weather co-operates.

Heather did call and mention that she got tickets to see Barbara in concert...so she's over the moon even if it does rain every day while she's on vacation.

Here's a hill country photo....

I'm back to livin' Floridays Blue skies and ultra-violet rays Lookin' for better days

2006-06-18T09:45:00.000-07:00

This is me waiiting for four hours at the Austin airport. But soon I will be on a jet plane bound for Orlando. Where it is supposed to rain all week. But that's okay. I lost my driver's license sometime between 3:00 yesterday afternoon and 7:00 am this morning. Luckily, I was able to present my social security card and my work ID to get on the plane. I also forgot my jacket at home and we had to turn around and get it. Egads. I hate being such an airhead.

2006-06-16T20:25:00.000-07:00

What is it they say? Oh yes, I remember. Life is what happens while you're making plans. All week I have been going about the very time consuming business of getting the kids ready to head to New Mexico for a week and for Brad and me to head to Florida. I've been checking a mental to-do list:

Insurance card to send with the kids. Check.
Laundry washed and folded and ready to pack. Check.
Ask neighbors to watch the house. Check.
Ask my mother to babysit the dog. Check.
Healthy children.
*ahem* I said, healthy children.
HEALTHY CHILDREN? Um, not so much.

It would seem that Crash has hand, foot, and mouth disease. He's on his third day and it usually lasts 2-7 days. His mouth and throat are broken out in sores and he cries every time he tries to eat. It is likely that he will break out in sores on his hands and feet by tomorrow. And he's supposed to be going to stay with his grandparents for the week starting, um, tomorrow. His doctor says he is fine and that he will be feeling great by Monday which is when he will be leaving to go to the New Mexico mountains for a week. He even said it is okay to send him to his grandparents tomorrow as planned. But lawd Jesus, it is hard to think of leaving my baby when he is sick. We've hit upon a sensible plan. Instead of spending Saturday and Sunday night at Brad's parent's house where he would be running around playing with his brother and his two cousins and not only wearing himself out and making it harder to get well but also potentially spreading the virus to the other children, he is going to stay those two nights at my mother's house where he will be the only child and thus will be more likely to stay still and get enough rest. Brad's parents will pick him up on their way out of town Monday morning when, according to the pediatrician, he will be feeling perky and bright. The doctor recommended mixing up a cocktail of Maalox, Benadryl, and Orajel to apply to Crash's mouth to relieve the pain caused by the sores. I stood at my kitchen counter tonight preparing the mixture and then leaned over to swab his oral mucosa as he opened his mouth wide saying, "Ahhhhhhh." It suddenly put me in mind of the last time, nay, the only other time I've ever swabbed the same cocktail inside someone's mouth. It was when I was in nursing school. We had two weekends where we had clinicals in a much bigger town with a much bigger hospital. I was assigned to the oncology floor. Oncology was not my choice. I have never, ever entertained the notion of becoming an oncology nurse. I don't like watching people suffer as I look on helplessly. But I digress. The point is, oncology was my assignment. Both weekends I took care of the same patient. She was a middle aged woman who had non-Hodgkin's lymphoma and was receiving inpatient care and chemotherapy because she had been so weakened by her treatment. She had no hair but her daughter kept beautiful scarves tied in a turban-like fashion on her head. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent with blue veins showing through. She was thin and weak and stayed in bed most of the time. She had a potty chair at her bedside but it sometimes required more energy than she had to get to it, even with assistance. Despite being sick and weak as a kitten, she was cheerful and smiled through her pain. I remember her smiling up at me as my instructor watched me hang an IV piggyback medication. My hands shook and I tried very hard to remember exactly how I had been taught to do it at school. It seemed very different when I knew it wasn't just practice but someone's medication that I was administering. The patient said, "You're going to be a good little nurse. I just know it." Between the first weekend and the second weekend that I took care of her, she was given a dose of chemotherapy. I was alarmed to see how weakened she had become when I returned to her. But she was still smiling. Chemotherapy often causes the skin inside the mouth to peel off and it causes excruciatingly painful sores, much like Crash is experiencing right now. When she asked me for something to help with the pain in her mouth, it was obvious that it hurt her to even try to speak. I fetched the cocktail from the med cart and remember thinking how child-like she looked when I asked her to open her mouth so I could swab the medicine inside. She smiled and said, "Ahhhhhh." just as Crash did earlier tonight and I leaned over her and ever so carefully, so as not to cause her more pain than necessary, coated over the sores in her mouth. What I remember most is that, when the lidocaine in the medication took effect and her pain abated, she looked up at me with tears pooling in her eyes and whispered, "Thank you." That was when I knew I would never make an oncology nurse. When a patient is so miserable that simply swabbing her mouth inspires such gratitude, well, let's just say that is too much misery for me to stand. It may sound selfish. Maybe it is. I just know that I am far too tender-hearted and empathetic to surround myself with humans who are so desperate for healing and in so much pain. I also know that I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror if I ever became hardened to such pain and suffering. And so I work on people with sick hearts. They are very much in need of my nursing skills and worthy recipients of my tender-heartedness. I guess they are right. Life is what happens while we are making plans. And sometimes, Life is about recalling memories we had buried deep in our hearts. Swabbing my son's mouth reminded me of a woman I met long ago who had a beautiful spirit and, in turn, reminded me of the rewards that small kindnesses can bring. Life is in the interactions we share with the people we meet along the way. Life is in the kindness we show to others and the kindnesses we receive. Life is what happens when we aren't expecting anything wonderful. Life is in the routine tasks we perform every day. Life is a precious gift.

YES!

2006-06-16T14:33:00.000-07:00

Which Princess Bride Character are You? this quiz was made by mysti

ten is a nice round number

2006-06-15T10:01:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago today, I was playing the role of Bridezilla just prior to my wedding. It wasn't that I was worried that the cake or the flowers weren't pretty enough or that it might rain on our reception. It was none of those things that so many brides fuss endlessly over. All I wanted was to see Brad. It seemed that I was the only person who had not a trace of superstition about the bride and groom seeing one another on the day of the wedding. I mean, come on, our son was born four months after we married. Obviously, we've always done things in our own time and in our own way. I kept demanding to see Brad and his aunt kept telling me firmly that it wasn't possible. I finally told her that she could either let me by or I would go through her. I guess she could tell I was serious and, the next thing I knew, Brad was wrapping his arms around me and smiling nervously down at me. That's how we came to have a picture of the two of us, in all our wedding finery, kissing on the piano bench before our wedding. The day after our wedding, we boarded a plane in Lubbock and the cabin immediately filled with smoke. The following day, while en route to Cancun, our plane blew an engine and all of the air conditioning was turned off and we sweated from heat and fear for over an hour before landing in Mexico on a runway that was lined with ambulances and fire trucks in case we crashed on landing. It didn't seem like an auspicious start to our lives together. In the middle of the flight, I looked over at Brad and said, "If we die today, I just want you to know that these two days of being married to you have been the happiest of my life!" Shaddup. We were in lurrrrve. We've been through a lot in the past ten years. We've had two beautiful baby boys and suffered one devastating miscarriage. We've cheered each other on through years of college. We've both had the experience of being the primary breadwinner for our family. We've also both experienced what it means to be the stay-at-home parent. We've spent nights in the hospital with sick children. We've been so poor that family members bought us groceries and diapers to get us through the week. We spent six weeks just going through the motions of living while waiting for the results of a CT scan to tell us that Brad didn't have cancer as previously believed. We've taken leaps of faith that paid off and we've made foolish mistakes which we've regretted. We've acquired a mortgage and a car payment and purchased a timeshare (see foolish mistakes above). We've seen lifelong dreams achieved and we've established common long-term goals. We've traveled and we've stayed home. We've fought and we've made up. We've loved and we've lived every moment to the fullest. Of that, I am sure. Our marriage has evolved and matured and become so much more than I ever thought it could be. Our love has grown and our passion has intensified. Our friendship has deepened and we've become more considerate of one another. We've become more generous with one another and yet more comfortable expressing our, how should I say, concerns and displeasure with each other. Evolution and growth is a positive thing for a marriage but, as for myself, one thing has not changed at all. Even now, ten years later, Brad has a remarkable ability to chill me out just with his presence. If I can see him, or hold his hand, or feel his arms around me, I can believe that everything really will be okay. He makes me feel safe and loved. And I can't speak for him but I, personally, hope we have many more decades of opportunities to kiss on piano benches, enjoy the children we've made together, and fight and make up. My husband, loving you for ten years has been a thrilling adventure, a passionate love affair and a tender romance. Thank you for loving me so completely for so many years.

2006-06-13T21:44:00.000-07:00

We went to see Cars this weekend and the kids loved it. As we drove to Brenda's house to swim this afternoon, Bump said, "You know Radiator Springs? That little town in Cars? I'd like to live in a town like that." I told him that the little town I grew up in was a lot like Radiator Springs. He asked, "Was it cool?" I told him, "No, not really. There was nothing to do." He asserted that he remembers me saying there was a swimming pool. Yes, there was. He asked, "Was there a movie theater?" No. "Was there a miniature golf place?" Um, no. "Were there any places to eat." Not really. He asked incredulously, "What did you do, then?" This was my answer: Nana had to be at work by 7 AM. In the summertime, Uncle Jon and I woke up, fixed ourselves breakfast, donned our bathing suits and walked about 1/2 a mile (across a highway) to the city pool. We stayed there all day. Nana sent us money for lunch but I always spent all of mine on Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. When the pool closed, Nana either picked us up on her way home from work or else we just walked back home. He asked, "How old were you?" I thought about it and realized that I was about his age; nine years old. That means my brother was about seven years old. I could've gone on to tell him that, during the school year, my mother woke us up and she helped me fix my hair before she left for work but that my brother and I still got ourselves dressed and fixed ourselves breakfast. We watched the clock and, when it was time, we gathered up our schoolbooks, grabbed our jackets and walked ourselves to the bus stop. Thinking about those days of my youth made me nostalgic for a time when the world seemed a lot less frightening. My mother would rather have been home caring for my brother and me but reality dictated that she work long hours so we wouldn't starve and so we could have a roof (no matter how modest that roof) over our heads. But she didn't worry overmuch because we lived in a very friendly and close-knit neighborhood and the neighbors would have called her in a heartbeat if we had behaved badly or if we were hurt or sick. She didn't worry too much about us crossing the highway because we had been taught to look both ways. She knew the people who ran the swimming pool and knew they would keep a close eye on us. My brother and I were self-sufficient because it never occurred to us to be any other way. We made our own breakfast because we were hungry and it just made good sense to eat. We walked to the swimming pool every day because it beat playing in the pastures all day long in the heat. There was no Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon channels for us to watch all day long. We paid close attention to the clock in the mornings because there would be hell to pay if we missed our bus. There were just certain absolutes in life and they were not questioned. I am still independent and self-reliant. I think the responsibilities placed on me as a child went a long way toward forming my character and work ethic. My mother and I were talking about this same subject this weekend and she made a good point, "Well, you and your brother both turned out to be good people who aren't afraid to work and have never had trouble holding a job." Bump and Crash will not have a childhood like mine. My situation is easier than my mother's was when I was a kid. I am able to spend a lot of time at home with my kids and we've had the same woman looking after them when I am not here for the past five years. I won't even let Bump ride his bike to the park that is one block from our house. I know our neighbors but only a few of them would call me if my kids were hurt or sick. In fact, I can only think of one neighbor who even knows my work number and that is because she knows me from work. Bump is a good swimmer but I still don't let him out of my sight when we go swimming, much less send him to the pool alone. And Crash still can't swim despite the fact that he is only about a year younger than my brother was when we spent our days at the pool. Hell, half the time my kids can't even find their clothes, much less dress themselves. Bump walked around the house this afternoon hollering, "Mom, I can't find my swim suit!" He never would have made it in my house 20 years ago. Even though my boys' childhoods are very different from my own, I have to keep in mind that they will still have their own fond memories and their own stories to tell their children someday. And, if they are anything like me, they will look back and not be able to imagine their childhood being any other way. When I look back and imagine anything being different from the way it was, I can only think that it would've spoiled the perfection. Those summer days at the pool and the days spent living in the tiny house in the camp are fond memories for me. I just hope Bump and Crash are able to look back and recall their childhood as fondly.

2006-06-12T20:46:00.000-07:00

You want to know something about me? Most people who know me will tell you that I am smart as all get out. Really, they will. I'm no dummy, that's for darn sure. The other thing a lot of my friends will tell you is that I am just about the flakiest, most absent-minded person they have ever met. I try to hide this minor aspect of my personality but often fail miserably. For the purpose of illustration: When Brenda and I were preparing to drive to my hometown to give an inservice the other day, I be-bopped down the hall to my office to retrieve my new George Strait CD. A colleague of mine named Randy was working at my desk because my office is quieter than his workspace and he needed to get a lot of work done. I chirped, "No need to get up! I'm just lookin' for my CD." I proceeded to open the CD player; no CD there. Still bright and chipper, I said, "No, no. You're fine. Stay there." and ended up reaching across him and practically landing in his lap while ejecting the CD drive from my computer. He endured the indignity stoically and I straightened up and mused, "Where could that darn CD be?" Just then, he picked up the CD case that had been lying right in front of me and opened it up to reveal *gasp* my George Strait CD! I mused, "Well, how'd that get in there? Go figure." Just then, I noticed that our Guidant rep had delivered the "Why Choose a Guidant Heart Device?" booklet that has Sharon's picture in it. I laid the CD down on my desk as I excitedly flipped through the booklet enthusing, "Omigosh! Oh.My.Gosh! Dave remembered to get the booklet for me! Yay!" Then I rushed to the desk next to mine where another friend, named Kerry, was sitting and I said, "Remember the puppy painting that you liked so much? This is the girl who painted it!" I smiled as I read through the booklet for a few more seconds before announcing, "Okay, Brenda and I are leaving. Byeeee!" I was stopped shy of the door by Randy holding my CD case in front of me. "Remember this?" he said dryly. Oh yeah. That's why I came in here in the first place, isn't it? But I didn't say that out loud. In the car on the way to my hometown, I was complaining to Brenda, "I just know Randy thinks I am a flake. I just know it." Brenda just grinned and said something along the lines of, "Gee, I wonder why." As soon as we got to the doctor's office in my hometown, I ran to the nearest restroom. Too much diet coke, don'tcha know. Brenda entered the bathroom as I exited and came back out a few minutes later gesticulating wildly with her hands, which were wearing my rings, and saying, "And Heather wonders why Randy thinks she is a flake." It turns out I had taken my rings off to wash my hands and then left them lying on the sink. Boy, did I feel sheepish. A day or two later, back home in our town, I had a massage scheduled and I planned to go straight from my massage to work and straight from work to the gym. I thought about it and decided that it made the most sense to wear my gym clothes since I would be changing into scrubs while I was at work anyway. After my massage, I stopped and bought some Ginger Ale for my friend who was in the hospital for a bad stomach bug. I got to work, changed clothes in the locker room, and trotted up to Carolyn's hospital room to present her with Ginger Ale and a smile. The poor girl was propped up against a pillow looking paler than the bed linens and her face was set in a grimace. My gift of Ginger Ale was met with a frail and pathetic thank you. (A fast fact about Heather: she can't stand seeing her friends suffer and will provide comedic relief whenever possible.) I took one look at my sickly friend and decided that I had to make her laugh even if it came at my expense. Me: I betcha I can make you laugh. Her: Give it your best shot. Me: I wore my workout clothes to work today. Her: And? Me: What I failed to remember is that my workout clothes have a built-in panty and my scrubs do not. Just as I'd hoped, she burst into laughter. But the sad reality of the situation was that I had only been able to make her laugh because I am SUCH a flake. And then there was the thing that happened tonight. I left work late and had driven almost all the way home when I realized I had left my laptop at work. I have to have my laptop. Yes, I do. So, I turned around and drove allll the wayyyyy back to the hospital. I parked at the curb in front and ran into my office. I turned on the lights, looked around with my hand on my hip and thought, hmmmm, it's not here. I told myself that it must be in the car and I was a silly girl for thinking I'd forgotten it. I went back out to the car and searched high and low and there was still no laptop. I went back inside and this time searched the girls' locker room. No laptop. I was starting to get frantic. How could I lose a laptop? Isn't that, like, impossible? I went to the car AGAIN and again found no laptop. I was already rehearsing in my head just how I would break it to Brad that I had lost a whole computer, when I decided to run back inside one more time. And guess what? My laptop was sitting in a chair, in my office. I had looked right at it and failed to notice it sitting there. Days like the days I have been having recently make me wonder how much longer I can keep impressing people with my brains. Because I am not sure anyone is very impressed by intelligence without common sense. It's not easy being me.

2006-06-11T21:51:00.000-07:00

Back in January, we came so close to moving to a town 400 miles away that we actually had most of our belongings packed and sitting in a storage shed just awaiting the day when we loaded them all into a U-Haul and hit the road. We had made an offer on a house and had an offer on our house. My husband had already verbally accepted a job in the other town and was ready to sign a contract at any moment. I had prepared myself emotionally to leave this town, my job, my friends, and my family. I had managed to get excited about the house we were planning to buy and an EP doc had already asked me to take a part-time job at an EP lab in the new town. My husband gave his notice at the hospital and friends and co-workers immediately began calling and flocking to my office to ask if it was true that we were leaving. Actually, most of them assumed that Brad and I were divorcing. They never considered that he and I both were moving. Duh. After the initial shock wore off, there were a lot of nurses calling Brenda expressing interest in my job. I actually sat and listened to numerous conversations about who would do my job when I was gone. When I thought about someone else sitting at my desk, working at my computer, going to my meetings, working my data --well, that's when it all became very real to me. That day I cried and cried until my head ached and I finally had to leave work just so I could try to compose myself. I came home and laid across my bed with a cool washcloth across my face and felt a sandpaper-y sting every time I closed my eyes. And then? That same day, my husband called me and told me the hospital had just counter-offered against his job offer in Waco. All of a sudden, it seemed entirely likely that we would be able to stay here. We wouldn't have to move away from our family. I wouldn't have to leave the hospital where I have worked for seven years. My kids wouldn't be pulled out of their schools. We could stay in our home. But that also meant that I wouldn't be moving into the house I had fallen in love with. It meant that I wouldn't be going to work in a busy EP lab. It meant I wouldn't be living in the same town as my best friend. It meant that I had to unpack all the stuff that had so recently been packed and stored in a building down the street. My stress level was so high prior to Brad receiving the counter offer that I was just barely functioning. The anti-climax that followed the news that we weren't going anywhere sent me into one of the lowest times of my life. I couldn't seem to get back in the groove. I sat on the couch or laid across my bed because the sheer volume of tasks awaiting my attention seemed so overwhelming that I didn't even know where to start. I cried all the time. I couldn't sleep. I lost twenty pounds. I wasn't myself. I wasn't even a shadow of myself. I took a big step and went to my doctor and cried in his office for an hour and left with enough medication to drug a horse. I was willing to try anything. I felt like I was disappearing; literally and figuratively. Pounds were melting off of my frame and even those who know me well were hard pressed to find a spark of my usual spunky, go get 'em attitude. The medication helped and time helped even more. I stopped crying, started sleeping, and gained some weight. But still I just felt so exhausted and detached from my life and even the smallest responsibilities felt like a huge burden. I still had the hardest time making myself care if the house was clean or if the clothes were washed. I let my children sit and watch TV, which is something I have never done, as long as they would just be quiet so I could rest. When my husband got home from work, I covered up with a quilt and fell asleep. It seemed that the medication that helped me so much also had some troublesome side effects. Several weeks ago, I made a decision to stop taking the medication that was making me so tired. The plan was for me to take it for about twelve weeks just to help me get an even footing and then try backing off of it. I never planned on taking it long-term. But it was still scary to think that I might very well spiral back into depression without the medication. Still, I had been feeling more like myself. I had noticed that I was slightly more energetic and a lot more engaged with my family and friends. Some of my friends had commented that I seemed more animated after months of having a fairly flat affect in any and every situation. So I told myself, it's time to fish or cut bait, and I weaned myself off of the medication. And so far, so good. Over the past several weeks, I have felt so much more like myself. I've cleaned house, I've paid bills, I've played with my kids. I've organized my desk, set goals, and completed projects at work. I've stopped falling asleep in the afternoons and my kids are back to being forbidden excess television time. Instead, we work in the flower beds, read books, draw pictures and tell stories. This weekend, I must admit that I was feeling pretty good about myself. The weekend was packed with activities and I went into it with eager anticipation rather than a sense of dread. I took the kids swimming and to the movies Friday afternoon and, when Brad got home, we all went to eat pizza. Saturday, I spent the day with a friend whom I've not seen in months and did some scrapbooking, which is yet another pleasurable activity that got left by the wayside when I was broadsided by depression. I came flying into the house after scrapbooking Saturday evening just long enough to brush my hair and glance in the mirror before heading out the door with Brad and the kids to meet my dad and stepmom at an arena football game. At the game, I whooped and cheered for our team and laughed at the mascot's antics and danced with my kids to the music played to keep the crowd pumped. Today, my mom and stepdad came over and we went to a movie, went to dinner, and sat around talking and laughing until they left around dusk. I sat down on the couch a few minutes ago and it occurred to me that I didn't fall asleep in the afternoon or evening all weekend. I didn't once banish my kids to their rooms simply because my nerves couldn't handle their running about and rough-housing. I never once felt that all of the activity was too much and just shut down to avoid sensory overload. I smiled an awful lot this weekend. I appreciated my family and friends this weekend. I took some time for myself to sit and cut and paste colorful bits of paper and photographs into albums. It feels good to be able to look into the mirror and say, "Hey, I know you." It feels so good to be back.

2006-06-09T18:21:00.000-07:00

I went to work early this morning because I knew I needed to be home by one o'clock so the babysitter could take her mother to the doctor. I had just sat down to start reading charts, which is a never-ending, tedious and sometimes boring job but is necessary in order to affect positive change, when my phone rang and the cath lab supervisor said, "I have a small crisis. There is an electrophysiology study on the schedule and our EP nurse is off today." I said, "I'll come do it. No problem." He was so grateful. "Oh, thank you, Heather, for saving the day!" I am always a little incredulous when the cath lab staff thanks me for coming over and doing procedures when they are short-handed. I am incredulous because I think it is great fun to do procedures; especially EP procedures. They are used to having to do procedures all day. I live for the days when I get to lay hands on a patient. I guess it's all about perspective. I love being an EP nurse. I never really willingly gave up being an EP nurse. I started out working on databases and Performance Improvement projects because a) I had the time b) I had the aptitude, and c) there was no one else to do it. Our hospital administration was so impressed with the results that Brenda and I achieved with our cardiac performance improvement initiatives that they gave us fancy titles and we were gradually fazed out of procedural nursing just for the sake of time and workload. There are perks. Our CEO refers to us as "the brain trust." He recently lauded our accomplishments at a meeting with our board members and told them that we needed to duplicate the cardiac PI successes in every other department in the hospital. I have a very flexible schedule. I am well-known throughout the hospital. No one ever doubts that I have the talent to back up my assertions that I can make things happen. I have connections in high places. In fact, when my grandfather had his heart attack, our CEO walked into the cafeteria as my family and I ate lunch and asked what was going on. After I told him the story of my grandpa's heart attack and impending bypass surgery, he winked and said, "Well, let me know if there is anything I can do . . . though I think you can probably facilitate more in the cardiac department than I can." So yes, there are lots of perks to doing my job. But I miss the excitement. I miss the opportunity to utilize the years and years of knowledge and experience I have acquired. I miss the teamwork. I miss the banter! It all comes back so easily whether it be the serious or the not so serious parts of the job. Brenda and I were training two new nurses today and one of them is a young man who was taking everything so seriously. At one point, I looked very seriously at our patient and asked, "Darlin', did this young man tell you his first name?" The young nurse looked at his shoes and said, "No, I didn't. I just forgot. I'm sorry." I inquired, "Do you really think he should be seeing you half-naked without being on a first name basis?" The student and the patient both burst into laughter. The patient admitted to being very nervous and I quipped, "Lucky for you that I am a great bartender. I already have a cocktail mixed for you right over there in that IV bag." She shot back, "Well, you'd better make it a double." At the end of the procedure, while the patient was still groggy, she began wiggling on the table which very much resembles an ironing board because it is so narrow. I asked her to not move too much because I didn't want her to fall in the floor. She responded that she didn't want that either and I mused, "Yeah, do you know how much paperwork I'll have to fill out if you fall in the floor? It'd really be inconvenient." She just grinned. My nursing skills always come back so much more easily than I expect too. Today, we induced ventricular tachycardia in our patient which, believe it or not, is what we wanted. But we also got a side dish of extreme bradycardia and that wasn't expected. Before I could think twice, I was in the room tearing a crash cart open and preparing to administer advanced cardiac life support. It turned out not to be necessary but I was prepared nonetheless. In the midst of all the drama and excitement, Brenda and I never once stopped teaching the two new nurses. We've been in such situations so many times before and work so well together that we are able to simply go with the flow, do what needs doing, and keep teaching along the way. Yes, I miss the days when I did ALL of the EP procedures for our hospital. I miss scrubbing into surgery. I miss doing pacing protocols and interpreting intracardiac electrograms. I miss connecting with the patients and their families. More than anything, I miss the well-oiled machine that was mine and Brenda's teamwork. But I don't miss working until 8:00 or 9:00 at night because there is no one who knows how to do EP except me. I don't miss scrubbing into six hour cases and the backaches caused by wearing twenty pounds of lead all day. I don't miss the phone calls from the OR and the cath lab asking me questions that really should be posed to the electrophysiologist. And I certainly don't miss having my schedule set by someone else. Days like today are nice because I get to do what I love without all of the extraneous baggage that used to go along with it. I went to work this morning and played in the EP lab. Then I ate lunch with Brenda and came home. I spent the afternoon with my two boys. First we went to see a movie and then we went swimming. Adrenaline-pumping electrophysiology nursing in the morning and napping under the sun on an inflatable mattress in the blue waters of my best friend's pool in the afternoon. That's a pretty good life.

2006-06-07T20:37:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I went to my hometown today to give a Heartcaring presentation to a physician's office. We had a great time. The nice thing about working with your best friend is that work rarely feels like work. But getting out of town especially felt like a vacation despite the serious outreach work we were doing. We picked up my kids while we were there because unforeseen circumstances dictated that they come back home two days early. I'm not complaining. I missed them. I never sleep well when they are gone and I usually walk around feeling melancholy because it seems like there is so much energy missing from our household. The drive there and back made for a long day and I was exhausted when we finally got home. Brad took one look at me and knew he would have to take us out if he planned on eating dinner tonight. We went to a diner that we rarely frequent because a)we forget it is there, and b) the food is only mediocre. But we have been eating out so much lately that we were desperate to do something different. We sat down at a booth while waiting for our food and I noticed an old couple sitting in the booth in front of us. I would almost swear that I saw the same couple there the last time we were at the diner which was months ago. The woman had a heavily wrinkled face and wore brightly colored clothes and a straw hat painted a metallic gold color. When she smiled, the wrinkles in her cheeks rearranged themselves into parentheses around her mouth. I had a sudden realization that the wrinkles were more likely laugh lines than the effects of aging. She just seemed like a woman who laughed easily and often. The old man was one of a breed of adorable old folk who manages to look elderly and wise and yet child-like and playful at the same time. A walker sat propped next to him and he sat on a makeshift cushion of several layers of foam. My youngest son was really acting horribly. He was so exhausted! His eyes looked bloodshot and heavy-lidded and he was so contrary that he challenged our every decision. Several times his father offered to take him to the restroom and "have a talk" with him upon whence he would fall silent but still throw dirty looks our way just so we wouldn't forget that he was not happy with us. Not happy at all. The old couple in the booth obviously loved children. Every time a child walked near them, their faces would alight and they would strike up a conversation with the child or, if the child was shy, with the child's parents. I saw the old man slip a dollar bill to a little girl who had been especially talkative and charming. She looked up at him with her bright, blue eyes and grinned before she skipped away with her hair bouncing off of her shoulders. Then I saw the couple's gaze fall upon my youngest. Great, I thought. The little girl would have been a hard act to follow on a normal day much less on a day when my child was whining and crying over every.little.thing. The couple looked our way a couple of times and once, when I was telling Crash, "If you throw one more little tantrum, I swear I will put you to bed while the sun is still in the sky", the elder woman and I made eye contact. I winced. As much as she seemed to like children, she probably was not too bueno with hearing me chastise mine so often over the course of one meal. I sighed heavily and put my head in my hands. When I looked up, I saw the older man slowly turn around and wave two dollar bills between my sons. They looked at each other in disbelief and then accepted the dollar bills. Bump uttered a polite thank you and I offered one for Crash since he refuses to speak to strangers. Hell, he's so shy that he even refuses to speak to his grandparents some days. Despite himself, a smile began to spread across Crash's face. I looked at the old man in gratitude and saw that Crash's smile was mirrored in his face. He said kindly, "Maybe that will help you feel better, young man." A few minutes later, the old couple rose to leave. The old man rose slowly from his seated position and leaned heavily on his walker while getting an even footing. Rather than walking to the door, however, he looked straight at Brad and me and said, "I was in World War II. New Guinea. Part of an amphibious unit. We established beachheads." Brad answered, "Wow. That's really impressive. You must be proud." The man went on, "I took nineteen men in and brought nineteen home. For that, I got a letter from the President and my entire unit was commended." We really were impressed. "A letter from the President. That must have been a wonderful feeling." The man nodded and said, "That letter is kept in my safe." He wished us a good evening and made his way to the door and to his car which was parked right outside in a handicapped spot. A few seconds later, the sparky and spunky elderly wife walked back past our booth and picked up the foam cushion, smiled at us and said, "I forget something every time we leave." and chuckled a little. Then she put her hand on Brad's shoulder and asked, "You don't work for Conoco by any chance, do you?" I answered this time, "No, but it's funny you ask because my father worked for Conoco for 25 years." The woman took a moment to file this parcel of information away and then told us, "My late husband was a comptroller for Conoco. We moved here in 1956 when our son was only a year old. When my husband died, I moved off to a place where I could play lots of golf and relax in the sun. That's where I met this other lovely gent in 1993. And somehow I ended up back here. I guess it's home." With that, she also wished us a good evening, winked at the kids, and be-bopped to her car. I can't explain it, but the conversations with the older couple made the evening feel charmed somehow. They passed on parts of their lives to us with their conversation. We were an eager audience and they seemed to appreciate that. After talking to them, I was flooded with the realization that my little family is going to be just fine, cranky kids and all. I just wish I could tell the couple that they lifted my spirits and renewed my energy for child rearing. I just wish I could tell them, thank you.

2006-06-03T22:23:00.000-07:00

We had a low-key family fun day around our house today. The first part of the day was spent lazing about. I got a phone call from a friend I've not heard from in months. That was nice. I may even spend half a day scrapbooking with her next Saturday. That'd be even nicer! The guys worked on the yard while I worked out at the gym. No rushing around. Nowhere we had to be. We just did what felt right at the time. Hunger is what finally drove us into the shower and out to lunch. We ate at one of our favorite local Mexican food restaurants. When the waitress came to take our order, Brad ordered for me because I always get the same thing; beef fajitas with no setup (i.e. rice, beans, sour cream, guacamole) and a diet coke. I love it when he orders for me. But then again, I just love to know that anyone has paid enough attention to me to know my likes and dislikes. Brenda often orders for me when we go out to eat, too. She'll peruse the menu and say, "You won't like this one, Heather, because it has a white sauce but this one you will like because it is spicy, but I would recommend that you order the sauce on the side." And she is always right. I always like what she orders for me. It's not just when my friends remember the food I like best, either. When I go to visit Angie and she has three pillows on the bed--because I sleep with one under my head, one over my head, and I hug one to me--I am always so touched. Boy, I've really gotten off the subject. And the subject was our day. We went bowling this evening. We haven't been bowling in years! Bump loves to bowl. In fact, his fourth birthday was held at the bowling alley and it was really fun. Tonight, I kept looking around and the memories of Bump's party were so strong that I could almost see the ghost of my five months pregnant self wearing a red top and denim maternity overalls running busily about trying to make sure everyone was having a good time. It was very important to me, Bump's 4th birthday party, because I knew his whole life would change when his little brother was born. Brad and I both started our first bowling game with a strike. I was pleased with myself because I've never really been good at bowling. It turned out to be a fluke. I proceeded to throw gutterballs and balls that started out going down the middle of the lane but inexplicably veered to one side or the other (never the same side twice) before it reached the pins. Once, I threw a gutterball and turned around to Bump saying, with a cheesy smile on his face, "Wow, you're on fire, mom! You're awesome!" What a smart-aleck. Bump and Crash had a grand time. Whenever either of them was preparing to roll the ball, the other would say, "Be the ball. Na-na-na-na-na. Na-na-na-na-na." That's my fault. I taught them that. It was my finest Chevy Chase impression from Caddyshack, the movie. When Bump knocked down a lot of pins, he always burst into a celebratory dance. When Crash hit ANY pin, he gave me such enthusiastic high-fives that my palm was red and tingling by the end of the night. The really sad thing about the whole bowling experience was that I scored only 72 in the first game where we didn't use the gutter-guards to prevent gutter balls. Even sadder than that, we did use the gutter guards for the second game and I still only scored 75. Bump scored 77. In fact, I still managed to throw one gutter ball even with the gutter-guards. How does that happen? I ask you. Part of the reason we made a point of having a low-stress, fun weekend is because the kids will be spending the coming week with their grammy and we wanted to spend lots of time with them because we know how much we will miss them. Don't get me wrong. The alone time is welcome. But one whole week is a lot of alone time! Tonight, when I tucked Crash in, he did what he always does; he threw his arms around my neck and held tight as he said his night prayers and then talked to me about his day. As he was talking, his hand kept moving to the back of my neck and he said irritably, "There's something wrong with your hair!" I'd forgotten. I had it pulled back in a ponytail and Crash likes to run his fingers through my hair and play with it while I tuck him into bed each night. I took the ponytail down and laid next to him in his bed and we snuggled and he told me he loved me. I was starting to feel a little sad that tomorrow night I won't have a little boy to snuggle and tuck into bed. Even worse, I worried that Crash would be sad at bedtime without me to tuck him in. Just then, Crash pushed away from me and said, "Could you please go away now so I can go to sleep?" Yeah. I think the kids will be just fine while they are gone.

2006-06-02T18:01:00.000-07:00

I got all of my hours in at work early this week so that I could stay home today and spend some time with my kids. Sunday night, I will ferry them to their Grammy's house where they will spend the entire week going to Vacation Bible School and playing with their cousins. I am astute enough about my own character to know that I will start the week with an elated sense of freedom and, about two days into the week, I will begin missing my kids terribly. Thus, I am staying home today to get a head start on a weekend packed with family fun. In just a few moments, we will head to Brenda's house to wile the afternoon away in the pool. But I am really writing to tell you about my day up to this point. I am quite an idealist and that's not always a good thing. I harbor unrealistic expectations of days like this. I always expect that the children will play together without arguing and irritating each other on purpose. I imagine that I will look upon them with a maternal and loving gaze as they sit with their heads close together happily drawing pictures or writing stories or doing impromptu science experiments. Why, oh why doesn't it ever work out that way? Why do they only want to sit in front of the TV and watch cartoons? Why do they sit and play computer and video games with the hand/eye coordination of an 18 year old but protest loudly that they can't draw a picture because they don't know how? Why do I hear them yelling such phrases as, "STOP spitting on my carpet, you little freak!" Why, why, why? And why do I overreach? Why can't I be happy just trying to be a good mother on my day off? Why do I also have to try to be a perfect wife who makes the perfect dinner and gets all of the laundry washed, dried and folded, and keeps the house tidy? Why? It only leads to a sense of failure. It really does. Here's the story of my day. It started well enough. The kids and I slept late because we were up late last night. Upon awakening, I took them to get donuts and chocolate milk (for Bump) and apple juice (for Crash) because they like doing that. Then, because I am the attentive wife that I am, we also stopped by the hospital to see Brad and I invited him to come home for lunch. He offered to bring home lunch and I offered to provide dessert, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. When we got home, I urged the children to go outside and play before it got too hot and I got started on the laundry. It should be noted that the kids were back inside within five minutes protesting loudly about the cruel and unusual sentence I had imposed upon them when I requested that they play outside. Fine, fine, I said. You can come in. Just please stop whining. Then, I straightened up the kitchen. Then I browned the roast, peeled the potatoes and cut the onions for dinner. Brad arrived home with lunch in the midst of my activities and I told him sweetly, "I'll be there in just a moment, darlin'. I just have to put the roast in the crock pot." It turns out that putting the roast in the crock pot was just one more example of my idealism. You'd think it'd be so simple, wouldn't you? First, I had to wash the crock pot because it had gathered dust sitting in storage in the cabinet. Easy enough. Check. Then, I transferred the roast and vegetables into the pot but was interrupted by the sound of Crash running repeatedly into his brother's bedroom door ala linebacker and bouncing back like a rubber eraser every time. I investigated the source of the chaos and learned that he wanted to get a book out of Bump's room but Bump had denied him entrance for no other reason except that it gives him great pleasure to see his brother turn red in the face from frustration and he derives a sadistic thrill from the pain that Crash's high-decibel cries of outrage causes to one's ears. Of course, when he heard me in the hall, he opened the door and graciously invited Crash inside to get a book. This sort of thing had been happening all morning and I'd had enough. So, I bent down until I was at eye level with my eldest son, motioned for him to come closer, and then offered this brilliant parcel of parental advice: "BE FREAKING NICE, YOU LITTLE DEVIL! JUST BE NICE!" I returned to the kitchen and added seasoning and water to the roast but couldn't find the lid to the crock pot. I looked in every cabinet for the lid but it was nowhere to be found. I walked around muttering about how nothing is ever easy, not even the simple act of putting a blippety-blip lid on a blippety-blip pot just so I can serve a blippety-blip roast for dinner so that we can all eat a nice meal like a happy family, dammit! Just when I had decided I would have to move everything to another pot and cook it in the oven despite the fact that it is far too hot outside to be heating the house up even more by keeping the oven on all day, Brad cried out, "Aha! I found it!" With hands shaking from nervous exhaustion from the stress of trying to do something as simple as throw a hunk of meat in a crock pot, I placed the lid over the roast and set the timer so that it would cook semi-slowly all afternoon. By now, quite a bit of time had passed since Brad had walked in the door with our lunch and he chose this moment to look at his watch and proclaim, "I am going to have to go back to work, honey." I was speechless. What? Without dessert? But-but-but . . . .*sigh* In my frustration and disappointment, I began cleaning up the mess I had made in preparing the roast. Except I was really LOUD about it. I slammed cabinet doors and stomped around. I pushed the silverware drawer shut so hard that I heard the clank of all of it being rearranged in it's trays and I turned around to stare at my husband with something akin to a death ray just daring him to say one single word about the fact that I had just created more work for myself in the midst of my temper tantrum. Finally, he pulled me close and asked, "Will you tell me what is wrong?" Oh, boy. Would I ever. "You're always wanting me to be this great housewife and cook nice dinners and keep the laundry caught up and stay home and spend more time with the kids and I try, I really try, but the problem is that I SUCK at all of this housewife/homemaker stuff. I am no good at being home with the kids all day when all they do is fight. I try to make a nice dinner and I can't even find the lid to the flippin' crock pot! I try to do the laundry but forget to move it from the washer to the dryer until after it has already mildewed and has to be rewashed. And now, the only thing I'm good at, there's no time for!" And I collapsed against him and cried on his shoulder as he assured me that I am good at lots of things and I listened knowing that he has to tell me that whether it is true or not because I will make his life a living hell if he is bold enough to express his dissatisfaction with any of my mothering or homemaking skills. And then, he led me to our bedroom so that I could lie in his arms for just a few minutes and cry before he left to go back to work. And taped on my bedroom door? Was an envelope with a picture and a letter from Bump saying, "I love you, Mom. I will be nice. I am sorry." and it had two heart-shaped pencil erasers and one shaped like a kiss taped to the picture. And I smiled despite the foul mood and the self-pity that had pervaded my being only a few milliseconds before. I might not be able to cook a roast without losing the lid to the crock pot. I might not remember to transfer clothes from the washer to the dryer. Far too often, I am guilty of the princess syndrome where I pay the babysitter extra to clean and do my laundry simply because I don't want to do it. But, by God, I have two of the sweetest little boys a mother could ask for. And they will continue to act as though they abhor one another and do disgusting things like spit on the carpet and never flush the toilet and, while we're on the subject of toilets, sometimes miss the toilet altogether and pee instead on the shower curtain. They will try my patience all day long every day. But, when it comes right down to it, they love me and I love them and I have a letter and a picture and three erasers to prove it.

swimsuit season is upon us

2006-06-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about my summer. In a couple of weeks, Brad is taking me to Florida for a week to celebrate our tenth anniversary. A few weeks after that, I am taking a trip with some girlfriends. A few weeks after that, we will be taking a trip with Brad's family. Sounds fun, right? And it will be. The only fly in the ointment is that I will be wearing a swimsuit at some point during all of these trips. D'oh! Swimsuit season. Bugger! To get myself into better swimsuit shape, I have started working out. Yes, that means I am finally using the gym membership that I have been paying for since February. My friend, Mindy, is working out with me. That makes it a lot more fun. We worked out last night and I was definitely feeling it today. I 'd forgotten I had some of those muscles. Dang. Everyone knows the only cure for sore muscles is to work them again so Mindy and I worked out again tonight. There's this about the gym. The hardest part of working out is getting my lazy arse up off of the couch and driving myself up there. After that, it is fun. Mindy had an appointment with one of the gym's trainers this evening. When I arrived , I didn't see her anywhere so I climbed my bad self up on the elliptical trainer and proceeded to do 30 minutes of cardio. Toward the end of my cardio, I saw Mindy walking toward me. I waved in greeting and, instead of saying hello, she moaned, "Help! He's trying to kill me." It would seem that Mindy's trainer had her do lunges until she thought her legs and butt would fall off. Too funny. See? This is why I need a workout buddy. I need someone to laugh at with. I spent the last few minutes of my cardio workout watching the very cute personal trainer nearly fall all over himself trying to impress my willowy, beautiful friend. She's so skinny and pretty that you kinda hate her. Ya know? After my cardio workout, I moved to some of the weight machines. I did 75 crunches on the ab bench and pulled my workout card to see which area of the body I was supposed to focus on tonight. Crap. Arms. I hate it when I have to focus on arms. I do okay until I get to the shoulder press machine. I am supposed to do three sets of 15 reps in each of three positions. Yeah, right. By the time I moved my arms to the third position and pushed up, I was making little ungh! sounds with every exertion. My arms were spaghetti. I think I only got eight reps in on the last position. My dog, it was painful. But just think how good my arms will look after a few weeks! The really, really great thing about working out? Is that it makes me feel so happy and peppy and ready to take on the world. I enjoyed it so much that I am even thinking about getting up early in the morning and working out before Brad leaves for work. But that's just the endorphins talking. I never wake up early if I can help it. I don't do mornings. Not even for the sake of a swimsuit-ready bod.

How was your day?

2006-05-31T20:06:00.000-07:00

I've recently reconnected with an old friend and we've been exchanging e-mails. Tonight, as I sat down to write to her, I was thinking only to write about my day but ended up writing several abstract thoughts that events throughout the day had inspired. For instance, I told her about a song I heard on my iPod that triggered a memory of an evening long ago when I played the same song for an ex-boyfriend and it moved him to tears. I told her that I worked out this evening at the gym with a girl who's been a close friend of mine since the 7th grade and I found myself thinking that I should get to know my sons' friends over the next several years because you never know which one of them will become a permanent fixture in his life. For example, my husband was a good friend of mine all through high school. And you can't get anything more permanent than a marriage. At least, we hope that's the case. When my children told me about their day over dinner and said they spent the afternoon swimming in an above ground pool, I remembered the pool my stepdad set up in our back yard one summer and how much fun we had in it. My neighbor's granddaughter spent the summer with her and we swam every day and my favorite thing to do was to glide around at the very bottom of the pool and then surface very slowly and feel the water sheet off of my face when I broke the surface. That's the same summer that I dropped a bottle of red nail polish on the neighbor's carpet and cried and cried because it left a stain and I couldn't stand thinking she might stay angry with me. She gave me a big hug and told me, it's only carpet. It's not important. And then? It turned out that the stain came out of the carpet, after all. It would appear that I am never going to be the type to define the day by how many tasks I accomplished. I will always be the dreamy, head-in-the clouds type who has to link her present and past together in order to make sense of the future. I will always be more of a thinker than a doer. But that's okay because it takes all kinds to make the world go 'round. So, how would you answer if I asked, "How was your day?"

2006-05-30T18:02:00.000-07:00

You Are A Lily

You are a nurturer and all around natural therapist. People see you as their rock. And they are able to depend on you. You are a soothing influence. You can make people feel better with a few words. Your caring has more of an impact than even you realize.

What Flower Are You?

2006-05-29T20:21:00.000-07:00

More than once, I have said to friends or family, "I haven't heard from you in so long!" and their response has been, "Yes, but it seems like we are in touch because I keep up with your life by reading your blog." In theory, that is exactly why my blog is here. It's here so I can reach out to friends and family. It's here so I can share my life without being too smothering and bothersome to anyone. This blog is my way of offering myself to others and saying, "This is who I am. This is what I have to offer." It really gives people a choice as to whether or not they want to know me. No one has to read my blog. Anyone who keeps up with me by reading does so because they want to. And I really have been surprised at how many of my friends and family read my blog faithfully or at least check in every now and again just to see how I am doing. There are my friends: Michael R., Shannon B., Angie, Kirsten, Donna, Bev, Barbara B., Marcey, Brenda, Scott T. and doubtless there are others that have either remained anonymous or that I have forgotten. Then there's family: Britnee, Sheree, Mom, Channon and occasionally my dad and stepmom. But here's the kicker: it seems that making it so easy for my friends and family to keep up with my goings-on has made my life more lonely. Yes, they feel like we are in touch because of the blog. But I feel lonely. Sure, it's nice to be the center of attention to a certain extent. But I miss being included in the lives of others. I miss hearing what new and brilliant thing my friends' children are doing this week. I miss hearing about work and school and marriage. I miss those moments when part of a conversation will trigger a shared memory and spark a long reminiscence. I miss those random e-mails where someone is just dropping a line to say, hello, I am thinking of you today. Days like today make me wonder if keeping the blog has been a help or a hindrance in my life. I love to write here and I love being a part of the blogging community. I have met some fabulous people because of the blog. But it doesn't keep me from missing the people I used to talk to or e-mail with on a regular basis. It doesn't keep my heart from sinking when I check my e-mail several times a day and the only mail I have from friends and family are forwarded jokes or chain e-mails (which I despise, by the way). I walk in to my house after work or after running errands and I no longer even check the phone for voice mail because it is unlikely that anyone has called. I've stopped hoping that there will be anything other than bills and flyers in the mailbox every day. I've purposefully stopped checking my inbox so often because it is so disappointing to find it devoid of communication. So, what's my point? I don't know. I don't want to give up my blog but I don't want to give up my relationships either. In my eagerness to share so much of myself, I have inadvertently set up one-sided relationships where I am doing most of the giving. In an effort to avoid smothering those I love and driving them away from me (as I've been known to do more than once), I've instead given them so much space that the result has been the same: I am losing them. The same thing is happening that always happens; I want so badly to be close to others that I share too much and care too much and give so much that their instinct is to run as fast as they can away from me. And yes, I am probably over-dramatizing the situation. And yes, I will probably get a couple of concerned phone calls or e-mails asking me, what is wrong? Some of my friends' feelings may be hurt and it is likely that those whose feelings are hurt will be the ones that I am not even thinking about as I type this post. But, dammit, this is my blog and I will write a depressing and alarming post if I feel like it. Because, when it comes down to it, this blog serves another purpose and that is for me to sit down and write and figure out how I feel about certain things, ideas, or situations. I had no idea what I was going to write about tonight and this is what came flowing from my fingertips when I sat down. So sue me.

We're back. I'm sick.

2006-05-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

We made it home from Six Flags. Now I am sick. The room spins if I move my head and I have this feeling of unstoppable momentum that resulted in me nearly falling down in the shower last night. So, if you don't mind, I am going to lie here and try not to move. I'll post more when I am feeling better. Here is my favorite picture of Brad and me from the trip for your viewing pleasure during my convalescence.

Memorial Day Holiday

2006-05-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning, as I sat talking to my niece and nephew and we were speculating as to when might be a good time for them to spend the weekend at our house, I heard a voice ask, "Why don't y'all just come to Six Flags with us on Memorial Day Weekend? Then I thought, "My dog, did I just say that out loud? Did I really just offer to ferry FOUR children on a six hour drive to Dallas and accompany them to an amusement park where it is certain to be hotter than the breath of hell?" The answer is yes, I did. Sometimes I am too enthusiastic and idealistic for my own good. But really, I am looking forward to it. The kids are older now (5, 7, 8, and 9) and they are generally well-behaved. I fondly remember playing with my cousins when I was a little girl and desperately want my children to have fond childhood memories of weekends spent with family. Not to mention the fact that my niece and nephew distract my children from arguing and just generally waging war against each other in the car. When we get to Dallas, we will meet up with another family and we will move about in a group of ten: Four adults, four male children, and two female children. God help us. Six Flags promises to be packed to the brim considering it is a holiday weekend, I will not leave the park, however, until I have ridden The Titan, The Batman, and possibly, The Superman. I am an adrenaline junkie. I really am. Plus! We are going to see X-Men III. Yeah, baby. I really am just a big kid. Have a happy and safe Memorial Day Weekend, y'all.

2006-05-24T20:04:00.000-07:00

Parenting is tricky. Just when you think you've figured your kid out, there they go a-changin' on you. Take Bump for instance. For several weeks now, he has spent much of the mornings before school standing before the full length mirror combing and styling his hair and studying his reflection with a critical eye. The child who, only months ago, couldn't care less if his hair stuck up in six different directions is suddenly highly concerned with his hair-do. The kid has begged me more than once to let him grow his hair out long. I obliged this winter even though his hair is not fine enough to wear in the style he was aiming for. He and his brother were both cursed by inheriting from me a very full, thick head of hair. In fact, I have so much hair that my hairdresser calls it my birth defect. I pretty much have to wear it long otherwise it looks like an afro. I can only wear it in a ponytail or braid for an hour or two at a time because it is so heavy that it causes a headache. But I digress. Tonight over dinner I announced that both children would be getting haircuts. I had very good reasons for wanting to cut their hair. First, it isn't even June yet and it has already been 107 degrees here in the armpit of Texas. Second, we are going to Dallas to Six Flags this weekend and, if there is anything more miserable than 100 degree weather, it is 100 degree weather with high humidity. The haircuts are so that the children won't collapse from a heat stroke. I was shocked when Bump wailed, "Nooooo! I don't want a haircut. It looked so bad last time. SO BAD!" I don't know what he is talking about. His hair looked cute the last time he got it cut. The child was so morose at the thought of a haircut that he actually laid his head on his arms and cried. Then, when we got to the barber shop, Bump looked carefully through a book of haircuts and chose one he liked. Then, he actually let the hairstylist add a gold gel to the tips of his hair to make it look highlighted. We bought a tube of the gold gel. It is called "bling, bling gold" of all things. Another thing. Two weeks ago, I bought him a pair of khaki cargo shorts. It wasn't unreasonable that I expected him to offer up no complaint. I have always been able to buy the kid whatever clothes I like and he is happy as heck to wear them. But when he saw the cargo shorts, he acted like I had asked him to dress in a clown suit. I reasoned with him, "All the kids are wearing cargo shorts. What is your situation, dude?" We finally came to a battle of the wills that, of course, I won and he left the house for school without giving me a good-bye hug and I think he actually gave me the evil eye as he glanced back over his shoulder, Of course, what did he discover once he got to school? LOTS of kids were wearing cargo shorts. Durr. Like his mama would dress him like a dork. Gah. The other thing is that we bought him some deodorant tonight because dang, that boy had some serious stink going on. We had to spend at least ten minutes waiting for him to smell every deodorant on the shelf before choosing one that he liked. Then, when I told him to brush his teeth and get ready for bed? He closed himself in the bathroom and sprayed so much smell good on himself that his father and I were choking just walking down the hall. It all points to only one explanation. Girls. My baby is becoming very interested in girls. Which means I will have less and less influence over him from this point on and comely girls with come hither stares will wield significant power over him. This point had to come. It is not unexpected. Confusing, but not unexpected. But I was unprepared for the fierce desire I have to protect my child from any undue heartache. I want the girls he likes to be kind to him. I want his self-esteem to be such that he won't allow his heart to be trampled upon. And mostly, I want to tell any mean-spirited girls who might have mischief in mind with my boy:

You mess with my kid, honey, and you will have to deal with me. And those who know me well make it a point never to deal with me. You've been forewarned.

Meow.

The Morning After

2006-05-23T19:59:00.000-07:00

I had a really great birthday yesterday. The birthday wishes I received here on my blog warmed my heart. A special thanks to cmhl and Jellyhead for sending their readers over here to wish me a happy birthday! I've got the best blog friends in the whole world! In fact, one of my blogger friends just made me laugh so hard a few minutes ago that now my stomach hurts. You know who you are. My birthday dinner was lots of fun. And by "fun," I mean I drank two big margaritas. Have you noticed that lots of things are more fun after two margaritas? For instance, earlier in the evening, it was driving me crazy that my five year old wouldn't stop whining. After the first margarita, I found it was easy to ignore him. The only complication related to the margaritas was when I sucked salt from the rim of the glass down my airway and nearly choked to death. After I was good and tipsy, I did what any woman worth her salt would do in my situation: I went shopping. I bought a wireless mouse for my laptop, George Strait's latest CD because George Strait is my boyfriend and I love him, a framed picture that has "Always Kiss Me Goodnight" painted across it, and a shelf for my office. It could have been worse. I could have gone to the mall. I really would have done some damage if set loose in the mall. I called and left a message for my stepdad while I was slightly impaired. He called back and said, "I hear you're pretty drunk." I answered, "Nah. I wasn't drunk and, actually, I am starting to feel pretty sober now." His reply? "Well, you'd better do something about that." It's nice to know there are people on this Earth whose brain is on the same wave length as mine. But, I didn't drink any more. And I really wasn't drunk, just a little tipsy. At least that is what I thought until I woke up hungover this morning. So, I realize this post makes me sound like an alcoholic or like a frat boy bragging on how much he can drink before passing out, but I only have a birthday once a year and I don't really care. I've been assured this photo isn't cheesy and I am feeling magnanimous so I will share a photo from my birthday dinner.

The Birthday Post aka tooting my own horn because it is unlikely that it will be tooted for me

2006-05-22T05:51:00.000-07:00

Today is my 3rd annual 29th birthday or what is also known (to the unenlightened) as my 31st birthday. One thing I have learned since I've married and had children is that the laundry and the housework and the childrens' schools and my place of employment really could care less if it is my birthday. I still have to clean, do laundry, pack lunches, ferry children to school and work on my birthday because it is unlikely that anyone will do it for me. Sure, my husband told me this morning to be sure to take it easy, get some extra sleep, and not worry about housework or laundry today, but it isn't like he is going to have the time to do those things for me and clean socks and underwear have a really irritating habit of being in perpetually short supply around here. Not that I am complaining about doing household chores on my birthday, mind you. It's just an observation. Every year, I am convinced that no one except my family members will remember my birthday and, every year, I am pleasantly surprised and humbled by the well wishes I receive. I saw my friend, Kirsten, yesterday and she immediately wished me a happy birthday. I've already had two e-cards delivered to my inbox this morning and Brenda jumped the gun and wished me a happy birthday last night. It's nice to be remembered. There is one household duty from which I am excused on this day. My dad and stepmom are taking us to dinner tonight at one of my favorite Mexican food restaurants. No cooking for me! Yay! I am off to enjoy my birthday and my wish is that you all enjoy your day as well.

2006-05-20T21:47:00.000-07:00

I'm in my hometown tonight staying in the house in which I grew up. I tucked my children into bed a few moments ago and turned out the light as I walked into the hallway. Bump noticed something I had forgotten about. "Mom, have those stars always been on the ceiling?" What he was referring to is the circle of glow-in-the-dark star and planet stickers surrounding the light fixture on the ceiling. I put them there many years ago because . . . well, I just thought it was cool. I also had a thingie that projected constellations onto the ceiling. I guess I've just always been fascinated by the stars. The stars on the ceiling always glowed brightly as I fell asleep because the material they are fabricated from soaked up the glow from the overhead light during the day. As the night wore on, the glow grew dimmer but was always still visible. I remember waking up during the night and gazing sleepily at the stars before falling back asleep. I looked around the room that used to be mine but now serves as a guest room. The walls are a sedate taupe color and there is an elegant bedspread. The curtains are a beautiful, shiny fabric and they hang to the floor. When I occupied the room, it went through several reincarnations. When I was very young, I had a pink bedspread with a pink bandana print dust ruffle and curtains. At one point, I went through a phase where I wanted the room to look tropical so I bought a comforter with brightly colored fish all over it. In the end, I had a plain black comforter with pink sheets and pillows. One wall was painted pink and was covered by poster prints of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe but also with pictures of my friends, certificates I'd earned, and corsages that had been bought for me at homecoming. My furniture was painted pink and black with accents of web paint. It was cool, y'all. Sometimes, it is easy for me to forget that I haven't always been this harried woman who is constantly playing a game of catch-up. I didn't used to worry too much about my decisions because, back then, the future of two beautiful children wasn't affected by every decision I made. There was a time when I was care-free and had boundless energy and enthusiasm. There was a time when I started my day off singing and dancing every morning in first hour swing choir. There was a time when I loved music and, instead of tucking my head shyly, I pranced about on stage and sang my heart out. I used to be a person who could go to work in a swimsuit every day without worrying if I looked fat or if my legs were too white. At the same time, I didn't preen before mirrors admiring my body and act like I was all that when I walked out to the guard chair. There was a time when I could tread water with a 10 pound brick held over my head. I could do it because it never crossed my mind that I couldn't do it. I used to be a person who woke up early and went to bed late and accomplished a multitude of tasks during the day. I used to be the person who drove everyone else to school and didn't once feel put upon because I had to pick them up every morning. Rather, I just enjoyed the company. I used to be so many things that I am not now. I wasn't tired and ambivalent and pulled in fifteen directions at once. I didn't become so overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of tasks awaiting my attention that I went to bed rather than try to tackle any of them. I didn't constantly second guess myself . Yes, it's easy to forget that I was young. That I was different than I am now. That I was once innocent as to how fickle fate can be. That I used to see something I wanted and go after it with everything in me until it was mine. And I really might have forgotten, now that the pink wall in my room has been covered with beige paint and my brightly painted furniture has been replaced by a guest bed and stately wardrobe. Except for the stars. The stars are the proof that I was once a young girl who loved looking at stars enough to stick a whole package of them on her ceiling on a whim. The stars are my reminder that I can paint over the girl I used to be; I can tone down my true colors and behave as a responsible adult with a job and a husband and two children to raise. But when the day is over and you take a closer look, you'll see that the person from all those years ago is still shining through, just like the stars on the ceiling.

2006-05-19T06:12:00.000-07:00

Hi! It's just me, Sharon. I'm posting for Heather today because she is, hopefully, fast asleep as she recuperates from a nasty cold and sore throat. I'm over here turning into my grandparents and insisting on a muscular round of antibiotics or at least a megavitamin, but truthfully it seems to be a virus and there's not much that can be done for viruses except wait them out. Right now I'm just admiring her new template. I keep thinking I like each new transformation better than the last, but this one is the best yet (in my opinion). Heather's got some mad skillz, yo. All I can do is draw things like this: ...Which one of the kids left a baby wipe on yesterday and now it's all ca-ca. Not literally ca-ca, but somehow the museum quality of it seems to be lost. Along with the 24" x 36" painting I'm working on upstairs; I overglazed it and turned it into soup. I never know when to retreat and call it quits. Anyway, I know you'll all join me in wishing Heather a speedy recovery!

Deep Thoughts

2006-05-15T20:32:00.000-07:00

Conversation between Brad and me this evening: Me: Ouch! I am bleeding! Him: What happened? Me: I cut myself on a thorn while deadheading the roses and pruning out the dead branches. Him: I think you should stay away from those rosebushes. They are always hurting you. Me: Oh, but look how beautifully they are blooming because I have been caring for them! I think I hit upon a metaphor: The care and feeding of relationships can be painful. Pruning away the deadwood -- resentment, envy, hurt feelings, old grudges -- can cause some scars. It is tempting to run away when painful wounds are inflicted. But when the relationship flowers into full bloom under careful nourishment and perseverance, there are few things in this world that are so beautiful.

Mother's Day

2006-05-14T21:59:00.000-07:00

My five year old burst into my bedroom this morning and sang out in his husky little voice, "Happy Mother's Day, Mom!" and then he clambered up into my bed and covered me with kisses, hugged me around the neck and laid for a while with his soft cheek pressed against mine. The nine year old peered shyly around the corner and smiled when I spotted him and patted the bed next to me as an invitation for him to climb in and join the hug. Rather than hang around and snuggle like his little brother, he opted instead for a quick hug and brushed a kiss across my lips and then began cleaning the kitchen. That oldest child of mine believes that actions speak louder than words. The youngest is loathe to even clean his room but quick to proclaim his love for me and is never stingy with his kisses and hugs. Both approaches to life have their merit. I consider myself lucky to have the best of both worlds since my children have such different temperaments and personalities. My Mother's Day gift from the children was this Willow Tree figurine. I specifically requested it which is a change since I usually have no idea what I might like to have for Mother's Day, other than a nap. I love this sculpture. It just exudes maternal love and the sweetness that comes along with having two little boys. I've always loved to hold my children close to me. I loved it when they fell asleep in my arms as babies. Rather than put them in their crib and take the opportunity to get housework or laundry done, I usually sat and watched them as they slept and was sometimes stunned breathless by the simple beauty of their eyelashes swept against their plump little cheeks. Usually, I laid down and snuggled their sleeping form close to mine and fell asleep with their sweet baby lotion smell in my nostrils. This sculpture, with the mother leaning over and embracing the children, reminds me of the things I love best about motherhood. The Willow Tree sculptures just really speak to me. I bought this one the other day as an early 10th anniversary gift for Brad and me. It is called "Together" and it reminds me so much of mine and Brad's marriage. It is rare for us to be near one another and not touch in some small way whether it be him reaching out to touch my cheek or me reaching over to hold his hand. So many times, he has walked up behind me as I cook dinner or wash dishes or talk on the phone and circled his arms about my waist. I always do exactly what the woman in the sculpture does. I reach my arm up and touch his cheek or his neck and press my face next to his. Then, he goes about his business and I go about mine. Just that one moment of closeness is all we need sometimes. It was a lovely Mother's Day spent with family eating good food and having fun. So many of you were on my mind today and so many were kind enough to comment or e-mail wishing me a happy Mother's Day. What a joy it is to be a part of an online community that is so friendly and supportive and well-wishing. I hope everyone's Mother's Day was as happy as mine.

Pay Attention!

2006-05-12T22:37:00.000-07:00

Last night, Brenda and I attended an event called "Head to Toe." It was a women's event and there were booths with jewelry, perfume, clothing, massage, manicures and pedicures, and there was even a live makeover performed onstage. Our specialty is women's cardiac health so we attended in order to educate the attendees as to their risk of cardiovascular disease. The only screening we provided was to check blood pressures but we offered lots of literature and a few goodies for the women to take home. I checked many blood pressures. I am guessing we checked 75-100 blood pressures over a four hour time period. You want to know how many normal, healthy blood pressures I saw? About six. Yes, you read that correctly. Six. You want to know the average age of the women attending the event? I'm guessing the majority of the women were between 30 and 50 years old. These were not old women. These were not women who were already sick and in the hospital. These were the same women you see shopping at the grocery store and the mall. These were the same women you see attending their children's Little League games and dance recitals. These are women just like me and you. Can you guess what many of the women's responses were when told their blood pressure was too high? Oh, it has been high every time I checked it but it is because I am stressed out. Or because I have been walking around. Or because the sun rose in the East this morning. Here's the news, ladies. Are you paying attention? Your blood pressure should never be above 120/80 on three consecutive tests. If it is, GO TO YOUR DOCTOR. Did you know that, for every ten mm/Hg that your systolic blood pressure (the top number) is above 110, your risk of stroke doubles? If your blood pressure is high, don't make excuses. Don't tell yourself you are too young to have hypertension. Don't talk yourself into believing that you will never have a heart attack or stroke. Because I am here to tell you that Brenda and I read every chart for every patient who comes into our hospital with a heart attack. Guess how old all of the heart attack patients were in the charts I reviewed today? They were in their 40's and 50's, people! When I started reading charts five years ago, most of our heart patients were 60 years old or older. Not anymore. Our sedentary lifestyles are catching up with us. We are dropping like flies from hypertension, heart attack, and diabetes related diseases. If you go to your doctor and he or she tells you it is okay to have a blood pressure higher than 130/80, become assertive. Be an educated healthcare consumer. Read the literature. Don't let your doctor leave the room until all of your questions are answered. Doctors are very busy people. No matter how wonderful and intelligent and kind your doctor may be, he or she is only completely focused on you for the fifteen minutes or so that they are sitting before you. It is up to you to make sure your questions are answered. Be an active participant in your healthcare. Note: Blog, Blah, Blah's regularly scheduled programming will continue if and when I decide to climb down off of my soapbox.

2006-05-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

Brad took himself out of the gene pool last Friday. Yes, he had that delicate procedure of which men hesitate to speak. In fact, you simply mention the word "vasectomy" in mixed company and the men instinctively lower their hands to cover their "boys" and let out an involuntary groan. Then they say things like, "Sorry 'bout your balls, man." I am still of the mind that an episiotomy is far more painful while healing and that's not even taking into consideration the pain of childbirth. All a dude has to do after a vasectomy is lie on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on his crotch. After childbirth and an episiotomy, women are expected to breastfeed and burp the baby, change diapers, give baths, care for the umbilical stump, do laundry, cook meals, and clean house . Oh, and let's not forget: take care of the older children who are naturally a little jealous of the baby which necessitates more than just attending to the necessities of their survival. Noooo, we also have to tend to their psychological needs and let them know that the baby hasn't replaced them in our affections and that means playing with toys and reading books while the baby is sleeping except all we really want to do is sleep too but we can't. And then, with an episiotomy, there's the debilitating fear that a bowel movement will rip out our stitches and we will split in half and/or die from the pain. But you really didn't need that much information, did you? Anywayyyyy, back to the subject: Brad's vasectomy. I went with him to the appointment and was probably immediately labeled as an aggressive weirdo when the secretary asked me to sign a piece of paper stating that I knew Brad was having a vasectomy and knew that meant he wouldn't be able to father any more children. I asked her, "What does it matter if I approve? It's his body. His decision." She chuckled nervously as if trying to figure out if I was making a joke and desperately hoping I was just trying to be funny. I wasn't joking. I told her I would be livid if I decided to have a tubal ligation and they wouldn't perform it without my husband's signature on a form. I let the subject go for Brad's sake because he was anxious enough without me getting into a debate over whether or not my signature on the form was required or even legal. But seriously, how would I feel if I had to ask my husband to sign a form before I could get an IUD, a diaphram, or picked up birth control? I would feel like somebody somewhere high up in the healthcare and legal system assumed that I wasn't self-aware or smart enough to engineer my own family planning. Doesn't so-called "feminism" work both ways? Or is it okay for a doctor to require a spouse's signature before performing a vasectomy? Really. I want to know. Maybe I am wrong. Good grief, but I am getting off of the subject today. The doctor asked me to be in the room during the vasectomy and Brad acquiesced so I took my place in a little recessed area of the small procedure room where I could watch the procedure without being in the way. The office tech asked me, "Do you faint or vomit at the sight of blood or anything like that?" I coolly replied, "I am a nurse. I used to be a scrub nurse, as a matter of fact. These things don't bother me." And they usually don't. Usually. Things were going just fine until there came a point in the procedure where Brad experienced some pain. The doctor immediately injected more local anesthetic but the damage was done. Brad's anxiety had already been extremely high prior to the procedure and the pain escalated it. What happened is what has happened to Brad several times since we married: he got anxious and he had a vasovagal response. He lost all of his color. Even his lips were white as a sheet. He felt sick. He saw spots. He couldn't feel his hands. He asked, "Heather, will you rub my hands? I can't feel my hands." Sure. I didn't mind rubbing his hands. Except that seeing him in so much distress was making me ill and I was feeling faint. Despite my cocky proclamation that these things don't bother me. I had to make do with rubbing his hands for a few minutes at a time and then going to sit with my head between my knees for a few minutes. I repeated this pattern for a while until the doctor, who knows me from the hospital, motioned me to his side and said, "See?" He dissected the vas deferens, clipped it on both sides and then cut a piece out of the middle. Then he said again, "See? The vas deferens. See?" I just nodded my head weakly and returned to my little bench and once again stuck my head between my knees. I wanted to tell him, "Yes, but that's my husband's vas deferens, see. Not the learning opportunity you like to think it is." With the procedure over and Brad lying safely on the table while the tech cleaned the room, I quietly asked directions to the bathroom, navigated my way through the office and waiting room until I reached the tiny bathroom, closed the door, and threw up. Yes. Me, the mighty nurse who isn't bothered by these things. I threw up. And then I went back to the exam room and rescued my pale-faced husband from the doctor who was looking at him sternly and saying, "My neck was operated on without any anesthesia. It's all in your head. Be a man!" Part of me wanted to tell that asshat to take a long walk off of a short pier (except I cleaned that up a little for the benefit of my readers. Okay, I cleaned it up a lot. It wouldn't have been nearly so nice). But the part of me that is the strongest, the part of me that is a loving wife and a good nurse, knew that starting a fight with the doctor would not help Brad at all. And he needed me. After applying cool cloths to his head and neck and speaking softly in his ear and rubbing his hands and just generally administering some tender loving care, we made our way to the car and drove home. He settled himself on the couch (with an ice pack) where he could see the fish swimming idly in his aquarium and stayed there all day. Within half an hour, he was telling jokes and laughing about his experience. And that, gentle reader, is the story of how we exited the gene pool.

see what I got?

2006-05-04T20:21:00.000-07:00

See what I got? Isn't it the most adorable thing you have ever seen? Sharon painted it for me. I love it. I took it with me everywhere I went today. I had it in the car with me on the way to Crash's school program this morning. I almost rear-ended someone because I was too busy looking in the back seat at the painting to pay attention to traffic. Actually, I say Sharon painted it for me. Really, it was painted for my youngest son, Crash. You see, Crash has a stuffed puppy that he has carried around since he was a baby. It's name is simply "Puppy." Puppy used to go everywhere Crash went. Puppy ate breakfast with Crash, watched cartoons with Crash, went to the park with Crash, slept in the bed with Crash. You get the idea, right? Now that Crash is older, Puppy spends his day alone on top of Crash's bed. But he is snuggled and loved every night and Crash can't sleep without him. Puppy is snuggled against Crash's side every night when I tuck him in and I find him practically wrapped around Puppy when I wake him up in the morning. They are a very happy pair. In recent months, I've been worrying that Puppy will soon disintegrate. He has been held and loved so much that he is matted and floppy. Every time I wash him, I fear that only stuffing and scraps of fabric will remain. It distresses me to no end to think that Crash's loyal companion may one day be but a memory. From my worries arose the brilliant idea to have Sharon paint Puppy so that we never have to forget how special he was to our youngest and so Crash never has to look back on his childhood and realize that he can't remember what Puppy looked like. I e-mailed some photographs to Sharon and asked, "Um, Sharon? You don't have to or anything and it is okay if you say no but, um, could I pay you to paint a picture of Puppy?" Sharon was immediately enthusiastic. "I'd love to! I've already drawn pictures of all of my childhood toys." That was in January, I think. It is May and I just got the painting. Why? Because Sharon poured her heart and soul into this painting. She agonized over every detail. She sent me a photo of the unfinished painting back in early March. It already looked great then. But every time I asked her about it she told me she was just adding a few more details. Puppy looks like he has been loved to pieces. I want to show that in the painting. Sharon, I can't thank you enough for what you've given us. This painting is a priceless treasure. It is the embodiment of our son's youth and innocence. It will serve to remind us of the sweetness and purity that is our youngest son. But it will serve a double purpose for me: It has endeared to me the very special friend who spent so much time and love creating an heirloom for my family. It is absolutely perfect.

2006-05-03T19:38:00.000-07:00

I was thinking today about tilt table tests, mostly because Sharon had one yesterday. Tilts have always been one of the procedures I dread administering the most. You wouldn't think that would be true considering I personally am not responsible for any pain except for the IV stick. I am usually complimented on how little my IV sticks hurt, come to think of it. No, I don't dread them because of any role I play. Rather it is the role I am not allowed to play. The whole purpose of a tilt test is to induce fainting. That means I have to sit and watch as my patient turns pale and sweaty just before fainting. I have to listen to the primal moan of agony that comes with the sense of impending doom experienced just prior to passing out. I didn't become a nurse in order to watch people suffer. I became a nurse because I can't stand to see suffering. Tilts go against all that is in me. In fact, during the first tilt I ever administered, I applied a cool washcloth to the face of my patient when she started feeling sick. I was chastised. Heather, what are you doing? You are going to keep her from fainting! Cut that out! What bothers me most about the tilts is not necessarily the physical discomfort the patient experiences. No, it is more disturbing to me to know that most of those patients would rather no one ever see them at their weakest when they are whimpering or moaning aloud from the dread feeling of an impending blackout. Because I would really rather no one ever see me during my moments of weakness. I am an actress extraordinare, if the truth must be known. The day of my wedding, I was so very anxious that I refused to walk down the aisle until I had seen Brad and been able to hold his hand and be reassured that he would be waiting for me at the altar. I was so adamant in my request to see him despite the age old superstitious tradition of the bride and groom not seeing one another before the wedding that I told his aunt that she could either move aside or I would walk over her in order to see Brad. A few moments later, as the ceremony began, a friend remarked to my mother, "Heather is so calm!" Mom replied, "Nah. She is acting." I was acting because I knew I was a nervous wreck but I would be damned if I let everyone else know. Last month, when my stepfather had his emergency surgery, he had what was probably a severe bronchospasm immediately post-op. He turned blue and was placed on a high flow oxygen mask. My mother told me about it over the phone. I assured her that bronchospasms are a complication anticipated by anesthesiologists and they knew how to treat it and he was going to be fine. Then I called Sharon and choked, "He's turning blue. Oh my God, he's turning blue and there is nothing I can do about it." Later, when I saw with my own two eyes that he was okay, I admitted to my mother, "I was so worried when you told me he was blue." She commented that she hadn't worried after talking to me because I had been so calm and reassuring. Like I said, I am an actress. Which brings me back to the reason I dislike tilts. I think I would rather be seen naked by strangers than to let anyone see me moan in pain. I would rather have an invasive procedure under sedation than a test that only requires me to stand for 20 minutes but that brings my defenses down so far that I might whimper even once. And really? That attitude is not so much noble as it is foolish. I have had to train myself to let go enough to let a few select friends actually hear me cry when I am hurt. I am so reluctant to admit when I have been hurt by someone I love that I often bury the hurt deep inside my heart where it only festers and creates a deep, open wound. But I am learning. I recently had to admit to a friend that she hurt me deeply several months ago. She didn't mean to hurt me and she didn't even know she hurt me because of me and my stupid tendency to project an attitude of: Who me? Hurt? Impossible! It is never good to be such a good actress that my pain can be covered so completely from view from those who love me. I find myself thinking that no one cares or else they wouldn't have done this or done that or not done such and such when I needed something extra to get through the day. But guess what? If I don't admit I'm hurt, the only bad guy in the situation is me. Because no matter how egocentric and arrogant I may be, the only person who thinks the universe revolves around me is me. No one else is going to take the time to analyze every exchange they've ever had with me in order to understand what is going on in my mind. Which brings me to another point: No one, no matter how close they are to me, can read my mind. Even when I want them to; it is simply not possible. So even though I dread the tilt table tests, I was always respectful when I administered them. I provided my patients with cool cloths for their neck and forehead immediately after the procedure and pumped them full of IV fluids so they would rehydrate and feel better. And then? I pretended I had never noticed that they cried out or moaned as their blood pressure and heart rate dropped. I didn't baby them or act like I pitied them. I talked about the weather, I talked about my children, I bantered with the people in the room. I made sure my patients did not have to remember that only moments ago they had been frightened and sick. I think they appreciated that.

Me, Myself and I

2006-05-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

Found at Lynda's. I AM: woman. I WANT: more time. I WISH: I was different. I HATE: feeling vulnerable. I MISS: holding a baby against my breast. I FEAR: Fear itself. I HEAR: Our future which, right now, sounds remarkably like two children arguing. I WONDER: what I will be when I grow up. I REGRET: not going to my Senior Bash. I AM NOT: weak. I DANCE: alone. I SING: loudly and often. I CRY: easily. I AM NOT ALWAYS: strong I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: gifts of love. I WRITE: because, like breathing, I simply must. I CONFUSE: left and right. I NEED: to be loved. I START: many projects. I FINISH: few projects

2006-05-01T20:27:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I sat on a bench outside the ER at the hospital today enjoying vanilla bean frappuchinos and light conversation the likes of which we've neither of us had time for of late. It was nice. During the conversation, I referred to her house as though it were my own.

When are we going to get the pool ready for summer, Bren? We really should decorate your sun porch this summer. We've been talking about it for two years. Yes, a dinner party sounds good. When are we having it? A pool party? Great! I'll help.

It's because Brenda and I have been friends for a while now. I helped her move in to that house and I secretly lay claim to it as partly mine. I scrubbed gunk out of the grout on the kitchen counter. I walked in with my bucket of cleaning supplies and shook the previous homeowner's hand. She glanced from me to Brenda and back to me and turned pale and hurried away. She obviously thought Brenda and I were more than just friends. Cleaning gunk and being mistaken for a lesbian. I think that gives me some squatter's rights. Brenda has no children so, when she bought the house with the pool, she said, "I didn't buy that pool so that it won't be used. You and your boys better make good use of it. That was exactly our plan, believe me. For the past two summers, on my days off and in the late afternoons, Bump, Crash, and I have made the pool our own. Bump does cannon balls and can openers off of the diving board. Crash jumps off into the shallow end and doggy paddles around. I alternate between floating on a raft sunning myself, racing Bump from one end to the other, and playing shark by swimming under water and knocking the boys off of their water raft. I stock Brenda's fridge with popsicles, animal crackers, water, and soda. In the summer, there is more food that I've bought in that fridge than there is food that Brenda bought. Come to think of it, it is better stocked than my fridge at home, usually. The thing I love most about the pool, however, is that ever so often I get to sit next to it and drink a margarita with my girlfriends. Summer's a coming. The pool beckons. I can't wait.

If you could see me

2006-04-29T21:00:00.000-07:00

A while back Crouching Mommy, Hidden Laundry asked what would you see if you could view my webcam. I decided to tell you. Always, always, you would see my husband's saltwater reef aquarium. It is very colorful and filled with live corals, anemones, starfish, snails, crabs, shrimp, and lots of brilliantly colored fish. The whole reason we got the webcam is because my husband is so enamored of his aquarium that he wants to be able to look at it periodically throughout his work day. The problem with the webcam is that it really shows most of my family room in addition to the aquarium. You can see whoever happens to be sitting at Brad's computer, our couch, and even into the kitchen. That's why my webcam might make interesting viewing material if you were able to watch it. Depending on the time of day, this is what you might see: Morning: Often in the morning, if you looked into my family room you would see me in nothing but knickers and a brassiere because my laundry is an ongoing process and sometimes I fold it in the family room and leave it to put up the next day. That usually means that I forget and take my shower and start getting dressed when I suddenly realize all of my T-shirts are in the floor in the family room. So, you would see me prance into the family room scantily clad and then you would see me hunker down and cross my arms over my body as I remembered the web cam. Mid-day: If I am home, you would see me sitting on the couch with Crash as he watches cartoons. Sometimes I lie back and close my eyes and sometimes I sit and play on my laptop. Of course, many times I simply snuggle up to Crash and listen to his running commentary on the cartoons and the commercials. Afternoon: This is about the time of day that I begin wanting to pull my hair out. Both kids are home from school and they tear around the house making messes. I forbid after school television so the kids often buck my authority on that one and end up being sent to their room. My oldest has a habit of "forgetting" that he has homework so you would possibly see my eyes bug out when I realize that he has been playing for an hour and hasn't touched his homework. And I am sure you would be understanding and tolerant if you saw me pour a glass of wine around this time of day. I need it to dull the pain when I start banging my head against the wall. Evening: This is the time of day when you might see me flop down on the couch and tell my husband, "I've dealt with them all afternoon. Now it is your turn." You may see me scurrying about my kitchen preparing dinner or you may see me begging and pleading for my husband to take us out for dinner so I won't have to clean the kitchen. By now, homework is done so you will probably see the kids run in and out the back door five zillion times because they seem to think that I can afford to provide air conditioning to the entire neighborhood. Nighttime: Usually you will see Brad and I sitting on the couch watching TV or just talking. Very often, we fold laundry as we watch Smallville, Stargate, or Medium. This is also the time of day when you will see me crawl up in Brad's lap and distract him if I feel he is not paying me enough attention. Sometimes you will see me sitting in the floor in front of the couch with a blanket wrapped around me like a towel while Brad massages my neck and shoulders. And the odds are excellent that you will see Brad standing mesmerized in front of his aquarium watching the fish swim by. However, if you were looking at my web cam at this very moment, you would see me hit "Publish Post" and walk out of the family room because I am going to bed, folks.

the one about Seattle

2006-04-27T21:24:00.001-07:00

I haven't really written about my trip to Seattle. Not because it wasn't great but because I have been worn out and a little stressed because it seems that God has smote my family with illness. First my stepfather, then my grandmother, and now Brad's grandmother have all been hospitalized in my town in the past three weeks. The trip to Seattle was wonderful. Wonderful, I tell you. It only rained once while we were there and it was the morning that we spent in the spa so it certainly didn't interfere with any sightseeing. Why were we at the spa? As for me and Britnee, we got 80 minute facials. It was my first real facial and all I can say is: My God. I was in love with the facial lady at the end of 80 minutes. I learned that a facial doesn't only involve the face. She worked on my face, oh yes. In fact, it felt so good when she smoothed and massaged my facial muscles that I had to work to avoid moaning aloud. I kept thinking of the Friends episode where Phoebe refuses to massage Monica because she moans too much. So, that's why I didn't moan during the facial. Much. But she also massaged my chest and neck, my shoulders and head, and my arms and hands. Some of the muscles she expertly kneaded are so neglected that I really had no idea it could feel so good to have them massaged. One was the pectoral muscle just next to the armpit. I actually did moan when she massaged that one. I asked, "Is that a pressure point or what? It just feels too wonderful." She told me that most clients are surprised at the stress in the pectoral muscle. The other really great part of the massage was when she worked on my hands. After she had rubbed my biceps and triceps and pulled on my arms and smoothed sweet smelling oils into my skin, she laced her fingers through mine and rubbed the palm of my hand with her thumb. Oh. My. God. Who knew a hand massage could be so lovely? *ahem* I just realized that I started out writing about the trip in general and ended up writing about the facial as though it was some sort of orgasmic experience. It wasn't. But close. As for the rest of the trip: Pike's Place Market was really wonderful. The fishmongers were highly entertaining. I couldn't believe how may kiosks were selling fresh cut flowers. They were selling mostly tulips and daffodils actually. They were so beautiful and very inexpensive. Britnee and I picked out a bouquet for our suite but decided not to buy it when we realized we had no vase in which to arrange it. My favorite part of the market was the fruit. I bought grapes, raspberries and blueberries and they were all so fresh and so perfectly ripe that flavor exploded in my mouth with every bite. The grapes tasted like they had just been plucked from the vine. In fact, they reminded me of the summers when my brother and I rode our bikes through the alleys and picked grapes off of our neighbors vines which grew up and over the fences.

The real highlight of the trip, though, was Butchart Gardens in Victoria, Canada. The flowers were breathtakingly beautiful and the air was so beautifully perfumed with the scent of hyacinths. Britnee said it best: "This is how I imagine Heaven must be." It was worth the several hours it took to travel to and from Canada both on highways and on ferries. Just look at some of these pictures and tell me it is not a little piece of Heaven on Earth. Despite all of the fun activities and beautiful sights and good food, my favorite part of the trip was simply spending time with family and friends. I found myself wishing it didn't take a 50th birthday to bring us all together. I wish we could get together at least once a year. The truth is that we all lead very busy lives that make it difficult to find time for rest and relaxation and family bonding. But I am oh, so glad we found time this year. It's nice to be with family and realize that we are not so alone in the world. There are other people who look like me, talk like me, and have many of the same personality quirks as me. There are people who share my blood and DNA and that is very comforting somehow. Very comforting indeed.

2006-04-25T20:19:00.000-07:00

Last night, as I sat in the emergency department next to the stretcher upon which Brad's frail little grandmother rested, I wrote a kick ass post. If I do say so myself. The only problem is that I was smote from Heaven with an invisible force which erased fully half of the post. And I don't know about you but I have not the energy to pour into writing another kick ass post. Because, when I am really on my game and write well, the words just flow from my fingertips without a whole lot of effort or brain power on my part. It was almost impossible to write another post as inspired as the first post. So I gave up. Because I have been thinking of giving up completely anyway. On blogging, I mean. I keep wondering if anyone would even notice and if I would miss it. Of course, I know the answer to that second part. I would miss it terribly. But it seems more and more to me that I have very little interesting information to pass along these days. And I feel badly about that because I don't want to let down those people who come here to read my posts everyday. I am very tired. My trip to Seattle was fabulous. Utterly fabulous. But good Lordy! It exhausted me. Add to that the fact that I had to go sit with Brad's grandmother last night until 1:00 am when his parents were able to make it to the hospital. Once I got home, it took me two hours to wind down so I didn't go to sleep until 3AM. When I am tired, I am very emotionally vulnerable. I cry a lot when I am tired. Even when I am crying, I know it is because I am just exhausted. But it doesn't help to know such things. It still feels bad to cry. I don't mean just a little bit of crying. I mean Niagara Falls. I mean heaving sobs. I mean a full blown pity party. I call my friends when I get tired of crying to myself and they shush me softly at first and then give me pep talks and finally get exasperated and decide they have no idea what to say to me but they have better things to do than to listen to me bitch and moan all day. I can't blame them really. I get on my own nerves when I am like this. Yesterday was my day for crying. Today was my day to look in the mirror and question every aspect of myself. I criticized my nose, my hair, my eyebrows. I cursed the skin on my chest because it looks perpetually sunburned from my years in the sun as a lifeguard. I scowled at my stretchmarks and felt sick when I looked at what seems to me to be far too much padding on my hips, belly and thighs. I looked at my feet and wished they were smaller. Basically, I could find nothing about myself that seemed acceptable and certainly nothing to be praised. This growing older business is not for me. I may be having this small crisis because my birthday looms near. Every year on my birthday I tell myself that I will look fabulous by the time I see another birthday. Every year I am faced with the reality that I never change much and that I have seen my best years already. I am still tired. I hope to feel rested when I wake up tomorrow. Maybe I will be able to look in the mirror and like what I see. Maybe not. I do know that the lyrics from one song have been running through my head all day.

One of these days I'm gonna love me And feel the joy of sweet release One of these days I'll rise above me And then at last I'll know some peace Then I'm gonna laugh a little Maybe even cry a little One of these days I'm gonna love me

Medical Mystery

2006-04-22T17:06:00.000-07:00

It's not Heather, and I'm sure at this point she's pretty much convinced that I won't post anything, but here I (Brenda) am. I spent today at a medical conference here in town. Our hospital had a booth, so I had to be there, but it was very good despite my work-mandated attendance. Yes, I'm the one that Heather took to lunch because I'm overwhelmed at work and my blood pressure is high. Now everybody knows that high blood pressure is not something to be trifled with--or if you don't know, you should. In the past, we've been pretty relaxed about blood pressure, but elevated blood pressure can increase your risk of heart attack, heart failure and stroke. When my blood pressure went up, I wasn't too worried about the heart attack (I consider it a good way to die), but heart failure is debilitating, and having a stroke terrifies me. My blood pressure was at it's lowest 130/80 and at the highest, 147/93. I wasted no time in seeing the doctor and getting on blood pressure medication, then titrating until my blood pressure is less than 120 systolic (the top number). In fact, it's running about 114/63, which is great. Despite my willingness to take medicine to get my blood pressure down, I have been ignoring one little thing that we all know about hypertension--I should be on a low salt diet. Now, I love salt. Especially sea salt, or kosher salt--the really salty kind. Imagine my relief in listening to lectures today and finding out that I had sought help at exactly the right time, gotten my blood pressure to the desired level, and that a low salt diet is not mandated until you have Stage C heart failure. I'm a happy camper! I was impressed that the physician who did the talk really emphasized how important it is to treat blood pressure starting with lifestyle modifications at 130 systolic and medication at 140 systolic. Too often that type of mildy elevated blood pressure is ignored. Would you ignore it if you realized that high blood pressure doubles your risk of stroke? That is a fact that we all need to keep in mind. Heather will feel lonely if she gets no comments, so I've got a comment generator ready. I put together a hospital slide show for the conference today, and while I was wandering around, I took a medical mystery photo. Take your best guess...

Hello from Seattle

2006-04-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

Hello from Seattle! Yes, I am blogging. But that doesn't mean I am not having fun. It simply means that I have a few moments to play on the computer before slipping off to sleep. We are all a little travel-worn today. Mom and I were running late this morning and got to the airport a mere twenty minutes prior to our flight's departure. We basically ran up to our gate just as they began boarding. Which really is fine with me because I don't like waiting. We had a brief layover in Las Vegas so we were able to grab a quick lunch so we could scurry to our gate. And then? Our flight was delayed. So we waited. However, we had a good tailwind and our pilot put the pedal to the metal and we got to Seattle only five minutes later than scheduled. The first thing we did upon meeting up with Sheree, Britnee, and Theresa was to have a drink. Naturally. The second thing we did was crash in our suite and chat and catch up for a little while. Britnee and Sheree are two of my favorite family members. Heck, they are two of my favorite people in the world. My mom and I always enjoy travelling together. In fact, I usually bring her along on my business trips for company. So spending four days with these three women is my idea of a great time no matter what we are doing. We spent some time walking around and seeing the sights this afternoon before going to dinner at a nice seafood restaurant. After dinner, Britnee and I went in search of an ATM. We asked the clerk at the front desk where the closest one was located. She gave us directions to an ATM about two blocks away. As we set off walking toward the street, one very nice guy whispered to us, "There's actually an ATM in the adult bookstore across the street but we don't talk about it. Shhh." Britnee and I decided we'd rather brave the bookstore than walk two blocks in the cold. The ATM in the "bookstore" was situated right between the "f*e*t*i*s*h" video section and the a*d*u*l*t video arcade. As Britnee began to realize what was going on behind the curtains in the arcade, she flushed a vibrant pink and began pushing buttons very quickly in an effort to expedite our departure from the bookstore. I simply laughed. Sometimes you just gotta. Now, Britnee and I have relegated the old gals to one suite and we are occupying another suite. The sad thing is that we both have our computers lying across our laps as we recline against the headboard in our respective beds. It is the age of technology after all. Britnee has a better excuse than me: She is a lawyer and has some work that has to be completed today so that she can enjoy the rest of the weekend. Me? I am just a bloggin' junkie who would go into convulsions if deprived of internet access for four days. Now I must leave you in order to wash my face, brush my teeth and fall into a deep slumber. When I awaken, I shall have a leisurely breakfast followed by an 80 minute facial at the AVEDA spa. Don't hate me.

I'll be back . . .

2006-04-19T21:27:00.000-07:00

I am off to Seattle to spend time with some of the smartest, wittiest and most beautiful women I know: my relatives. My mother, my cousin Sheree, my cousin Britnee, and I are meeting up in Seattle for a long weekend of fun. We will have plenty of rest and relaxation but also have lots of plans made so we can have some fun. I hate packing for trips. I am incapable of making a decision as to which outfits to take and which to leave home. I always pack too many pairs of shoes. When it comes time to zip up my suitcase, I usually have to sit on it to get it to close. At which point Brad unpacks everything and repacks it again and it magically fits with room to spare. The really good thing about going on a trip is that it forces me to catch up all of the laundry. A drawerful of clean socks and underwear is a beautiful thing. It is almost like a shopping spree when I catch up on the laundry because I inevitably find clothes I'd forgotten I had. I will be taking my laptop to Seattle but it is my sincere hope that I will be having WAY too much fun to think about blogging. I may have some guests post for me while I am gone. Brenda has agreed to post and I may rustle up one or two others. Who knows? I am taking my camera so I will have pictures upon my return. Oh, and I should mention that the last time I was in close proximity to these women, I danced on the bar at Coyote Ugly. But only because Britnee made me. ;-) Have a great weekend, mi amigos!

my finger hurts

2006-04-18T20:21:00.000-07:00

My pinky finger hurts. Last Sunday, when my stepfather was in the hospital, I was sitting in a recliner next to his bed while he slept as well as can be expected when one has a 6-8 inch surgical incision in one's belly from an emergency surgery. The nurse came into the room at one point and offered to help my stepdad with a bath. Now, my stepdad and I are close but not so close as all that. So, I stuffed the book I was reading into my tote bag and began to push forward the lever that would bring the chair out of the reclining position. When I did so, my pinky finger became wedged between a strip of molding on the wall and the lever on the chair. The lever was spring loaded so I was unable to stop it from pushing forward. The result was that the top joint of my pinky finger was bent completely backward. The worst part of the event was that I couldn't shout out in pain because I was afraid my stepdad would sit bolt upright in the bed and tear out all of his stitches. So I bit my lip and walked calmly into the hallway where I jumped up and down and sucked on my finger. I began icing the injury immediately but it still developed a nice purple bruise. My husband was convinced my finger was broken. Everyone who looked at it was also convinced it was broken because it is disfigured from an accident I had long ago. I broke it at that time and it is now misshapen because I was unable to write at school when wearing my splint. So I didn't wear it and now my right pinky finger is perpetually crooked and bent. So every time anyone looked at it and said, "Oh, that finger is definitely broken!" I had to go into the whole schpeel about why the finger is bent. It turns out it wasn't broken (we x-rayed it) so I expected it to start feeling better within a couple of days. Well, here we are ten days later and my finger still hurts. Earlier today, it only hurt if I pressed on it or forgot and picked up something heavy that put too much pressure on that finger. However, when I was washing my hair in the shower this evening, I reached back and began ringing out my hair and I heard a pop and felt a searing pain in my finger. Ever since then, it hurts to even move it. Lucky for me that I don't type with my fingers on the correct keys and have discovered that I use my right pinky finger not at all. I don't really have a point. Except that my finger hurts and I was very noble and didn't scream when I hurt it and it isn't supposed to hurt anymore and yet it still does and now I've hurt it even worse and I really, really want it to stop hurting, dammit! Thank you. That is all.

Lalalalala . . . Oh, hello!

2006-04-16T21:07:00.000-07:00

I'm back from my weekend getaway! Let's pretend that you missed me terribly, okay? I know that you all love it when Sharon posts for me but let's pretend that you checked the blog several times a day just to see if I had returned. My delusions are all that keep me going. Don't take them away. Friday night, Brad and I stayed in the same hotel where we spent our wedding night. When I first walked into our suite, I looked around and thought that it had changed quite a bit in the last ten years. Then I realized that it had changed not much at all. The bedspread and curtains were not the same, but the suite was almost identical to the one we slept in so many years ago. So why did it all seem so different? It finally dawned on me that it was Brad and I who had changed. We are not the same couple who stayed in that hotel ten years ago. Some things remain unchanged. We are still in love. We are still thrilled to get out of town and spend time together. I still like to have a leisurely soak in a hot bath when we are on vacation and he still prefers a quick shower. I still walk barefoot down to the pool and he still insists on wearing shoes. He still likes to unpack his clothes and put them in the hotel dresser. I still like to keep mine in the suitcase because I don't see the point in moving them back and forth. But so many things have changed. Ten years ago, we were so tired when we arrived at the hotel after our wedding that our first priority was to sleep. Now, we have two children and demanding schedules and I can tell you that our first priority this weekend was not sleep. Ten years ago, we had scraped together a certain amount of money to spend on meals and entertainment for our honeymoon and budgeted carefully lest we run out and be forced to go hungry. This weekend, we went to eat at a fine restaurant and forgot to look at prices before we ordered. The sum of the check was such that it would have crippled us ten years ago. This weekend, we were pleasantly surprised that the meal had "only" cost so much. Ten years ago, my husband grumbled and complained of his aching feet when he accompanied me to shop for clothes. This weekend, he sat just outside the fitting room and offered his opinion as to which Easter dress I should buy. Then, he singlehandedly picked out jewelry to go with the dress saying all the while that the turquoise jewelry brought out the color of my eyes. Ten years ago, we took in the sites and enjoyed activities and entertainment with no great sense of urgency to return home. This weekend, we shopped for clothes and gifts for our two children and were excited to drive home so we could hear our boys tell us about their weekend. Things have changed in the ten years since we married. In the next ten years, our marriage will change and evolve some more. I find comfort in some of the things that haven't changed though; some of the things that I hope will never change. My husband and I love each other. We are best friends. We look forward to spending time together. We are comfortable together in a way that I never thought possible before we married. June will mark ten years of marriage. Mostly, when I think of our ten year anniversary, the thought that runs through my head is this: Thank God we will never be twenty years old and newly married again! And please, God, give us many, many more years together.

it's only me, Sharon

2006-04-15T04:14:00.000-07:00

Heather invited me to post for her again while she is enjoying her romantic weekend getaway with her husband. I accepted with alacrity. Then a number of events befell me.

We had a severe thunderstorm last night.
In what I would consider a seriously delayed response, the power went out this morning.
Before which point, Blogger absolutely refused to acknowledge me as an advanced primate in the system.
And my husband had just brought home four bags' worth of groceries, all of which required refrigeration.

I gave up and scrubbed my porch. Cleaning makes me feel better. The power was out for hours. Hours! Try making a six-year-old a hot dog for lunch with no electricity and no other alternative heat source. I'm sorry there's no television, children. I'm sorry there's no refrigeration. Or power. Or anything. Thank God you're boys and can pee outside if you have to. Every once in a while they'd go to the refrigerator and open it up and stand there staring at its silenced hulk until I yelled at them to close the door, QUICK! Like it's filled with magic, irreplacable air and we have to conserve and protect it, like helium and argon and the other rare gases going into extinction. Then they'd turn on the television and make scowling sounds when it just clicked blankly. "There's no power." Heavy sigh. "I might have mentioned that." Look. My expectations have become very simple. I just want a consistent energy supply and the ability to flush without fearing I'll blow up the water tank (I'm not sure if electricity is required to run it, but it must be). Come back soon, Heather! Tell us what it was like on the outside. Inquiring minds want to know.

2006-04-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

As my husband and I sat in the car in the drive-thru lane at Chick-fil-A today, I turned to him suddenly and clutched his arm. "You can never leave me!" "Ummm . . .okay. Why the sudden proclamation?" "Because I can't function when I can't be near you." It's true. Ask any of my friends and they will tell you that I should be nicer to my husband. They will tell you he is hen-pecked. They will tell you that he worships the ground I walk on despite the fact that I boss him around incessantly. Yeah . . . well, I have a reputation to uphold. I've sworn all my life that I would never be subservient to a man. Right up until a few days before my wedding I swore I would never get married. And always, always, I promised myself I would never come to need someone so much that I might feel incomplete without them. The only problem with that is that . . . well, I fell in love with Brad. That little glitch blew all my plans to hell. Love? Who'd have thunk it? Brad had to work all night last night on some sort of upgrade or server change or something. He went to work at 9:30 pm and thought he would be home by 4:00 am. So I left the hall light on for him and the light in our dresser and, once I was so sleepy that I could reasonably expect to fall asleep and stay that way, I went to bed. But Brad didn't get to come home until almost 9:00 this morning. I had already taken both children to school and was sitting in my first meeting of the day by the time he finally rested his head on a pillow. The moment I woke up this morning, I knew I should just crawl back under the covers and hide. I had no husband curled next to me to snuggle up and wish me a good morning. I had no one to talk to about how well I had slept and the dreams I had. I had no one hogging the bathroom while I was trying to get ready for work. I had no one asking me to pick out a shirt for him to wear to work. I took on the morning all alone. I went head to head with the youngest child who is especially churlish in the mornings. I loaded both children into the car and set off down the road 30 minutes earlier than I would have if my husband had been home to take the oldest child to school as usual. I fielded questions and answered yay or nay to requests presented by the children. "Can we plant my flower seeds today?" "Maybe. It depends on what time I get home." "Can we watch TV this afternoon?" "Probably not. It is a beautiful day. Play outside." "Can we go see Poppy?" "It depends on how he is feeling today." I dropped one child off at school and trekked across town to the other child's preschool. I sent him merrily on his way and went straight to the hospital and to my stepfather's hospital room where one look at my mother's pale face and unruly hair told me that he had not had a good night. He had suffered pain. He'd had his drains removed. My mother said the scene resembled that of the Forty Year Old Virgin having his chest waxed. My stepfather screamed like that when the drains were pulled. Then he'd gotten sick and thrown up which caused unbearable pain. When I arrived, he was sleeping soundly as the pain and nausea meds have the happy side effect of inducing a coma-like state. As I was standing over him, his eyes fluttered open and he blinked twice before focusing on my face and asking, "Do you have your stethoscope? There is a gurgling in my side and the other nurses can't hear it." I fetched my stethoscope, reassured him that I could only hear normal bowel sounds and ran off to my morning meeting. I sat at the desk after my meeting feeling particularly weighted down by responsibilities and worries. And then? I cried. And then? I drove home and crawled in bed with Brad. He was sleeping so soundly that he barely stirred when I slipped into bed. I scooted to the middle of the bed, laid my head on the same pillow he was resting upon, and curled up next to him with my knees bent just behind his knees and my body curved in a perfect parallel to his. As I settled in next to him, he reflexively moved closer to me. And finally, I felt like my day had begun. I no longer felt all alone. I no longer felt so different from everyone else. I felt my muscles begin to relax and, for the first time, realized I had been clenching my jaw all morning. I went from being so keyed up that I couldn't sit still without tapping my foot on the floor or drumming my fingers on the desk to being so relaxed that I drifted off to sleep effortlessly. Two hours later, we woke up and rolled toward one another to say good morning. We exchanged the banter we would have if he had been home this morning. And then we forced ourselves out from under the warm covers and away from our soft mattress and once again dressed for the day ahead. It was one o'clock in the afternoon and it felt like my day was finally getting off to a good start. So, we let our friends tease us about my bossiness and Brad's abject adoration. But it's because we know the truth: if I can't be near my husband every morning, I can't make it through the day. If I can't talk to him and touch him, I feel like my internal compass is spinning. If I don't curl up next to him every night, I feel incomplete; like the best part of me is missing. But I do have a reputation to uphold. So, shhh. Let's go on pretending that I am the mighty she-ra that everyone believes me to be.

labor of love

2006-04-11T20:02:00.000-07:00

"For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation." Rainer Maria Rilke

I've always loved that quote. I admit I didn't know who originally said it until I read it in a book given to me by a friend recently. But I really have always loved it. I love it because it is so very true and it makes me think about how extraordinary it is that we humans form the bonds we do with other humans. Because, for one human being to love another, they have to resign themselves to the fact that they will never again go through life without considering the impact their decisions will make on the people they love. They have to acknowledge that loving another human being will inevitably lead to a sense of sadness or loss when that person is far away or sick or going through rough times. Loving another human means there will be stress and bickering at times because we are often pushy when trying to "help" those we love. It means hours spent hovering over hospital beds in an agony of uncertainty during times of illness or injury. It means we will give selflessly of ourselves when our loved one is in need even though we really wish we could be the one doing the taking. Face it: loving another human being inevitably leads to pain and sadness. Because, if you really love another person, you feel their pain with them. You even wish you could feel pain for them. Loving another human means giving up part of ourselves. But loving another human being also means we will walk around with the knowledge that we are never alone. It means we will see things as we go about our day to day life that remind us of someone we love and cause us to smile. It means we will experience the elation of giving selflessly and seeing that we've made a difference in someone's day, someone's week, even in someone's life. It means we will experience emotions so powerful that they take our breath away. Loving another human being means that we will always have a reason to keep living, to keep pushing, to keep trying. Loving another human means gaining so much more than we give away. Loving another human is work. It is pain. It is uncertainty. But it is a worthwhile labor. It is also tenderness. It is patience. It is every beautiful and wonderful thing. It is the work for which all other work is but preparation.

Getting the hell out of Dodge

2006-04-10T19:52:00.000-07:00

Tonight as we drove to dinner, I said to my husband, "I reserved a hotel room for Friday night." Our oldest son exclaimed, "A hotel? Yay! Where are we going?" I had the satisfying experience of retorting, "We are not going anywhere, little dude. Daddy and I are going out of town." A puzzled expression crossed his features and he asked, "But . . . why?" "Well, remember when Daddy kissed me in the kitchen the other night and you said, "Ewwww! Get a room, people!" "Yes," he answered. "Well, we took your advice."

Yes, that's right. For one glorious night and one lovely day, Brad and I will leave cluttered houses and sorted laundry behind us. We will leave fighting children and ailing relatives in our dust. We will ignore ringing phones and pressing e-mails. We will forget about budgets and utilities and car payments. In short, we will have fun. We will eat an expensive and delicious dinner. We will drink wine (for him) and margaritas (for me) as we sit in the hot tub. We will go to bed when we feel like it and sleep late the next morning. We will eat breakfast at 10:00. We will shop at the scrapbooking store (for me), the aquarium store (for him), and the mall (for the kid's Easter clothes) without having to yell at a child even once. Friday can't come soon enough.

2006-04-09T07:44:00.000-07:00

I am typing this post from my stepfather's hospital room. He had another emergency surgery yesterday morning. You may recall that he had an emergency appendectomy about ten days ago. During his surgery, the appendix ruptured. That's bad, in case you didn't know. The surgeon discharged him and thought he was fine but he had to go to the ER Friday night because of severe pain and fever. The CT scan showed he had two abscesses in his belly. The kicker is that, in my stepdad's town, there were no surgeons on call for the weekend. He had to be transferred to another hospital for surgery. Naturally, we asked for him to be transferred to the hospital where I work as a nurse. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. First, the ER docs at his hospital seemed offended that my parents exercised their rights as healthcare consumers by asking to be transferred here. Second, the surgeon at my hospital balked at accepting my stepdad as a transfer because surgeons are loathe to take on another surgeon's complications. So what did I do? What I always do. I pushed. I am good at that. I paged the surgeon who was refusing to accept my stepfather and explained the situation. He agreed to accept my stepdad as a patient. As a result, the ER doc at the other hospital berated my mother for calling me to intervene. He was clearly peeved that I had accomplished in five minutes what he wouldn't or couldn't accomplish in several hours. I offered to talk to the ER doc but my mother begged me not to. She was worried I would offend him further and my stepfather would be ill-treated as a result. First, I have to register my alarm that our healthcare system is such that any patient fears ill treatment as a result of having an open and honest communication with their caregiver. Second, does my mother really think I am all that aggressive? I would have been firm but professional. It always puzzles me as to why people think I am an overly aggressive person. The happy result of the above mentioned drama is that my stepfather received the care he needed. The surgeon at my hospital took one look at his CT films and whisked him away to emergency surgery. Now he has an impressive incision along with an array of assorted medical tubes and drains but at least he is on the road to recovery. When my mother and I stepped tentatively into the recovery room just moments after his surgery, my stepfather was lying on the stretcher looking pale with his face drawn into a grimace. Open abdominal surgeries are painful, folks. He had already received some hefty doses of heavy duty pain medicine and still whimpered from the pain. My mother stood near the stretcher in tears and my stepdad kept repeating, "I don't want y'all to see me like this." Our answer? "Get over it. We love you." I spent the day sitting by his bedside listening to his breathing as he slept. At the slightest sound or movement from him, I jumped up and hovered over him until he drifted back into a drugged slumber. He is connected to a machine that takes his blood pressure and heart rate every so often and I kept it turned toward me so that I could see it. Every time his temperature was taken, it was dutifully reported to me. I have to do those things, you see. Otherwise I feel helpless. And there is no feeling I detest more than helplessness. I need control. Lots of it. And hovering over my stepfather allows me to delude myself into believing I have some sort of control over his situation. There are other advantages. Every time he woke up yesterday, he reached out and held my hand. Compared to the the knowledge that I am needed by someone I love so much, control seems more like a fringe benefit.

Bugger Off!

2006-04-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

I ordered this shirt from Sharon's Art Shop today. It says:

BUGGER OFF! I'm fine the way I am

I mostly just ordered it because it's cheeky and I love it. But I also ordered it because I have been feeling fed up with the way some people take it upon themselves to judge others based on appearance. Some of you may recall a doctor friend of mine telling me I had gained weight and my arms looked fat several months ago. I was crushed at first but later became just flat out angry. Who does he think he is to tell me I have gained weight and claim that it was in the spirit of friendship? Because I wasn't fat and, at the time, I was still regularly complimented on my appearance by my friends and even total strangers. In fact, the same doctor's mother came to visit the United States a while back. When she met me, she told me I have the face of an angel. So HA! Right then, I should have told my friend, "Bugger off! I am fine the way I am." Recently I have lost some weight. About twenty pounds. And no, I didn't lose it because of the remark the doctor made to me. I mostly lost it because I got very stressed out and couldn't eat without feeling sick. Not a great way to lose weight, I can tell you. You wouldn't believe how many people tell me I look great. One of my husband's friends has gushed every time he's seen me. He always asks, "You've lost A LOT of weight, haven't you?" Then he just goes on and on about how wonderful I look. The implication is that I didn't look wonderful before. I am here to tell you that anyone who couldn't see that I was beautiful before I lost twenty pounds is not really someone I care to know. I wasn't fat before I lost the weight. I was still in a healthy weight range for my height and my clothes fit. Even with 20 pounds melted off of my frame, most of my clothes still fit me. I am 5'7" tall. I can shed and gain twenty pounds without a huge difference in the way I look. But it's not all about how I look anyway. I am a beautiful person on the inside. I am kind and compassionate. I care about others. I go out of my way to make others feel good. I care for my children tenderly. I love my husband passionately. I am a true and loyal friend. I am an attentive daughter. I took one of my best friends to lunch yesterday simply because she is so stressed that her blood pressure is high. I went to the movies last night with another friend who is going through a rough divorce and just uprooted herself and her daughter to move here. Most of you know by now that I made a quilt for Sharon. And yet? I have these people deeming me beautiful or not based on whether I am thin enough for their standards. I have people deciding whether or not I am worthy of their attention based on if they find me attractive or not. And I am tired of it. So. Bugger off! I am fine the way I am.

2006-04-05T20:33:00.000-07:00

I received one of those e-mail meme thingies last week. It was the one where you have to name four places you've lived, four places you would retire, etc. One of the questions was to name four jobs you've had in your lifetime. My answers were: lifeguard, water safety instructor, nanny, and registered nurse. Call me dumb, but that was the first time I realized that I am drawn almost exclusively toward occupations which allow me to be protective and nurturing. Not that I don't know that I am a caretaker by nature. I know that. I just didn't realize how much of my life has been about caring for others. Because, you know, if I was to write a memoir, I always thought I'd call it It's All About Me or Enough About You, Let's Talk About Me. But now I think I have established proof that I am not always as selfish as I believe myself to be. Just look at all of the people I have taken care of! I saved a baby from drowning when his inner tube flipped upside down when his parents weren't looking. I jumped in and saved a little boy who got tired while swimming in the deep end and sunk like a rock to the bottom of the pool. There are several children who were terrified of water when I met them but can swim now because of me. In fact, the terrified children were always given to me. I cared for my twin cousins as though they were my own children from the time they were newborn until I had to move away from them when they were 2 1/2 years old. I bathed and dressed them every day, fed them and rocked them to sleep, sang songs to them and pushed them in their swings. They cried for me for a year after I moved. I've helped save countless lives as a nurse. I've administered CPR. I've delivered precordial thumps. I've defibrillated. I've administered fluids wide open and titrated vasoactive drips. I've sedated patients so that they need not know fear during their electrophysiology procedures. I've applied my full weight to bleeding femoral arteries. But also as a nurse I have bathed those who can't bathe themselves. I've administered oral care for patients whose lips and mouth are dried and cracked from being on a ventilator. I've rubbed backs and held hands. I've administered hugs and I've shared smiles. I've fetched warm blankets and I've delivered pain medication. I have a tendency to look back on my life so far and beat myself up for the "bad" things I have done or the things that I should have done differently. But it was kind of nice today to think back on the good things I have done for others. It was nice to recall the things I have done right. And really, I have to admit that the good things outweigh the bad. Imagine my surprise to realize that I have lived for thirty years and I am just now learning to give myself a little credit for being a decent human being.

2006-04-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

For several months, I have suspected that my youngest child is reading words without realizing it. So often, he strikes up a conversation about a word or subject that was written on a sign or billboard, etc. And I don't mean obvious things like the McDonald's sign or common street signs, either. I mean things like billboards and those boards on which churches write words of advice and reflection. Things like that. Today, my suspicions were confirmed. He was sitting in my bedroom floor playing with a little massager in the shape of a lady bug. He asked, "Mom, does this say 'NO'?" He was looking at the power button only he was holding it upside down. So it read "NO" instead of "ON". I got so happy and excited that I kissed him and hugged him and praised him and hollered for his father to come quick! It embarrassed the poor child so much that he started crying. Crash is VERY shy. Even that much attention from his parents is distressing to him. His teacher called me and told me he doesn't know his alphabet on sight and asked me to work with him. I am working with him but I suspect the problem is that Crash is unwilling to perform. He knows the letters but he feels no burning need to prove it to the rest of us. Crash reminds me of me. I think I sort of learned to read by intuition, or something. I don't remember ever having to sound out words. One day the words on the page just suddenly made sense. I still remember the day perfectly. My mother and I sat in front of our house on the hood of the car and I read one of my books to her. I've had a book in front of my nose ever since. Once I learned to read, I had an insatiable appetite for words and language. I would read anything I could get my hands on. I don't remember ever having trouble understanding the vocabulary in the books that technically were written for older kids or adults. Once, I sat in the kitchen floor and read all of my mother's recipe cards. I don't know why. I guess I was bored. There was one recipe for brisket. A friend had written the recipe for my mom and spelled it as "briskit". My memory is very good. It is darn near photographic. Fast forward to the spelling bee. I don't know how many months or years it was after I read the brisket recipe. I won my school's spelling bee and got to move on to the district spelling bee. My second word was "brisket". I walked up to the microphone and said, "Brisket. B-R-I-S-K-I-T. Brisket." WRONG! Suffice it to say that I was furious! I told my mother that I had spelled it right, I knew I spelled it right, because I saw it on one of her recipes. I think I even dug through the recipe cards and found it just to show her. It never occurred to me that an adult might have spelled a word wrong. I felt so cheated. When I am old and senile, I suspect I will tell the story of the spelling bee over and over. It will always haunt me. I am not accustomed to being wrong, especially when it comes to words. And now! My baby is reading! Small words now but soon he will be reading sentences. And then? A whole new world will come to life for him! So many adventures await! So many mysteries! So many heartwarming tales! My baby. He's reading.

2006-04-03T21:17:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine (who likes to remain unmentioned on my blog) recently gave me a mirror which has this verse written on it:

You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.

--Song of Solomon 4:7

When I opened the gift and gushed over how beautiful it was, my friend told me that she had chosen that particular verse so that I would look in the mirror and see myself the way she sees me. I was moved beyond words. I think I may have said, "Aw, Shucks." Seriously. Did you think I am eloquent in real life? Well, I am not. My friend knows me well. She knows that I am very self-critical. She knows that I see a thousand flaws when I look in the mirror. But she sees me through the veil of friendship and it must cast a flattering glow because she always has such nice things to say to me. Part of the reason my friend is on a personal quest to make me see myself the way she sees me is because she is so much like me that it is sometimes eery. There's very little we can hide from one another because we can read each other's minds effortlessly. I've told her before that it is futile to try to fool me because I know her too well. Every subject change, every unanswered question, every hesitation in her speech is documented in my brain. I may not always push her to explain, but she she is usually well aware that I am on to her. And I guess all I am trying to say is that it is nice to have such a friend. It is nice to know someone who loves me is always at the ready to cheer me when I feel blue or sympathize when I feel scattered and pulled in many directions. In turn, it is also nice to be needed. It's nice to get a call from my friend when she's down because she obviously thinks I might be able to cheer her up. It's nice to hear someone else say that her kids are driving her to drink. It's nice to have a friend who calls me every day to say hello and wish me a happy day even if she has no news to share. I gave my friend a gift today. It was an Easter tablecloth that was so cute! She showed it to her husband and said, "Heather gave it to me." Her child said, "Heather, Heather, Heather! You are always doing things for Heather; always talking to Heather." We were highly amused. Especially since my children have made the exact same statement to me about her. My hope is that our children will grow to have friends as trustworthy and well-loved as we love each other. I hope that our friendship will serve as a positive model for some of their future relationships. For, if they have just one friend in their life who is as special as my friend is to me, they will be blessed indeed. I look in the mirror and remind myself as to why my friend chose such a beautiful verse. I remind myself that someone who cares about me believes me to be beautiful. But, honestly? I am most reminded of the flawless beauty, inside and out, of the woman who gave it to me.

Follow me to Follow That Star

2006-04-03T06:41:00.000-07:00

I am guest posting at Follow That Star today. Click on over there and check out his site. FTS is a great writer and a nice guy but I really must question his wisdom in letting this country gal write for his site. While you're there, spend some time reading some of the other guest posts and it is especially worthwhile to read anything FTS himself wrote.

Yeah, I'm dumb

2006-04-01T18:34:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have that dream where you realize, once you're at school (because I am always still in school in those dreams), that you forgot to wear a shirt today? I know you have. Marcey and Sharon both wrote about that type of dream recently. Except they apparently forget to wear pants in their dreams. Not me. I forget to wear my shirt. Well, it sort of really happened to me last night. We got a call from some friends of ours inviting us to go to dinner and a movie last night. We only had a few minutes to get ready to meet them at the movie theater. Brad and the boys were already in the car when I grabbed a shirt, threw it over my head, and ran out to the car. Only when we were halfway to the movie theater did I realize that my shirt was falling off of me. I looked down and realized that I was sporting far more cleavage than any respectable girl should show. Well, I mean, come on! We were going to see Ice Age 2! Who sports cleavage to a children's movie? The shirt was a handkerchief top that I fell in love with and bought in December and excitedly anticipated wearing when the weather became nice again. It has been 90 degrees here for the past couple of days, thus I wore the shirt. Besides being too big in the bust area, the shirt also slid off of my shoulders. It constantly slid off both shoulders. At the same time. Did I mention the shirt was made of handkerchiefs? That means there was no stretchy fabric to help it stay up. I found myself gripping the shirt in the bosom area and shrugging my shoulders to try to keep it from falling off completely. I was still fighting a losing battle with my shirt when we arrived at the restaurant a couple of hours later. It was so big that two hands were not enough to keep it on my body. The restaurant was conveniently located next to Wal-Mart and I finally gave up and walked to Wal-Mart, bought a T-shirt and changed my top in the restroom. It was quite embarrassing. What kind of idiot wears a shirt that is wayyyyy too big? Me. *raises hand* This idiot. My only defense is that I have lost 20 pounds since I bought the shirt. I still have trouble realizing that I am smaller now than I used to be. Because I wasn't big to begin with. Twenty pounds was actually probably a little too much weight to lose. But still, when I look in the mirror, I look the same size as I was three months ago. I guess that's why I thought the shirt would still fit. After I changed my shirt, I folded up the handkerchief top and put it in my purse. I couldn't help laughing a little as I walked back to the restaurant. Only hookers and, now me, carry around a change of clothes in their purse.

And the winner is . . .

2006-04-01T12:30:00.000-08:00

Thanks for all of the helpful suggestions on my last post for vacation spots! We are going to . . . (drum roll please) SEATTLE! I am really excited. I've never been to Seattle before. But I know that Eunice loves Seattle. I am hoping she can give me some sight-seeing advice before I go! Things are crazy-busy here right now. But I swear I will try to post tonight!

HELP!

2006-03-30T20:56:00.000-08:00

My cousin and I are trying to plan a weekend getaway for the two of us and our mothers. The trip is in honor of Britnee's mom's 50th birthday. We were going to go to Cancun, Mexico but aren't sure we want to go there because the beach is torn up from the hurricane. So, I need help! We need suggestions for fun yet relaxing vacation destinations! Keep in mind that we only have three days and we would kind of like to stay in the United States. Do any of y'all have certain cities that you love to visit and might recommend?

I'm here! I'm here!

2006-03-29T19:06:00.000-08:00

I must apologize for my unexpected absence. What? You didn't notice I was gone? Again? *sigh* My stepfather had an emergency appendectomy yesterday. The appendix ruptured as they were removing it which made him much at higher risk for infection. And since I am the mighty alpha nurse, I rode into town on a white steed to save the day. Actually, I showed up and did what any non-medical person would do: I worried over him and sat at his bedside to provide entertainment during his wakeful moments. Well, that and I pulled him up higher in bed, fluffed his pillows, felt his forehead, fetched his water, and made him a splint to hold against his side when he coughed. I also helped his nurse get him up out of bed and walking around the unit, changed the sheets on his bed and brought him warm, soapy water so he could wash his face and hands. I also shooed everyone out of his room around 9:00 last night and intercepted phone calls from well-wishers so he could get some rest. My mother likened me to Nurse Ratched. Seriously, his nurse came in the room a few minutes after I arrived and asked, "Are you the one who's a nurse?" I nodded my head in response. He proceeded to detail my stepfather's plan of care and ask me anxiously, "You are going to stay, right? You will keep an eye on him, right?" "Right," I said, nodding my head solemnly. The nurses were very, very nice and I felt comfortable entrusting his care to them. But I was more than mildly amused that they rationalized every nursing intervention to me and waited for my approval before proceeding. Did I think he should have Vicodin or Demerol IV for his pain? Because he was pretty weak and loopy on the Demerol earlier. Demerol, of course. Take care of his pain. If he wants the shot, give him the shot. I really think he shouldn't be walked without his oxygen. Naturally. His O2 sats are only 90% without the oxygen. I think he should have a sponge bath so he doesn't desaturate while in the shower. What do you think? Well, I think he might be fine in the shower but I certainly don't think it would hurt to be cautious. This was a new experience for me. As a rule, nurses eat their young. They also eat nurses who are not native to their territory. This has always disturbed me. Nursing is a caring profession. We should be as kind to our peers as we are to our patients. Alas, this is rarely the case. Usually, when a loved one is hospitalized and lets it be known that I am a nurse, I get irritated glances aimed in my direction and the nurses adopt an arrogant manner as if to say, "Who does she think she is? Coming in here and judging me. Hmmmph." Honestly, I am not judging! Naturally, I will not tolerate ill treatment of my loved ones but I would only presume to question a nursing intervention if I considered it to be unsafe. So, it was nice to be deferred to in the care of my stepfather. I found it so much easier to relax and let the nurses do their jobs because of their friendly attitude. The day nurse, Jeff, was a very nice guy who was probably a few years younger than me. He's been a nurse for four years. He was a nervous little fellow, I can tell you that. He was very, very, very cautious in his care of my stepdad. Myself, I would have stuck my stepdad in the shower and trusted that he would breathe deep enough to bring up his oxygen level once he was up and around. But I also had no problem with Jeff being cautious and offering a sponge bath instead. Myself, I would have written off the event where my stepfather's legs buckled during his first time standing after surgery to orthostatic hypotension. But I also had no problem with Jeff being more cautious about getting him up just after giving him pain medicine. Myself, I would have had my stepfather up and walking much sooner than he did but stayed quiet and let Jeff keep him in bed in the interest of not causing any further pain. Which actually resulted in more discomfort considering that gas built up in my stepdad's belly as a result of not walking soon enough after surgery. But I digress . . . My point, and I do have one, is that the nurses caring for my stepdad made me feel proud to be in the nursing profession. Yes, Jeff was a nervous fellow. Yes, the night nurse asked me before she administered pain medicine. But they cared. That's what counts. It was so obvious that they wanted to take the best care possible of my loved one. I am happy to be associated with nurses of such high caliber. I can hold my head high knowing these lovely people are caring for those who need kindness the most.

Amblyopia

2006-03-27T18:53:00.000-08:00

My oldest son has problems with his eyes. When he was about to begin first grade, we learned that he had perfect vision in his right eye but was legally blind in his left eye. It was explained to us that he had probably had poor vision in the left eye since birth. His brain got tired of constantly trying to focus his binocular vision and simply turned off his left eye. Thus, the vision in the left eye became even worse because it wasn't being used. On his first visit to the pediatric opthalmologist, she couldn't correct his vision any more than 20/400 even with the strongest prescription. We had to use a black occlusive contact lens in his good eye in order to force his brain to look through his weak eye. Remarkably, his vision improved rapidly and he didn't suffer much at school. He simply had to sit closer to the board and was counseled to always ask his teacher for help if he couldn't see well enough to read or write. The treatment wasn't painful or difficult but Bump did suffer a little because he felt so very different from the other kids. His right eye appeared to be completely black because of the occluder lens and the glasses he wore were so thick that his left eye appeared magnified. Most of the kids thought the black contact was cool, but all Bump has ever wanted is to fit in. He dislikes having attention drawn to him. Just before he started second grade, the decision was made to stop occluding the vision in the right eye and let him go back to having binocular vision. Bump was thrilled because, not only did he get to lose the black contact, he also got to stop wearing glasses and instead wear a prescription contact in his weak eye. The problem was that his brain had the hardest time integrating the images from both of his eyes into something that made sense. Letters were jumbled and mixed up when he tried to read and he often had difficulty writing. Even copying words down was difficult because they looked so jumbled on the paper. Bump really suffered that year. He came home crying often. We sat down to work on homework every afternoon and he always got so frustrated. He often sobbed, "I'll never be good at anything! Ever!" Once he got so frustrated that he exclaimed, " I wish I were dead!" My heart broke into pieces that day. I wanted to make everything easier for my little boy. But I couldn't. Nobody could. It was just one of those things we had to get past the best we knew how. One day, out of the blue, his brain jumped on the same bandwagon as his eyes. Overnight, he stopped having trouble with his reading and writing. Homework was no longer a grueling task and major ordeal. He began writing stories again. He began drawing pictures. He was back to being the child we used to know. It was wonderful. But today I had to take him back to the eye doctor because he has started having trouble seeing. Things are blurry and sometimes letters seem to float off of the page and objects sometimes seem three dimensional to him. The eye doctor, whom I adore, sat him in the chair and began testing his eye sight. She would say, "Which is better, one or two? Three or four?" Several times she asked Bump to read the letters projected in a mirror on the wall. Every time he began reading the letters, I held my breath and crossed my fingers. I squinted my own eyes as if that would somehow make it easier for him to see. I flinched every time he missed a letter. At one point, he couldn't read a single letter on the chart and my heart sank. I wanted so badly for him to get a good report. Actually, the report wasn't too bad. Yes, the vision in his left eye had slipped a little bit. But guess what it was? Keep in mind that this is his vision with correction, not without. But guess? 20/25. From 20/400 to 20/25. That's amazing. I don't know about you but I stand in awe of the human brain. Once it started using those old neural pathways from the left eye, it immediately adapted. If Bump ever injures or loses his right eye, his brain will know what to do. That's one of the biggest reasons we consented to the treatment. If he had grown to adulthood without ever forcing his brain to look through his left eye, he would have been blind if anything happened to his right eye. Doctors can only try to correct amblyopia up until about the age of 10. After that, treatment is ineffective. We left today with a prescription for a stronger contact and a promise to go back if Bump's vision doesn't improve. We also left being forewarned that we may have to occlude the right eye again if his vision doesn't improve. Because the real problem with his eyes is the great difference between the vision. 20/25 is good but only if his brain can handle integrating the image. But the important thing, to me, is that I left the office knowing that I have given my all to ensure that my son's vision will be corrected and that he won't be blinded later in life. Correcting the vision now also gives him the best chance at passing the eye exam when he gets his driver's license and it also makes it possible for him to work in occupations that require good binocular vision. That's what counts. I love him enough to give him the best chance at a normal life. I can feel good about that.

Sharon's Art Shop

2006-03-26T18:18:00.002-08:00

Have you ever had one of those days when you feel on the verge of crying and then one minor glitch can cause a waterfall? Yeah, me too. However, something happened this weekend that turned my gray skies to blue. It made me so happy that I exclaimed, "Yippee!" What could make me so happy, you ask? Well, I got this rain tote in the mail! I ordered it from Sharon's art shop. There are lots of other items I plan to buy in the future. Everything Sharon creates is so . . . wonderful! The woman creates beautiful things during nearly every waking moment of her life. I've never known her to not be working on a new project. Go see her online store and buy something for yourself!

I held a baby yesterday . . .

2006-03-25T20:51:00.000-08:00

And it was wonderful. She was a tiny little thing who only weighed eleven pounds. Her mother is a friend and colleague of mine. I picked up the baby and studied her tiny little features. She was awake and alert and her eyes shone as she took in her surroundings. I found myself wondering what the world looks like to one who is brand new. After awhile, she started fussing and crying. I instinctively hummed to her in a low voice and swayed side to side as I cradled her close to my body. She immediately calmed and seemed to tuck herself more snugly into the hollow of my shoulder. I kept swaying and soon she closed her eyes and fell asleep. I snuggled her close to me and felt her breath on my cheek. I was transfixed by her tiny little nose and her dark eyelashes that swept across her cheek. She looked so content lying in my arms. She slept peacefully. And why shouldn't she? She had not a fear in the world. She has a mother who cares for her tenderly and attentively. She was born too early and thus her family treasures her even more because they saw her lying in the hospital with tubes in her airway and her stomach and her veins. She is their treasure. Holding my friend's baby reminded me of why I used to say I wanted five or six children. I adore babies. I can't get enough of them. I love the way they smell like baby lotion after their bath. I love it when they get to the age where they will smile and coo. I am always entertained during the crawling phase when they scuttle across the carpet like little hermit crabs. I enjoyed watching my children hold their hands out in front of them to help balance when they learned to walk. Sometimes, when a baby cries, I still get the sensation of milk letting down in my breasts. I nursed both of my children and I still remember singing songs to them as they nursed and looking down at their plump little cheeks and marveling that my body instinctively knew to nourish the child I had birthed. Depending on how much or how little the baby nursed, my body would adjust it's supply of milk. A woman's body is a mysterious and wonderful thing. I felt that I was participating in an age old ritual by breast-feeding my babies. Ah, holding the baby was a wonderful thing that brought back so many pleasant memories of my own children's infancy. I will even go so far as to say that I found myself thinking I might like to have another baby just so I could know once more what it is like to nurture and nourish a child birthed from my body. Having a new baby in the house makes me feel happy and almost immortal. Then, I remembered that babies grow into five year olds who sprout extra extremities when I try to carry them to their room and nine year olds who smart off and sulk easily. Babies wake up several times during the night with no thought of their mother's physical and mental well-being. Babies grow into children who are so busy playing their gameboy that they have not the time to converse with their parents. Babies turn into teenagers who make out in cars and cause their parents to fear that they will be grandparents at a young age. Babies grow up to go to expensive colleges and get married in lavish and costly wedding ceremonies. But, most importantly, babies grow into parents who eventually bless their parents with grandchildren. And that's why I decided I won't have another baby after all. I will wait for my grandchildren and then I will get to do all of the fun stuff and very little of the parenting duties that are rapidly aging me at the moment. But it was nice to have a baby fall asleep in my arms again. It was wonderful.

It's nice that you're smart, kid, but . . .

2006-03-23T19:53:00.000-08:00

My third grader, Bump, recently took the TAKS test. The TAKS is Texas' standardized test that the children have to pass in order to be promoted to fourth grade. Ask me how many questions he missed. No , really. Ask me. ONE. The kid missed one question. Uno. I am so proud of that kid. His grandfather is obviously proud too as he has agreed to buy him a $90 toy as a reward. When Bump told me his grandfather had agreed to such an expensive gift, my voice rose higher as I protested, "Da-ad!" His only response was, "Well, that's one smart kid." I agree. He is smart. His vocabulary is more impressive than most adults, his taste in literature is highly intellectual, his favorite song is Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and he spends lots of time pondering his future despite the fact that he is all of nine years old. Today he told me he wants a degree in art. Then he said he wanted a degree in Literature. Then he decided he might do both. And yet the child can't remember where he last took off his shoes. He puts his underwear on backwards and doesn't notice. He is so preoccupied most of the time that he is prone to run into walls and doors. He forgets to do his homework because it is a total non-issue in his mind. He walks into a room only to realize that he has no idea what he was supposed to do. He opens his mouth to speak but can't remember what he was going to say. In short, he is a shorter version of me. I remember my mother getting exasperated with me because my answer for everything was, "I forgot." She would say, "Well, start remembering!" Trouble was, I forgot to remember. I can remember how to spell almost any word, I can recall tons of useless trivia, I remember almost everything I read. I am a walking pharmacology book --I can list drug classes, method of action and metabolism, and possible side effects of almost any drug. In nursing school, I became highly unpopular when I refused to join study groups. I refused because, the few times I went, the other students found it easier to consult me rather than their textbooks when searching for an answer and I ended up having my brain picked all night. Why would I join a study group simply to serve as a human database? But I can't remember where I put my glasses (usually they are on my head). I don't write grocery lists because I can't remember to take them to the store. I even lose my clothes and I thought only hookers did that. As recently as ten minutes ago, I looked all over for the bottle of kitchen cleaner and discovered that I had put it in the refrigerator. As proud as I am of my son for his grades and his intelligence, I would be most impressed if he would remember to take out the trash. My life has come full circle. Just today I found myself parroting, "Well, start remembering!" It has happened. I am my mother.

Wanted: Self

2006-03-22T21:26:00.000-08:00

As I type, I am listening to the sound of my husband playing a computer game in the other room. I also hear the sound of the washing machine as it goes through its spin cycle. It reminds me that I must go put the clothes in the dryer soon or else Brad won't have any pants to wear to work tomorrow. This thought causes an unexpected giggle as I muse that my husband is a manager and a fairly important person at his job and yet he will have to go to work naked if I don't have pity and wash his pants. Of course, he has two hands of his own and could wash his own pants. But it isn't worth it to me tonight to open up that can of worms and be reminded that I only work part time and he works full time and is it too much too ask for me to wash his clothes while he slaves away making a living so the rest of us have food to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over our heads? Sometimes I wonder what he would say if my answer was, Yes, it is too much to ask. These are the scenarios I come up with to entertain myself. It's because I am bored with the housewife routine. It happens ever so often. I find that I have no desire to clean house, cook meals, do laundry, or pay bills. I look at the dishes stacked in the sink with a detached feeling of amusement. I always think, Isn't it funny that those dishes sit there day after day unless I wash them? And really, isn't it funny? I mean, it's not as if I am the only one in this house with the intelligence to realize that the dishes don't wash themselves. Don't get me wrong. I am not the type of wife to berate my husband for not doing housework. He is quite helpful. I really don't expect him to work all day and come home to do housework all night. It's just that, right now, I really have no desire to do housework either. And therein lies the dilemma. If neither of us want to do housework and yet both of us like a neat house, what is the solution? The solution, logically, would be that I get up off of my lazy arse, thank God for a husband who supports me without complaint, and wash the damn dishes. And while I'm at it, do all that other stuff I have been neglecting. But even thinking about doing those things make me feel exhausted and I throw myself across my bed with a pillow over my head to blot out the cruel light of the sun shining through the blinds and sigh, Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow. Depressed? Possibly. Bored? Absolutely. Going through a faze? You can be certain. I go through these periods once every so often when I feel like I have lost myself somewhere while performing all of the tasks that keep my household running like a well-oiled machine. It's as if I sat myself on the counter next to the sink while I was washing dishes and said, "Self, you sit right there and don't move while I do the dishes." And then, Self gets mixed up with all of the clutter on the countertop; all of the sets of car keys, the junk mail, the papers from school, the ball point pens and the hastily written grocery lists and reminders. Then, I scrape it all into the junk drawer and Self becomes lost amongst the clutter. Without Self, I feel like I have no compass. I wander around feeling lost. I find myself missing someone and I am not sure who it is that I am missing. Then, the cobwebs of my soul are swept away and I realize that I am looking for my Self. The person I am missing is Me. It is a situation that can be remedied. I have to sit down and remind myself exactly who I am. I have to remember what it is that makes me unique. I have to figure out what it is I live for besides washing dishes and laundry. It sounds simple but, when I really sit down and search for myself, it is not so easy. As fulfilling as it is to be a wife and mother, I think that many of us, myself for certain, come to a point where we find it difficult to do anything for ourselves without automatically feeling guilty for indulging ourselves when we could be doing something for our spouse or children. It is second nature to place our needs at the bottom of the to-do list. And we all know that the task at the bottom of the to-do list takes lowest priority and rarely gets done. Why? Why do we do this to ourselves? Aren't women the ones always telling each other, "You can't take care of your family if you don't take care of yourself"? We dispense such advice freely but rarely take it ourselves. I haven't decided exactly how I will find my Self this time. This exact thing has happened before. I shall have to rummage around in the junk drawers of my mind until I remember where I lost that little bugger. And then, Self and I shall have a grand reunion and we will be ever so happy together. It's like Peter Pan's shadow. I need someone to sew my Self to me so that I won't keep misplacing it. I would write more, but I have some rummaging to do.

2006-03-20T19:41:00.000-08:00

I don't feel much like writing a light and easy post tonight. My brain has been churning out theories and personal philosophies on life and living all day. Why? I don't know. Maybe because there were too many news articles about fatal car wrecks over Spring Break in and near my town. Maybe it's because I read the obituaries today and found myself doing the same thing that Evelyn Couch in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe did: I looked at the ages of the deceased and my breath caught when I found a few who had died young. I also looked to see if I could deduce who had died of cancer and who had died peacefully in their sleep. Thankfully, today there were no children or infants listed in the obituaries. I can't handle those. I always start crying when I see obituaries for children and imagine a grieving mother writing, marking out, and rewriting sentences about her baby and the impact he'd made during his short stay on Earth. I've often wondered how anyone ever finds words to express their grief for the death and yet gratitude for the life of their child sufficiently during a time of loss. I imagine an obituary written by a mother to be the most bitter and beautiful words one could ever write. Several months ago, I learned that a friend who went to school with me from elementary through junior high had lost her son. I believe he was two years old and his mother had him in the saddle with her on a horseback ride. She was a seasoned rider and had grown up on a ranch and now lived on a ranch of her own. She was not being foolish in riding with her son. It was a daily routine. But on one horrible day, the horse became spooked and threw its riders. The baby suffered massive head trauma and died a few days later. I haven't seen my friend in twenty years but I cried for her and her son. My heart joined hers, one mother to another, in grief for the precious life that was lost. I was shattered just hearing the news. I couldn't think how my friend must be hurting without nearly breaking down myself. Only a few days after my friend's son was buried, we received news that some friends of the family had also lost their 15 month old daughter. She had an undetected heart defect which caused her blood to clot in her heart and from there it traveled to her brain and caused a stroke. One moment she was an energetic, mischievous toddler and the next she was limp and lifeless. I could only think how the girl's mother delivered her oldest son only a few days after I delivered Bump. It made it all seem too real and too scary. Her oldest child was the same age as my oldest child. And now her youngest child was dead. That meant that my children weren't safe from illness or accident. It meant that it could happen to my family just as easily as it had happened to those other families. That realization left me shivering and cold. I didn't sleep for fear of nightmares. I sent flowers to both funerals and prayed as I've never prayed before that my children will grow to be strong, healthy and whole and that I will live to know my grandchildren and even my great-great-grandchildren. These are the thoughts I pondered today and I know that they are sad and dark and I know it is probably depressing to read about them. But I'm really not depressed because it seems to me that only when we realize what we could lose can we appreciate what we already have. And what I have is an attentive and loving husband and two handsome and intelligent children who are full of laughter and love. My children have what many children only dreamed of when growing up: a loving home where they are nourished and nurtured, encouraged and empowered, hugged and held. We are a happy family and we give our love to one another freely and without shame or fear of weakness. Yes, I could lose it all tomorrow. But I plan on spending my time being thankful that it is mine today.

It's not Jellyhead or Sharon, it's that hag who used to write here

2006-03-19T20:50:00.000-08:00

I'm back! Did you miss me? And don't smart off and ask if I was gone. Although, I couldn't blame anyone for not missing me when Jellyhead wrote such an entertaining guest post. My list of talented guest writers continues to grow. How did I get so lucky? Now I have had Moogie, Jane Doe, Sharon, and Jellyhead as guests here at Blog, Blah, Blah. It's always intimidating to come back from vacation and have to follow such excellent writers. Our vacation was nice. Long, but nice. We went to Santa Fe, New Mexico. My in-laws have a cabin there and it is a beautiful retreat. The scenery is so beautiful and I love the fact that I can distinguish between seasons there. Where I live, it is very desolate and barren and this winter we have had temperatures as high as the 90s. There is very little difference in the temperature or the scenery from season to season. We went skiing in Taos on Friday. Bump has been skiing since he was four years old and skis with me and his father on easy and intermediate runs. On Friday, as he came around a corner on an intermediate run, he built up too much speed, got scared, and ran into a pole and net which was stretched across the edge of the run to prevent skiers from flying off the steep slope. I wasn't there to see it, thankfully, but he still had big tears rolling down his face when he found me at the ski lodge. It frightened me to think of him losing control but I was oh, so proud when he stepped back into his skis and right back on the ski lift. I did, however, make sure he skied easier runs the rest of the day. I felt it far more important to help him re-build his confidence than to build his skill after such a frightening fall. Crash went to ski school for the first time this year. He is naturally more cautious than his brother and his instructor said he was wary of falling for most of the day. He seemed to enjoy himself, though, and that is most important. I nearly had to throw down and show the lady who checked him in what it's like to fight with a Texas gal. You see, Crash is very, very, very shy. He hasn't yet worked up to speaking to the teachers who help him out of the car and into the preschool every morning and he has seen them every day since August! Yes, he is that shy. When I kissed him goodbye at the ski school, he hesitated and seemed to contemplate not going with the nice girl who was there to lead him to his class. The lady behind the counter told him, "You can either walk in that class or I will carry you in." I had already pulled myself up to my full height, leaned in close to her and opened my mouth to give her a tongue-lashing when Crash walked away amiably with the nice girl. I settled for staring the lady down until she looked away and meekly wished me happy skiing and promised to call me if needed. All I know is that it will be a cold day in hell before such a woman forces my child to do anything. There would have been no carrying of my child to any class unless I was the one doing it. I loathe people who think they know better how to deal with or discipline my child better than me. Jeez, Heather. Why don't you rant a bit? Anyway, vacation is over and I am so thrilled to be back home. I was so happy to wash my hair in my own shower and I shall soon go sleep in my huge bed which is very soft and comfortable. But the best thing about being home? I have internet access! Woot! I can't tell you how frustrating it was to only have access when I happened to find an open wireless connection. I had to resort to *gasp* writing my thoughts in ink on paper! Which was actually an enjoyable experience once I got over feeling sorry for myself. Now back to the old grind. Lord, give me strength.

Guest Post

2006-03-15T02:45:00.000-08:00

With Heather away on another brief vacation, I've taken up her generous invitation to post on Blog, Blah, Blah. My name is Jellyhead, and I'm an Australian blogger friend of Heather's. I'm not sure that I'm particularly representative of Australians in general. Aussies are supposed to be relaxed and laconic, whereas I'd describe myself more as slightly neurotic. I do own an Akubra hat, if that helps. We do have lots of barbecues on our back veranda. And my father's name really is Bruce. I don't call anyone 'mate'. I don't know any other females who use this word regularly. It's more of a blokey term, often used in greeting - "G'day mate!" (*said in deep growl*). However, the Australian male has, over time, broadened the range of uses for this handy word, in order to express a whole variety of emotions. For example.... EXUBERANT JOY - "Mate!! You brought beer!" ANGER/AGGRESSION - "Look, MATE, that's my beer." BEWILDERMENT - "Mate?? Have we run out of beer?" I can tell you that I've seen plenty of koalas, kangaroos, possums and wallabies, and a few deadly snakes and poisonous spiders as well. I've even seen an elusive platypus, swimming shyly near the sandy bottom of a creek. I'm no Steve Irwin, but then no-one could possibly match that man's nasal twang, nor his crazed enthusiasm. I just happen to have a mother who lives on a small farm, just over an hour from the city. Mum lives along an infrequently-used dirt road. It is such a back-road that up on the farm, we all stop to have a sticky beak (translation:take a nosy sort of a look) whenever a car drives past. Some nights you can hear the dingos howling on top of the ridge. Aussies, according to stereotype, are supposed to be friendly. In reality, there are good types, and bad sorts of people, just like anywhere else in the world. However, I'm a generally happy, and definitely approachable person. So come and say hi anytime you like. Heather, thank you for the privilege of writing on your fabulous blog! P.S. The photo is of one of Mum's resident furry friends

2006-03-14T18:07:00.000-08:00

This is a busy week for me. Our family spent last weekend traveling to and from Six Flags and riding roller coasters. We got to stay home yesterday and today and we are leaving again tomorrow to go on a ski trip. The thing about traveling is that it is stressful, at least to me. I have to do all of the laundry and get it folded and sorted into piles according to person so that some of it can be packed and the rest put away. I have to make sure that I remember everyone's medicines, contact solutions, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and bath soap. I have to make sure there are clothes packed for warm or cold weather. I have to make sure that Crash doesn't forget his stuffed Puppy so we don't have to listen to him cry every night at bedtime. I have to make sure the dog has a place to stay while we are gone. It is all just incredibly burdensome and tiring to me. That's why I was of a mind to do little more than lie on my bed and get lots of sleep and do nothing more strenuous than talking on the phone during the two days of vacation I got to spend at home. My husband had other ideas. His idea of a vacation is to take on some huge and horribly strenuous household chore. He likes to stay busy; I do not. As a result of our differing vacation philosophies, we found ourselves bickering most of the day yesterday. He wanted to know why I was so lazy and I wanted to know why he always tries to make me work when I could be resting. Actually, bickering is a mild term for what we were doing yesterday. We spent part of the day in stony silence and, after apologies were exchanged, spent the evening in strained conversation. Neither of us thought our argument was worth staying mad over but we secretly harbored resentment toward one another regardless. Brad went to bed early and I stayed up until 2:30AM working on a birthday gift for a dear friend. I finally slipped into bed and my husband immediately slid to my side of the bed and wrapped his arms around me. He kissed me and laced his fingers through mine and promptly fell back to sleep. As I drifted off to sleep, it occurred to me that I am a very lucky woman. My husband and I rarely argue and, when we do, it is because he is too motivated. How many women can say the same thing? But, more than that, I have a husband who reflexively cuddles me when I slide into bed and bestows affection upon me even when he is less than thrilled with my attitude. I have a husband who places a gentle kiss on my lips and sleeps better when he can feel me curled up next to him in the middle of the night. I have a husband who wants to hold my hand even as he sleeps. All the arguments in the world can't counterbalance so much love.

Heather's Johari Window

2006-03-13T16:49:00.000-08:00

I am back from vacation and resting up for a couple of days before going on vacation again. Vacations are exhausting. I'm just sayin'. I am so thankful to Sharon who graciously agreed to post in my stead while I was riding roller coasters. Isn't she an amazing writer? My days don't feel right when I don't get to read her wonderful posts. She isn't just an amazingly gifted writer; she is also a talented artist. I can't wait until she opens her online store and I know many of you are anxious to shop and buy some of her art for your very own. On top of being highly talented, Sharon is also a warm and caring friend. That's why I wanted her to post for me. She joins the ranks of the few other highly talented gals who have posted for me in the past. I promise to write more of a post soon. I am just incredibly busy with all of these vacation preparations. Tonight, for your entertainment, I invite you to take a gander at my Johari window and take the opportunity to tell me what you really think of me. I found it on Cori's blog and promptly passed it on to Sharon. It is tres cool. Enjoy!

it's still Sharon behind the wheel, but Heather will be back soon, I promise

2006-03-12T15:07:00.000-08:00

I dread the morning part of my days. People may not realize this. When I open my eyes in the morning I realize what it must feel like to be a guest on a late night talk show: the light comes on, you take your cue and hit the ground running. Come on, be entertaining and clever, otherwise what are you wasting our time for? The story of my life. I like to joke I was raised by circus performers. This is not strictly true. But I think in certain lights it could be. Everyone in my family is funnier and more outgoing than I am. And I do mean everyone. I've been to one family reunion in my life. One. I was six years old. Someone asked me excitedly: How does it feel, Sharon? To meet all your relatives. I answered weakly: These people are so exhausting. They were. It was like wandering into a production of Shakespeare in the Park:

"Hark! A triumphant prodigal beckons." "Methinks you ferried the potato salad, could it be true?" "'Tis on yonder window, tis indeed."

Various home movies exist of me standing in my grandparents' yard with my family, and then one of my aunts suddenly interrupts the pastoral scene with a spontaenous can-can dance, twirling her long crocheted scarf like a feather boa. Everyone onscreen is laughing and breaking into inspired if various dance routines of their own, and I'm off to the side chewing my thumb forlornly with an expression that clearly says: it is my lot in life to be upstaged by these people. Yes, it is. And it's documented for posterity, right there on an ancient reel of film. There were benefits to growing up in such a colorfully rich family. I knew no one else whose grandparents actually kept carosuel horses in the basement, or built an addition to their home to house a pipe organ imported from an actual theatre. My childhood was the stuff of great imaginings, of vintage film and music and stirring essays. I grew up on trips to railroad stations to ride steam locomotives, leaning out train windows pretending I was a century backward in time, in the days before Lindbergh or zeppelins or the Delta Queen. I had to learn about those too. My grandfather sent me lessons because I lived so far away; he tested me on them in a sort of correspondence course. My letters to him were proofread and corrected like school reports, and he would greet me at the end of the two-hour drive to his house with a dictionary and a red pen. "You misspelled three words, Sharon, and we'll not have a visit until you go into the house and look each word up and write it out correctly with the proper definition." And it would always be like that, because education came first. It could be discouraging. I wanted to run and hug and squeal with delight over my cousins and my aunts and uncles, but rules were rules. After a while, there would be a session of classical music appreciation. Mostly that performed on a pipe organ, but classical music nonetheless. I would listen soberly, taking notes. I only think of it now because this morning when I got up to start a pot of coffee and make a big Sunday breakfast, I turned on the radio and the local high school station was playing pipe organ music -- at 6 a.m., which might be the only time of day a radio station can get away with playing that sort of thing. I started to change it automatically -- I stopped listening to organ music as soon as I left home -- and then switched it back as comprehension dawned: as if hearing a song I'd long forgotten, yet still knew all the words. It was the soundtrack of my childhood, grandiose and brilliant if sharply dated; what I wouldn't give, I thought, for one more day and another reunion, to be exhausted and upstaged. Just one more time.

some of you I know, some of you I'm meeting for the first time

2006-03-11T03:28:00.000-08:00

My name is Sharon and I'm guest posting a little bit for Heather while she's on vacation. I feel shy and awkward all of a sudden, which is highly unusual, believe me. I don't know how to introduce myself. Most of the time I look like this guy. I have three boys. I'm a writer and an artist and a mother. I have never been able to stand on my head and I'm not okay with that. I lose my car keys a lot. My husband bought me a phone with a beeper so I could find it and I got spoiled. Now I want a beeper for the car keys, my glasses, and that youngest kid who keeps running off and hiding because he thinks giving his mother a coronary is funny. I'm like one of those hunting dogs who's lost their vision with old age; I need audio prompts to head in the right direction. I assume the stance, one paw lifted attentively, but which way is correct? My senses are dulled. Some people lose their hearing standing too close to the speakers at an Audioslave concert. I lost mine in a Buick that stalled out in traffic with three kids fighting in the back and the dog puking up puppy chow in my lap. I love reading Heather's blog because when I come here I don't feel so alone in the world, somehow. The rest of the time I feel more or less like the proverbial prophet wandering in the desert. (He lost his car keys too.) But when I read about her children and their abilities to grow extra arms and legs in dire situations, i.e., prompt removal from public places, I smile and nod to myself because I have so been there. She's an amazing writer and person. This domestic engineer salutes.

Family Vacation

2006-03-09T18:22:00.000-08:00

My trip to Lubbock has come and gone. Thanks for so many offers to give me a wake-up call but the truth is that Brenda and I have a system. We've worked together for a very long time and neither of us do mornings. Thus, whenever we have to be up early in the morning, the first person to wake up calls the other. We both hate getting up early so badly that, when we both worked in the EP lab, we had our electrophysiologist trained not to do cases before 8:00 and, preferably, not before 9:00. He asked once to do a case at 7AM and we stared him down so hard that he stuck his tail between his legs and skulked away. Now I am home after having a lovely day with Ryan and Brenda. They kept me laughing all day. Our little family is preparing for a couple of small vacation trips over Spring Break. We shall have much fun and be completely exhausted by the time school and work rolls around again. We get so excited about our family trips because we thoroughly enjoy watching our children relax, have fun, and learn new things. Preparing for the trip has put me in mind of some of the trips we took when I was a child. We rarely went to big amusement parks or resorts. Instead, we all piled in the car and drove all over the countryside. One year, I remember us touring what seemed like all of New Mexico. What I remember most about that trip is shivering in a tent curled up next to my mother while water poured in from the rainstorm outside and soaked us. The next morning, we discovered that my brother and stepfather were dry as a bone because their side of the tent was on higher ground than ours. We were supposed to camp out a couple more nights on that trip but my mother made an executive decision that we were staying in hotel rooms from then on. She gave new meaning to the saying, "If momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." That was also the same vacation where my mother nearly knocked herself out while scuba diving at Blue Hole. She began ascending without realizing she was in an underwater cave. It's also the same vacation where we stayed in a hotel in the mountains of Taos and my brother and I played in the hot tub all night because we loved the way the cool night air felt on our skin after soaking in the hot water until we were lobster red. We also had winter vacations but they were almost always ski trips. My stepfather taught me to ski and I have loved it from the first moment. I remember my brother, however, falling in the snow several times and crying because his gloves were wet and his hands were cold. He never liked to ski after that so I usually got to take a friend on all subsequent ski trips. I took my friend, Amber, one year and my parents bought us matching ski hats that were pink and hung down very long in the back so we could wrap them around our neck like scarves. Everyone thought we were twins and everyone loved our kooky hats. Another time, I took my boyfriend along with us. The problem was that I got sick halfway through the day and began running fever. It also sleeted toward the end of the day. When we finally got in the car to go home, my hair was a solid sheet of ice. It had gotten wet and then frozen again. I remember my boyfriend clapping the ice between his hands until it fell out of my hair and then combing his fingers through my hair because it was tangled. I felt so bad that I laid in the very back of the car (it was a Toyota 4-Runnner) and he joined me. My parents thought we were asleep but we made out for the entire four hour trip home. Sorry, Mom. These are the reasons I look forward to family vacations. I know that my childhood vacations weren't extravagant or perfect. As a matter of fact, it was almost a guarantee that my brother and I would bicker endlessly in the back seat and that my mom and stepdad would get in at least one argument. It was also fairly certain that nothing would happen according to plan. But all of those vacations were so memorable. I remember parts of them as vividly as if they happened yesterday. Now that I am an adult, I can appreciate the expense and the trouble my parents went through to plan and execute our vacations so that we could have fun as a family. It is with a cheerful heart that I look forward to our Spring Break vacation. Last year, we got snowed into our cabin by a blizzard that wasn't in the forecast and thus we had no warm winter coats or snow boots or basically anything warmer than a light jacket. But you know what? The kids are still talking about how much fun we had during that blizzard. You know what they say: Life is what happens when you are making plans.