So much to do this week, and so few days with which to do it!
Laundry, dishes, meals, work, homework, defend my marriage....the list is long and formidable.
It seems that every time I log into Facebook I am learning how my friends feel about gay marriage. That's fine. I don't mind a bit. I like reading about the opinions of others, I am absolutely comfortable seeing differing opinions on the screen in front of me. I am well aware that not everyone shares my beliefs.
I am, however, baffled by the camp which keeps asking me to "Defend Marriage". OK...but are John and I under attack? Are there soldiers? What weapons will they be using? Am I going to need a certified copy of my Marriage License to "Defend Marriage"? Because I can not find my copy, and getting another could take up to 10 days. Is there some kind of color scale to inform me of the level of threat we are currently living under? (Def Com: Rainbow, perhaps?) And most importantly, do any of the 'soldiers' look like Gerard Butler in the movie 300???
For the first two years of our relationship, my attitude towards marriage could best be summed up by using the phrase, "Ehhh." And adding a shoulder shrug for effect. I didn't matter to me. It was a road that I wasn't anxious to walk. There are many convoluted reasons for that, but suffice it to say, it wasn't high on my priority list.
Enter the Tiny Baby Zoe.
Things changed. Our little daughter made me realize that I wanted to be a family. On paper. Legally and for always. In a haze of hormones about a month after her delivery, I openly said to John that I wanted to get married. I was suddenly uncomfortable being "Dad's Girlfriend" to the kids' teachers. I wanted to be "Step mom." I wanted a title, and a role in the family that didn't sound temporary. One that sounded less "Flavor of the Month" and more "This Is The Woman Who Is Responsible For Our Health, Safety, and Daily Vegetable Intake".
Two years passed before we got married. It was not a lavish affair. No professional photographer to document the day, no week long honeymoon in the tropics. But we were married. John and I, together, for better or worse, sickness, health, etc.
Did it change things? Not really. I still did all the things I had done the week before, as did John. The fact of the matter is, it took getting married to figure out that the piece of paper we were issued didn't cement our decision to become a family. That had already been decided years before.
The thing is, as with everything in my life for the past ten years, I am thinking of this particular topic with my "Mom Hat" on, and I can't help but hope that my kids have the right to solidify their family the same way John and I could, no matter who they love.
John is my best friend. He is the first person I call when something good happens. He is my first call when something bad happens. He is who I call when nothing at all happens and I just want to chat. I think when you are blessed enough to find another person with whom you can spend all of your ups and downs....well...I just don't feel comfortable condemning you if your picture doesn't look like mine. And I certainly don't feel as though giving other people the right to marry is somehow a threat to my marriage. I firmly believe there are only two human beings who can present a real danger to my marriage. One is me, the other is John. Because no matter what a third party does or says, ultimately, it is our responsibility to live up to our promises to one another and hold true to the vows we've made.
In closing, I would like to say that The State of the Abramo Union on this March evening is strong. And we are sleepy. And I will continue to pray to God, and ask that he give wisdom to those who have a decision to make, love to those who hate, and forgiveness for us all, because none of us is without sin, and all of us will be judged.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Ten Years
On an unseasonably warm March day ten years ago this week, I went on a date.
It was not your usual date. There were five of us. An uneven number. I will admit that I was the dreaded 'fifth wheel'. I knew going in that this was to be the case, and yet, I went anyway. I woke up that morning and dressed, not in heels, but walking shoes. I didn't apply makeup, I threw my hair into a ponytail. I pulled on a hoodie sweatshirt and jeans.
Ten years ago this week, I had my first "date' with my kids.
Ten years.
We went to the zoo.
We had Snow Cones.
And then....I blinked, and ten years went screaming by at warp speed.
I was twenty-five years old. I was living alone, in a studio apartment, and I spent an inordinate amount of money on my fingernails and shoes. I liked peace and quiet and reading and sappy, romantic movies. I spend weekends having drinks with friends and I didn't think twice about putting myself before absolutely anyone else.
And then I fell in love with a man who had three kids. Eight, six, and three.
I moved to a three bedroom, split level house. I spent a lot of time trying to paint the fingernails of a couple of little girls who could not sit still. I started spending an inordinate amount of money on other people's shoes. Peace and quiet started to make me very, very nervous. If I watched a movie, it involved Disney characters. I spent weekends playing dinosaurs, outside, in the dirt. I didn't think twice about putting them before absolutely anyone else.
It was not always easy, and still is not. Trust and love and loyalty are difficult, tangled paths down a long and treacherous road. We are still learning. I can not put pen to paper and come up with adequate words to describe what I feel for them.
They have healed me, all the while breaking my heart. They have tested me, exactly when I needed the test. They have helped me, and pushed me, and made me braver and stronger and louder and crazier and made me laugh so hard my stomach ached. I have wished upon a thousand stars on their behalf. I have said ten million prayers, per child, per day on their behalf. I have begged and bargained and made deals that involved candy and small amounts of money. I have considered attacking small animals and other children on their behalf. I have fought for them, with them, and against them. I have been wrong about them, dead wrong, more than once. I have been right about them. I have said, "I told you so" to them, about them, and because of them. I have danced in the rain with them. I have lied for them, to them, and about them. I have missed them, cried for them, and worried for them. I have sang out loud with them. I have been a fool, and watched them be foolish. I have made mistakes, and let them make mistakes. I have said "I am sorry" to them, and for them. I have given things up for them, and taken things away from them. I have grieved with them and for them. I have yelled at them, because of them, and about them. I have said 'yes', when I wanted to say 'no'. I have said 'no', and then cried because I couldn't say 'yes'.
I have loved them.
I do not know what their first newborn cries sounded like. I do not have memories of their first baths, or steps. I do not know if they will wish I was more, or different, or better. I do not know how the story will end, and what their graduations or weddings will look like. I do not know what will be on their resumes. I do not know what their children will call me. I do not know if they will remember all of my mistakes. I do not know if they will be as proud to call me 'theirs' as I am to call them 'mine'.
But I DO know where they were ten years ago this week, on a warm and sunny March day.
And I know that they were not at all what I expected, and so much more than I ever deserved.
And I know that the Snow Cones were grape.
It was not your usual date. There were five of us. An uneven number. I will admit that I was the dreaded 'fifth wheel'. I knew going in that this was to be the case, and yet, I went anyway. I woke up that morning and dressed, not in heels, but walking shoes. I didn't apply makeup, I threw my hair into a ponytail. I pulled on a hoodie sweatshirt and jeans.
Ten years ago this week, I had my first "date' with my kids.
Ten years.
We went to the zoo.
We had Snow Cones.
And then....I blinked, and ten years went screaming by at warp speed.
I was twenty-five years old. I was living alone, in a studio apartment, and I spent an inordinate amount of money on my fingernails and shoes. I liked peace and quiet and reading and sappy, romantic movies. I spend weekends having drinks with friends and I didn't think twice about putting myself before absolutely anyone else.
And then I fell in love with a man who had three kids. Eight, six, and three.
I moved to a three bedroom, split level house. I spent a lot of time trying to paint the fingernails of a couple of little girls who could not sit still. I started spending an inordinate amount of money on other people's shoes. Peace and quiet started to make me very, very nervous. If I watched a movie, it involved Disney characters. I spent weekends playing dinosaurs, outside, in the dirt. I didn't think twice about putting them before absolutely anyone else.
It was not always easy, and still is not. Trust and love and loyalty are difficult, tangled paths down a long and treacherous road. We are still learning. I can not put pen to paper and come up with adequate words to describe what I feel for them.
They have healed me, all the while breaking my heart. They have tested me, exactly when I needed the test. They have helped me, and pushed me, and made me braver and stronger and louder and crazier and made me laugh so hard my stomach ached. I have wished upon a thousand stars on their behalf. I have said ten million prayers, per child, per day on their behalf. I have begged and bargained and made deals that involved candy and small amounts of money. I have considered attacking small animals and other children on their behalf. I have fought for them, with them, and against them. I have been wrong about them, dead wrong, more than once. I have been right about them. I have said, "I told you so" to them, about them, and because of them. I have danced in the rain with them. I have lied for them, to them, and about them. I have missed them, cried for them, and worried for them. I have sang out loud with them. I have been a fool, and watched them be foolish. I have made mistakes, and let them make mistakes. I have said "I am sorry" to them, and for them. I have given things up for them, and taken things away from them. I have grieved with them and for them. I have yelled at them, because of them, and about them. I have said 'yes', when I wanted to say 'no'. I have said 'no', and then cried because I couldn't say 'yes'.
I have loved them.
I do not know what their first newborn cries sounded like. I do not have memories of their first baths, or steps. I do not know if they will wish I was more, or different, or better. I do not know how the story will end, and what their graduations or weddings will look like. I do not know what will be on their resumes. I do not know what their children will call me. I do not know if they will remember all of my mistakes. I do not know if they will be as proud to call me 'theirs' as I am to call them 'mine'.
But I DO know where they were ten years ago this week, on a warm and sunny March day.
And I know that they were not at all what I expected, and so much more than I ever deserved.
And I know that the Snow Cones were grape.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Christmas
It's been awhile!
We're still kicking in the big, white house in the country....as I type this I am waiting for the oven timer to tell me the next pan of cookies are done, there's Christmas music playing, the girls and I have been dancing away the afternoon and somewhere...somewhere out there far away, my dad's eyeballs have rolled clean out of his head because of what he's seeing at my house today.
I'll admit that I was having a difficult time finding the holiday spirit until today. Let's face it, there's nothing holy or sacred about a twelve hour shopping marathon. There was too much mayhem and sadness on the news the last ten days for me to find the fun in the holiday. There were too many stories of, "What if that were me.." or "Dear God, why??" And then....then I started to see Christmas through Zoe's eyes. Then I caught a glimpse of Ashley and Brianna dancing to Christmas music in the kitchen, and now I'm hooked. I'm in it with both feet now.
That doesn't mean that I'm not remembering how lucky I am. That I haven't thanked God a million times today alone for giving me the chance to stand in this kitchen, on this day, with these kids and this man. I'm well aware that there are families out there grieving so deeply that words can't possibly express how they hurt. I guess the miracle in all of it is that I can grieve with them and for them, while also immersing myself in the people that I love.
So, the cookies will get baked. The presents will get wrapped. There's a pot roast going, and church tonight and Santa has a pretty strict Christmas Eve rule about bedtime that no one will be brave enough to breach. (Except the present wrapper. She will probably just be going to bed around the time that the first kid is sneaking down the stairs.)
It's Christmas. A really long time ago, a baby was born in a manger. And because of that, I will wake up tomorrow and celebrate His birthday with MY babies. Talk about blessed.
Merry Christmas
We're still kicking in the big, white house in the country....as I type this I am waiting for the oven timer to tell me the next pan of cookies are done, there's Christmas music playing, the girls and I have been dancing away the afternoon and somewhere...somewhere out there far away, my dad's eyeballs have rolled clean out of his head because of what he's seeing at my house today.
I'll admit that I was having a difficult time finding the holiday spirit until today. Let's face it, there's nothing holy or sacred about a twelve hour shopping marathon. There was too much mayhem and sadness on the news the last ten days for me to find the fun in the holiday. There were too many stories of, "What if that were me.." or "Dear God, why??" And then....then I started to see Christmas through Zoe's eyes. Then I caught a glimpse of Ashley and Brianna dancing to Christmas music in the kitchen, and now I'm hooked. I'm in it with both feet now.
That doesn't mean that I'm not remembering how lucky I am. That I haven't thanked God a million times today alone for giving me the chance to stand in this kitchen, on this day, with these kids and this man. I'm well aware that there are families out there grieving so deeply that words can't possibly express how they hurt. I guess the miracle in all of it is that I can grieve with them and for them, while also immersing myself in the people that I love.
So, the cookies will get baked. The presents will get wrapped. There's a pot roast going, and church tonight and Santa has a pretty strict Christmas Eve rule about bedtime that no one will be brave enough to breach. (Except the present wrapper. She will probably just be going to bed around the time that the first kid is sneaking down the stairs.)
It's Christmas. A really long time ago, a baby was born in a manger. And because of that, I will wake up tomorrow and celebrate His birthday with MY babies. Talk about blessed.
Merry Christmas
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Saturday Randomness
Just to keep you all updated on the utter fantastic-ness (yes, that's a real word.) that is my life, I'd like to share what I've been up to on this beautiful Saturday.
1. Woke up at 5:17am. Walked around the house. Had a glass of orange juice. Read a line or two of a blog that I occasionally like to read. Realized that it was then 5:39am. On Saturday.
2. Crawled back into bed between John and Zoe. Had a tug, push, scootch (also a real word), elbow to the gut, you just 'charlie-horsed' my thigh fight for some space and some blankets.
3. Slept until 9:13am, when I received a text message from my son, asking me to guess what time he woke up this morning.
4. Answered text with, "IDK, Austin. But I can tell you that I was asleep until exactly 30 seconds ago."
5. Discussed Austin and Ashley's breakfast menu choices.
6. Inquired about the lack of bacon in Austin and Ashley's breakfast choices.
7. Made a "Dirty Dancing" reference to Ashley.
8. Had some coffee, despite the fact that I could not properly pronounce the word, coffee. Instead calling it, "coffa". Twice.
9. Started laundry. Check to see if some sort of miracle happened and my broken dryer got fixed. It has been broken for about four months. We've been carting baskets of wet clothes to the laundry mat to dry. It's still broken. This is probably the tenth time I've checked, just to be sure, in case it suddenly decides to start working again. *side note* Please pray for a miracle. Would someone please break into my house and fix the stupid thing already? Also while you are here....my vacuum filters need replaced and there's a leak in the bathtub drain. Many thanks.
10. Rescued a sock from between the washing machine and the broken dryer with the broom. You are welcome, Brianna Abramo. Remember who takes care of you, k?
11. Read a blog that made me contemplate paying for cable. Yes, we live in the dark ages over here. Color me cheap, but I don't wanna pay for the joys of having Zombie children and STILL have nothing good to watch on television. Except...Sons of Anarchy? Maybe....just maybe.....I'm a season behind because Netflix is a butt face like that. There's an Opie thing....I just don't know. Maybe. I mean, I'm bringing home the bacon now. (Turkey bacon, but still.) I could....
12. Just realized I have now made two references to bacon in this post. Perhaps some lunch should be next on my list?
13. Had a pre-Thanksgiving pre-planning conversation with my sister in law. Made plans to do the actually planning pretty soon.
14. That's it, folks. That's all there is. It's 12:03pm, and I'm still in my pajamas.
15. Because I have OCD a little and I can not have 14 things on my list, you get number 15. Nope....nothing. That's all. Be jealous. This IS my dream, and I am living it.
1. Woke up at 5:17am. Walked around the house. Had a glass of orange juice. Read a line or two of a blog that I occasionally like to read. Realized that it was then 5:39am. On Saturday.
2. Crawled back into bed between John and Zoe. Had a tug, push, scootch (also a real word), elbow to the gut, you just 'charlie-horsed' my thigh fight for some space and some blankets.
3. Slept until 9:13am, when I received a text message from my son, asking me to guess what time he woke up this morning.
4. Answered text with, "IDK, Austin. But I can tell you that I was asleep until exactly 30 seconds ago."
5. Discussed Austin and Ashley's breakfast menu choices.
6. Inquired about the lack of bacon in Austin and Ashley's breakfast choices.
7. Made a "Dirty Dancing" reference to Ashley.
8. Had some coffee, despite the fact that I could not properly pronounce the word, coffee. Instead calling it, "coffa". Twice.
9. Started laundry. Check to see if some sort of miracle happened and my broken dryer got fixed. It has been broken for about four months. We've been carting baskets of wet clothes to the laundry mat to dry. It's still broken. This is probably the tenth time I've checked, just to be sure, in case it suddenly decides to start working again. *side note* Please pray for a miracle. Would someone please break into my house and fix the stupid thing already? Also while you are here....my vacuum filters need replaced and there's a leak in the bathtub drain. Many thanks.
10. Rescued a sock from between the washing machine and the broken dryer with the broom. You are welcome, Brianna Abramo. Remember who takes care of you, k?
11. Read a blog that made me contemplate paying for cable. Yes, we live in the dark ages over here. Color me cheap, but I don't wanna pay for the joys of having Zombie children and STILL have nothing good to watch on television. Except...Sons of Anarchy? Maybe....just maybe.....I'm a season behind because Netflix is a butt face like that. There's an Opie thing....I just don't know. Maybe. I mean, I'm bringing home the bacon now. (Turkey bacon, but still.) I could....
12. Just realized I have now made two references to bacon in this post. Perhaps some lunch should be next on my list?
13. Had a pre-Thanksgiving pre-planning conversation with my sister in law. Made plans to do the actually planning pretty soon.
14. That's it, folks. That's all there is. It's 12:03pm, and I'm still in my pajamas.
15. Because I have OCD a little and I can not have 14 things on my list, you get number 15. Nope....nothing. That's all. Be jealous. This IS my dream, and I am living it.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Thanksgiving
So....last week, round about Tuesday, I started to feel pretty crappy. In all honesty, this started a week or two before, but Tuesday I was feeling really, really rotten. I got off work and had chills, congestion, aches. I begged my kids to feed themselves and then I crawled into bed. After I slept for a couple of hours I woke up, just in time to put everyone else to bed and I took some NyQuil and crawled back into bed.
Wednesday morning found me still aching. So I took some DayQuil and took my little self off to work. I made it to five o'clock, but only barely.
John came home, in some kind of fluke....some kind of The Universe Has Decided To Give You A Break....and so I went home, crawled myself into my bed right along with my fever, chills, body aches, and misery and snuggled in for the evening. He left to go back to Kearney at 3am on Thursday morning.
Thursday morning was another round of DayQuil. And another round of "Is Jen going to make it to the end of the day?" I did.
I was so miserable my hair hurt. Every cough was a stab of pain under my right shoulder blade. My back ached. My feet hurt. My neck was killing me. I nearly crawled from my car to my house. I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried.
Ashley came to my rescue. She promptly sent me to bed and brought me chicken noodle soup.
Physically, I was feeling terrible. Mentally, I was at day three of feeling like a crappy mom. John had been home for all of eight hours and I had let him handle everything. All of these FEELINGS brought on a migraine.
But back to bed I went. In a sort of fog, I remember Zoe coming in to do some reading. And then I started to cry, because I was so tired and felt so horrible, I didn't even have the energy to sit up and read with her. And then I started to cough.
The long and the short of it is, I couldn't catch my breath. So I panicked. And I went out to tell the kids that I needed them to call someone to come out and check on me, when I collapsed in the dining room.
The kids called a friend, who made the roughly seven minute drive to my house in what felt, to me, like three minutes. Then they called 911. The details are all still little fuzzy, but all of it ended up with me in the ER.
My brother and sister in law beat the paramedics to my house. My sister and brother in law beat the rescue squad to the hospital. John made the trip from Kearney in record time. I got to find out the answer to whether or not paramedics will loan you their phone in route to the hospital to call your kids. (No.) Also, the ER nurses, while lovely and kind, will not let you use their phone either. In case you were ever wondering.
The diagnosis was iffy, initially. They treated me for dehydration, migraine and a virus that maybe was bronchitis but maybe wasn't, so 'Here's some antibiotics and we'll see what happens'. That changed on Saturday, when the radiologist read the x-rays and said basically, "No, that's pneumonia. Good thing you were already prescribed the correct antibiotics."
I spent the next three days in bed. Asleep, mostly. Crabbing. aching and whining some too. Turns out....I'm going to be fine.
Enough about me. Let's talk about some other people.
My friend Jen, for instance. Who had barely gotten both feet inside her door from work when she got back in her car without hesitating to come out and find out what was happening. Then she stayed with my kids, and my brother's, and handled that end of things.
My brother, who took one look at me and realized that part of the problem was panic. He sat right down next to me and said soothing things and held my hand and explained what was happening and reassured me that the kids were fine. He sensed that I wasn't going to finish the walk from the kitchen to the stretcher outside, so he picked me up and carried me. His wife, who took the kids to a different room and reassured them that I was fine, and then came to the hospital and reassured me that the kids were fine.
My sister, who sat at the hospital, not knowing what was going on, waiting, Who sat at the foot of the hospital bed and listened to what the nurses and doctor were asking me and interpreted what I was trying to tell them. Her husband, who teased and joked and reminded me that yes, I felt crappy, but it was a temporary thing.
The paramedics, who left their families to come take care of me and mine. Who didn't scoff or roll their eyes when I asked to borrow their phones. Who were kind, and soothing, and treated me like I was not at all crazy.
The nurses, who were trying to figure out what was going on with me, which was not easy to do through the fog of my migraine and inability to take a deep breath.
My mom, who came on Friday morning with chicken soup and sat with me. She watched me doze and reminded me to drink my orange juice and take my medicine.
My kids. My fantastic, wonderful, superhero kids. They made the calls, they held my hand, they didn't panic even a little. They handled it. They took care of themselves and each other and me. I couldn't possibly be prouder. They picked up the slack around the house. They let me sleep, they brought me snacks and snuggles. They folded clothes and washed dishes.
My hubby. He didn't even hesitate. He walked into the hospital and told me I was beautiful, even though I was anything but. He carried me out to the car, brought me home and tucked me into bed. He got the kids up for school, and did every single thing that came after that for the next three and a half days. Cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, pharmacy runs, kid wrangling. He listened to me whine, he rubbed my back and neck. He sat with me. He let me watch what I wanted on t.v. He brought me treats and made me drinks and snacks and dinners. He did it all. And when I thanked him, he asked what I was thanking him for.
I don't even know how to say 'thank you', in a way that conveys what I feel about all of these people. I'm so grateful. When I fell, there were people there to pick me up. Literally and figuratively. I don't know how to show my gratitude for that. I remember, clearly, a time when things were a lot different. I remember being sick and alone. I will always remember it, but I'm going to remember this, too. I'm going to remember when I had a soft place to land and I'm going to be grateful for it, forever.
I am so blessed. I am so grateful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Wednesday morning found me still aching. So I took some DayQuil and took my little self off to work. I made it to five o'clock, but only barely.
John came home, in some kind of fluke....some kind of The Universe Has Decided To Give You A Break....and so I went home, crawled myself into my bed right along with my fever, chills, body aches, and misery and snuggled in for the evening. He left to go back to Kearney at 3am on Thursday morning.
Thursday morning was another round of DayQuil. And another round of "Is Jen going to make it to the end of the day?" I did.
I was so miserable my hair hurt. Every cough was a stab of pain under my right shoulder blade. My back ached. My feet hurt. My neck was killing me. I nearly crawled from my car to my house. I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried.
Ashley came to my rescue. She promptly sent me to bed and brought me chicken noodle soup.
Physically, I was feeling terrible. Mentally, I was at day three of feeling like a crappy mom. John had been home for all of eight hours and I had let him handle everything. All of these FEELINGS brought on a migraine.
But back to bed I went. In a sort of fog, I remember Zoe coming in to do some reading. And then I started to cry, because I was so tired and felt so horrible, I didn't even have the energy to sit up and read with her. And then I started to cough.
The long and the short of it is, I couldn't catch my breath. So I panicked. And I went out to tell the kids that I needed them to call someone to come out and check on me, when I collapsed in the dining room.
The kids called a friend, who made the roughly seven minute drive to my house in what felt, to me, like three minutes. Then they called 911. The details are all still little fuzzy, but all of it ended up with me in the ER.
My brother and sister in law beat the paramedics to my house. My sister and brother in law beat the rescue squad to the hospital. John made the trip from Kearney in record time. I got to find out the answer to whether or not paramedics will loan you their phone in route to the hospital to call your kids. (No.) Also, the ER nurses, while lovely and kind, will not let you use their phone either. In case you were ever wondering.
The diagnosis was iffy, initially. They treated me for dehydration, migraine and a virus that maybe was bronchitis but maybe wasn't, so 'Here's some antibiotics and we'll see what happens'. That changed on Saturday, when the radiologist read the x-rays and said basically, "No, that's pneumonia. Good thing you were already prescribed the correct antibiotics."
I spent the next three days in bed. Asleep, mostly. Crabbing. aching and whining some too. Turns out....I'm going to be fine.
Enough about me. Let's talk about some other people.
My friend Jen, for instance. Who had barely gotten both feet inside her door from work when she got back in her car without hesitating to come out and find out what was happening. Then she stayed with my kids, and my brother's, and handled that end of things.
My brother, who took one look at me and realized that part of the problem was panic. He sat right down next to me and said soothing things and held my hand and explained what was happening and reassured me that the kids were fine. He sensed that I wasn't going to finish the walk from the kitchen to the stretcher outside, so he picked me up and carried me. His wife, who took the kids to a different room and reassured them that I was fine, and then came to the hospital and reassured me that the kids were fine.
My sister, who sat at the hospital, not knowing what was going on, waiting, Who sat at the foot of the hospital bed and listened to what the nurses and doctor were asking me and interpreted what I was trying to tell them. Her husband, who teased and joked and reminded me that yes, I felt crappy, but it was a temporary thing.
The paramedics, who left their families to come take care of me and mine. Who didn't scoff or roll their eyes when I asked to borrow their phones. Who were kind, and soothing, and treated me like I was not at all crazy.
The nurses, who were trying to figure out what was going on with me, which was not easy to do through the fog of my migraine and inability to take a deep breath.
My mom, who came on Friday morning with chicken soup and sat with me. She watched me doze and reminded me to drink my orange juice and take my medicine.
My kids. My fantastic, wonderful, superhero kids. They made the calls, they held my hand, they didn't panic even a little. They handled it. They took care of themselves and each other and me. I couldn't possibly be prouder. They picked up the slack around the house. They let me sleep, they brought me snacks and snuggles. They folded clothes and washed dishes.
My hubby. He didn't even hesitate. He walked into the hospital and told me I was beautiful, even though I was anything but. He carried me out to the car, brought me home and tucked me into bed. He got the kids up for school, and did every single thing that came after that for the next three and a half days. Cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, pharmacy runs, kid wrangling. He listened to me whine, he rubbed my back and neck. He sat with me. He let me watch what I wanted on t.v. He brought me treats and made me drinks and snacks and dinners. He did it all. And when I thanked him, he asked what I was thanking him for.
I don't even know how to say 'thank you', in a way that conveys what I feel about all of these people. I'm so grateful. When I fell, there were people there to pick me up. Literally and figuratively. I don't know how to show my gratitude for that. I remember, clearly, a time when things were a lot different. I remember being sick and alone. I will always remember it, but I'm going to remember this, too. I'm going to remember when I had a soft place to land and I'm going to be grateful for it, forever.
I am so blessed. I am so grateful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
MAOTIP (Or....How I'm Going To Win Parenting)
Something weird is happening at my house. (Yeah...that's nothing new.) I started a new job a few weeks ago. I love it. I have a reason to get out of my pajamas now. Which, ya know, after almost five years, is a reason to celebrate. I get up earlier, I try to do all the things I was doing before, I just have about 30 less hours in the week with which I can do them. So, I budget my time and I have still found a way to manage to make cold lunches, get laundry done, keep the house clean, make decent dinners, etc.
I won't lie. This was a major concern of mine. With John out of town more often than not, it's up to me to get everything taken care of. These kids of mine.....they're busy. I had a lot of anxiety before I started the job. I worried I would forget things. I was afraid I would come up short and be unable to juggle every one's obligations.
We are living by the calender. Everything that anyone may be planning to do has to go on the calender, or I won't be able to keep track of it. I remind everyone a hundred times a day of what is on the calender. What they are doing, what *I* am doing, when I will be here, when they will be here or there. Much to my delight and surprise...we're doing fine.
Except for this one thing.....I find myself constantly reminding them all to HURRY UP!!! Specifically, this seems to be a problem for Zoe. A really, really big problem. Like...there have been three days this week that her bath has lasted 45 minutes or more. I've begged. I've snapped and yelled. I've gone back to the days of doing all the work of giving her the bath while she sat and thought about whatever a seven year old girl thinks of while her mother dumps a cup of water over her soapy hair and steam rolls out of the mother's ears. I say, "Hurry." She hears, "Please, my Love, slow down, take your time. Ease into your school day and by all means, ignore your harpy of a mother." It simply does not register with her that she needs to keep moving. She's on her own time, Man, stop with all the cramping of her style. It's how she rolls. VERY VERY slowly. So it would get to a critical point, and I would yell, and she would cry. Ffffoooorrrreeevvveeeerrr. Then I would have to spend another precious ten minutes, at least, hugging her and apologizing and explaining. All the while keeping one eye on the clock, because, DUDE! We are never getting out of this house on time EVER EVER EVER again.
But....this morning. This glorious morning. The light bulb went off.
She was in the bath. I was nearly on my knees, begging her to move the process along because she had to eat breakfast, get her hair dried and styled and get her little self to Sunday school. I was THISCLOSE to biting her pretty little head right off when...I thought, "I'm totally going to buy her off."
So, I did.
The deal was, I would set the timer on my phone. If she got rinsed, dried off, out of the bathtub and dressed in 15 minutes, I'd give her fifty cents.
She totally did it.
So....I did it again at breakfast. With her, a Pop Tart and a glass of milk can last up to half an hour. I gave her another 15 minutes. And another fifty cents.
We made it to Sunday school in plenty of time. She even had enough time left to study spelling words and do a few flash cards for Math. It was the first morning in a very long time that I didn't feel even a little like throttling my sweet little girl.
She's made $1.75 today. She's planning on using it to buy things for the animals at the Pet Rescue in Wahoo.
Some may call this bribery. I'm choosing to call it The Mommy-Abramo-On-Time-Incentive-Plan. I'm going to be broke by the time she is able to grasp the concept of time management. But it's so worth it. What I save in blood pressure medicines, I'm giving to lost pets. My purse is lighter, but my child is happier.
And this, my friends, is how I plan to win parenting. With quarters. (or dimes and nickels...whatever.)
I won't lie. This was a major concern of mine. With John out of town more often than not, it's up to me to get everything taken care of. These kids of mine.....they're busy. I had a lot of anxiety before I started the job. I worried I would forget things. I was afraid I would come up short and be unable to juggle every one's obligations.
We are living by the calender. Everything that anyone may be planning to do has to go on the calender, or I won't be able to keep track of it. I remind everyone a hundred times a day of what is on the calender. What they are doing, what *I* am doing, when I will be here, when they will be here or there. Much to my delight and surprise...we're doing fine.
Except for this one thing.....I find myself constantly reminding them all to HURRY UP!!! Specifically, this seems to be a problem for Zoe. A really, really big problem. Like...there have been three days this week that her bath has lasted 45 minutes or more. I've begged. I've snapped and yelled. I've gone back to the days of doing all the work of giving her the bath while she sat and thought about whatever a seven year old girl thinks of while her mother dumps a cup of water over her soapy hair and steam rolls out of the mother's ears. I say, "Hurry." She hears, "Please, my Love, slow down, take your time. Ease into your school day and by all means, ignore your harpy of a mother." It simply does not register with her that she needs to keep moving. She's on her own time, Man, stop with all the cramping of her style. It's how she rolls. VERY VERY slowly. So it would get to a critical point, and I would yell, and she would cry. Ffffoooorrrreeevvveeeerrr. Then I would have to spend another precious ten minutes, at least, hugging her and apologizing and explaining. All the while keeping one eye on the clock, because, DUDE! We are never getting out of this house on time EVER EVER EVER again.
But....this morning. This glorious morning. The light bulb went off.
She was in the bath. I was nearly on my knees, begging her to move the process along because she had to eat breakfast, get her hair dried and styled and get her little self to Sunday school. I was THISCLOSE to biting her pretty little head right off when...I thought, "I'm totally going to buy her off."
So, I did.
The deal was, I would set the timer on my phone. If she got rinsed, dried off, out of the bathtub and dressed in 15 minutes, I'd give her fifty cents.
She totally did it.
So....I did it again at breakfast. With her, a Pop Tart and a glass of milk can last up to half an hour. I gave her another 15 minutes. And another fifty cents.
We made it to Sunday school in plenty of time. She even had enough time left to study spelling words and do a few flash cards for Math. It was the first morning in a very long time that I didn't feel even a little like throttling my sweet little girl.
She's made $1.75 today. She's planning on using it to buy things for the animals at the Pet Rescue in Wahoo.
Some may call this bribery. I'm choosing to call it The Mommy-Abramo-On-Time-Incentive-Plan. I'm going to be broke by the time she is able to grasp the concept of time management. But it's so worth it. What I save in blood pressure medicines, I'm giving to lost pets. My purse is lighter, but my child is happier.
And this, my friends, is how I plan to win parenting. With quarters. (or dimes and nickels...whatever.)
Monday, October 15, 2012
Olfactory Lane
I have always had a very acute sense of smell. My eyesight requires some assistance, my ears are what I consider to be average (a little selective hearing loss), my taste buds work just fine, and at this point in my life, my nerves still work as well as they ever have. But my sense of smell....it's a little overactive. I have woken from a dead sleep to walk around my house sniffing the air to figure out what smells 'off'. I've woken John and insisted that something was on fire. If someone in a five mile radius of our house lights a fire I smell it almost instantly. When Zoe was still in diapers, I could tell she needed changed almost before she could.
I also have a very strong sense of 'smell association'. Scientists say that smell and memory are so closely linked because they are processed in the same area of the brain, the area which also processes emotions. Because we encounter most new odors in our childhood and youth, certain smells have the ability to make an association with a childhood memory. I am a perfect example of this.
Freshly brewed coffee puts me in the kitchen of the house I grew up in, with my Dad at the table. A freshly mowed lawn conjures up a picture of him standing outside the garage of the same house, sharpening mower blades. A baking pie finds me again in that house, at the table watching my step mom make pie crust from scratch, with a gingham apron over her clothes. Oatmeal cookies baking in the oven will transport me to the kitchen of my maternal grandparents, a Tupperware container on the top of a dishwasher, and my Great Aunt Esther standing with her back to me at the stove. My Grandpa Kliment smelled like Old Spice...and he's been gone for nearly ten years. The smell of cow manure puts me at the top of a hay shed where I was not supposed to be, with my brother who was supposed to be watching me, laying on our bellies at the top, watching my uncle feed dairy cattle. The smell of a horse will always bring up a picture of Beauty, a black and white horse who belonged to the same uncle.
Chlorine invokes the old pool in Wahoo, and finds me standing at the edge of the high dive, working up courage. Pine Sol sends me back to the Hinky Dinky deli, with a mop in my hand.
Chocolate chip cookies smell like my kids, and a kitchen in Trenton, where we ate more dough than cookies and laughed so hard our stomachs ached. Depending on which laundry soap I happen to be using, I am either standing in the utility room at my Grandma Cejka's, where in my mind, I watch her iron my grandfather's shirts, or on the front porch of my Grandma Kliment's, following her out the door to the clothes line.
I can not smell Axe body wash and not think of John. That is the reason why, if he leaves for the week on Monday morning, I sleep in his shirts all week while he's gone. Zoe has a blanket (Nankie with the Holes In It) that she's slept with nearly every night of her life, and I have caught myself smelling it during the day if I miss her while she's at school.
They are not always good memory associations. The smell of Jack Daniel's invokes a kind of anxiety I can not explain. The smell of cinnamon Schnapps triggers my gag reflex. The smell of blood makes me recall a crash on a bicycle that sent me over the top of the handlebars and took the skin from my chin, forearms, right hip, knees, and the top of my right foot. Lilies smell like funerals and they make me want to cry.
The same scientists who explain these triggers say that we begin to form these memory associations in the womb. Maybe that's why yesterday during church I smelled my mother. It's not the first time. I think...though I am not at all sure...it's Jovan White Musk.
I don't think there is anyone who could tell me, for sure, that she wore that perfume. She's been gone for almost 33 years. I don't have a single concrete memory of her. For some reason, my brain has formed a link between a woman I do not remember and this particular scent. I wasn't sad. I was comforted. It felt like an arm around my shoulder and a kiss on my forehead. It felt like a little white house in Weston. It felt like acceptance and love. It felt like peace. And no matter the reason, real or imagined, I am so grateful.
I also have a very strong sense of 'smell association'. Scientists say that smell and memory are so closely linked because they are processed in the same area of the brain, the area which also processes emotions. Because we encounter most new odors in our childhood and youth, certain smells have the ability to make an association with a childhood memory. I am a perfect example of this.
Freshly brewed coffee puts me in the kitchen of the house I grew up in, with my Dad at the table. A freshly mowed lawn conjures up a picture of him standing outside the garage of the same house, sharpening mower blades. A baking pie finds me again in that house, at the table watching my step mom make pie crust from scratch, with a gingham apron over her clothes. Oatmeal cookies baking in the oven will transport me to the kitchen of my maternal grandparents, a Tupperware container on the top of a dishwasher, and my Great Aunt Esther standing with her back to me at the stove. My Grandpa Kliment smelled like Old Spice...and he's been gone for nearly ten years. The smell of cow manure puts me at the top of a hay shed where I was not supposed to be, with my brother who was supposed to be watching me, laying on our bellies at the top, watching my uncle feed dairy cattle. The smell of a horse will always bring up a picture of Beauty, a black and white horse who belonged to the same uncle.
Chlorine invokes the old pool in Wahoo, and finds me standing at the edge of the high dive, working up courage. Pine Sol sends me back to the Hinky Dinky deli, with a mop in my hand.
Chocolate chip cookies smell like my kids, and a kitchen in Trenton, where we ate more dough than cookies and laughed so hard our stomachs ached. Depending on which laundry soap I happen to be using, I am either standing in the utility room at my Grandma Cejka's, where in my mind, I watch her iron my grandfather's shirts, or on the front porch of my Grandma Kliment's, following her out the door to the clothes line.
I can not smell Axe body wash and not think of John. That is the reason why, if he leaves for the week on Monday morning, I sleep in his shirts all week while he's gone. Zoe has a blanket (Nankie with the Holes In It) that she's slept with nearly every night of her life, and I have caught myself smelling it during the day if I miss her while she's at school.
They are not always good memory associations. The smell of Jack Daniel's invokes a kind of anxiety I can not explain. The smell of cinnamon Schnapps triggers my gag reflex. The smell of blood makes me recall a crash on a bicycle that sent me over the top of the handlebars and took the skin from my chin, forearms, right hip, knees, and the top of my right foot. Lilies smell like funerals and they make me want to cry.
The same scientists who explain these triggers say that we begin to form these memory associations in the womb. Maybe that's why yesterday during church I smelled my mother. It's not the first time. I think...though I am not at all sure...it's Jovan White Musk.
I don't think there is anyone who could tell me, for sure, that she wore that perfume. She's been gone for almost 33 years. I don't have a single concrete memory of her. For some reason, my brain has formed a link between a woman I do not remember and this particular scent. I wasn't sad. I was comforted. It felt like an arm around my shoulder and a kiss on my forehead. It felt like a little white house in Weston. It felt like acceptance and love. It felt like peace. And no matter the reason, real or imagined, I am so grateful.
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