When I was eleven years old, I wrote a poem. I worked for days to perfect it. I searched the thesaurus in the school's library, I read it aloud in front of a mirror. I worked harder than I had ever worked on any assignment. I labored. I shared it with exactly one person. A trusted teacher. I remember the butterflies in my stomach when I left it on his desk and shyly asked him to read it. "I wrote this thing." I said, unwilling to even label it as a poem, because, in my sixth grade mind, poems were for professionals.
Two days went by, I studied his face during every class. He gave no indication that he had any sort of reaction at all, and for little while, I wondered if I had actually left the paper, or if I had somehow dreamed the entire thing.
On the second day, during the last class, during the last minute of the day, he requested that I stay after the bell rang. I spent the next few minutes in a kind of frozen hell. I wanted to throw up, and then run, or run while throwing up.
After the last classmate had left the room, he said that he had liked my poem, that he could tell that I had worked hard on it. My spirit lifted. Then, he said, "Do you know what the word 'plagiarize' means?" I said that I did. Then he went on to detail what happens when a writer steals another writer's work. That passing someone else's work off as one's own is dishonest and hurtful to the person who put their best efforts into whatever they were writing. I got the message. The poem was good, so good, in fact, that my trusted teacher didn't believe that I had written it.
The poem found it's way into the trash can, I faced a long, sad walk home. I hadn't copied anyone's work. The words had been mine alone. I couldn't be angry with him. He had been as kind as an adult could be who was crushing the inspiration of a preteen girl. I am nearly forty years old, and all it takes is a second to remember the shame I felt, needlessly, sitting in that empty classroom. Words matter.
Two days ago, I shared a post about my father's death. A teacher I trusted and adored (and still adore!) in eighth grade commented that I should write more often. Her praise of my words lifted me up and made my feet light for the rest of the day. She had that effect in the eighth grade, as well. Words matter.
I write all the time. I write long, elaborate stories in my head. I write while I am reading and cooking and folding laundry. I write because it's how my brain works. I just don't share because that is also how my brain works. Sometimes I sit at the computer typing for hours. I reread what I wrote, and then I wish for anonymity because writing is a whole different animal from sharing. Sharing doesn't come anywhere near as easily as writing. Every single time I have shared a blog post, I feel like vomiting. Or running. Or running while I vomit. I always, without fail, want to take it all back and shove it back inside my head for another day. But the words matter.
I am happiest when I am putting thought to paper (or screen, as the case may be). So, I just wanted to say, thank you for reading my words. Thank you for your comments. Thank you for your 'likes' on Facebook. Thank you for the texts you sent. Thank you for what you said to me out loud, with all the world around us to hear. Your words? They matter. I carry them around with me, sometimes for YEARS.
There's a great quote, "Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out". This week, all of your words tasted sweet and light- and I am really and truly grateful.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Monday, August 21, 2017
Post Game Analysis- Eclipse Edition
Let's clear this up right off the bat- I wasn't excited about the eclipse until the tenth article I read, WAY too late last night. I didn't get special glasses. I didn't intend to keep the kids home. I was pretty ambivalent about the whole thing until I started reading online articles describing how rare and beautiful of an event it was going to be.
I woke up this morning, I signed the permission slip allowing Zoe to watch the show, I drove her to school, came home and poured my heart out in a blog post that had little to do with the eclipse, but also, everything to do with it. I was exited. I was observant and watchful of the sky, which, in truth, was pretty cloudy in my little corner of the world.
Here are some of my observations.
1. My dogs were acting very strange. From about 10am until 1pm, they paced, and repeatedly went to the door and barked. I don't think it really had much to do with the eclipse, though. They're pretty strange on any given day. Also, they like to go outside and play with the cats. There may have been a leaf blowing in the yard that they were barking at? Maybe I witnessed the effect of the celestial event on their behavior, but I think it was far more likely that I witnessed Just Another Day With The Abramo Dogz.
2. The cats outside could not, and probably would not, have given two craps about what was going on in the heavens. Not that I saw, anyway.
3. As the time approached what was said to be nearest to totality, it gradually got pretty dark. Crickets and the like were chirping. The light around my house was kind of eerie. I went back inside to check on the weirdo dogs and when I came back out, low and behold, John came gunning down the driveway, back from an extended weekend in Buffalo, NY with family. He pulled in two minutes before the maximum moment of totality. He likes to push the envelope.
4. We BOTH stared up at the sun, sans protective eyewear, despite all of the warnings. It should be noted that I did keep the dogs inside to protect THEIR eyes.
5. We didn't see much. It was pretty cloudy.
6. It gradually started to get lighter again.
7. I felt off-centered and jittery. At first I thought I was having some kind of "One with the universe" moment. A psychic/medium, who's page I like on Facebook (don't judge me!) said that if you were to feel anxious before, during or after the eclipse, you should 'ground down'. Literally, go outside and stand on the ground, barefoot. So, I was heading back out to do just that & figured the dogs needed to go potty by this point, and took them out, too. Then I realized that I was standing barefoot in what is my dog's bathroom, so I stepped back up onto the deck and waited for them to finish their business. While waiting, I realized that I had drank a cup of coffee, my first in almost two months, on an empty stomach. So, I went inside and ate some cheese crackers and I felt a lot better.
8. John and I watched part of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, I went and picked up Zo, he fell asleep.
The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic but I checked out Facebook and I saw a lot of very, very cool pictures of other people's eclipse experiences and something occurred to me. While I stood outside (unwisely) staring at the heavens, an awful lot of people were doing the same. A number of my fellow humans were out there, searching the sky for an experience. Waiting for the light to fade, and then shine again. Maybe some of us were frightened of it not shining again. Maybe some of us just wanted a break from the work day. Maybe some of us are fascinated by the fact that we know so much about the universe, and yet so very little. But, we were all out there, looking. Democrats, Republicans. Conservatives and liberals. Black and white and every color in between. Men and women and everyone in between. We were rich, and poor, and middle class, and we were watching.
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." -George Chakiris
I woke up this morning, I signed the permission slip allowing Zoe to watch the show, I drove her to school, came home and poured my heart out in a blog post that had little to do with the eclipse, but also, everything to do with it. I was exited. I was observant and watchful of the sky, which, in truth, was pretty cloudy in my little corner of the world.
Here are some of my observations.
1. My dogs were acting very strange. From about 10am until 1pm, they paced, and repeatedly went to the door and barked. I don't think it really had much to do with the eclipse, though. They're pretty strange on any given day. Also, they like to go outside and play with the cats. There may have been a leaf blowing in the yard that they were barking at? Maybe I witnessed the effect of the celestial event on their behavior, but I think it was far more likely that I witnessed Just Another Day With The Abramo Dogz.
2. The cats outside could not, and probably would not, have given two craps about what was going on in the heavens. Not that I saw, anyway.
3. As the time approached what was said to be nearest to totality, it gradually got pretty dark. Crickets and the like were chirping. The light around my house was kind of eerie. I went back inside to check on the weirdo dogs and when I came back out, low and behold, John came gunning down the driveway, back from an extended weekend in Buffalo, NY with family. He pulled in two minutes before the maximum moment of totality. He likes to push the envelope.
4. We BOTH stared up at the sun, sans protective eyewear, despite all of the warnings. It should be noted that I did keep the dogs inside to protect THEIR eyes.
5. We didn't see much. It was pretty cloudy.
6. It gradually started to get lighter again.
7. I felt off-centered and jittery. At first I thought I was having some kind of "One with the universe" moment. A psychic/medium, who's page I like on Facebook (don't judge me!) said that if you were to feel anxious before, during or after the eclipse, you should 'ground down'. Literally, go outside and stand on the ground, barefoot. So, I was heading back out to do just that & figured the dogs needed to go potty by this point, and took them out, too. Then I realized that I was standing barefoot in what is my dog's bathroom, so I stepped back up onto the deck and waited for them to finish their business. While waiting, I realized that I had drank a cup of coffee, my first in almost two months, on an empty stomach. So, I went inside and ate some cheese crackers and I felt a lot better.
8. John and I watched part of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, I went and picked up Zo, he fell asleep.
The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic but I checked out Facebook and I saw a lot of very, very cool pictures of other people's eclipse experiences and something occurred to me. While I stood outside (unwisely) staring at the heavens, an awful lot of people were doing the same. A number of my fellow humans were out there, searching the sky for an experience. Waiting for the light to fade, and then shine again. Maybe some of us were frightened of it not shining again. Maybe some of us just wanted a break from the work day. Maybe some of us are fascinated by the fact that we know so much about the universe, and yet so very little. But, we were all out there, looking. Democrats, Republicans. Conservatives and liberals. Black and white and every color in between. Men and women and everyone in between. We were rich, and poor, and middle class, and we were watching.
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." -George Chakiris
Eclipsed
Today at 11:37am, the moon will begin to cover the sun. At 1:03pm, it will reach maximum coverage, and will continue to move across the sun until 2:29pm. For a few minutes the day will become night. The shadows will take over. An event that astronomers say hasn't occurred in the United States, in this capacity, in nearly a hundred years.
But I know better.
Seven years ago today, on a hot afternoon, surrounded by people who love him deeply, my father died. The light hid in the shadows of grief and I couldn't feel the sun shining. I remember the beginning. I remember when the shadows began their journey across my sun, but the details surrounding it grow murkier every day. Because I have learned that it wasn't all about the darkness. Seven years ago on this day, my sun indeed went dark, and it was incredibly painful, and it was hard to navigate in the twilight, but with time, the sun began to shine again, if not quite as bright as before.
In the beginning, I had a difficult time just walking around with that darkness hanging over me. My grief was heavy and weighed down every moment of the day. My world seemed to constantly exist in a perpetual state of gloom. Inky blackness threatened everything. I couldn't remember anything but the darkness. Seven years later, I chose to remember the moments when the sun shined so brilliantly. I chose to remember, not the moment of maximum totality, but all of the moments before that, when I lived with his laugh and the warmth of his smile.
Last week, I was shopping in a local store. The cashier's phone began to ring from her pocket and from an aisle close to the registers, I heard her say, "Hi Mom", and then she let out a big laugh and said, "Sorry, Dad!" When I put my purchases on the counter, she apologized to me for taking the call. I told her that there was absolutely no need for an apology. When I got to my car, I nearly wept with the knowledge that my phone isn't going to ring. And then, that night, I had a dream about a house on west 10th Street, with my father peeking over the top of a cup of coffee. We didn't speak. It only lasted a moment. But for that moment, the sun was bright.
He was funny and sarcastic and flawed. He cried when his dog died, he smoked like a chimney. He drank his iced tea with no ice. He liked his coffee black and his jokes R-rated. He worked hard to have a beautiful lawn. He was a night owl. He hugged me like no one ever can, or will again. He drove slowly. He listened to country music. He hated potatoes. He shook his head when words escaped him, and you could understand exactly what he was saying. He was stubborn. He could be cold and unmoving. He could be warm and welcoming. He liked socks that reached his knee caps and tee-shirts with pockets and western shirts with pearly buttons. He was lightness, and darkness, and all the shadows in between, and I love him deeply and I miss him the same as the number of stars in the sky.
Seven years ago, when the shadows moved over the sunshine, I could not fathom a moment where I would not feel broken and lost. I have since learned not to fear the shadows of my grief. Shadows exist because there is light nearby.
But I know better.
Seven years ago today, on a hot afternoon, surrounded by people who love him deeply, my father died. The light hid in the shadows of grief and I couldn't feel the sun shining. I remember the beginning. I remember when the shadows began their journey across my sun, but the details surrounding it grow murkier every day. Because I have learned that it wasn't all about the darkness. Seven years ago on this day, my sun indeed went dark, and it was incredibly painful, and it was hard to navigate in the twilight, but with time, the sun began to shine again, if not quite as bright as before.
In the beginning, I had a difficult time just walking around with that darkness hanging over me. My grief was heavy and weighed down every moment of the day. My world seemed to constantly exist in a perpetual state of gloom. Inky blackness threatened everything. I couldn't remember anything but the darkness. Seven years later, I chose to remember the moments when the sun shined so brilliantly. I chose to remember, not the moment of maximum totality, but all of the moments before that, when I lived with his laugh and the warmth of his smile.
Last week, I was shopping in a local store. The cashier's phone began to ring from her pocket and from an aisle close to the registers, I heard her say, "Hi Mom", and then she let out a big laugh and said, "Sorry, Dad!" When I put my purchases on the counter, she apologized to me for taking the call. I told her that there was absolutely no need for an apology. When I got to my car, I nearly wept with the knowledge that my phone isn't going to ring. And then, that night, I had a dream about a house on west 10th Street, with my father peeking over the top of a cup of coffee. We didn't speak. It only lasted a moment. But for that moment, the sun was bright.
He was funny and sarcastic and flawed. He cried when his dog died, he smoked like a chimney. He drank his iced tea with no ice. He liked his coffee black and his jokes R-rated. He worked hard to have a beautiful lawn. He was a night owl. He hugged me like no one ever can, or will again. He drove slowly. He listened to country music. He hated potatoes. He shook his head when words escaped him, and you could understand exactly what he was saying. He was stubborn. He could be cold and unmoving. He could be warm and welcoming. He liked socks that reached his knee caps and tee-shirts with pockets and western shirts with pearly buttons. He was lightness, and darkness, and all the shadows in between, and I love him deeply and I miss him the same as the number of stars in the sky.
Seven years ago, when the shadows moved over the sunshine, I could not fathom a moment where I would not feel broken and lost. I have since learned not to fear the shadows of my grief. Shadows exist because there is light nearby.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
My twelve year old wants her birth story. It's a conversation prompted by an upcoming unit on the reproductive system in Health class. It's fine, really. It should be fine. I can, mostly, answer honestly. She's irritated because the boys in class were giggling and laughing about something that the teacher said in regards to a baby coming out of the birth canal, and I say to her, "Girl....you have a birth canal. You came from a birth canal....it's not funny, it's life. It's why we are. It's beautiful and powerful and miraculous, and it's painful and scary and boys never really get over laughing about the mystery of the female body, so just get yourself used to rolling those beautiful brown eyes." She laughs, but there are more questions. I'm fine. I answer. I try to gauge the information that she needs without overwhelming her, because this is a girl who just learned that a 'tramp stamp' isn't an actual stamp...it's a tattoo. I want to give her the information. I want to arm her with the best truths that I know and I want her to understand the power of the female body and I want her to wield the power in her hands like she is a goddamn goddess. But there's still more.
I can tell her the funny parts. I was in labor for, by my count, fourteen hours. I made dinner and rearranged furniture and packed for everyone to be gone for a couple of days. I picked up kids from school and I called her Dad and told him to hurry home, but by the time I finally checked into the hospital, got to a room, and got into a gown, I was dilated to ten, and the doctor barely had time to sit down before her arrival on the scene. We walked into the hospital at 6:30, she was born at 7:10. There was no time for drugs, there was no time for family. Just me, her dad, a nurse who all but begged me to hold off on pushing, and a hurried doctor. I remember, sitting here, like it was yesterday, hearing that nurse say, "Jennifer, I can do it, but I don't want to, so maybe let's try to wait for the doctor?"
She is, as she has always been, on her own schedule. She has more questions. Why's and why-not's. It's ok. I can answer, mostly. But something in me hesitates, just a little. I feel as though I am not telling her the whole truth.
The bare truth is this......I am struggling because her birth story is so closely tied to another. A birth story from 19 1/2 years ago.
I was 19 years old when I found out that I was pregnant. Having grown up in a family with single mothers, I was both scared to death, and doubtful that my nineteen year old self could handle what I knew, even then, to be the most difficult job imaginable. I was afraid. I was scared to tell anyone, and so I didn't. I started drinking a lot of milk, I wore baggy shirts, and I waited for an answer from the God that I found myself praying to all hours of the day and night. I thought about abortion, but someone I knew and loved was struggling to conceive, and I couldn't make sense in my brain of why God wouldn't give them a baby, but gave one to me. And so, four months into the pregnancy, I admitted to the outside world that the pregnancy existed, and I asked that couple to adopt my baby.
Five months. I lived for five months knowing that the child growing inside me was no longer mine. I marvel at that thought now, because, today, my world is measured by my kids.
In early fall, I woke up at nine o'clock in the morning to my first contraction. I alerted the adoptive mother, who alerted the adoptive father. We drove to the hospital on a blazing day, summer not ready to give up yet, and listened as the doctor said, "Yes, you are in labor, come back later." And so, we went back to their house, and we waited. I napped, and while I did so, the adoptive mother made several calls, and when I awoke, there were many, many more people in the room. Twelve. Twelve extra people, not including me, that baby, and the adoptive parents, sat around, just waiting. I was contracting, the adoptive mother was stressing. Fifteen hours after the initial contraction, I, among others, decided that the hospital would probably be the best place to wait out the remainder of the time, and so, in a caravan, we headed back to the hospital.
For another six hours, I walked the halls and tried to hold conversation with the people who were there to see the show. They were there out of love, I know, but it felt to me like they were there to witness my destruction.
Finally, 21 hours after that first contraction, my doctor broke my water, and left the room to do rounds, only to be called back by a frantic nurse moments later. My daughter was here. Except, that she wasn't MY daughter. She was promised to someone else. And there were people everywhere, and I just wanted a minute to absorb what the hell had just happened to me, to my body and my mind and to my soul. I just wanted a minute to look at her, and explain myself, and I wanted to tell her things that I would never get to say.
What I didn't know then, was that we, she and I, had run out of time.
Later, much later, after everyone had gone home for some much needed rest, I lay in that hospital bed begging for answers. Just begging anyone who came near me to LISTEN for a minute. By now, I had seen her face. By now, I knew the shape of her nose. And I just needed someone to LISTEN for a second. Was I sure? Was this right? Was I failing her? And Jesus H. Christ, could I get a Tylenol because my back was hurting so bad that when I tried to stand up, I thought I was going to faint from the pain. My doctor prescribed Darvocet, and I spent the remainder of the day and night on the cusp of consciousness. I don't remember my parents coming back that day, but I have pictures showing they did. And I don't remember the lawyer coming, but I know that I signed.
The next day, we were discharged.
Walking away from her was the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life. There is no pain to which I could compare it. I can not, with any clarity, tell you what goodbye looked like. I don't remember. I know that I woke up every hour and a half that night. I know that the next time I visited her, I prayed for some miracle that would make her mine again. I chanted that prayer to myself so many times over the coming months that you could number the stars and still not reach the correct amount of times that I uttered the word, please.
A reunion was not to be. As a matter of fact, nineteen and a half years later, as I sit and write this in my dining room, I can honestly tell you that very little of what I prayed for in that situation has come to pass. She doesn't speak to me, though she could. She is a college freshman, and past that, I don't know much more about her life.
So, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, the one I want to tell is this: my story and her's, our birth story, is closely tied to the story of a girl who didn't understand what she was giving up. It was done out of love, absolutely. I wanted more for her. I wanted everything for her, and I felt that I had nothing to offer. That first girl, her very existence paints my world with a different color every single day of my life.
After she was gone, I didn't want to have children. I thought it would be unfair to her, to find out that I had chosen not to be a mother to her, but chose to fulfill that role for a different child. Then, I met a man who had children. I reasoned with myself, and I came to the conclusion that if I didn't actually give birth to the kids, it wouldn't be a betrayal of her. And then, one day in late April, my now husband, made an off-hand comment about pregnancy, and was immediately sent to the drug store to purchase two tests. Two, because one wouldn't be sufficient evidence.
When the strip developed the second line, I was securely locked in the bathroom, alone, with the water running so he couldn't hear me sob. I wasn't overwhelmed with gratitude or joy. I was broken hearted because I felt what I had done was the ultimate level of disloyalty to the memory of my daughter, who at that point, was six, and had no idea that I was her birth mother.
Joy came later. Joy came in the face of her father, telling me that it was going to be ok. Joy came in the face of my five year old stepson, who was excited about the prospect of a brother. Joy came, but she wasn't my first emotion.
In the following three months, I reasoned my way into thinking that it would hurt less if the child I carried was a boy, and in July, during an ultrasound appointment, we learned with no uncertainty, that it was a girl. On the way to the car after the appointment, I asked her dad if he was disappointed that it was not a boy, to which he scoffed and reminded me that he had said from the beginning that he wanted a healthy child, period. I was grateful for her health. I was grateful for her existence, and some place deep inside myself, I realized that this was what was supposed to be. That this child I now carried was supposed to be mine.
And so, on a snowy December day, I waited too long to make the calls I had to make, because I didn't want my time with her to end. On that winter evening, when the nurse asked if I minded having students in the room for my labor and delivery, I said no. I didn't want spectators. When she came into the room, with a head full of dark hair and legs stretched long, for just a second, I looked away. I was afraid of the face I was going to see there.
Later, after visitors, with the lights dimmed and her dad snoring on the hospital love seat, I stared at her, unable to look away for even a moment. God in Heaven, I loved her. And right in that second, of me staring at her, and her looking back at me, I realized that I had never truly understood the extent of what I had done six years prior. Even for all of my brokenness and self hatred, I came to realize the magnitude of what walking away from that first baby had done to me.
Every second of every minute after they put that 6 pound wonder in my arms was a moment that I was reminded of what I had given away. Every diaper was a diaper that I didn't change, every bottle was a feeding that I missed.
And so, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, I tell her that birth, like life, is messy and painful. And maybe someday I will tell her the whole story, and maybe someday, I will be able to tell the whole story to the girl who came first. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories are alike, neither wanting to wait until everyone was ready. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories differ, how I left the hospital the first time a broken mess of a girl who didn't fully understand the length and breadth of the commitment I had made, and how I left the hospital the second time feeling more whole than I had felt in six years. Maybe I will tell them that the first night after I left the hospital, I woke up every hour and a half, and later learned that the baby had done the same, miles away. Or maybe I will tell them that the second girl baby slept through the night three weeks after she was born, secure in the knowledge that her mother was never more than three feet away from her at any given moment.
These are our birth stories. There can not be just one. They are weaved together. I can not, and would not, untangle the threads that connect us.
I can tell her the funny parts. I was in labor for, by my count, fourteen hours. I made dinner and rearranged furniture and packed for everyone to be gone for a couple of days. I picked up kids from school and I called her Dad and told him to hurry home, but by the time I finally checked into the hospital, got to a room, and got into a gown, I was dilated to ten, and the doctor barely had time to sit down before her arrival on the scene. We walked into the hospital at 6:30, she was born at 7:10. There was no time for drugs, there was no time for family. Just me, her dad, a nurse who all but begged me to hold off on pushing, and a hurried doctor. I remember, sitting here, like it was yesterday, hearing that nurse say, "Jennifer, I can do it, but I don't want to, so maybe let's try to wait for the doctor?"
She is, as she has always been, on her own schedule. She has more questions. Why's and why-not's. It's ok. I can answer, mostly. But something in me hesitates, just a little. I feel as though I am not telling her the whole truth.
The bare truth is this......I am struggling because her birth story is so closely tied to another. A birth story from 19 1/2 years ago.
I was 19 years old when I found out that I was pregnant. Having grown up in a family with single mothers, I was both scared to death, and doubtful that my nineteen year old self could handle what I knew, even then, to be the most difficult job imaginable. I was afraid. I was scared to tell anyone, and so I didn't. I started drinking a lot of milk, I wore baggy shirts, and I waited for an answer from the God that I found myself praying to all hours of the day and night. I thought about abortion, but someone I knew and loved was struggling to conceive, and I couldn't make sense in my brain of why God wouldn't give them a baby, but gave one to me. And so, four months into the pregnancy, I admitted to the outside world that the pregnancy existed, and I asked that couple to adopt my baby.
Five months. I lived for five months knowing that the child growing inside me was no longer mine. I marvel at that thought now, because, today, my world is measured by my kids.
In early fall, I woke up at nine o'clock in the morning to my first contraction. I alerted the adoptive mother, who alerted the adoptive father. We drove to the hospital on a blazing day, summer not ready to give up yet, and listened as the doctor said, "Yes, you are in labor, come back later." And so, we went back to their house, and we waited. I napped, and while I did so, the adoptive mother made several calls, and when I awoke, there were many, many more people in the room. Twelve. Twelve extra people, not including me, that baby, and the adoptive parents, sat around, just waiting. I was contracting, the adoptive mother was stressing. Fifteen hours after the initial contraction, I, among others, decided that the hospital would probably be the best place to wait out the remainder of the time, and so, in a caravan, we headed back to the hospital.
For another six hours, I walked the halls and tried to hold conversation with the people who were there to see the show. They were there out of love, I know, but it felt to me like they were there to witness my destruction.
Finally, 21 hours after that first contraction, my doctor broke my water, and left the room to do rounds, only to be called back by a frantic nurse moments later. My daughter was here. Except, that she wasn't MY daughter. She was promised to someone else. And there were people everywhere, and I just wanted a minute to absorb what the hell had just happened to me, to my body and my mind and to my soul. I just wanted a minute to look at her, and explain myself, and I wanted to tell her things that I would never get to say.
What I didn't know then, was that we, she and I, had run out of time.
Later, much later, after everyone had gone home for some much needed rest, I lay in that hospital bed begging for answers. Just begging anyone who came near me to LISTEN for a minute. By now, I had seen her face. By now, I knew the shape of her nose. And I just needed someone to LISTEN for a second. Was I sure? Was this right? Was I failing her? And Jesus H. Christ, could I get a Tylenol because my back was hurting so bad that when I tried to stand up, I thought I was going to faint from the pain. My doctor prescribed Darvocet, and I spent the remainder of the day and night on the cusp of consciousness. I don't remember my parents coming back that day, but I have pictures showing they did. And I don't remember the lawyer coming, but I know that I signed.
The next day, we were discharged.
Walking away from her was the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life. There is no pain to which I could compare it. I can not, with any clarity, tell you what goodbye looked like. I don't remember. I know that I woke up every hour and a half that night. I know that the next time I visited her, I prayed for some miracle that would make her mine again. I chanted that prayer to myself so many times over the coming months that you could number the stars and still not reach the correct amount of times that I uttered the word, please.
A reunion was not to be. As a matter of fact, nineteen and a half years later, as I sit and write this in my dining room, I can honestly tell you that very little of what I prayed for in that situation has come to pass. She doesn't speak to me, though she could. She is a college freshman, and past that, I don't know much more about her life.
So, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, the one I want to tell is this: my story and her's, our birth story, is closely tied to the story of a girl who didn't understand what she was giving up. It was done out of love, absolutely. I wanted more for her. I wanted everything for her, and I felt that I had nothing to offer. That first girl, her very existence paints my world with a different color every single day of my life.
After she was gone, I didn't want to have children. I thought it would be unfair to her, to find out that I had chosen not to be a mother to her, but chose to fulfill that role for a different child. Then, I met a man who had children. I reasoned with myself, and I came to the conclusion that if I didn't actually give birth to the kids, it wouldn't be a betrayal of her. And then, one day in late April, my now husband, made an off-hand comment about pregnancy, and was immediately sent to the drug store to purchase two tests. Two, because one wouldn't be sufficient evidence.
When the strip developed the second line, I was securely locked in the bathroom, alone, with the water running so he couldn't hear me sob. I wasn't overwhelmed with gratitude or joy. I was broken hearted because I felt what I had done was the ultimate level of disloyalty to the memory of my daughter, who at that point, was six, and had no idea that I was her birth mother.
Joy came later. Joy came in the face of her father, telling me that it was going to be ok. Joy came in the face of my five year old stepson, who was excited about the prospect of a brother. Joy came, but she wasn't my first emotion.
In the following three months, I reasoned my way into thinking that it would hurt less if the child I carried was a boy, and in July, during an ultrasound appointment, we learned with no uncertainty, that it was a girl. On the way to the car after the appointment, I asked her dad if he was disappointed that it was not a boy, to which he scoffed and reminded me that he had said from the beginning that he wanted a healthy child, period. I was grateful for her health. I was grateful for her existence, and some place deep inside myself, I realized that this was what was supposed to be. That this child I now carried was supposed to be mine.
And so, on a snowy December day, I waited too long to make the calls I had to make, because I didn't want my time with her to end. On that winter evening, when the nurse asked if I minded having students in the room for my labor and delivery, I said no. I didn't want spectators. When she came into the room, with a head full of dark hair and legs stretched long, for just a second, I looked away. I was afraid of the face I was going to see there.
Later, after visitors, with the lights dimmed and her dad snoring on the hospital love seat, I stared at her, unable to look away for even a moment. God in Heaven, I loved her. And right in that second, of me staring at her, and her looking back at me, I realized that I had never truly understood the extent of what I had done six years prior. Even for all of my brokenness and self hatred, I came to realize the magnitude of what walking away from that first baby had done to me.
Every second of every minute after they put that 6 pound wonder in my arms was a moment that I was reminded of what I had given away. Every diaper was a diaper that I didn't change, every bottle was a feeding that I missed.
And so, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, I tell her that birth, like life, is messy and painful. And maybe someday I will tell her the whole story, and maybe someday, I will be able to tell the whole story to the girl who came first. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories are alike, neither wanting to wait until everyone was ready. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories differ, how I left the hospital the first time a broken mess of a girl who didn't fully understand the length and breadth of the commitment I had made, and how I left the hospital the second time feeling more whole than I had felt in six years. Maybe I will tell them that the first night after I left the hospital, I woke up every hour and a half, and later learned that the baby had done the same, miles away. Or maybe I will tell them that the second girl baby slept through the night three weeks after she was born, secure in the knowledge that her mother was never more than three feet away from her at any given moment.
These are our birth stories. There can not be just one. They are weaved together. I can not, and would not, untangle the threads that connect us.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Workin' hard, Or hardly workin'?
I came across a post of Facebook tonight that has me trapped in the past. It was a humorous post about the Faces of Call Center workers, and I recognized myself in most of the pictures. I laughed and shared and started thinking about the jobs I've had since I was old enough to hold a job. I've had some interesting ones. Jobs that have taught me about myself and my fellow man. Jobs that have taught me what I am NOT, and the limits of my fellow man. Jobs that I would rank on a 1 to 10 scale of Better or Worse Than Scrubbing Toilets. Jobs that, for one reason or another, I still miss to this day.
My first 'real' job was as a bus-person in a Steakhouse that also had Keno and a bar. I was sixteen years old. I started on a VERY busy Friday night, called in last minute fifteen minutes before my shift, because the coworker who was supposed to train me the following night failed to show up for work. (Something that became a regular event.) I was required to wear a white shirt and jeans. My duties included filling iced tea, water and coffee, and given that coordination has never been my strong suit, I was nervous. My mantra for that first four hour shift was "Do Not Spill, Do Not Spill, Do Not Spill." I am happy to say that I spilled a lot of things on myself, but never on anyone else. Sometimes God does hear our prayers. I cleared and cleaned tables, stocked clean glasses, helped waitresses wrap silverware, I brought customers condiments and coffee and cream. I served. And learned to appreciate when I was being served something. I learned the value of saying 'Thank You'. I figured out pretty quick that you get more flies (and better tips) with honey. I met one of my best friends. I despised my chauvinistic boss, and I loved my weekend half-drunk-very-likely-to-over-tip customers. I also learned that sometimes drunk people are very, very skeevy and I learned how to watch the parking lot for creepers when I left. I learned that minimum wage was $4.25, and that $4.25 an hour times 19 or 20 hours a week meant I was destined to drive a car that NEVER started, and even when it did, never had enough gas to 'cruise the square' more than once on the way home. I left, very irresponsibly, after a Saturday night argument with my boss, by not showing up for work on Sunday morning to set up the buffet. I think about that, and I still feel guilty. **Confidential to Mel: If you happen to be reading this, I am SO, SO sorry. I was an ass. What more can I say? I loved working with you.
Shortly after I quit the steakhouse, I started a job in the deli of the local grocery store. I had to wear a smock and a hat. I went to work every single day looking absolutely ridiculous. And I learned that sometimes, if you want a paycheck, you have to sacrifice a little pride. I learned how to properly mop a floor. I learned that Wednesday was Senior Citizen's Day, and those blue hairs WILL fight you for their discount, even on a 30 cent cup of coffee. I also learned that sometimes, those blue hairs came in to drink coffee and fight off loneliness, and that taking five minutes out of your day to LISTEN costs nothing. I learned how to perfectly fry an over-easy egg, and I learned that the flat-top grill is very freaking hot. I emptied the grease from the fryer, I scrubbed pots and pans, and I learned to be accountable for the cash register that hated my breathing guts and refused to open without first screaming a series of ear-splitting beeps. I learned to laugh at myself. I learned that a lunch (main dish and two sides) was $3.14 with tax, and I learned how to make change quickly during the lunch rush. I was taught to slice deli meat and cheese with a giant silver slicer by a man who I am sure got into Heaven based solely on the fact that he found the patience to teach me. I learned the art of keeping your mouth shut and your head down, because one of my best friends happened to be the daughter of my boss. I learned first hand why it's a bad idea to date co-workers, and I learned that going to work at 6 in the morning, hung-over, and being required to cook and serve breakfast meats and eggs is not a ton of fun. **Confidential to Deb- I love you. I love your hubby. You guys made my life so much fun.
My boss at the deli also cooked on Friday and Saturday nights in a tiny little bar about 10 minutes from my hometown. The bar was looking for a waitress on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. In retrospect, I believe it is possible that me coming to work at the deli hung over is the reason she offered me this 'opportunity', perhaps in the hope that I would be too tired to have any 'fun' after running my sorry ass off all night waitressing. Thursday nights were Taco night, Friday was Prime Rib night, and Saturday was Hamburger night. I served so many plates of red meat in that tiny dining room, I sometimes feel like I owe the bovine community a deep and heartfelt apology. I worked hard. I made VERY little. My fellow waitress (when she showed up at all) often stole my tips, meager though they were. I learned that not everyone is your friend. I learned that sometimes, the crap you have to put up with just isn't worth it. I learned what it was like to work at a job that you hate. I was afraid to quit. I didn't want make my deli boss look bad for recommending me. So I served up plates of bleeding beef and picked up shredded lettuce off the floor while I seethed with hatred for just about everyone in the building. I learned the art of flirting to get a bigger tip, and I learned that when pushed to the limit, just before I break, my eyes turn vibrantly green and the world stops turning and my heartbeat pounds in my ears, and that, right there, is the moment I should always, always walk away. Confidential to Thieving Waitress Whose Name I Do Not Recall- I ran out of gas because of your thievery on the way home. Twice. You owe me.
I worked at the deli until I graduated from high school. I found a full time job in an envelope factory, and I put my two weeks in, and said goodbye to the ludicrous hat and homely smock. I never missed them even once.
The envelope factory was my first full time job. It was the first job I worked at that paid more than minimum wage. I worked second shift, and I learned that there is still plenty of fun to be had after 11pm when you aren't required to cook anything at 6 a.m. The plant was blazing hot in the summers and dirty and loud and I worked hard and a lot of the time, alone. I learned that my body was capable of much more than I thought and I learned to drink water and not soda. I learned that getting a raise feels amazing, and I learned how difficult it is to work with family. I learned that paychecks aren't guaranteed, and that lay-offs happen, and I learned that third shift and I will never be compatible. I learned that there is no point in whining to coworkers who are just as tired and sore as you, and I learned to take safety around large machines very seriously. I learned to work sick, and I learned to never, ever, not even if my life depends on it, lick the glue to seal an envelope. Like, EVER. I learned to take responsibility and apologize for a huge screw up, and I learned to double check when someone says, "I think so", even if that person is your boss. I also learned that the idyllic small town I grew up in had some very shady characters, and I learned to lock my car doors and hide my wallet. I left the envelope factory for health reasons. And then I learned that just because you want to go back, doesn't always mean you can. Confidential to Tammy- Thanks for letting me make up stupid reasons to come into the office to talk to you when we both knew I was really coming in for the air conditioning.
I moved out of the small town I grew up in and started college. My classes were Monday through Thursday, and I found myself a job in the call center that I referenced above, which was the reason this whole post came into existence in the first place. I got hired at the call center the moment I handed in my application. The young woman who hired me asked if I wanted to start that evening. It should have been a red flag. It should have made me wonder why, in God's Holy Name, this place would want someone with zero sales experience that badly. I was naive and broke and I took a ginormous pay cut, and I took it happily. It was both inbound and outbound telemarketing. The new hires started in outbound. I learned how to sit at a cubicle. I learned that just because someone ACTS important, doesn't necessarily mean they aren't squatting in someone else's office, trying to impress other coworkers. I learned never to have a catch phrase. I learned how to get screamed at in several different dialects of the English language, and I learned that if somebody doesn't have cable television, it's because they either can't afford it or don't want it. I learned that people CAN hate you, despite never having laid eyes on you. I learned to type fast, and talk slower and I learned that the gas station across the parking lot had the very best burritos I have ever tasted. I learned the reason you don't have an open container around a keyboard, and I learned that creepy is creepy, no matter what part of the country you happen to be speaking to. I learned how to cry quietly in the bathroom. I learned that dealing with negativity all the time spills over into my psyche and makes me difficult to love, or even like. I moved to inbound telemarketing within about six week of starting the job. I thought my troubles were over. I sat back and waited for my phone to ring. Then it did. And I learned, once again, that all important lesson about honey and flies. I was basically the complaint department for the cable television we were selling. I learned to be so nice it hurts, even when you are getting screamed at. I learned that the person on the other end of the phone often has no power and no control. I learned to be polite and apologize for things that weren't my fault. I learned that a certain cable company will not reimburse anyone for any pornography that a customer orders, 'accidentally' or not. I learned that my boss was required to make 'ghost calls' to check my performance, and I learned that even though I despised every moment I spent with that headset on, I could still cheat the system and end up with a raise if I "played the game'. I learned that I did not like playing the game. I learned that it is possible for me to wake up one morning and be unable to convince myself to spend another moment doing a job. I learned to go in anyway. I learned to lie. I learned to use being a girl as an excuse for way too many bathroom breaks. I learned that the world will not end if you simply hang up during the middle of an irate customer's abusive speech, and walk out the door. I learned that if you are going to quietly sneak out of your job, you had better remember to grab your car keys. **Confidential to Todd: I know you aren't reading this, but I just have to say, I hope you still work in that call center. You deserve it. "BE ON THE PHONE!" Also, if I may make a suggestion? If you are going to be a squatter in somebody else's office, the least you should do is hide the pictures of their family.
After the telemarketing, I got a job as an office temp. I spent a lot of time driving around looking for addresses that I am fairly certain don't exist. I learned that my sense of direction is almost nonexistent. I learned to make coffee in no less than forty-seven different kinds of coffee makers. I learned that I love order and organization. I learned to say goodbye to people I genuinely liked. I learned what it was like to envy a person for the work they did. I learned that I have a very difficult time adjusting to too much change.
My last temp job sent me to a doctor's office to reorganize medical records. I stayed on as a permanent employee of the clinic. I stayed for nearly four years. I learned to alphabetize without having to say the whole alphabet in my head. I learned what it was like to love the work I was doing. I learned medical records and I learned reception, and I learned transcription, and I loved every moment of it. I met another best friend. I learned to fight for the money I deserved. I learned to look forward to five o'clock on Fridays and to dread Monday mornings. I learned that it's okay to immerse yourself in work to escape a nightmare personal life. I learned that a five minute smoke break is plenty of time. I learned that good people will stab you in the back to save themselves. I learned to make friends with the building maintenance guys. I learned how to say painful goodbyes and I learned that it's okay to take a risk and leave what you know and love for the unknown. **Confidential to George and Frank: I am the one who kept switching your radio from polka to hard rock. I have had a lot of nicknames over the years, but none that I loved as much as when the two of you happily called out, "Red!" every morning for three years. I missed you when you left. I missed you when I left. I miss you now. "If I were 40 years older..... ;)"
After I left the clinic, I worked at a life insurance company. My job was to basically send out faxes to doctor's offices to collect medical records, and to make phone calls to ensure that the faxes I had sent were received and records were en route to our office. I learned that I like to be busy. I learned to ask for more responsibility then to handle it. I learned that sometimes coworkers don't want to be friends. I learned that 'business casual' means a lot of different things to different people. I learned that Employee of the Month gets pretty good parking, but not much else. I learned that a different job was calling to my soul and I left. **Confidential to Wendy: You were a great boss. I liked working for you. I'm not sorry I left, and thanks for understanding why I did.
The job that came after the insurance company taught me more than all of the previous jobs combined, and then some. This job taught me that there is something so much bigger and more important than a paycheck. The job is hard, and often thankless and most of the time it's dirty, but it's also the most fun I have ever had and the best I have ever been. This job has taught me to be grateful and to count every blessing. At this job, I am called Mom. I'm still working on this job. I'm still learning exactly what it is I am supposed to be doing. It's the scariest job I've ever had, and the most rewarding. It's the job I was always meant to do. **Confidential to the Kiddos: I love you. So much. So. Very. Much.
After a relocation, circumstances forced me to accept another telemarketing job. Inbound calls only. I lasted three weeks before I found a factory job that paid better. I learned that you can make it through any number of hours if you have something at home that is worth suffering for. **Confidential to the Teenagers That I Worked With: I know that by now you are all old enough to buy your own, but NO, I will STILL not buy you beer.
The factory job that I went to after the brief reentry into telemarketing let me use power tools. I'm not sure any of us has ever fully recovered. I liked it there. I learned to work with my hands and build something and I learned to take pride in a VERY hard day's work. I learned that men habitually underestimate women. I learned to find the good in a lot of ugliness. **Confidential to 'Santa': You will never know what you meant to me. Your patience, the grace with which you carried your grief, your laugh, your smile, your puppy pictures.....you made a very hard time easier, just by taking me under your wing. I hope Angel gave you lots of Grand-Puppies.
After the factory job, I went back to Mom-ing full time. And then I went back to a doctor's office. And, while I loved the office job, I found that I love Mom-ing a lot more. So I did that for awhile, until I got a full time job doing daycare out of my house. And I did that for awhile until I got a job doing daycare somewhere else. I've learned patience, and practicality. I've learned that M & M's are like gold to a three year old. I've learned to be quieter and I'm learning that kids will always surprise you. I'm learning that you can love someone but also be secretly thrilled to see them leave. I've learned that sometimes you have to let a kid throw themselves down and kick and scream until they feel better. I've learned that spaghetti is my least favorite lunch, and that sometimes you can not wash your hands enough. I've learned to listen and hear what someone can not say. I'm still learning.
I don't know what anyone else's list looks like, but I know this, I've loved learning the lessons. I've loved sitting here, late into the night when I should be sleeping (because I have to work tomorrow!) thinking about the people that I've worked with and laughing at the ridiculous things I did and crying about the things I can't undo and the goodbyes that I'm never going to get to say. I'm grateful, SO grateful.
***John 5:17 But Jesus answered them, "My Father is working until now, and I am working."
My first 'real' job was as a bus-person in a Steakhouse that also had Keno and a bar. I was sixteen years old. I started on a VERY busy Friday night, called in last minute fifteen minutes before my shift, because the coworker who was supposed to train me the following night failed to show up for work. (Something that became a regular event.) I was required to wear a white shirt and jeans. My duties included filling iced tea, water and coffee, and given that coordination has never been my strong suit, I was nervous. My mantra for that first four hour shift was "Do Not Spill, Do Not Spill, Do Not Spill." I am happy to say that I spilled a lot of things on myself, but never on anyone else. Sometimes God does hear our prayers. I cleared and cleaned tables, stocked clean glasses, helped waitresses wrap silverware, I brought customers condiments and coffee and cream. I served. And learned to appreciate when I was being served something. I learned the value of saying 'Thank You'. I figured out pretty quick that you get more flies (and better tips) with honey. I met one of my best friends. I despised my chauvinistic boss, and I loved my weekend half-drunk-very-likely-to-over-tip customers. I also learned that sometimes drunk people are very, very skeevy and I learned how to watch the parking lot for creepers when I left. I learned that minimum wage was $4.25, and that $4.25 an hour times 19 or 20 hours a week meant I was destined to drive a car that NEVER started, and even when it did, never had enough gas to 'cruise the square' more than once on the way home. I left, very irresponsibly, after a Saturday night argument with my boss, by not showing up for work on Sunday morning to set up the buffet. I think about that, and I still feel guilty. **Confidential to Mel: If you happen to be reading this, I am SO, SO sorry. I was an ass. What more can I say? I loved working with you.
Shortly after I quit the steakhouse, I started a job in the deli of the local grocery store. I had to wear a smock and a hat. I went to work every single day looking absolutely ridiculous. And I learned that sometimes, if you want a paycheck, you have to sacrifice a little pride. I learned how to properly mop a floor. I learned that Wednesday was Senior Citizen's Day, and those blue hairs WILL fight you for their discount, even on a 30 cent cup of coffee. I also learned that sometimes, those blue hairs came in to drink coffee and fight off loneliness, and that taking five minutes out of your day to LISTEN costs nothing. I learned how to perfectly fry an over-easy egg, and I learned that the flat-top grill is very freaking hot. I emptied the grease from the fryer, I scrubbed pots and pans, and I learned to be accountable for the cash register that hated my breathing guts and refused to open without first screaming a series of ear-splitting beeps. I learned to laugh at myself. I learned that a lunch (main dish and two sides) was $3.14 with tax, and I learned how to make change quickly during the lunch rush. I was taught to slice deli meat and cheese with a giant silver slicer by a man who I am sure got into Heaven based solely on the fact that he found the patience to teach me. I learned the art of keeping your mouth shut and your head down, because one of my best friends happened to be the daughter of my boss. I learned first hand why it's a bad idea to date co-workers, and I learned that going to work at 6 in the morning, hung-over, and being required to cook and serve breakfast meats and eggs is not a ton of fun. **Confidential to Deb- I love you. I love your hubby. You guys made my life so much fun.
My boss at the deli also cooked on Friday and Saturday nights in a tiny little bar about 10 minutes from my hometown. The bar was looking for a waitress on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. In retrospect, I believe it is possible that me coming to work at the deli hung over is the reason she offered me this 'opportunity', perhaps in the hope that I would be too tired to have any 'fun' after running my sorry ass off all night waitressing. Thursday nights were Taco night, Friday was Prime Rib night, and Saturday was Hamburger night. I served so many plates of red meat in that tiny dining room, I sometimes feel like I owe the bovine community a deep and heartfelt apology. I worked hard. I made VERY little. My fellow waitress (when she showed up at all) often stole my tips, meager though they were. I learned that not everyone is your friend. I learned that sometimes, the crap you have to put up with just isn't worth it. I learned what it was like to work at a job that you hate. I was afraid to quit. I didn't want make my deli boss look bad for recommending me. So I served up plates of bleeding beef and picked up shredded lettuce off the floor while I seethed with hatred for just about everyone in the building. I learned the art of flirting to get a bigger tip, and I learned that when pushed to the limit, just before I break, my eyes turn vibrantly green and the world stops turning and my heartbeat pounds in my ears, and that, right there, is the moment I should always, always walk away. Confidential to Thieving Waitress Whose Name I Do Not Recall- I ran out of gas because of your thievery on the way home. Twice. You owe me.
I worked at the deli until I graduated from high school. I found a full time job in an envelope factory, and I put my two weeks in, and said goodbye to the ludicrous hat and homely smock. I never missed them even once.
The envelope factory was my first full time job. It was the first job I worked at that paid more than minimum wage. I worked second shift, and I learned that there is still plenty of fun to be had after 11pm when you aren't required to cook anything at 6 a.m. The plant was blazing hot in the summers and dirty and loud and I worked hard and a lot of the time, alone. I learned that my body was capable of much more than I thought and I learned to drink water and not soda. I learned that getting a raise feels amazing, and I learned how difficult it is to work with family. I learned that paychecks aren't guaranteed, and that lay-offs happen, and I learned that third shift and I will never be compatible. I learned that there is no point in whining to coworkers who are just as tired and sore as you, and I learned to take safety around large machines very seriously. I learned to work sick, and I learned to never, ever, not even if my life depends on it, lick the glue to seal an envelope. Like, EVER. I learned to take responsibility and apologize for a huge screw up, and I learned to double check when someone says, "I think so", even if that person is your boss. I also learned that the idyllic small town I grew up in had some very shady characters, and I learned to lock my car doors and hide my wallet. I left the envelope factory for health reasons. And then I learned that just because you want to go back, doesn't always mean you can. Confidential to Tammy- Thanks for letting me make up stupid reasons to come into the office to talk to you when we both knew I was really coming in for the air conditioning.
I moved out of the small town I grew up in and started college. My classes were Monday through Thursday, and I found myself a job in the call center that I referenced above, which was the reason this whole post came into existence in the first place. I got hired at the call center the moment I handed in my application. The young woman who hired me asked if I wanted to start that evening. It should have been a red flag. It should have made me wonder why, in God's Holy Name, this place would want someone with zero sales experience that badly. I was naive and broke and I took a ginormous pay cut, and I took it happily. It was both inbound and outbound telemarketing. The new hires started in outbound. I learned how to sit at a cubicle. I learned that just because someone ACTS important, doesn't necessarily mean they aren't squatting in someone else's office, trying to impress other coworkers. I learned never to have a catch phrase. I learned how to get screamed at in several different dialects of the English language, and I learned that if somebody doesn't have cable television, it's because they either can't afford it or don't want it. I learned that people CAN hate you, despite never having laid eyes on you. I learned to type fast, and talk slower and I learned that the gas station across the parking lot had the very best burritos I have ever tasted. I learned the reason you don't have an open container around a keyboard, and I learned that creepy is creepy, no matter what part of the country you happen to be speaking to. I learned how to cry quietly in the bathroom. I learned that dealing with negativity all the time spills over into my psyche and makes me difficult to love, or even like. I moved to inbound telemarketing within about six week of starting the job. I thought my troubles were over. I sat back and waited for my phone to ring. Then it did. And I learned, once again, that all important lesson about honey and flies. I was basically the complaint department for the cable television we were selling. I learned to be so nice it hurts, even when you are getting screamed at. I learned that the person on the other end of the phone often has no power and no control. I learned to be polite and apologize for things that weren't my fault. I learned that a certain cable company will not reimburse anyone for any pornography that a customer orders, 'accidentally' or not. I learned that my boss was required to make 'ghost calls' to check my performance, and I learned that even though I despised every moment I spent with that headset on, I could still cheat the system and end up with a raise if I "played the game'. I learned that I did not like playing the game. I learned that it is possible for me to wake up one morning and be unable to convince myself to spend another moment doing a job. I learned to go in anyway. I learned to lie. I learned to use being a girl as an excuse for way too many bathroom breaks. I learned that the world will not end if you simply hang up during the middle of an irate customer's abusive speech, and walk out the door. I learned that if you are going to quietly sneak out of your job, you had better remember to grab your car keys. **Confidential to Todd: I know you aren't reading this, but I just have to say, I hope you still work in that call center. You deserve it. "BE ON THE PHONE!" Also, if I may make a suggestion? If you are going to be a squatter in somebody else's office, the least you should do is hide the pictures of their family.
After the telemarketing, I got a job as an office temp. I spent a lot of time driving around looking for addresses that I am fairly certain don't exist. I learned that my sense of direction is almost nonexistent. I learned to make coffee in no less than forty-seven different kinds of coffee makers. I learned that I love order and organization. I learned to say goodbye to people I genuinely liked. I learned what it was like to envy a person for the work they did. I learned that I have a very difficult time adjusting to too much change.
My last temp job sent me to a doctor's office to reorganize medical records. I stayed on as a permanent employee of the clinic. I stayed for nearly four years. I learned to alphabetize without having to say the whole alphabet in my head. I learned what it was like to love the work I was doing. I learned medical records and I learned reception, and I learned transcription, and I loved every moment of it. I met another best friend. I learned to fight for the money I deserved. I learned to look forward to five o'clock on Fridays and to dread Monday mornings. I learned that it's okay to immerse yourself in work to escape a nightmare personal life. I learned that a five minute smoke break is plenty of time. I learned that good people will stab you in the back to save themselves. I learned to make friends with the building maintenance guys. I learned how to say painful goodbyes and I learned that it's okay to take a risk and leave what you know and love for the unknown. **Confidential to George and Frank: I am the one who kept switching your radio from polka to hard rock. I have had a lot of nicknames over the years, but none that I loved as much as when the two of you happily called out, "Red!" every morning for three years. I missed you when you left. I missed you when I left. I miss you now. "If I were 40 years older..... ;)"
After I left the clinic, I worked at a life insurance company. My job was to basically send out faxes to doctor's offices to collect medical records, and to make phone calls to ensure that the faxes I had sent were received and records were en route to our office. I learned that I like to be busy. I learned to ask for more responsibility then to handle it. I learned that sometimes coworkers don't want to be friends. I learned that 'business casual' means a lot of different things to different people. I learned that Employee of the Month gets pretty good parking, but not much else. I learned that a different job was calling to my soul and I left. **Confidential to Wendy: You were a great boss. I liked working for you. I'm not sorry I left, and thanks for understanding why I did.
The job that came after the insurance company taught me more than all of the previous jobs combined, and then some. This job taught me that there is something so much bigger and more important than a paycheck. The job is hard, and often thankless and most of the time it's dirty, but it's also the most fun I have ever had and the best I have ever been. This job has taught me to be grateful and to count every blessing. At this job, I am called Mom. I'm still working on this job. I'm still learning exactly what it is I am supposed to be doing. It's the scariest job I've ever had, and the most rewarding. It's the job I was always meant to do. **Confidential to the Kiddos: I love you. So much. So. Very. Much.
After a relocation, circumstances forced me to accept another telemarketing job. Inbound calls only. I lasted three weeks before I found a factory job that paid better. I learned that you can make it through any number of hours if you have something at home that is worth suffering for. **Confidential to the Teenagers That I Worked With: I know that by now you are all old enough to buy your own, but NO, I will STILL not buy you beer.
The factory job that I went to after the brief reentry into telemarketing let me use power tools. I'm not sure any of us has ever fully recovered. I liked it there. I learned to work with my hands and build something and I learned to take pride in a VERY hard day's work. I learned that men habitually underestimate women. I learned to find the good in a lot of ugliness. **Confidential to 'Santa': You will never know what you meant to me. Your patience, the grace with which you carried your grief, your laugh, your smile, your puppy pictures.....you made a very hard time easier, just by taking me under your wing. I hope Angel gave you lots of Grand-Puppies.
After the factory job, I went back to Mom-ing full time. And then I went back to a doctor's office. And, while I loved the office job, I found that I love Mom-ing a lot more. So I did that for awhile, until I got a full time job doing daycare out of my house. And I did that for awhile until I got a job doing daycare somewhere else. I've learned patience, and practicality. I've learned that M & M's are like gold to a three year old. I've learned to be quieter and I'm learning that kids will always surprise you. I'm learning that you can love someone but also be secretly thrilled to see them leave. I've learned that sometimes you have to let a kid throw themselves down and kick and scream until they feel better. I've learned that spaghetti is my least favorite lunch, and that sometimes you can not wash your hands enough. I've learned to listen and hear what someone can not say. I'm still learning.
I don't know what anyone else's list looks like, but I know this, I've loved learning the lessons. I've loved sitting here, late into the night when I should be sleeping (because I have to work tomorrow!) thinking about the people that I've worked with and laughing at the ridiculous things I did and crying about the things I can't undo and the goodbyes that I'm never going to get to say. I'm grateful, SO grateful.
***John 5:17 But Jesus answered them, "My Father is working until now, and I am working."
Sunday, August 10, 2014
King Leonidas
Dearest Leo,
Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of the day you came home with us. It was slightly over-shadowed by Zoe's homecoming. (I forgot until about 10 pm.) I wanted to mark this occasion, not with urine, as you are so fond of doing, but with a letter.
You came home a three pound little peanut of a thing. I, frankly, doubted the longevity of your life in this family of graceless, klutzy people. In a year, you've tripled in size and learned to dodge and weave.
You steal my blankets, socks, and snacks.
You hog the bed.
You refuse to allow snuggles that don't place you smack in the middle. You bark at your 'dad' when he hugs me. You bite Zoe's feet and toes when she tries to lay down next to me.
You chew on shoes.
You sometimes get so busy harassing the cats that you forget to go to the bathroom when you're outside, until you've come back in and no one is looking.
You don't like rain, thunder, lightening, snow, or cold temperatures.
You chewed through TWO gates that were designed to keep you in the pantry. It's a four foot by six foot space of your very own. We've put sweaters and blankets and towels along with you, toys to keep you company, food and fresh water, and still, in some Shawshank Redemption-esque effort, you tunneled your way out of there.
You make every effort to knock over the garbage and eat it, despite your bowl of dog food and the seventeen different kinds of treats that we provide for you.
You sometimes chase birds out into the road. Last week, at 8am, you were a quarter of a mile from the house on your way into the cornfield across the road, and there I was, behind you, still in my pajamas, flip-flops on my feet, with my 'just out of bed' hair, trudging through the ditch while the whole of Saunders County drove by. You see, you were hidden, so all the passing cars could see was a disheveled looking woman, talking to herself and calling out to no one, "Let's go get a treat!" When you finally decided to follow me home, I was so angry, I blocked you in the pantry. Five minutes later, you jumped up on the bed next to me and promptly laid your head on my lap and fell asleep. I forgot about the holes in the gates.
You tore holes in the window blinds at the foot of the bed because you like to lay there and look out the window at the yard.
You bark in the middle of the night at things I can not see, and then you dive under the covers when I go to investigate. Remember the time you hid under the bathtub and it took me 15 minutes to convince you to come out? At 2am?
You sometimes have dreams in the middle of the night that wake me up. I don't know anything about dog dreams, but on the off chance that you're having a nightmare, I wake you up. And you act all haughty because *I* disturbed *you*.
You love to go for rides, but you're scared of the window being rolled down.
You develop a severe case of AD/HD when we have company.
At one point in time, every single member of this family has used the phrase, "I can't get up, the dog is sleeping on me".
You take my side in every argument that I have. Never questioning who is right or wrong, you just follow me around, making sure I understand that you're on my side.
You've laid next to me when I was sick, looking at me like you were just as miserable as I was.
You keep me from being lonely.
You are happy to see me when I come home, whether I've been gone five minutes or five hours.
The last year of our lives has been fuller, funnier, and more interesting because of you.
We (I) named you for Leonidas of Sparta, from the movie 300. At one point in the movie, the Spartan King Leonidas says, "In the end, a Spartan's true strength is the warrior next to him. So give respect and honor to him, and it will be returned to you." Respect and honor, Leo. I'd say we're about even.
Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of the day you came home with us. It was slightly over-shadowed by Zoe's homecoming. (I forgot until about 10 pm.) I wanted to mark this occasion, not with urine, as you are so fond of doing, but with a letter.
You came home a three pound little peanut of a thing. I, frankly, doubted the longevity of your life in this family of graceless, klutzy people. In a year, you've tripled in size and learned to dodge and weave.
You steal my blankets, socks, and snacks.
You hog the bed.
You refuse to allow snuggles that don't place you smack in the middle. You bark at your 'dad' when he hugs me. You bite Zoe's feet and toes when she tries to lay down next to me.
You chew on shoes.
You sometimes get so busy harassing the cats that you forget to go to the bathroom when you're outside, until you've come back in and no one is looking.
You don't like rain, thunder, lightening, snow, or cold temperatures.
You chewed through TWO gates that were designed to keep you in the pantry. It's a four foot by six foot space of your very own. We've put sweaters and blankets and towels along with you, toys to keep you company, food and fresh water, and still, in some Shawshank Redemption-esque effort, you tunneled your way out of there.
You make every effort to knock over the garbage and eat it, despite your bowl of dog food and the seventeen different kinds of treats that we provide for you.
You sometimes chase birds out into the road. Last week, at 8am, you were a quarter of a mile from the house on your way into the cornfield across the road, and there I was, behind you, still in my pajamas, flip-flops on my feet, with my 'just out of bed' hair, trudging through the ditch while the whole of Saunders County drove by. You see, you were hidden, so all the passing cars could see was a disheveled looking woman, talking to herself and calling out to no one, "Let's go get a treat!" When you finally decided to follow me home, I was so angry, I blocked you in the pantry. Five minutes later, you jumped up on the bed next to me and promptly laid your head on my lap and fell asleep. I forgot about the holes in the gates.
You tore holes in the window blinds at the foot of the bed because you like to lay there and look out the window at the yard.
You bark in the middle of the night at things I can not see, and then you dive under the covers when I go to investigate. Remember the time you hid under the bathtub and it took me 15 minutes to convince you to come out? At 2am?
You sometimes have dreams in the middle of the night that wake me up. I don't know anything about dog dreams, but on the off chance that you're having a nightmare, I wake you up. And you act all haughty because *I* disturbed *you*.
You love to go for rides, but you're scared of the window being rolled down.
You develop a severe case of AD/HD when we have company.
At one point in time, every single member of this family has used the phrase, "I can't get up, the dog is sleeping on me".
You take my side in every argument that I have. Never questioning who is right or wrong, you just follow me around, making sure I understand that you're on my side.
You've laid next to me when I was sick, looking at me like you were just as miserable as I was.
You keep me from being lonely.
You are happy to see me when I come home, whether I've been gone five minutes or five hours.
The last year of our lives has been fuller, funnier, and more interesting because of you.
We (I) named you for Leonidas of Sparta, from the movie 300. At one point in the movie, the Spartan King Leonidas says, "In the end, a Spartan's true strength is the warrior next to him. So give respect and honor to him, and it will be returned to you." Respect and honor, Leo. I'd say we're about even.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Tuesdays with Crazy
The scene opens on a balmy Tuesday morning at 5:15am. The Woman struggles to shut of the blaring alarm at her head, inching slowly off the bed, headed for the coffee pot. Never mind that it's her day off, and it's been nine hundred days since she slept in. No, never you mind that. The woman lays her head down on the kitchen counter and waits, watching her only heart's desire pour into the cup beneath the Keurig machine. She closes her eyes, briefly, until the sound of dripping is done. She adds her cream and sugar and takes her first sip. It's amazing.
Heading to the bathroom, she glances at herself in the mirror and realizes that she has hardened shredded cheese stuck to her cheek, because she lay her head on a counter that she forgot to wipe down before she went to bed very, very late last night. It's alright. Don't worry. She has her coffee. She sighs, deeply. It looks as though someone neglected to replace the roll of toilet paper again. It's alright. She'll take care of it.
The woman dresses herself. Sports bra, shorts, tank top, flip flops. She pulls her hair back into a pony tail and heads for the truck. Once outside, she realizes that it is 87 degrees with 70% humidity, and her hair does this funky curly-only-at-the-sides of her head thing that makes it kind of look like she is possibly growing wings above her ears. The good (?) news is, this is as cool as it's going to be all day. The bad news is, her family has been rocking the One Vehicle With No Air Conditioning venue since this time last summer. It's all good. Her husband bought her one of those Spray/Fan combo things. She's covered. (In sweat. At 5:30am)
The woman drops her husband off at work and heads back home, hoping against hope that she will have a chance to shower when she gets there. And, also, to refill her coffee cup. She is about ten miles from her house when the first cup of coffee decides it's done it's job for the day and fills her bladder almost to bursting. Ten miles. So close, and yet.......there's a tractor, slowly making his way through morning traffic.....finally able to pass him, she turns at the blinking yellow light and low and behold! What do we have here?! A train, stopped across the tracks. Two LONG miles from this woman's driveway. She does a careful, three point turn to make her way back to the busy highway, drives another mile down and narrowly escapes being smashed to little, tiny pieces by a semi-truck. Finally, blessedly, she is home.
Waiting at home for her are her four children two Grandpeeps, and her doggie. She thinks they will still be asleep. She is wrong. GrandBoy #1 comes around the corner, sleepily rubbing his eyes, and asks for breakfast. Daughter #3 comes down the stairs and smiles and hugs her mother and begins to question the plans for the day, specifically whether or not said daughter will be going to the pool. Daughter #3 thinks that maybe her sweet Mommy didn't hear her the first seventy-nine times she asked, so she continues to ask about the pool while GrandBoy #1 continues to ask for breakfast. The woman just watches the coffee hit the bottom of the cup and says goodbye to all of her showering dreams. She takes her first sip when GrandGirl joins the party. GrandGirl has urgent diapering needs. GrandBoy decides to try to locate a specific Matchbox car in a large bucket FULL of Matchbox cars by emptying the bucket into the middle of the living room floor. Daughter #2 makes an entrance, drops to the middle of the dining room floor and stretches out in a Zombie-esqe fashion, thus ensuring that GrandBoy #1 and GrandGirl will be asking several thousand questions about WHY this is happening. Doggie now has urgent bathroom needs that will wait for no Zombie, Daughter or Grandperson. The woman takes him to the yard, careful not to let him down to run around Zombie Daughter or the GrandPeeps, because Doggie has a social anxiety disorder which causes him to be unable to EVER sit still or stop licking the faces, noses or ears of the GrandPeeps, which makes the GrandPeeps VERY unhappy, indeed.
Outside, Doggie greets his Yard Cat friends (there are 5), relieves himself on the tire of the woman's truck, spots a bird off in the distance, and pretends that he has a shot in hell at catching the bird and takes off. The woman takes a deep breath and decides that, yes, despite his tendency to get on a lot of nerves, the family would, in fact, miss him greatly. She follows after him, barely able to see his tiny rear end disappear into the bean field. She tracks him down to the fifth row of beans, where he is laying claim to seventeen plants for his ever-growing empire. The woman whistles, threatens, cajoles, and begs her Doggie to come with her back to the house, where even at half an acre away, she can still hear the GrandPeeps asking for breakfast. The Doggie eventually decides to follow her back, stopping at every 10th blade of grass along the way, making a valiant effort to remind the other animals in the kingdom that Doggie's Empire is vast and well-tended. They are halfway back to the house when an insect that the woman is pretty sure is a first cousin to Mothra lands on the back of the woman's leg and bites/stings her. Doggie misinterprets the woman's simultaneous leg slap/arm wave/terrified screech as an "I Really Want To Play And Chase You Around The Yard Dance" and behaves accordingly. The woman has no time to mourn the loss of muscle control in her lower extremity, she has to act fast and grab a hold of the Doggie before he makes his way into the next county.
Back at the house, the woman examines the bite/sting on the back of her leg and can find no evidence of the bug bite whatsoever, ensuring that NO ONE, ever, anywhere, will believe what she just experienced. She hangs her head.
She feeds the GrandPeeps and Daughter #3, dresses the GrandPeeps, redresses herself, packs diapers, wipes, her purse, her phone and Daughter #3 and heads back outside into the humidity. GrandGirl goes into her car seat. GrandBoy #1 goes into his car seat. Daughter #3 (still asking about pool plans) goes into the passenger seat. Daughter #2 was supposed to have been coming along, but has since made her way back to her bed. (Hopefully. Possibly she only made it as far as the floor next to her bed. The woman forgot to check.) They drive, with no air conditioning, down the highway to the woman's Mother's house. During the journey, the GrandPeeps ask twenty-seven million times where the group is heading and why they are heading there. The woman stops answering. Daughter #3 is not as jaded as the woman, and therefore, continues to give the same answers to the same questions at the top of her lungs to the GrandPeeps, making the woman think that Daughter #3 should possibly have her head examined before starting fourth grade this year.
Upon arriving at their destination, the Woman must now engage in a battle of arms, legs, and car seat buckles to unload everyone and get them to the door. The woman's Mother answers the door in her pajamas. This is especially strange to the woman, because it is now nearly 8:30am, and the woman's Mother has a long history of preaching the benefits of early rising to the woman. The woman makes herself a cup of her Mother's coffee. The two of them take GrandPeeps and Daughter #3 outside to play, because Mother's yard is shady and it's only Almost Unbearable. While playing in the yard, a bug makes it's way into the woman's coffee and drowns. GrandBoy #1 finds this hysterical. The woman, less so. At 9:45am, they all head inside for a drink and to enjoy some good, old-fashioned air conditioning. The woman's Mother tells Daughter #3 and the GrandPeeps that there are cookies in the cookie jar, which is sitting on the counter. The woman tries to say No Thank You to her Mother, on behalf of the group, however, the Mother won't take no for an answer and insists on feeding cookies to the GrandPeeps before 10am. A move which assures the woman that her Mother is no longer the woman who raised her. In the woman's experience, her Mother believed that snacks containing sugar should be consumed by children between 2pm and 2:01pm.
The woman, once again, engages in Epic Car Seat Battles to place the GrandPeeps into the truck to leave, though it is made slightly more difficult by the sugar-induced spasms the GrandPeeps are now experiencing. The woman now realizes that she needs to put gas in the truck. She stops at a gas station, and because she is educated, and it is hot outside, she removes GrandPeeps from the car seats, takes them inside to pay for the gas, ends up buying half of the gas station, takes them back outside, returns them to the car seats, and heads for home. All the while, Daughter #3 has not stopped asking about what time the pool opens and when they will be going and who will be going with her. The woman is drenched in sweat and feels as though she may need to pull over to vomit before reaching her driveway. The GrandPeeps are in danger of falling into a sugar-induced coma in the backseat. They make it safely inside the blessedly cool house. Daughter #2 is fully awake and functional. Also, Son has now joined the land of the living. His first question to the woman is whether he will be able to go to the pool as previously planned.
The woman makes lunch while washing dishes and scraping hardened cheese off the counters. While Daughter #2, Son, Daughter #3, and the GrandPeeps eat, she folds a load of laundry. She finds that the Universe has rewarded her for doing the laundry of people who are perfectly capable of doing their own laundry by leaving $7 in her dryer. She is appropriately thankful. She shares the message on Facebook. While updating her status, GrandBoy #1 enters the room and informs her that, "Fun time is OVER." The woman laughs at him, and is promptly sent to time out. The fifteen seconds of 'time out' is blissful for the woman. It is exactly what she needed. Fifteen seconds to reflect on her life as a parent, grandparent, wife, daughter, maid, chauffeur, the list is endless. The woman is then informed that GrandGirl has another urgent diaper issue that requires immediate attention.
The woman tracks down Son, who has retreated to his video game paradise, and Daughter #3, loads them up and takes them to the pool, handing them her hard-earned $7 Laundry Lottery Winnings for snacks. Daughter #2 is left in charge of GrandPeeps. When she returns, the woman finds that Daughter #2 is asleep on the couch, as is GrandBoy #1. GrandGirl looks to be nearly dormant. The woman silently celebrates. She does not know what to do with this windfall. Shower? Nap? She decides to type up a quick blog entry.
Heading to the bathroom, she glances at herself in the mirror and realizes that she has hardened shredded cheese stuck to her cheek, because she lay her head on a counter that she forgot to wipe down before she went to bed very, very late last night. It's alright. Don't worry. She has her coffee. She sighs, deeply. It looks as though someone neglected to replace the roll of toilet paper again. It's alright. She'll take care of it.
The woman dresses herself. Sports bra, shorts, tank top, flip flops. She pulls her hair back into a pony tail and heads for the truck. Once outside, she realizes that it is 87 degrees with 70% humidity, and her hair does this funky curly-only-at-the-sides of her head thing that makes it kind of look like she is possibly growing wings above her ears. The good (?) news is, this is as cool as it's going to be all day. The bad news is, her family has been rocking the One Vehicle With No Air Conditioning venue since this time last summer. It's all good. Her husband bought her one of those Spray/Fan combo things. She's covered. (In sweat. At 5:30am)
The woman drops her husband off at work and heads back home, hoping against hope that she will have a chance to shower when she gets there. And, also, to refill her coffee cup. She is about ten miles from her house when the first cup of coffee decides it's done it's job for the day and fills her bladder almost to bursting. Ten miles. So close, and yet.......there's a tractor, slowly making his way through morning traffic.....finally able to pass him, she turns at the blinking yellow light and low and behold! What do we have here?! A train, stopped across the tracks. Two LONG miles from this woman's driveway. She does a careful, three point turn to make her way back to the busy highway, drives another mile down and narrowly escapes being smashed to little, tiny pieces by a semi-truck. Finally, blessedly, she is home.
Waiting at home for her are her four children two Grandpeeps, and her doggie. She thinks they will still be asleep. She is wrong. GrandBoy #1 comes around the corner, sleepily rubbing his eyes, and asks for breakfast. Daughter #3 comes down the stairs and smiles and hugs her mother and begins to question the plans for the day, specifically whether or not said daughter will be going to the pool. Daughter #3 thinks that maybe her sweet Mommy didn't hear her the first seventy-nine times she asked, so she continues to ask about the pool while GrandBoy #1 continues to ask for breakfast. The woman just watches the coffee hit the bottom of the cup and says goodbye to all of her showering dreams. She takes her first sip when GrandGirl joins the party. GrandGirl has urgent diapering needs. GrandBoy decides to try to locate a specific Matchbox car in a large bucket FULL of Matchbox cars by emptying the bucket into the middle of the living room floor. Daughter #2 makes an entrance, drops to the middle of the dining room floor and stretches out in a Zombie-esqe fashion, thus ensuring that GrandBoy #1 and GrandGirl will be asking several thousand questions about WHY this is happening. Doggie now has urgent bathroom needs that will wait for no Zombie, Daughter or Grandperson. The woman takes him to the yard, careful not to let him down to run around Zombie Daughter or the GrandPeeps, because Doggie has a social anxiety disorder which causes him to be unable to EVER sit still or stop licking the faces, noses or ears of the GrandPeeps, which makes the GrandPeeps VERY unhappy, indeed.
Outside, Doggie greets his Yard Cat friends (there are 5), relieves himself on the tire of the woman's truck, spots a bird off in the distance, and pretends that he has a shot in hell at catching the bird and takes off. The woman takes a deep breath and decides that, yes, despite his tendency to get on a lot of nerves, the family would, in fact, miss him greatly. She follows after him, barely able to see his tiny rear end disappear into the bean field. She tracks him down to the fifth row of beans, where he is laying claim to seventeen plants for his ever-growing empire. The woman whistles, threatens, cajoles, and begs her Doggie to come with her back to the house, where even at half an acre away, she can still hear the GrandPeeps asking for breakfast. The Doggie eventually decides to follow her back, stopping at every 10th blade of grass along the way, making a valiant effort to remind the other animals in the kingdom that Doggie's Empire is vast and well-tended. They are halfway back to the house when an insect that the woman is pretty sure is a first cousin to Mothra lands on the back of the woman's leg and bites/stings her. Doggie misinterprets the woman's simultaneous leg slap/arm wave/terrified screech as an "I Really Want To Play And Chase You Around The Yard Dance" and behaves accordingly. The woman has no time to mourn the loss of muscle control in her lower extremity, she has to act fast and grab a hold of the Doggie before he makes his way into the next county.
Back at the house, the woman examines the bite/sting on the back of her leg and can find no evidence of the bug bite whatsoever, ensuring that NO ONE, ever, anywhere, will believe what she just experienced. She hangs her head.
She feeds the GrandPeeps and Daughter #3, dresses the GrandPeeps, redresses herself, packs diapers, wipes, her purse, her phone and Daughter #3 and heads back outside into the humidity. GrandGirl goes into her car seat. GrandBoy #1 goes into his car seat. Daughter #3 (still asking about pool plans) goes into the passenger seat. Daughter #2 was supposed to have been coming along, but has since made her way back to her bed. (Hopefully. Possibly she only made it as far as the floor next to her bed. The woman forgot to check.) They drive, with no air conditioning, down the highway to the woman's Mother's house. During the journey, the GrandPeeps ask twenty-seven million times where the group is heading and why they are heading there. The woman stops answering. Daughter #3 is not as jaded as the woman, and therefore, continues to give the same answers to the same questions at the top of her lungs to the GrandPeeps, making the woman think that Daughter #3 should possibly have her head examined before starting fourth grade this year.
Upon arriving at their destination, the Woman must now engage in a battle of arms, legs, and car seat buckles to unload everyone and get them to the door. The woman's Mother answers the door in her pajamas. This is especially strange to the woman, because it is now nearly 8:30am, and the woman's Mother has a long history of preaching the benefits of early rising to the woman. The woman makes herself a cup of her Mother's coffee. The two of them take GrandPeeps and Daughter #3 outside to play, because Mother's yard is shady and it's only Almost Unbearable. While playing in the yard, a bug makes it's way into the woman's coffee and drowns. GrandBoy #1 finds this hysterical. The woman, less so. At 9:45am, they all head inside for a drink and to enjoy some good, old-fashioned air conditioning. The woman's Mother tells Daughter #3 and the GrandPeeps that there are cookies in the cookie jar, which is sitting on the counter. The woman tries to say No Thank You to her Mother, on behalf of the group, however, the Mother won't take no for an answer and insists on feeding cookies to the GrandPeeps before 10am. A move which assures the woman that her Mother is no longer the woman who raised her. In the woman's experience, her Mother believed that snacks containing sugar should be consumed by children between 2pm and 2:01pm.
The woman, once again, engages in Epic Car Seat Battles to place the GrandPeeps into the truck to leave, though it is made slightly more difficult by the sugar-induced spasms the GrandPeeps are now experiencing. The woman now realizes that she needs to put gas in the truck. She stops at a gas station, and because she is educated, and it is hot outside, she removes GrandPeeps from the car seats, takes them inside to pay for the gas, ends up buying half of the gas station, takes them back outside, returns them to the car seats, and heads for home. All the while, Daughter #3 has not stopped asking about what time the pool opens and when they will be going and who will be going with her. The woman is drenched in sweat and feels as though she may need to pull over to vomit before reaching her driveway. The GrandPeeps are in danger of falling into a sugar-induced coma in the backseat. They make it safely inside the blessedly cool house. Daughter #2 is fully awake and functional. Also, Son has now joined the land of the living. His first question to the woman is whether he will be able to go to the pool as previously planned.
The woman makes lunch while washing dishes and scraping hardened cheese off the counters. While Daughter #2, Son, Daughter #3, and the GrandPeeps eat, she folds a load of laundry. She finds that the Universe has rewarded her for doing the laundry of people who are perfectly capable of doing their own laundry by leaving $7 in her dryer. She is appropriately thankful. She shares the message on Facebook. While updating her status, GrandBoy #1 enters the room and informs her that, "Fun time is OVER." The woman laughs at him, and is promptly sent to time out. The fifteen seconds of 'time out' is blissful for the woman. It is exactly what she needed. Fifteen seconds to reflect on her life as a parent, grandparent, wife, daughter, maid, chauffeur, the list is endless. The woman is then informed that GrandGirl has another urgent diaper issue that requires immediate attention.
The woman tracks down Son, who has retreated to his video game paradise, and Daughter #3, loads them up and takes them to the pool, handing them her hard-earned $7 Laundry Lottery Winnings for snacks. Daughter #2 is left in charge of GrandPeeps. When she returns, the woman finds that Daughter #2 is asleep on the couch, as is GrandBoy #1. GrandGirl looks to be nearly dormant. The woman silently celebrates. She does not know what to do with this windfall. Shower? Nap? She decides to type up a quick blog entry.
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