Yesterday was a day of revolving door meetings with nurses and and doctors regarding the whosits and whatsits and howsits of diabetes.
The who: Pancreas Boy
The what: Type 1 Diabetes
The how: autoimmunity? trauma?
There are 2 main types of diabetes. Phillip's is the most common in children, yet the least common overall. The suspicion is that during the battle of skateboard v pancreas- the blow that the pancreas took started a chain reaction that ended up with Phillip's immune system targeting pancreas cells as damaged and starting to get rid of them. Now if we could just nail down these premises for targeted cancer therapy.....or hell I'm gonna go out on a limb and call for the actual cure of diseases.
The docs went back and reviewed his previous scans and saw the deterioration and that was why we were monitoring his sugars. The questions are why now? and what is the mechanism? We may not find the answers, but will get him into a couple more scans to see what's going on. None of this stuff affects the course of treatment- all that is standard for type 1 diabetes. Studies have shown that in cases where the pancreas has been pummelled- sometimes it results in diabetes, sometimes not. Since it is a pretty rare occurrence- again not a lot of data on that.
Pancreas Boy faces each and every challenge and keeps us in stitches- fortunately not literally. Yesterday his IV was sore and creating difficulty for him. That is to say that when he bent his arm to play video games - the darn machine kept beeping. We discussed with the nurse either moving it or getting rid of it altogether and she put in the call to the doc for approval. We then transitioned the conversation to taking blood glucose levels and that Phillip could do it himself and even give himself the insulin shot. Phillip apparently reached an intense moment in Angry Birds Rio and missed the transition. He hardly paid attention as the nurse removed his IV. SO when she asked him if he was ready to poke himself he dropped the game and looked to me in utter panic- I don't want to do it. Phil gives him a confused look and asks why not- he did it earlier. Phillip shakes his head and says- no the guy in the ER did it. At which point we all realize he thinks we want him to start a new IV on himself. Phil doesn't miss a beat and says well- if you're not ready- you're not- how about taking your glucose level? Yeah I can do that- that's easy. I even gave myself a shot already.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Return of Pancreas Boy and the Diabetic Disaster
Of all the things I had to do this weekend- I hadn't ruled out the possibility of ending up at Tripler. To be perfectly honest- it's always a real possibility- especially when you have 6 sports games lined up and a birthday party involving pony rides. I just didn't see us going in for diabetes.
3 years ago this week, I was returning some borrowed items to my mother in law's house. Phillip and his friend were outside playing around with the neighbor's longboard skateboard. In trying to perform some death defying feat, he fell and jabbed himself in the stomach with the board. We called them in for pizza and Phillip looked like he was going to be sick. He took one bite of pizza and refused the rest. On the way home he got all clammy and started throwing up- he look awful so I took him in. He bruised his pancreas, spent 10 days in the hospital with a feeding tube and from there on out became pancreas boy.
He has routine appointments with the endocrinologist- which is to say, I usually drag him along for Lily's appointments and she squeezes him in. I check his blood sugar sporadically, which is to say when I think of it. As of the last time, I found all my test strips expired last year. A quick internet search revealed I could trick the machine by telling it that it is 2009 so it will read the strips. Brilliant. At his last appointment the endocrinologist was optimistic because all of his tests still look good, which is to say she wasn't expecting that.
For every symptom he had, there was an explanation. He's moody- he's 11 they are all just learning to deal with hormones crazy little maniacs- right? He's tired- but pre-teens sleep like the dead don't they? He's been thirsty- but he's reffing soccer in 80 degree weather, playing flag football and growing- he needs lots of fluids. Going to the bathroom- well he's old enough I don't have a good record of this- although he did pee behind a lot of bushes in Volcanoes National Park if I stop to think about it. But in my second job as a camel- I was pushing liquids on the little hikers like you read about. The one symptom that got me is the weight loss.
My kids chunk out and then grow. When they were babies- it fascinated me to watch it- one day they were all pudgy roly poly and they would wake up the next morning lean and wirey. It happens now that they are older- I just had the discussion with Phillip because a month ago he was rounding out a little and I knew he was getting ready for a big growth spurt. So it didn't surprise me when he started looking skinnier- I assumed he grew. Then about a week ago he was walking around without his shirt and I noticed he looked thin. We are active every day, but he played 4 seasons of basketball and never looked this trim. I made a mental note to check his sugars next chance I got. Thin isn't in my repertoire. Call it big boneded, call it whatever you want- my kids come from sturdy stock. I come from generations of food=love and eat the stress away. Skinny is saved for sickness and chemo- I have many times tried to retrain my thoughts. We have been eating healthy since Phil joined the Crossfit Cult, I mean lifestyle. Eating right and exercising is actually part of our lifestyle- but when Phillip started looking gaunt, I knew something wasn't right.
I wanted to take his fasting blood sugar Saturday, but he ended up wandering over to my neighbor's house for waffles while I was in the shower. I left for a birthday party with Lily and Bell and it got put off for another day. Sunday he rolls out of bed and looks haggard. Haggard enough for Phil to ask him if he's ok. I grab the glucometer, reset the date to 2009 and we give it a whirl. 238. That can't be right. I scrub another finger with alcohol, and the lancet and we try again. 278. No that's not good. "Try me." says my husband sticking out his finger. I laugh, but it's not a bad idea- he's 98. Kiera lines up, she wants a turn- weirdo. I check mine- a little over 100. I try Phillip again- 278. I call my neighbor, who is also one of my few links to sanity. She has a diabetic dog and hence a glucometer that has strips from this year. Can we run a glucose test on him over there- I tell her our problem. He and Phil go over since I still am not dressed. It's 288. My neighbor tells him to take Phillip directly to the ER- she has a diabetic sister and niece- she knows more than your average bear. We decide that Schofield is a better(faster) option, the boys set out. She tells us we are crazy- he's gonna get a fast pass. Define "fast"?
Hours later, Phillip is formally diagnosed with diabetes and has a bunch of labs drawn. He gets to ride in the ambulance to tripler- and makes Phil take pictures of him. Phil lets me know when they get admitted so I can bring them overnight bags. And tell Monica she was right. It's a long running battle between the two of them. He tells her she's not right, she pretty much knows she is- he tells her she's not the boss, she rescues us when we need it. My neighbor shakes her head as she herds my non diabetic children over to her house- he didn't even pack a bag. Look- we know cancer- this is new territory for us. And while we are at it- I'm not happy he's got diabetes- but I am glad it's not a rare disease that nobody knows anything about- it's something, well, manageable. I have a feeling I will be seeing more of our endocrinologist than my husband in the next few months. yaaaaaaay.
I feel the familiar knot in my stomach as I drive to the pink palace on the hill. Braddah IZ is singing away about somewhere over the rainbow- I look for my sign but either the storm just passed or it hasn't hit yet- hard to say. The boys are sitting outside on a bench and I notice Phillip is just drowning in the hospital gown. I should have tested him sooner. Phil tells me the ER tech said most onset diabetics come in a coma- he wanted to know how we knew to bring him in? Did you tell him Monica made us? She's not the boss of me, he says- even if she was right, this time. He told the tech that we have monitored him after he busted his pancreas. He was thirsty, losing weight and tired . So the tech asks- why didn't you bring him in sooner? Ah I love medical professionals. I'm pretty sure Phil didn't regale him with tales of tournaments and daily life with 4 kids- I'm sure he just said we brought him in as soon as we tested him. I guess we could have waited for the coma, but that seems a little silly. They will be doing round the clock labs and monitoring all kinds of things. Once he gets the sugars managed and we get our medical degree in diabetic home management, we will be allowed to bring him home. We hope for Tuesday. Phil hopes they have insulin blow darts.
3 years ago this week, I was returning some borrowed items to my mother in law's house. Phillip and his friend were outside playing around with the neighbor's longboard skateboard. In trying to perform some death defying feat, he fell and jabbed himself in the stomach with the board. We called them in for pizza and Phillip looked like he was going to be sick. He took one bite of pizza and refused the rest. On the way home he got all clammy and started throwing up- he look awful so I took him in. He bruised his pancreas, spent 10 days in the hospital with a feeding tube and from there on out became pancreas boy.
He has routine appointments with the endocrinologist- which is to say, I usually drag him along for Lily's appointments and she squeezes him in. I check his blood sugar sporadically, which is to say when I think of it. As of the last time, I found all my test strips expired last year. A quick internet search revealed I could trick the machine by telling it that it is 2009 so it will read the strips. Brilliant. At his last appointment the endocrinologist was optimistic because all of his tests still look good, which is to say she wasn't expecting that.
For every symptom he had, there was an explanation. He's moody- he's 11 they are all just learning to deal with hormones crazy little maniacs- right? He's tired- but pre-teens sleep like the dead don't they? He's been thirsty- but he's reffing soccer in 80 degree weather, playing flag football and growing- he needs lots of fluids. Going to the bathroom- well he's old enough I don't have a good record of this- although he did pee behind a lot of bushes in Volcanoes National Park if I stop to think about it. But in my second job as a camel- I was pushing liquids on the little hikers like you read about. The one symptom that got me is the weight loss.
My kids chunk out and then grow. When they were babies- it fascinated me to watch it- one day they were all pudgy roly poly and they would wake up the next morning lean and wirey. It happens now that they are older- I just had the discussion with Phillip because a month ago he was rounding out a little and I knew he was getting ready for a big growth spurt. So it didn't surprise me when he started looking skinnier- I assumed he grew. Then about a week ago he was walking around without his shirt and I noticed he looked thin. We are active every day, but he played 4 seasons of basketball and never looked this trim. I made a mental note to check his sugars next chance I got. Thin isn't in my repertoire. Call it big boneded, call it whatever you want- my kids come from sturdy stock. I come from generations of food=love and eat the stress away. Skinny is saved for sickness and chemo- I have many times tried to retrain my thoughts. We have been eating healthy since Phil joined the Crossfit Cult, I mean lifestyle. Eating right and exercising is actually part of our lifestyle- but when Phillip started looking gaunt, I knew something wasn't right.
I wanted to take his fasting blood sugar Saturday, but he ended up wandering over to my neighbor's house for waffles while I was in the shower. I left for a birthday party with Lily and Bell and it got put off for another day. Sunday he rolls out of bed and looks haggard. Haggard enough for Phil to ask him if he's ok. I grab the glucometer, reset the date to 2009 and we give it a whirl. 238. That can't be right. I scrub another finger with alcohol, and the lancet and we try again. 278. No that's not good. "Try me." says my husband sticking out his finger. I laugh, but it's not a bad idea- he's 98. Kiera lines up, she wants a turn- weirdo. I check mine- a little over 100. I try Phillip again- 278. I call my neighbor, who is also one of my few links to sanity. She has a diabetic dog and hence a glucometer that has strips from this year. Can we run a glucose test on him over there- I tell her our problem. He and Phil go over since I still am not dressed. It's 288. My neighbor tells him to take Phillip directly to the ER- she has a diabetic sister and niece- she knows more than your average bear. We decide that Schofield is a better(faster) option, the boys set out. She tells us we are crazy- he's gonna get a fast pass. Define "fast"?
Hours later, Phillip is formally diagnosed with diabetes and has a bunch of labs drawn. He gets to ride in the ambulance to tripler- and makes Phil take pictures of him. Phil lets me know when they get admitted so I can bring them overnight bags. And tell Monica she was right. It's a long running battle between the two of them. He tells her she's not right, she pretty much knows she is- he tells her she's not the boss, she rescues us when we need it. My neighbor shakes her head as she herds my non diabetic children over to her house- he didn't even pack a bag. Look- we know cancer- this is new territory for us. And while we are at it- I'm not happy he's got diabetes- but I am glad it's not a rare disease that nobody knows anything about- it's something, well, manageable. I have a feeling I will be seeing more of our endocrinologist than my husband in the next few months. yaaaaaaay.
I feel the familiar knot in my stomach as I drive to the pink palace on the hill. Braddah IZ is singing away about somewhere over the rainbow- I look for my sign but either the storm just passed or it hasn't hit yet- hard to say. The boys are sitting outside on a bench and I notice Phillip is just drowning in the hospital gown. I should have tested him sooner. Phil tells me the ER tech said most onset diabetics come in a coma- he wanted to know how we knew to bring him in? Did you tell him Monica made us? She's not the boss of me, he says- even if she was right, this time. He told the tech that we have monitored him after he busted his pancreas. He was thirsty, losing weight and tired . So the tech asks- why didn't you bring him in sooner? Ah I love medical professionals. I'm pretty sure Phil didn't regale him with tales of tournaments and daily life with 4 kids- I'm sure he just said we brought him in as soon as we tested him. I guess we could have waited for the coma, but that seems a little silly. They will be doing round the clock labs and monitoring all kinds of things. Once he gets the sugars managed and we get our medical degree in diabetic home management, we will be allowed to bring him home. We hope for Tuesday. Phil hopes they have insulin blow darts.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Kalo n Kiera
I had the chance to go to the Kalo(taro) Patch with Kiera's Class. In 4th grade, they learn all about Hawaiian History and Culture. A trip to the Taro patch enlightens the children to the importance of playing in mud. I learned quite a bit. For instance, I still do not like poi which is the famous Hawaiian glue, I mean root. Actually, Taro is the root and is very much like a potato and is great in breads, or baked with a little seasoning- but when it is ground into Poi- it looks like purple snot. After learning that 4th grade classes from all over the island swim around where it is planted, I question my need to eat it at all. I know 4th graders, they are not clean. I also learned that mother of a classmate is a poopologist. Her son informed me that she can identify animals by the way their poop smells. Does she dissect it? Sometimes, was the answer- if she's looking for something. I don't think he was joking. I wonder what Kiera tells the kids I do.....
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Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Parenting Crossroads and the Yes Man
I am not a single parent, but I have been playing one for quite awhile now. I can say that there are benefits to both sides of the parenting fence. I will also say that a single parent can parent as effectively as a couple, because as in all things life- you are only as strong as your weakest link. Yet it is always nice to have a partner. Playing good cop- bad cop just looks silly if there's only one actor. I have learned some amazing things about parenting by watching my husband interact with our children. When he is debriefing behavior, he covers the finer elements of a standard flight defrief. Since there are rarely films to evaluate- the replay is more of a constructive questionning with a fair amount of detective work. This detective reasoning leads to the reconstruction of events and well as an opportunity to guide the children into the problem solving Woulda Coulda Shouldas. Once these have been established, they once again reflect on the positive and negative aspects and compare them to other times we have seen or not seen such behaviors. Once the child has effectively reflected, the true redirection (aka parenting- lecturing- mentoring- guiding- brainwashing-etc) begins. Once the debrief is concluded he usually asks them a trivial question. They usually respond, "Yes, sir"- and he knows they understand where everyone stands. Except Bella, she always responds "Yes Man" because the other ones used to say "Yes Ma'am" and he would then have to say "Your mom is a Ma'am. I am a Sir." I have yet to hear him correct Bella and neither one of us can resist snickering.
His talks are always one of the highlights of my job. He doesn't talk down to the kids, nor does he lecture over their heads. He is relateable yet authoritative. I often have to leave the room in a fit of giggles because when you watch an adult debriefing a toddler on the finer points of appropriate behavior choices- it is inherently funny. The one thing you will not see him do is negotiate with them. Some call it stubborn, but I think it is an element of parenting that is often overlooked these days. If children were equipped to handle all of the choices society has to throw at them- they would not be kept under the parenting umbrella until they are 18- oh wait- maybe it's 21-or is it 23 now? Oh yeah- some policies allow you to extend coverage to your "child" who is up to 26 years of age. It wasn't so many years ago that a 26 year old was considered an old maid and destined to live a life of solitude. Time to take off the kid gloves people.
As I said, I've been tackling some parenting hurdles solo. I have found that yelling only works to get their attention- but doesn't accomplish much else. I'm sure my neighbors appreciate my extensive research on the subject. Ignoring doesn't work either. Telling the children to work it out- plain old ridiculous- if they could work it out on their own- really would there be a conflict- um no. What does work? Consistency. For the same reasons children go haywire as soon as you get on the phone, talk to a neighbor, or are out in public- those are precisely the times you need to enforce appropriate behavior. Especially if it is uncomfortable. You will save yourself lots of discomfort in the long run. Lately- my kids like to approach me after 8 pm. I go off duty at 8. Off duty in my world means I'll deal with you- but in an adult fashion. It occurred to me that I was completely enabling their behavior because I was tired and it was quicker to just sign their homework logs after hours than deal with the fallout. Every night I was dealing with the logs. I finally said I wouldn't do it. If it wasn't done by dinner- it wasn't signed. The result was Phillip sneaking his on the counter in the morning. I would sign it without thinking. And then I didn't and I refused to. It took 2 days and he finally figured it out. Children have to face the consequences. I didn't want him to go to school and have his planner not signed and have the teacher think I wasn't doing my job. And then it occurred to me- my JOB is to teach him to be responsible. That's the whole point of consequences. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks- if I am doing what needs to be done.
I don't like public humiliation. I don't like to humiliate my children in public and I sure as heck don't like being humiliated. Yet at some point, children subconsciously recognize this and use it to their advantage. Like yesterday morning. Bella chose to ride her scooter to school. Once we drop the kids at school, she decides she is done riding the scooter. The rule is- you choose it- you have to get it home. I remind her of the rules and listen to her complaining for a block. We get to the corner of death( a main intersection with only a 4 way stop and people who would rather have your blood on their car than take the time to obey the rules of the road- like stopping). I usually carry her scooter across and hold her hand so if necessary, I can slingshot her to safety and take the full impact of a hit and run. Bella refuses to hold my hand and stomps her feet. I grab her hand and threaten punishment in the form of my hand hitting her butt if she doesn't hold my hand and walk across the street, she pulls it away. At certain ages- immediate reward and punishment are needed. And then for good measure- booster shots of reinforcement need to be given as kids get older. She then does the wet noodle act and throws herself on the ground. I now have to spank her because I threatened it. In public. So I do. I can tell you this because I already had about 25 witnesses to it- it's not a secret. She still refuses. At some point this is not working and reinforcement has the potential to become child abuse. That point is now. It is not a battle of the wills- it is me making a point and getting a child across the street safely. I pick her up grab the scooter and dash across the street. Before I even get to the sidewalk- I hurl her scooter into a grassy patch and park her butt on a nearby step. I get down on her level- because that's what Supernanny says to do- it's less intimidating. I then wonder if I should stand back up- because she just publicly disobeyed me and threw a fit- if this doesn't call for a little intimidation- I don't know what does. And as a sidebar- I don't watch supernanny- I've seen it twice and both times it was the exact same. I only watched it those 2 times so I could feel like my children weren't Satan's spawn- and it worked. I stay at eye level and explain to her that when we get home, since she is sooooo tired of walking she will sit in time out until she is no longer tired. At that time she will clean the backyard and if she gets tired she can go back to timeout. Do you understand? Her response "Yes Man."
The good news is I can say "I am not a MAN I am a MA'AM" without sounding utterly ridiculous. But I don't because I have to walk away so she can't see me snickering.
His talks are always one of the highlights of my job. He doesn't talk down to the kids, nor does he lecture over their heads. He is relateable yet authoritative. I often have to leave the room in a fit of giggles because when you watch an adult debriefing a toddler on the finer points of appropriate behavior choices- it is inherently funny. The one thing you will not see him do is negotiate with them. Some call it stubborn, but I think it is an element of parenting that is often overlooked these days. If children were equipped to handle all of the choices society has to throw at them- they would not be kept under the parenting umbrella until they are 18- oh wait- maybe it's 21-or is it 23 now? Oh yeah- some policies allow you to extend coverage to your "child" who is up to 26 years of age. It wasn't so many years ago that a 26 year old was considered an old maid and destined to live a life of solitude. Time to take off the kid gloves people.
As I said, I've been tackling some parenting hurdles solo. I have found that yelling only works to get their attention- but doesn't accomplish much else. I'm sure my neighbors appreciate my extensive research on the subject. Ignoring doesn't work either. Telling the children to work it out- plain old ridiculous- if they could work it out on their own- really would there be a conflict- um no. What does work? Consistency. For the same reasons children go haywire as soon as you get on the phone, talk to a neighbor, or are out in public- those are precisely the times you need to enforce appropriate behavior. Especially if it is uncomfortable. You will save yourself lots of discomfort in the long run. Lately- my kids like to approach me after 8 pm. I go off duty at 8. Off duty in my world means I'll deal with you- but in an adult fashion. It occurred to me that I was completely enabling their behavior because I was tired and it was quicker to just sign their homework logs after hours than deal with the fallout. Every night I was dealing with the logs. I finally said I wouldn't do it. If it wasn't done by dinner- it wasn't signed. The result was Phillip sneaking his on the counter in the morning. I would sign it without thinking. And then I didn't and I refused to. It took 2 days and he finally figured it out. Children have to face the consequences. I didn't want him to go to school and have his planner not signed and have the teacher think I wasn't doing my job. And then it occurred to me- my JOB is to teach him to be responsible. That's the whole point of consequences. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks- if I am doing what needs to be done.
I don't like public humiliation. I don't like to humiliate my children in public and I sure as heck don't like being humiliated. Yet at some point, children subconsciously recognize this and use it to their advantage. Like yesterday morning. Bella chose to ride her scooter to school. Once we drop the kids at school, she decides she is done riding the scooter. The rule is- you choose it- you have to get it home. I remind her of the rules and listen to her complaining for a block. We get to the corner of death( a main intersection with only a 4 way stop and people who would rather have your blood on their car than take the time to obey the rules of the road- like stopping). I usually carry her scooter across and hold her hand so if necessary, I can slingshot her to safety and take the full impact of a hit and run. Bella refuses to hold my hand and stomps her feet. I grab her hand and threaten punishment in the form of my hand hitting her butt if she doesn't hold my hand and walk across the street, she pulls it away. At certain ages- immediate reward and punishment are needed. And then for good measure- booster shots of reinforcement need to be given as kids get older. She then does the wet noodle act and throws herself on the ground. I now have to spank her because I threatened it. In public. So I do. I can tell you this because I already had about 25 witnesses to it- it's not a secret. She still refuses. At some point this is not working and reinforcement has the potential to become child abuse. That point is now. It is not a battle of the wills- it is me making a point and getting a child across the street safely. I pick her up grab the scooter and dash across the street. Before I even get to the sidewalk- I hurl her scooter into a grassy patch and park her butt on a nearby step. I get down on her level- because that's what Supernanny says to do- it's less intimidating. I then wonder if I should stand back up- because she just publicly disobeyed me and threw a fit- if this doesn't call for a little intimidation- I don't know what does. And as a sidebar- I don't watch supernanny- I've seen it twice and both times it was the exact same. I only watched it those 2 times so I could feel like my children weren't Satan's spawn- and it worked. I stay at eye level and explain to her that when we get home, since she is sooooo tired of walking she will sit in time out until she is no longer tired. At that time she will clean the backyard and if she gets tired she can go back to timeout. Do you understand? Her response "Yes Man."
The good news is I can say "I am not a MAN I am a MA'AM" without sounding utterly ridiculous. But I don't because I have to walk away so she can't see me snickering.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Liar Liar Pants on Fire
I really don't know where I could have gone so wrong. Well that's not entirely true, if I really wanted to be honest about the whole thing- I could sit down and pinpoint a few moments between my daughter and I that define our relationship, her personality, and where I went terribly wrong. I know you are thinking this is a passing phase, that she and I will work it out. I will hope you are right.
All I know is that at 10am this morning, I was confident that I was ready to handle the next 3 weeks as a single parent again and that by 3 pm, I questioned my existence as a parent and worried that I wouldn't see my child again. It's a terrible feeling, sitting there having no clue as to the whereabouts of your child- hoping for the best- pushing terrible thoughts from your mind. And then you see them, safe and your first thoughts are just short of murderous.
It went down like this. I have a child who is a compulsive liar. She can't help it. Even when there is no reason for it- her first response is to lie. My husband and I have exhausted our reservoirs of ideas and coping mechanisms to handle it. We know that her currency is her social life and her prized possessions and have multiple times removed them from her grasp. She is aware of the steps she must take to regain them and when prevailed upon, will go to no ends to saitisfy those requirements. We have a zero tolerance policy. It's exhausting. I am either constantly playing detective or enforcer. I have been grateful for the past 3 weeks my husband has been home, so that I can play good cop for short bits.
So today at 9:43am, we dropped Phil at the airport for a 3 week TDY to Japan. We were all feeling a bit melancholy, but also know that 3 weeks isn't that long. Of course in the grand scheme of things- it's a lifetime of possibilities for things to go wrong. I mean weird things could happen, someone could bust a pancreas or something. It's possible- and in the Mallory household- it is quite probable. As I pushed the melancholy from my mind I decided to harness the power of positive thinking. Not only would I be fine this TDY- I would be productive. My first task- getting Lily to her soccer game on time. Her game- 10:00, current time: 9:47- ETA to destination 17 minutes. Not good odds so far. The traffic was not cooperating and at 10:03 we were still 5 minutes away when I got the call form the soccer team mom. I apologize profusely, take a deep breath and realize- it's a 5 year old's soccer game- not the world cup- it's gonna be fine. We get there halfway into the 1st quarter and no harm, no foul. Halfway into 2nd quarter the soccer ball gets beamed off of Lily's face. I got it all under control. I convince Lily that she is not going to die, that she can in fact return to the game. She does and we are midway into the 4th quarter when she nearly gets beamed again- she throws me a crazy shaka and tells me later that she could feel the ball in her hair. It occurs to me that I never gave her her morning meds- I am off to a great start. 1 hour down- 503 to go. I tell the kids if they can manage to behave in the car, I will take them out to lunch. I haven't even fastened my seatbelt before Thing 1 and Thing 2 decide to go silent ops WWF on me. For the love of GOD, if I didn't have eyes in the back of my I head- I surely would have seen their shenanigans in the rear view mirror. Honestly. Needless to say we went straight home.
Kiera immediately requests permission to abandon ship. Permission will be granted when room is in tip top shape and the galley has been tidied. She concedes and abandons ship. After a reasonable amount of time, I journey on over to my neighbor's house. It's much easier to ignore the stacks of to-do items looking at you when you are looking at someone else's house. Kiera and her bud request to go for a run. Their footwear is questionable and I don't see the need to take a purse for a jog. I point this out. Both are acting shady. I inquire as to their intended destination and required time to complete it. Neither can give any indication of either. Request to run declined until proper details can be itemized. Children glare at parents and openly declare hatred of disciplinary action and parents. See most parents would be thrilled their kids were asking to go out for a run and open the door for them. But Kiera falls into fits of itchiness the second her skin starts to glisten. I find it hard to believe that she is opting for a run at 3 in the afternoon, with a purse and inappropriate footwear. But that's just a gut feeling.
After about a half an hour passes, and I get that gut feeling again. I call down Bella, My little informer. Whatcha doin? Playing Barbies. With the girls? No, just Lily. What are the girls doing? I don't know, they left. They left? Yep. Ohh no. I look to my friend, the mother of the other half of the dynamic duo. We yell their names, nothing. We check the house, the yard, my house, their friends' houses. No one has seen them . I send Phillip out on his bike to scan the neighborhood. My friend hops on her bike and I stay at her house in case they return to the scene of the crime. I take to pacing in the front yard. Kiera's friend's sister drills me on exactly how much trouble they are going to be in. Are we talking like two weeks grounding? Try at least 2 months. Zero tolerance. Wow- that's harsh. Insert parental tirade on safety and kids wandering around unsupervised. Hmmm she says. We are now going on an hour. My friend and I are trying to figure where they could have gone. I remember the purse Kiera was going to take on the "run"- it's still on the ledge by the door. I open it- there is a ziploc of shells inside. They mentioned "exploring" while on their "run." shells. Oh no. They wouldn't. I look to my friend- they wouldn't go to the BEACH would they? She calls her husband who is driving around- they both take separate cars to the beach. She returns about 10 minutes later, no girls. I get the call from her husband. He is watching them walk down the beach. He will bring them home.
I am alternately relieved and enraged. I want to find a neighbor with a van- have them throw the girls in the back and scare the living daylights out of them. They have no idea what they have done. My neighbor brings them home. Both girls are covered in sand. They are informed that all priveledges have been revoked. Both girls swear they only went because we never let them do anything. Apparently in the 10 year old mind, this makes sense. I keep my hands tucked in my pockets so that they won't wring her little neck. After the Miranda rights were issued, I marched my child home. While she showered I got the largest hamper I could find and 2 huge rubbermaid bins. I asked her if she knew what happens to people's stuff after they die. She shook her head. I told her their loved ones have to go through it, bit by bit, each piece more painful than the last. And then you have to decide what to keep and what to give away, all the while you just would give anything to have that loved one back. She left without telling me. I had no idea where she was or where to even look for her. If something would have happened to her- I would have not been able to help her. If someone would have taken her and chopped her into little bits, I would have to go through her things. So she was going to do it, to save me the heartache- I had been through enough today worrying about her. After she got dressed, we emptied the contents of her closet and drawers into the hamper. All toys and electronics went into the bins. I removed them from her room. I had her pick up the carpet, by hand. Then vaccuum. I had her wipe down the shelves and the walls. When I got Mcdonald's for dinner- she had to make herself dinner. And then do the dishes. She quietly took out the trash and asked if anything else needed to be done before she went off to bed.
So here I sit- 493 hours to go. Day 1 reaches it close and all children are present and accounted for. I guess technically alls well that ends well, yet tomorrow is another day where I will try to impress upon my daughter the importance of honesty and integrity and to be independent yet accountable. I don't need her to understand today why I make these decisions, I make these decisions so that someday she will be old enough to understand. And that makes it worth it. I think. But I could be wrong. I'll have to let you know someday.
All I know is that at 10am this morning, I was confident that I was ready to handle the next 3 weeks as a single parent again and that by 3 pm, I questioned my existence as a parent and worried that I wouldn't see my child again. It's a terrible feeling, sitting there having no clue as to the whereabouts of your child- hoping for the best- pushing terrible thoughts from your mind. And then you see them, safe and your first thoughts are just short of murderous.
It went down like this. I have a child who is a compulsive liar. She can't help it. Even when there is no reason for it- her first response is to lie. My husband and I have exhausted our reservoirs of ideas and coping mechanisms to handle it. We know that her currency is her social life and her prized possessions and have multiple times removed them from her grasp. She is aware of the steps she must take to regain them and when prevailed upon, will go to no ends to saitisfy those requirements. We have a zero tolerance policy. It's exhausting. I am either constantly playing detective or enforcer. I have been grateful for the past 3 weeks my husband has been home, so that I can play good cop for short bits.
So today at 9:43am, we dropped Phil at the airport for a 3 week TDY to Japan. We were all feeling a bit melancholy, but also know that 3 weeks isn't that long. Of course in the grand scheme of things- it's a lifetime of possibilities for things to go wrong. I mean weird things could happen, someone could bust a pancreas or something. It's possible- and in the Mallory household- it is quite probable. As I pushed the melancholy from my mind I decided to harness the power of positive thinking. Not only would I be fine this TDY- I would be productive. My first task- getting Lily to her soccer game on time. Her game- 10:00, current time: 9:47- ETA to destination 17 minutes. Not good odds so far. The traffic was not cooperating and at 10:03 we were still 5 minutes away when I got the call form the soccer team mom. I apologize profusely, take a deep breath and realize- it's a 5 year old's soccer game- not the world cup- it's gonna be fine. We get there halfway into the 1st quarter and no harm, no foul. Halfway into 2nd quarter the soccer ball gets beamed off of Lily's face. I got it all under control. I convince Lily that she is not going to die, that she can in fact return to the game. She does and we are midway into the 4th quarter when she nearly gets beamed again- she throws me a crazy shaka and tells me later that she could feel the ball in her hair. It occurs to me that I never gave her her morning meds- I am off to a great start. 1 hour down- 503 to go. I tell the kids if they can manage to behave in the car, I will take them out to lunch. I haven't even fastened my seatbelt before Thing 1 and Thing 2 decide to go silent ops WWF on me. For the love of GOD, if I didn't have eyes in the back of my I head- I surely would have seen their shenanigans in the rear view mirror. Honestly. Needless to say we went straight home.
Kiera immediately requests permission to abandon ship. Permission will be granted when room is in tip top shape and the galley has been tidied. She concedes and abandons ship. After a reasonable amount of time, I journey on over to my neighbor's house. It's much easier to ignore the stacks of to-do items looking at you when you are looking at someone else's house. Kiera and her bud request to go for a run. Their footwear is questionable and I don't see the need to take a purse for a jog. I point this out. Both are acting shady. I inquire as to their intended destination and required time to complete it. Neither can give any indication of either. Request to run declined until proper details can be itemized. Children glare at parents and openly declare hatred of disciplinary action and parents. See most parents would be thrilled their kids were asking to go out for a run and open the door for them. But Kiera falls into fits of itchiness the second her skin starts to glisten. I find it hard to believe that she is opting for a run at 3 in the afternoon, with a purse and inappropriate footwear. But that's just a gut feeling.
After about a half an hour passes, and I get that gut feeling again. I call down Bella, My little informer. Whatcha doin? Playing Barbies. With the girls? No, just Lily. What are the girls doing? I don't know, they left. They left? Yep. Ohh no. I look to my friend, the mother of the other half of the dynamic duo. We yell their names, nothing. We check the house, the yard, my house, their friends' houses. No one has seen them . I send Phillip out on his bike to scan the neighborhood. My friend hops on her bike and I stay at her house in case they return to the scene of the crime. I take to pacing in the front yard. Kiera's friend's sister drills me on exactly how much trouble they are going to be in. Are we talking like two weeks grounding? Try at least 2 months. Zero tolerance. Wow- that's harsh. Insert parental tirade on safety and kids wandering around unsupervised. Hmmm she says. We are now going on an hour. My friend and I are trying to figure where they could have gone. I remember the purse Kiera was going to take on the "run"- it's still on the ledge by the door. I open it- there is a ziploc of shells inside. They mentioned "exploring" while on their "run." shells. Oh no. They wouldn't. I look to my friend- they wouldn't go to the BEACH would they? She calls her husband who is driving around- they both take separate cars to the beach. She returns about 10 minutes later, no girls. I get the call from her husband. He is watching them walk down the beach. He will bring them home.
I am alternately relieved and enraged. I want to find a neighbor with a van- have them throw the girls in the back and scare the living daylights out of them. They have no idea what they have done. My neighbor brings them home. Both girls are covered in sand. They are informed that all priveledges have been revoked. Both girls swear they only went because we never let them do anything. Apparently in the 10 year old mind, this makes sense. I keep my hands tucked in my pockets so that they won't wring her little neck. After the Miranda rights were issued, I marched my child home. While she showered I got the largest hamper I could find and 2 huge rubbermaid bins. I asked her if she knew what happens to people's stuff after they die. She shook her head. I told her their loved ones have to go through it, bit by bit, each piece more painful than the last. And then you have to decide what to keep and what to give away, all the while you just would give anything to have that loved one back. She left without telling me. I had no idea where she was or where to even look for her. If something would have happened to her- I would have not been able to help her. If someone would have taken her and chopped her into little bits, I would have to go through her things. So she was going to do it, to save me the heartache- I had been through enough today worrying about her. After she got dressed, we emptied the contents of her closet and drawers into the hamper. All toys and electronics went into the bins. I removed them from her room. I had her pick up the carpet, by hand. Then vaccuum. I had her wipe down the shelves and the walls. When I got Mcdonald's for dinner- she had to make herself dinner. And then do the dishes. She quietly took out the trash and asked if anything else needed to be done before she went off to bed.
So here I sit- 493 hours to go. Day 1 reaches it close and all children are present and accounted for. I guess technically alls well that ends well, yet tomorrow is another day where I will try to impress upon my daughter the importance of honesty and integrity and to be independent yet accountable. I don't need her to understand today why I make these decisions, I make these decisions so that someday she will be old enough to understand. And that makes it worth it. I think. But I could be wrong. I'll have to let you know someday.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Swim wares
I know I have been terribly remiss in blogging. We are all alive and well. Phil returned from a funfilled Crossfit adventure Training Session in Florida where he also learned to fly the F-22 Raptor. Oh I love long TDY's- he loses 30 pounds and looks so fabulous I can barely keep my eyes (or hands) off of him which is problematic because we have 4 kids and other obligations. Like life. I on the other hand do what I can to maintain my glorious physique- which in and of itself would be a daytime job. But I currently have 1 fulltime day Job(Bella) and 3 partime afternoon jobs followed by my housekeeping service, laundry service, driving service, professional cheerleader and tutor, on call medical consultation and handy person jobs- so there is very little room to work in fitness. And when I get tired of tending to those responsibilites, I moonlight as a volunteer in no less than 3 arenas and from time to time make appearances on online support groups for various conditions that have become part of our daily lives.
Every time I talk to friends or family- which is a fairly rare occurrence and cherished when possible- I am constantly told that they don't know how I do it. This causes me to laugh. DO what? Keep my children from becoming cretins- the jury is still out on that. Clean house- not if you've seen it lately. Ask the ants. Stop by and you will see the baskets of laundry which are my version of practical, functional living room art. This last TDY I thought I would get to some scrapbooking, or some photo editing- yet the only time I ventured to open the roll top desk where I "play" it was merely to shove more stuff under the lid and slam it closed quick before something slid out. Every now and then something slithers out and I have to decide if it's worth shoving back in or if it needs to go. It's funny how clutter accumulates and it can seem overwhelming- yet if a piece slides out from time to time- it's pretty easy to handle. That's life.
I take small steps. I make a point to walk every day. Of course most days it ends up just being from the bedroom to the kitchen to the car to the kitchen, but I try . I don't stress about the number on the scale. Other than the fact that it's larger than when I was 9 months pregnant with my first child. I live by how I feel and if how much chocolate I consume to numb the pain is any indication of how I am doing- you will have your answer. So today I managed a walk with Bella which was cut short because she managed to fall off the ledge at the golf course into the prickly bushes. Twice. The first time was funny. She laughed, I laughed, we decided to not do that again, yet she did. It was not so funny when a prickly gets dangerously close to areas that don't like to be pricked. SO we pack up and move on back home. I stop by the mailbox and the powers that be mock me with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Oh for the love of all that is good. Wasn't I tortured adequately with Vicky's swimsuit Issue a week ago with suits that are complete knock offs of my teenage years?
So I sit down an peruse the wares. It is very disheartening. The only girls wearing swimsuits are the amateurs and the athletes. And by athletes I mean women who play athletics who generally get no more mention than a blurb. I wouldn't say the swimsuit models were modeling as much as creatively displaying the product. I still am really unsure as to what the product is. In some cases the product was merely a necklace and a couple of bracelets. Unfortunately my daughter overhears me grumble- that's not a swimsuit, that's 3 shells strategically placed over her hoo hoos. I can hope that she will gain from the statement an understanding of the word "strategic" but I am pretty sure she will only remember hoo hoos. I thought about being offended, outraged at the nudity. But in all honesty, it's about as real as looking at the Sunday comics. Between the plastic inserts and photoshop- I am positive the finished product is far different from the real thing- and then I find out that there is another swimsuit edition out there, from a less likely source. National Geographic. Somehow the irony is so thick. The mag that is notorious for printing nudey pictures under the guise of culture is doing a swimwear spread and the mag that is notorious for printing swimwear pictures is doing a nudey spread under the guise of athletics. Outstanding.
I will not blame SI for negatively promoting/destructing female body image. That is up to girls and their parents. We need to take charge of our own perceptions. I don't hide the issue from my kids. I make it clear that I disagree with the lack of taste- not the human form. I also let them know there is a certain amount of movie magic that occurs behind the scenes. The fact is that sex sells and so does shock value. It sells because we buy it. I personally was more disappointed than shocked by the lack of swimwear. I think the body painting section they started a few years back was a genius circumvention of the porn I mean swimwear norms. I'll admit it, we spent more than a little time trying to spot the inconsistencies, if you will. That's the fun- the mystery- the what if. That is sexy. Remember the old saying- why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free? Exactly. Milk has been free for quite awhile at SI Swimsuit edition. If SI is now what Playboy was then , I don't even want to know what crazy stuff they are doing over at Penthouse.
As for my personal body issues- they are mine. I know enough women sporting silicone tatas because their bodies were ravaged by cancer to know that despite that we are more than our breasts- they are part of who we are. I have also run across enough boobs in my day to know that people place far too much value on physical appearance and not enough on the appearance of propriety. As for my daughters- I try not to show them my issues. For all they know I love my body, that doesn't mean I wouldn't change a thing here or there. But I hope to also impress on them that when it is all said and done- your body withers, but your legacy will not. I for one sincerely hope that my legacy in completely unrelated to swimwear.
Every time I talk to friends or family- which is a fairly rare occurrence and cherished when possible- I am constantly told that they don't know how I do it. This causes me to laugh. DO what? Keep my children from becoming cretins- the jury is still out on that. Clean house- not if you've seen it lately. Ask the ants. Stop by and you will see the baskets of laundry which are my version of practical, functional living room art. This last TDY I thought I would get to some scrapbooking, or some photo editing- yet the only time I ventured to open the roll top desk where I "play" it was merely to shove more stuff under the lid and slam it closed quick before something slid out. Every now and then something slithers out and I have to decide if it's worth shoving back in or if it needs to go. It's funny how clutter accumulates and it can seem overwhelming- yet if a piece slides out from time to time- it's pretty easy to handle. That's life.
I take small steps. I make a point to walk every day. Of course most days it ends up just being from the bedroom to the kitchen to the car to the kitchen, but I try . I don't stress about the number on the scale. Other than the fact that it's larger than when I was 9 months pregnant with my first child. I live by how I feel and if how much chocolate I consume to numb the pain is any indication of how I am doing- you will have your answer. So today I managed a walk with Bella which was cut short because she managed to fall off the ledge at the golf course into the prickly bushes. Twice. The first time was funny. She laughed, I laughed, we decided to not do that again, yet she did. It was not so funny when a prickly gets dangerously close to areas that don't like to be pricked. SO we pack up and move on back home. I stop by the mailbox and the powers that be mock me with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Oh for the love of all that is good. Wasn't I tortured adequately with Vicky's swimsuit Issue a week ago with suits that are complete knock offs of my teenage years?
So I sit down an peruse the wares. It is very disheartening. The only girls wearing swimsuits are the amateurs and the athletes. And by athletes I mean women who play athletics who generally get no more mention than a blurb. I wouldn't say the swimsuit models were modeling as much as creatively displaying the product. I still am really unsure as to what the product is. In some cases the product was merely a necklace and a couple of bracelets. Unfortunately my daughter overhears me grumble- that's not a swimsuit, that's 3 shells strategically placed over her hoo hoos. I can hope that she will gain from the statement an understanding of the word "strategic" but I am pretty sure she will only remember hoo hoos. I thought about being offended, outraged at the nudity. But in all honesty, it's about as real as looking at the Sunday comics. Between the plastic inserts and photoshop- I am positive the finished product is far different from the real thing- and then I find out that there is another swimsuit edition out there, from a less likely source. National Geographic. Somehow the irony is so thick. The mag that is notorious for printing nudey pictures under the guise of culture is doing a swimwear spread and the mag that is notorious for printing swimwear pictures is doing a nudey spread under the guise of athletics. Outstanding.
I will not blame SI for negatively promoting/destructing female body image. That is up to girls and their parents. We need to take charge of our own perceptions. I don't hide the issue from my kids. I make it clear that I disagree with the lack of taste- not the human form. I also let them know there is a certain amount of movie magic that occurs behind the scenes. The fact is that sex sells and so does shock value. It sells because we buy it. I personally was more disappointed than shocked by the lack of swimwear. I think the body painting section they started a few years back was a genius circumvention of the porn I mean swimwear norms. I'll admit it, we spent more than a little time trying to spot the inconsistencies, if you will. That's the fun- the mystery- the what if. That is sexy. Remember the old saying- why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free? Exactly. Milk has been free for quite awhile at SI Swimsuit edition. If SI is now what Playboy was then , I don't even want to know what crazy stuff they are doing over at Penthouse.
As for my personal body issues- they are mine. I know enough women sporting silicone tatas because their bodies were ravaged by cancer to know that despite that we are more than our breasts- they are part of who we are. I have also run across enough boobs in my day to know that people place far too much value on physical appearance and not enough on the appearance of propriety. As for my daughters- I try not to show them my issues. For all they know I love my body, that doesn't mean I wouldn't change a thing here or there. But I hope to also impress on them that when it is all said and done- your body withers, but your legacy will not. I for one sincerely hope that my legacy in completely unrelated to swimwear.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Communication
I love my husband more than anything. I love that usually we can communicate without words. Getcha head outta the gutter, I mean like when the kids are doing something funny I can nudge him and he knows what I'm thinking. It's not this way with everything. There are many things we have to talk through. Like- hey they are trying to schedule the such and such, what are your druthers? He generally knows my druthers. He knows my druthers better than any other human on the planet. He knows them well enough to know they are completely malleable and prone to change without notice. He knows better than to assume anything about my druthers. Doing so usually ends up in an argument. That's the nice thing about druthers, they can change when I am looking for one.
Yet there are certain things that my druthers cannot change. Like for instance this exciting yet annoying new career change of events that has occurred. Granted, I do realize that I should not complain- we are very lucky. I am also feeling a bit of buyer's remorse. Sure it's a shiny island, climate controlled, yada yada. But he hasn't been on it for the majority of 4 months. You cannot take a major part of a person's happiness away and expect them to be happy. The worst part is that having him home for Christmas only made the missing him worse because it reminded me of how much I do love him. And that's really not the big problem. The big problem is how much I LIKE him. He is the one. We have been friends for nearly 20 years. Friends. I don't laugh as much when he's not around, or smile. I try, but it's no where near as easy. It wasn't always easy and the communication skills were a lesson learned on both our parts. He learned to tell me more and I learned it was necessary to stop communicating and just listen.
It took many iterations of arguments and miscommunicative steps to get here. We went from him walking away not communicating, to me walking away in frustration, to yelling it out ,to him prefacing an explosive discussion with - hear me out before you get upset, to let me talk before you start. He's learned that he cannot prevent me being upset- there aren't any words to pad the bad news and I have learned to try, try to hear him out first. Sometimes the connection between my common sense and my mouth misfires. But then he shushes me and I don't get upset when he does.
So when he says things like- glad I turned my bid in for January, I'm not on the schedule- I hear- don't plan on me being around much in January, it's not my fault. When he says things like- what are your druthers- I know he cares and will accommodate any crazy wants or needs I might have as best as he can. And I try not to be too wanty or needy even though I want to throw myself on the ground, flail my arms and legs around and scream- you were just gone, I know you are going to be gone all the time- I don't want to CHOOSE between anniversary and whose birthdays you are gonna miss. I don't wanna, wanna, wanna. But I will. And I will say be home for the birthdays or spring break every time- even if it ends up not being an option- because I am a grown up and know that I can communicate my love for him every day, any day I choose- not just on an anniversary or a birthday - but the little ones want him there and it's much more difficult to communicate to them why he can't be there. It's part and parcel of the lifestyle. The part that we try and avoid. I know that and try to shield them from it. And this is a good reminder why he left active duty and that we are lucky. No this isn't how we planned it, it rarely works out that way anyhow. So I am grateful for the reminder of how much I do love him and like him and miss him. I am grateful when he is home- because he is amazing and engages and is a partner in this chaotic home. I know he will have to be gone a bunch in the future, so we will appreciate the time he is home and the parts we can control. And I will continue to be grateful for phones and skype which have given us the amazing opportunity to communicate despite the distance.
And when he calls and says- hey buddy- just wanted to make sure everything is ok- I saw there were 2 charges to Starbucks in one day- I know he would be here if he could so I say- yep everything is fine- just felt like a little extra boost and he knows that we are out of creamer, or coffee- or everything and I just couldn't face the commissary and that's ok.
Yet there are certain things that my druthers cannot change. Like for instance this exciting yet annoying new career change of events that has occurred. Granted, I do realize that I should not complain- we are very lucky. I am also feeling a bit of buyer's remorse. Sure it's a shiny island, climate controlled, yada yada. But he hasn't been on it for the majority of 4 months. You cannot take a major part of a person's happiness away and expect them to be happy. The worst part is that having him home for Christmas only made the missing him worse because it reminded me of how much I do love him. And that's really not the big problem. The big problem is how much I LIKE him. He is the one. We have been friends for nearly 20 years. Friends. I don't laugh as much when he's not around, or smile. I try, but it's no where near as easy. It wasn't always easy and the communication skills were a lesson learned on both our parts. He learned to tell me more and I learned it was necessary to stop communicating and just listen.
It took many iterations of arguments and miscommunicative steps to get here. We went from him walking away not communicating, to me walking away in frustration, to yelling it out ,to him prefacing an explosive discussion with - hear me out before you get upset, to let me talk before you start. He's learned that he cannot prevent me being upset- there aren't any words to pad the bad news and I have learned to try, try to hear him out first. Sometimes the connection between my common sense and my mouth misfires. But then he shushes me and I don't get upset when he does.
So when he says things like- glad I turned my bid in for January, I'm not on the schedule- I hear- don't plan on me being around much in January, it's not my fault. When he says things like- what are your druthers- I know he cares and will accommodate any crazy wants or needs I might have as best as he can. And I try not to be too wanty or needy even though I want to throw myself on the ground, flail my arms and legs around and scream- you were just gone, I know you are going to be gone all the time- I don't want to CHOOSE between anniversary and whose birthdays you are gonna miss. I don't wanna, wanna, wanna. But I will. And I will say be home for the birthdays or spring break every time- even if it ends up not being an option- because I am a grown up and know that I can communicate my love for him every day, any day I choose- not just on an anniversary or a birthday - but the little ones want him there and it's much more difficult to communicate to them why he can't be there. It's part and parcel of the lifestyle. The part that we try and avoid. I know that and try to shield them from it. And this is a good reminder why he left active duty and that we are lucky. No this isn't how we planned it, it rarely works out that way anyhow. So I am grateful for the reminder of how much I do love him and like him and miss him. I am grateful when he is home- because he is amazing and engages and is a partner in this chaotic home. I know he will have to be gone a bunch in the future, so we will appreciate the time he is home and the parts we can control. And I will continue to be grateful for phones and skype which have given us the amazing opportunity to communicate despite the distance.
And when he calls and says- hey buddy- just wanted to make sure everything is ok- I saw there were 2 charges to Starbucks in one day- I know he would be here if he could so I say- yep everything is fine- just felt like a little extra boost and he knows that we are out of creamer, or coffee- or everything and I just couldn't face the commissary and that's ok.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Magic of Christmas.
I remember a crisp Christmas Eve, many, many years ago. Standing in the driveway of our home on Longport Drive, gazing up at countless stars and wondering how exactly I could have missed them all my 8 short years. Well the scientific reason was easy, myopia. I had inherited my father's atrocious nearsightedness. As with many things when you are young, you don't miss what you don't know- I just assumed stars were specks in the black vastness that I couldn't see. After being doomed to wear the "smart" label oculars, I gradually became grateful to see all that I had been missing and no longer minded the less than "smart" accessories adorning my face. Stars were magical. The night was magical. As a little red light zoomed across the sky- I ran up to bed and jumped under the covers. Christmas Eve was always spent at Grandma Connolly's. Filled with cousins and food and lots of loud discussions by adults. There were presents, lots of presents- which always amazed me. Despite our genetic similarities, we all wanted such different things at Christmas. I remember sitting in midnight mass, feeling the warmth of those around me as well as the season. I felt so sleepy, it was a battle to keep my eyes open. Yet afterwards, there were always presents and that kept us going. We hardly had time to play as we would have to drive home and get ready for Santa to arrive. Although being utterly convinced I would never be able to sleep with all the anticipation- I rarely could stay awake for the car ride home.
What I remember most about Christmas morning was the feeling. The magical feeling of Christmas. Looking back, I would have to say I was in love with Christmas. The only other time I have ever felt such an immense physical adoration, was after I fell in love with a certain young man. The two are quite similar if I actually stop to think about it. I loved everything about Christmas, the smells, the sounds, the decorations, the tastes- how everyone seemed to be happy. I remember the year after my aunt died, feeling loss for the first time at Christmas. A piece of the magic had gone. It didn't help that my brother and most my friends had stopped believing in Santa. It seemed absurd to just stop believing. I was old enough to know better, but I chose not to. As most 10-11 year olds do. They threw the logistics at me. They threw proof. I was never one to hunt for presents. My brother Bob did. That's how he said he knew. One year he found presents that were later from Santa. We had just moved into a new house and our parents seemed to be working overtime to make ends meet. There was lots of time to search. I didn't. I liked the surprise of opening a present. It was far to much work to pretend to be surprised. So I let him search and I sat playing on the organ that sat in our front room. Whenever my mom played, her fingers floated over the keys and the result was magical. Songs like Moonriver would fill the room. I decided to teach myself to play. Since I didn't know how to read music, I attached letters A-F to the keys and went from there. Mostly I fiddled around trying to make songs sound like something familiar. I managed to squeak out a tattered version of Silent Night. I was fairly impressed with myself. I sat and looked out the window at the falling snow. Icicles dripped from the gutters. I could hear the familiar slushy whoosh of cars going by. I felt very lonely. I didn't want for the magic of Christmas to be ruined. So I composed a song. It wasn't as much a song, as a series of notes smooshed together that described my feelings. The lilting ups and downs of childhood on the verge of adolescence. A time when magic tricks become slights of hand and explanations debunk mysteries. I learned there was a plausible explanation for lots of things. I loved my song. I often wondered if it was truly mine, or if it was something I had heard one time and my subconscious recreated. It didn't matter- I wasn't sharing it with the world. It was mine. I wrote down the letters, in case I might forget by the next day. But I didn't. It helped with the feelings of loss and helped replace some of the magic of the season. It taught me that I was in control of what I believed, and what I chose to hear.
As I got older, I learned that bringing the magic to others was as much fun as getting gifts from Santa. I loved shopping for Phil's brothers who were still little and believed without question. I also learned that loved ones' lost were always missed more at Christmas. I watched as the magic faded for his brothers. I immersed myself in a new magic- the magic of being in love. I became a logical, practical, scientific sort. I let some of the Christmas magic go. And then I had kids. Watching Christmas through their eyes brought back magic. It is so easy to believe in fairies, elves and a man who rewards good behavior with presents. Then last year it started. The questions, at first veiled then outright. "Mom, have you ever seen Santa?" Sure, he's at the mall. " No the real Santa." No, I was never good at staying up to see him. "Then how do you KNOW?"
Do you KNOW I love you? "Mom! yes. But how do you know there's a Santa?" Show me how you know I love you. He reaches over and gives me a hug. That's a hug, show me love. "I can't." But you know it exists? "yeah, I feel it." A Hug is to Love what Presents are to Santa. I could tell he was satisfied, but his curiosity was not. " My friends say parents leave presents under the tree. " Of course we do. "No, that you leave Santa's presents" Oh honey, you know I get much too tired to stay up after you. Where would we get all the money for those presents? "Ohhhhh". And it comes down to money. Doesn't it always? Except with love.
I have had a very difficult time with Christmas in Hawaii. It's hot. It's sunny. Santa can't even wear his full garb without fear of dehydrating into an elf. I don't even like snow. I think I had maybe 2 Christmases in Denver that were snowy- it was unreliable. But you could always go up into the mountains and smell the evergreens and the sting of the chill. But as a child, there was snow on Christmas, usually. The blow up Santa's ride Harleys here and lounge under palm trees on hammocks. The other problem is that it's an island. There are limited shipments of goods- if you don't grab in October there will undoubtably be stress. Shipping is either cost or date prohibitive and people are outright rude. I think that goes for just about everywhere, but it feels more pronounced. My husband complained about 5 hours in the car from Florida to Atlanta. In that time he probably passed 25 walmarts. In that time I could have visited all 3 walmarts on the island and driven around the actual island. twice. Finding the time to do Christmas shopping without the kids has been challenging. I am forever grateful for wonderful neighbors. But after a particularly souring experience at Walmart, I came home and sat in front of my computer. I was just going to order what I needed and be done with it. But it wouldn't ship here. Nope couldn't get it delivered to the store either. Oh wait you can ship it- for $59- but the darn thing only costs $20? Now a days I just feel like a grinch. I have to tell my son that of the 4 things on his list- Santa simply will not bring him 3. It's so much easier when they are 4 and want 25 things and if they get 1 of them, they will promptly forget about the other 24. 11 year olds keep track. And take notes. And will use it against you later. No you don't need a go cart, or a mini motorcycle or a puppy. There are 2 televisions within 25 feet of your room- you do not need a tv in there- and where would we put it? "I'll clear a space" Kinda like you clear a space for your body every night after I have asked you 3 billion times to clean it? I feel that familiar loss creeping in. I see it draining from him and I have neither the magic or funds to prevent it. I sit at the computer and the tears threaten. Bella is fast asleep on the couch, recovering from yet another bout with some virus.
A sound tinkles in the window. Someone is playing the piano. My house is never quiet enough to appreciate such things. I take a moment to appreciate it. I decide that I need an attitude check as do my children. Christmas isn't about the next best thing, or the toys. Sure it is a bit when you are a kid. But what do I remember about Christmas? I remember Christmas Eve with family and the feeling of Christmas morning. And then I hear it. MY song. Tinkling in from the window. No more, no less than the few notes I remember. It's not part of some concerto or a major piece- it's merely my song. Part of me wonders if I reproduced a well known piece. I guess I could knock on my neighbors door and find the practical explanation, or I could appreciate this gift. A gift of an auditory memory to a time where I chose to believe . I choose to believe.
Bella wakes up and we go for a walk. Every year we buy presents for the angel tree, this year we got them for the tree at school. You know it's a rough year when most requests are basic necessities, diapers- wipes- clocks, blankets. Kiera looks at me while we were shopping- why does she want diapers for Christmas? Well sweetie- maybe she doesn't have enough money to get diapers and she wants her baby to be comfortable for Christmas. I do believe I see a twinkle in her ice blue eyes. She gets it. The box of diapers was too big to carry so Bella and I make a special trip. As we walk into the office a motorcycle roars up. We drop off our presents and a man pulls open the door as we leave. I say thank you, but fail to take notice. He is walking behind us. Bella drops her slippah and I stop to replace it. I look up and see the man getting back on the motorcycle. He has a nice round belly and a long white beard. I whisper to Bella "look!" She looks and her eyes get big. "Is that....Santa?" she asks and a grin comes to her little face, she knows it is- who else could it be? I nod. "Why isn't he wearing a suit?" It's a little hot don't you think? "Yeah" And we watch him roar out of sight. And with a song and a choice, the magic was restored.
What I remember most about Christmas morning was the feeling. The magical feeling of Christmas. Looking back, I would have to say I was in love with Christmas. The only other time I have ever felt such an immense physical adoration, was after I fell in love with a certain young man. The two are quite similar if I actually stop to think about it. I loved everything about Christmas, the smells, the sounds, the decorations, the tastes- how everyone seemed to be happy. I remember the year after my aunt died, feeling loss for the first time at Christmas. A piece of the magic had gone. It didn't help that my brother and most my friends had stopped believing in Santa. It seemed absurd to just stop believing. I was old enough to know better, but I chose not to. As most 10-11 year olds do. They threw the logistics at me. They threw proof. I was never one to hunt for presents. My brother Bob did. That's how he said he knew. One year he found presents that were later from Santa. We had just moved into a new house and our parents seemed to be working overtime to make ends meet. There was lots of time to search. I didn't. I liked the surprise of opening a present. It was far to much work to pretend to be surprised. So I let him search and I sat playing on the organ that sat in our front room. Whenever my mom played, her fingers floated over the keys and the result was magical. Songs like Moonriver would fill the room. I decided to teach myself to play. Since I didn't know how to read music, I attached letters A-F to the keys and went from there. Mostly I fiddled around trying to make songs sound like something familiar. I managed to squeak out a tattered version of Silent Night. I was fairly impressed with myself. I sat and looked out the window at the falling snow. Icicles dripped from the gutters. I could hear the familiar slushy whoosh of cars going by. I felt very lonely. I didn't want for the magic of Christmas to be ruined. So I composed a song. It wasn't as much a song, as a series of notes smooshed together that described my feelings. The lilting ups and downs of childhood on the verge of adolescence. A time when magic tricks become slights of hand and explanations debunk mysteries. I learned there was a plausible explanation for lots of things. I loved my song. I often wondered if it was truly mine, or if it was something I had heard one time and my subconscious recreated. It didn't matter- I wasn't sharing it with the world. It was mine. I wrote down the letters, in case I might forget by the next day. But I didn't. It helped with the feelings of loss and helped replace some of the magic of the season. It taught me that I was in control of what I believed, and what I chose to hear.
As I got older, I learned that bringing the magic to others was as much fun as getting gifts from Santa. I loved shopping for Phil's brothers who were still little and believed without question. I also learned that loved ones' lost were always missed more at Christmas. I watched as the magic faded for his brothers. I immersed myself in a new magic- the magic of being in love. I became a logical, practical, scientific sort. I let some of the Christmas magic go. And then I had kids. Watching Christmas through their eyes brought back magic. It is so easy to believe in fairies, elves and a man who rewards good behavior with presents. Then last year it started. The questions, at first veiled then outright. "Mom, have you ever seen Santa?" Sure, he's at the mall. " No the real Santa." No, I was never good at staying up to see him. "Then how do you KNOW?"
Do you KNOW I love you? "Mom! yes. But how do you know there's a Santa?" Show me how you know I love you. He reaches over and gives me a hug. That's a hug, show me love. "I can't." But you know it exists? "yeah, I feel it." A Hug is to Love what Presents are to Santa. I could tell he was satisfied, but his curiosity was not. " My friends say parents leave presents under the tree. " Of course we do. "No, that you leave Santa's presents" Oh honey, you know I get much too tired to stay up after you. Where would we get all the money for those presents? "Ohhhhh". And it comes down to money. Doesn't it always? Except with love.
I have had a very difficult time with Christmas in Hawaii. It's hot. It's sunny. Santa can't even wear his full garb without fear of dehydrating into an elf. I don't even like snow. I think I had maybe 2 Christmases in Denver that were snowy- it was unreliable. But you could always go up into the mountains and smell the evergreens and the sting of the chill. But as a child, there was snow on Christmas, usually. The blow up Santa's ride Harleys here and lounge under palm trees on hammocks. The other problem is that it's an island. There are limited shipments of goods- if you don't grab in October there will undoubtably be stress. Shipping is either cost or date prohibitive and people are outright rude. I think that goes for just about everywhere, but it feels more pronounced. My husband complained about 5 hours in the car from Florida to Atlanta. In that time he probably passed 25 walmarts. In that time I could have visited all 3 walmarts on the island and driven around the actual island. twice. Finding the time to do Christmas shopping without the kids has been challenging. I am forever grateful for wonderful neighbors. But after a particularly souring experience at Walmart, I came home and sat in front of my computer. I was just going to order what I needed and be done with it. But it wouldn't ship here. Nope couldn't get it delivered to the store either. Oh wait you can ship it- for $59- but the darn thing only costs $20? Now a days I just feel like a grinch. I have to tell my son that of the 4 things on his list- Santa simply will not bring him 3. It's so much easier when they are 4 and want 25 things and if they get 1 of them, they will promptly forget about the other 24. 11 year olds keep track. And take notes. And will use it against you later. No you don't need a go cart, or a mini motorcycle or a puppy. There are 2 televisions within 25 feet of your room- you do not need a tv in there- and where would we put it? "I'll clear a space" Kinda like you clear a space for your body every night after I have asked you 3 billion times to clean it? I feel that familiar loss creeping in. I see it draining from him and I have neither the magic or funds to prevent it. I sit at the computer and the tears threaten. Bella is fast asleep on the couch, recovering from yet another bout with some virus.
A sound tinkles in the window. Someone is playing the piano. My house is never quiet enough to appreciate such things. I take a moment to appreciate it. I decide that I need an attitude check as do my children. Christmas isn't about the next best thing, or the toys. Sure it is a bit when you are a kid. But what do I remember about Christmas? I remember Christmas Eve with family and the feeling of Christmas morning. And then I hear it. MY song. Tinkling in from the window. No more, no less than the few notes I remember. It's not part of some concerto or a major piece- it's merely my song. Part of me wonders if I reproduced a well known piece. I guess I could knock on my neighbors door and find the practical explanation, or I could appreciate this gift. A gift of an auditory memory to a time where I chose to believe . I choose to believe.
Bella wakes up and we go for a walk. Every year we buy presents for the angel tree, this year we got them for the tree at school. You know it's a rough year when most requests are basic necessities, diapers- wipes- clocks, blankets. Kiera looks at me while we were shopping- why does she want diapers for Christmas? Well sweetie- maybe she doesn't have enough money to get diapers and she wants her baby to be comfortable for Christmas. I do believe I see a twinkle in her ice blue eyes. She gets it. The box of diapers was too big to carry so Bella and I make a special trip. As we walk into the office a motorcycle roars up. We drop off our presents and a man pulls open the door as we leave. I say thank you, but fail to take notice. He is walking behind us. Bella drops her slippah and I stop to replace it. I look up and see the man getting back on the motorcycle. He has a nice round belly and a long white beard. I whisper to Bella "look!" She looks and her eyes get big. "Is that....Santa?" she asks and a grin comes to her little face, she knows it is- who else could it be? I nod. "Why isn't he wearing a suit?" It's a little hot don't you think? "Yeah" And we watch him roar out of sight. And with a song and a choice, the magic was restored.
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