CSquaredPlus3

He's Home

With his two younger brothers in tow, I made the 90-minute trip -- in closer to 60 -- and retrieved Oldest Boy from diabetes camp today.  He was hanging out by the swings with his cabin mates when we arrived.  As soon as he saw us approaching across the field his arm shot up in the air and he waved unabashedly at us.

Toddler Child reached him first...

Oldest Boy had a blast.  He shared stories of exciting and good things that happened at camp and a few stories that made my heart ache for him... but mostly good things.

When we arrived home, he was greeted by Mary, the dog, and Wren, the crazy parakeet, with the truest dog and bird love I've ever seen.  Because he's a boy after my own heart, he wanted a shower immediately after hugging and kissing the pets.  He took a long shower while Middle Boy sat outside the shower door listening to more stories, peppered with jokes, riddles and silly songs.  I could hear the laughter echoing in the bathroom, spilling down the stairs and over the balcony while I prepared dinner in the kitchen.  

After a show and tell session where Oldest Boy showed us all the various crafts, trinkets and treasures made and found at camp, we had dinner... a meal a little more special than usual to make Oldest Boy's homecoming as warm as possible.

The kitchen is clean, as are the three Ross boys.  They're in their pajamas in Oldest Boy's room, and he's still holding court.  I think I'll go join his admirers..

Camp

Oldest Boy is at diabetes camp this week.  We began attending family camp the summer of 2003, shortly after he was diagnosed with type 1.  He was five-years-old and camp helped us all realize there's life after diagnosis -- just make sure you have a glucometer, syringes, insulin and glucose tabs at all times. [Now it's infusion sites, reservoirs and IV prep pads for his insulin pump.]  We returned to family camp the next three summers.  Oldest Boy "graduated" from family camp the summer before he began third grade. He was officially old enough to attend future camps without his parents.  He was eight.

Oldest Boy is eleven now and this is the first year he chose to attend the six-day, five-night camp.  He went to a winter camp for diabetics when he was ten and didn't have the greatest experience.  Some of the counselors were a little rough around the edges, used foul language and discussed inappropriate topics in front of the young campers.  Oldest Boy said he asked them to stop, but it left a bad taste in his mouth.  I'm proud of him.

After discussions with the camp director resulted in promises of better counselor training, and a commitment from a school friend to join him, Oldest Boy was ready to give summer camp a try.  He's older now, equipped with a little more self confidence, and understands if goofy, teenage counselors choose to act stupid... he can tell someone and choose to walk away and do his own thing.  Ironically, it's not Oldest Boy's diabetes care and management that he, his father, and I have had concerns about regarding the decision to go to camp.  It's exposure to older kids who don't realize that you can't unring a bell in the mind of a child.

I left Oldest Boy at camp on Sunday.  He allowed me to help him carry his things to his cabin before we checked-in with the doctor, dietitian, and other people with clipboards.  His friend had arrived at camp before we did which was a huge relief to Oldest Boy.

I was conflicted as I left.  I knew he was in good hands and that experiences like this are important for him, but I worried about the insulin reaction he'd had the night prior [He came to our room sweaty and shaking in the middle of the night. His blood sugar was 35].  I worried he'd get homesick.  I worried the counselor with the stretched earlobes [gauging, I think it's called] and the five o'clock shadow would have porn under his mattress, as I simultaneously realized the clean-shaven, collared-shirt wearing counselor was just as likely to have porn... and blow.

I quit torturing myself, received my farewell hug and kiss from Oldest Boy and watched as he and his friend walked away, happy to simply be boys... at camp.

Snippets of Oldest Boy from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

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He'll be fiiine...

Chris is having two hernias repaired today.  His surgery is scheduled for 10:15 AM and we both understand this to be a fairly routine and simple procedure.  Other than not being able to lift anything heavy for six weeks, Chris is prepared to be sore for a day or two and allow the repairs to heal.  I'm prepared to do all the extra lifting around the house that Chris typically does, like...  It doesn't matter.  I'm sure this will be an opportunity for me to learn to appreciate all the subtle, quiet ways he assists me during a day.

Dad called from Arizona last night to make sure we had everything under control.  He's very sympathetic when it comes to surgeries and procedures.  He's had major back surgery, a kidney removed [cancer -- he's fine now], knee surgery and shoulder surgery.  He also has a serious case of man-sympathy.

"Chris isn't going to feel well when he comes home tomorrow, Chrisy."

"I know.  I'll get him to bed so he can rest."

"I'm serious.  He's really gonna feel crummy.  You have GOT to keep those little boys away from him.  They can't jump on him..."

"I know.  I'm going to take all three of them to Oldest Boy's saxophone lesson later in the day.  I've talked with Oldest Boy and Middle Boy.  They want to be helpful.  I've got soup and 7-Up for Chris.  He'll be fine."

"You might want to get him set-up on the couch.  He could have a tough time with stairs."

"They said this was going to be no big deal, Dad."

"That's what they always say.  I had a friend who had double-hernia surgery and he's fine now, but it was worse than he expected.  ...  I can tell I need to be there to supervise.  Poor Chris."

I've been up since 5:30 this morning, Chris and the boys are sleeping soundly, and I'm getting ready to go for a run.  Dad's famous for his make-sure-you-READY-AIM-FIRE-and-don't READY-FIRE-AIM lectures.  And this one worked.  I just remembered Chris needs to add salt pellets to the water softener and stomp down all the trash in the recycle bin before we leave for the hospital.  I can hear Dad sighing 600 miles away.

Fleeting

It's been cloudy and raining for a week.  This time of year I usually have the air conditioner running, but I'm closing windows because fresh air is making it a little too cool in the house.  It's great sleeping weather though.

This morning while blow-drying my hair, I slipped the blow-dryer under my t-shirt at my waist.  A move I typically do on winter mornings.  I moved it from front to back several times and warmed my torso.  It's important to maintain a perfect pace so the skin stays warm but doesn't burn -- something that happens when the dryer gets too close to my skin and stays in the same place for a second too long.  The warmth never lasts.  When I remove the dryer, I'm chilled again -- even more so.  Always.  But I can't resist the easy warmth, even if it's fleeting.

When I was a little girl I wore long, flannel nightgowns during winter months.  Floor registers delivered our heat and when the heat kicked on, I stood over the nearest register so my nightgown filled with warm air.  It was wonderful.  My parents allowed me a few moments of uninterrupted warming, but then reminded me that the heat wasn't getting to the rest of the room.  My brother begged for a turn, but I convinced him it was wasted on his body because his pajamas didn't billow with proof of contained and appreciated heat.

When I stepped off the floor register, the heat seemed to instantly dissipate, taking with it any of my own body's warmth.  I was always worse off -- colder -- than before I stepped on the floor register.  Always.  But I could never resist the easy warmth, even though it was fleeting.

On Turning 43

My birthday was yesterday, June 5th.  I'm 43.  I asked all three boys how old they thought I looked.  Middle Boy [9] said 42, Toddler Child [3 1/2] said 23, and Oldest Boy [11] nervously looked to his father for assistance.  Chris told him to say 29.  I honestly don't care how old I look.  When I feel healthy and rested, I usually look better than when I'm sickly and tired.  My 91-year-old grandmother is beautiful to me, and she looks every day of her 91 years.

THOUGHTS:

Grey Hair - The last 12 months have brought a plethora of grey hair.  I now use an all-over hair color prior to adding any highlights or lowlights.  This bothers me more than I thought it would.  My maternal grandmother, referred to as Grandmother, had a head of white hair by the time she was 50.  It looked great on her, but I'm not feeling it.  Funny how that works.  She died 19 years ago and is deeply missed.

Toddler Child - I adore this little boy.  He'll be four in September.  His personality remains fiery, although he's behaving more civilized on occasion.  I feel 43, sometimes older, parenting a toddler.  Naturally, I have no regrets about the choice to add another child to our tribe.  I simply underestimated the level of physical and mental fatigue I would experience.

Changing Perspective - Fewer issues are black-and-white to me like they once were, and a handful have earned a definitive spot in my mind.  I find myself accepting, understanding and respecting intelligent arguments on both sides of an issue.  Sometimes I think it's empathy to a fault.  In a 20 year period I can recall being neutral on an issue, then leaning right, then a little left, then a lot left, then finding neutral again.  If my perspective isn't challenged, I'm either on too safe of a road, or I'm asleep at the wheel.

Core Character - I don't think I'm radically different than who I was as a child, a teenager, or young adult.  I don't think many of us change radically.  We may soften or sharpen, become more educated, or not, endure unique life experiences that might eliminate or create judgments, but I think most of us remain fundamentally the same at our innermost part.

Facebook - Hated it.  Now I love it.  Reconnecting with people I probably never would have otherwise as well as connecting with new friends, has had it's head-bobbing-so-now-what-do-we-talk-about? moments.  As time goes on, those moments bother me less because the pieces of gold that surface as I pan are worth all of the who-the-hell-are-you? moments.  For me, it's been a gift.

This past year, via my Facebook experience and even writing this silly blog, I've learned that I am who I was, and I am who I will always be.  Life experiences have thankfully altered my perspective, but not my core character.  Old friends can see through life's sediment to the enduring parts.  New friends will learn what old friends have known.  It's humbling, refreshing, and comforting to see that under the layers of strata we all develop, is the same spirit that arrived at inception and will likely remain until the end.

You say, "You're OCD," like it's a bad thing.

I'm going to cut to the chase.  The flat sheet on almost all of the beds in our house have a sheet cowlick.  They come out of the dryer with a crease in the most visible part -- the section I fold back over the blanket.  No matter what I do, it's there.  I iron the flat sheet for the master bedroom bed, and the guest rooms [only the top 18-24 inches] but the crease is still there.  It's making me nuts.

It's difficult to see because I pressed this sheet five days ago and it now has usage wrinkles, but the sheet cowlick is there.  It's within the lower one inch portion of the folded over white sheet.

Please tell me you see it.  And if you don't, fake it.

I like a tightly made, clean bed.  Nothing's better than a cold, soft, good smelling pillowcase on your face.  I've always been freakish about my bed.  My mom never needed to remake my bed after I skipped out the door to kindergarten due to my childish manual dexterity -- I remade the bed after Mother because the mitred military corners weren't tight enough or at a proper 45 degree angle.

Ask any of my college roommates, I went apeshit if someone sat on my bed.  I didn't like it messy after I made it [which I did first thing every morning] and I didn't want dirty purses, backpacks, pants, and god forbid shoes touching any part of my bed.  If I returned from class and noticed a new spot or indentation on my bed, I was wrecked and on a witch hunt.

I'm better now.  Maybe.

Mom and Dad visited me one weekend my sophomore year in college and wanted to take pictures in my dorm room.  Mom's always over-engineered photos -- she still does.  She insisted we sit on my bed for the pictures.  I was panic-stricken but tried not to reveal it as I made suggestions about where and how we should sit.

Here I am, uncomfortably sitting on the corner of my own bed.

Here are Mother and Dad almost slipping off the few inches of bed space I relinquished.  It bothered me that Dad's butt was too close to my pillow, but I was proud of my genius idea to have Mom sit on his lap.  Had I been thinking and not hyperventilating, I would have had them sit on the blanket at the end of my bed so I could have laundered it easier.

There was a perfectly good desk chair in my room.  I don't know what the big deal was.  Freaks.

If anyone knows how to remove a sheet cowlick, I'd be forever grateful if you'd share your trick.

**********

For those who are interested... and me.  Well, me.

Almost

I'm pumped!  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy will be dismissed from school for summer break tomorrow at noon.  Sure, having two more kids in the house means more toilet, sink, and kitchen usage during a day, but overall it's less work than the rigid routine we all adhere to during the school year.  No more packing lunches, driving to and from the school [30-40 each way], and no more homework.

I don't complete my sons' homework for them, but I support, encourage and oversee their various projects and goals.  The level of parental involvement required these days in both public and private schools is a good thing in my opinion.  I've joked about it [here], but I sincerely believe kids who have involved [not controlling or micro-managing] parents are generally better off than those who do not.  Regardless, I'm looking forward to no homework...

... and more family band time.  An old friend was in town Saturday - a friend who can play almost any instrument by ear - and led us in this session...

 

Chris conducted.  Sort of.

We eventually got him to sing and he promised the boys he would contribute more vocally to our family band nights as well as lead us in guitar.  I'll do anything.  I'm not musically talented, but I wish I was.  [Don't we all?!]

I've stocked up on peanut butter, tuna, water balloons, paper towels, flushable toilet scrubbers, popsicles, sunscreen, guitar picks, and patience [send me some of that if you have any extra laying around the house].  We're looking forward to a simple but fun summer.  No more homework!  Almost...

Stubbed Toe

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

My brother turned 40 on Sunday, May 24th.  My "little" brother.  The one who I still think of as 5, or 12, or 17, or 20-ish [emphasis on the "ish"].  The one who I was able to convince to do just about anything as a young kid, including spin me around on his shoulders because I told him we could easily be on Dance Fever or get a job as Solid Gold dancers.  We had the skill!  We had the desire!  It didn't matter that I outweighed him by nearly 20 pounds... if he just caught me, held me, threw me -- he'd get stronger!  His current back problems are likely a result of our rigorous dance training, under my zealot-like direction.

I can't believe he's 40.

**********

Toddler Child stubbed his toe this weekend.  A good old-fashioned, big-toe, stub.  As Toddler Child and I inspected his big toe again this morning, vivid memories of the day my brother was brought home from the hospital flooded my mind.  My parents don't believe me that I remember.  But I do.

**********

May 1969

My third birthday was days away.  The baby was so cute.  I wasn't jealous of the attention he was getting, but I wanted him to be my baby.  I remember sitting on the green couch, my legs straight while I was allowed to "hold" the baby.  It was more tiring than I thought it would be.

I remember being on the front porch, I think Mom had opened the door to greet my grandparents as they arrived.  In all of the excitement, I stubbed my big toe.  No one noticed.  It was bleeding so I cried.  Mamaw finally realized I was upset.  She pulled a tissue from her purse that already had blood-red stains on it.  Her signature lipstick.  She sat beside me on the front porch and dabbed at my toe.  I remember thinking how pretty her tissue looked, with her lipstick and my blood.

That's all I remember.

More than anything, I remember how much I loved my brother.  He's my only sibling and we're fortunate to like one another and be friends.  True friends.

I can't believe he's 40.  It's like... he's an adult.

Happy Birthday, Joe.  I'm proud of the man you are and fortunate to call you brother, and friend.

I still can't believe he's 40.

Dear George Lucas

Middle Boy [9] wrote a letter to George Lucas recently...

The poor kid wrote the letter in early March, but for some reason it took me until late April to mail it for him.  When I finally sent his letter and drawing to Mr. Lucas, I enclosed the following note...

 

Chris and I crossed our fingers and hoped, someone... anyone... would acknowledge Middle Boy's efforts.  We explained to Middle Boy that George Lucas, not unlike Santa Claus, has lots of helpers and probably can't personally reply to every piece of mail he receives.

A few days ago, a special, large envelope from Lucasfilm Ltd. arrived.  I don't know who was more excited in our house -- the boys, or Chris and I.  [Click on the image to enlarge.]

A few pieces of Lucasfilm Ltd. swag were included, and Middle Boy handled the content of the letter with surprising maturity.  He said he understood why they needed to protect themselves... said he "knows the feeling" because of his chapter book idea.  [Middle Boy won't even allow Chris or me to view some of his movie or book ideas.  You never know who will steal a good idea, he says.]

He was thrilled with receiving anything from a George Lucas employee.

The original envelope, letter and artwork were returned... but the envelope had been opened, and it was obvious his "unsolicited submission or idea" had been read and reviewed.  If an Auquatrooper shows up on The Clone Wars series?  That's our boy!

See Chrisy run.

It's easier for me to stay committed to regular exercise when I have an event goal.  Workout partners are helpful too.  I ran my first and only marathon two years ago.  Prior to that I've run several road races of varying lengths, participated in mountain bike races, and triathlons.  Triathlons are my favorite, but the logistics of tri training will be difficult for me this summer.  I've chosen to run.  I'd like to complete the Mid Mountain Marathon this September in Park City, Utah.  It's a marathon on trails.  There are a couple of shorter-distance events in August that I'd like to run also.

Running is relatively inexpensive and it's convenient for someone like me who's tethered to a three-year-old all day.  I can run early in the morning and be home before the kids are awake on most days.  It works for me.

I'm older and slower than I used to be, but running, riding, and swimming, all add a dimension to my life that I find not only physically rewarding, but emotionally therapeutic as well.  Not unlike writing this blog.  It helps me feel multi-faceted in my roles as mother and wife.  The physical movement keeps me sane... a natural Prozac.  [I've never been on an anti-depressant.  I don't say that pridefully because there are times I, and my family, would have benefited from the medication.  Just ask them.]

To track my training progress, I've started a new blog.  It's called "See Chrisy run."  I have a very loose plan for the blog's direction.  We'll see how it goes.  There's only one post so far, but my intention is to update regularly with how things are going, even if they're not going well.

If running or events aren't your thing, please simply send encouraging thoughts my way.  Muchas gracias!