CSquaredPlus3

Finding My People Is Like Learning to Drive A Stick Shift

I thought I had temporary arrested development a year or so ago.  I'm concerned it's not so temporary.

When I was kid, making friends was easy.  Whoever I sat next to in class was my friend.  Whoever lived on my street was my friend.  It didn't matter if we had opposing interests.  Other than the joy and exhilaration we both received while playing with matches, my childhood friend, Samantha, and I had very little in common.  The story is similar for the friends I made in junior high, high school and college.  Different sports, different boy or girl attractions, different styles and different quirks.  We were simply friends. 

Of all of those friends, I remain very close to a handful, and even fewer allow me full range of motion.  I feel thankful for those important relationships, but I enjoy meeting people and making new friends.

For many reasons, the past 12-15 years have afforded me few opportunities to cultivate new relationships.  We've lived in four states, have had to help our sons through some challenges [everyone's doing great now], and priorities have made themselves clear to Chris and me.  I've met several people, it's the nurturing and cultivating of the new relationships where I seem to fail.

Like learning to drive a stick shift.

I get excited and rev the engine, a little too much gas, then I pop the clutch and take off with a giant jerking motion, followed by several smaller jerking motions.  Then I slow down, because I came on too strong, but I don't get the clutch, the brake and the release from the gas just right, so I kill the engine.  Not enough.  Then I try again, still too much gas, I jerk and lunge, apologize for the whiplash and make promises of a smoother ride in the future, I pull back on the gas and kill the engine... again.

I assume a level of intimacy too soon, then I recoil and appear aloof.  My throttle's messed up.  I've noticed this as I've reconnected with old friends, and as I've made new friends in person or on the internet.  As a kid, I didn't put any thought into approaching others with a genuine enthusiasm for making new friends.  As an adult, I think it freaks people out.

Often, I truly don't have the time to cultivate relationships at a moderate pace.  It's speed dating for me, baby.  When I have the time, I'm all your's and I try to pour a month [or more] of "dates" into a brief conversation or email exchange.  Then, I fall off radar.  Other times, I'm overly-aware of my arrested development because it feels like it's been so long since I've had a consistent and moderate pace in life, so I disappear out of insecurity and embarrassment.  Paralyzed by what to say or not say.

I'm thankful for my tent-post-friends, the ones who afford me full range of motion.  With them, my tarp is large and strong.  They all live states away, so If it wasn't for the telephone and email, I'd be permanently, socially disabled.  I've gotten good at having an intense five-minute relationship with the grocery store cashier, the girls and boys who work at various cosmetic and fragrance counters, as well as anyone who's trying to sell me ANYTHING.  One of my tent-post-friends admits to doing the same thing, because she too is isolated and busy.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, if you see me jerking spastically towards you, make some room and I'll do the best I can to not hit you too hard, shift smoother and not kill the engine.  Thank you.

I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination

I had picked up the boys from school, stopped at the liquor store, was driving home and called Chris to touch base...

Me:  Anything new?

Chris:  No. You?

Me:  Not really.  I've had an unproductive day.  Questioned everything I wrote.  I attempted three blog posts because I was procrastinating working on other things.  The first one on Why I Blog turned into Why I Write and it felt too personal.  I wanted to tap into the "attention whore" theory Neil blogged about along with Kyran's post -- which I still need to forward to you -- but I got sidetracked.  I don't have enough time to do all this.

THEN, I started a post on Procrastination and I got all freaked out that I have a psychological disorder after Googling it.  Wikipedia nailed me.  But I found some great articles on how to resolve my reasons for procrastinating.  So that was good... I still have issues though...

THEN, I thought I need to address my running blog because I haven't posted since the last race, but I want to let that blog go, so I need to post something on CSquaredPlus3...like... about how you're running with me now and I'm trying to talk you into doing the Triple Trail Challenge next summer because Supermodel says she's out.

I hardly even looked at my other projects...

Chris:  I think you should finish the Procrastination post and title it "I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination".

Me:  And have a blank page?

Chris:  No.  Post what you have written so far.

Me:  I only titled it, then I went to Google so I could paste a definition at the top of the post.  That's when I got freaked out and had to diagnose myself.

Chris:  So you have nothing?

Me:  I have nothing.

Chris:  So... the content is... light.

Me:  Very.

**********

Per Wikipedia [Which, according to my sons, is not a good source because, "...ANYONE can post information on there!"]

Procrastination is the deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Psychologists often cite this human behavior as a mechanism for coping with the anxiety associated with starting or completing any task or decision. ^[1] Psychology researchers use three criteria to categorize procrastination: for a behavior to be classified as procrastination, it must be counterproductive, needless, and delaying.^[2]

For an individual, procrastination may result in stress, a sense of guilt, the loss of personal productivity, the creation of crisis and disapproval from others for not fulfilling one's responsibilities or commitments. These combined feelings can promote further procrastination. While it is normal for people to procrastinate to some degree, it becomes a problem when it impedes normal functioning. *Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological disorder.

**********

*  Did you read that?  I'm SO freaked out.

The Fit

We had the stomach flu in our house last week.  First Middle Boy, then me, then the 4-Year-Old Boy.  It was a 48-hour, violent flu.  There was pain, moaning, dramatic proclamations -- "I'm going to die!" -- and lots and lots of laundry.

It began with a call from the school informing me that Middle Boy had been vomiting.  The 4-Year-Old Boy and I rushed to the school to rescue Middle Boy.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I was a little irritated when I found out that he hadn't even made it to a trash can.  He threw up sitting in his chair in Strings Class.  He told me he missed his cello, and only hit the bow.  I reminded him, lovingly, that he was TEN years old and next time he gets sick at school, he should GET UP and try to hit a receptacle.

Middle Boy was very ill.  I was a compassionate mother and nurse, helping him get to the toilet, brushing his teeth for him, wiping his face, feeding him ice chips, and providing bowls and Ziploc bags for security in case he didn't make it to the bathroom.

It finally appeared his stomach was calming.  Over the course of four hours, he drank ginger ale and ate a few soda crackers as he watched SpongeBob Squarepants on the couch.  I was happy to see color in his cheeks and hear him laugh instead of moan.  Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old-Boy were in bed for the night.  Middle Boy said his stomach still hurt a little, but he was ready for bed.  I tucked him in, showed him where the security vomit bowl and Ziploc bag were, and told him to come to our room or call us if he needed ANYTHING.  His father and I were there to help him!  Poor, poor child, I thought.

Five minutes later, as I was climbing into my own bed, Middle Boy appeared in my doorway.

"I threw up."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"In my bed."

"WHAT?"

It was horrible.  Chris and I obviously had not communicated well about how much ginger ale or how many soda crackers we were each giving Middle Boy.  There were at least two liters of stomach contents all over the bed, the carpet, the wall, the nooks and crannies of the bed frame, beadboard and baseboards... it might have even been on the ceiling fan.

"CHRIIIIIIS!  I NEED HELP!"

Chris ran up the stairs.

"He puked again.  EVERYWHERE.  He needs a shower.  He's already dripped to our room and back to his."

Middle Boy looked at me sheepishly, "Sorry, Mom.  I thought I was done."

I know he didn't mean to.  He was tired, probably very comfortable in his bed, and half asleep when he threw up.  But there was something about the brightness of his eyes and the rosiness of his cheeks, that made me think he COULD have gotten up.

I started cleaning the mess and the more I cleaned, the angrier I became.  I stomped and slammed as I moved wet linens from room to room and searched for the proper cleaning supplies.  I had "sick" fluids running down my arms and on my forehead.  I had been SO careful as I cleaned the vomit messes earlier in the day.  My fate was sealed.

As I continued to clean, I yelled weird things at Chris and Middle Boy.  I rarely use foul language in front of the kids but I said ass and shit and hell and damn and maybe even the Big Daddy of bad words.  I barked at Chris about picking up Mary's dog shit.  Because, you know, at 10:00 p.m. after your child has puked ALL OVER HIS ROOM, it's important that the dog shit is picked up in the backyard.

I've cleaned up vomit messes more than once.  All three of the boys have thrown up in their beds.  For many reasons that I clearly see in hindsight, this particular crime scene pushed me over the edge.  I had a fit.

Middle Boy went back to bed in a restored room and made wide-eyed promises to hit the toilet or the vomit bowl... next time.  He was fine that night, although he threw up again the following night.  I'm happy to report Middle Boy came into our room and announced that he needed to vomit.   Chris did a standing broad jump from our bed, ensuring Middle Boy was escorted to our toilet and properly aimed.  No fuss, no muss.

I apologized the next morning to the entire house for my fit.  The only one who didn't seem phased was 4-Year-Old Boy, probably because he's an expert fit-thrower.

Please tell me you you've thrown a fit.  As an adult.  With an audience.  While sober.

When A Dog Goes Down and Why I Hate Team Sports

Sitting in the office, my back to the french doors leading to the front yard, I noticed a person running quickly towards our house in the reflection on my computer screen.  I turned around and saw a tall man wearing a Snowbird baseball cap taking long, purposeful strides.  He resembled James Taylor.  I felt safe.

I met him at the front door as he reached for the door bell.

"Do you know who's dog that is?" he asked as he pointed to the too still, cream-colored, fluffy animal lying in the street.

I looked where he was pointing.  "OHMYGOD!  YES!"

Our neighbor's dog had broken through his electric fence and was hit by a car.  The tall man witnessed a white truck hit the dog, throwing the dog several feet.  The truck didn't stop.

I called my neighbor and spoke with one of her sons.  When her son told me his mother wasn't home, I didn't tell him what had happened to their family pet.  The dog was still alive but had clearly been seriously injured.  I called my neighbor on her cell phone several times over the next ten minutes, as I simultaneously fetched a towel, wrapped the dog, and had panicked discussions with the tall man about where I would take the injured animal for help if my neighbor didn't answer.

I finally reached my neighbor and she and her husband were only a moment away.  The tall man and I were hunched over the dog when they pulled up in their car.  Within a couple of minutes, the dog was on his way to the nearest animal hospital.

I'm not a dog person, mostly because I'm busy... and a neat freak, but I have tremendous compassion for animals.  We have Mary and I joke about my desire for her to wear underwear [for hygiene purposes].  Chris still claims he plans to make a hat out of her when she passes because he spent $8,000 to save her life one summer.

There's nothing worse than seeing a dog suffer.  When our neighbor's dog had been hit, I was numb with fear and panic.  I managed to do what needed to be done but my heart was pounding and I felt like I might faint from the overwhelming emotions.  I wanted to yell at the tall man, "Help him!  Fix him!  He's hurting!"  I might have actually yelled those things.  It's kind of a blur.

It's a good thing I'm not an ER doctor.  I'd be no good at that.  It's not that I don't want to help -- because I do -- it's that the intense empathy I experience nearly cripples me.  It's also the fear of not knowing precisely what to do.  Analysis paralysis.  I don't want to do the wrong thing, especially when the stakes are high.

Just like team sports...

Volleyball terrifies me.  I've never learned how to hit the ball without hurting my forearms.  I'm the one you don't want on your team because even if the ball comes directly to me, I'll scream to my teammates, "GET IT!"  We've declined many invitations to play on a couple's volleyball league.  Chris knows better.  He's seen me panic in backyard pool volleyball games.  I can't handle the pressure.

It's the same with softball.  I have vivid memories of playing left field for the Green Eyed Ladies in Winchester, Indiana, when I was a kid.  Hated it.  The ball would land and roll practically to my feet -- I'd look at the right fielder and scream, "GET IT!"  I threw like a girl [still do] and struck out every time I was at bat.  A couple's softball league is also out of the question.

Had the neighbors not been so close to home, I would have managed to get the suffering dog to the animal hospital.  My adrenalin kept me moving, although I was spinning a bit, and asking the tall man redundant questions and repeating, "This is terrible.  This is terrible.  This is really, really terrible."  Babbling seems to frequently be my modus operandi.

I spoke with my neighbor and the dog is alive.  His condition has been changed from critical to stable.  When he returns home, I'm requesting that they up the juice on his electric fence.

I may not be able to be crowned The-Queen-of-Grace-Under-Pressure, but I'm always well-intended.  If history repeats itself, I have a shot at being the next Nobel Peace Prize winner.

The Weapon

Chris was out of town last week.  I can now manage the the kids and the house while he's away without hyperventilating or leaving teeth marks on my tongue from biting it with frustration.  Toddler Child sleeps through most nights and we deal with a nightmare, an accident, or a blood sugar issue only occasionally.  I don't think a child has vomited once in 2009.  [I know.  I shouldn't tempt fate by sharing that fact.]

The week went fairly well.  Except for one day.  It was T-minus 24 hours until Chris was to be home.  I hate coming undone when I'm so close to the end of something that requires a little more from me.  I don't know if I create a self-fulfilling or a self-defeating prophecy in these situations. But I do it almost every time.

I was singing dorkily in the car while taking Middle Boy to his guitar lesson.  His disapproving, yet ironically not disrespectful, glances told me he was embarrassed by my grooves.  I asked him lightheartedly, "Do I ever do anything that annoys you?"

"Sometimes."

"Like what?"

"Well...  I can't think of the word... but sometimes... you're... ... ..."

I knew what he was thinking.  I instantly felt it.  He truly didn't know the word, but he was thinking bitchy.  I waited.  He was innocent and thoughtful as he searched for the word to answer my question.

"... sometimes you're...  grumpy."

I asked him to explain and give me some examples.  The look on my face and the tone of my voice told Middle Boy this wasn't going the direction either of us thought it would.  He nervously described how he dropped a perfectly clean, plastic fork on the floor and I got REALLY mad.  I don't remember this, and I told him so.  I wanted more examples.  I was aware of my subtle but palpable shift to defensiveness partnered with antagonism.  My son was aware too, and chose his words carefully as he answered the assault of questions I threw at him.

When we got home from the guitar lesson I told Oldest Boy about my question to Middle Boy and the answer I received.  He could tell I was irritated and politely and diplomatically supported his brother.  He said some days I'm very patient but other days I get frustrated with them a little quicker than usual.

What did I do with this honest and valuable information from my sons?  I chastised them.  All night.  I peppered what should have been a pleasant evening with, "And ANOTHER thing..."  I reminded the boys of everything I do around the house.  I reminded them how good they have it compared to other kids.  I reminded them that the "other mothers" who are sooo wonderful have GRUMPY days too.  I reminded them that some kids don't even HAVE a mother.  They were pink-eyed and trembly-lipped a couple of times.

Toddler Child was lying low.  Happy for once that he wasn't the boy on the receiving end of one of my manic lectures.

Dinner, showers, bedtime reading routines, all were accomplished successfully.  Toddler Child had been sleeping with something to protect himself and the rest of the family while Chris was out of town.  He requested it for one more night, in case he needed to battack someone.

NOTE:  We're not a gun family.  Chris nor I were raised by parents who hunt, target shoot or have a need for a gun, so we're raising our kids the same.  Our arguments are just passionate enough that if we had a gun in the house, it's possible that one of us would eventually be referred to as "Stumpy".  Or "inmate number 35704-019".

It was after 10:00 PM and all three boys were asleep.  In a span of seconds, I was painfully aware of how heavy I'd been earlier.  Selfishly, I entered Oldest Boy's room, hugged him and apologized for my rant.  He hugged me back and said, "I forgive you."  I repeated the scene in Middle Boy's room.  He's a sound sleeper and didn't respond.  I hoped somehow my words and heart penetrated his dreams.  I would talk to him in the morning.

Toddler Child hadn't been on the receiving end of my behavior directly, so I chose to let him sleep.  I also didn't want to invoke a battack by a plunger. 

One weapon had been drawn too long.  It was time to put them all down.

I'm an Excellent Driver

Earlier this week, in a hurry, I quickly said goodbye to the boys as I grabbed my purse and headed for the garage.  "Dad will be home soon.  Call either one of us if you need anything.  Mrs. Nice-Neighbor-Lady is home if Toddler Child poops!"

I was late for a doctor's appointment.  I usually tap the garage door opener as I exit the kitchen and enter the garage, like most people, but for some reason I skipped this step.  I climbed in the car, realized the garage door was closed, reached up and opened the door with the remote attached to the visor, like most people do when they're pulling IN to their garage.  I started the car, put it in reverse and hit the gas.  Hurry, hurry, hurry.  Then, I hit the garage door.  Hard.

When I was in Arizona visiting my parents in January, I hit their house.  I wrote about it here.  These incidents rarely get a reaction from Chris or my family.

I called Chris on my way to the doctor.  He was in a meeting so I left a long babbling message.

"It's me.  The weirdest thing happened.  I was in a hurry and I didn't open the garage door before I got in the car and I'm used to the garage door being open already after I start the car and so I just backed out like I usually do...  Oh, maybe I didn't say I opened the garage door from inside the car...  It's not that bad.  The door was halfway up when I hit it...  I mean there's damage... to the back of the car... and the top where I scraped it pulling back in... and the garage door... I think if you use a hammer you'll be able to fix it so it can shut... it's stuck... I couldn't assess it totally because I was late. ... ... ...  We've been wanting new garage doors.  Those dark steel ones are cool.  Costco has a great deal...  Sorry.  Call me."

This happened only days after receiving these photos in the mail from the Scottsdale Police Department.

 

 

We were on the final stretch to my parent's house after being in the car for TEN hours with the kids and the dog.  Chris regrettably let me drive from Flagstaff to Scottsdale, an easy two hour stretch.  [Did I mention I get carsick?  Driving is an antidote for carsickness.]  We were less than five minutes from Mom and Dad's house.  It was like a horse seeing the barn.  I was photo radar-ed traveling 63 in a 45.

 

Even though the ticket was addressed to ChrisTOPHER, there's no denying it's me, ChrisTINA.  The document requested Chris either accept responsibility for the offense or identify the perp.  I think I'm going down.

Just Doing My Job

We're in Arizona visiting my parents.  I spoke with Dad a few weeks ago...

"I have a 15-mile training run scheduled for the first Saturday we're in Scottsdale.  I'd like to run on trails if possible.  Anything close to your house?"

"We have some GREAT trails two or three miles from the house!  I'll send you a map!"

The map arrived in the mail.  I studied it and was concerned about the topography and elevation gain.  I was hoping for relatively flat trails.  I called Dad.

"I'm looking at this map... Looks kind of technical, Dad."

"You'll be fine. Those are GREAT trails!"

We arrived in Scottsdale after ten hours in the car with the three boys and the dog on Friday.  I had one beer, swam, ate some dinner and was in bed by 9:30 PM.  The alarm beeped at 4:00 AM, I got up, drank a cup of coffee, and ate half a peanut butter sandwich.  I loaded my water belt, and drove to the McDowell Sonoran Preserve near Mother and Dad's house.

The Death March Time Line

5:05 AM - I began running on the trail marked "easy".  I noticed immediately that it was not easy.  It turned left, then right, then left, then left, then right every 5-10 feet, was very rocky and I was already climbing steadily.  I determined it would be very important to pay attention to the trail so I wouldn't trip and fall.

5:40 AM - A Gila Monster was sitting in the middle of the trail 10-15 feet in front of me.  I stopped and waited for it to move.  It didn't move.  I tried to remember if Gila Monsters move quickly.  I told myself it was more afraid of me than I was of it and it didn't want to attack me.  I decided to run around the Gila Monster.  As I passed it on the left, it rapidly stomped it's feet and hissed like a cat.  Scared me to death.  I screamed and my adrenalin surged for the next three miles as paranoia now joined me on the run.

7:05 AM - Still running, hot, hungry [even though I was consuming gels] and feeling a little less paranoid because I finally saw a few people on the trails and assumed they would save me from venomous creatures.

8:00ish - Still running, unbelievably hot, but almost finished. I had fallen twice, my left knee was bleeding and I was dusty and salty.  I was unable to run many sections of the trail so I was out longer than I wanted to be.  I'm not acclimated to the heat and had forgotten how intense the Arizona sun is in July.

??? - I don't know exactly what time I finished, but I ran all 15 miles.  I drank lots of water and thought I'd properly recovered.  I called Mom to let her know I was okay and I was going to visit Dad at the golf course where he has a part-time job.

9:00 AM - I visited Dad.  We drove around in a golf cart and I met all his buddies.  I felt fine.  A little tired, but fine.  Dad suggested I visit Mamaw on the way home. I said, "But I'm gross." He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head, indicating it didn't matter.

9:45 AM - I arrived at Mamaw's group home.  Sadly, she didn't recognize me...

"Mamaw.  It's me, Chrisy."

She smiled but I could tell she didn't know it was me.

"I'm gross, Mamaw.  I've been running... and I have braces now.  See?"  I showed her my teeth.

"Who are you running from?"

"No one.  I'm training for a marathon."

We visited for about 20 minutes and she finally knew who I was.  She commented many times on my braces.  "My, you have a mouthful," shaking her head.

10:15 AM - I told Mamaw I would return a few more times over the next week with Chris and the boys.  She seemed pleased.  We kissed good-bye and I headed towards Mom and Dad's house.

10:25 AM - Something went very wrong.  I felt disoriented and dizzy while driving.  I felt like I was going to vomit or have diarrhea or both.  I pulled over and called Chris.

"Hey, I'm not well.  I'm not sure where I am and I think I might faint."

Chris and Mom arrived 15 minutes later.  Chris drove me home and helped me into the house.  I told him I just wanted to lay on the tile floor.

After resting for an hour on the floor and drinking Gatorade, I began feeling better. I've experienced heat exhaustion before, but never three hours after a workout.  I think I was salt and potassium deficient.  I actually felt a little embarrassed because I know how to avoid these situations.

As I was laying on the floor shivering with chills, Mom brought me a pillow and a blanket.

I said, "Thanks for coming to get me Mom.  I feel like an idiot.  I'm sorry for the drama..."

"That's okay.  It's your job."

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.

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.

Girl Hair

Supermodel called me last night.

"I can't run with you tomorrow," she said.  "[Mr. Supermodel] is taking me away tonight for our anniversary.  It's our 20th!"

I naturally told her not to worry, and to have a fabulous time.  I'd be fine running by myself.  We chatted a little longer, then I realized she wasn't just calling me to tell me I'd be running alone.  She had a little favor...

"Supermodel Jr. [Supermodel's 3-year-old daughter] has pictures tomorrow morning in her dance class.  I don't think my mother-in-law can do her hair.  You said you've always wanted a little girl..."

I have three sons and can hardly do my own hair.  My personal hair requirements are 1) simple - no layers, and 2) long enough to pull back in a ponytail so I can wear a baseball hat.  Supermodel assured me it would be easy to put Supermodel Jr.'s hair in two, low ponytails, BUT they had to be curly.  She gave me instructions on how to do this with water and simple finger twisting.

I arrived at Supermodel's house this morning.  Her lovely mother-in-law had already ponytailed Supermodel Jr.'s hair.  The ponytails weren't curled though.  They NEEDED to be curled because the little dancers are all SUPPOSED to have curled hair.  The ponytails were... frizzy.  My heart was pounding.

Did I mention Supermodel's mother-in-law is Portuguese and speaks NO English?  Did I mention I speak ONLY English?

Portuguese mother-in-law proudly gestured to the ponytails.  I smiled stupidly, nodded in an over-exaggerated manner and said, "Pretty!" very loudly.  I called Supermodel.

"Sorry to bother you, but your mother-in-law did the hair.  The part's crooked and the ponytails are frizzy.  It's not a tight job."  I was smiling and nodding at the mother-in-law while speaking.  She smiled back.

Supermodel said, "Go in the bathroom, there's a spray bottle.  Re-do her ponytails and wet her hair so you can fix the curls."

"Not comfortable with that... not at all. [Still smiling and nodding at mother-in-law.]  I'll hurt her feelings.  She's so proud.  I'll do it at my house.  I've gotta go.  I'm gonna be late."

I raced home, grabbed a brush and a comb and was humbled by my inability to get Supermodel Jr.'s hair styled in two, low, tight ponytails.  It took several tries and I felt like a fat-fingered-man.  It was as good as it was going to get.  I sat her on the counter by the kitchen sink.

"Honey, can you please lean waaay over the sink so I can get your ponytails wet?  Then I can curl them!"

She didn't trust what I was doing, and was worried about getting her "pretty costume" wet.  I followed Supermodel's instructions.  One ponytail curled in a ringlet, the other one was wavy, no matter what I did.  I tried my best.

And another thing?  Supermodel Jr. was supposed to be in the tutu OR the shiny pants.  Not both of them.

I'm exhausted.

Vain

I don't photograph well.  I never have and I'm not upset about it anymore.  The camera loves Chris, Mother, and my brother Mallory Joe.  It doesn't love Dad, or me.  Our three sons are somewhere in the middle.  They're good looking boys and sometimes I get wonderful photographs of them, and sometimes I don't.  Any photographer will confirm these facts.  Some people are more photogenic than others.  I'm not fishing for compliments, nor am I saying I'm SO much better looking in person.

When I post a picture of myself, trust that I've gone through as many options as possible before I've shared it with you.  It's as good as it's gonna get, but I've put thought into it.  Except that one time... my dear friend Rena called and said, "Your eyes don't look right in that picture.  Did you do something?"  The answer was yes.  I overdid the Botox and had a Melissa Rivers, scary smile for a few weeks.  It's gone now.

I was tagged in a photo on Facebook recently.  It was taken at a high school reunion five years ago.  I'd seen the photo prior in a friend's album, cringed and thought to myself, Don't be so vain.  I hadn't been tagged with it at that point so I let it go.  People who visited his Facebook page and albums would see it, but the overlap of our circle of friends was small.  The majority of my Facebook friends would not see it.

I didn't like the picture because it highlighted the features on my face I've been the most self-conscious of my entire life.  It was not flattering of my nose and was taken prior to my Nasal-Surgery-Not-A-Nose-Job.  I was wearing bright red lipstick and my lips were curled under so they looked unusually thin and non-existent.  The angle of the photo, my side stance, and the great! sleeveless dress I wore made one arm look disproportionately big for my body.  The picture was taken at close range and was very unforgiving.  The two other people in the picture looked great.  I looked like Chyna, the female wrestler.

When I was tagged, the photo appeared in all it's huge glory on my profile page and populated one of my albums.  I saw it, gasped, nuked it, then frantically typed a note to the friend who tagged me, apologizing for my vanity and over-explained the situation. [This friend is a very nice man who I've had no contact with in 25 years, other than the brief hello and photo at the reunion.]  We had several exchanges, with me continuing to over-explain and over-apologize, resulting in him deleting the photo from his album too.  [This man is busy - job, wife, kids, etc..., and I sucked him into a babbling email exchange about how I looked like Chyna the wrestler in the picture, but I'm not THAT vain.  I'm NORMAL DAMMIT!  PLEASE BELIEVE ME!]

QUESTION:  My initial thought was I want veto power over all photos of me that others might share on Facebook or blogs.  However, I've enjoyed seeing 30-year-old class photos with 25 kids and a teacher.  A notification "rule" seems unnecessary in some cases.  What are your thoughts on photo sharing etiquette?

Full

It was 42 degrees yesterday when I was driving home from the mall with Toddler Child, recovering from a fit, in the back seat.  I thought it looked deceptively warmer than what my car thermometer registered.  The bright sun, clear skies and calm air made it appear at least 20 degrees warmer.  The snow has mostly melted in our small town and surrounding areas, but the mountains remain snow-capped.  I find the transition from winter to spring, pretty.

The two older boys were spending the afternoon at the home of friends.  Friends that are brothers the same ages as Oldest Boy and Middle Boy, attend the same school, and have a new puppy.  They were overflowing with happy and content.

I took Toddler Child to the mall, thinking it would be nice to get out of the house, return a couple of things, and leisurely stroll with my three and a half-year-old son.  The final child in our tribe.  I assumed with another month of natural maturation under his belt, he might behave and not throw a fit.  I was wrong.  Not even close.  It was miserable.  He actually screamed shut-up a few times.  [Please no judging.  We do not say shut-up in our house.  He saw it on a Muppet video.  Toddlers can behave like belligerent drunks sometimes, and it doesn't mean he's spoiled, or I'm a bad person.  Shit happens.]

I wrested him into the car while a few people watched and wondered if I was hurting him.  I wasn't, but the ordeal was painful for both of us.  I managed to get him buckled in his car seat while trying to look calm and composed as I closed his door, resisting the urge to slam it.  I climbed in the front seat.  Once in, I sat there panting with frustration and feelings of self-pity because my experience mothering infants and toddlers has not been normal.  [I realize there is no normal and being home with small children is difficult - even for the mothers who have kids who nap.  I wouldn't know what that's like, but I can imagine, and I'm sure it's still difficult.  No sarcasm here.  Sarcasm is cheap and unattractive.]

I pleaded with him, "Honey, you have to stop throwing those fits.  What happened?  It's not appropriate.  We can't go back to Build-A-Bear - not today.  When you can be calm we'll try again another day."  He screamed and kicked and didn't hear a word I said.  I felt like I had to say something, even if it was to myself.

Fifteen minutes into the 30-minute drive home, Toddler Child found his calm.  His head resting on the car seat, his eyes pink and swollen looking out the side window, at nothing, and he was touching his ear.  [He's an ear fondler.]  He was exhausted and so was I.  We were empty.  I asked him if his fit was over and he said yes, Mom.  I told him I loved him even when I was angry - there was nothing he could do to make me stop loving him, but I didn't like his behavior.  He just looked out the window, touching his ear.

We continued home in silence.

The day was so beautiful.  The quiet in the car was nice. 

We were only five minutes from our house when I noticed a group of men, maybe five or six of them, sitting in the grass taking what appeared to be a lunch break.  They were construction workers.  A few were large men, a few were small, almost wiry.  They were dressed in jeans or coveralls, flannel shirts, sweatshirts and various shades of brown lace-up boots.  They all looked happy.  Happy to be employed, happy to have lunch on the grass on a beautiful day, happy to be sharing life anecdotes and laughs with one another.  Just happy.

One man, a larger person, was laying on his stomach.  He wore faded blue coveralls over a gray hooded sweatshirt.  His boots were light tan and he had the toe of one boot balancing on the heel of the other - his feet stacked like a tower behind him.  His arms were folded under his chest and his chin was resting on his arms.  He looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s and I bet when he goes to the barbershop, he simply says, "High and tight!" with a grin.

These men... so full... filled me.

Toddler Child and I sat on the couch together when we got home.  He watched television and touched my ear while I read the paper and rifled through a stack of magazines and catalogs.  He may not have been satiated, but he was on his way.

Pasta Under the Piano

The Discovery
One week ago today, Chris and Toddler Child were in the basement rolling around on the floor.  [I don't know what they were doing.]  Chris noticed some discolored moisture near the peddles of our piano - an antique upright.

Chris pulled the piano away from the wall and discovered a wet, chunky mess.  Huh, he thought.  He cleaned the big chunks with paper towels and was coming up the stairs into the kitchen just as Toddler Child was telling me, "We have a messy house."

Chris' Description
I looked at Chris curiously.  He said, "Yeah, something weird happened down there.  Someone spilled something under the piano."

I told him that was impossible, the piano's too big and heavy plus the kids don't eat or drink in the basement.  Maybe Mary [the dog] puked, I suggested.  She'd have to stick her little snout right at the base of the piano and projectile vomit to get it under the piano, but it could happen.

"I bet that's it!" he said.

Proud of our genius, I followed Chris to the basement to see what he'd found.

WTH?
Walking down the stairs, I immediately saw the messy house that Toddler Child described.  "Chris!  This is NOT a spill or dog vomit.  Look at the baseboard.  It's a frickin' leak.  Crap."

In Chris' defense, he had been focused on cleaning the big chunks and hadn't spent much time investigating the source of the problem.

Our over-inflated genius heads deflated.  Quickly.  Fear, panic and visions of money flying out the window began visibly filling us.  Like orange water being poured into a clear vessel.  We were running around, orange water sloshing and spilling out of every orifice in our heads - his contaminated water was getting on me, and mine on him.  We were a mess.

The Professionals
Where's Dwayne Schneider [One Day at a Time], Mr. Roper [Three's Company], or Tim Taylor [Home Improvement] when you need them?  We've had every inept plumber, roofer, *mold specialist, and generic repair person at our house the past week.  A professional comes in the house, shakes his head, mumbles, tries to fix something that isn't broken, then charges us at least $100.  We have few answers... and a leak.

*Mold
We don't have a nightmare-mold situation, but there was organic material growing in a small area under the piano.  Some of the staining on the carpet was paint and old mystery stuff that leeched from the piano - not mold.  But the original chunks Chris cleaned?  Most likely... mushrooms.

Because Chris had cleaned the bulk of the mess, I couldn't describe it to the mold guy.  I called Chris at work.

"Hey.  The mold guy's here.  What did the chunky stuff look like?"

"Pasta."

"Really?"

"It was like pieces of pasta noodles."

"Like ziti?"

"I don't know.  It just looked like pasta."

I told the mold guy what Chris said.  He made a few notes, said he's seen much worse and seemed to be amused by my disgust at the entire situation.  Hardy f**king har, asshole.  Here's YOUR hundred bucks. [It's like a strip club in our house, only I'm doling out hundreds and my dancers are fat guys with ungroomed mustaches, jackets that smell like gasoline, and very dirty shoes.  I feel frustrated and irritated I've spent so much money.  Sound familiar, fellas?]

Status
We have a water softener specialist scheduled to arrive this afternoon.  We [Chris and I, NOT the professionals] think the source of the leak is the water softener.  Using our crack analytical skills, we're certain we've honed in on the problem.

The damaged carpet, baseboard and drywall have been removed, and the contaminated piano has been wrapped until we can find someone to move it, and I don't know... remove the organic material from the bottom of it?

There's a HEPA air filter in the basement that's been running since Friday afternoon.  I think we're pretty much defunkified.

I'm convinced there are mold spores growing in my lungs because I've developed a sudden respiratory condition.  I've been the one at home dealing with all the professionals, showing them the mess, watching them touch it and stir it, and float potentially dangerous spores in my airspace.  My condition is one that mimics a virus that's prevalent in our area, but I've reminded Chris if he remarries upon my death - I'll haunt him.  Just in case I have the deadly mold spores in my lungs.