impossible girl

Around five years in, Al and I discussed, and made the mindful decision to never have children.  Al harbored serious concerns about something going horribly awry. I was just lazy.

We didn't last six months.  Looking at each other thinking;

Ok. So. This is it. Us. Just. Us. Forever. You. And. Me.

We (meaning mostly me) decided that we (meaning mostly me) wanted kids and shazam!  We were expecting Owen.

My younger sister is so very much like me.  A few years ago, she and her husband decided they did not want children.  He enjoyed his hobbies.  She was just lazy.

Within a year or so, the decision no longer fit, and babies were on little Sister's brain.

They tried.

And tried.

And failed.

Little Sis worked at an OBGYN office.   Tests were done.  Procedures even.  Referral to fertility clinic was made.

More tests. For Sister and husband.  Fertility doc gives her odds.  Slim at best. 

Complex medical history, few good eggs, motility issues, yadda yadda sorry no baby yadda...

Little Sis is in pain. Bad pain. Worst pain ever.  Wanting to make pain go away, I offer up my eggs;

"Old and full of holes they may be. But they're yours if you want 'em."

For many reasons, it wasn't going to work.

Sister with more hurting. And me with wanting to make it go away.

"I'll carry the fucking thing for you.  But just so you know?  I have a shitty track record; if it comes out all fucked up, it's your problem."

For many reasons, that wasn't going to work either.

Not about to give up, Sis endures procedures, chances improve, insurance on board, she heads back to fertility clinic.

Cost of drugs to place baby in Sis is enough to feed third world country for a year.  Neither Sis nor anyone in family has that kind of cash.

Baby dream squashed anew, Sis dives deep into dispair, quits job at OBGYN  where pregnant bellies mock her barrenness daily  and makes valiant attempt to get through the next minute of her life. And the minute after that. And the minute after that.

A couple months of minutes go by,  and on a Monday, Sis and her husband are back at fertility clinic grasping for strand of hope.  Thin strand is granted, but is sketchy at best.

Ten days later, on a Wednesday, thin strand in hand, Sis shows up to watch Bea for afternoon.  She is early. And cranky. With weepiness and sore boobs and other PMS symptoms.

In her purse is pregnancy test which she is refusing to take because;

"My period isn't even due til tomorrow and I know I'm not anyway. I'll just wait til tomorrow."

Of course I direct her to bathroom and demand she piss on that stick, 'cause you never know.

You just never fucking know.

And of course she emerges from the bathroom crying. And trembling.

And crying.

And she showing me the stick.

And neither of us believe what we're seeing:

She's knocked up.

Yup.

Knocked the fuck up.

And in the however many weeks since, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not believing that this impossible thing was true.

Even though impossible babies have happened in our family.

But today? I got to sit beside her and see with my own two eyes:

Brain? Check. Spine? Check. Heart? Check. Arms? Legs? Hands? Feet? Check.

Healthy looking BABY GIRL?

Fuckin' right!!

Check.

And?

Squee.

The One That Got Away

The fact that I'm going to watch them die doesn't stop me from loving my old nursing home peeps.

In fact, the more I love an oldie, the more I want to be the one who is sitting with them when they go.

Dolly was 97 when she came to us, so knowing that our time together was likely going to be short, I fell hard and fast in love with her.

She came to us alert and oriented, walking and talking, mostly taking care of herself and damn proud of it. She made sure everyone knew how old she was;

"Can you believe I'm 97?"

"You don't look a day over 87.  And you need to tell me what product you've been using on your face, 'cause I think I have more wrinkles than you."

Her magic potion turned out to be genetic, nothing but plain old Oil of Olay had ever touched her face.

Chatting like girlfriends in her bathroom as she got ready for bed, the fact that she was naked a non issue;

"You had six kids and your boobs look that good?  Really?  I might have to hate you for that."

They were perfect. Like her skin, far nicer than mine.  Her secret?  She'd always worn a bra to bed.

We had things in common.  She was the mother of five daughters and a son.

"I have four sisters and a brother!"

She'd been a nurse her whole life.  She gave me a scrub top she'd worn; tan with pretty embroidered flowers along the neckline.  It's my favorite shirt.

And she liked her alcohol.  When her daughter moved away, she appointed me her procurer of Brandy.

Every couple weeks she sidle up to me, all sneaky like, slip a $20 into my pocket and wink at me.

Entering the facility after a Dolly errand, the director of nurses stopped me in the lobby and questioned the tell tale brown paper bag;

"It's Dolly's Brandy."

"Oh isn't that nice of you."

"Meh. Just making a deposit in the Karma bank. Someone better bring me booze when I'm an old lady."

Whether she was on my assignment or not, every evening I worked, I'd bring her a Brandy on the rocks before supper.

And whether she was on my assignment or not, every evening at 7pm I'd go to her for a hug and a kiss goodnight. Sometimes she'd appear to be sleeping."

"Dolly?"

"Oh!  I was just laying here, asking the Good Lord to please come and take me in my sleep."

"For you, I hope he does.  For me, I hope I'm here for it."

"Me too."

I'd go in for my hug and get a nose full of vanilla, and Jean Nate and mouthwash.

A kiss on my cheek and "I love you."

She stayed healthy.  She continued to take care of herself.  She turned 98.

I'd taken a week off last summer and late one night I got a message from a nurse friend that Dolly would be gone the following day.

I thought I'd dreamed it, and went about my day.  Then got a panicky feeling and checked my phone.  It wasn't a dream.

I rushed into work. Was already crying when I got to Dolly's room. Handing her a  plastic cup of brandy and sitting on her ottoman with my own;



"It's not supposed to end like this, I don't know how to do this."

She was ready to go though, she insisted it was time.

She'd packed up what was left of her 98 years.  It sat in brown boxes at our feet.

She was going to be near her daughter.  A couple hours away.

So with a hug and a kiss and a clink of blue plastic cups we said our goodbyes.

And I left her feeling I hadn't quite done my job.

I was supposed to be there til the end.  Til her end.

And now I wonder.  Is she gone?   How did she go?

Maybe I should just remember her forever 98. 

With flawless skin.

And the perkiest boobs.

On Exploding of Furnaces and Silliness of Universe.

The week before Christmas:

Shopping.

Cleaning of house.

Working.

Cleaning of house.

Wrapping of presents.

Cleaning of house.

Baking of treats.

Cleaning of house.

Shopping.

Putting together of teacher/physical therapist/occupational therapist/speech therapist/interpreter/aides/ASL teacher/bus drivers - I've surely forgotten someone's - Goodie bags.

Cleaning of house.

Shopping.

Cleaning of house.

Attending of parties.

Cleaning of house. *I have a problem.*

Working.

Day before Christmas Eve:

Prepping of meal for next day's party.

Keeping children's heads from exploding with anticipatory excitement.

Eating of Chinese food as kitchen must remain clean, and fridge is stocked with nothing but treats and other party provisions.

Christmas Eve:

Heads of children reaching maximum capacity, explosions imminent.

Al and I artfully dancing around each other as we get ready to prep and cook and cook and prep for party of 30ish people in smallish house.

Upstairs fridge full.  Al takes beer to downstairs fridge.  You know the one? The one in the cellar?  Near the furnace?

The furnace which is spewing water all over the basement.

On Christmas Eve.

Of course. 

(Two years ago?  Owen opened EVERYONE'S presents in the middle of the night thus ruining Christmas.  Last year?  He was so sick he lay around like a limp rag barely able to have the littlest bit of fun and came *this close* to landing in the hospital, thus ruining Christmas.  Considered going far away next year?  But plane would surely crash.)

Call to furnace guy, who's nice enough to arrive in a half hour.  To tell us that the furnace is all the way dead, but he'd be happy to get us a new one.  For only $4500!  And sometime the next week.

We have neither $4500 nor til next week.

Wringing of hands and saying of very bad words.

And not letting kids know that something has gone horribly awry.

The party will go on.  With fire in fireplace and no hot water.

Friend Sally provides wood to burn and much needed shower.

Sally's husband Mark learns of misfortune and appears on doorstep with $1400;

"I can't take this!"

"I got a huge cash bonus.  You need it more than I do."

"I don't care if you're not a hugger, you're getting hugged."

Somehow don't cry over generosity of friends.

Al knows a guy. Being married to a tradesman?  Win.  They always know a guy.

New furnace not $4500.  Same furnace $2500.  On Monday.

Yay guy!

Party happens.  House overstuffed with people?  Nice and toasty.

Hostess who'd been slaving away for weeks to have perfect party nearly ruined by exploding furnace and who'd made the most delicious batch of white wine sangria?

Totally. Wasted.

People leave. Stockings hung.  Kids tucked in.  Aero bed in front of fire for Mommy and Daddy.

*shenanigans*

Two hours of sleep before wailing of small child.  Bea heard Al put a log on fire.  Thought it was Santa.  Is scared shitless of Santa.

Spend rest of night 'sleeping' with Bea in her teeny little bed.

Christmas Morning:

Head hurty.  Body achy.  Brain furry.

Children lucky:

Nintendo DS
Leapster
Barbies
Superheroes
Puzzles
Games
Books
Clothes
Lots of other crap.

Mommy and Daddy exchanging of small things only, as plan was to purchase new large fancy TV. 

Plan revised in light of spendiness of new furnace.

More party at cousin's house. More opening of presents. More eating of food. More eating of treats.

No drinking of alcohol.

Monday brings shiny new furnace. Able to pay for furnace thanks to nice friends and fact that we don't care if mortgage gets paid.  It's so not getting paid.

Vacation week.

Kids play and play and fight and play and play some more.

I pick up extra shifts in hopes to recover from furnace hit.

New Year's Eve:

Scheduler fucks up and leaves me off schedule.  Pissed about loss of money for shift.

Tickled to have New Year's Eve off.

Check mail.

Check IN the mail.  For me. $500.  Out of nowhere.  Is long story which starts last summer and ends in my stupidity sending me $500 when I really needed $2500.

Yay stupidity!

Happy New Year!

Work at 3pm.  Hug many old people.

Text from Al regarding stupid fucking fantasy football which has consumed him for the past many months;

"I came in second in my league. Won $1500!  Booyah!!!"

Of course.

Hear Universe giggle.

Silly Putty Pegs.

My decision to have Owen grow up a Signing Deaf person was based mainly on getting information into his brain without any barriers. The fact that he'll have a place to belong in the Deaf Community, if he so chooses;  bonus.

If his choice is to reside mainly in the Hearing world?  Totally cool.  He'll have all the tools he needs at his disposal to succeed in either world.

And after a summer living outside of the Deaf bubble, I wasn't surprised that he'd begun to lean to one side;

Bea:  "Owen. When you're all growed up? Are you going to marry a Deaf girl?"

Owen: "No. A Hearing girl."

Me: "Why Hearing? Why not Deaf like you?"

Owen: "I not Deaf. I Hearing."

Me: "Ok Sweetie."

And I let it go at that.  Because I know where it came from.

His teacher this year is Deaf.  All the way Deaf.  With zero residual hearing and zero speech.  He speaks so sees himself as different from her.

Totally cool.

I love that he has a Deaf teacher. He has enough Hearing role models. The more Deaf ones? The better.

I met with her a few weeks ago for parent/teacher conference. And again, wasn't surprised when she told me that Owen prefers to express himself in English. But receptively, relies on ASL.

In the true spirit of Total Communication, Owen will be encouraged to express himself in whatever mode he's most comfortable. But his ASL skills will also be tweaked.

I fucking love his school.

As much as I love my ASL teacher. Who allowed me to switch from the Friday morning class; which I've been attending by myself, to the Thursday evening class; to which I can bring both Owen and Bea.

We had a blast last Thursday. Bea signing 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer'?  Shit your pants cute.

And Owen coming downstairs Saturday morning, appearing in the kitchen, proudly signing;

*Voice Off*

Grabbing his 'Kung Fu Panda' book and marching into the playroom to do this?



Seriously?

You just shit your pants.

So this past Saturday I took my Speaking Hearing Signing Deaf kid to a holiday party, thrown by the local 'support group' for parents of kids with hearing loss.

I feel a distinct Us and Them vibe at these get togethers.  More than half the kids in the group are mainstreamed; they don't use ASL.

So the Deaf kids play with the Deaf kids and the Hearing Impaired kids play with the Hearing Impaired kids.  And the Deaf kid mommies chat with the Deaf kid mommies while the Hearing Impaired kid mommies chat with the Hearing Impaired kid mommies.

The only Deaf mommy and daddy gravitate toward the Deaf kid mommies.  They are patient with us novice signers and I'm dying to ask them how they feel about the choice most of these parents have made to deny their children their world.

Eavesdropping on a conversation amongst Hearing Impaired kid mommies, I hear about their kids' struggles; being the only kid in class with hearing aids, difficulties making friends, problems hearing the teacher...

Square pegs. Round holes.

Sitting on the floor, a little one toddles by wearing hearing aids.  I say something to him and his blank stare reminds me so much of Owen at that age. I sign to him. Still with the blank stare.

His mommy sits down next to me.  Friendly conversation ensues. 

He'll be three in a few months, and no, she hasn't chosen a school for him yet.

That thing she's wearing clipped to her shirt?  A streamer that sends her voice straight to his hearing aids.

He still doesn't respond to her voice.  She's frustrated.  He's not speaking much yet.  He's frustrated.

She asks me how I do it. 

"What do you do in situations like this?  It is so loud in here, he can't understand me even with this."  Giving the gadget an annoyed flick.

I try really hard to not sound like a smug jerk, 'cause inside?  I'm all smugness and jerkness;

"I sign."

I hope she heard me.

3:13am Is The New 6:13am. Or The Other Way Around. I Don't Fucking Know. I'm Tired.

I get by on no more than six hours of sleep a night. I'm rarely asleep before midnight and always awake by 6am. Ish.

And I get up at least once to pee.  

It's not that I don't like to sleep. I fucking love it.  My life just isn't conducive to a whole lot of it.

When I hear the kids at 6ish, and I begin the task of dragging my carcass out of its cocoon, my first thought it always;

I can't wait to crawl back into this cozy warm quiet awesomeness.

So. Last night I hear Bea call out;

"MOM!!!"

I don't fish around the darkness for my glasses.  I squint hard enough to squish my eyeballs enough to decipher 3:13 on the clock radio.  I'm pissed.

Stormage down the hall to find out what emergency has Bea wailing for help at 3 fucking thirteen AM.

Her big toe that had peeped out of the blanket needed covering up.  And?

*whining* "I'm not tired.  I can't sleeeeeep."

"Well. You're going to.  It's the middle of the night. Everyone's asleep.  See you in the morning."

Quick glance to make sure Owen is still unconscious.  His bed is empty.

Fuck.

Stompage down stairs in search of Owen, whom I scare the bejeezus out of as his face is glued to the computer in the playroom, and sans hearing aids, he doesn't know I'm about to burst in signing angrily;

*Not morning!  Look! Outside dark. Mommy, Daddy, Bea all sleeping. Need go bed.  Now!*

Follow his grumping ass back upstairs and see him tucked back in bed.

*whining* "I not tired."

*Mommy very tired.  Mommy need more sleep.  You try sleep more.  See you later.*

Stompage back to my room.  Resist slammage of door. Collapse into warm cocoon.

"What the fuck was that all about?"

"Little shits are awake.  Bea needing blankets adjusted and Owen on the fucking computer.  At THREE in the fucking morning!  Fuckers!!"

"What are you talking about?  It's almost six thirty."

 "Fuck. Me."

*gropegropegrope*

"Not like that!!!  Gawd!! Fuuuuuuuuuuuck."

The Late Thankful Post. And Balls.

So. I never got around to doing the Thankful post.

I was too busy working, and kid wrangling, and getting ready for overnight visitors.

And finishing up my shopping. Christmas shopping that is.

Yeah. I'm just about done.  Like you needed another reason to hate me.

For whatever reason, a most highly anticipated DVD, purchased for Owen was in my purse.  Bea saw it.

I swore her to secrecy, promising very bad things would happen if she dared tell him what she saw.

The next morning, Al wakes me up with the news;

"Bea is downstairs telling Owen about the Captain America DVD."

"That little bitch!!"

I was in her face, dragging her away from Owen within seconds.

Before applying another thick layer of emotional scars, I probably should have made sure that Owen had actually heard her spill the beans.

'Cause he hadn't.

Thankful.

*******

So. Thanksgiving happened.  I ate a horrifying amount.  I consumed a respectful amount of alcohol.  Family visited.

And on Friday morning, I engaged in my favorite day after Thanksgiving activity;

I decorated the fuck out of the house.

I'm a big fan of the twinkly and the sparkly.

And balls.

I like balls.

Lots of balls.

'Cause I'm an eight year old.  And so is my sister.  There was much snickering about the balls.

Instructing kids on proper ball hanging technique;

"You need to use two hands and handle the balls very carefully."

And after finding some delicate balls hanging precariously from a flimsy needle and not the firm part of the branch?  I said flimsy and firm.


"Look guys. See?  You have to make sure it's on there good and tight."

Turning around to snicker at sister, who had gone to the restroom, and then calling out;

"I said 'Good and Tight'!"

*snickering* "I heard ya!" 

*******

Because Thanksgiving weekend isn't busy and exhausting enough, Owen's friend decides that a 10am party on Sunday is a good idea.

An hour away.

He didn't want to go.  I dragged his ass anyway.

And wished I hadn't as soon as we arrived.

Fucking Cosmic Bowling.  Loud music. Darkness. Seizure inducing strobe lights.

For a Deaf kid party?

The fuzzy one on the left is a very tired, very grumpy Owen.  I'd practically pushed him onto the lane and demanded he have some fucking fun.

He didn't.

Neither did I.

Text to Al and sister:

"This place is so fucking loud I feel like I should be getting wasted and picking up a one night stand."

*******

While I was suffering visual and auditory assault at Deaf Kid party, Al and Bea were having a nice stroll in the woods:

Jerks.

And Owen was still grumping when we got home, and Bea was gloating about her fun time with Daddy and Olive.  She was in that four year old mood when she thinks mimicking everything that a person says is just hilarious. 

Owen did not find it hilarious;

"Mom!!  Bea is teasing my words!!"

Which I found hilarious.

And found myself feeling thankful that I have a place to share such hilarity.

Hope y'all had as good a time as me and mine.

You Know What Greases My Cheeks?

Fuck You Anonyhole;

I just love when someone musters up enough bravery to fire off a nasty anonymous comment.

I wish I had saved it instead of deleting it immediately after reading it.

The gist of the comment was that I am such a MEAN GIRL for calling out the Poor Me at work, the one who shirks her duties using her divorce as an excuse.

Guess what Anonyhole? Methinks your reading comprehension skills are a tad lacking as you missed the fucking point that EVERYONE has shit going on.  Shit worse than a divorce even.  And they still manage to get their job done. Without distracting everyone around them with the constant fucking whining.

And?  Our job is to take care of old sick people.  They are the ones we care about.  Their needs come before any of our own.  I wouldn't let this idiot take care of my Mother.  And that is saying A LOT.

Also?  I happen to believe in the survival of the fittest.  It is the law of the land in the world of nursing.

This chick?  Is an orphaned one legged Deaf baby gazelle.

The rest of us?  Hungry hyenas. Protecting our elders.

That is all.

*******

Thank you Dani G. and Lynn;

For your wildly successful Skool Pickture Blog Hop.

'Cause I mentioned a gawd awful school photo of yours truly. Which you then demanded to see.

Here ya go ladies.

I apologize for promises of horrific stye action.  In my memory, the stye was far more noticeable. But, if you look carefully at the left eye, behind hideous glasses, under equally hideous cowlick, you will see the swollen eyelid.

Big surprise I grew up to be such a mean girl eh?

And?  Big surprise that once the awkward stage was done and the HOT stage begun, I was sort of a slut.

What?

*******

Thank you Museum of Science Deaf Kid iPod Program Thingie;

For getting us all in for FREE, even the boring Hearing kids.

Deaf kids loved dicking around with the fancy iPod Touches with their fancy ASL apps.  You even provided an interpreter to explain how they worked:

Seriously? This shit just kills me.

We were happy to be your 'focus group'. And I was happy to provide feedback.

Thank goodness Owen actually used the app for a few minutes.  Even though it was sorta lame. 

But I learned the sign for Vibrate! Win!

Fuck You ASL Interpreter;

For telling me I was doing the sign for 'warm' wrong.

I've taken enough ASL classes to know that the language allows for lots of variation of signs.  I was using a widely accepted sign. The one my DEAF son uses.

Are you DEAF? 

No.

Shut the fuck up.

*******

Thank you warning on bag of sugar free cough drops;

"Excessive use may cause laxative effects."

Like, if I ate the entire bag in one evening?

Yeah.  Like that.

Actual text sent to my sister after most harrowing morning after, spent in bathroom:

"Has the phrase, 'Well THAT really greased my cheeks!' already been coined? 'Cause if not, I'd like to claim it...not sure in what context I'd use it... but is making me happy."

*******

Thank you dear sweet four year old daughter o' mine;

For being so fucking cute I can hardly stand it.

Even when you march into the kitchen, slam your sippy cup down on the counter, look me in the eye and say;

"Juice Lady."

And especially when you want to practice writing your words.

"How do you spell 'boat'?"

Awww.... with the backwards 'B' and the ginormous 'T'.

"How do you spell 'cat'?"

Awwwwww....with the fact that you signed the word 'cat' as you said it.

"How do you spell 'dog'?"

Awwwwwwwww... with the 'G' not resembling a 'G' in the least.

"How do you spell 'psycho'?

Awwwwwwwwwwwww.... wait... what???

*******