Beginning sixth grade was a big deal for my little big man.
He has had to adjust just about everything he knew about school. He has studied harder, pushed himself beyond what he though he was capable of learning. And he is succeeding :)
The social game, however, is tougher to navigate. Girls want to get his attention, and he is clueless absolutely lost trying to find his way. That perceived indifference makes him a target to the girls...the girls, being smarter about the social game, find him easy prey. No one has ever teased my son...no one has torn away at his self esteem in his 12 years on this earth.
I can't honestly tell him that it gets simpler as an adult. I find in my daily wanderings that my fellow grown ups can behave just as cruel as the middle schoolers. Very few people are striking out with the intention of being mean...but the result is the same.
One would think, at such as advanced age as myself, I would be accustomed to this...but the days when my son comes home upset, fighting back tears, I can always relate. It's my job to be his parent though, so I resist the urge to commiserate. I don't make him soothe my wounds.
But there isn't much difference in his school world than there is in my office...which is pretty damn sad if you ask me. So as best as I can tell, my purpose in parenting is to give my son better tools to handle the barbs. Hoping that I am building a well-adjusted adult.
But as an adult who was raised by feral wolves....with very few working tools in my own toolbelt...I do wish for a rock of my own. Someone who was waiting at the end of my day to hear my stories of a psychotic office mate throwing her stapler in a rage, or another bursting into tears and wishing for the failure of my project because apparently that would "SHOW US ALLLLLLLL".
This is why people drink ;)
Because we really are still in middle school, aren't we? And there is no recess in sight!
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
christmas christmas christmas...
I can't believe it has been eight years since my father died. I don't know if I should be "over it" by now...since I don't really have anything to compare it to. My close friends haven't lost their parents yet, and heck, as a culture we tend to reserve talk of grieving to only our spouses.
In movies the death of a parent is a turning point for the characters. Past conflicts are resolved on the deathbed and the surviving child walks away and moves forward. Sad, but stronger.
It wasn't quite like that with my Dad. He refused to admit he was dying for as long as he could speak. All efforts to get him to even see a doctor in his last few weeks were met with curses and meanness. Thinking back, I suppose he wanted to lay in his own bed, in his own house and slowly die without anyone making a fuss. To this day I don't know if I did the right thing to deny him that.
I called my mother a few weeks before my Dad died - a routine call just to check in - and she let it slip that "Your father sure sleeps alot these days". I asked her what she meant by that, and she replied "Well he is probably awake about an hour a day".
We knew he had end stage liver failure from a lifetime of Budweiser and vodka tonics...but he had been playing golf and working his job as a taxi driver the week before. I packed my bags that minute and drove to Central Florida immediately.
I found my father in a dark room, with a space heater running, hiding underneath twelve blankets. He wouldn't talk to me about how he felt, knocking aside my questions with comments about just "needing to sleep". I don't know if he actually believed he had the flu or if that is what he was telling us to send us away. My mother, with fifty years of submitting to him under her belt, was too terrified to challenge the flu notion, but I knew better. But getting him in the car was nearly impossible. I literally had to threaten to call 911 if he refused - and it took us about 3 hours to force him out the door.
Of course he expected to drive.
I absolutely refused. He wasn't in any shape to even sit upright....weakened by his dissolving liver and weeks of not eating or drinking. That was the first day since him teaching me to first drive that my father sat in the passenger set next to me. An ominous feeling overcame me, I was certain this was worse than I had initially thought.
My father had the same doc he had used for years. I had never met the man but was about to show up at his office without an appointment - so I hoped he was decent. He was not. The doctor told me that my Dad most likely had "the flu" and should go home and rest. I stood blocking the door and asked the doctor when the last time he saw him was. It had been a month. Apparently my Dad had been feeling queasy for that long. I asked the doc how much weight my Dad had lost in the month. Nearly thirty pounds was the answer. I then began asking about lab work, the condition of his liver, etc etc until the doctor relented. Maybe just because he realized I wasn't moving away from the door until I had an answer....so he agreed to admit my Dad to the local hospital.
My Dad would be dead within 10 days. Up until the last 8 hours of his life his doctor was constantly telling us we were worrying about nothing and he expected my father would be good as new as soon _______. The blank consisted of that doctor milking medicaid for every test, procedure and medicine he could throw our way....up to and including physical therapy.
It broke my heart to watch my father try to perform on a recumbent bike when he didn't even have the strength to lift his own arms in the air. But my Dad was in agreement with the doctor...he felt like he wasn't as sick as I was saying...and the last coherent thing he ever said to me was "How the hell do you expect me to get any better when you are putting nails in my coffin!!!!!!"
But I knew better. He was throwing up blood (and had been for weeks - hiding it from my mother somehow), couldn't eat because of varices in his throat, and his liver enzymes were higher than I had ever seen.
By the time I had beaten the doctors into getting hospice involved my Dad wasn't even able to talk. Hospice was wonderful. They stopped all the unnecessary meds, controlled his pain, and stopped the physical torture of the exercises.
He died less than 10 hours after hospice came on board. The nurse woke me up at 2 in the morning to tell me. I had to wake my mother and tell her the news. My son was a toddler. The entire evening was surreal. Painful. The one member of my family who had loved me for who I was....gone.
It was Christmas Eve.
My son asked us how Santa would find us. How could Santa know we were in a hospital far far away from home?
Later, back at my mother's house, trying my best to control my grief enough to be of some comfort to my mom....my sweet little toddler came into the room, and announced that he liked things better when his grandpa was alive.
"Me too baby bear"
Each Christmas Even I hope that I don't have to relive that story in my mind....but so far I haven't been able to. But it does get a teeny teeny bit easier.
I know my Dad would hate that I still grieve. And I know if his brain hadn't been poisoned by the chemicals produced as his body was shutting down he would have done a better job leaving this world...
Miss you Dad....and thinking of you this season.
In movies the death of a parent is a turning point for the characters. Past conflicts are resolved on the deathbed and the surviving child walks away and moves forward. Sad, but stronger.
It wasn't quite like that with my Dad. He refused to admit he was dying for as long as he could speak. All efforts to get him to even see a doctor in his last few weeks were met with curses and meanness. Thinking back, I suppose he wanted to lay in his own bed, in his own house and slowly die without anyone making a fuss. To this day I don't know if I did the right thing to deny him that.
I called my mother a few weeks before my Dad died - a routine call just to check in - and she let it slip that "Your father sure sleeps alot these days". I asked her what she meant by that, and she replied "Well he is probably awake about an hour a day".
We knew he had end stage liver failure from a lifetime of Budweiser and vodka tonics...but he had been playing golf and working his job as a taxi driver the week before. I packed my bags that minute and drove to Central Florida immediately.
I found my father in a dark room, with a space heater running, hiding underneath twelve blankets. He wouldn't talk to me about how he felt, knocking aside my questions with comments about just "needing to sleep". I don't know if he actually believed he had the flu or if that is what he was telling us to send us away. My mother, with fifty years of submitting to him under her belt, was too terrified to challenge the flu notion, but I knew better. But getting him in the car was nearly impossible. I literally had to threaten to call 911 if he refused - and it took us about 3 hours to force him out the door.
Of course he expected to drive.
I absolutely refused. He wasn't in any shape to even sit upright....weakened by his dissolving liver and weeks of not eating or drinking. That was the first day since him teaching me to first drive that my father sat in the passenger set next to me. An ominous feeling overcame me, I was certain this was worse than I had initially thought.
My father had the same doc he had used for years. I had never met the man but was about to show up at his office without an appointment - so I hoped he was decent. He was not. The doctor told me that my Dad most likely had "the flu" and should go home and rest. I stood blocking the door and asked the doctor when the last time he saw him was. It had been a month. Apparently my Dad had been feeling queasy for that long. I asked the doc how much weight my Dad had lost in the month. Nearly thirty pounds was the answer. I then began asking about lab work, the condition of his liver, etc etc until the doctor relented. Maybe just because he realized I wasn't moving away from the door until I had an answer....so he agreed to admit my Dad to the local hospital.
My Dad would be dead within 10 days. Up until the last 8 hours of his life his doctor was constantly telling us we were worrying about nothing and he expected my father would be good as new as soon _______. The blank consisted of that doctor milking medicaid for every test, procedure and medicine he could throw our way....up to and including physical therapy.
It broke my heart to watch my father try to perform on a recumbent bike when he didn't even have the strength to lift his own arms in the air. But my Dad was in agreement with the doctor...he felt like he wasn't as sick as I was saying...and the last coherent thing he ever said to me was "How the hell do you expect me to get any better when you are putting nails in my coffin!!!!!!"
But I knew better. He was throwing up blood (and had been for weeks - hiding it from my mother somehow), couldn't eat because of varices in his throat, and his liver enzymes were higher than I had ever seen.
By the time I had beaten the doctors into getting hospice involved my Dad wasn't even able to talk. Hospice was wonderful. They stopped all the unnecessary meds, controlled his pain, and stopped the physical torture of the exercises.
He died less than 10 hours after hospice came on board. The nurse woke me up at 2 in the morning to tell me. I had to wake my mother and tell her the news. My son was a toddler. The entire evening was surreal. Painful. The one member of my family who had loved me for who I was....gone.
It was Christmas Eve.
My son asked us how Santa would find us. How could Santa know we were in a hospital far far away from home?
Later, back at my mother's house, trying my best to control my grief enough to be of some comfort to my mom....my sweet little toddler came into the room, and announced that he liked things better when his grandpa was alive.
"Me too baby bear"
Each Christmas Even I hope that I don't have to relive that story in my mind....but so far I haven't been able to. But it does get a teeny teeny bit easier.
I know my Dad would hate that I still grieve. And I know if his brain hadn't been poisoned by the chemicals produced as his body was shutting down he would have done a better job leaving this world...
Miss you Dad....and thinking of you this season.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
moment by moment..
After a long week at work...
Transitioning into a new job...
Which means, at the very least, a new routine, new faces, new skills, and feeling totally helpless...
And after struggling with finding my bearings yet again in a long-distance relationship...
My Friday evening ended with the conclusion of an overly violent, unintentionally psychologically intrusive movie.
So I was trying my best to dust off my negative feelings and get my little man to bed.
After 12 years of tucking my son in, I can be honest here and tell you that some nights I just don't feel like I have it in me to do take 10 minutes out of my night and stroke his hair, rub his back, and give him kisses as he drifts to sleep.
So I did the 3 minute version. My mind was elsewhere as I fluffed his pillows and told him goodnight. But as I was leaving his room a wave came over me...I imagine my angel 10 years in the future and living far away. So I paused in his doorway and saw him curled under the blankets...looking as sweet as the first moment I saw him...and I turned around. I laid down next to him on the bed and wrapped my arms around him...
His entire body relaxed and he sighed as he whispered "yay" :)
I stayed with him for a few precious moments...and drank in that connection - of being totally present, totally loved, totally loving...
Who cared that the dishes were piled high in the sink, and the laundry was spilling out of the basket onto the floor, and I hadn't been on Facebook to see exactly what my childless friends were up to on this Friday night!? I was able to let go of my funk and everything else hard about my day and just BE with my little guy. And it was a fantastic moment....one of thousands we have had together. And I plan on having many thousand more! Provided I can keeping remembering (each time I forget) that the absolute best way to connect with someone is just to put down your own piles of debris and connect.
Sleep well baby boo...thank you for reminding me (all the many times I forget) what my best self can be.
Transitioning into a new job...
Which means, at the very least, a new routine, new faces, new skills, and feeling totally helpless...
And after struggling with finding my bearings yet again in a long-distance relationship...
My Friday evening ended with the conclusion of an overly violent, unintentionally psychologically intrusive movie.
So I was trying my best to dust off my negative feelings and get my little man to bed.
After 12 years of tucking my son in, I can be honest here and tell you that some nights I just don't feel like I have it in me to do take 10 minutes out of my night and stroke his hair, rub his back, and give him kisses as he drifts to sleep.
So I did the 3 minute version. My mind was elsewhere as I fluffed his pillows and told him goodnight. But as I was leaving his room a wave came over me...I imagine my angel 10 years in the future and living far away. So I paused in his doorway and saw him curled under the blankets...looking as sweet as the first moment I saw him...and I turned around. I laid down next to him on the bed and wrapped my arms around him...
His entire body relaxed and he sighed as he whispered "yay" :)
I stayed with him for a few precious moments...and drank in that connection - of being totally present, totally loved, totally loving...
Who cared that the dishes were piled high in the sink, and the laundry was spilling out of the basket onto the floor, and I hadn't been on Facebook to see exactly what my childless friends were up to on this Friday night!? I was able to let go of my funk and everything else hard about my day and just BE with my little guy. And it was a fantastic moment....one of thousands we have had together. And I plan on having many thousand more! Provided I can keeping remembering (each time I forget) that the absolute best way to connect with someone is just to put down your own piles of debris and connect.
Sleep well baby boo...thank you for reminding me (all the many times I forget) what my best self can be.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Another night
I have always loved video games. I have owned just about every game system that has ever been made starting with Atari and wandering through gaming systems that most of you can't even remember (pong! intellivision! N64! etc).
I am NOT one of those people that thinks video games rot your brain (obviously). In fact, I think video games can sharpen your reflexes, distract you from a hard day in the salt mines and exercise your brain. Sometimes they can even be social... if you have a group of like minded friends or don't mind hopping online and playing with foul-mouthed 13 year old boys.
I found a home for this hobby as a software tester for one of my careers. I can honestly say that I loved my work. But being a nurse is has truly turned out to be the job of my dreams!
People frequently asked me how I was able to transition from a bug tester to being a registered nurse... but actually the fields are very similar. In both vocations I spend my days looking for deviations from the way the system normally operates. Whether it is a body system or computer system my job I can find the problems.
As it turns out I excel at finding problems.
Maybe this predilection for uncovering pathology is a natural born talent... or maybe something that sprung from the way my my mind puts the world together. If I were your nurse, though, you would love that I was always sifting through the data analyzing your body's systems and looking for clues as to why things weren't behaving as they should. Part intuition... part luck... part research...part experience.
This skill set has served me well in my chosen professions. But I am not so sure it is an asset when it comes to love.
Nobody appreciates the partner who is constantly searching for the imperfections in the relationship. If my girlfriend calls me every day on her way home from work....and then suddenly stops...I notice. I subconsciously catalog any deviations from the norm and wonder about the meaning. Without even trying, I am stringing together pieces of sub-clinical data and looking for patterns. Or, as my GF would say, looking for trouble :(
It wouldn't be fair of me to blame this on my career choices. It is probably more likely my personality type that makes me simultaneously a wonderful nurse, the best software tester you can find, and yet a troubling and worrisome life partner.
I would like to practice taking things at face value. I would like to practice trusting that all is well. I would love to not notice inconsistencies...
You can go to the gym when you need to get your body in shape. You can go to school when you need to get your analytical mind honed. You can go to church when you need to get your spiritual life strengthened.
But where can you go when your perception has somehow become overly in tune with finding problems?
Maybe I could invent a video game that would work out your attitude! An elliptical trainer for your heart! Some free weights for your SOUL!
I would make $1,000,000...
I am NOT one of those people that thinks video games rot your brain (obviously). In fact, I think video games can sharpen your reflexes, distract you from a hard day in the salt mines and exercise your brain. Sometimes they can even be social... if you have a group of like minded friends or don't mind hopping online and playing with foul-mouthed 13 year old boys.
I found a home for this hobby as a software tester for one of my careers. I can honestly say that I loved my work. But being a nurse is has truly turned out to be the job of my dreams!
People frequently asked me how I was able to transition from a bug tester to being a registered nurse... but actually the fields are very similar. In both vocations I spend my days looking for deviations from the way the system normally operates. Whether it is a body system or computer system my job I can find the problems.
As it turns out I excel at finding problems.
Maybe this predilection for uncovering pathology is a natural born talent... or maybe something that sprung from the way my my mind puts the world together. If I were your nurse, though, you would love that I was always sifting through the data analyzing your body's systems and looking for clues as to why things weren't behaving as they should. Part intuition... part luck... part research...part experience.
This skill set has served me well in my chosen professions. But I am not so sure it is an asset when it comes to love.
Nobody appreciates the partner who is constantly searching for the imperfections in the relationship. If my girlfriend calls me every day on her way home from work....and then suddenly stops...I notice. I subconsciously catalog any deviations from the norm and wonder about the meaning. Without even trying, I am stringing together pieces of sub-clinical data and looking for patterns. Or, as my GF would say, looking for trouble :(
It wouldn't be fair of me to blame this on my career choices. It is probably more likely my personality type that makes me simultaneously a wonderful nurse, the best software tester you can find, and yet a troubling and worrisome life partner.
I would like to practice taking things at face value. I would like to practice trusting that all is well. I would love to not notice inconsistencies...
You can go to the gym when you need to get your body in shape. You can go to school when you need to get your analytical mind honed. You can go to church when you need to get your spiritual life strengthened.
But where can you go when your perception has somehow become overly in tune with finding problems?
Maybe I could invent a video game that would work out your attitude! An elliptical trainer for your heart! Some free weights for your SOUL!
I would make $1,000,000...
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
biscuits anyone?
OOoooOOOoooh the steroids I take for my back make it super duper hard to sleep.
But on the upside my poison ivy doesn't itch anymore :)
Do you want to know why it is so easy to be a great parent? Cause I know the complete and simple truth. With your child you know that their heart is pure. Their motivations may be dangerous, ill-conceived or self-centered...but never injurious and never malicious. So when our little angels step outside the boundaries of how you wish they would behave, you can still see that they meant no harm.
I remember early one Sunday morning when my little man was only about 2 and a half years old. I awakened at around 7 AM to a silent house. If you are a mom, and the sun is up, and your kid is ABSOLUTELY quiet....you know something is wrong. I jumped out of bed, ready to find my son stolen, or dismembered, or maybe having moved to Reno to run a brothel and found his bed EMPTY. I flew to the kitchen and there he sat. On the floor. Immersed in his own world. A few weeks prior I had purchased a wonderful (yet over riced) jute rug, which was now covered by a giant mixture of flour, rice milk and butter. And elbow deep in that mixture was my boy...smiling like a mad scientist.
Of course my first reaction was relief that he was alive, but 0.002 milliseconds later came the abject horror of the mess. Flour and butter were EVERYWHERE! The rug, the tiles, the refrigerator, even the WALLS....The anger started rolling through me as I approached him...but my footsteps broke his concentration...and when he saw me his face erupted in a giant grin and he shouted "MOMMA!!!!!!!BISCUITS!!!!!!"
And just like that monster mom had vanished...I was immediately filled with the same excitement he offered me that morning.
He and I had made biscuits together countless times....and he wanted to surprise me that morning and make his mommy a damn good breakfast. So I grabbed the over sized cutting board, joined him on that now ruined $300 rug, and we made biscuits together. Don't get me wrong, the clean up was miserable...but the breakfast was perfect :)
If you take that story, and replace my 2 year old son, with, say, a 30 year old house guest visiting from out-of-town....well...the ending would have been much different. Most likely I would have had them put in psyche ward at best...sprinkled in with gunfire and prison time. Maybe not prison time though, since clearly it would have been understandable.
My son couldn't have known how to bake on his own at that age, and he sure as hell didn't care about the value of the kitchen rug. His intention was to make his mom breakfast.
As a grown up dealing with other grown ups...it is trickier to trust the motivations and intentions behind the actions of others. I guess that is just another way of saying "unconditional love" - why is it so hard to love other adults unconditionally? Why can't we see the intentions and motivations behind their actions more clearly than the messes and mistakes? It would be so amazing if our friends and loved ones would see that we are only trying to make them biscuits...
Because some nights, it feels like all they see is the ruined kitchen rug.
But on the upside my poison ivy doesn't itch anymore :)
Do you want to know why it is so easy to be a great parent? Cause I know the complete and simple truth. With your child you know that their heart is pure. Their motivations may be dangerous, ill-conceived or self-centered...but never injurious and never malicious. So when our little angels step outside the boundaries of how you wish they would behave, you can still see that they meant no harm.
I remember early one Sunday morning when my little man was only about 2 and a half years old. I awakened at around 7 AM to a silent house. If you are a mom, and the sun is up, and your kid is ABSOLUTELY quiet....you know something is wrong. I jumped out of bed, ready to find my son stolen, or dismembered, or maybe having moved to Reno to run a brothel and found his bed EMPTY. I flew to the kitchen and there he sat. On the floor. Immersed in his own world. A few weeks prior I had purchased a wonderful (yet over riced) jute rug, which was now covered by a giant mixture of flour, rice milk and butter. And elbow deep in that mixture was my boy...smiling like a mad scientist.
Of course my first reaction was relief that he was alive, but 0.002 milliseconds later came the abject horror of the mess. Flour and butter were EVERYWHERE! The rug, the tiles, the refrigerator, even the WALLS....The anger started rolling through me as I approached him...but my footsteps broke his concentration...and when he saw me his face erupted in a giant grin and he shouted "MOMMA!!!!!!!BISCUITS!!!!!!"
And just like that monster mom had vanished...I was immediately filled with the same excitement he offered me that morning.
He and I had made biscuits together countless times....and he wanted to surprise me that morning and make his mommy a damn good breakfast. So I grabbed the over sized cutting board, joined him on that now ruined $300 rug, and we made biscuits together. Don't get me wrong, the clean up was miserable...but the breakfast was perfect :)
If you take that story, and replace my 2 year old son, with, say, a 30 year old house guest visiting from out-of-town....well...the ending would have been much different. Most likely I would have had them put in psyche ward at best...sprinkled in with gunfire and prison time. Maybe not prison time though, since clearly it would have been understandable.
My son couldn't have known how to bake on his own at that age, and he sure as hell didn't care about the value of the kitchen rug. His intention was to make his mom breakfast.
As a grown up dealing with other grown ups...it is trickier to trust the motivations and intentions behind the actions of others. I guess that is just another way of saying "unconditional love" - why is it so hard to love other adults unconditionally? Why can't we see the intentions and motivations behind their actions more clearly than the messes and mistakes? It would be so amazing if our friends and loved ones would see that we are only trying to make them biscuits...
Because some nights, it feels like all they see is the ruined kitchen rug.
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