I use to sing this to you almost every night. It still holds true.
You are and always will be my sunshine.
I love you very much.
Oh, and.. llama llama
Love ya!
Mama
Showing posts with label Bug. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bug. Show all posts
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Friday, July 11, 2008
A TIME TO REJOICE - Happy Birthday Bug!
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. For those of us who have weathered many of life’s worst storms, these words are a lifeline onto which we cling with faith that the time for each storm will soon pass. Yet, in the midst of it all it’s easy to lose sight of the lifeline and feel like we’ll drown. It’s only after we reach the end of the storm and are standing in the warm sunshine of relief and hope that we can look back and see that the waves actually pushed us in the direction we never knew we always wanted to go...
Eighteen months after my rootin’ tootin’ marriage to R we realized that we were totally unsuited to be married to each other, so on July 4, 1978, I walked out of the house we’d built together and went home to Mama.
A few weeks later I met JW through a mutual friend at work. JW was tall, strong, cute, exciting, sexy, and 13 years my senior. We quickly became inseparable and by the end of August I’d moved into his apartment. We were married at the JP’s office sometime in September. It was my second marriage, and what I thought was his fourth with his first wife being numbers one and three. (Whoa buddy, is that a whole ‘nother story!) We could only get half the day off and the JP’s office was extremely crowded. Everyone was rushing around trying to get all the scheduled weddings done before 5 PM. It was Friday -- nobody wanted to stay late.
When it was our turn, the JP didn’t have the door closed behind us before asking if we wanted the long ceremony or the short one. Being both practical and horny, JW and I agreed on the short version. The JP took a deep breath, and with hardly a glance upward as he began signing the marriage certificate, said, “OK. By the powers vested in my by the State of Texas, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Bye.” Before we could blink he had the door open and us pushed half way out. In no little bit of shock, I turned to JW as we walked through the crowded waiting area and said, “Well that was fast. OK, now, I where’s my ring.” The whole room burst into laughter.
In October we moved out of the apartment into a townhouse. In all the excitement of the move I missed a birth control pill. By my birthday in November, I was pregnant. (Yes, people – you CAN miss just one at the wrong time of the month and get pregnant.) Mother and I were so excited we could hardly contain ourselves. JW’s first response was, “What are you gonna do about it?” I was floored. And angry and hurt and confused. We had never discussed having children (yes, I was rather stupid at 22), but I didn’t ever even consider that he wouldn’t want another child. I’d accepted his 13-year-old daughter without hesitation. How could he not accept the child we'd made together? What I hadn’t considered was that the loss of another child a few years before had permanently wrecked any desire he had for more children. I was convinced that I could change his mind about wanting the baby; however, he refused to have anything to do with the topic or me. I was so miserable that in January of 1979 I once again went home to Mama.
The next 6 months went by crazy fast. Mom and I set about turning the middle bedroom of the house I grew up in into a nursery. Since we had no way of knowing whether I was carrying a boy or a girl, we opted for yellow. Bright, cheery, sunshine yellow – the very same color that is still Bug’s favorite. We bought an older crib and refinished it in white. Mom, being the sewing genius she was, made sheets, curtains and a dressing table skirt to match. During all the preparations I kept praying, begging God to PLEEEEEEASE give us a girl. There were a couple of reasons for that. 1) Since I was adopted at 10, Mother had missed out on my baby days and we thought it would be fun to have a little girl to make up for that gap in her experience; and 2) I was going to have to raise this child alone and I had this irrational fear: How was I supposed to teach a boy how to stand up to pee? Ok, quit shaking your head, I said it was irrational!
One day I was at Sears shopping for more baby stuff and noticed a really cute little boy about 3 years old, all by himself, looking at the toys. Now don’t freak out – this was back in the days when you could actually let your kid look at stuff on one aisle while you went a couple of aisles away knowing that he’d be just fine. It used to be a good thing to have other people around to help watch over your kids unlike today where if you even look at someone else’s kid... Oops, sorry – hold on a minute while I put the soapbox back in the closet. Anyway, I rounded the corner to the next aisle and there stood the adult, female version of the little guy. They had identical carrot tops, a sprinkling of freckles and almost pixie-looking brown eyes. I knew instantly that she was his mother. Right then and there I changed my prayer to OK, God, if I HAVE to have a boy, please at least make him look as much like me as this little guy looks like his mother. God said yes.
R and I resumed our prenuptial friendship, and he and Mother became the best Lamaze coaches in history. (In fact, I still use the pain blocking techniques I learned.) Sadly, though, when it came time for the big event I didn’t get to do the “OMG! IT’S TIME!” routine. Instead, because my doctor was planning a month long trip to Paris (must be nice!) and there was no WAY I was going to let anybody else play catcher when I was so close to pitching the biggest game of my life, bright and early on the morning of July 11, 1979, I reported for induction. Six hours later I got my first taste of the stubbornness that is my first-born child. He’d already spent nine
months doing extreme frog yoga in my belly. Really. No kidding. I swear that kid would literally stretch out to all four corners pushing as hard as he could. My poor ribs were so sore I could hardly breathe! Now here we were, waaaay past the point of it being fun anymore, and the kid refused... r.e.f.u.s.e.d to come out!
Back in those days you labored in a labor room and then were transferred on a stretcher to the delivery room. It was not as easy as it sounds. Try climbing from one bed to another holding a bucket full of water between your legs. Without spilling the water. Add having your mother freaking out about the fact that your ‘privates are hangin’ out here in front of God and everbody!’ as she repeatedly tries valiantly to pull your gown down to cover your huge belly and the blanket up over the bucket you are trying to keep from dropping. Throw in another patient sobbing uncontrollably while screaming, “IT HURRRRRTS!!! GET IT OUT OF MEEEEEEEEEEE” over and over in the next bed. Now add three nurses scurrying around like the three blind mice trying to find their cut off tails taking turns squealing “don’t push! don’t push!” and one stomping, huffing, harrumphing mad doctor who cannot understand why the woman in the next bed is screaming bloody murder or why you aren’t in the delivery room yet and you’ll have a picture of just a wee bit of the chaos.
On this particular day there was an unusually large number of women dominoing and the one in the delivery room ahead of me was taking her sweet time getting the job done. All the while, I was waiting. On the stretcher. In the hall outside the delivery room door. It was hot and I HAD to get cool so I kept pulling my gown up and kicking the blanket off. Mother was quite literally having a conniption fit over my lack of modesty. I quite frankly didn’t give a rip! About the time I was ready to start screaming, too, the doors swung open and I was rolling into the blissfully cold delivery room. The joy of the ride ended abruptly, however, when they told me that now I had to heft myself off of the stretcher onto the delivery table. “DON’T PUSH!! DON’T PUSH!” the three blind micettes kept squealing. “Cover up! Cover up!” the freaking out mother kept squawking. “Hurry the hell up, dammit!” the stomping mad doc kept harrumphing. It seemed that time had gone into some weird out of control warp mode that both slowed things down and sped them up at the same time, but finally I was on the table, strapped down, legs raised and hands firmly tethered to the pistol grips. And one of the micettes squealed, “OK, you can push now.”
And PUSH I DID! With every contraction I puuuushed. And the little head crowned. And then promptly disappeared. And I would puuuuush. And the head would crown... and disappear. I swear the kid was literally crawling backward in a stubborn effort to stay inside! This went on for an hour. AN HOUR! Literally. I was watching the clock! During all this pushing and crowning and back-peddling, Doc had decided to go take a coffee break probably figuring that by the time he got back all he’d have to do was don his catc
her’s gear, get in position and snag the squirming bundle of goo before it hit the floor. WROOOONG!! (Actually he had to go check on another patient, but I had too much fun teasing him about going for coffee to admit I knew that.)
Bug sent me this cartoon a couple of weeks ago in honor of his upcoming birthday. Crazy kid actually finds some sort of sadistic humor in reminding me of his ...ummmm... adventure.
After 5 more pushes, Doc decided it was time to do a little pulling and reached for the tray that held the forceps. In the split second that he wasn’t looking, Bug decided to finally let go and out popped his head. Doc was so surprised that he almost missed catching the rest of the baby as he smoothly and now very quickly exited my poor, sore, abused body. The nurse took him and placed him on my stomach while Doc cut the cord and sewed up the episiotomy. In that moment there was not another being in the universe that had ever fallen more deeply in love – even if the object of my affection did have too many moveable external components. He was mine. All mine. I wanted to grab onto him and hold him forever. However, since my hands were still tied to the grips, I couldn’t touch him which broke my heart for just an instant until I looked at my mother - the woman who had given me a home and unconditional love and support in spite of all of the hell I put her through – and suddenly realized the full extent of her strength and her love for me. She had done it all by choice – not by chance. Without having gone through the pains of labor and birth she had made the decision to make me her own. She may not have given me life, but she gave me A life. She had earned the right to be the first to hold this child that we had both worked so hard to bring into the world.
To everything there is a season... a time to weep, and a time to laugh. And in that moment, together we did both.
Happy Birthday, Bug. Grandmom would be so very proud of the man you have become. And so am I.
Eighteen months after my rootin’ tootin’ marriage to R we realized that we were totally unsuited to be married to each other, so on July 4, 1978, I walked out of the house we’d built together and went home to Mama.
A few weeks later I met JW through a mutual friend at work. JW was tall, strong, cute, exciting, sexy, and 13 years my senior. We quickly became inseparable and by the end of August I’d moved into his apartment. We were married at the JP’s office sometime in September. It was my second marriage, and what I thought was his fourth with his first wife being numbers one and three. (Whoa buddy, is that a whole ‘nother story!) We could only get half the day off and the JP’s office was extremely crowded. Everyone was rushing around trying to get all the scheduled weddings done before 5 PM. It was Friday -- nobody wanted to stay late.
When it was our turn, the JP didn’t have the door closed behind us before asking if we wanted the long ceremony or the short one. Being both practical and horny, JW and I agreed on the short version. The JP took a deep breath, and with hardly a glance upward as he began signing the marriage certificate, said, “OK. By the powers vested in my by the State of Texas, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Bye.” Before we could blink he had the door open and us pushed half way out. In no little bit of shock, I turned to JW as we walked through the crowded waiting area and said, “Well that was fast. OK, now, I where’s my ring.” The whole room burst into laughter.
In October we moved out of the apartment into a townhouse. In all the excitement of the move I missed a birth control pill. By my birthday in November, I was pregnant. (Yes, people – you CAN miss just one at the wrong time of the month and get pregnant.) Mother and I were so excited we could hardly contain ourselves. JW’s first response was, “What are you gonna do about it?” I was floored. And angry and hurt and confused. We had never discussed having children (yes, I was rather stupid at 22), but I didn’t ever even consider that he wouldn’t want another child. I’d accepted his 13-year-old daughter without hesitation. How could he not accept the child we'd made together? What I hadn’t considered was that the loss of another child a few years before had permanently wrecked any desire he had for more children. I was convinced that I could change his mind about wanting the baby; however, he refused to have anything to do with the topic or me. I was so miserable that in January of 1979 I once again went home to Mama.
The next 6 months went by crazy fast. Mom and I set about turning the middle bedroom of the house I grew up in into a nursery. Since we had no way of knowing whether I was carrying a boy or a girl, we opted for yellow. Bright, cheery, sunshine yellow – the very same color that is still Bug’s favorite. We bought an older crib and refinished it in white. Mom, being the sewing genius she was, made sheets, curtains and a dressing table skirt to match. During all the preparations I kept praying, begging God to PLEEEEEEASE give us a girl. There were a couple of reasons for that. 1) Since I was adopted at 10, Mother had missed out on my baby days and we thought it would be fun to have a little girl to make up for that gap in her experience; and 2) I was going to have to raise this child alone and I had this irrational fear: How was I supposed to teach a boy how to stand up to pee? Ok, quit shaking your head, I said it was irrational!
One day I was at Sears shopping for more baby stuff and noticed a really cute little boy about 3 years old, all by himself, looking at the toys. Now don’t freak out – this was back in the days when you could actually let your kid look at stuff on one aisle while you went a couple of aisles away knowing that he’d be just fine. It used to be a good thing to have other people around to help watch over your kids unlike today where if you even look at someone else’s kid... Oops, sorry – hold on a minute while I put the soapbox back in the closet. Anyway, I rounded the corner to the next aisle and there stood the adult, female version of the little guy. They had identical carrot tops, a sprinkling of freckles and almost pixie-looking brown eyes. I knew instantly that she was his mother. Right then and there I changed my prayer to OK, God, if I HAVE to have a boy, please at least make him look as much like me as this little guy looks like his mother. God said yes.
R and I resumed our prenuptial friendship, and he and Mother became the best Lamaze coaches in history. (In fact, I still use the pain blocking techniques I learned.) Sadly, though, when it came time for the big event I didn’t get to do the “OMG! IT’S TIME!” routine. Instead, because my doctor was planning a month long trip to Paris (must be nice!) and there was no WAY I was going to let anybody else play catcher when I was so close to pitching the biggest game of my life, bright and early on the morning of July 11, 1979, I reported for induction. Six hours later I got my first taste of the stubbornness that is my first-born child. He’d already spent nine
months doing extreme frog yoga in my belly. Really. No kidding. I swear that kid would literally stretch out to all four corners pushing as hard as he could. My poor ribs were so sore I could hardly breathe! Now here we were, waaaay past the point of it being fun anymore, and the kid refused... r.e.f.u.s.e.d to come out!Back in those days you labored in a labor room and then were transferred on a stretcher to the delivery room. It was not as easy as it sounds. Try climbing from one bed to another holding a bucket full of water between your legs. Without spilling the water. Add having your mother freaking out about the fact that your ‘privates are hangin’ out here in front of God and everbody!’ as she repeatedly tries valiantly to pull your gown down to cover your huge belly and the blanket up over the bucket you are trying to keep from dropping. Throw in another patient sobbing uncontrollably while screaming, “IT HURRRRRTS!!! GET IT OUT OF MEEEEEEEEEEE” over and over in the next bed. Now add three nurses scurrying around like the three blind mice trying to find their cut off tails taking turns squealing “don’t push! don’t push!” and one stomping, huffing, harrumphing mad doctor who cannot understand why the woman in the next bed is screaming bloody murder or why you aren’t in the delivery room yet and you’ll have a picture of just a wee bit of the chaos.
On this particular day there was an unusually large number of women dominoing and the one in the delivery room ahead of me was taking her sweet time getting the job done. All the while, I was waiting. On the stretcher. In the hall outside the delivery room door. It was hot and I HAD to get cool so I kept pulling my gown up and kicking the blanket off. Mother was quite literally having a conniption fit over my lack of modesty. I quite frankly didn’t give a rip! About the time I was ready to start screaming, too, the doors swung open and I was rolling into the blissfully cold delivery room. The joy of the ride ended abruptly, however, when they told me that now I had to heft myself off of the stretcher onto the delivery table. “DON’T PUSH!! DON’T PUSH!” the three blind micettes kept squealing. “Cover up! Cover up!” the freaking out mother kept squawking. “Hurry the hell up, dammit!” the stomping mad doc kept harrumphing. It seemed that time had gone into some weird out of control warp mode that both slowed things down and sped them up at the same time, but finally I was on the table, strapped down, legs raised and hands firmly tethered to the pistol grips. And one of the micettes squealed, “OK, you can push now.”
And PUSH I DID! With every contraction I puuuushed. And the little head crowned. And then promptly disappeared. And I would puuuuush. And the head would crown... and disappear. I swear the kid was literally crawling backward in a stubborn effort to stay inside! This went on for an hour. AN HOUR! Literally. I was watching the clock! During all this pushing and crowning and back-peddling, Doc had decided to go take a coffee break probably figuring that by the time he got back all he’d have to do was don his catc
her’s gear, get in position and snag the squirming bundle of goo before it hit the floor. WROOOONG!! (Actually he had to go check on another patient, but I had too much fun teasing him about going for coffee to admit I knew that.)Bug sent me this cartoon a couple of weeks ago in honor of his upcoming birthday. Crazy kid actually finds some sort of sadistic humor in reminding me of his ...ummmm... adventure.
After 5 more pushes, Doc decided it was time to do a little pulling and reached for the tray that held the forceps. In the split second that he wasn’t looking, Bug decided to finally let go and out popped his head. Doc was so surprised that he almost missed catching the rest of the baby as he smoothly and now very quickly exited my poor, sore, abused body. The nurse took him and placed him on my stomach while Doc cut the cord and sewed up the episiotomy. In that moment there was not another being in the universe that had ever fallen more deeply in love – even if the object of my affection did have too many moveable external components. He was mine. All mine. I wanted to grab onto him and hold him forever. However, since my hands were still tied to the grips, I couldn’t touch him which broke my heart for just an instant until I looked at my mother - the woman who had given me a home and unconditional love and support in spite of all of the hell I put her through – and suddenly realized the full extent of her strength and her love for me. She had done it all by choice – not by chance. Without having gone through the pains of labor and birth she had made the decision to make me her own. She may not have given me life, but she gave me A life. She had earned the right to be the first to hold this child that we had both worked so hard to bring into the world.
To everything there is a season... a time to weep, and a time to laugh. And in that moment, together we did both.
Happy Birthday, Bug. Grandmom would be so very proud of the man you have become. And so am I.
Friday, February 15, 2008
These tools are NOT for sharing!
My bloggy friend, Angela, posted a really good reason to password-protect your phone. After I quit laughing at the fact that she's now looking for a good therapist for one of her kids, I knew I had to tell about one particularly... mmmm... interesting Damama's World experience.
Over the years, Hubby and I have been open to monkeying around with (within limits) some different "things" in the intimacy department. I use the word "things" because the exploration has been definitely limited to the employment of a few
different... mmmm... tools of a very shaky nature, and some very ... uummmm... interesting videos. Now, why it embarrasses me to tell you guys this, especially after what happened years ago, is baffling to me. Nonetheless, I find myself blushing over here! OK, moving on...
When Bug was a teenager he was looking for something in our nightstand and -- you guessed it -- found one of our toys. We'd been.. mmm.. playing a couple of nights before and had gone to sleep without putting it up in its proper, safe place. Hubby had been awake enough, though, to think about the possibility of one of the boys coming in before we woke up, and so had stuck it in a drawer. You know that old saying - Out of sight, out of mind. And so it was forgotten. Until Bug needed something that he thought he remembered seeing. In the nightstand. (Note; If you are wondering how I know when he saw it, it had to be this time because this was the only time we EVER failed to put it back! When we remembered it was there we laughed and congratulated each other on getting away with it! HA!)
Now I must tell you that Bug is an EXTREMELY intelligent guy. He was talking in full sentences by the time he was 18 months old. He was reading by the time he was 3. He started kindergarten at a 6th grade reading level. Being so intelligent, he knew enough to know right away he'd seen something he shouldn't have. So, unbeknownst to me, he just closed the drawer and moved on, storing the information in his cunning little brain for potential later use.
Fast-forward to 1999.
While working on a huge project for a large client, I found myself in need of someone who could not only think outside the box, but also worked cheap. 20-year-old Bug had done some work for me at clients' offices before, so as an employer I knew he was good at problem solving. As his mother I knew he needed a job. And as his chief financial aid officer I figured hiring him would actually end up saving me money in the long run. I was so proud of myself for coming up with such a win-win-win scenario that I forgot to remember that wicked, off-the-wall sense of humor that makes him so loveable.
Our team consisted of me, my wonderful right arm assistant DeeAnn, my quality control guru Bug, and 10 other very dedicated employees of the facility whose departments had volunteered them to become part of the group. The work was tedious, repetitive, and challenging all at the same time. We spent hours reviewing accounts for errors trying to tie mistakes that were being encountered together so the IT department could come up with solutions. With 13 people housed in a 12 x 16 room, tempers flared fairly regularly. But by and large you could not have asked for a better group of individuals to work with.
On one particularly difficult day in which people were complaining about their lack of personal space (primarily due to the fact that somebody had eaten Mexican food for lunch and you know the end result of bean consumpation!), a discussion broke out about most embarrassing moments. We all laughed as people talked about having ripped their pants, or spilled something on someone else, or having made a fool of themselves at various times. Then somebody mentioned how horrified she was to have walked in on her parents in the act. She said she never told anybody about it until just then. And that, my friends, is when Bug decided it was time to share his own little secret.
There, in a room, in front of 11 people who were supposed to look up to me as their project leader, my son grinned and said, "That's almost as good at the time I found the dildo in Mom's nightstand when I was a teenager." The room dropped into dead silence as everyone stopped, stared, and waited for me to react, and then errupted in loud raucous laughter when I said, "Well, you shouldn't have been snooping around in my drawers." And since I was not about to let him have the last word, I couldn't resist adding, "And which one did you find, anyway?"
At least I was nice enough not to tell them about his delight at having discovered his penis when he was only 2 years old. After all, a mom has to save some ammo for emergencies, right?!?
The moral of the story is:
Over the years, Hubby and I have been open to monkeying around with (within limits) some different "things" in the intimacy department. I use the word "things" because the exploration has been definitely limited to the employment of a few
different... mmmm... tools of a very shaky nature, and some very ... uummmm... interesting videos. Now, why it embarrasses me to tell you guys this, especially after what happened years ago, is baffling to me. Nonetheless, I find myself blushing over here! OK, moving on...When Bug was a teenager he was looking for something in our nightstand and -- you guessed it -- found one of our toys. We'd been.. mmm.. playing a couple of nights before and had gone to sleep without putting it up in its proper, safe place. Hubby had been awake enough, though, to think about the possibility of one of the boys coming in before we woke up, and so had stuck it in a drawer. You know that old saying - Out of sight, out of mind. And so it was forgotten. Until Bug needed something that he thought he remembered seeing. In the nightstand. (Note; If you are wondering how I know when he saw it, it had to be this time because this was the only time we EVER failed to put it back! When we remembered it was there we laughed and congratulated each other on getting away with it! HA!)
Now I must tell you that Bug is an EXTREMELY intelligent guy. He was talking in full sentences by the time he was 18 months old. He was reading by the time he was 3. He started kindergarten at a 6th grade reading level. Being so intelligent, he knew enough to know right away he'd seen something he shouldn't have. So, unbeknownst to me, he just closed the drawer and moved on, storing the information in his cunning little brain for potential later use.
Fast-forward to 1999.
While working on a huge project for a large client, I found myself in need of someone who could not only think outside the box, but also worked cheap. 20-year-old Bug had done some work for me at clients' offices before, so as an employer I knew he was good at problem solving. As his mother I knew he needed a job. And as his chief financial aid officer I figured hiring him would actually end up saving me money in the long run. I was so proud of myself for coming up with such a win-win-win scenario that I forgot to remember that wicked, off-the-wall sense of humor that makes him so loveable.
Our team consisted of me, my wonderful right arm assistant DeeAnn, my quality control guru Bug, and 10 other very dedicated employees of the facility whose departments had volunteered them to become part of the group. The work was tedious, repetitive, and challenging all at the same time. We spent hours reviewing accounts for errors trying to tie mistakes that were being encountered together so the IT department could come up with solutions. With 13 people housed in a 12 x 16 room, tempers flared fairly regularly. But by and large you could not have asked for a better group of individuals to work with.
On one particularly difficult day in which people were complaining about their lack of personal space (primarily due to the fact that somebody had eaten Mexican food for lunch and you know the end result of bean consumpation!), a discussion broke out about most embarrassing moments. We all laughed as people talked about having ripped their pants, or spilled something on someone else, or having made a fool of themselves at various times. Then somebody mentioned how horrified she was to have walked in on her parents in the act. She said she never told anybody about it until just then. And that, my friends, is when Bug decided it was time to share his own little secret.
There, in a room, in front of 11 people who were supposed to look up to me as their project leader, my son grinned and said, "That's almost as good at the time I found the dildo in Mom's nightstand when I was a teenager." The room dropped into dead silence as everyone stopped, stared, and waited for me to react, and then errupted in loud raucous laughter when I said, "Well, you shouldn't have been snooping around in my drawers." And since I was not about to let him have the last word, I couldn't resist adding, "And which one did you find, anyway?"
At least I was nice enough not to tell them about his delight at having discovered his penis when he was only 2 years old. After all, a mom has to save some ammo for emergencies, right?!?
The moral of the story is:
If you are going to monkey around,
be sure to re-hide your bananas when you are done!
Friday, January 11, 2008
BUGGY CHEESECAKE
I was tired. It had been a long week that involved leaving home at 5:00 each morning to drive 65 miles from our rural home to my client’s training facility where I was being paid to shove the all new and all powerful Microsoft Office Suite into the brains of people who didn’t want to learn this particular new thing. The company was migrating from WordPerfect and Lotus. The employees, however, did not understand why it was necessary to fix what wasn’t broke. They knew and were proficient in WP and Lotus, and had no desire to change. This final day of beating my head against the brick walls that doubled as their brains had started off worse than usual.
I mentioned the rural home thing. Well, this rural home had a rural driveway consisting of crushed shale and limestone that shifted under foot. I had ruined so many pairs of high heels trying to get from the car to the house and vise-a-versa that I’d given up and started wearing my fuzzy slippers to and from. This morning I’d gotten a late start and didn’t notice until I saw my reflection in the mirrored entry doors on my client’s building that -- you guessed it – I was still wearing said fuzzy slippers!
I went back to the car and discovered that I’D FORGOTTEN MY SHOES ENTIRELY! Thank God there was a brand new, 24-hour Wal-Mart store about a mile away. I sped over, ran in, grabbed the first pair of cheap black, passably professional shoes I could find and dashed back to the facility just in time to greet the first students at the door. THOSE WERE ABSOLUTELY THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE SHOES I’VE EVER BEEN FORCED TO WEAR IN MY LIFE! Around 3:00 p.m. I gave up and told the ladies that I really didn’t care if it was unprofessional or not, I was going barefoot. However, I’d waited too long and already had blisters the size of the polar ice caps sprouting all over my feet.
So there I was, in pain literally from top to bottom. Because of having to endure the daily 130 mile round trip drives, plus the stress of pushing and prodding the unyielding masses, plus the facility’s rigid break scheduling rules that prohibited untimely recesses, in addition to the blisters, I was also nursing a mammoth migraine and a Colorado River sized log-jam of constipation. (I know – that’s a visual you could have done without, right!) The only saving grace of the whole week was the eager anticipation of having dinner that night with one of my best friends – none other than my very own wonderful Bug.
He got to Carrabba’s early and had a table waiting. I’d stopped at the drugstore for some stuff, as my granny would have said, to fix all what ailed me, so I was about 20 minutes behind him. He knew something was wrong when he saw me weave toward him and then just sort of slither down into the booth, but I assured him that I’d be fine if I could just get something to drink and down some pain pills to dull the headache. I dug around in the bag and pulled out a box from which I extracted the much needed analgesic. When I glanced up at Bug, he had the strangest look on his face. I didn’t care, though. I was too focused on getting the wrapper off to give a rip what he was thinking at that moment. I just kept wrangling with the blasted thing thinking when did they start putting foil wrappers on Tylenol and why were the capsules so large?? I looked Bug again and could tell he was obviously dying to tell me something, but I had more pressing business at hand, so he’d just have to wait a minute. I finally got one unwrapped and only when I felt the greasy, slick, bullet in my hand did I realize it was a suppository!!! I’d almost downed a cotton pickin’ suppository!!
GOD HELP BUG! I thought he was going to fall off his chair laughing. And apparently I wasn’t the only one who was worried about him falling over, because the ladies at the table next to us were openly gawking at his antics. So he felt the overwhelming need to explain to them why he was laughing so hard. Then I had to worry that THEY were going to fall out of THEIR chairs laughing! Before it was over with they’d told everybody within a 4 table radius plus the waiter who proceeded to have to go tell the manager who knew me because we ate there so often! After regaining his composure, the waiter decided that it’d be a good idea to rush our order a little so I could get home to bed. That, alone, got him a huge tip that night!
I think I remember reading somewhere that is very unhealthy to consume rich, heavy, Italian food without including dessert. (Something about balanced nutrition???) So any time Bug and I go out to dinner we share some sinfully rich and decadent delight to complete our meal. And with the week I’d just had there was NO WAY I was leaving there without my sweet treat. We quickly decided on cheesecake. With both strawberry and chocolate sauce on the side. We’d almost finished the whole thing when Bug sweetly offered me the last bite. I thanked him kindly as I reached my fork over to get it. But I was so tired that I actually missed the food and drew back an empty fork.
Bug looked very concerned and asked, “Mom, are you sure you’ll be OK to drive home?”
“I’m sure,” I lied and motioned to the waiter to come refill my coffee thinking that if I could just get enough caffeine in on top of the Tylenol I’d be quite OK. Then I once again reached for the piece of cheesecake taunting me from the plate – AND MISSED AGAIN! I thought, DANG! Maybe I shouldn’t try to drive that last 30 miles home.
I shook my head to clear my vision, and when I missed a third time I actually picked up the fork and looked at the end of it to make sure that it wasn’t bent or something. I was beginning to feel like I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone! Thank goodness Bug had kept up an endless stream of chatter during the whole ordeal, so I was pretty sure that he had been engrossed enough in conversation that he hadn’t noticed my last two failed attempts.
Being one to never refuse a challenge, I was determined that I was going to have that last blasted bite of cheesecake if it took all night long! As I made the fourth stab at it I caught just the tiniest glimpse of a hand as Bug rotated the plate ever so slightly just before my fork made contact. And even then, it didn’t really register why I couldn’t get that dang cheesecake onto my fork! As I sat there looking puzzled, suddenly he could no longer contain himself and burst out laughing again so that our whole half of the room was craning their necks to see what the ruckus was. Only THEN did it finally dawn on me that he’d gotten me but good.
Now, every time he wants to remind me that he can get me whenever he wants to, he simply acts like he's turning a plate and grins like a cocky billy goat.
And the moral of the story? No matter how cute he is, never ever share your cheesecake with a Bug!!
Peace, Blessings, and un-wrapped analgesics all 'round!
I mentioned the rural home thing. Well, this rural home had a rural driveway consisting of crushed shale and limestone that shifted under foot. I had ruined so many pairs of high heels trying to get from the car to the house and vise-a-versa that I’d given up and started wearing my fuzzy slippers to and from. This morning I’d gotten a late start and didn’t notice until I saw my reflection in the mirrored entry doors on my client’s building that -- you guessed it – I was still wearing said fuzzy slippers!
I went back to the car and discovered that I’D FORGOTTEN MY SHOES ENTIRELY! Thank God there was a brand new, 24-hour Wal-Mart store about a mile away. I sped over, ran in, grabbed the first pair of cheap black, passably professional shoes I could find and dashed back to the facility just in time to greet the first students at the door. THOSE WERE ABSOLUTELY THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE SHOES I’VE EVER BEEN FORCED TO WEAR IN MY LIFE! Around 3:00 p.m. I gave up and told the ladies that I really didn’t care if it was unprofessional or not, I was going barefoot. However, I’d waited too long and already had blisters the size of the polar ice caps sprouting all over my feet.
So there I was, in pain literally from top to bottom. Because of having to endure the daily 130 mile round trip drives, plus the stress of pushing and prodding the unyielding masses, plus the facility’s rigid break scheduling rules that prohibited untimely recesses, in addition to the blisters, I was also nursing a mammoth migraine and a Colorado River sized log-jam of constipation. (I know – that’s a visual you could have done without, right!) The only saving grace of the whole week was the eager anticipation of having dinner that night with one of my best friends – none other than my very own wonderful Bug.
He got to Carrabba’s early and had a table waiting. I’d stopped at the drugstore for some stuff, as my granny would have said, to fix all what ailed me, so I was about 20 minutes behind him. He knew something was wrong when he saw me weave toward him and then just sort of slither down into the booth, but I assured him that I’d be fine if I could just get something to drink and down some pain pills to dull the headache. I dug around in the bag and pulled out a box from which I extracted the much needed analgesic. When I glanced up at Bug, he had the strangest look on his face. I didn’t care, though. I was too focused on getting the wrapper off to give a rip what he was thinking at that moment. I just kept wrangling with the blasted thing thinking when did they start putting foil wrappers on Tylenol and why were the capsules so large?? I looked Bug again and could tell he was obviously dying to tell me something, but I had more pressing business at hand, so he’d just have to wait a minute. I finally got one unwrapped and only when I felt the greasy, slick, bullet in my hand did I realize it was a suppository!!! I’d almost downed a cotton pickin’ suppository!!
GOD HELP BUG! I thought he was going to fall off his chair laughing. And apparently I wasn’t the only one who was worried about him falling over, because the ladies at the table next to us were openly gawking at his antics. So he felt the overwhelming need to explain to them why he was laughing so hard. Then I had to worry that THEY were going to fall out of THEIR chairs laughing! Before it was over with they’d told everybody within a 4 table radius plus the waiter who proceeded to have to go tell the manager who knew me because we ate there so often! After regaining his composure, the waiter decided that it’d be a good idea to rush our order a little so I could get home to bed. That, alone, got him a huge tip that night!
I think I remember reading somewhere that is very unhealthy to consume rich, heavy, Italian food without including dessert. (Something about balanced nutrition???) So any time Bug and I go out to dinner we share some sinfully rich and decadent delight to complete our meal. And with the week I’d just had there was NO WAY I was leaving there without my sweet treat. We quickly decided on cheesecake. With both strawberry and chocolate sauce on the side. We’d almost finished the whole thing when Bug sweetly offered me the last bite. I thanked him kindly as I reached my fork over to get it. But I was so tired that I actually missed the food and drew back an empty fork.
Bug looked very concerned and asked, “Mom, are you sure you’ll be OK to drive home?”
“I’m sure,” I lied and motioned to the waiter to come refill my coffee thinking that if I could just get enough caffeine in on top of the Tylenol I’d be quite OK. Then I once again reached for the piece of cheesecake taunting me from the plate – AND MISSED AGAIN! I thought, DANG! Maybe I shouldn’t try to drive that last 30 miles home.
I shook my head to clear my vision, and when I missed a third time I actually picked up the fork and looked at the end of it to make sure that it wasn’t bent or something. I was beginning to feel like I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone! Thank goodness Bug had kept up an endless stream of chatter during the whole ordeal, so I was pretty sure that he had been engrossed enough in conversation that he hadn’t noticed my last two failed attempts.
Being one to never refuse a challenge, I was determined that I was going to have that last blasted bite of cheesecake if it took all night long! As I made the fourth stab at it I caught just the tiniest glimpse of a hand as Bug rotated the plate ever so slightly just before my fork made contact. And even then, it didn’t really register why I couldn’t get that dang cheesecake onto my fork! As I sat there looking puzzled, suddenly he could no longer contain himself and burst out laughing again so that our whole half of the room was craning their necks to see what the ruckus was. Only THEN did it finally dawn on me that he’d gotten me but good.
Now, every time he wants to remind me that he can get me whenever he wants to, he simply acts like he's turning a plate and grins like a cocky billy goat.
And the moral of the story? No matter how cute he is, never ever share your cheesecake with a Bug!!
Peace, Blessings, and un-wrapped analgesics all 'round!
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Christmas Wish
For the past few days I’ve found myself becoming more and more anxious about this Christmas season. I’m at once excited and terrified about the impending visit from my son and daughter-in-law. Daughter-in-law. That still sounds so strange to my ears. He’s not old enough to be married – in my heart he’s still my Bug. My, quizzical, delightful, insightful little boy. One of my best friends. The one person on this earth in whom I can confide my strangest dreams, oddest fears, and weirdest experiences, and know that I won’t be ridiculed or mocked. I know; he’s 28. He’s not a baby anymore. But he’s still my baby.
Lady N, Bug’s wife (another phrase that still sounds odd), is so much like him that it’s almost as if they were separated at birth. I am truly looking forward to getting to know her better. But it’s hard to get to know people when they live 1000 miles away. I’ve called to speak specifically to her on several occasions, but I always feel like I’m interrupting something much more important than a mere conversation with her mother-in-law. NO – it’s not anything she does or says. I know that it’s ALL ME. I have this irrational fear of becoming “that woman” in her life.
Uncharacteristically, I find myself weighing each word that comes out of my mouth. Then I spend a stupidly agonizing amount of time after hanging up doing a post-mortem on the conversation. Was I too intrusive, bossy, or insensitive? Did my tone convey caring or manipulation? Did I cut off the conversation so quickly that she might think I didn’t want to talk to her? Did I talk too long instilling a dread of future calls? In my old age is she going to look back on this conversation and use it as the basis for my nursing home selection?? Like I said – irrationality to the nth degree!
So now they are coming for a week. They will be here from the 23rd to the 29th. During that time they plan on visiting some of Bug’s friends and seeing some sights. I know I won’t be included in the friend visits. There’s only one I’d like to go on, anyway. But how about the sightseeing? I’d love to go with them, but at the same time I don’t want to get in the way of their fun time together on their vacation. I remember what it was like to be young and in love and want to share new experiences only with my husband. I wouldn’t have wanted my mother, let alone my mother-in-law, trekking along all the time. But now I’M the mother. And I want to spend time with my son. I’m being selfish. Am I allowed??
I found the following while I was flipping through some YouTube videos as I sat here pondering these thoughts this morning. I’ve always loved Amy Grant. I was a fan of hers when we were both kids – me in my normal teen world, her in her phenomenal entrée into music stardom. Her song, My Grownup Christmas Wish, has always been a favorite. But I never heard it like I saw it today.
Grab a cup of coffee or your favorite form of cold caffeine and a box of tissues and settle in for the next 5 minutes. I promise it will not be wasted time. Now hit play. Go ahead. I’ll wait for you.
Kassandra’s Christmas Wish
Have you dried your eyes yet? It took me a while.
This was a major and much needed reality check for me. Suddenly my concerns about a visit from a son who loves me and the woman who loves him seem so glaringly insignificant and I am ready to get back to the business of making my home ready to welcome them.
I close wishing us all the Peace of relief from irrational fears and the Blessing of a family who loves us -- warts and all.
Lady N, Bug’s wife (another phrase that still sounds odd), is so much like him that it’s almost as if they were separated at birth. I am truly looking forward to getting to know her better. But it’s hard to get to know people when they live 1000 miles away. I’ve called to speak specifically to her on several occasions, but I always feel like I’m interrupting something much more important than a mere conversation with her mother-in-law. NO – it’s not anything she does or says. I know that it’s ALL ME. I have this irrational fear of becoming “that woman” in her life.
Uncharacteristically, I find myself weighing each word that comes out of my mouth. Then I spend a stupidly agonizing amount of time after hanging up doing a post-mortem on the conversation. Was I too intrusive, bossy, or insensitive? Did my tone convey caring or manipulation? Did I cut off the conversation so quickly that she might think I didn’t want to talk to her? Did I talk too long instilling a dread of future calls? In my old age is she going to look back on this conversation and use it as the basis for my nursing home selection?? Like I said – irrationality to the nth degree!
So now they are coming for a week. They will be here from the 23rd to the 29th. During that time they plan on visiting some of Bug’s friends and seeing some sights. I know I won’t be included in the friend visits. There’s only one I’d like to go on, anyway. But how about the sightseeing? I’d love to go with them, but at the same time I don’t want to get in the way of their fun time together on their vacation. I remember what it was like to be young and in love and want to share new experiences only with my husband. I wouldn’t have wanted my mother, let alone my mother-in-law, trekking along all the time. But now I’M the mother. And I want to spend time with my son. I’m being selfish. Am I allowed??
I found the following while I was flipping through some YouTube videos as I sat here pondering these thoughts this morning. I’ve always loved Amy Grant. I was a fan of hers when we were both kids – me in my normal teen world, her in her phenomenal entrée into music stardom. Her song, My Grownup Christmas Wish, has always been a favorite. But I never heard it like I saw it today.
Grab a cup of coffee or your favorite form of cold caffeine and a box of tissues and settle in for the next 5 minutes. I promise it will not be wasted time. Now hit play. Go ahead. I’ll wait for you.
Kassandra’s Christmas Wish
Have you dried your eyes yet? It took me a while.
This was a major and much needed reality check for me. Suddenly my concerns about a visit from a son who loves me and the woman who loves him seem so glaringly insignificant and I am ready to get back to the business of making my home ready to welcome them.
I close wishing us all the Peace of relief from irrational fears and the Blessing of a family who loves us -- warts and all.
Monday, November 5, 2007
BY ANY OTHER NAME…
He was 3-1/2 years old and, having "discovered" himself, had managed to irritate his little male part to the point where it burned when he tinkled. Not knowing this yet (after all, he was my first born and who knew that they actually did that at that age!), I feared he might have a bladder infection and so scheduled an appointment with the most wonderful pediatrician in town, Dr. O'Brien.
Now, part of the reason I loved Dr. O so much was that he was a very straightforward, no-bones kind of doctor. If he thought I’d benefit from being scolded about how I was parenting, he felt it was his duty to scold away. And I appreciated the help, being a first time mother and all. Anyway – on this particular day, on the way to the appointment, I suddenly remembered one of Dr. O’s favorite scolding topics: using the proper names for body parts. How many times had I been told that in order for children not to grow up embarrassed by their bodies, the parents must instill in them the knowledge that there were no bad parts… just normal parts with medically correct names and functions. And as the good listener I was, I had promptly begun, early on, referring to my son’s privatest part as his weewee. Now here we were, on the way to the doctor and my wonderfully intelligent, very verbal 3-1/2-year-old was about to tell the very stern doctor that his weewee hurt when he pee-peed.
Knowing that I’d get “the look” as soon as Bug told his symptoms, I figured it was better to start his medical education late than never. “Doctors have the funniest names for our body parts,” I began. “Really?” he said. “Yep,” I replied, “like they call your head your cranium.” At that he giggled, so I couldn’t resist the urge to repeat it silly-style, “currraaaaaaaneeuuummm.” His sweet, beautiful laughter served to encourage my instruction. Moving from the head down the rest of the body, I told him as many of the medically correct names as I could remember – right down to the part in question.
“And they call your weewee a penis,” I said in the same sing song voice I’d used a zillion times to conclude bedtime stories... and they all lived happily ever after – the end. Little Bug sat there for a few minutes, mulling over this new information and then asked what, to him, was a very logical question: What do they call your hiney?
I WENT BLANK! “Ummmm… let me think…” I stalled. I swear to Pete, the ONLY word I could think of was A__hole. Thinking that that probably wasn’t the best thing to teach a 3-1/2 year old, I copped out and told him that I couldn’t remember so we’d just have to ask Dr. O when we saw him. Patting myself on the back for skating the issue so deftly, I started to reach for the radio volume knob when the little light bulb in his eyes clicked to bright. “I KNOW!” he said , very delighted with himself that he’d figured it out. “You do?” I asked. “Uh huh,” he beamed. “So what did you figure out?” I asked anxious to see what his awesomely creative mind had come up with.
“POOPUS!” he exclaimed! “Poopus??” I marveled, “Why do they call it a poopus?” “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s a poopus ‘cuz if you pee with your penis, you gotta poop with your POOPUS!”
Works for me!! Now I have to get off my poopus and go finish unpacking my kitchen!
Peace and blessings to all!
Now, part of the reason I loved Dr. O so much was that he was a very straightforward, no-bones kind of doctor. If he thought I’d benefit from being scolded about how I was parenting, he felt it was his duty to scold away. And I appreciated the help, being a first time mother and all. Anyway – on this particular day, on the way to the appointment, I suddenly remembered one of Dr. O’s favorite scolding topics: using the proper names for body parts. How many times had I been told that in order for children not to grow up embarrassed by their bodies, the parents must instill in them the knowledge that there were no bad parts… just normal parts with medically correct names and functions. And as the good listener I was, I had promptly begun, early on, referring to my son’s privatest part as his weewee. Now here we were, on the way to the doctor and my wonderfully intelligent, very verbal 3-1/2-year-old was about to tell the very stern doctor that his weewee hurt when he pee-peed.
Knowing that I’d get “the look” as soon as Bug told his symptoms, I figured it was better to start his medical education late than never. “Doctors have the funniest names for our body parts,” I began. “Really?” he said. “Yep,” I replied, “like they call your head your cranium.” At that he giggled, so I couldn’t resist the urge to repeat it silly-style, “currraaaaaaaneeuuummm.” His sweet, beautiful laughter served to encourage my instruction. Moving from the head down the rest of the body, I told him as many of the medically correct names as I could remember – right down to the part in question.
“And they call your weewee a penis,” I said in the same sing song voice I’d used a zillion times to conclude bedtime stories... and they all lived happily ever after – the end. Little Bug sat there for a few minutes, mulling over this new information and then asked what, to him, was a very logical question: What do they call your hiney?
I WENT BLANK! “Ummmm… let me think…” I stalled. I swear to Pete, the ONLY word I could think of was A__hole. Thinking that that probably wasn’t the best thing to teach a 3-1/2 year old, I copped out and told him that I couldn’t remember so we’d just have to ask Dr. O when we saw him. Patting myself on the back for skating the issue so deftly, I started to reach for the radio volume knob when the little light bulb in his eyes clicked to bright. “I KNOW!” he said , very delighted with himself that he’d figured it out. “You do?” I asked. “Uh huh,” he beamed. “So what did you figure out?” I asked anxious to see what his awesomely creative mind had come up with.
“POOPUS!” he exclaimed! “Poopus??” I marveled, “Why do they call it a poopus?” “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s a poopus ‘cuz if you pee with your penis, you gotta poop with your POOPUS!”
Works for me!! Now I have to get off my poopus and go finish unpacking my kitchen!
Peace and blessings to all!
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