So next Thursday is the date when I register Will for pre-k. Before then, we had to get him caught up on his vaccinations. As a family, we haven't had health insurance since Will was two. We're very lucky that we haven't really needed it.
The one thing I have missed the most is the ability to take Will in for his well kid checkups. The few times I have had to take him to the doctor in the last few years have been for sinus infections or something similar; not a good time to catch up on vaccinations or just have him looked at.
I called the doctor I've been using to see if they had a discount program for non-insurance customers to help cover the cost of vaccines and was told they'll take the standard 20 percent off the cost of the bill. I don't know the exact cost of the vaccines that Will needs, or even how many. But most vaccines run between $30-$70 each at a doctors office. Besides missing the last two years of vaccines, a brand new one is required as well, so this could get expensive quick.
(Just a quick note, but I found out that to get the required vacinations for a child from birth to age 12 will run you almost $1,200 -- doctor's visits not included.)
While at the library, I noted a poster for free vaccines being given at the health department one day this month. I was terrified about how busy this place was going to be, but decided to call them up and get some more information. While looking them up on the web I found that our local health department offers all the vaccines your child needs for only $10 per child -- regardless of how many they need. They only offer them on Monday and Tuesday and it's only a few hours each day. So I decided to go to my nearest branch the following day, which was Tuesday.
Will and I showed up at 1:00, when they were suppose to open and when we got our number we were number 15. It was 2:50 before we were called up to pay our fee and fill out paperwork. It was 3:20 when were called back to get the vaccines. Almost two and a half hours in a small, hot waiting room filled with non-native English speakers and TONS of loud kids (the least of which was not mine). I took Will's leapster, but he wouldn't play it. Hiding under tables and chairs, running around the a pole support, screaming at children that didn't speak his language, and hitting me at every opportunity were much more fun.
At least I didn't have to worry about his crying or being worried about the visit. It's been so long since he got a shot, he had no idea what they were. And I didn't bother to tell him. Which the nurse we saw didn't like a bit. She immediately explained, in great detail, what she was about to do. Still didn't bother Will, he didn't have a clue.
It ended up that my little guy had to get four shots; two in each thigh. The first one he didn't even bat an eye, he was shocked by the second, jerking away by the third, and swinging by the forth. He cried, but very little. She gave him a hug and a coupon for a free ice cream; which we immediately went and got.
When I got home I gave him some Tylenol and talked him into working out on my treadmill. I explained that working his muscles would make the medicine move and it wouldn't hurt as bad. As the Tylenol wore off later, he did hurt. I redoped him, but as he walked through the house you would hear, "Ouch, Ouch, Ouch." Every step, with either foot, produced an "ouch" for about an hour.
He went to bed easily and we put heating packs on his legs which seem to help. But he informed the nurse, me, Steve, Tori, and every other person he saw for the next two days that he "did not like shots".
Yep, he knows what they are now. Ouch.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Slivers of Soap
In the master bath at our house we have two different kind of bar soap; a men's and a woman's. Steve's is something very manly smelling and strong enough to take off the top layer of skin. Mine is something moisturizing that smells sweet. My soap generally costs about 2-3 times what his does.
Recently, I splurged and bought a single bar of specialty soap that cost me double to tripple what I normally pay. I love it. Not only does it smell unique, it also softens, moisturizes, and overall makes me feel special.
Well, it does most of the time. Last week I stepped into the shower and found that a small sliver of some disgusting guy soap had been melded to my expensive bar of girly soap; I about had a cow. (Another of those odd saysings popping out.)
It's not that I am unuse to Steve's odd habbit of melding slivers of soap to the new bar. He does it. I find it odd, but whatever. It's one of those things you accept as unharmful or dangerouse and just ignore. :)
But, and this is the big point here guys, you should ONLY MELD men soaps to men soaps. I made the mistake of thinking that would be obvious to a guy and I should have known better.
And laides, don't worry, I immediately scraped off all the melded soap -- and any surrounding soap it may have touched -- then washed my soap thourally.
Once again, all is right in my world.
Recently, I splurged and bought a single bar of specialty soap that cost me double to tripple what I normally pay. I love it. Not only does it smell unique, it also softens, moisturizes, and overall makes me feel special.
Well, it does most of the time. Last week I stepped into the shower and found that a small sliver of some disgusting guy soap had been melded to my expensive bar of girly soap; I about had a cow. (Another of those odd saysings popping out.)
It's not that I am unuse to Steve's odd habbit of melding slivers of soap to the new bar. He does it. I find it odd, but whatever. It's one of those things you accept as unharmful or dangerouse and just ignore. :)
But, and this is the big point here guys, you should ONLY MELD men soaps to men soaps. I made the mistake of thinking that would be obvious to a guy and I should have known better.
And laides, don't worry, I immediately scraped off all the melded soap -- and any surrounding soap it may have touched -- then washed my soap thourally.
Once again, all is right in my world.
And Sometimes It's Just Mud in Your Eye
I am very conscious of unusual sayings that come out of my mouth, mainly because they come out a lot. Being a true southern girl from a small town, if my accent doesn't trip you up my local isms will.
I never thought much about how I said things or how I sounded until I met and married Steve, who dragged me off to the big city. Most of my life I have lived around other people who spoke just like I did. And as in most things, ignorance is bliss. If you don't know everyone around you is talking like a hick; you don't change your way of talking.
Another HUGE benefactor in my awareness of my speech patterns is my 20 year old daughter. Every time something odd comes out of my mouth she IMMEDIATELY calls me on it. You would think that would be enough to stop the steady flow of ignorance, but no. Whether from stubbornness, habit, or forgetfulness, I continue on a daily bases to remind everyone around me exactly where I come from.
One thing Tori had helped me with is stopping to think about exactly what I am saying. Many times I have to explain an expression to her before she really grasps where it might have originated from. Sayings like:
Hot enough to fry an egg.
Good enough to make you slap your Momma.
It all comes out in the wash.
Don't have a cow.
It's gonna be a real turd floater.
This new habit of diving to the heart of sayings made me look up a saying I've heard most all my life, "Here's mud in your eye."
I was interested to find out it originated as a toast in horse racing circles. Basically, the person using the toast is congratulating himself. He's telling all those around him that his horse is going to kick mud in their horse's eyes. I actually like the saying more now; it's a little evil.
However, yesterday when I was in the back yard watering plants with Will, it simply meant that for the first time in over 35 years someone actually had the gaul to hit me in the face with a handful of mud. I stood there in shock, staring at the four year old culprit who was laughing so hard I was afraid he was going to hyperventilate. All I could think was, "Here's mud in your eye."
And thanks to my slow reaction, I got an instant rerun.
I never thought much about how I said things or how I sounded until I met and married Steve, who dragged me off to the big city. Most of my life I have lived around other people who spoke just like I did. And as in most things, ignorance is bliss. If you don't know everyone around you is talking like a hick; you don't change your way of talking.
Another HUGE benefactor in my awareness of my speech patterns is my 20 year old daughter. Every time something odd comes out of my mouth she IMMEDIATELY calls me on it. You would think that would be enough to stop the steady flow of ignorance, but no. Whether from stubbornness, habit, or forgetfulness, I continue on a daily bases to remind everyone around me exactly where I come from.
One thing Tori had helped me with is stopping to think about exactly what I am saying. Many times I have to explain an expression to her before she really grasps where it might have originated from. Sayings like:
Hot enough to fry an egg.
Good enough to make you slap your Momma.
It all comes out in the wash.
Don't have a cow.
It's gonna be a real turd floater.
This new habit of diving to the heart of sayings made me look up a saying I've heard most all my life, "Here's mud in your eye."
I was interested to find out it originated as a toast in horse racing circles. Basically, the person using the toast is congratulating himself. He's telling all those around him that his horse is going to kick mud in their horse's eyes. I actually like the saying more now; it's a little evil.
However, yesterday when I was in the back yard watering plants with Will, it simply meant that for the first time in over 35 years someone actually had the gaul to hit me in the face with a handful of mud. I stood there in shock, staring at the four year old culprit who was laughing so hard I was afraid he was going to hyperventilate. All I could think was, "Here's mud in your eye."
And thanks to my slow reaction, I got an instant rerun.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Serotonin See-Saw
I've known since childhood that my family line suffers from low serotonin production. My grandmother, mother, aunts, most everyone in the family tree suffered from major depression resulting from cumulative years of low serotonin.
I made it through my 20s and 30s without thinking about it much. Every seven to ten years I would become depressed enough to require medications. But after taking pills for a short period I was able to drop them again. Unknowingly, this was due largely to my very active life style.
Until my 40s, I was always active; walking, running, biking. I was outside all the time too; fishing, playing with the kids, sun bathing. As it turns out, exercise and exposure to the sun both increase your serotonin levels naturally.
Thanks to my active lifestyle, I was also able to maintain a healthy weight. This helped because I required less serotonin that way.
So, I hit my forties. Gained tons of weight, never go outside, and quit exercising. I've gone in twice in the last two years for anti-depressants and both times taken myself off after the crises passed. But I never got back to "me". Never fully recovered.
I've finally reached the point where my body requires the constant addition of serotonin to function properly. With some encouragement from family I visited a doctor to establish a maintenance program. He gave me a 100 mg tablet which breaks into half easily. His thought was that most people end up on 50-100 mg; so I could try one and then the other if need be.
I started out trying 50 mg and the first two days were great. The third and fourth not so much. So I upped to 100 mg for the next three days and they were worse. By the last one, I couldn't even make it out of bed. I didn't feel bad; I was sleepy and just wanted to lay around. Then I decided that maybe I was OVERDOSED. So I cut back to 50 mg and the first day was WONDERFUL!
Today was my second day at 50 mg and it was a great morning, but by two this afternoon I felt just as bad as I did on day three of 100 mg. It took almost five hours to recover. Then it dawns on me, this morning I went to the gym for an hour and a half and then took Will to the outside pool for half an hour -- raising my natural serotonin level up. Combined with my medication, I overdosed again.
I think I will stay at 50 mg for a few days and see if it happens again. If so, I might try cutting them in quarters in trying 25 mg.
If I had insurance, there are tests that can be run to measure your levels so guess work is not needed. But I don't have insurance. So I get to play see saw with my medication in the hopes of figuring out the best plan.
I'm just flirting with depression, I can't help but wonder what non-insurance covered people with heart problems or high-blood pressure are see-sawing with.
I made it through my 20s and 30s without thinking about it much. Every seven to ten years I would become depressed enough to require medications. But after taking pills for a short period I was able to drop them again. Unknowingly, this was due largely to my very active life style.
Until my 40s, I was always active; walking, running, biking. I was outside all the time too; fishing, playing with the kids, sun bathing. As it turns out, exercise and exposure to the sun both increase your serotonin levels naturally.
Thanks to my active lifestyle, I was also able to maintain a healthy weight. This helped because I required less serotonin that way.
So, I hit my forties. Gained tons of weight, never go outside, and quit exercising. I've gone in twice in the last two years for anti-depressants and both times taken myself off after the crises passed. But I never got back to "me". Never fully recovered.
I've finally reached the point where my body requires the constant addition of serotonin to function properly. With some encouragement from family I visited a doctor to establish a maintenance program. He gave me a 100 mg tablet which breaks into half easily. His thought was that most people end up on 50-100 mg; so I could try one and then the other if need be.
I started out trying 50 mg and the first two days were great. The third and fourth not so much. So I upped to 100 mg for the next three days and they were worse. By the last one, I couldn't even make it out of bed. I didn't feel bad; I was sleepy and just wanted to lay around. Then I decided that maybe I was OVERDOSED. So I cut back to 50 mg and the first day was WONDERFUL!
Today was my second day at 50 mg and it was a great morning, but by two this afternoon I felt just as bad as I did on day three of 100 mg. It took almost five hours to recover. Then it dawns on me, this morning I went to the gym for an hour and a half and then took Will to the outside pool for half an hour -- raising my natural serotonin level up. Combined with my medication, I overdosed again.
I think I will stay at 50 mg for a few days and see if it happens again. If so, I might try cutting them in quarters in trying 25 mg.
If I had insurance, there are tests that can be run to measure your levels so guess work is not needed. But I don't have insurance. So I get to play see saw with my medication in the hopes of figuring out the best plan.
I'm just flirting with depression, I can't help but wonder what non-insurance covered people with heart problems or high-blood pressure are see-sawing with.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Papa's Number 1
I can't clearly recall how this started. Just that a few months back, Steve taught Will to say, "Papa's number 1" on command. At first, that was all he taught him.
Every time he'd kiss Will goodnight, hand him something, pick him up, Steve would say, "And Papa's number 1!" And Will would repeat it.
After a week or two of it, I piped in with, "Well, if Papa's number 1, what is Moma?"
Will's, "Mama's number 1," was overshadowed by Steve's, "Mama's number 2."
It took about a week before Will would consistantly place me in the number two position. After that, I would have to be very sneaky, and quick, to get the occasional "Mama's number 1" out of him. And he usually, immediately, took it back with "No, Papa's number 1, Moma's number 2."
Today, Will and I were writing with chaulk on the driveway and we wrote all out names in giant letters. Right before we went back in the house, I wrote "is number 1" under my name. Will asked me what it said and I told him.
He went balistic on me. I tried to explain it was just a joke for his father, but Will went over and erased the number 1 from under my name. Then on his own, with no prior practise, he wrote a number 2 under my name -- it was backwards, but you could tell what it was. Then he went and put a very legible number 1 under his Papa's name.
In this house, Papa is definately number 1.
Every time he'd kiss Will goodnight, hand him something, pick him up, Steve would say, "And Papa's number 1!" And Will would repeat it.
After a week or two of it, I piped in with, "Well, if Papa's number 1, what is Moma?"
Will's, "Mama's number 1," was overshadowed by Steve's, "Mama's number 2."
It took about a week before Will would consistantly place me in the number two position. After that, I would have to be very sneaky, and quick, to get the occasional "Mama's number 1" out of him. And he usually, immediately, took it back with "No, Papa's number 1, Moma's number 2."
Today, Will and I were writing with chaulk on the driveway and we wrote all out names in giant letters. Right before we went back in the house, I wrote "is number 1" under my name. Will asked me what it said and I told him.
He went balistic on me. I tried to explain it was just a joke for his father, but Will went over and erased the number 1 from under my name. Then on his own, with no prior practise, he wrote a number 2 under my name -- it was backwards, but you could tell what it was. Then he went and put a very legible number 1 under his Papa's name.
In this house, Papa is definately number 1.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Going Nuts at McDonalds
For the last three years, my best friend and I have been taking our boys to McDonalds to play at least once a week. When we first started out, we'd meet there 2-3 times a week.
In Texas, it is to hot, wet, or cold to play outside about 70% of the year. This is especially true if your child has bad exema; which both our sons do. So we struggle to find indoor playscapes that are cool and controlled to take them to.
One of the reasons the playscape has to be controlled is that my friend's son, Charlie, is DEATHLY alergic to peanuts. On a scale of 1-10, people at 5 have died when making contact with peanuts (or shells/oil) and not receiving the correct treatment. Charlie's alergy to peanuts is 7. When he started school two years ago, his mother spent days fighting with administration, the cafeteria, the distric, and the nurses to set up a safe environment for her son and implement actions in case he went into shock.
He is forced to eat at a designated table on a stage, away from all other children, to limit his exposure to the CHANCE someone may have brought something prepared in peanut oil or snuck in a peanut butter sandwhich -- this has been prohibited. Regardless of her efforts, last school year, Charlie went into shock and was rushed to a hospital. The santa that visited the room had peanut dust on his outfit.
So . . . one of the few safe places for us to go is McDonalds. They are a completely peanut-free environment. Usually.
We stopped by our preferred Mc Donalds a few weeks ago and the boys were playing and having a blast. A day care center came in with sixteen children under the age of four. My friend and I both were irritated by their arrival. The teachers organized their kids in the middle of the room; blocking an entrace to the playscape, the bottom of the slide, and the piano. They occupied ALL the free space in the playscape while they sit town in a circle and sing several loud songs. The noise was so loud every person in the area, which was closed in, was wincing. Several families immediately left.
We hung in there. Sure, we griped to each other. Who wouldn't. But it was when the teachers started pulling out the kids lunches that our eyes popped. First, they didn't buy a SINGLE thing. What kind of balls does that take? To show up with three teachers, and sixteen kids, and so take over the entire playscape -- where people who PAID for their food are at -- that everyone leaves? Big ones.
But even that wasn't the eye popper. It was the fact they were pulling out PEANUT butter and jelly sandwhiches for everyone. SIXTEEN children under the age of four were about to eat food that could easily kill Charlie.
My friend almost had a heart attack. She went over and tried to explain to the teachers and was told the kids hands would be wiped before they went back out to play. Which just freaked my friend out more . . . they were going to let them go BACK OUT AND PLAY after eating peanut butter?
We left immiedately. And we haven't been back. Realistically, what are the odds that sixteen children under the age of four didn't get a single DROP or SMEAR of peanut butter somewhere on the playscape? Not good. Worse, is the fact that most indoor play scapes are only professionally cleaned quarterly; if that.
In the US alone, there are over 600,000 children with peanut allergies. That is .8% of all children. Not all of their allergies are severe enough to kill. And fortunately, most school systems have policies andprocedures in place to prevent catamination and speed assistance to these children if needed. And many children outgrow the allergy as they age. But not all.
Per year, 100 people in the US die from complications assocated with peanut allergies.
Yeah, yeah, I'm getting off the soap box. I kept waiting for Charleane to post about our encounter. I NEEDED her to vent about it, but she never did, and I couldn't keep it in any longer.
As much as I love peanut butter, I've been having trouble looking it in the eye lately.
In Texas, it is to hot, wet, or cold to play outside about 70% of the year. This is especially true if your child has bad exema; which both our sons do. So we struggle to find indoor playscapes that are cool and controlled to take them to.
One of the reasons the playscape has to be controlled is that my friend's son, Charlie, is DEATHLY alergic to peanuts. On a scale of 1-10, people at 5 have died when making contact with peanuts (or shells/oil) and not receiving the correct treatment. Charlie's alergy to peanuts is 7. When he started school two years ago, his mother spent days fighting with administration, the cafeteria, the distric, and the nurses to set up a safe environment for her son and implement actions in case he went into shock.
He is forced to eat at a designated table on a stage, away from all other children, to limit his exposure to the CHANCE someone may have brought something prepared in peanut oil or snuck in a peanut butter sandwhich -- this has been prohibited. Regardless of her efforts, last school year, Charlie went into shock and was rushed to a hospital. The santa that visited the room had peanut dust on his outfit.
So . . . one of the few safe places for us to go is McDonalds. They are a completely peanut-free environment. Usually.
We stopped by our preferred Mc Donalds a few weeks ago and the boys were playing and having a blast. A day care center came in with sixteen children under the age of four. My friend and I both were irritated by their arrival. The teachers organized their kids in the middle of the room; blocking an entrace to the playscape, the bottom of the slide, and the piano. They occupied ALL the free space in the playscape while they sit town in a circle and sing several loud songs. The noise was so loud every person in the area, which was closed in, was wincing. Several families immediately left.
We hung in there. Sure, we griped to each other. Who wouldn't. But it was when the teachers started pulling out the kids lunches that our eyes popped. First, they didn't buy a SINGLE thing. What kind of balls does that take? To show up with three teachers, and sixteen kids, and so take over the entire playscape -- where people who PAID for their food are at -- that everyone leaves? Big ones.
But even that wasn't the eye popper. It was the fact they were pulling out PEANUT butter and jelly sandwhiches for everyone. SIXTEEN children under the age of four were about to eat food that could easily kill Charlie.
My friend almost had a heart attack. She went over and tried to explain to the teachers and was told the kids hands would be wiped before they went back out to play. Which just freaked my friend out more . . . they were going to let them go BACK OUT AND PLAY after eating peanut butter?
We left immiedately. And we haven't been back. Realistically, what are the odds that sixteen children under the age of four didn't get a single DROP or SMEAR of peanut butter somewhere on the playscape? Not good. Worse, is the fact that most indoor play scapes are only professionally cleaned quarterly; if that.
In the US alone, there are over 600,000 children with peanut allergies. That is .8% of all children. Not all of their allergies are severe enough to kill. And fortunately, most school systems have policies andprocedures in place to prevent catamination and speed assistance to these children if needed. And many children outgrow the allergy as they age. But not all.
Per year, 100 people in the US die from complications assocated with peanut allergies.
Yeah, yeah, I'm getting off the soap box. I kept waiting for Charleane to post about our encounter. I NEEDED her to vent about it, but she never did, and I couldn't keep it in any longer.
As much as I love peanut butter, I've been having trouble looking it in the eye lately.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Numerology
There are people that predict world-wide events, weather, politics, just about anything, based on number sequences. There always have been. Originally considered part of the science of math, today it is more likely to be classified as occult; alongside astrology and similar divinatory arts.
With my love of numbers, I figure those that predict the future based from numbers have as good a shot as the rest of them do. I'd say at least 50/50. :)
So, I couldn't help but wonder what they were thinking this morning at 5:06. Or, will be thinking at 5:06 this evening.
5:06 07.08.09
I don't know, but it will be a while before we see the numbers align like that again.
With my love of numbers, I figure those that predict the future based from numbers have as good a shot as the rest of them do. I'd say at least 50/50. :)
So, I couldn't help but wonder what they were thinking this morning at 5:06. Or, will be thinking at 5:06 this evening.
5:06 07.08.09
I don't know, but it will be a while before we see the numbers align like that again.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
My Birthday sans Becky
Today was my 43rd birthday. I wasn't to surprised as I've been expecting it for nearly a year. However, it was a tough one, and not in the normal sense.
Every once in a while a birthday will REALLY bother the person having it. The birthday that bothered me most, in all my 43 years, was my 26th. Isn't that a hoot?
It bothered me, because in my perspective, anyone under 25 wasn't expected to be able of taking care of themselves. They didn't have to know who they were or where they were going. But in my crack-pot mine, I should have magically known those things before I turned 26 and I didn't. It bothered me for six months before my birthday and a good six months after it.
Thirty didn't bother me. Hell, even forty didn't bother me. And in the truest sense of the word, 43 didn't either. It wasn't the age, it was my first birthday as an adult that Becky wasn't around for.
We lived hours from each other, and probably didn't see each other more than once or twice a year (in a good year). But Becky was religious about never missing a holiday. I got cards from her for Valentines, Mother's Day, Anniversary, Birthday, and Christmas. Ever once in a while, she'd send me a card for no reason at all. And she ALWAYS called me on my birthday. She was usually the first one to do so.
I get up this morning knowing I won't be hearing from Becky, and already my day is sad. I have a good cry before Will wakes up. No calls or emails all morning.
Will and I leave the house and run some errands, during which I get a text from my best friend and she wants to meet for lunch and let the boys play. She hasn't felt well for the last week and is in the middle of planning a big trip out of town, so I don't hold it against her that she forgot today was my birthday. The entire time we're at the playscape, the boys are fighting. Will is meaner than usual and his best friend is more emotional than normal.
On the way to meet her, Tori had called. After a one-sentence, "Happy birthday, Mom", she quickly turned to what she needed to tell me; a delayed trip and a late expected arrival. On a cell phone, and traveling, she didn't have much time to talk.
Cutting lunch short due to the boys fighting, we come home and Byjo calls. She is loving and sincere, but she is also on her way to the movies with her kids and has to go. Our brief conversation managed to drift into my isolation from the family and possible ongoing depression, which was . . . well, depressing.
I got off the phone and cleaned the toilet in Will's bathroom since Tori will be staying at the house a few days and a 4-year old boy's bathroom is disgusting. While I'm at it, I clean ours as well. My major accomplishment for the day, clean toilets.
Bonnet calls me later and wishes me a happy birthday, to the tune of "I didn't even have enough money to buy you a card. I saw this really cute card I wanted to get you. But I didn't have any money." I could hear that she was upset she hadn't been able to do anything for my birthday. And I know she's been missing the family. But sometimes Bonnet reminds me of Eeyore; always talking really slow and in a low, depressed voice. She asked me if I had done anything fun today and I told her, "I cleaned the toilets."
A woman is stopping by tomorrow to pick up photos to make me a scrapbook. I don't trust a stranger with my girls photos, so I was sorting out my childhood photos for over an hour. Making notes. Organizing them. Crying, for their were many photos of Becky and I as children.
As you can imagine, I was a pretty jolly person by the time poor Steve got home from work. I put on some makeup and he took us to a steak house for dinner, I had two margaritas (oh yeah, and I ate something to). On the way home, he picked up flowers and a cake, we also stopped by and got snow cones. (Hey, it's damn hot here.)
When we got back to the house, I opened presents from him and Will and we ate cake. The boys sang me Happy Birhtday, and they sounded like they meant it.
On the whole, I'd have to say from 5-9 this evening was a very good birthday.
Well, any day, birthday or not, that you make it out the other end of can't be considered all bad. As my mother-in-law, Dona, says, "It beats the alternative."
Every once in a while a birthday will REALLY bother the person having it. The birthday that bothered me most, in all my 43 years, was my 26th. Isn't that a hoot?
It bothered me, because in my perspective, anyone under 25 wasn't expected to be able of taking care of themselves. They didn't have to know who they were or where they were going. But in my crack-pot mine, I should have magically known those things before I turned 26 and I didn't. It bothered me for six months before my birthday and a good six months after it.
Thirty didn't bother me. Hell, even forty didn't bother me. And in the truest sense of the word, 43 didn't either. It wasn't the age, it was my first birthday as an adult that Becky wasn't around for.
We lived hours from each other, and probably didn't see each other more than once or twice a year (in a good year). But Becky was religious about never missing a holiday. I got cards from her for Valentines, Mother's Day, Anniversary, Birthday, and Christmas. Ever once in a while, she'd send me a card for no reason at all. And she ALWAYS called me on my birthday. She was usually the first one to do so.
I get up this morning knowing I won't be hearing from Becky, and already my day is sad. I have a good cry before Will wakes up. No calls or emails all morning.
Will and I leave the house and run some errands, during which I get a text from my best friend and she wants to meet for lunch and let the boys play. She hasn't felt well for the last week and is in the middle of planning a big trip out of town, so I don't hold it against her that she forgot today was my birthday. The entire time we're at the playscape, the boys are fighting. Will is meaner than usual and his best friend is more emotional than normal.
On the way to meet her, Tori had called. After a one-sentence, "Happy birthday, Mom", she quickly turned to what she needed to tell me; a delayed trip and a late expected arrival. On a cell phone, and traveling, she didn't have much time to talk.
Cutting lunch short due to the boys fighting, we come home and Byjo calls. She is loving and sincere, but she is also on her way to the movies with her kids and has to go. Our brief conversation managed to drift into my isolation from the family and possible ongoing depression, which was . . . well, depressing.
I got off the phone and cleaned the toilet in Will's bathroom since Tori will be staying at the house a few days and a 4-year old boy's bathroom is disgusting. While I'm at it, I clean ours as well. My major accomplishment for the day, clean toilets.
Bonnet calls me later and wishes me a happy birthday, to the tune of "I didn't even have enough money to buy you a card. I saw this really cute card I wanted to get you. But I didn't have any money." I could hear that she was upset she hadn't been able to do anything for my birthday. And I know she's been missing the family. But sometimes Bonnet reminds me of Eeyore; always talking really slow and in a low, depressed voice. She asked me if I had done anything fun today and I told her, "I cleaned the toilets."
A woman is stopping by tomorrow to pick up photos to make me a scrapbook. I don't trust a stranger with my girls photos, so I was sorting out my childhood photos for over an hour. Making notes. Organizing them. Crying, for their were many photos of Becky and I as children.
As you can imagine, I was a pretty jolly person by the time poor Steve got home from work. I put on some makeup and he took us to a steak house for dinner, I had two margaritas (oh yeah, and I ate something to). On the way home, he picked up flowers and a cake, we also stopped by and got snow cones. (Hey, it's damn hot here.)
When we got back to the house, I opened presents from him and Will and we ate cake. The boys sang me Happy Birhtday, and they sounded like they meant it.
On the whole, I'd have to say from 5-9 this evening was a very good birthday.
Well, any day, birthday or not, that you make it out the other end of can't be considered all bad. As my mother-in-law, Dona, says, "It beats the alternative."
Thursday, July 2, 2009
You Stand on Second Base
Tonight, Wills kickball team consisted of only 3 children. There are 8 assigned to his team, but everyone must be on vacation or sick.
When his team batted, the runner always ran through first to second, otherwise, there would be no one to bat them home. Since there were only 3 of them, the same little girl ended up being the last batter each inning and she'd have to run the entire bases before the teams could swap positions. Did I mention it was 104 here today?
At first, our team tried putting parents on the bases when in outfield. They had all three kids near the pitchers mound. Each would take a turn catching the ball and pitching it to a base. The coach decided to have each kid pitch to their parent instead of calling out where they should pitch it. Which was a mistake.
You'd have a child run all the way to home plate, pick up the ball, step aside so the runner coming home could come in and then run all the way to first base and give their parent the ball.
So the second time his team was in the outfield, they put the kids on the bases and the parents fielded the balls. Normally, each child will have one parent on the field with them. But since the parents were playing the kids were left to their own devices on the basies. Which was pretty funny from the sidelines.
Until . . .
Will was told to stand on second base. And he's very literal. I see child after child running for second base and he just stands right in the middle of it glaring at him -- I think he's practising to be a goalie. Steve can't see him, since he's on the pitchers mound. Some of the runners just sort of touch 2nd base, some don't even go close.
Then a boy comes that appearently was told to get on the bases and the next thing I know there is a king of the base shoving match going on in the outfield.
I clearly see the other child tell Will to get off the base, and Will tell him no. The runner pushes Will and Will pushes back. The entire time no one in the outfield is even noticing.
I finally pulled my lazy ass out of my comfy chair in the shade and walked out to 2nd base to corral my son. While there I had a nice converstion with the runner about my awesome rainbow sun shades; so it wasn't a totally waisted trip.
At my age, you take compliments any where you can get them.
When his team batted, the runner always ran through first to second, otherwise, there would be no one to bat them home. Since there were only 3 of them, the same little girl ended up being the last batter each inning and she'd have to run the entire bases before the teams could swap positions. Did I mention it was 104 here today?
At first, our team tried putting parents on the bases when in outfield. They had all three kids near the pitchers mound. Each would take a turn catching the ball and pitching it to a base. The coach decided to have each kid pitch to their parent instead of calling out where they should pitch it. Which was a mistake.
You'd have a child run all the way to home plate, pick up the ball, step aside so the runner coming home could come in and then run all the way to first base and give their parent the ball.
So the second time his team was in the outfield, they put the kids on the bases and the parents fielded the balls. Normally, each child will have one parent on the field with them. But since the parents were playing the kids were left to their own devices on the basies. Which was pretty funny from the sidelines.
Until . . .
Will was told to stand on second base. And he's very literal. I see child after child running for second base and he just stands right in the middle of it glaring at him -- I think he's practising to be a goalie. Steve can't see him, since he's on the pitchers mound. Some of the runners just sort of touch 2nd base, some don't even go close.
Then a boy comes that appearently was told to get on the bases and the next thing I know there is a king of the base shoving match going on in the outfield.
I clearly see the other child tell Will to get off the base, and Will tell him no. The runner pushes Will and Will pushes back. The entire time no one in the outfield is even noticing.
I finally pulled my lazy ass out of my comfy chair in the shade and walked out to 2nd base to corral my son. While there I had a nice converstion with the runner about my awesome rainbow sun shades; so it wasn't a totally waisted trip.
At my age, you take compliments any where you can get them.
A Funny Man
Depending on how and where you grew up (and if you're female or not) you probably have different ideas on what the perfect man is. Even at different ages our concept of the perfect man changes. Hell, sometimes weekly.
We can be attracted to men who are good looking, muscular, suave, rich, loving, etc. But as time passes, you realize that most of those things can (and usually will) disappear. Age is a great equator among humans. Few 40, 50, 60 year old people are as good looking or fit as they were 20 years earlier. The rich or well to do, can lose their money, jobs, and security. And how many divorced people started out in love with their spouse?
In my experience, there is only one kind of man that maintains his appeal through the years, a funny one.
The first thing that attracted me to Steve was his sense of humor; well, actually his laugh. We worked for the same company in different departments, but set less than 15 feet apart. There was a partial wall between us, so we couldn't see each other and never interacted. But I heard him laughing at something at least 10 times a day, and when I did it ALWAYS made me smile.
I'm not much of a smiler. And while I have been an optimist most of my life, there are few people and situations that bring a genuine smile to my face. Steve does.
As far as I am concerned, there is nothing more attractive than a funny man. (Assuming of coarse, he has some sort of job and takes bathes on a regular basis.)
We can be attracted to men who are good looking, muscular, suave, rich, loving, etc. But as time passes, you realize that most of those things can (and usually will) disappear. Age is a great equator among humans. Few 40, 50, 60 year old people are as good looking or fit as they were 20 years earlier. The rich or well to do, can lose their money, jobs, and security. And how many divorced people started out in love with their spouse?
In my experience, there is only one kind of man that maintains his appeal through the years, a funny one.
The first thing that attracted me to Steve was his sense of humor; well, actually his laugh. We worked for the same company in different departments, but set less than 15 feet apart. There was a partial wall between us, so we couldn't see each other and never interacted. But I heard him laughing at something at least 10 times a day, and when I did it ALWAYS made me smile.
I'm not much of a smiler. And while I have been an optimist most of my life, there are few people and situations that bring a genuine smile to my face. Steve does.
As far as I am concerned, there is nothing more attractive than a funny man. (Assuming of coarse, he has some sort of job and takes bathes on a regular basis.)
What's up with that?
Steve and I are at opposite ends of the height standards. I'm 5'2 and he's 6'3. It makes many things in our lives more challenging. Like finding a couch we can both agree on. Deciding the height of mirrors and cabinets in our home. And driving each others vehicles.
Any time one of us borrows the others vehicle, we have to adjust the seat, the height of the seat belt connector, and all the mirrors. While making these adjustments is necessary to drive, unmaking them is not.
Since we both do the same thing, it is just something we've learned to live with.
But . . .
Twice in the last few weeks, I've gone out to get into my car and all the above had been adjusted. The weird thing is that ALL Steve did was move it from the driveway to beside the driveway so he could get the trailer out. I've moved his vehicle many times in the same way and never had to adjust more than the seat. Honestly, did he put on the seat belt to back out of the driveway and back in? Did he use all the mirrors? Both sides and rear view for the 15 feet in reverse and 15 feet forward?
A friend of ours moved my car a few days ago and while he moved the seat back, he didn't change anything else.
It's not that it drives me crazy, or that I'm pissed about it. I just don't understand the reasoning.
The only thing I can figure is that it's just a natural reflex; get in Misty's car and change everything. I quess I'm lucky I don't have a radio or he'd be messing with my pre-set stations. :)
Any time one of us borrows the others vehicle, we have to adjust the seat, the height of the seat belt connector, and all the mirrors. While making these adjustments is necessary to drive, unmaking them is not.
Since we both do the same thing, it is just something we've learned to live with.
But . . .
Twice in the last few weeks, I've gone out to get into my car and all the above had been adjusted. The weird thing is that ALL Steve did was move it from the driveway to beside the driveway so he could get the trailer out. I've moved his vehicle many times in the same way and never had to adjust more than the seat. Honestly, did he put on the seat belt to back out of the driveway and back in? Did he use all the mirrors? Both sides and rear view for the 15 feet in reverse and 15 feet forward?
A friend of ours moved my car a few days ago and while he moved the seat back, he didn't change anything else.
It's not that it drives me crazy, or that I'm pissed about it. I just don't understand the reasoning.
The only thing I can figure is that it's just a natural reflex; get in Misty's car and change everything. I quess I'm lucky I don't have a radio or he'd be messing with my pre-set stations. :)
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