Carry On

My little sister is going through a big time break up...and, oh, I can so relate.  It makes my heart hurt to think about her going through this.  I have so much anger in me right now.  Anger at her ex, anger that I can't make this easier for her.  She's still living with her ex, and will be for the next two weeks while she works out the length of her two week's notice and gathers her things together.

She had hoped to be able to put it off until the beginning of October, by which time my cousin's house purchase will have finalized and she will be able to move into the in-law quarters in my cousin's new house, but for the sake of her mental health she is coming home much sooner, and will be staying with my parents until she can move into my cousin's house.

I am so looking forward to having her home, having her around family who love her and will remind her that she is a good person, and strong and loving and wonderful person.  That she is not a failure, that she is where she is because sometimes life deals us hands we never saw coming, and that when someone blindsides you and knocks the wind out of you and you feel like you'll never be able to take a deep breath again for all the pain in your heart, those who love you, your family and your friends will help you pick yourself up and dust yourself off and try again.


For you, my sister.  Because you are loved and you are strong and smart and kind.  Carry on...

Adventures in Self-Love

I really wish Blogger would quit changing shit...or that maybe I was around often enough to notice and understand the changes.  Mostly, though, it's the option that requires on effort of my part.  That's just how I roll.

Ahem.

Anyway, I am here for once, and it's not just to post a video to a song that's roughly the same age I am.  Though, I admit that'll likely happen next.  And not just because listening to songs that are as old as I am makes me feel younger.  It's because sometimes the words in my head get garbled somewhere between my brain and my fingers, and so it's easier to post someone else's words and go..."Yeah, what she said."

I am recovering from a fantastic, but exhausting weekend.  My younger sister came to visit and we decided that , dammit, we deserved some fun.  So, we thought we'd head out to the Italian Picnic, which is a lot like a county fair without the livestock, but with the added bonus of bocce ball.  And, since it's one of the Amador County events, usually you run into everyone you've ever slept with, and their brother...and if you're anything like me, you've probably slept with them, too.  Strangely, I only saw a handful of people I knew, which probably means I'm getting old.  So, after a brief lap of the picnic, during which I was reminded that heels and grass are a bad combo, we headed off to a local bar, to have some fun.

And we did have fun.  I got the older sister to join us, and the midget's dad and his lovely girlfriend were there as well.  We listened to a band that plainly prescribed to the theory that if you can't play it well, you should at least play it loud.  There were a surprising number of people in a very small space, and the bartender made a mean White Russian.  Once our eardrums had been thoroughly assaulted and I had clearly had enough alcohol, we headed off to Denny's (also an Amador County tradition) and ate greasy food to soak up the alcohol.

The evening, combined with a weekend of family time has made me quite exhausted and achy, but my soul feels better than it has in a long, long while.  We're doing it again next month.  It's part of my new "take care of Laura" plan.  And frankly, I need it.  As much fun as I have hanging out with my family...and I do have fun, it's not the same.  Sometimes, I need to not be someone's mom or aunt.  Plus...I need a break from my cousin...I love her dearly, but her continuous unhappiness over everything is wearing.

Look, I get depression.  I understand how it sucks all the color out of the world, and covers even the best things in your life with shit.  It makes you feel like nothing has ever felt okay, and like it will never end.  I get that, but you can't wallow all day, every day.  You can't turn everything into a tragedy and you can't stop finding the humor in shit.  You have to laugh despite the shit, despite the depression.  Because if you don't, then what's the fucking point?

I've got a few more plans in the near future, things that are designed to make me furiously happy.  I've got lunch with a very old friend next week, and another night out with my sisters next month.  I'm talking dancing on tables and waking up in the morning with my fake eyelashes stuck to my nose, going, "Damn that was fun."  I can't wait!

And, because I have to share my musical obsession...here's what's on repeat on my iPod this week...

These Old Friends

This song, like so many old country songs is an old, old friend. It was one of the first songs I ever knew by heart. My heart hurt a lot the day Waylon Jennings died....I saw him live once, with the rest of the Highwaymen, and it's a memory I'll treasure forever. I'm listening to old songs tonight, thinking about days that are probably best forgotten. Thankfully, I have these old friends to get me through...


 

 On a somewhat related note...I'm in love with the History Channels miniseries, The Hatfields and McCoys. Tomorrow night is the last night, and I may end up missing it because my oldest niece, the one born when I was a very young 17 is graduating tomorrow night, and I'm going to be there come hell or high water.

Wherein I Whine About Being Sick

It's been a long time. I've been in hiding, both here on the blog and in my own life. I've been in pain, been anxious and depressed. I'm currently waiting to feel well enough to go and help one of my cousins with a dehoarding project. Ironic, that I'm the one trying pull myself together to help someone else clean their house when my house looks like someone dropped a small bomb in the living room.

There was a SCENE last night. In capital words with screaming and tears and accusations. We've had this weekend in the works for awhile, my cousin collects stuff in a major way...clothes, movies, crap...just tons of stuff. Shoes she doesn't and will never wear, clothes in sizes way too small that she hopes to fit one day. It's depressing. And this, from me, the queen of the messy house. My mess, though is of a life lived now...not for the someday, "if" future.

Anyway, earlier this week there was an accident...Lily, the rat terrier I've been fostering for months pushed Charlie under the car as I was coming down the hill from my aunt's house. He has a broken pelvis, but with rest he should make a complete recovery. However, it was touch and go, and because the emergency vet didn't get a great x-ray, I spent the weekend thinking I was going to have put Charlie to sleep. It was so scary and awful. Charlie is my baby, my boy...my best friend (well, after the Archeaogoddess, of course). He got me through the break up with the EG. He's the one who is there at night when I'm hurting, when I'm up all night testing the midget's blood sugar, when I have a panic attack and can't find my pills. I love him, and the thought of losing him was killing me.

So, as I've mentioned before stress makes everything worse. Stress causes major flares. I've been flaring all week, and then on Thursday night, the midget had soaring blood sugars that wouldn't correct (fucking adolescent hormones collide with fucking diabetes) and I was up all night...so by Friday morning, I was done in. I slept nearly all day. I was supposed to do my grocery shopping for the meals for this dehoarding weekend, but since I couldn't hardly walk to my bathroom, grocery shopping was out.

So, that led to yesterday, which was nearly as bad as Friday. I was in agony (oh and did I mention the part where my doctor took two days too long to refill my pain meds, so I spent a day in narcotic withdrawal this week, too) and exhausted, but I finally dragged my ass out of the house at around 2 in the afternoon and headed to the grocery store and did not only my shopping, but shopping for the cousin we are dehoarding as well. I had sent a note to my other cousin and my sister-in-law who were coming to help dehoard telling them that they'd better not back out, and I can't say that it was a nice note. I'm not in a good place, and I panicked because I thought that they weren't going to show up, and I've felt so responsible for the one cousin for so long, and I just can't take it anymore. I'm not making it on my own, and feeling responsible for someone besides the midget is wearing on me.

So, of course, the fact that I made a big fuss and then wasn't able to come through didn't go over well. I walked in to a very hostile situation. My cousin was furious that I hadn't made it there earlier, that I didn't call all day and let her know that I wasn't going to be there until then. (Not the cousin we're trying to dehoard, but the other one.) She called me a liar, said I wasn't sick, that I just chose to flake, that I could never be counted on, that I take advantage of everyone.

I flipped. I told her she was a selfish bitch who takes advantage of her sister, and only cares about herself and that I was done. I wanted to leave. I was hysterical at that point. It was an echo of everything that the EG had said to me. It's my constant fear...that people think I'm making this up, that I'm choosing to stay in bed, choosing to not do all the things I want to do.

And then I wonder, how the hell can anyone think that. I was always a flaky bitch, it's true...but I was a flaky bitch who did stuff. I hiked and camped and went on road trips and cleaned my house and went out for dinner with friends. And I'd sell my soul to be that girl again. It kills me when I have to cancel on something because my body defies me. I'm so tired...and it's not the good tired of knowing you've accomplished something. It's an exhaustion that is painful. Breathing takes effort. Typing hurts...not just my joints, but the tips of my fingers, my skin actually hurts.

My sister-in-law made me stay, insisted we all talk it out. And we did, for an hour...but I don't think I made any headway making it clear that I'm sick. That Lupus is real...that I don't choose to stay in bed, that I don't choose to give up everything that matters in my life. There were lots of tears and accusations.

Following, as it did, on this hell of a week, needless to say it didn't help the flare. I'm beyond useless today. The pain pills aren't touching the pain today. I want to scream and cry and I'm holding it together for the midget's sake. I'm contemplating a trip to the ER for a pain shot, but I am terrified to ask anyone for a ride. I can't bear to hear again how I let them down, how I let everyone down all the time, and that even this is just to make people believe me.

And it's stupid. My doctors verify that I'm sick. I know I'm sick, but it took so long to get anyone to believe me that I'm still scared that I'm just crazy, that it's all in my head. This is what chronic illness is, this is what invisible diseases do. I want to wear a sign that says I have Lupus, and Fibromyalgia and RA and no thyroid, and bipolar disorder and panic disorder and it causes me extreme pain and fatigue and a million other symptoms. And the worst part of it...the very worst thing is that I'm never going to get better. I mean, hopefully someday I'll have some sort of remission, or I'll find the right cocktail of drugs to get my symptoms under control, but I'm not ever going to be healed, it will always be a part of me, and looking into the future 30, 40, 50 years down the road and knowing that it'll always be this way...that alone is enough to make me want to burrow down into the bed and never come out...but I do.

Anytime I have any strength I do get out of bed, and I do what I can. I try to live my life the best I can in the gaps between the bad days, the bad weeks, the bad months. I hate that I can't be a good friend, a good cousin, a good mom. I want to apologize for myself all the time, to apologize for the disease, and then I feel like, I'm the sick one, shouldn't someone apologize to me, shouldn't someone come and help me?

I hate being sick, I really fucking hate being sick.

My Owl, Hoot-Hoot

When I was a wee girl...not yet the fabulous Queen of the Universe you know and love, I had a stuffed owl that went by the inventive name Hoot-Hoot. The thing was basically an oval cylinder made from brown shag carpeting, stuffed with newspaper, and it's bottom was made from cardboard. This thing was ugly. I've searched the internet to see if I could find anything that even vaguely resembled it. This is the closest I've come....only mine was much, much uglier, and uniformly brown.



I don't know where it came from or when I got it. I only know that I loved it intensely and it was my steadfast and constant companion for quite awhile. I don't know what made it so appealing. It was made from carpeting, stuffed with newspaper, so it wasn't especially soft or cuddly. In fact, it was quite rough and pokey. But, I loved it nonetheless. I spent hours smoothing the shag away from the glass eyes, touching the felt that made up it's beak...hugging it and loving it and carrying it places.

Unfortunately, my penchant for carrying it with me everywhere is what led us to part ways. I left it behind on a beach one night. I know we returned briefly to look for it, to no avail. I was devastated. Hoot-Hoot was one of a kind, obviously (because who else would want such a hideously uncomfortable stuffed toy?) and my family was poor, so when my sister or I broke or lost even the most treasured possessions, there were never replacements. This meant we took care of our toys and kept track of them far better than the midget and her cousins do. My nieces, nephews and daughter have so many more things...my daughter less so than her cousins, but even the midget is spoiled silly. I can honestly say that I never had even a fraction of the sheer amount of "stuff" the midget has.

Hoot-Hoot has not been a part of my life for 30 years, but a loss like that one is not one that's easily forgotten. I've told many people about my awful beloved owl over the years. And even though I still miss the thing as an adult, it never occurred to me to try and replace Hoot-Hoot. After all, it was entirely unique, and the adult Queen of the Universe has no real need for such a thing, even if I could find one. And frankly, if I'm going to spend any money on myself for an item that's not a necessary or practical item, it's likely to be a book. It's exceedingly rare for me to buy myself "things." All of the knick knacks or ornamental items I own are gifts from other people, with the exception of a single cobalt blue vase I bought myself back when the EG used to give me flowers often.

While perusing the Build a Bear website with my cousins, talking about gifts for the kids, I came across an owl. An adorable orange owl with multicolored polka dots. I immediately went into a coveting mode. However, since I'm still waiting for financial aid and my disablility claim to come through, there is no money for such things, even if I were inclined to spend the money on myself.

Tonight, though, my cousin came home from a trip to the Bay Area, and brought me the stuffed owl. I squeed and hugged it to my chest like a small child. Yes, it's an item now owned by little girls everywhere, so it's not unique like Hoot-Hoot was, but that doesn't make it less wonderful. She even had the sound thingy put in it, so that when you press it's tummy it hoots. I'm absolutely in love with this owl. And even more in love with my family. I am reminded, once again, how lucky I am to be surrounded by people who love me...not just my family, but my biofamily, and my best friend as well. It's a lot more than that sad little three year old girl who loved an ugly owl ever imagined she'd have in her life.

Ellwood...Cute, But Dumb as a Rock

We went on a family camping trip over Labor Day weekend. I left most of the dogs at home to be fed and let out by my sister one night, and a cousin the rest of the time. Ellwood, however, is sort of special needs. In addition to needing his food prepared specially, he also can't be left outside in the heat for extended periods of time. Boston Terriers, like Pugs, are brachycephalic, which is a big, fancy word that means they have squished in faces which make it a lot harder for them to regulate air temperature.

Most dogs have long snouts and those snouts serve to cool hot air or warm cold air as the dog breathes in. Bostons, with their flatter faces can't regulate their air temperatures as easily, which means that they overheat very quickly if left out in the heat for an extended period of time.

Plus...Ellwood is really, really dumb, so he just cannot be left to his own devices. It doesn't take much to confused Ellwood, and he's easily distracted...unless there is food involved, at which point he becomes overly focused. So, rather than add the burden of caring for Ellwood to the already overworked dogsitter's list, I took him with me.

I'd like to write about the great weekend we had, and all of Ellwood's cuteness as he was loved on and petted and kissed by the little ones, but there is one defining moment of the camping experience that I simply cannot get past. On our first night there, as I was sitting in a camp chair with Ellwood on my lap...out of nowhere, the dog POOPED. ON. MY. LAP!! No warning, nothing. He was just sitting there calmly,watching the others put up a tent, and then there was a great big dog turd on my lap.

I love my dogs, I do...but poop? Excrement? On my lap? Really? Oh, Ellwood...you idiot....

Too Safe?

When it comes to your child's safety, can you be too safe? I've pondered this idea for awhile now, especially since so much has changed since the midget was little, so just the last 7-12 years, basically. When the midget was little, babies were supposed to sleep on their sides to prevent SIDS, but now they're on their backs again. Back-facing car seat until 20 pounds, and front-facing after that. The midget was in a front facing car seat at about four or five months, whereas now that's not legal or safe until a year of age. So, apparently the midget was unsafe for about 8 months. Horrible parent, aren't I?

And then, when she was 4, and well over the legal 40 pound limit, I stopped struggling with the car seat in the back of our tiny Hyundai. And now, the law says she wasn't safe until she was 4' 9" and 80 pounds. I was reminded of all this thanks to a fantastic rant by my beloved Archaeogoddess on the difficulties of car seats. And, because I'd just finished reading this I thought it was an interesting question, can our kids be too safe?

When I was growing up, we didn't have seat belts half the time, let alone car seats. Our moms put us on our tummies to sleep. Stranger danger was a newish concept, and the dangers of pedophiles were talked about only in cheesy after school specials, and yet, most of us grew up more or less okay.

When my oldest niece was born, I remember thinking that her mother was going to suffocate her because she was obsessed with safety. I held the child once in her baby days because I couldn't handle all the instructions--"Don't kiss the baby! We're too concerned about germs!" "Hold her like this, not like that!"--and on and on. I remember thinking, "Ya know, I've had one of these, and she's still alive and sound...that's her over there, remember?"

Not coincidentally, my oldest niece was plagued with colds and bronchitis that led to so many ear infections that she had tubes put in at the age of two. Her growth was also delayed due to her many illnesses. You see, when you don't expose a baby to germs, their immune systems don't get the strength they need that comes with the experience of fighting off small infections. Said niece, though I love her dearly, is also the most spoiled and willful of all the children, and that's saying something. She is a victim (for lack of a better term) of helicopter parenting.

Helicopter parenting, so common today, is my deepest fear for the children of the midget's generation. They are protected from everything, even the dangers of accepting their own failures...there are no longer winners and losers in games or competitions for the sake of saving the feelings of these precious little darlings, and I get it, I do. I know I hated it when the midget was sad because she didn't win at a game, or another kid didn't like her, but that's life. You aren't going to always be the winner, and not everyone is always going to like you, and that's easier to handle it when you learn how to deal with it an early age. It's very difficult to reach the age of 18 or 21 or whenever Mommy finally cuts the apron strings, if you don't know how to deal with all of those things. If you've always been protected, you don't learn how to protect yourself.

I am not saying put your kid alone in room with glass shards to keep them from leaving and fill their bottle with codeine cough syrup rather than springing for a babysitter. (That's what duct tape is for). Nor should you ignore the common sense stuff...vaccinate, use seat belts and car seats, and for the love of god, don't put their names on their backpacks and sweatshirts to make it that much easier for strangers to gain their trust. But, at the same time...let them get kisses from aunties, even if they catch a cold, let them skin their knees and feel the sorrows of coming in last. This world is not always safe and soft and protecting, and we aren't always going to be there to catch them, so they need to learn how to protect themselves.

Because, after all...in the end you are not raising a child. You are raising a person who will one day be a responsible adult, one that must stand on her own two feet, without the training wheels, without the bubble wrap, and without Mommy's sheltering embrace.

I Need Help

No big secret to anyone who's read so much as a single post here, right?

But, in reality, I do need help, actual physical help. I was never the world's greatest housekeeper, but since getting sick that's gotten much worse. I used to have regular cleaning binges, and if someone was coming for a visit, I could do the twenty minute clean and have my house be halfway decent...you know, as long as no one checked my closets or looked under the couch cushions.

The sicker I've gotten, the worse the arthritis and the worse the fatigue has gotten, the more sporadic my cleaning binges have become. Most of the time my house looks like a giant picked it up and shook it. There's crap everywhere, and laundry...dear god, don't get me started on the laundry.

The midget is a good kid, but she's a kid, and unfortunately has inherited my innate messiness and laziness. She takes advantage of the fact that I'm too tired to stay on her and push her to clean up after herself. She also takes advantage of the fact that my memory is a sieve these days and if I ground her in the morning I rarely remember that by mid afternoon.

When the midget's dad shows up to pick her up he makes it clear he disapproves of my slovenly nature. Of course, he isn't sick and taking care of a kid full time 24 hours a day, and even my four days a month minus the kid have shrunk down just a few hours once a week because the exgirlfriend has finally hurt the midget to the point that she refuses to see her at all. Which presents difficulties because, after all, the exgirlfriend is still living in the midget's father's house...the one his parents own.

Yeah, my kid isn't able to go visit her dad at the house her grandparents own. Awesome.

So...my few hours without the midget are spent sleeping, or doing homework, trying to get caught up on the things that are hard to do when a child, even one as old as the midget, is around. So..my old habit of resting the entire first day she was gone, and housework or schoolwork on the second...that's out the window...you know...along with my sanity...and my hopes for ever seeing her bedroom floor.

I know I need to ask for help. Ask my cousins, my sisters...my mom. Any of them would be willing to put on gaiters and wade through my mess and help me clean it. But I CAN'T ASK FOR HELP. I don't know why. I only know that it's common amongst people who suffer from chronic illness. There are so many amorphic offers of help, but no concrete..."Let me do this." "I am willing to do this." And asking for help feel like such an imposition, to do the things I should be able to do, even if I never really liked doing it in the first place. And worse, it feels like it makes the illness more concrete, more real.

Which is, simply, ridiculous. But I excel at the ridiculous, don't I? It's my forte. Because, refusing to acknowledge it's effect on my life doesn't lessen the impact, it only compounds it, because I wait until hope comes in late, comes in after the mess has completely demoralized me.

My cousin, the one who I'm always helping with a paper, or childcare or organizing or sorting laundry...she finally made me a concrete offer to help me clean my living room and kitchen. I had her for an hour and the front of my house, the largest part of my home, is now clean...I am not embarrassed to have company, not afraid the midget's father is planning another called to Children's Services, rather than offering help himself.

I need help...and I need help asking for help...

Baby, baby, baby...

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I don't like other people's children. I never have. I'm the girl who doesn't think your little darling throwing himself on the floor in the middle of the store to get that toy is cute. And I think you're a jerk for subjecting me to his screams and his dirty, snotty face.

So, I was always like that...I babysat a few times, and my BFF the Archaeogoddess had a little brother ten years younger that I saw from time to time, and I didn't have the desire to punch him. So, given that I didn't really like kids, I didn't really plan on having them. But, then...uh...whoops...and there was the midget. And she was awesome. But I knew a lot of that is that built in biology thing, that moms are sort of programmed to love their kids. Which is good, because she wasn't an easy baby, and I'm not a patient woman. But I learned. I learned when to walk away, undeniably the single most important lesson I learned as a new mom.

But falling in love with the midget didn't mean I fell in love with all kids. I was still one of those women who didn't really like other people's kids. And since I was youngish when the midget was born, it wasn't like my friends had kids or anything. So, I loved the midget...but that was it. I liked the midget and other people's kids were annoying and frequently smelly and rude.

Okay, so then...I had a niece, and then another one, and then another one, and then a pair of nephews. And I finally fell in love with kids, at least these kids. I love them because they're my babies as much as the midget is my baby. I comfort them when they skin their knees, put them on time out when they bop their cousins, and make sure they talk to their mommas with the respect a mom deserves. In return, I get sticky hugs, pre-chewed food in my hand and that beautiful feeling when I walk into a room and one of them shrieks delightedly, "Auntie Doda!"

I've got babies on the brain tonight, in part because my beloved Archaeogoddess is getting closer to her due date, and it's killing me more than ever to be so far away, because I'm already in love with that baby, and I want to be there to see her come into the world, but also because my youngest niece is coming to visit with the fam this weekend with her grandma. Because her momma, my baby cousin who has been in some pretty dark places, stopped taking the medication that makes her capable of functioning and she's back in the hospital, and I don't know for how long, but I'm so beyond thankful that she checked herself into the hospital and that she's getting the help she needs, because that baby needs a momma, and I'm not interested in losing one of my cousins.

I still don't know if I like kids, necessarily, but I do know that certain kids have the power to steal my heart. I know that I'm thankful that my youngest niece has the family she has to shield her and cocoon her now while her momma is going through the dark times again. I know that I love a baby who hasn't even been born yet, just as I love the midget and her cousins and I know that my life would be a sadder, darker place without the babies I love so much, and I know from my own struggles with the darkness, that there's no better incentive in the world to fight the depression than your children. So, while I'm thankful for my baby niece for her own precious little self, I'm beyond thankful that she is here to give her momma a damn good reason to fight and get through this, get the help and get better.

Exciting? I'll pass....

What's that saying about the worst thing you can do to someone is wish them an "exciting life?" Yeah, I tried to google it, but google's being an asshole and gave me NOTHING. It kind of fits in with the theme I've got going on this week.

Recent Events (in no special order, because that would require brain function I just don't have):

My Mom has been diagnosed with a Thymoma (tumor of the Thymus) and is now awaiting her appointment with the surgeon so they can cut open her chest and remove it.

The midget has been ill and has accordingly had the worst blood sugar readings she's had since diagnosis, including a meter reading which said HI...and yeah it said it all cheerful, like with big letters like it was an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time. Glucose meters are kind of assholey.

My younger sister had a birthday party at her house which I did not get to attend, due to the midget's illness and the havoc it's wreaking on it's illness.

I have been dealing with difficult blood sugar readings and am trying to complete three Excel spread sheets in four hours but due to my sleep deprivation, I keep surfing the web like a squirrel on crack.

Charlie erased about half of one the spreadsheets I was working on. Charlie's kind of an asshole sometimes...

I have become addicted to the show Veronica Mars three years after it was canceled thanks to the beauty that is Netflix.

I've discovered, through the aforementioned Veronica Mars addiction, a fantastic band called The Dandy Warhols and am currently obsessed with their music.

The midget's father has decided (finally) to go to AA and stop drinking. Said decision came the day after I spent an hour on Facebook chat trying to talk him down while I waited for the midget's blood sugar to drop under 400.

I didn't take my antidepressant for a day and I missed a dose of my thyroid med, too...and I was a total asshole for the subsequent two days, much to the dismay of everyone around me.


So, yeah...I'm kinda flailing here at the moment. I'm hoping this bug, whatever it is, that has the midget's numbers all wonky will resolve itself quickly.

Anyway, here's the song that got me hooked on The Dandy Warhols. You must love it, as I have loved it, and there will be joy.

See...I'm paraphrasing The Princess Bride. Clearly a sign of sleep deprivation.

We Used to be Friends-The Dandy Warhols

I'm procrastination's bitch...

I should be getting ready for bed. If I was smart, and did things that made sense, I'd be done with the two chapters I'm supposed to read and I'd be all snuggled in bed and sleeping already. Tomorrow is a big day...the midget and two of her cousins have birthdays in a 6 week span, and being that we moms aren't as young as we used to be, a couple of years ago, we looked at each other and said...you know what's a great idea? One party for these three...saves us time and money and keeps us from going insane and duct taping our kids to walls.

Which, reminds me...the other day, my sister-in-law was putting my niece to bed and said niece was being a complete pain in the ass, and my sister-in-law wanted to put her in time out, but the kid was already in bed, so she wasn't sure if she should get her out of bed just for a time out, so my precious angel niece looked her mother in the face and asked "Are you going to tape me to the wall like Auntie Laura always says?" It brought a tear to my eye when I heard that story, and also, since it involved no outside humiliation, I didn't have to apologize. Unlike last week when one of my nieces told my cousin B's friend that she was going to "Punch her in the face." I apologized for teaching my niece that particular phrase, but since the midget threatened to kick me in the taco last week, I don't know why B was so bent out of shape about the punch in the face thing.

Anyway...I was saying something, wasn't I? Oh, that's right...procrastination. So, yeah, big brunch birthday bash tomorrow and then an anniversary party for my aunt and uncle in the evening, so even though the assignment technically isn't due until 11PM tomorrow, there is clearly no way I'm going to be able to do it tomorrow, and sleep needs to happen because if sleep doesn't happen, I cannot be my usual sparkling self (as in I will not be threatening to punch people or kick them in the taco) and I might fall asleep in the middle of the pinata portion of tomorrow's agenda.

And if there's one thing I know when it comes to these kids and candy, it's that you need to be on your guard. And holy crap...whose idea was it to give these children candy in a game that involves a baseball bat...it's all going to end in tears...

I Cain't Say No...

I'm a giver by nature. It's in my blood. Someone says "Can you-" and before they can finish their sentence, I'm all..."Fuck yeah, I can...now who did you want me to hold down so you can shave your initials in their pubic hair?" The problem is...that the whole giving thing is actually something I do because somehow, somewhere in my twisted history, I got some wires mixed up and my brain interprets the needs of others as the way to find my own value.

And secretly, deep inside me, there's a grouchy, shriveled shrew who is pissed off at this automatic agreement to do whatever anyone asks me. It makes me whiny and not at all attractive even to myself. I'm all "Boohoo...Why does everyone always want something from me." And I'm surly and as anyone who knows me can attest, if I don't want to do something, it either doesn't get done, or it gets done in the most half-assed fashion you can imagine. And I bitch about it the whole time.

This is not to say that there aren't times when I joyfully do things for people I love because I love them and I want the best for them. Because that happens. Sometimes. When the planets are alligned just so...

I was talking to my cousin (and friend) B the other day, and she asked me to do something, and though I didn't want to, didn't really have time to, and probably would have bailed at the last moment, anyway, I said yes. But I said it half-heartedly and she knew I didn't really mean it...so she yelled at me for saying yes. She was all, "Why didn't you just say no? Didn't you just spend hours bitching about how you're going to be assertive and say no? Grow a spine, woman." So, I said no. And the sky didn't fall. And she called me later to make sure I was okay, so obviously I didn't hurt our relationship any.

This week, the midget was visiting her father. And I had plans...plans which included staying in bed, resting and relaxing and not do anything for anyone, besides feeding my dogs and being their doorman. Which I did. And I am struggling with the guilt of it, because my other cousin called me about 50 times asking me for help with this or that or the other thing. And she's not a girl who can manage for herself. So not doing things for her feels like kicking a puppy. Except that doing things for her becomes drudgery and I build up boatloads of resentment. It gets so that I don't want to answer the phone when she calls, I just want to curl up in my bed with the blankets over my head and pretend like I'm not here.

It's a bad combination...a girl who can't do anything for herself and a girl who can't say no.

Which brings me to this...I love this song, it's on my iPod and I'm only half-joking when I say it's my theme song.

Bad Blogger...

That's me. I have attempted several starts at posts, but life (and my crazy fibro-fogged bipolar brain) has stopped me dead each time.

There are big changes coming to my universe...the midget and I are striking out on our own..well, kinda. For a number of reasons I'd rather not explain, it just isn't working out living with my sister. So, we're headed back "up the hill" to the family's property (well, you know, assuming it's okay with my parents). I've been batting the idea around for awhile, and the midget's been begging for the move, so better to do it now, before school starts...you know, when it's eight million degrees outside.

So, given that the next few weeks will be all about moving and getting shit done, I doubt I'll be a good blogger, but I'm going to try like hell to at least continue with the HNT posts and a tidbit here and there...Onward...right?

"The Happiest Days...

...are when babies come." Melanie Wilkes says that to Rhett Butler on the day Scarlett O'Hara gives birth to his baby. And for all that it may be the most well-worn platitude ever uttered, it is also 100%, irrefutably true.


I finally got to meet this little angel...my newest "niece" (okay, okay, really she's my cousin's daughter, but as I've mentioned before, we don't make those distinctions).

Now, I'll admit, when I first heard, some 10 months ago, about this bebe's impending arrival, I did not exactly jump for joy. In fact, my first thoughts were colored by anger, by fear, and by a deep sorrow. I believed, and still kind of believe, that her mother, my beloved cousin, wasn't really in any position to be having this baby. She's older than I was, certainly, when I had my "whoops" that led to my precious little midget, but her life is a bit of a mess. Without going into too many details, it just wasn't a good situation, a sentiment shared by many in my family. So, while we're a close knit group and love children, we found it hard to get excited about this birth, and given that my cousin's pregnancy was high risk, we were all nervous about the outcome...so, unlike all our previous babies, we weren't excited, we just couldn't be...We wanted to be, but it just wasn't happening.

Time passed, as it inevitably does. We had a baby shower (which I missed, thank you FM). And this baby came early...and was tiny...She was in the hospital for several days due to her teeny size. She's been in and out of the hospital for the last two months, suffering from various ailments. She's still tiny, at two months, she's smaller than my midget was at birth, though, admittedly my midget was a giant baby, nearly 10 pounds.

Finally, finally...she was healthy enough to come and meet us, her crazy, extended family. And despite my fears for her mother, my concerns about her health, it was lovely and amazing to see the joy on her cousin's faces as they each took it in turn to hold her tiny body in their laps. It was joyful and funny and silly to watch as her cousin accidentally made her smack herself in the face, a precursor of things to come for the youngest in this horde of monster children, I fear.

So, though I am still nervous about the future for this baby, I am reminded that my situation, when my little midget was born, was not too promising, either, and yet, she is a lovely, amazing girl on the edge of teenage angst who has had a lovely, amazing life due to all the wonderful people who love her, namely of course, my insane extended family. And so, perhaps there is less to be worried about, and more to be happy about. Because, this certainly was a happy, happy day.

Welcome to the madhouse, sweet girl, we are so happy to meet you.

Thankful

I've spent my day doing what I love most...cooking. And cooking my favorite meal of the year, at that. There is something about traditional Thanksgiving fare that just lightens my soul. I love the simple flavors, the savoriness of it all. Not to mention that while it takes quite awhile, it is the simplest, most straightforward of cooking. And I'm damn good at it.

While I dislike the racial history behind Thanksgiving, it is my favorite holiday. I am hardly religious or even "spiritual," but the gathering together of the people I love so that we may feast and enjoy and simply be together, without all the consumerism that mars Christmas is lovely.

As I went about my tasks...boiling the yams and making stuffing, I realized how very different this Thanksgiving is from the last one. Last year seems so far away, perhaps because so very much has happened this year, and I am miles away from the life I was living last year at this time. All the joy had gone from my life and I was so numb, so anesthetized by my depression that I didn't even see it. I went through the motions, but took no joy in what has always been a joyful task for me.

I have so very much to be thankful for this year. I am thankful, as always, as I will forever be, for my beautiful, healthy, brilliant daughter. I am thankful for the task of being her mother, though it isn't easy and some days it is harder to see the joy, she, more than anything else in my life, gives me a reason every morning to be. If I accomplish nothing else in the world, being her mother will be enough. Though, to be brutally honest, I haven't always felt that way. I was not one of those mothers who looked at their infants the moment they were born and felt that indescribable feeling of coming home to oneself. I spent years struggling with the occasional resentment I felt that I was not living the life I had wanted, the fear of being "just a mother." I wish it had been easier, that I had felt the rightness of being her mother from the moment she was born, but then, those things that are the most important rarely come easily to me.

And while this has, in many ways, been the hardest year of my life, I am thankful for the things that got me here. I am thankful to be feeling again. And, yeah, the pain has sucked. But, I've also found the capacity for joy again. I'm still a little rusty at all of this, and parts of my heart are so broken I wonder if it will ever again be whole. But, even if it isn't, at least I am present in my life once more, present as a mother and a sister and friend, and that is beautiful to me.

I am thankful for my family, without whom this year could have been the death of me. I never cease to be amazed at the good fortune that gave me a second family to give me what my first could not. I am thankful for all the people who love me despite my craziness, despite my irrationality. I'm not the easiest person to love, and my family and my best friend (who is half a world away from me tonight, but still the one of the biggest pieces of what makes my life beautiful) make it look simple. I thank you and I love you with all of my all too imperfect heart.

I'm No Betty Crocker...

My poor little munchkin is sick. She's got the flu, and is absolutely miserable. So when she asked for my "really good potato soup." I was more than happy to oblige. I stole the recipe from Julie Powell's Julie and Julia. I feel no guilt about this because she stole it from Julia Child, and it's the best and easiest soup recipe I've ever encountered. My mini me adores it, and tell me that it's the best potato soup she's ever had.

So, I made a great big pot of soup and that's what we've been indulging in all weekend. We were supposed to be with family celebrating a cousin's birthday, but the she had to get sick and ruin that plan, so I've been shoving fluids down her throat, along with Ibuprofen. And when I'm not tending to her, I've been a busy little worker bee this weekend. I finally finished unpacking my bedroom, which is fantastic. I also cleaned rat cages and the kitchen and did some grocery shopping. I'm currently staring at the living room trying to muster up some strength to unpack the last of the boxes and hang the pictures. So far, no luck...

I never really imagined myself to be the soup-making kind of mom. In fact, I never really imagined myself as a mom. And no, I'm not the mom who gets up every morning and makes fabulous breakfasts and packs great lunches. She eats hot lunch at school and breakfast more often than not is cereal and juice. I don't greet her at the door when she comes home with fresh baked cookies. But, when I do cook for her, I feel good about it. I love it when she tells me how much she enjoys something that I've made. Currently, she's been begging for homemade egg rolls. I make the best egg rolls, if I do say so myself.

So, no...I don't wear pearls to do the vacuuming and it's not uncommon for me to spend the day in my pjs...but all that aside, I think I'm a pretty good mom...I'm just not June Cleaver or Betty Crocker, but really that's okay...because I'm pretty sure I'd be homicidal if I ever tried to fit that roll...

Communal Living

Things are going quite well in this little corner of the universe. I've had a very fun week, thanks to the fact that two of my cousins are in town. One of them has moved here (woohoo!) and the other is on an extended visit. They both have children, so we've basically just been spending the day together. Today was the first day of swimming lessons for the brood. My mini me is taking a stroke refinement lesson and her younger cousins are either doing their "Mommy and Me" class or the "Intro to Swimming" class.

As we've coralled our children and helped each other with cooking and cleaning, I've been pondering the advantages of having "sisters" for lack of a better term. In our modern society, we're all really focused on "doing our own thing." Which has its advantages and drawbacks, but the biggest drawback is the loss of community. We're all very focused on our lives, our own children, our own needs. It used to be that neighbors, friends and families spent time with each other at home. It was nothing to pop next door for a cup of milk or to gossip about the neighbor on the other side.

And not that I'm looking to get married...but I understand some of the appeal of polygamy. Not the lock the women and children on the compound kind of polygamy, but polygamy as it is practiced in other cultures. Motherhood can be a lonely and frustrating time. Even if you don't work and can spend all your time parenting, you still feel like you don't have enough hands or patience. And having other women around who are also mothers, who love your children, who are willing to help care for them, there is something very comforting about that. There is always someone there to lend a helping hand, a comforting shoulder and a supportive ear. And it's just more fun.

To tell you the truth, I've lived in apartments where I didn't know the name of my next door neighbor, let alone any information juicy enough to use as gossip fodder. I love living this close to my family. I love that my cousins and I are so close and that our children are so close that we dump them all in the bathtub at the same time. I can't ever give my daughter siblings, but she has her cousins, and they are as close as siblings, with all the good and bad that comes with it. Yes, they squabble over who got more ice cream or whose sandwich is better, but they also cuddle together while my daughter reads them stories.

I love, too, that because of all this time we're spending together, my nieces and nephew (okay, well I suppose you could say cousins, but they call me "Auntie" and I call them my nieces and nephew) have become so comfortable that they will let me pick me them up the second I walk in the door, they give me hugs and kisses and don't seem to notice which one of us is bathing/feeding/changing them, and know that coming to any of us for help is an option.

My daughter and I are close, in part because I've not worked in a quite awhile due to my health so I've been able to be home with her. I'm glad we're as close as we are, but I've always wished that weren't so constantly alone. Because even before the breakup, my daughter and I spent most of our time alone together due to the exgirlfriend's work schedule. And, frankly, even though she was working, she hated us leaving on the weekends to go and spend time with family. I'm loving that I get to spend time with my cousins any time, that I don't have to worry about someone else's schedule.

My sister and I are putting in a rental application for a house that will give us all a bit more space and privacy. Which means that in just a few short weeks (hopefully) I won't be hearing her scream "Seriously?" every time someone else uses the bathroom. Because, you know, we should only use it when we are certain she isn't going to want it. What was that I was saying about sisters? Sigh...