Genocide And Dead Puppies

As a Tadpole you know I have a darn good reason for putting such a depressing title up there, don't you?

This is not a depressing post. I promise.

And no, this isn't about those things. They are horrible and worse than anything I ever want to experience, but they have come up in conversation lately.  No details in the conversations, just the two terms.

Again, as always, please bear with me.

And if you are anyone who Googled those words, well, you're in the wrong place and you don't belong here.
Move along.
Please.

As it is, I need to start at the end and go backwards. . .you'll see the point in a moment.
Maybe you won't get it, but we do, and well. . .

I walked into the living room tonight and asked the girls:

"How far into Bloggerdom Hell do you think I would fall if I wrote a post called 'Genocide and Dead Puppies'."

They both giggled. 
They are the reason why I asked.  And they both knew it. 

Squirrel, still laughing at the question, replied:

 "Don't they have a blogger purgatory?  How long is that? Like, 10 years?"

I don't know, but I responded that if purgatory did exist in bloggerdom she would be praying my stories out of it for a long time.

 Here is how this all came about -

I have spasms that are painful. 
They can come about from nothing.
Or something. 
Or many things.

They can be triggered by driving, unloading the dishwasher, spending too long in the grocery store or rolling over in bed.
Feeding the dog.

These are severe cramps where my muscles seize up and my joints lock, or my diaphragm becomes caught up under my ribs [that one is the absolute worst kind].

To give you an example, tonight  I ate a wonderful dinner with my family and at the end of it I rose to walk into the bathroom [to, um, yeah, go to the bathroom]. As I stood up both of my thumbs locked into my palms. I looked double jointed.

I had to call Steven to come quick to rub my hands just so I could relieve the "stuckness" in order to pull my skirt down.  You trying pulling your skirt down without thumbs.  While in pain. Not happening.

They are sort of bad.

But, the worst are the ones that lock up my diaphragm. 
I can't relieve that pain. 
Steven can't relieve that pain.
The doctors aren't listening.
And either don't want to relive it or don't care.

In order to try and get rid of that worst pain. . .

Mental pic' time:

I run around the room with my arms flailed out, on my tip toes, trying to get it to stop.

I have often thought of dropping to my knees when this happens, just from the sheer pain, but it would only seize my toes, or thigh muscles.  I try not to add to it.

The worst part is there is really only one thing that makes that diaphragm pain happen.

It's laughter. 

My family, friends, your blog posts - whatever I find funny - I start that heinous laugh of mine, full belly guffawing - and suddenly I am running around like I am trying to gain flight.

Now, knowing me, my family and all of you - how badly do you think this sucks? 

I LOVE to laugh and everyone I just mentioned is the gift I have been given to bring me my joy and that laughter.

Janine, c'mon, where is the not depressing part of this?. . .get to it. 

Hear ya'.

The kids and I have a trick where, when I seize from laughing, and I can't stop [it happens a lot] while I am trying [unsuccessfully] to hide the spasm and not let them know [again unsuccessfully], and I am hopping around the room I call out to them:

"Quick, quick!!! Tell me something sad. Hurry!! Really depressing. Just so I can stop laughing at what you just said [or did]"

I do laugh that hard.
When this pain starts I need to stop.
The laughter.
I can't unstick what is stuck if I don't.

Here's where the title post reference comes in [and y'all said you liked long posts, here ya' go]

Wallene's first choice when she said something that had me falling out of the chair laughing the other day was:

"Mom. Mom....think DEAD PUPPIES."

Okay.
Really?
Dead puppies do suck and they are so, so, so sad.

But me?

I started to laugh harder.
I couldn't help it because, honestly?

DEAD PUPPIES?

I have never seen a dead puppy, never want to see a dead puppy and well, sorry. . .her delivery was so serious I found it comical.  She had a quiver on the corner of lip too, because she knew it so didn't work.

I spent a while in the shower over that.
Sitting on the floor.

Now, who do think picked "genocide" for dear ol' Mom?

Yes, my college senior, Squirrel.

Squirrel took a class last semester to fill a requirement in humanities to graduate.  Little did my daughter know that Professor H was obsessed with genocide.  The genocide of any people, any country, anywhere, anytime.  The class wasn't called "Genocide:  All you needed to know, but were afraid to ask." Although you would've thought it was.  It was a simple world culture class.  I saw the class materials and they were over the top.

She would call me weekly and tell me how horrible this class was and just vent about how bad this guy was.  I actually wrote a post at one point about it, but retracted it, because. . .well. Me.

She received a nice enough grade, but I swear, every call from her that year began with "Mom, do you know the genocide rate in. . ." or "I just hate this guy".

So, this is where I landed tonight.

Picture it - we were sitting lake side It was dusk.  Lounging right on the edge of the water, getting ready for the fireworks to begin.  I was sitting between my two youngest, on the ground [risky for me, I know] but I was enjoying rubbing their heads, when we started to josh around.  Trading barbs, our own brand of sarcasm and silly jokes.

Then we all got carried away and the hysterical stepped in.
It took hold of me.
And my diaphragm.

Steven was at the right of Wallene. I started to laugh so hard I had to sit upright. Rigid.  Steven saw it.
Before I could reach my hand out for him to get me up I heard Squirrel murmur:

"Momma. GENOCIDE."

I started to giggle on top of the pain, waving my hand at Steven to please get me up, when I hear Wallene chime in:

"I use dead puppies sis, but that doesn't work either."

We all start laughing again.

But me? I lost it.

Choking on my own laughter, with tears running down my face from both the laughter and the pain, Steven gently pulled me up and placed me onto the pavement with the girls' help.

Since there was such a huge crowd there for the fireworks, he knew I wasn't going to do the bird flapping number or run around looking stupid.  So he grabbed me tightly and pushed me into his body.

I thought "This, THIS, is the one that is going to throw me back in the hospital." 
All the while I am trying to stop giggling.  Oh and I also had a fleeting thought of "How stupid am I?"

You try to stop laughing when something strikes you as funny. I can't.

My husband continued to hold me extra tight, letting my giggles dissolve into tears onto his shirt and I finally settled.

Not enough of a settle to allow me to get in any kind of comfortable for tonight, but I have to tell you gang. . .

I don't think I could I have asked for a nicer Fourth of July.  It was almost perfect. [Ask me about picking up Squirrel or the great food, or all that Wallene did, or the sisters hanging out or the manicures. . . .or. . . .just so, so. Nice. I am not kidding.]

Hope you had a happy Fourth of July.

Take care and we'll we'll see ya' on the flipside.

Smile loudly. LIFE IS A GIFT.  xo Janine