'Cause All the Fun Moms Say Yes

It's beginning to get a little biblical here. 

Except instead of it raining for 40 days and 40 nights - we are approaching 75 days of rain, with only 2 out of the 75 being sunshiney.

That's some serious rain Tadpoles.

So when my daughter asked me if she could take a shower in the rain I said "Sure. Why not?"

Of course Steven thinks we're both nuts.

But what else are you going to do with this much flippin' rain? 

Have a lil' fun I say! 

TA-DA



Yes. Mom took the pic'.

I know.

Not as good as Wallene's,

but you get the idea.

 

 

Next up? We're building an ark.  'Cause I think we're going to need one.

 

Have a great one Tadpoles. Thanks so much for everything. See ya' on the flipside. xo Janine

 

 

P.S. After reading the comments - yes it would be a great water saving idea, but we're on a well. That I am pretty sure is never going to run dry at this point. hee  



The Expectations, They Are High

I know why I am angry. Or better, why I became so angry the other night.

Oh, and for what it is worth - I am not angry anymore.

But. . .Saturday was Steven's 57th birthday.  Knowing our family [and me] y'all realize this involves food.  Serious food.  Made from scratch. All day.

Steven and I were laughing in the weeks leading up to Father's Day because, as is custom in our home, he was trying to pick what he wanted for that day's dinner. And lunch. And breakfast.  The list was a page long before we started crossing things off.

But for his birthday dinner?  There is only one choice.  Fried chicken. Specifically my fried chicken. And white chocolate mousses pie for his birthday "cake".

The beautiful part is he cut up the chickens and after I made the flour/spice mixture Wallene coated it all.  But only one person can fry it and that is me.  Frying chicken and making pie takes some serious stand up time.

In the old days, no problem.  Now, as I explained to a Tadpole this morning, I do my best work in the mornings, start to fade by noon and I am toast by dinner time.

And I know if I work too hard one day, the next day will be a complete and utter wash. I will be unable to do a thing.

I can't accept this.  I just can't. And I don't know why I don't get it.

Instead of doing all of the work first thing in the morning I decided to make a huge breakfast instead.  French toast, sausage, eggs and fried potatoes.

They loved it.

I felt great.
I figured I could do it all. 
It was working.
Not so much.
By the time dinner rolled around the pain was such I couldn't stand upright to serve.
Stupid.

And Steven even made his world class potato salad, so it wasn't like I had a whole lot else to do for dinner and dessert. And Wallene just kept cleaning the kitchen.  I only had to do it one time.

They like to help. They want to help.
Y'all want to help.
Y'all get that they want to help.

Why do I not get this?  Why don't I realize that I can no longer do my job, a job that I love and take seriously?

The things is, I DO get it.  I know it.
I just don't want to know it. Or acknowledge it.

And I damn sure don't want to accept it.

Funny thing is, I have never felt like a stubborn person.  I hold fast to my convictions and beliefs, but stubborn isn't really me.  I also don't feel like a control freak.  Sometimes when I mention wanting to control my life I will get a random comment like "Well, that's the control freak in  you."

No, no it's not.  It's the need to keep a stability in my life that I am comfortable with and makes me happy.  Like it used to be.

That's not being stubborn or controlling. It is just my desire to have things the way they were.

I am tired of false hope. I am weary from the glimmer of what I used to be able to get done. What I could do that I can't anymore.

I LOVE being a Mom. I LOVE being Steven's wife.  But with all my tasks and responsibilities being taken over for me, what does that leave me?

A very empty soul.  Who gets angry that she can't grab it back. And doesn't see a future that includes her.

I don't yell at God. Heck, I don't even question him. I simply pray that things will get better.  But, I understand that God only gives you what you need and not necessarily what you want.

I know what I want.  I just have to accept that I truly have all I need*.  Right?

Thanks again for listening Tadpoles.  We'll see you on the flipside. xo Janine

*except some kick ass pain meds ::grin::

Dinner Is Ready

I got angry tonight.
Angry at the pain.
Angry at the nausea.
Angry over something simple.

I am angry at me for being angry.

I said to Steven and Wallene, "I am going outside. Please. Do not bother me."

Wallene just walked out onto the porch to announce that dinner was ready.

I looked at her and asked "I asked to be left alone. Correct?'"

Ugly, right?

The idea of eating right now makes me want to throw up.
Hang my head over the rail and heave all the bile that is in my stomach, because I know that is all that is left.

My anger makes me want to throw up.

I wanted to be left alone.

Then Steven walked out and kissed me and said "Dinner's ready."

Really?

Am I speaking Swahili to my family?

I asked to be left alone.
I knew I was going to break. 
LEAVE ME ALONE.  PLEEEEEEEAAAASSSSSE.
IT IS GOING DOWNHILL RIGHT NOW.

When is this going to end?

Can anyone tell me...

ANYONE tell me when this is going to end?

On the menu tonight [as my stomach churns typing this] is steamed shrimp, bacon cheddar potato skins, salad and potato salad. [We call it appetizer dinner - and made by Steven.]

Who wouldn't want to eat this?

Me.

I hate remission medication Sundays.

I try and it is just never good enough.

Sorry.

I spend the entirety of my days apologizing not being able to control my body.

I watch as my life spins out of control late in the day. 

And I can't grab it back.

I want me to come home.

Not a glimpse.
Not a hope.
Not for that one magic hour in the morning when I have finally had a good night's sleep. 

I want the whole of ME.

I want to stop talking about this.
I want to stop thinking I can cook dinner when I can't.
I want to stop thinking I can do more laundry than I should.
I want to forget that driving my car is going to cause me pain.

I want to stop asking my family to bend down to get something for me because I can't.

I want them to hear me.

I want someone to hear me.

Who am I?

I am weary of making excuses for what I think I can control. 
The things that I know look ugly to them.
The things that scare them.

I am so sorry for the pain in their eyes.

I am sick with the idea I can't accept that I shouldn't be doing these things.
With the knowledge that it isn't my fault.

But isn't it?

My fault?

Where did me go?

57 Is Looking Especially Spectacular On You Sweetheart

Yep!

 

You are turning 57 years old today.

 

I could write 1,000 words in this post regarding how wonderful I know you are.
 

But I think everyone already kinda' knows that too, eh?

 

I will sum it up in 6 simple words,
because they enter my head every time I see you,
hear your voice.
Every time I think of you,
I know. . .

 

I am a very blessed woman.

 

I truly know this.

 

Happy Birthday my Sweetheart.

 

I could not have survived nor thrived these past 18 years without you.

 

Thank you.
 

I love you.

So very much.
So much more than you will ever know.

 

You are my hero.

 

xo Janine
 

P.S.  Now may I please have the Queen of Clubs back? I really need to play that card.  giggle

P.S.  And to continue our music challenge game and before I forget, how's this? 

I miss you.

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

The Sick Quilt And My Will

It's not really a quilt. It's actually a comfort since it isn't quilted, just hand tied.

It is one of my most prized material possessions. It is the last blanket my Grandmother ever made.  It was gifted to me, after her death, by my Aunt and I have cherished this blanket for so, so many years.

The best part of it is it is made out of scraps of cloth that my Grandmother used to make clothing for her, my Grandfather and various family members.  I can see rectangles of the fabric she used to make two of my favorite dresses when I was in third grade.   My Grandpa's shirt, her blouse. 

To know the woman I loved so dearly actually once touched all of these pieces brings me a quiet joy.

I call it a "comfort" because that is what is to me. Comfort.

It has always held a place of honor in our home.  It is merely twin sized, but has always remained on our bed because, as I said, it is one of my most prized possessions.  The kids have always known how special it is and that they aren't to touch it.

Except. . .when they are sick.

It's why we call it the "Sick Quilt". 
We all believe that this blanket has healing powers.
One of them has the sniffles? The flu?  A sore throat? A concussion [looking at you Wallene]?
 It comes off my bed and is wrapped around one of our ailing offspring.

Nothing makes them feel better than having this simple comfort snuggling them.
 It's the next best thing to a Motrin, Vicks and a Momma's head rub.

My children covet this blanket.
 
I think sometimes they over dramatize a cold just to get this quilt on their bed at night.

Here's the problem I am having right now.

I have recently been updating my will. 
I guess it's what you do in my situation. No apologies, it is what it is.  While I don't have a lot to leave my children, I do have a few things that need strong consideration and I have had to decide who gets what.
I don't want tears after I am gone and I don't want Steven to have to decide.

I do what I can.  And actually, I thought this was going to be easy, being that I don't have a lot.

No one knows this little tidbit of our lives, but our two youngest, Squirrel and Wallene, are named for my Grandmother.  The seamstress of the "Sick Quilt".

So I should pick between these two, shouldn't I?  And you would think this would be easy.

Sigh.

This is how the conversation has been going in our house lately regarding this blanket.

Bear with me. I do find it truly funny, but frustrating at the same time.

Mom:  "Okay, Squirrel you get all of my jewelry, with one wedding band going to Wallene. And Wallene you can have Ozcarz."

Squirrel and Wallene completely ignoring the "riches" I just bequeathed them, immediately responded, in unison:

"Who gets the Sick Quilt?"

Mom:  "Huh?  The Quilt?" 

Squirrel:  "Yeah, Mom. Who gets the Quilt?"

Mom:  "I. . .um, I don't know.  Why? Who wants it?"

Girls in Unison, again -loudly- "I DO!"

Seeing their reactions I was a bit surprised. Who knew?

In good Momma fashion and realizing a cage match might be in my daughters' future I tried to come up with a solution.

Mom:  "No, no. Wait a minute.  You can't both have it. Let me think a minute."

So, I did.  For a few days.

Unable to sew any longer I decided I would hire a seamstress to cut the quilt in half and  make them each their own by adding additional borders and such.

You would've thought I suggested cutting the dog in half.

"No Momma. You can't do that.  It won't be the same.  We would only get half way better with half a quilt."

[And yes, they actually argued the "half way better" angle with me.]

Seriously?

Okay, so now I can't divide it up.  What to do, what to do? 

You have to know that they are both being entirely generous to the other and saying "No, no. . .give it to her. No give it to her."  They aren't being greedy, I swear, but you can see that each wants it as much as the other, but to keep me sane, they try to be as magnanimous as they can to the other.

I told them to let me think on it a few days and I would let them know.

I finally settled on the sharing of the whole quilt. 
Six months with Wallene and six months with Squirrel each year.

Okay, okay. I know.  Bad idea.

Steven kicked me under the table on that one. ::giggle::
He knows that as well as our daughters get along, and they do, he wasn't having any part of that negotiation come June and December each year.

Finally, I called Squirrel at school.
As she is the oldest of the two I decided to tell her my decision first.

Mom:  "Honey, I have decided on the Sick Quilt, okay?"

Squirrel, tentatively: "Yes?"

Mom:  "I am going to be buried with it."

My darling, beautiful daughter, not missing a beat, replied:

"Oh, okay Mom, but to be honest my resume is shaping up pretty nicely at this point and I don't think "Biologist Grave Robber" is going to look too good. Do you?"

I lost it, laughing. 

Um.  I am out of ideas.

What do you have for me?

xo and flipsides, help me out here Tadpoles. Janine

in Other News From The Pond

I think I have 27 different posts floating around in my pea sized brain right now.  Not a one of them is fighting too hard to get out, but I present the one that is freshest in my mind. . .

Fourth of July is coming! WOOHOO!  Basically, I am excited because any holiday that has a calendar date means family. And food.  Trust me when I say that give me time I could figure out a menu for Arbor Day.  Then again, . . . .hmmmmm

The Fourth of July is different tho'.  It is like Thanksgiving to me.  A day we give thanks that we live in this country, although far from perfect, we still get to practice our own religions, be protected from hate and speak our mind without fear of persecution. After the Supreme Courts decision on DOMA this past week, I can hitch up my boots a little tighter that my country may finally getting it.

There are occasions that my country wounds me and embarrasses me, but I am an American, and well - it's a pretty important holiday.  I am happy being an American.

So. . . . the Fourth means that we get to go over the mountain and snatch up Squirrel to celebrate on Thursday. YAY!  And Wallene will be home from visiting her friends in Sterling - and? If we get extra, special lucky. . .we might get an older kid here too. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, here is a pic' from Wallene. She took it on an early morning bike ride last week.

our neighborhood. Wallene 06.25.13

Now, here is a conversation I had with Squirrel in regards to picking her up for the Fourth. 

She told me she had to work.  [Note:  Squirrel is a paid intern in the biology department at her University.] 

This is the way the conversation went:

Mom:  "Are you coming home for Fourth of July sweetie?"
Squirrel:  "Mom we don't have Thursday off."
Mom:  "What do you mean you don't have the Fourth of July off? It is the biggest holiday in the U.S. next to Thanksgiving and Christmas. It's OUR national holiday."
Squirrel:  "But Mom we have people working our lab from Kyrgyzstan.  It isn't their holiday. So yeah. I don't think so."

Dead silence.

I literally had to think about that for a minute. 

How politically correct has this country become that we are denying Americans the right to be excused from work on OUR national holiday because they are working along side people that have immigrated here from another country? People that seemingly choose to ignore the importance of the freedoms that this particular day has endowed on citizens of the United States of America, but still continue to enjoy those same freedoms it has given to all people living here, legal or not.

It frustrated me.
This discussion.
 I love the acceptance that this country is bringing about everyday, but why was my assumption that my daughter would have our National Holiday off wrong? I can understand if she worked in retail or customer service.  It's a shame that those places remain open, even on days of importance to our country, but it is what it is. Society now dictates it.  But, really? 
She works in a lab. 
Yes.
An important job. [You have no idea what they are trying to do with grass. Fabulous!]
I respect it and please appreciate the admiration I have for my daughter.
 I find her so brilliant I hardly understand her half the time and she is so truly hardworking. 

Still. . . . I wonder.

Why did I have to call her back today to confirm that I could pick her up to come home and appreciate what this day is all about?

While we were on the phone she excused herself and I heard her ask her boss about the day off. [Btw, he is a a wonderful man and the perfect mentor to Squirrel. Not a bad bone in this man's body. I trust and admire him for taking Squirrel under his wing.]

Squirrel:  "Hey Dr. N, do I have Thursday off. The Fourth of July?"
Dr. N:  "You do if you want it."
Squirrel:  "Okay, cool. Thanks."
Squirrel:  "See Mom, did you hear that? I have it off."

Yeah, but no.

Her boss would give her a week off if she asked, but my question is, why isn't this particular day scheduled to be a holiday, yet she has to ask for it? 

Okay, stepping off and kicking my soapbox to the side.

I have bigger things to worry about.
I can't change this country and I don't want my children to change who the are.

This country is what it it, but am I allowed to ask. . .why?


And this is simply about a frustration with an assumption I had about thinking my daughter would automatically be here on the Fourth of July.
 It isn't a political rant. 
You are welcome to your opinions, always, in comments.
I respect them and appreciate them. I do. 

Will you, for one moment, just understand my confusion about this? Please?

Happier notes coming. . .

Oh, look I have to get off now! It's Early Shift Week! WOOHOO. Steven is home in the daylight today. BONUS!  He'll be home in one hour. YAY! [Now ask me how bad it sucks that we have to get up at 4 am to get him on the road by 4:30 am. And he has to drive two and a half hours.

Heard in our bedroom this morning:

"Dude do NOT ask me for the keys to Ozcarz at 4:15 am.  My manual dexterity is limited to making you coffee and hoping I don't fall over. LOOK! My purse. MY PURSE. It's a good place to look. First.  Oh and the night before is a better choice for getting things lined up for the morning. ::sound of keys being tossed out the bedroom door.:: I think I hit the dog. By accident.  I wasn't aiming for anything. HONEST.  hee.]

I can't stay serious for long, can I? 

Y'all have a great day.

We'll see you on the flipside! xo Janine

[I need to point this out. I am not the best blogger, but I do try to keep my punctuation, spelling and sentence structure as correct as I can.  I make no apologies for my overuse of commas, hee, but with this limited internet right now, I am not proof reading anything and some of my posts scare me.  So, if you could, please look past it for right now. Oh, and my comments too.  They have always been sort of not proofread, but I am afraid that they worse now.  So-o-or-r-r-yy. Really!]