"Im starting to see my dream. The pictures flash like when someone takes a picture with a camera. But there's no person, and no camera. Flash, flash, flash. It's harder to see the pictures when the sun is up."
Charlie likes to sleep in complete darkness, no easy feat when he goes to bed long before the sun goes down. His shades are pretty good, but the four large windows allow it to creep in around the corners. Once, last fall, he got very mad at me because, "We go to sleep when it is the daytime and wake up when it is the nighttime and this just makes no sense."
He's right, but I didn't make the bus schedule.
At Easter we went on a family retreat at our new church. I was initially skeptical, but was sold by the notion of no dressing sugar filled children up in layers of fluff to endure an extra long, extra full church service then try to take those hungry children home and make them wait we while I throw together something fancy.
Instead we had church in our shorts down by the riverside in the cool morning breeze. The day before was like a scene from a movie. A couple hundred people on the green, soft hilly grass. Someone playing guitar with a guy beating on a djembe, people canoeing and swimming, bubbles blowing and kids playing. Talking, laughing, fun. It made me miss Austin. It felt like Austin. All that was missing was a dog with a frisbee and some teenagers with a hackey sack.
Charlie thought about God that weekend and told me that, "God must have two hands, that way He could make us both." I was drawn in by that beautiful, loving image and was thinking to myself for just a moment that Charlie is really growing things up, really thinking things through.
But just for a moment, because he then informed me, "And God made chickens so they could rule the galaxy!"
This notion has cracked me up for weeks now. I asked him once why we ate them, if they do indeed rule the galaxy. He informed me that this was part of their plan . . . once they are inside of us, the takeover can begin.
So perhaps vegetarians are saving us from a fowl future?
He also told me this morning that "My life is very hard." Unfortunately, the poor sweet boy is right about this. He gets so angry and he can't stop. He says, "When I am angry, it never goes away."
He has come so far on so many fronts, but his anger and rage are wearing us all thin. It is not a constant, but seems to pop up at moments that are supposed to be happy and fun, but out of the ordinary. I spent church on Mother's Day outside with a screaming boy and then Thursday I pulled a wagon of screaming boy through a parade at the girls' school.
He is so high functioning that I forget sometimes how much he needs structure, planning and control. Since I tend to be very spur of the moment and am all for spontaneous fun, I'm not always good at preparing him for what is happening. I think our busyness doesn't always work in his favor.
But there are three of them. Five of us. His needs can't always dictate our plans. The girls are learning so much about compassion and patience from having Charlie as a little brother, but sometimes I'm worried that his needs hold them back. So then I try to make sure they get to experience everything while limiting his world to the things he can handle and preparing him for the things that can't.
And then I am frequently told I look tired.
I am.
But I just have to eat more chicken and hold out until they take charge. Perhaps they can do a better job of it all?
5/4/12
Enough, already.
I forgot to update, and I'm sorry.
Dixie's heart is fine. The cardiologist saw the concern on the old EKG, said it was still within the normal range and he probably would not have even considered looking into it, but his colleague that read the original is more cautious. He did a new EKG and an echo. Her heart muscles, valves and walls were all in great shape.
Now on with it.
***
Enough already. We have enough already.
Dowlan got paid today. We got tax money from an error a few days ago. I got paid for a secondary project at Pearson last week and there is more coming in next week. We have a considerable amount of money in the bank and nothing to do with it.
It is the strangest feeling.
I even sat down today and got completely caught up on all medical things and there is money left. And I found out that since I'm dropping my health insurance at work my paycheck is going up by like 700 a month and my next check will have a refund for May's health insurance premium. And I'm doing another brief Pearson project at the end of the month. And since my employer pays $350 a month to my health insurance and I might as well use it for something I can have secondary coverage on just me, which means the sinus surgery I'm having this summer won't cost nearly what we thought it would.
This is the strangest feeling, having enough. It is just as terrifying as not having enough, because I'm afraid I'll screw it up somehow. Or that the shoe will drop. Something enormous will go wrong soon because it is there.
The money he made while working out of town helped us get caught up on a lot of things, and life has been cheaper now that we don't have to travel to see each other. There are a couple of conveniences that we no longer use now that he is home, like the Schwann guy, the housekeeper and delivered pizza. Mostly it's just that a steady diet of paychecks has been good for our household. We are about to buy Dowlan a better car, I'm about to bring our school cat home for the summer and the will be vet bills, there are summer trips and camps to pay for.
But last week I spent about $400 on my van and I didn't have to even think about how to pay for it. No need to squirrel anything away or decide what to not pay quite yet.
It has been a long time coming, but enough. Already.
Dixie's heart is fine. The cardiologist saw the concern on the old EKG, said it was still within the normal range and he probably would not have even considered looking into it, but his colleague that read the original is more cautious. He did a new EKG and an echo. Her heart muscles, valves and walls were all in great shape.
Now on with it.
***
Enough already. We have enough already.
Dowlan got paid today. We got tax money from an error a few days ago. I got paid for a secondary project at Pearson last week and there is more coming in next week. We have a considerable amount of money in the bank and nothing to do with it.
It is the strangest feeling.
I even sat down today and got completely caught up on all medical things and there is money left. And I found out that since I'm dropping my health insurance at work my paycheck is going up by like 700 a month and my next check will have a refund for May's health insurance premium. And I'm doing another brief Pearson project at the end of the month. And since my employer pays $350 a month to my health insurance and I might as well use it for something I can have secondary coverage on just me, which means the sinus surgery I'm having this summer won't cost nearly what we thought it would.
This is the strangest feeling, having enough. It is just as terrifying as not having enough, because I'm afraid I'll screw it up somehow. Or that the shoe will drop. Something enormous will go wrong soon because it is there.
The money he made while working out of town helped us get caught up on a lot of things, and life has been cheaper now that we don't have to travel to see each other. There are a couple of conveniences that we no longer use now that he is home, like the Schwann guy, the housekeeper and delivered pizza. Mostly it's just that a steady diet of paychecks has been good for our household. We are about to buy Dowlan a better car, I'm about to bring our school cat home for the summer and the will be vet bills, there are summer trips and camps to pay for.
But last week I spent about $400 on my van and I didn't have to even think about how to pay for it. No need to squirrel anything away or decide what to not pay quite yet.
It has been a long time coming, but enough. Already.
4/22/12
Oh good. A new doctor.
I've avoided saying much because it is likely to be nothing. But just in case it is something, we could use your thoughts and prayers.
Dixie has been on ADHD medicine for the last year and the medicine she is one is a stimulant. Because her birth mother had a congenital heart defect, the psychiatrist we've recently started working with wanted to do an EKG just to double check that all was well before continuing on meds that can be hard on the heart.
We got the results jack about a month ago. We are either dealing with a defective test or a defective heart.
Tomorrow we go see the pediatric cardiologist at 10 a.m, heavily hoping it is the first option.
4/14/12
Fighting
At christmastime, my mother, aunts and I had all commented about how incredibly well my children got along compared to other sibling groups. How they would get frustrated at times, but really didn't fight, yell, hit or scream.
It was nice while it lasted.
While I still think I have quite good kids, some doozies have broken out lately. The most impressive of which was a week or so ago when I was fertilizing the front yard and had to run to the backyard and break up the screaming match on the trampoline.
I'd you ever needed proof that my family was strange, here it is.
Charlie was mad because the girls had uses this springy fabric tube that the kids can crawl through to build a portal to another dimension and it didn't work. If those ridiculous girls had placed it in a slightly different spot on the trampoline, the spot where he wanted it, he wouldn't even be there to phase to put up with their incompetency or have to 'use his imagination' as they so ridiculously keep suggesting.
It was nice while it lasted.
While I still think I have quite good kids, some doozies have broken out lately. The most impressive of which was a week or so ago when I was fertilizing the front yard and had to run to the backyard and break up the screaming match on the trampoline.
I'd you ever needed proof that my family was strange, here it is.
Charlie was mad because the girls had uses this springy fabric tube that the kids can crawl through to build a portal to another dimension and it didn't work. If those ridiculous girls had placed it in a slightly different spot on the trampoline, the spot where he wanted it, he wouldn't even be there to phase to put up with their incompetency or have to 'use his imagination' as they so ridiculously keep suggesting.
4/12/12
Book Review: Lost and Found
In the five years I've been writing this blog, I have talked a lot about my favorite things: Dixie, Charlie and Melody. I've also talked a lot about my least favorite things: unemployment, autism and exhaustion. Today we're branching out in a new direction: books. Specifically, book reviews that are through the book club section of the network my blog ads come from, blogher.com.
So, yes, I'm getting paid a bit. And, yes, this is still my honest opinion.
While books are one of my favorite things to talk about, this book is about most people's least favorite things to talk about: money and food. Specifically, losing both.
Oh, fun.
In Geneen Roth's book Lost and Found: One Woman's Story of Losing Her Money and Finding Her Life, an author and speaker who usually delves into the world of compulsive eating and spirituality takes on a new direction. She tells the story of the day her friend called to tell her the shocking and life-altering news: that Bernie Madoff had made off with 30 years' worth of savings, earnings and retirement.
Her description of that dizzying afternoon reminded me of the day my world changed. The day I laid on the bedspread, propped on my elbows, staring at the phone. I could not believe my husband, the supporter of all five of us, was out of a job soon.
There were times where I had trouble relating to a married woman with no kids struggling with money despite two incomes when we had three kids and no income. Somehow, still, our experiences were so much the same.
Roth describes the suffocating feeling of standing in a high-end clothing store with a friend who was excited about all the beautiful things around her while she was panicking at the thought of each and every price tag. I cannot tell you how many times I did this in Target or at the grocery store.
Different scale, same anxiety. Same need to re-center and find a new normal, which both of us eventually did. Her interpretations of spiritual life are far different than mine, yet we both needed to reexamine what we really needed in life and what our decisions about money say about ourselves.
Because so much of her adult life has been spent working through her own food issues and then helping others do the same, many of her reflections and thoughts tied in money, food and self. Roth states, "I saw there wasn't a huge difference between problems with money and problems with food: Most of the world doesn't have enough of either, but those of us who do seem to always want more and, for the most part, refuse to believe that the problems we are experiencing 'out there' originate--and need to be solved--'in here.' "
If money and food are internal struggles for you, she has provided an excellent framework for self-examination as she processes through her own struggle.
More discussion can be found here: http://www.blogher.com/bookclub/now-reading-lost-and-found
So, yes, I'm getting paid a bit. And, yes, this is still my honest opinion.
While books are one of my favorite things to talk about, this book is about most people's least favorite things to talk about: money and food. Specifically, losing both.
Oh, fun.
In Geneen Roth's book Lost and Found: One Woman's Story of Losing Her Money and Finding Her Life, an author and speaker who usually delves into the world of compulsive eating and spirituality takes on a new direction. She tells the story of the day her friend called to tell her the shocking and life-altering news: that Bernie Madoff had made off with 30 years' worth of savings, earnings and retirement.
Her description of that dizzying afternoon reminded me of the day my world changed. The day I laid on the bedspread, propped on my elbows, staring at the phone. I could not believe my husband, the supporter of all five of us, was out of a job soon.
There were times where I had trouble relating to a married woman with no kids struggling with money despite two incomes when we had three kids and no income. Somehow, still, our experiences were so much the same.
Roth describes the suffocating feeling of standing in a high-end clothing store with a friend who was excited about all the beautiful things around her while she was panicking at the thought of each and every price tag. I cannot tell you how many times I did this in Target or at the grocery store.
Different scale, same anxiety. Same need to re-center and find a new normal, which both of us eventually did. Her interpretations of spiritual life are far different than mine, yet we both needed to reexamine what we really needed in life and what our decisions about money say about ourselves.
Because so much of her adult life has been spent working through her own food issues and then helping others do the same, many of her reflections and thoughts tied in money, food and self. Roth states, "I saw there wasn't a huge difference between problems with money and problems with food: Most of the world doesn't have enough of either, but those of us who do seem to always want more and, for the most part, refuse to believe that the problems we are experiencing 'out there' originate--and need to be solved--'in here.' "
If money and food are internal struggles for you, she has provided an excellent framework for self-examination as she processes through her own struggle.
More discussion can be found here: http://www.blogher.com/bookclub/now-reading-lost-and-found
4/2/12
Life in the Car Pickup Line
Two days of the week, I get Charlie off the bus and immediately head over to the girls' school to pick them up from their afterschool enrichment program. Because his bus arrival at my campus can arrive anywhere within a twenty minute window, there are days where we make it by the skin of our teeth and there are days where we arrive with quite a bit of time to spare.
I've tried a few things on those early days. It's never quite enough time to run an errand or make a stop anywhere, but too long to just sit there. One day with twenty minutes to spare I tried letting him play on the playground at their school, but it ended disastrously. First, we'd gotten halfway back to the car before realizing that he'd left his socks under the slide. We went back for his socks and I told him to take off his shoes and put them back on. He did it with a little more flare than I'd intended, chucking his shoes over the fence. After retrieving his shoes, he refused to walk and crawled like a cat through the weeds. When I tried to pick him up to carry him, he shrieked like a child being kidnapped.
Needless to say we were late to pick up the girls that day. You might also, rightly, assume that this option was never given again.
Today Melody stayed home sick, so I had two bored children in the back of my hot PennyVann as we awaited the emergence of the Dixie from the school. The entire drive, wait and drive home were spent in deep analytical discussion of a subject dear to Charlie's heart: PopTarts.
We discussed every size, flavor and temperature preference. We discussed favorite locations and days for PopTart consumption. Eating techniques were dissected--do you crumble around the edges first, start in a corner or just chomp into the end? Is it better to eat it frosting side up? Included in this analysis was a detailed explanation of Evan's PopTart preferences. (Evan is Charlie's school friend.)
It was excruciating.
By the end of it, I learned that Tuesday and Wednesday are my PopTart days, but only if there are blueberry or cherry available for me to eat cold in the mornings in the PennyVann on the way to school. Any other PopTart eating variance is unacceptable. The girls had slightly more permissible options and Charlie's PopTart consumption was given complete free range.
I thought you might like to know.
I've tried a few things on those early days. It's never quite enough time to run an errand or make a stop anywhere, but too long to just sit there. One day with twenty minutes to spare I tried letting him play on the playground at their school, but it ended disastrously. First, we'd gotten halfway back to the car before realizing that he'd left his socks under the slide. We went back for his socks and I told him to take off his shoes and put them back on. He did it with a little more flare than I'd intended, chucking his shoes over the fence. After retrieving his shoes, he refused to walk and crawled like a cat through the weeds. When I tried to pick him up to carry him, he shrieked like a child being kidnapped.
Needless to say we were late to pick up the girls that day. You might also, rightly, assume that this option was never given again.
Today Melody stayed home sick, so I had two bored children in the back of my hot PennyVann as we awaited the emergence of the Dixie from the school. The entire drive, wait and drive home were spent in deep analytical discussion of a subject dear to Charlie's heart: PopTarts.
We discussed every size, flavor and temperature preference. We discussed favorite locations and days for PopTart consumption. Eating techniques were dissected--do you crumble around the edges first, start in a corner or just chomp into the end? Is it better to eat it frosting side up? Included in this analysis was a detailed explanation of Evan's PopTart preferences. (Evan is Charlie's school friend.)
It was excruciating.
By the end of it, I learned that Tuesday and Wednesday are my PopTart days, but only if there are blueberry or cherry available for me to eat cold in the mornings in the PennyVann on the way to school. Any other PopTart eating variance is unacceptable. The girls had slightly more permissible options and Charlie's PopTart consumption was given complete free range.
I thought you might like to know.
3/27/12
Charlie would like
Charlie would like his bedtime to be "ten-thirty-more-minutes" and I have to hand it to him--it's quite clever. It smacks of the "jam tomorrow, jam yesterday, but never ever jam today" plan from Alice In Womderland.
He has also found wisdom in having his turn last. Last bedtime story and last bath have their advantages, as does last at the dentist. If only he'd discovered this earlier--had he been content to be last to use the toilet, Melody's glasses might not have gone down it.
Speaking of which, many of you have asked about their fate. Despite being without scratch or bend, the rubber parts on the ear pieces and nose pieces had absorbed the smell. After over it soaks in vinegar and a day in the sun, it was still lingering. Had the perpetrator and owner been one and the same, I'd be content to let a child live with sewer-scented frames, but Melody did not deserve to have to go through the next few months with those on her face.
I took them back to Walmart with the intention of purchasing new frames, but they were kind enough to swap them out for free. Yes, they were under warranty against breakages, but I'm not entirely convinced their fine print encompassed our situation. Their kindness was much appreciated.
He has also found wisdom in having his turn last. Last bedtime story and last bath have their advantages, as does last at the dentist. If only he'd discovered this earlier--had he been content to be last to use the toilet, Melody's glasses might not have gone down it.
Speaking of which, many of you have asked about their fate. Despite being without scratch or bend, the rubber parts on the ear pieces and nose pieces had absorbed the smell. After over it soaks in vinegar and a day in the sun, it was still lingering. Had the perpetrator and owner been one and the same, I'd be content to let a child live with sewer-scented frames, but Melody did not deserve to have to go through the next few months with those on her face.
I took them back to Walmart with the intention of purchasing new frames, but they were kind enough to swap them out for free. Yes, they were under warranty against breakages, but I'm not entirely convinced their fine print encompassed our situation. Their kindness was much appreciated.
3/20/12
The Scoop
Oh, what a Spring Break. What an awful, wretched, broken break.
Except for the most awesome part. And truly awesome it was! Dowlan begins a job HERE in town after Easter. A job. A REAL full-time job with excellent benefits, decent pay and room to move up.
It started with weeds. Well, for me it did. Dowlan went Saturday morning to an 8 a.m. job interview while I faced my nemesis: hip-high weeds filling huge sections of our half-acre yard. After two days of pulling, the front yard was ready to mow, only we didn't have a lawnmower that worked.
Then came the throwing up. Charlie threw up Sunday morning, but just a few times. Mostly he laid around watching TV and looking dreary, weary and bleary. This gave me ample opportunity to pull weeds for 10-15 minute stretches, checking in with him between bouts. Dowlan and the girls came back from church about the time he perked up and then the weeding became a family affair.
Monday began with dentistry. The numbness had not yet worn off when it was time for me to take Charlie to see the psychologist for his first time. The therapies we've done in the past have run their course and I'm trying to figure out what to do next. The 'next' is going to the psychiatrist for meds to help with his overwhelming anxiety and enormous peaks of rage. About halfway through, my feeling started coming back into my face, and talking through the tingling/itching/drooling was indeed awkward.
Then more weeds are supposed to be in order, but I quit after not much effort. I'm blaming my misery on the dental work. Feed the kids. Say good-bye to Dowlan as he heads out of town, only a belt snaps and he doesn't make it off our street. I thank God that he did not try to take his car to his interview Saturday and that PennyVann had gotten him there safely.
Fix the car. Pack for camping. Sleep.
Tuesday had the worst beginning of all--Melody barely made it out of the carpeted room before throwing up. I barely got her on the couch and comforted before I began throwing up. Dowlan began mopping. Melody and I laid on opposite ends of the same couch, a bucket between us. At some point, Schrödinger begins to throw up as well, but at least he can be tossed outside. At some point, Dowlan heads back out of town to work. Melody and I are still not going very long at a stretch. At some point, he calls to tell me the excellent job news, but it scarcely registers.
Wednesday our entire bodies hurt. At some point that afternoon, the lawnmower gets bought and I get the front yard looking passable.
Thursday is time for more doctor appointments. I go to the ENT, where we determine sinus surgery is necessary this summer. Then we take Dixie up to the radiology department for a quick test, then a "quick" trip to the counselor turns into about four hours. (Don't worry about the radiology visit--they're just double checking her heart since she's on a stimulant. All is good.) At some point that day, Charlie is angry to find Dixie using the bathroom when he wants to use the solo toilet in the household. He begins screaming and throwing things. I scarcely remember it, as he screams and throws things a lot these days, but this becomes quite important later in the story. Also that night, we realize that the toilet is not flushing well.
Friday morning we wake up early so that I can take the kids to gymnastics day camp so that I can head to a different medical specialist for a "quick" and minor procedure, only I have to take a Wal*Mart detour for plumbing supplies. I work on the toilet for about an hour before heading to the doc. After waiting in the office for over two hours (as the doc was called in for emergency surgery that morning) I finally get called back and taken care of.
The procedure may have been minor, but the pain and misery are not. I go home and work on the toilet a bit more, clean a bit, then nap. Toilet, clean, nap. Go get kids, go clean, go plunge. Call my Mommy for help.
The next day, mom comes to watch the kids while I add a plumber's snake and driving to the gas station bathroom to my cycle of activities. Snake, clean, Stripes, nap. Snake, clean, Stripes, nap. Call my Daddy for help. Since he can't come until after church Sunday, mom takes the kids home for the night.
I sleep a lot. I sleep in and miss church, which is frustrating for a bit, but then I sleep some more before heading back out to the weeds. Poor Melody had woken up throwing up that morning as well. She was having some rather urgent trips to the bathroom to boot, which made bringing her home a rather frightening prospect. She and Papa stay home from church.
Papa and the kids arrive around 2 and he has The Big Guns when it comes to tools. He snakes from the toilet. He snakes from the pipe outside the house. He snakes from the top of the roof. Nada. He removes the toilet and sets it upside down in the shower and we all run into the hallway for the big reveal. Wrapped in soggy, used toilet paper is . . .
Melody's glasses.
We'd been missing those and knew they'd been in the bathroom during Charlie's tantrum, but neither Dixie nor I saw them go down the hatch and it never occurred to me to connect those dots.
Dad buys me a better weed puller on his trip to go get a wax ring from the hardware store. Toilet back in place, he goes to check how the line is from the house to the city's lines while I begin scrubbing the foul funk from every surface in the bathroom.
I clean up the glasses, which are completely unscratched. No bends, no scratches, no breaks. The only problem is that smell is not coming out. I leave them in a bowl of vinegar while I vacuum and steam mop all the floors and wash the rugs. There's no telling where all we stepped and what all was on the bottoms of our feet.
By bedtime Sunday night, my house is clean, my weeds fairly well taken care of, my kids all healthy again, my toilet working again. Just in time to enjoy the my vacation . . .
Except for the most awesome part. And truly awesome it was! Dowlan begins a job HERE in town after Easter. A job. A REAL full-time job with excellent benefits, decent pay and room to move up.
It started with weeds. Well, for me it did. Dowlan went Saturday morning to an 8 a.m. job interview while I faced my nemesis: hip-high weeds filling huge sections of our half-acre yard. After two days of pulling, the front yard was ready to mow, only we didn't have a lawnmower that worked.
Then came the throwing up. Charlie threw up Sunday morning, but just a few times. Mostly he laid around watching TV and looking dreary, weary and bleary. This gave me ample opportunity to pull weeds for 10-15 minute stretches, checking in with him between bouts. Dowlan and the girls came back from church about the time he perked up and then the weeding became a family affair.
Monday began with dentistry. The numbness had not yet worn off when it was time for me to take Charlie to see the psychologist for his first time. The therapies we've done in the past have run their course and I'm trying to figure out what to do next. The 'next' is going to the psychiatrist for meds to help with his overwhelming anxiety and enormous peaks of rage. About halfway through, my feeling started coming back into my face, and talking through the tingling/itching/drooling was indeed awkward.
Then more weeds are supposed to be in order, but I quit after not much effort. I'm blaming my misery on the dental work. Feed the kids. Say good-bye to Dowlan as he heads out of town, only a belt snaps and he doesn't make it off our street. I thank God that he did not try to take his car to his interview Saturday and that PennyVann had gotten him there safely.
Fix the car. Pack for camping. Sleep.
Tuesday had the worst beginning of all--Melody barely made it out of the carpeted room before throwing up. I barely got her on the couch and comforted before I began throwing up. Dowlan began mopping. Melody and I laid on opposite ends of the same couch, a bucket between us. At some point, Schrödinger begins to throw up as well, but at least he can be tossed outside. At some point, Dowlan heads back out of town to work. Melody and I are still not going very long at a stretch. At some point, he calls to tell me the excellent job news, but it scarcely registers.
Wednesday our entire bodies hurt. At some point that afternoon, the lawnmower gets bought and I get the front yard looking passable.
Thursday is time for more doctor appointments. I go to the ENT, where we determine sinus surgery is necessary this summer. Then we take Dixie up to the radiology department for a quick test, then a "quick" trip to the counselor turns into about four hours. (Don't worry about the radiology visit--they're just double checking her heart since she's on a stimulant. All is good.) At some point that day, Charlie is angry to find Dixie using the bathroom when he wants to use the solo toilet in the household. He begins screaming and throwing things. I scarcely remember it, as he screams and throws things a lot these days, but this becomes quite important later in the story. Also that night, we realize that the toilet is not flushing well.
Friday morning we wake up early so that I can take the kids to gymnastics day camp so that I can head to a different medical specialist for a "quick" and minor procedure, only I have to take a Wal*Mart detour for plumbing supplies. I work on the toilet for about an hour before heading to the doc. After waiting in the office for over two hours (as the doc was called in for emergency surgery that morning) I finally get called back and taken care of.
The procedure may have been minor, but the pain and misery are not. I go home and work on the toilet a bit more, clean a bit, then nap. Toilet, clean, nap. Go get kids, go clean, go plunge. Call my Mommy for help.
The next day, mom comes to watch the kids while I add a plumber's snake and driving to the gas station bathroom to my cycle of activities. Snake, clean, Stripes, nap. Snake, clean, Stripes, nap. Call my Daddy for help. Since he can't come until after church Sunday, mom takes the kids home for the night.
I sleep a lot. I sleep in and miss church, which is frustrating for a bit, but then I sleep some more before heading back out to the weeds. Poor Melody had woken up throwing up that morning as well. She was having some rather urgent trips to the bathroom to boot, which made bringing her home a rather frightening prospect. She and Papa stay home from church.
Papa and the kids arrive around 2 and he has The Big Guns when it comes to tools. He snakes from the toilet. He snakes from the pipe outside the house. He snakes from the top of the roof. Nada. He removes the toilet and sets it upside down in the shower and we all run into the hallway for the big reveal. Wrapped in soggy, used toilet paper is . . .
Melody's glasses.
We'd been missing those and knew they'd been in the bathroom during Charlie's tantrum, but neither Dixie nor I saw them go down the hatch and it never occurred to me to connect those dots.
Dad buys me a better weed puller on his trip to go get a wax ring from the hardware store. Toilet back in place, he goes to check how the line is from the house to the city's lines while I begin scrubbing the foul funk from every surface in the bathroom.
I clean up the glasses, which are completely unscratched. No bends, no scratches, no breaks. The only problem is that smell is not coming out. I leave them in a bowl of vinegar while I vacuum and steam mop all the floors and wash the rugs. There's no telling where all we stepped and what all was on the bottoms of our feet.
By bedtime Sunday night, my house is clean, my weeds fairly well taken care of, my kids all healthy again, my toilet working again. Just in time to enjoy the my vacation . . .
3/18/12
Contest!
Now it is time for a round of Guess What Angry Charlie Flushed Down the Toilet. Winner gets $5 PayPal. Leave your guesses in the comments. No cheating Oma and papa!
If no one gets it I all tell you Tuesday.
If no one gets it I all tell you Tuesday.
3/8/12
9iversary
Nine years ago tonight, I left my brother at the veterinarian's office and drove to church to walk down the aisle, wearing a veil and talking on the cell phone.
It was every girl's dream.
See, a month before our wedding, I moved into our new house. And Simon the Cat did not love the new house, therefore he would not use the litter box. Apparently, a large backlog of urine is decidedly not good for cats or their kidneys and emergency veterinary care was needed before we left on our honeymoon.
Because I had to get to my wedding rehearsal, which was just slightly more important than my Orange Boy, I left my brother with him after checking in and explaining, "This is my brother. I am leaving him to make any and all decisions regarding the cat's treatment including major procedures or putting to sleep, if it comes to that. I completely trust his judgment*."
During the rehearsal, the vet kept calling to ask questions. Then, as an entire room full of people are waiting for me to walk down the aisle one last time so we can go eat our brisket, they call back.
"We need a decision."
"That's why Trey is there. To make whatever decision is needed."
"Oh, he's not the owner. He can't make a decision for your cat. You have to make the decisions."
"A decision about what? I've answered a lot of questions, but I know nothing as to what is going on. I don't even know what 'decision' you're wanting me to make."
So they fill me in as I walk down the aisle. He will be fine, but needs a minor procedure that they can do that night. Then he'll be ready to come home Monday.
"I won't be here Monday. I won't be back in the state until Saturday."
"Can your husband come get him?"
"I won't have a husband until tomorrow. I am getting married tomorrow. Then we are leaving on our honeymoon. Tomorrow."
"Well, I guess you could come get him tomorrow if you take him on your trip. He can't stay unsupervised yet."
"I am not taking my cat on my honeymoon."
Simon has been one of the few constants in our crazy almost-nine years of marital bliss. We'd been dating 2 years when Dowlan drove me out to the no-kill shelter to pick him (and Abb . . . y**) out and bring him home. It was the same shelter we'd gone to to pick out Cassie, who had died of feline leukemia a few months earlier. We'd known she was positive for it when we first got her, which is why she could no longer stay in the home where she'd been. It is contagious, but she was healthy and had almost two good years left.
Simon is scraggly and scruffy and a complete wimp. He would purr and try to nuzzle cats who were trying to fight with him. Even when Schrödinger is at his pounciest, Simon never gave him a 'What?' look and a tail twitch. He was so considerate that he'd meow in the kitchen until we fed Cracker, the saltine-colored cat who gave birth to a litter of short-lived kittens under our old house one day and then stuck around for the next 6 years.
We used to joke that Simon Says was never any fun at our house, because all Simon ever Said was "Meow." He was a good kitty even if he did smell funny those last six months and occasionally drool too much. Simey was definitely a 'kneady' animal, especially on cold days when he caught you curled up under a fuzzy fleece blanket.
Sweet Simon passed away last Saturday. By our best estimate, he was 14 years old, having been guessed at 3-4 years when we got him 10ish years ago. It was a good, lazy kitty life and now he rests behind our barn.
Thanks for being a part of our marriage and family, Simon Boy.
*Disclaimer: When it comes to cats.
**Abb . . . y's fully name is Abbreviated Kitty. She has no tail. Abb . . . y is the abbreviation for Abbreviated Kitty. Nothing like a grammar joke for a cat name, especially one that mocks her disability. She has gone to live at Oma's House and Kitty Sanatorium as Schrödinger irritated the ever loving daylights out of her and put her even closer to the brink of psychiatric ruin.
It was every girl's dream.
See, a month before our wedding, I moved into our new house. And Simon the Cat did not love the new house, therefore he would not use the litter box. Apparently, a large backlog of urine is decidedly not good for cats or their kidneys and emergency veterinary care was needed before we left on our honeymoon.
Because I had to get to my wedding rehearsal, which was just slightly more important than my Orange Boy, I left my brother with him after checking in and explaining, "This is my brother. I am leaving him to make any and all decisions regarding the cat's treatment including major procedures or putting to sleep, if it comes to that. I completely trust his judgment*."
During the rehearsal, the vet kept calling to ask questions. Then, as an entire room full of people are waiting for me to walk down the aisle one last time so we can go eat our brisket, they call back.
"We need a decision."
"That's why Trey is there. To make whatever decision is needed."
"Oh, he's not the owner. He can't make a decision for your cat. You have to make the decisions."
"A decision about what? I've answered a lot of questions, but I know nothing as to what is going on. I don't even know what 'decision' you're wanting me to make."
So they fill me in as I walk down the aisle. He will be fine, but needs a minor procedure that they can do that night. Then he'll be ready to come home Monday.
"I won't be here Monday. I won't be back in the state until Saturday."
"Can your husband come get him?"
"I won't have a husband until tomorrow. I am getting married tomorrow. Then we are leaving on our honeymoon. Tomorrow."
"Well, I guess you could come get him tomorrow if you take him on your trip. He can't stay unsupervised yet."
"I am not taking my cat on my honeymoon."
Simon has been one of the few constants in our crazy almost-nine years of marital bliss. We'd been dating 2 years when Dowlan drove me out to the no-kill shelter to pick him (and Abb . . . y**) out and bring him home. It was the same shelter we'd gone to to pick out Cassie, who had died of feline leukemia a few months earlier. We'd known she was positive for it when we first got her, which is why she could no longer stay in the home where she'd been. It is contagious, but she was healthy and had almost two good years left.
Simon is scraggly and scruffy and a complete wimp. He would purr and try to nuzzle cats who were trying to fight with him. Even when Schrödinger is at his pounciest, Simon never gave him a 'What?' look and a tail twitch. He was so considerate that he'd meow in the kitchen until we fed Cracker, the saltine-colored cat who gave birth to a litter of short-lived kittens under our old house one day and then stuck around for the next 6 years.
We used to joke that Simon Says was never any fun at our house, because all Simon ever Said was "Meow." He was a good kitty even if he did smell funny those last six months and occasionally drool too much. Simey was definitely a 'kneady' animal, especially on cold days when he caught you curled up under a fuzzy fleece blanket.
Sweet Simon passed away last Saturday. By our best estimate, he was 14 years old, having been guessed at 3-4 years when we got him 10ish years ago. It was a good, lazy kitty life and now he rests behind our barn.
Thanks for being a part of our marriage and family, Simon Boy.
*Disclaimer: When it comes to cats.
**Abb . . . y's fully name is Abbreviated Kitty. She has no tail. Abb . . . y is the abbreviation for Abbreviated Kitty. Nothing like a grammar joke for a cat name, especially one that mocks her disability. She has gone to live at Oma's House and Kitty Sanatorium as Schrödinger irritated the ever loving daylights out of her and put her even closer to the brink of psychiatric ruin.
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