August 9th, 2010

Navigator




In celebration of sunshine, not rain, I took a hike with my daughter, my niece, and her parents, at Ledges State Park, a favorite childhood haunt. The girls hiked like little troopers through the thick woods, picking up centipedes and interesting leaves along the way. As we approached an area of dense overgrowth, we weren’t sure which way to go. My daughter saved the day by consulting her little compass — attached to her festive walking stick, along with a Happy Meal princess doll — and proclaimed “We need to head north!” (Her navigation skills aren’t to be trusted.) We ended up walking and listening for water, and were eventually rewarded for our efforts with a meandering creek bed. Shoes came off, and little girls splashed for hours in the cool, clear water. We skipped rocks, poked at moss, counted dragonflies, and thoroughly enjoyed a lazy summer Sunday. We have another appointment with Mother Nature in a week or so.

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July 5th, 2010

“You are my heart.”


I’ve told stories before of how doctors once said my daughter would probably never speak intelligibly, read, or become a contributing member of society.


How wrong they were.


And how disappointed I still am because of the angst they caused almost nine years ago. I was beside myself with the worry that I would be caring for her forever, and that she would always be dependent upon me.


I’m dumb.




Or maybe the professionals are dumb and they’re so deeply invested in textbook learning and dissemination of false information that they’ve never taken the time to really know people with Down syndrome, nor have they learned that the world is composed of all types of people, and just because one does not possess an advanced degree and a BMW does not mean that life holds no value.


Sorry. Soapbox.


The beautiful creature you see above, who is standing in the ocean for the very first time in that photo, is among the smartest people I know. She’s eight. She’s wide-eyed. She’s always up for an adventure.


And she reads, writes, and, like her mother, fails miserably at arithmetic. She’s a right-brainer, a bohemian, an artist.


And today, she melted my very heart. We were lying on the bed in a futile attempt to take a cat nap, but she was just talking. And talking. And talking. About birds, and her hair, and Toy Story 3. I was getting a little aggravated because I was really sleepy and just wanted her to close her eyes for 15 minutes. We were snuggled under the covers, my cold feet wedged under her warm legs, and I was drifting off.


And then she said to me, “Mom. You are my heart.”


Wow. Right back at you, kid.




In my life, I have never loved another person as I love her. And I don’t mean that I haven’t loved my other two kids, because I have, and do. But this is different. And maybe the way I love her has contributed to the demise of my marriage. I suspect it has. But it’s something I can’t help. Because when she was born, I didn’t love her immediately. I was scared of her. I was terrified she would die. I didn’t want to get attached to this creature I didn’t understand.


Bad mommy. I know.


She was six weeks early. I wasn’t even prepared had she had been completely “normal.” So you can imagine how the words “Down syndrome” felt going down. Kind of lumpy and suffocating. Luckily … and I chose that word carefully … luckily she spent seven weeks in the hospital, learning to eat. A lot of preemies have trouble with suck, swallow, breathe. And those seven weeks were the darkest of my life. I barely functioned. My two older kids loved it because everything they asked for, they received. I couldn’t make a decision, so I said yes. I was craptastic.


But that ended, and she came home, and she blew me away. I had to adjust, and reconfigure some plans. But that kid went everywhere with me, and for the most part I molded her around my life, instead of the other way around. It was decided that she would not be treated differently. She would have to meet expectations, and work for what she wanted, and pull her weight. And she does.


And she’s amazing. Her sense of humor has recently emerged, and her corny play-on-words jokes make me both laugh and cry. Because she does come up with them, and because she can.


Down syndrome is not easy. But it’s also not a death sentence for parents. No matter the functional level of a child with Down, there is joy, and hope, and a big, bright future.


I used to tell myself that if my daughter could communicate, I would be happy. Then I said I would be happy if she could learn to read. Then it became the ability to function at the level of a fifth grader. (Jeff Foxworthy would be proud.) But I have clearly been putting limitations on a person that surpasses expectations, and laughs at me as she does it.


She’s a great kid. She takes me by surprise all the time. She’s my heart.

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June 24th, 2010

How to not be a crybaby.


I used to cry all the freaking time.


Honestly.


Barely a day passed that I wasn’t blubbering over one thing or another. I cried in my car. I cried at work. I cried in my beer.


OK, my vodka and cranberry. I don’t like beer.


I recently cried every day for 33 days straight. Some days it was just a few tears, caused by stressful circumstances. Other days it was full-on bawling because my world felt so out of control. And it wasn’t just a feeling. It was out of control.


Then I moved. Out of my house. Away from my husband. With my daughter.


This is the first time I’ve said it aloud, to the world. Not because it’s a secret, but because I just haven’t been able to talk about it until now. I moved out of my house.


It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, yet it was long overdue. I paint my husband in a pretty positive light on this blog. In many ways, he’s a great person. But things between us have eroded, and he made a conscious decision to stop coming through for me. Which caused me to stop coming through for him. (Although he would argue that I went first, and he followed suit.)


But since this is my blog, I get to tell my side of things.


The gory details do not matter. Honestly, they infuriate me to the point that rehashing them will only make me … cry. So let’s not go there. This post is about not being a crybaby.


My first week out of the house was horrific. I was a robot, going through the motions, plastering on a smile for my daughter. When she wasn’t around, I was crying. In my car, at work, in my therapist’s office, in my beer.


I felt completely lost, alone, and terrified. I was concocting ridiculous schemes in which my husband and I would cohabitate in our house, raise our daughter together, and keep our money pooled so that neither of us would suffocate under the weight of our financial obligations. I was figuring out how we could be under the same roof, but not “together,” and analyzing how I would feel when he started dating women I don’t approve of. Ugh.


And my therapist must have been pretty concerned for my emotional state because he was thinking it was a decent idea. Or maybe he just knew I needed that (imaginary) lifeboat that week, so he played along.


Week two was a little better. My landlady is an enormous pain in the ass, and my dog’s separation anxiety is off the charts. Every morning, I haul his tiny butt to my house, which is just around the corner (I know) and stick him in the house so my landlady, who occupies the other half of this depressing duplex, won’t get sick of his howling for me, kidnap him again, and stick him in her compost bin. Not lying. Black dog. 90 degrees. Compost bin.


Where am I going with this?


To the place, I guess, where I’m starting to adjust. I now have blessed Internet, and two pieces of art are hanging on my wall. I have rooster glasses from World Market in my cupboard, and nobody to blame but me if I binge eat, or drink too much, or don’t put away the laundry.


I am not happier. I am not glad things worked out this way. I miss the man with whom I tried to build a life. I miss my home. This is not my home.


But I don’t cry every day. I cry some days. But not every day.


And I’m kind of proud of myself for doing something, rather than sitting around in my misery. We both needed me to move. We both needed to figure out our lives. Lives that are now even more hectic, and the true victim is the 8-year-old that is getting bounced around, and misses Dad when she’s with me, and misses me when she’s with Dad.


And I’m a little scared because I can feel myself moving away from the desire I once had to make this broken, shattered, destroyed marriage work. The fact that I wanted to was simply a testament to my ability to feel hope in even the most dire circumstances. That I believe God can heal hearts if said hearts are open to healing.


But I had to shut that down because I was drowning in my own tears. I was feeling terrible every second of every minute of every hour of every day.


Maybe one day the clouds will clear, I will have an “a-ha” moment, and the rainbows and fairies and unicorns will dance once again in my heart. Or maybe I will have to do some hard work, and look realistically at my life, and decide that despite how bad I feel and how much regret seeps into my every thought, I have to make the choice to be happy. Even if I don’t feel happy.


For now, I’m just getting by. But I’m not a crybaby anymore.

3 Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: , , , , , , , , , , , . | #



June 22nd, 2010

Sweet Shot Tuesday 06.22.2010




What better way to celebrate Summer Solstice than to spend a couple of quarters on lukewarm orange Kool-Aid? That’s just what my daughter and I did when we came across these sweet siblings running up and down the sidewalk, flagging down drivers-by. Could you have refused these sweet faces? I couldn’t. For half a dollar, we got a true taste of summer, and a reminder of why Iowa is so wonderful.

2 Comments | In: Art and Photos | tags: , , , , , , , , , . | #



May 2nd, 2010

Magic Kingdom


We visited Disney’s Magic Kingdom on Saturday, and here are a few of the pictures we took. I was wowed by the cheerful hospitality every ‘cast member’ extended — Disney employees are knowledgeable, friendly, and 100% there to make sure every guest has a great time. If you’re on the fence about going to Disney, let me push you to the other side. The Magic Kingdom is an unforgettable experience, especially for little girls that are enchanted with princesses!


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April 29th, 2010

Sanibel Island, FL


Just wanted to share a few photos from our trip to Sanibel Island, FL. We had such a peaceful time. Our daughter enjoyed her first visit to the ocean, and we enjoyed the relaxed island lifestyle, which included fantastic al fresco dining, and genuinely friendly people. Enjoy these photos, but forgive the flaws as they are unedited!


























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March 23rd, 2010

Feelings are stupid.


I love my kids. All three of them are generous and talented, and most important, quirky. They’re just weird birds that don’t follow the pack and like to figure things out on their own. Which I love about them.


I have unique relationships with each of them. There’s a bit of an eggshell aspect to my relationship with my oldest — I’ve come to the conclusion that he thinks I disapprove of his life (which I don’t), so he keeps me at arm’s length. I try hard to not come off as judgmental when I talk with him, yet still try to guide him when he asks for advice.


My youngest is still at that age where it’s about 60 percent parenting and 40 percent friendship. I have to issue the smackdown quite often so she won’t grow up to be a hooker (which I only say because she started doing a pole dance on a clothing rack at Target on Sunday), but we do spend a lot of time snuggling together in chairs with books, or painting, or watching movies. And we hold hands — fingers entwined — everywhere we go. She’s my right-hand girl. Also, I’m so much better at raising girls than boys (sorry, Son).


I’ve given all this backstory so that I can write about my middle child.


See, I share no DNA with this young woman, but we could not be more alike. We are friends. We are like-minded. And I am 100 percent comfortable talking with her about pretty much anything. And believe me, nothing is taboo. Sex, poop, reality TV. Our conversations run the gamut. No topic is too gross or embarrassing for us to touch. We’re caddy.


So yesterday, I called her to discuss a topic that makes her a little defensive. I was not exerting authority (or even being a bitch), but I was offering unsolicited advice. And clearly she did not want my advice. I know this because she hung up on me.


Gasp.


Now this is where the wires get a little crossed. She later said that her phone was cutting out and she thought it better to hang up than try to yell so I could hear her. (I still think she was doing the old “crinkle the paper by the phone” trick that we all learned from Corporal Klinger on M*A*S*H.) No matter, her logic sounds reasonable. And I have no reason to doubt her.


But still. A follow-up text saying, “Sorry I hung up … bad reception” would have made me not cry in my car.


Yeah, I’m a baby. In my defense, I was on the cusp of illness and had already cried four times that day. Sick makes me cry.


But I’m not going to lie. It did hurt my feelings. And I did send her a text telling her it hurt my feelings.


I could have let it go, not said anything. But I decided to tell her because I don’t want our relationship to be punctuated with awkward silences and unspoken feelings. I have always, always told her she can say anything to me. And I think it’s a sign of respect toward her to tell her how I’m perceiving something.


So I texted her. She said she was sorry. And now it’s over.


I’m writing about it because it is a testament to the kind of relationship I have with her. We love each other. We talk about things. We forgive.


I wish all of my relationships were that straightforward and mature. They’re not. But I’m working on owning my feelings (Psychobabble 101) and learning to accept people for who they are and what they have to give. Which sometimes isn’t what I want them to give.


In those times when I want more, I either need to accept that I can’t have it, or ask for it. And don’t even ask me what the hell “it” is … that depends on the person. I have many close and cherished friends and family members. My point is that I need to put the responsibility back on myself if I’m not getting what I want out of a relationship.


And decide whether it would be better to ask for more, or to accept that I can’t get what I want and decide what to do from there.


I know. I’m blowing your mind right now. I swear I didn’t smoke dope before I wrote this.


But I did see my shrink this week, and he makes me think about personal responsibility. And encourages me to have a backup plan for when I feel let down by others.


So there you have it. I talked about my feelings.


Where’s my cookie?

2 Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: , , , , , , , , , , . | #



March 16th, 2010

Lemon cake and a birthday wish


I turned 39 today.

Normally, I don’t give much thought to birthdays. Just another day. Truly.

But this year is a little different. 40 is coming. My carefree 30s are about to end. And I feel like I need to do something this year.

After much thought, I decided I’m going to make this a year of trying new things. And I don’t mean taste-testing grubs or skydiving. I really mean just stepping away from the status quo and trying to do some things differently.

I’m aiming for a new “thing” every week. We’ll see how that goes. Usually, time and circumstance don’t allow for much more than: get up, go to work, go home, take care of kid/house/hubs, go to bed. So squeezing in time for extras is hard. But I have a few things on a list, and I’ll write about them as I conquer them.

Now I shall recap the happiest moments of this birthday:

  • My beautiful youngest daughter stirred when I went in to cover her up at 6 a.m., and her first words were, “Mommy, you’re 39. I love you.”
  • My husband presented me with a perfect on-the-go breakfast of turkey sausages and Diet Coke.
  • I arrived at work, and on my desk sat a pan of Rice Krispies treats and new red pens, gifts from my best friend.
  • My parents, who I was missing very much, called me from the warm hug of Arizona to sing to me via cellphone.
  • A huge bouquet of spring flowers arrived mid-morning, sent by my husband.
  • I enjoyed lunch with my big brother (he paid — even better!) and my best friend.
  • I got to take a cat nap after work while my husband held down the fort.
  • I went shopping for jeans and found two pairs that fit perfectly and were on sale!
  • I was presented with a lovely lemon cake with whipped topping frosting, and my husband sang to me while my daughter played the harmonica.
  • I made a real wish when I blew out my candles, one that I’m pretty sure will come true in the next 12 months.


    • It was a good day.

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March 16th, 2010

Happy Sweet Shot Day!


For the inaugural Sweet Shot Day — a photography challenge created by Darcy over at My3Boybarians, I had to share this photo taken during a recent hike on the first day that really felt like Spring.

We shook off the weariness of our lost hour of sleep on Sunday by hiking to the pond up the way from our house. Rainboots were required attire, as the theme of the day was ’sog.’ Water everywhere. But since we were dressed for the occasion, we made no effort to avoid the puddles … we ran, jumped, skipped and splashed through every one!


We took along Daddy, Raggedy Ann, and our trusty walking sticks. Daughter’s has a compass and a Polly Pocket tied in among neon pipe-cleaners, and a turquoise bandanna. Mine clanks like a child’s tambourine because of the beer bottle tops I’ve nailed on. Her compass was useful as we navigated the far-fetched corners of her imagination. We marched and sang and talked to the birds. And — rather loudly — thanked God for a sweet, sun-kissed day.

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March 14th, 2010

Why cheese-balls aren’t welcome in my house.


I’ve been on Ambien for about nine months. My insomnia — a condition I’ve had my whole life — got out of control to the point that I became a sleepless lunatic, wandering the streets at 3 a.m. in a bathrobe and rain boots, a hammer in one hand and three Oreos in the other.


When the po-po picked me up, all I could say was “bwabababa … bwabababa.” Which either meant “Where’s my bellybutton?” or “I need a nap.”


Either way, my doctor intervened. He knew he could take the difficult route and put me on a regimen of lavender oil, melatonin, and exercise. Or he could fix me quickly and save the small children from the vision of Crazy Boots wandering up and down the sidewalk. He chose wisely and skipped the witchdoctorey, and gave me a prescription for beautiful, magical Ambien.


Tiny, powerful Ambien is the inducer of dreamless, still sleep that feels like a pillow stuffed with orgasms and rainbows and cotton candy. It just does not get better. Especially because I wake up without the drug hangover caused by OTC sleep remedies. That butt-dragging-til-noon feeling does not exist for me.


But there is one side effect.


If I take my pill and don’t go directly to bed, leftovers disappear from the fridge. Weird.


So have you seen on Dr. Phil where people get up out of bed in a complete daze, and sit down on their kitchen floor with at gallon of ice cream and no spoon, and eat the whole damn thing with their hands? And then they just go back to bed, freezer door hanging open, and wake up wondering why their hair is sticky?


Night eaters.


Don’t worry. I’m not that bad. But Ambien does cause me to eat, and have no recollection of doing so. So to say the drug causes blackouts is somewhat accurate. But that’s kind of the point.


I didn’t even know this was happening until one morning I ragged on my husband for eating all the pasta I was planning to give daughter for lunch that day. He looked at me. He laughed that ironic laugh. He took my hand and led me to the living room.


He showed me the bowl. On the table next to the chair I sit in every night when we watch TV. Yep.


He said, “I didn’t eat that. YOU ate it! I just watched. I was scared.”


At that moment, memories came rushing back. Times when I would pick up the living room and find a plate sitting on that table, or a fork on the floor (apparently I’m also a caveman during happy druggy time), and would curse my family members for not cleaning up after themselves.


Well. Guess what?


I’m the culprit. And I don’t even know what I ate. Knowing me, it was probably some super-healthy concoction like a baked potato topped with macaroni and cheese and canned peas. I’m that damaged.


The scariest thing is that I was cooking and had no recollection. And seeing the evidence of my slob-like eating habits, I can only imagine how reckless a cook I was in my drug-induced state.


The night after the big pasta debacle, I cut my dose in half. I also took the pill while sitting in bed, and lay right down. And I told my husband that if he saw me eating after 9 p.m., he was to dunk my head in ice water. Also, at my brother’s urging, I cut back on my caffeine.


I think the problem is solved, but my unfortunate discovery did explain why the weight loss wasn’t happening despite some dedicated dieting. I was probably eating my own body weight in spray cheese and beer nuts.


And that’s why cheese-balls aren’t allowed in my house. Not because I will imbibe during daytime hours or mindlessly nosh while watching CSI. Nope.


It’s because I might be found in the bathtub some night, soaking in a sea of cheese-balls, laughing hysterically while I eat my own “bathwater.”


That would be bad.

1 Comment | In: Food and Cooking | tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , . | #



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