“I’m sorry you’re so sick.” I say, as I hold her close to my chest.
“I’m sorry I’m sick too.” She says, as she runs her little finger up and down my arm.
“I just want you to get better so I can kiss you and tickle you and play hide and seek with you again.”
“You can kiss me on my head. Just not on my mouth. Because you’ll get sick like me.”
So, I place my lips on her head and kiss her over and over again. Her hair smells like strawberries.
She begins to cough and is unable to stop. She buries her face into my chest and she starts to cry.
“It hurts right here when I cough, Mommy.” She says through the tears.
I can feel the lump forming in my throat, the tears welling in my eyes. I begin to cry with her. “I know and I wish I could make it stop hurting. I’m sorry, Chunky Head. I’m so sorry.”
Last night things took a turn for the worse. A fever of 104.7, pain in her chest, her tummy, her head. It was awful to watch, knowing there was very little I could do to make it better. A trip to urgent care was made. “It’s a cold.” the doctor said. “Give her these medications and bring her back if she gets worse.”
Out the door we went.
I did my best to help her.
Tylenol. Water. Baths. Chicken noodle soup. Foot rubs.
And while those things helped ease the pain temporarily, they couldn’t relieve her entirely from her suffering.
I don’t want to see her suffering anymore. I don’t want to hear her weep because the coughing hurts. I don’t want her to wake up in the middle of the night sobbing because “she’s burning hot.”
I just want to hear her laugh and sing and be bossy with her brothers again.
I just want her to be healthy and whole again.
Hopefully, she will be. And hopefully it will be very soon.
Trying to NOT Get Diabetes is HARD. Especially When Your Body Apparently WANTS to Get Diabetes. OR SOMETHING.
The last time that I wrote about my weight and the never ending battle to lose some was on August 20th.
When I wrote that, almost 2 months ago, I was 210, down from 237. I spoke of how I had began taking metf*ormin after being diagnosed as “insulin resistant.” I wrote about how wonderful it felt to finally see the results of my many hours at the gym. I wrote about how I was only 11 MOFO POUNDS AWAY from being under 200 pounds.
One would think that by now, I would have lost those 11 pounds and finally weigh less than 200 pounds.
But, no.
I am currently 206 pounds. Only down 4 pounds since August 20th.
That’s right. I said “only.”
I’m trying to focus on the positive– I’m stronger. I have more energy. I feel much more like myself. Every time I run a mile on the treadmill (without stopping! That’s important for you to know!) I have to fight back tears of joy because a year ago, I couldn’t walk on the treadmill without almost passing out. (More on THAT later.) There truly are positive things happening with my body.
But The Weight.
The God Bless It Weight.
Losing weight is no longer about feeling great in a pair of jeans. Losing weight is about not getting diabetes. It’s about not getting heart disease. (To go along with my thyroid disease and my metabolic syndrome.)
Last week I found myself in bed 5 of the emergency room at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Chest pains. Heart palpitations. Even though everything checked out fine (Chest wall muscle aches, PVS) it was a kick in the ass reminder of what could happen to me in the very near future if I don’t lose this weight.
I’m down 31. And that’s good. That’s better than no pounds, but it’s NOT!ENOUGH!
And I’m afraid it never will be, no matter how many medications I take or how many hours I spend in the gym. That’s what it’s starting to feel like. Like it’s just never going to happen.
Because that’s been my reality for the past 2 years of my life.
It’s frustrating beyond any words I could type here.
I keep telling myself to stay positive! To focus on the achievements, no matter how small they be. “YOU CAN AND YOU WILL DO THIS!” I say to myself as I do 100 butt crunches in the gym.
But right now? Right THIS VERY MOMENT. I feel like it’s a losing battle and it’s depressing the hell out of me.
If only I could get below the 200 mark. That would be such a huge mental breakthrough. Just doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to happen. I won’t give up, I can’t give up, but OH MY GOD I FEEL LIKE GIVING UP.
October 14
Someone asked me how I planned on honoring my Grandpa today (the one year anniversary of his death.) The question knocked the wind out of me. I hadn’t given any thought to how I’d honor him today. In fact, I hadn’t even realized a year had passed since he died. It feels like it just happened yesterday. Because it still hurts my heart that he’s gone. I don’t cry as much, but the pain is still there. I feel guilty that I didn’t plan a beautiful way in which to honor his memory today. I decided to post something I had written early this morning while thinking of him. These are not the beautiful words he deserves, but they come straight from my still broken heart.
I miss the sound of your voice.
I miss the way you smiled at me.
I miss the way your eyes lit up when you saw my children.
I miss the way you wrapped your arms around them.
I miss listening to your stories. Even the ones you told over and over again.
I miss the smell of your hair gel when I hugged you hello and goodbye.
I miss calling you in the middle of the day for no reason at all.
I miss the way you’d get angry when someone dared to wear a hat inside of your house.
I miss your sarcasm.
I miss the way you’d look at me when I talked with nothing but love and admiration in your eyes.
I miss the way you’d spend hours talking to my husband.
I miss the white hankies you carried in your shirt pocket.
I miss the candy drawer.
I miss seeing your comb on top of your sink when I’d go to visit.
I miss the way you’d go through at least 10 names before you get the name of the person you were talking to right.
I miss the way your tongue stuck out when you laughed.
I miss the way you’d say “I love you, Y.”
I miss worrying about you when you walked up the driveway because I was afraid you’d fall and hurt yourself.
I miss asking my Mom how you were when I hadn’t talked to you in a few days.
I miss kissing you goodbye whenever we’d part.
I miss seeing your can rest beside you while you sat on my sofa.
I miss your surprise visits.
I miss your generosity.
I miss hearing you talk about Hank.
I miss the way you’d talk about your mother and how wonderfully she took care of you.
I miss your hands.
I miss your awful jokes.
I miss your perverted comments about women.
I miss you eating the turkey neck at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I miss the way you sat in your chair.
I miss sending you pictures of my children in the mail because I knew it would make your day.
I miss watching you enjoy Gabby singing a song, or the boys telling you a story.
I miss the way you’d get upset with me when I waited too long in between visits.
A year later, I miss every little thing about you, Grandpa.
And I think I always will.
Things That Make Me Excited, Childhood Crush Edition
My daughter is in love with Keith Urban.
I know. She’s only 5! She doesn’t know what love is!
She’s in the kind of love that you fall in when you’re playing house with your friends and you need a pretend husband. She’ll be playing house and she’ll be like “Okay, Mommy. Keith Urban is my husband.” And I’ll go “No! He’s MY husband.” And she’ll go “no, Mommy! He’s my husband. You’re married to Daddy!” And I’ll go “But we’re playing house! I don’t want to be married to daddy when we’re playing house! I want to be married to Keith Urban!” And she’ll get all pissed and go “Mom! I said it first! He’s my husband! GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”
You know what I’m talking about, right? We all had our Pretend Husbands when we were little girls. The Pretend Husband you’d fight your sister for. You’d be all “I AM MARRIED TO THE GOPHER YOU STUPID HEAD!” And then you’d rip her hair out. Or, maybe that was just me and MY sister.
I can remember 2 Pretend Husbands from my childhood. I’m sure I had more. But there were only 2 that I remember having ACTUAL PHYSICAL FIGHTS over.
Doc from The Love Boat and Ponch from CHiPs.
I can’t really explain Doc. I think I was in love with His Brains. But Ponch? I don’t think I HAVE to explain Ponch. He was dark. And sexy. And had Great Hair/Great Teeth. His smile made you want to “stand reaaaaally close to him” so you could have his babies. (Because THAT is how babies are made, you know. My Mom told me so. Don’t believe her? IT’S IN THE BIBLE.)
Even though I’ve grown up, my crush for Ponch has lasted all of these years. Even now, when I see him on cheesy reality shows, I feel a little tingle in my… um… “heart.” If I’m being honest, my mouth is watering right now thinking about that dark, delicious man.
There is a point to this post, I promise. In fact, let me just go ahead and get the the point now.
“The Point- in pictures”
I met my Childhood Pretend Husband, you guys. I can only hope I got close enough to be carrying his baby right about now. Fingers crossed!
(Details will be given on my review blog later today. Or tomorrow. Or by the end of this week. You know how I am.)
Because I love it and am going to frame it
I need a title for this post.
Last month I treated myself to a girls night out for my birthday. I went with Lena and Jodi (who does not have a blog) to see my friend Jay perform at the Improv. The night started out kind of rough. For instance, we went to the Yard House to have a drink or two before the show and the hostess was all “It’s a 45 minute wait.” So we were all “we’ll just sit at the bar.” And she was all “There aren’t any tables available at the bar, BUT! You can go to the lounge in the back. There are sofas there you can sit on.” And Lena goes “do you serve there?” And the hostess was all “Yes. We do.” So on our way there, we stop a waiter and ask him if we’re going the right way. “We’re looking for the sofas?” I say. “Yes, they’re at the VERY back.” as he points to the verrrrry back. We get there and I see a bench right next to people who are eating and turn to Lena.
“Is this it?” I ask.
“No. They said sofas. In the back.”
But I didn’t SEE any sofas. So Jodi sees a door that goes outside and says “they must be out here.” And I’m like “but, that’s an alley. I mean, HELLO? There’s a bike chained to a tree?” And Lena’s all “but they said in the very back!” So, we walk out the door, to the alley (where there is a bike chained to a tree, you guys.) And we see some wicker sofas, stacked on top of each other, WITH THE CUSHIONS STACKED ON TOP OF THE SOFAS.
We had been mislead! And humiliated!
After we finished being outraged about that, we walked to a little mexican place down the street. I wasn’t really hungry, I mostly just wanted a glass of wine. So I had a great idea. “Let’s just order appetizers and wine!”
Lena and Jodi agreed.
I chose the appetizer.
“We’ll have the spinach dip and chips.”
Lena and Jodi were a liiiiiittle bit on the “WTF” fence about spinach dip at a mexican restaurant. But they went along with it.
Until the spinach dip was served.
basically, they had put spinach in a bowl with sour cream and mixed it. It was AWFUL.
Lena tried to turn things around by talking about fun and exciting things, like “diagnosing her rash.” And I tried to get the party started by talking about things like “not getting diabetes.” Oh, and also? “googling goiters.” And my friend Jodi, who had never been out with the 2 of us together, was like “What just happened to my life here?”
We left that restaurant feeling a little… hungry? Ashamed? Ready for a good laugh? (Not at our expense?)
Jay didn’t disappoint. The show was GREAT. But the best part of his act (Besides the part where he thanked me for coming? And then MENTIONED MY BLOG? AND TOLD PEOPLE TO READ MY BLOG?) was the stuff he did about kids. He told hilarious stories about his son that were completely familiar and true to my experience with kids.
He told us he was writing a book.
A book about kids and what weird (but wonderful) creatures they are.
I tell you this because last night, he posted this on twitter:
I immediately thought of Stefanie. She once needed a title for her book, asked her readers for suggestions and they came through for her. So, I responded with the following.
(Not sure that the *wink* was entirely necessary. But, it’s in the past. I’m letting it go.)
And so, here I am, posting this on my blog, asking if you want to help Jay name his book. Leave comments here and I’ll send him the link to this post.
It’s About Trust, Stupid.
A few months ago, someone pointed out a comment made about me on another blog. I don’t remember the exact words, nor do I care to go try to find it, but it went basically something like this:
“Can we talk about bloggers who favor one child over the other? Like, I didn’t even know Y from Joy Unexpected HAD two sons because she only talks about her daughter! I feel sorry for her boys, because clearly her daughter is her favorite!”
From what I remember, someone jumped in to defend me, but that comment was quickly followed up with something like “No, she’s a wacko who clearly loves her daughter more. I mean, have you seen her flickr account? Almost all of the pictures are of her daughter! The proves that she loves her daughter more!”
After 7 years of blogging, after numerous hateful emails/comments, after entire posts dedicating to mocking me, I’ve learned to ignore assholery on the internet. I don’t think that every negative comment directed at me is assholery. Sometimes people have valid points, however, most people who have valid points don’t find it necessary to leave comments like “Your husband is ugly and your fat! No wonder you’re sad!”
Anyway. My point being that I’ve learned to not react when I read Mean Things about myself on my blog or elsewhere. It may sting when I first read it, but I take a deep breath and remind myself that it isn’t really about ME, but about the other persons issues. However, this particular comment (or should I say “accusation?”) was most definitely about me.
And IT PISSED ME OFF SO HARD.
Do you know why?
Because it couldn’t be farther from the truth.
It is the opposite of the truth.
Liiieeessss.
The reason I don’t write about my boys much here anymore is BECAUSE I love them so very much.
Let me explain.
I started this blog 7 years ago. My boys were 7 and 11 years old. And oh my God, they were so hilarious. Most posts on this blog were about them, about funny things that they said or did. I would point you to my archives, but I’m kind of ashamed of how awful my writing was when I first started this blog. There were some really great stories I had to tell of those wonderful little guys who loved to talk about farts, boobs and balls. But then those boys started to grow and so did my audience. I had to start thinking about how the stories I told about them could affect them in real life. I began to feel as though some of the stories were not mine to tell. I even went so far as to delete and or put posts in draft that I thought were out of line to have ever told in the first place.
As Andrew approached his teenage years, I began to worry about losing his trust. I never wanted a story I told her to betray his trust in me.
Some of the things that he said or did were worth sharing on this blog because of the entertainment value, but they weren’t worth risking losing his trust.
So I stopped telling his stories.
Same with Ethan.
I told myself that I’ll always write about my feelings about my sons, I’ll always right about experiences that I feel are worth sharing and yet, at the same time, do not betray their trust. I make sure that every thing I write here is something I’d be comfortable with if one of his friends from high school stumbled across it. Any story that I write here now is something that I feel they could read and would not feel betrayed in any way.
Writing posts about my love for my children, or my struggles with learning to let go as they grow older will never be off limits. But most day to day stories of their life will be, because of their ages. I’m not saying I’ll NEVER write about my boys. There are things I believe are okay to share. But, being a teenager (or a tween) isn’t easy and I don’t want to do anything to make it harder on them.
I don’t ever want my sons to be afraid to tell me something for fear it will be blog fodder.
I am telling this story now because the other night The Teenager walked into my room and asked me if I had posted something about him having a girlfriend on facebook.
I hadn’t.
But, I had mentioned him having a girlfriend on a blog post.
And apparently, someone from my Dad’s church (Hi, You!) reads my blog. That person approached my son after church and asked him about his girlfriend.
It could have been an awful situation. If I hadn’t carefully thought that post out, if I hadn’t written it knowing he could read it if he decided to log onto my blog. Or that a friend from church could possibly find it and read it. I told him that yes, I had mentioned a girlfriend in the post, then proceeded to tell him what I had written in the post. He wasn’t upset with me at all, because what I had written did not betray his trust. Nor had I written anything in that post that I wouldn’t have said in a room full of people with him standing there. However, what had just happened confirmed what that choosing to limit what I write about my boys is THE RIGHT CHOICE for me and my blog.
Can you understand now why I am so careful about writing about my boys WHO I DO NOT LOVE ANY LESS THAN MY GIRL?
I feel as though my daughter’s stories still fall into the “okay to share” category. Because she is 5 and honestly? Who is embarrassed to read stories about what you did when you were 5? Who hates your parents for telling stories about funny things you said/did in Kindergarten? I mean, my parents have pictures of me standing buttass naked in my grandma’s front yard in a photo album that THEY SHOW OTHER PEOPLE. I think it’s hilarious. Wouldn’t be so funny if it were pictures of 16 year old me naked, right?
I suppose I can understand someone who just started reading this site questioning why I write more about my daughter than I do my sons. I hope that this post helps clear things up a bit. And if after reading this, you still believe that I LOVE MY DAUGHTER THE MOST, well, you’re kind of an asshole. An ignorant asshole.
NYSee
Last Wednesday I took a 5 hour plane ride to New York City. I had the best time I’ve ever had while in NYC. I have a lot to write about it, mostly because I never want all of the Little Things that made this trip The Most Wonderful. Unfortunately, when one takes time off of work to go play in NYC, one pays for it up the butt when they return home and try to catch up on all of the work they missed. So, until next week (when I hope to be caught up) I leave you with my favorite photos (so far) from this trip.
Bonus: Because RICH!
Hopefully this is as bad as it gets.
When you have a child entering The Teenager Years, people like to tell you about how awful it is. How much hair you’re going to lose from the stress. How much you’ll want to slap the shit out of your once adorable little child because they will talk back! How scared you’ll be when you’re not home because they could be doing drugs! Or impregnating girls! Doing Graffiti on abandoned buildings! I understand those are all very real possibilities. I watched my own parents struggle with a son addicted to drugs. (He’s clean AND a minister now, so it all worked out.) To say I was dreading these years is an understatement. I was TERRIFIED.
My oldest is now 16 and guess what? It’s been easier than I ever imagined.
Until he went and got a girlfriend.
It’s not that he’s doing anything awful. He’s not. If he’s not home on the weekends, he’s at church, practicing with his band from youth group. Or at the movies with friends from church. He doesn’t talk back much more than any kid his age would. He’s never raised his voice to me. He’s never lied about where he’s at.
But the phone. Oh my God. THE PHONE.
He’s on the phone from the minute he gets home from school until the time he goes to bed. I have to fight with him to do homework because he’s too busy laying on his bed with the phone attached to his head. And if he’s not on the phone with her, he’s chatting with her online.
Monday night I had HAD ENOUGH. His father had told him to get off the phone at 8pm. At 9:45, The Middle Child came out of the room, annoyed that he couldn’t sleep because The Teenager was still on the phone. “Mom, can you PLEASE tell him to get off the phone?”
I was PISSED.
I walked down the hall, slammed his bedroom door open and told him to hand over the phone.
“When will I get it back?” He asked.
“Not tomorrow, that’s for sure.” I said.
He didn’t say anything back, but he did let out a Very Loud Sigh.
“That’s what you get for not obeying your parents.” I said, while looking up at him. Damn Teenagers, growing taller than their parents.
I fully expected him to start begging for his phone that morning. His argument would be something like “but Mooomm, what if I need to call you for something after school?” And my argument would be “not my problem. You should have thought about that before you disobeyed me!”
I was pleasantly surprised when the morning passed without a single mention of his phone. “He’s a good kid.” I thought to myself. “I’ll give him his phone back when he gets home from school.”
Just after school got out, I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. It was The Teenager. “Mom” he said. “You’re going to be so mad at me.”
My heart dropped.
He continued.
“I took my phone this morning.”
!!!!
“What? Why would you do…”
“BUT MOM! Let me finish! I got it taken away. My teacher took it away. You’ll have to come to the office to get it.”
He’s had his phone since the beginning of his Freshman year (he’s a junior.) That has never happened. It was as if Jesus said “I’ve got this one, Mom.”
Thank you, Jesus.
Tony thinks we should pick it up without telling him we did so. I think we should leave it there for at least a week. It’ll be there when I’m good and ready to pick it up.
So, yeah…Teenagers.
Writing While Sobbing
I had a wonderful relationship with my Grandpa. I have vivid memories of the times that I spent with my him as a child. There is one in particular that I think back on when I start to miss him.
We’re driving down the street in his car. I’m in the backseat, standing up. I have my arms around his neck. “I love you Grandpa” I say, as he’s cruising down the street. “I love you too, Y.” He says back. The wind is blowing my hair all over the place. If I close my eyes, I can feel the wind on my face. I’m smiling from ear to ear as we talk and sing and laugh.
That memory is in stark contrast to the last one that I have of my Grandpa.
I walk down the hall and see him laying on his side on his bed. His belly is hanging over the bed, filled with fluid that his heart could no longer pump through his body. His face is swollen to the point of being unrecognizable. His entire body was blue and he was talking short, labored, quick breaths. It took my brain a minute to process the magnitude of what my eyes had just seen. My Grandpa, a man once so full of life, love and laughter, was slowly suffocating before my eyes.
My knees got weak, my heart started to pound as I glanced around the room. My aunt, grandma and brother were all there in the room.
Finally, I was able to speak.
“OH MY GOD.” I screamed.
“He’s FINE.” My aunt said with this smirk on her face, insinuating that I was overreacting. I wanted to punch her in the face. I literally had to refrain from physically attacking her because clearly, he was NOT fine. And clearly, she wanted him to die. She didn’t want me acting up and doing something crazy, like, you know, call 911 for help. Because then they may try to do something crazy, like, you know, KEEP HIM FROM DYING.
I knew in that moment that would be the last time I’d see my Grandpa alive. I knew that my Grandma (and my Aunt) had made the decision that this was it. That all of his suffering would soon be over if we just all stood there and watched him die from lack of oxygen to the brain. (what had happened was my grandma had given him pain medication for a fall he had a few days earlier. She gave him the pills every 4 hours as the doctor had instructed, but his kidneys had given out and wasn’t able to process the medication. He wasn’t getting oxygen to his brain the way he should have been. So maybe using the term “suffocating” isn’t medically the correct term. BUT HE WAS BLUE. AND WASN’T GETTING ENOUGH OXYGEN TO HIS BRAIN. NOT OKAY.)
I went outside and called my sister, who was on her way to his house. “We have to do something to help Grandpa.” I said. “This isn’t right.”
As soon as my sister arrived, she made it clear that we were going to call 911 and we did. Honestly? I can’t remember who called, but I can remember the HELL that broke out after the phone call was made.
My aunt was upset that we called.
And so she lashed out at all of us. She accused us of not loving him because we didn’t visit him as often as she did. Keep in mind, she lived 5 minutes away. We lived more than an hour a day. She could walk to his house if she wanted to. She screamed and shouted at us. And we screamed and shouted back. “How DARE YOU SAY I DON’T LOVE MY GRANDPA.” I shouted. “SHUT UP, SHUT UP RIGHT NOW.” My sister shouted.
It was ugly, probably the most ugly thing I’ve witnessed in my entire life. There was my beautiful grandfather, laying on his bed dying. And those he loved the most were throwing around accusations and screaming at each other. How awful of her. How awful of all of us.
I’ll never forget the sight of my grandfather, strapped half naked to the gurney being carried out the door of his mobile home. I’ll never forget how I wanted to turn away because it was too painful, but couldn’t because I knew it would probably be the last time I’d see him alive.
It wasn’t.
I saw him again at the hospital. After they had given him the oxygen he desperately needed. He was no longer blue, his color had returned to normal, as had his heart rate. But his brain had been damaged.
I held his hand, squeezed it tight and said “I love you, Grandpa. I love you so much. Thank you for being my Grandpa. I love you. I love you.”
He tried to respond. He did. He muttered, but he couldn’t form the words. I like to think I know what he was saying. “I love you too.”
I never wanted my last memories of him to be what they are.
I wish more than anything that my last memory could have been the week before, when I kissed him goodbye after spending the day with him for his birthday.
“I have to go now, Grandpa” I said, as I leaned in to kiss him.
“Already?” he said.
“Yes. I have to get things ready for tomorrow. The kids have school and I have to work.”
“Oh, I understand how that is.” He responded.
“I love you, Grandpa. Happy Birthday.”
“I love you.” He said, in the precious way he always did.
I kissed him, had the kids say their goodbyes and I walked out the door. I thought it may be the last time I’d see him alive, but I suppose I had hope that it wouldn’t. I do wonder, if I had even thought it would be the last time, why I didn’t say more? Why I didn’t stay longer? Why I didn’t hug him tighter? Why I didn’t kiss him a thousand times over?
It wasn’t the last time I saw him alive and yet it was. Because the last time I saw him alive he was brain damaged, he was unable to talk. He was unable to return my hugs and my kisses.
And I’m still sad about it. I’m still angry about it.
But I’m not the only one who’s angry. My grandma is angry too. She’s angry that we called 911. She told me this the other day. “Grandpa didn’t want to die in a hospital.” she said. “But Grandma! He was suffocating! It wasn’t fair to let him die in pain like that.” She snapped back with something about how awful that hospital was and how the bed they put him in was too small for him and if we had just “let him be.” he could have died in peace in his own home.
I haven’t been able to process her anger about this. It was the first time she’s said it to me and my God, it hurt. I never meant to go against my Grandpa’s wishes, but I also never wanted to see him suffering. I’ve always thought we did the right thing in calling for help that day. But what if I was wrong? What if he wasn’t telling me he loved me in those last moments I had with him in the hospital? What if he was asking why I didn’t just leave him be to die there in his bed?
I can only remember ONE TIME in my entire life that my Grandpa got angry with me. It was when I dared to wear jeans to church. “That’s disrespectful!” He shouted. “Go change into a dress!” I still remember how devastating it was to my little self. This man adored me, I could never do any wrong in his eyes. Until that moment. I had done something that angered him and I never wanted to do it again. And I never did.
Or did I? Was he angry with me on the day he did for what I had done?
I’ll never know the answer to that and it is killing me today.