kdiddy.org

We’re on vacation this week, and it’s been funny to watch how easily we settle into new routines. Every morning, cousins and parents and other assorted relatives gather at the cottage where my grandparents are staying for Danish and coffee. Then it’s to the lake or staying indoors to get a break from the sun, which is what I did yesterday. At dinner time, cousins and parents and other assorted relatives once again gather at the grandparents’ cottage for cheese, crackers, and adult beverages before it’s time to eat. Then there’s usually Olympics or Pirates games to watch and card games to be played.

Aside from the extremely old mattresses in our cottage (I just can’t deal with those and risk messing my up my neck) forcing the husband and I to sleep on the living room floor, where I came face-to-face with a millipede the other night, causing me to go through a rather elaborate process of covering it with paper plates, screeching, and eventually murdering it with a Kleenex box, we’ve settled into this temporarily nothing-but-pleasant existence.

EXCEPT FOR YOU! YOU GO TO HELL! YOU GO TO HELL AND YOU DIE!

The baby is having a blast hanging out with his cousins, dipping into a kind of free-range childhood that he just can’t get at home.

I let him pack his own clothes and he seems to have brought a collection of tshirts that are all either wrestling or monster truck themed. He’s fitting right in with the locals.

The other night, I mentioned a co-worker whose last day of work is today (Happy Trails, Em!) and I realized how strange it was to talk about the 9 to 5. Like, what is it? What do I do there? Occasionally, blips of real life will scuttle across my brain…I wonder if the mother-in-law remembered to put our garbage out or if we’ll be overrun with fruit flies when we return…I wonder if my plants are still alive…I wonder how our cats are doing. But they’re easily brushed away when I push off of the floor with my foot and set the porch swing going again.

PS: I wrote some funny (I think) stuff this week. Check em out on Act Classy and MamaPop.

What is normally a joyous, raucous party anthem becomes a crippling tool of depression in the incorrect context.

It is not Friday night, there are no parties on any sides, reaching for a 40 would probably be inappropriate and/or grounds for dismissal.

I am not faded, so a trip to the shore is out. No honeys to be seen. I am not in my hood so I can’t speak to whether it feels good or not.

Kani thankfully went out style 20 years ago. Don’t know the status of the gang bangers and their intended drive-by, but hopefully today will end without a bomb threat. I do indeed need to get my groove on. Perhaps I can squeeze that in before payday on Friday.

I am not buzzed. (This is how we do it.) I have no knowledge of whether or not South Central still does it like nobody does. (This is how we do it.) I wouldn’t classify my neighbors as having much of any flavor. (This is how we do it.) Track, old school, something something. (This is how we do it.)

Waving my hands in the air from here to there might lead my co-workers to believe I am choking and in need of a Heimlich. I’m not sure if I fall into the category of O.G. Mack or wannabe player. I guess the hood’s been alright to me but now that I am an upper case G I had really hoped for more financial security.

Our perspectives are inherently different, as are our vehicles.

Tipping this coffee mug up, but keeping my hands by my side to prevent the aforementioned panic.

I am not buzzed. (This is how we do it.) I have no knowledge of whether or not South Central still does it like nobody does. (This is how we do it.) I wouldn’t classify my neighbors as having much of any flavor. (This is how we do it.) Track, old school, something something. (This is how we do it.)

There’s a day care center on the campus where I work and the caregivers take the kids for a walk, weather permitting, every day. It’s a nice treat to be in the middle of the day and come upon a gaggle of toddlers squealing and enjoying the day. For them, everything is all, “YAY I WOKE UP AND HAD CEREAL AND I HAVE A DOG AND YOU HAVE EARS TOO AND LOOK AT EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME HOLY SHIT!” And it reminds me, of course, of my kid, both the moments of wonder that he still has at his advanced age and the time when he was still tiny and adorable and didn’t do things like READ COMIC BOOKS WHEN HE SHOULD BE GETTING READY FOR SCHOOL OMFG.

Anyway, today while I was running some errands, I saw the kids from the day care center on a patch of grass playing with one of those multi-colored parachutes.

I really had to restrain myself from running over and joining them because a) I had stuff to do and b) I would probably get arrested. I remember being so thoroughly thrilled when it would be gym class during elementary school and the parachute would appear because that shit was the most fun ever. We had a couple of different routines that we would do with the parachute. Sometimes we would hold it up in the air and kids would take turns letting go and running across to tag the next person to let go. We would also let one person sit on the parachute in the middle of it while the rest of us wildly shook it up and down. I always liked this because the silky parachute would always brush against my face and it felt and looked so pretty. But the best would be when the teachers would lift the parachute high in the air, all the kids would run under, and then the teachers would hold the parachute on the ground so that we could be encapsulated in it for a few precious minutes. Once under, we would all shriek and run around, because we were inside something, which was always so thrilling for some reason. And for a few wonderful seconds the world was just big enough for us to run all over it and was as colorful as it was in our dreams.

About a month and a half ago, I suddenly noticed that the skin around my lips was very dry, flaky, and red. I attributed it to seasonal weather changes and sensitive skin, generously applied various moisturizing agents, and tried to be patient until it cleared up. Except it never did. I finally admitted that it wasn’t going away on its own and made a dermatologist appointment.

I have a typically long wait for an appointment (May 14th) and am bracing myself for the hours of my life that I will waste in the waiting room. In the meantime, I did some Googling and figured that the condition was due to either rosacea (which I have), a fungal infection (Christ, I hope not), or a food allergy (dear God, no). So I refilled a prescription for a roasacea medication that I let lapse a few months ago in the hopes that that would help. The flakiness has subsided, and the area feels better, but the redness is still there and it’s really embarrassing. I feel like I look like a clown, which sucks because a) I’m not a clown and b) I really, really hate clowns.

I also can't juggle for shit, so this situation is untenable.

Anyway, yesterday was kind of brutal. I greeted the day on basically no sleep because of an hours-long thunderstorm that kept me up all night. Normally, I sleep through those but for whatever reason this storm demanded a bleary-eyed audience.

As I stumbled into work, my phone rang. It was the principal of my son’s school. I realized that if my son was sick, she wouldn’t be calling me, so that meant that someone was in trouble.

He had gotten into an argument on the school bus with his friend and had decided to kick his friend in the shins. Only he missed somehow and managed to kick his friend in the neck. I’m still not clear on the physics of this situation, but whatever.

My face turned as red as my clown lips as I realized, “My kid is a terrible bully and I am the worst mother ever.” The principal, however, didn’t seem too annoyed since the baby had already apologized to everyone ever and started crying because he felt so bad. And his friend, thankfully, was not hurt and had accepted the baby’s apologies. I silently thanked myself for never having enough time to sign him up for karate lessons. I was able to talk to him on the phone for a second. He sobbed as I reminded him that it’s not okay to get physical, especially not with your friend, and told him we would discuss it later.

Now, I understand that this was just a disagreement between friends that went to an immature and irrational place, and I don’t actually think that my kid is a bully. It’s just weird for me because when I was a kid, I was always the one to shrink away from conflict and, as a result, was often the target of teasing.* So I don’t really understand his perspective. On the one hand, I’m glad (?) that he seems ready to stick up for himself, which I never did, but on the other hand, I really don’t want him picking on anyone.

Later, when we finally got a chance to talk about it, I asked him if his friend was okay and if he was upset with him. “Yeah, I told him I was sorry,” he said. “We’re still broskis.” So, that was comforting. I would hate to see two broskis torn apart by a lapse in judgment.

* I’m happy to report, however, that I’m not bitter about all that stuff and finally stopped dwelling over it years ago since I know the people who teased me probably don’t remember it at all.

I’m ripping that post title off of JiveTurkey because this is really just a list of stuff I want more of and stuff I’m sick of. Let’s start with the negativity because that’s my favorite part.

I have had enough of:

• Statements about Whitney Houston and addiction. I know her death was untimely. I know addiction is serious. I’m just so, “Oh…bummer,” about her death. People lead messed up lives, they’re taken advantage of, and then they die in the tub. Alone. Just like all the rest of us.
• Chris Brown and the cloud of bullshit that comes with him. I don’t know what the answer is when it comes to talented people who are also piece-of-shit human beings. I do know that responding to the women who tweeted appalling requests after his Grammy appearance with, “They get what’s coming to them,” or “Someone should beat them so they know better,” is pretty vile.
• “Kids these days” whining. They wear their pants too low. They listen to terrible music. They don’t know who Paul McCartney is. Yeah, you know what that makes you? A cranky old person set in their ways and the reason why no substantive changes ever happen. Shut up.
• Valentine’s Day hype. “Wah, I’m single and this day is so hard for me,” or “Please validate my relationship by gushing over the gifts that my significant other gave to me.” It’s just a day. Do it or don’t.
• Communities on the internet and, obviously, the internet in general. I think at some point I may have been concerned about the dynamics of any given group of people on the internet, but that’s not the case anymore. It’s just one facet of life. If people are being jerks to you, disengage.
• This dress is a little too small on me at the moment. I’m wearing it today and the buttons are working kind of hard. I’m really ready to get back to a normal level of activity. Speaking of which…

Cheers:

• My neck is definitely getting better. This morning I was able to put my left ear close(r) to my shoulder, which I wasn’t able to do even yesterday! (Note: I started writing this post yesterday, so that fact might be relevant when considering the jeers section.) And I thinkthe numbness in my fingers is pretty much gone. I definitely still have issues with stiffness and tightness and pain, but measurable signs of recovery are so exciting. Check out this exciting physical therapy action shot!
  

  No, that's not a booger. That's my nosering.

• The husband and the baby. I really do just love the crap out of both of those guys. Despite my aforementioned annoyed indifference toward Valentine’s Day, we had a sweet time last night getting ready for the baby’s festivities at school. He signed his Valentines while I worked my crafty magic into a Valentines box in a swirl of Spongebob wrapping paper, box cutters, pipe cleaner, and ribbon.
  

  Hold on a sec, Martha's calling me.

• The husband had another Pittsburgh Track Authority performance at Belvedere’s on Saturday and it went really, really well. Again, about 300 people showed up to hear them and the headliner, Kirk DeGeorgio, and it was really cool to see so many people dancing for them. I’m so proud of him and them. I think something big might be brewing for them.
  

  Mine's on the left. Aren't they cute? All squished together and wondering what the hell they're doing? *

• Once again, I done brought the bake sale vibe to this performance and made brownies, which everyone assumed had drugs in them. (They did not.) Both were recipes from blogs that I read that I had pinned to Pinterest. They were Peanut Butter and Fleur de Sel Brownies and Mexican Hot Chocolate Brownies.
• Along those lines, I’m finding that Pinterest is much more useful than I thought it would be when I first started using it. I do, however, need to start a board called, “Stuff I Tried from Pinterest that SUCKED,” because there have been a few duds.
• Completely unrelated, the phrase, “Where’s Wallace?” has been a common refrain in our house and circle of friends, even though the scene from The Wire that it originated from first aired like 10 years ago.

It’s all very serious and intense, but then we got a Steeler named Mike Wallace. Whenever he does something good, the refrain, “WHERE’S WALLACE?” or “WHERE WALLACE AT?” goes flying. Imagine my glee when I came across this children’s book the other day:I have now redefined my life goals and am going to become a preschool teacher so I can read this to my young charges. What could be more adorable than a bunch of 4-year-olds saying, “STRING?!?! STRING! LOOK AT ME!?”

*PTA image source

Today was not good for a number of reasons from the beginning. I had neglected to set my alarm. We had forgotten to put out the garbage the night before. And there was the looming knowledge that my husband’s dog, Sheba, was going to have to be put down today.

After trying to work out some details of the day’s agenda with the husband, I snipped at him a few times before heading into work fashionably late. I struggled with an ongoing project that’s been making me feel increasingly incompetent, all while trying to ignore my neck, which has decided to kick my ass the last two days.

I had just decided to lie down on the floor next to my desk to give my spine a rest when my phone rang. It was the baby’s school. He had just thrown up. I called the husband, who told me that the vet would be coming to his mom’s house to take care of things with Sheba about an hour. I told him to stay there with his mom and his dog, since they needed him there with them. I called my mom.

“The baby just threw up at school and the husband is with Sheba because they’re putting her down today and my neck is ki-hi-hi-illing me,” I said, as I began to sob. I must have been such a sight, lying on the floor of my office, crying. She kindly offered to take me to get the baby and go back to her house, which is closer than ours.

The baby seems to have been only momentarily ill, thankfully. (Right after I typed, that he threw up again, so no more diagnoses from me.) The husband called me about a half hour ago to let me know that Sheba was gone.

Sheba was 17 and in really bad shape, so there was no sense that it was too soon or unfair. My dogs that I had as a kid died very young, and that was, indeed, completely unfair. I noticed in the last year or so that I was trying to sort of compartmentalize my heart, rationalize that Sheba wasn’t really my dog so I wasn’t too sad about her impending departure. But when the call came, I cried just as hard as I feared I would, and my heart seemed just as whole and hurt as if she had been my own from the beginning.

Last night, we stopped by my mother-in-law’s house and told the baby to say his good-byes. It was as sad as you would expect and lots of tears were shed. The husband had an errand to run so the baby and I were by ourselves at home for awhile before he went to bed. He let me cuddle him on the couch, the two of us needing each other’s comfort.

“I’ll tell you one thing I know for sure about dogs,” I sighed, as my baby’s sobs settled into shaky breaths, “They break your goddamn heart every time.”

So long, Sheba. You were such a good girl.

Sheba, 1995 - 2012

When I found out about my herniated disc, I had a couple of emotions run through me immediately. Relief, because it wasn’t something really terrible. Confusion, because how did I do this to myself? And fear/worry, because the strong possibility of surgery in my future and the relative seriousness of this injury threw me. Since then I’ve done a lot of googling and a lot of rationalizing. I’m not in constant pain so maybe I won’t need surgery, etc.

Wednesday night, we took the baby to the WWE show. Tickets to that were his big present this year. The husband and I just can not get into wrestling, but the baby really loves it so we go. The show was long and somewhere around the three-hour mark, I began to notice some pain. When we got home, I took one of the painkillers and relaxed.

A few hours later, the painkiller had worn off, and I had a hard time settling into a comfortable position in bed. This frustrated me and suddenly all of the emotions that I’d been swirling around burst out. The husband was concerned that the tears were all due to pain.

“No. I’m in pain but I’m mostly just scared and upset.”

He talked me down and I sat up for a bit to drink some water and pet the cats who had come to check on me when they heard me crying. The husband scooched up and kissed my neck. It felt better after that.

I had grand plans to make this really lovely photo montage for today, but because my kid is SO OLD, he was born before digital cameras were really A Thing and was several years old before they were cheap enough for us to afford one. So, the montage requires a great deal of scanning. I’m not saying it’s not happening at all, but it’s going to be delayed.

My son is 10 years old today. That is blowing my mind in every possible way.

Last night, I put him to bed and told him that I would see him when he was a 10-year-old. He grinned as he snuggled down into his blankets with his beloved stuffed dog and the little alligator baby toy that we had unearthed. I lingered for a second, staring at the top of his head, and wished for a second that I could keep tomorrow from coming. Not because I grieve for time lost or the fact that my child is getting older, but because I wanted just a little more time with him as a little boy.

I can’t seem to recap the past year of his life in terms of milestones and achievements. Things like “started to play saxophone” jumble up in my brain with “laughed for the first time” because it all seems like it has happened in an instant. When he was born and when the nurse first showed him to me, everything stopped. I think I’ve been existing mostly in that moment ever since, face to tiny face, staring into the greatest love of my life while everything continued around us. So while he has grown and changed and become this wonderful little person, I’m still there, seeing his face for the first time.

I’m going to get this out and then that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

1) To the victims of Sandusky, and to victims everywhere: I’m so sorry. We always tell you to listen to adults because we’re in charge and we supposedly know what’s best for you. You’re supposed to trust us. Every single person who should have kept you safe and didn’t failed you and there’s no excuse for that. I wish there was some kind of official list of grown-ups who have sworn to look out for you, but there isn’t. So let me say this to anyone who might need to know: if someone is hurting you, you can tell me. I will make it stop. I promise.

2) To the media (I’m looking at you Fox News, though the fact that you still get called “the media” is such a joke) and anyone else with the ability to communicate: stop calling this a “sex scandal” right the hell now. A sex scandal is something naughty, something whispered about, some indiscretion between two or more people that maybe amounts to nothing more than a not-nice thing to do. A sex scandal is not illegal or wrong in every possible way. There was no sex involved here. What happened was criminal, morally reprehensible, rape, abuse, terrorizing innocents, and a systematic cover-up that is so disgusting it nauseates me almost as much as the initial violations. And scandal doesn’t really cover it. This was a disgusting, shameful failure of unbelievable proportions. Stop thinking with your ratings and REPORT WHAT HAPPENED FOR ONCE.

3) We can talk more in-depth about sports and “sports culture” later, but I really don’t think that’s a factor. People who rape children, or who cover up said rape, or who defend the people who did said covering up don’t do so because “they’re sports fans and that’s how they are.” They do such things because they are f*cked in the head and rather disgusting individuals. I know that my intense devotion to the Steelers will tempt people to draw comparisons to the actions of our quarterback. Though this isn’t quite a parallel case, I think you’ll recall that plenty of people wanted him gone, because Lombardis really don’t matter that much. I can tell you for certain, as I established above, my love of sports doesn’t suddenly erase my sense of right and wrong. If someone, especially a kid, is being hurt, and I have the power to stop that, I’m going to. I don’t care who I cheer for.

One thing that my brain keeps having a hard time wrapping itself around, much like a stripper on her first night on the pole, is that there won’t come a moment where I just feel like an adult from that point on.

I’ve been working a lot this year on mindfulness. That is, being present in what I’m doing at the moment instead of constantly living for some future life that I think I need to achieve that may or may not come to fruition, regardless of my efforts. On the one hand, it motivates me to push myself further. On the other, much uglier hand, it causes me stress and anxiety that is later followed by deep regret. (ie, If we had known that pursuing more education would not only not help our financial situation but actively make it waaaaay worse, the husband and I would have just enjoyed life, spent more time with the baby and UGH HERE I GO AGAIN FRETTING ABOUT STUFF I CAN’T CHANGE FAAACK.)

I also do this thing where if I have a bad day or a bad week, to me it’s not just one of those things that happens, it’s indicative of how I’m not an adult, how I’ve never matured to a point where I can just take care of myself and my family, how I’m too stupid and irresponsible to do what I need to do to not have a frantic period of time.

This morning, for example, I woke up and looked at my phone for a second. My iPhone is my alarm clock and I usually hit the “snooze” button a few times before waking up for real. And I usually take a few minutes to look at my email or something, not because I’m sooo important or sooo addicted to email, but getting my brain engaged helps me to actually wake up and get moving.

This morning, however, I looked at my email and then fell asleep again at some point. (I apparently engaged in some sleep-emailing, which is like drunk-texting but dumber, as I forwarded an ad about Barnes & Noble’s Columbus Day sale to some very confused person in my contacts list. Sorry if that was you.) I only woke up a little bit later, around the time when we should have been leaving the house to go to the baby’s bus stop. To my credit, I stayed relatively calm when, in my less graceful days, I might have started yelling at the baby and the husband to GET MOVING RIGHT FUCKING NOW OH MY GOD WHHYYYYYYY IS THIS HAPPENING BEING LATE IS THE WORST CRIME OF HUMANITY AND WE’RE ALL GUILTY.

Despite my calm exterior, however, I spent the rest of the morning engaged in an intense self-flagellation-by-inner-monologue session, belittling myself for not being like a real grown-up and not only getting up early, but going to bed at a decent hour so I can get enough sleep. I also don’t regularly prepare for my mornings by getting stuff like lunches and clothes ready to go the night before because I always reach this point in the evening where I just need the day to be over and I think about basically starting the next day already and it makes me want to cry and write run-on sentences.

I’m also dealing with a lot of bills and student loan matters right now that I feel absolutely powerless to control and I want so badly to be able to hand the whole matter over to someone and be like, “Deal with and/or pay these for me.”

And I say to myself, “Real adults get enough sleep, pay their bills on time, don’t have a ton of debt, get up early, exercise, have lunches and coffee ready to go, don’t make their kids late for school, never have dirty hair, dress appropriately, and they might be tired but they suck it up and do what they have to do, and YOU are not an adult until you do all of these things every day.”

I’ll have a streak of a few days where all of these things fall into place, but then something will knock me slightly off kilter and it all seems to fall apart. And I don’t understand why I can’t just MAKE it happen.