Into the Remodel: Day 7

Sure. I say I’m going to journal more and then I make like a fart.

We “broke ground” a week ago. Suddenly the plans to finish the basement, which have been stalling out every year for the past seven, have grown legs. And wings. And a jet pack. Like “vrROOOOMMM, Bitchezz!!”

One day last week, I had the plumber, the furnace-r, an electrician, a furniture deliverer (we had ordered new recliners), and a furniture buyer (I sold an old recliner) show up basically at the same time.

Jackhammers were involved for a couple of days, one of which was a snow day so the kids and I were all cooped up in the master bedroom trying to escape the noise and vibrations. It was awesome.

No. No, it wasn’t.

It only took one week for Sparring Partner and I mutually decide that we will not finish our basement because obviously one of us is not on the same page as the other (Lord, have we ever been??). By Sunday evening, the plans were back on. I conceded and agreed that we do not need a dishwasher or an ice-maker for the basement bar. He conceded and agreed…to nothing.

Yet.

I am biding my time, rubbing my hands maniacally as I plot. I will get a goddamn broom closet even if I have to refer to it as a “Pantry” for the rest of my natural days and label it using a woodburning tool right onto the cabinet door, sohelpmegod!

Marshmallows

My daughter, Aitch (6), came to me asking for a mid-afternoon snack. I asked her what she wanted. Her reply, “Marshmallows!” When I told her no, she asked why then was the bag was already opened.

It’s a new bag, brought home Christmas Eve, and it’s the s’more style, which are rectangular in shape (genius, right?!). Both children are sneak-snackers and pantry-raiders. I have to keep candies hidden. I usually find out that the stash has been discovered when wrappers are found stuffed between couch cushions, in their bedroom trash cans, or under the coffee table.

I called both of them to the kitchen counter and explained very simply that neither of them was to get out of their seats until someone had confessed to opening the bag of marshmallows without permission. The accusations and denials streamed out of them, even going so far as to blame dad, who in fact loathes marshmallows.

As for me, I made good use of the time by emptying the dishwasher and tidying up the kitchen. After ten minutes, I was impressed neither had caved. By twenty, I was wondering if in fact the mice had somehow learned to coop their resources and used the scissors to open the bag. After all, It was crudely cut open…

Doodicus (13) worked the angle that if Aitch would just admit to the crime, her punishment wouldn’t be as severe. Aitch’s defense centered around Dood being a self-confessed sweetaholic. I had nearly cleaned up everything in the kitchen when Aitch confessed as dramatically as one could when admitting to opening a bag of marshmallows without permission after 30 minutes of duress.

I dismissed Dood from the counter. I asked Aitch to bring the bag of marshmallows over to where I stood by the sink. Once she did, I opened the cabinet to the trash and instructed her to throw them away. I saw the flush of humiliation immediately bloom from her neck to brow line. She let out a plaintive whine, “Why??” I calmly explained that it was her punishment. A couple of minutes of silence passed as she stared into what must have appeared a shiny white maw of a monster slurping eagerly for its unexpected treat; I stood looking down at the part in her hair, now also very pink with rage.

She threw the full bag into the trash and ran from the kitchen in tears.

A few minutes later, she returned to tell me that because I had made her cry, it had given her a sore throat and now hurt to talk. I said nothing. My throat hurt too.

Land Not For Sale

First, I have a back-story, but you can skip to the break if you want the short story.

In 2004 Sparring Partner and I bought 10 acres of prairie. The 20 acres adjoining ours were owned by DrC. Over the next two years we built and moved into the home where we currently live. DrC decided to sell his 20. His Realtor, in a case of mistaken identity, asked Sparring Partner’s dad if he was interested in buying the 20 acres next to him. But those acres were next to him, they were next to us. Follow?

SP’s dad, an entrepreneur to be sure, instead of correcting the Realtor that he had the wrong Surname, decided on a whim to buy the 20 acres himself. My FIL never built next to us as had intended to make arrangements to either let us buy the property outright or leave it to SP in his will. Unfortunately, he never followed up on that intent before falling terminally ill and dying a couple years ago. The property became part of the family Trust by default.

A year ago we agreed to buy the 20 acres from that Trust. It was a very difficult decision financially because if FIL had “sold” it to us before his death, he would have done so at whatever his cost had been, which relatively and frankly speaking, was almost nothing. Instead we ended up having to pay appraised value because it was part of a Trust. I agreed to this with the stipulation that we would immediately turn around and sell 10 acres off to defray the cost.

My husband, being the sentimental kind of guy he is, even though the property wasn’t anything more than an acquisition to my FIL, had our Realtor list the property exorbitantly high. He decided that if I was going to make him sell the land, he wasn’t going to let it go easily.

We are not quite to the break, if you’re still following along. This fall we received our first offer, but nearly half of what it was listed. Sparring Partner was so insulted, he refused to even counter. A couple of weeks later, the same buyer made a legitimate offer, albeit still too low. We countered. They came back a little higher. We countered. They came back a little higher. We did not counter. Yes, it was a joint decision. We determined that the potential buyer made the offer because it was their first and preferred choice. Acreage in the area with distinct advantages like ours, are rare. We were convinced we hadn’t heard the last from them.

BREAK (FINALLY!)

Last week, we received an offer to buy 10 acres we had listed for sale. It was from the same people (with the same Realtor) who had made an offer several months ago. There was some countering on both sides, but on Friday we accepted their offer. Our Realtor emailed the paperwork to us to review, and then early this afternoon she forwarded an attachment of a map confirming the property that was to be sold. As soon as I opened the file, my stomach dropped. Due to an inaccurate description, the buyers and their agent had thought they were purchasing the 10 acres adjacent to ours instead of the lot furthest away.

We immediately called our Realtor and told her of the error. I am so disappointed by what I’m sure will be this as a deal-breaker. I’m angry at how careless and irresponsible both the Realtors were for not catching it and misrepresenting the property. Finally, I am just heart-sick for the buyers themselves. We’ve seen them walking the property more than once with a couple of small children and people who were likely their parents. They are a young family hoping to build a home. They’ve stood and watched the sunset on what they thought would be the location of their deck. They probably made announcements this weekend, and even when they went to work this morning, the week of Christmas, that they finally found where they will raise their children.

I wouldn’t want to be the buyer’s representative right now trying to explain how he screwed up, but I feel even worse for that family.

Broken Bone

Doodicus turned 13 earlier this month. A week ago he broke his first bone: the middle finger of his thumb. Funnily enough, he did it playing dodgeball at school. I got the call while I was at the farm visiting my mom. It was a good excuse to clear out. I had just asked her if she knew who I was.(1) She didn’t. It confirmed my suspicisons.

The nurse said that Dood probably sprained his thumb, but he was in a lot of pain and it was swollen. He has a tendency to dramatize so I decided to just pop into a convenient clinic to have it examined. The doc’s guess was that he had hyper-extended it when the ball hit his hand, but they took x-rays to confirm. Both the doctor and nurse were surprised when the film developed and the bone was clearly broken.

He fashioned a finger splint that he can remove when he showers, and in two weeks we will see his pediatrician to see how it’s healing up.

(1) I was helping mom get together an outfit for her Christmas Party with her Red Hat Society ladies. She kept asking “What are we doing?” and I’d tell her. Over and over again she’d ask, and over and over again, I’d tell her. Even though I remained calm, inside my patience was strained. We all took her nodding and giggling as interaction and passive acknowledgement to what was going on around her. It wasn’t. It isn’t.

Grandma

I read the headline of an article on how documenting your day helps maintain your memory. I didn’t read it nor will I link to it for a couple of reasons.

1.) It’s so obviously true. Reading something that you wrote down based on personal experience returns you to that moment, even if it’s like looking through a hazy mirror.
2.) Because my memory is so foggy, I need to practice using it and not rely on the internet to fill in the blanks.
3.) I want to write more on what’s in my head right now; not what use to be or even what could be.

That means things won’t be that interesting here because they will be garbled, hashed, and more sloppily thrown into the white space than ever before. Worse, I’m going to try literally working through lost words in my vocabulary as I type instead of depending on an electronic thesauruses. I’m tired of the words always on the tip of my tongue but never passing my lips. I’m sure that has a medical term. In fact, I know I’ve looked it up before, but I’m not going to now. I will use spellcheck, so for that at least you can be grateful.

According to my TimeHop app, it was three years ago I scheduled a neurological appointment for my mom to discuss her own edge-teetering dementia. The doctor said Alzheimer’s but my sisters refuse to make that leap. There’s a difference and I suppose as an outsider you can say it’s obvious what those differences are, but I can feel it. It makes no difference when you see her hazel eyes clouded with the inability to recognize me, even if it’s for a moment or several seconds. I see confusion and hurt.

At Thanksgiving, she and my six-year-old daughter, Aitch, disappeared into her room. I was busy with prepping the meal, but later Aitch said that grandma Jean sat on the floor and watched her play, giggling at her antics. There was no conversation. I think that’s why grandma slipped away. Aitch has no expectations from her grandma to answer questions about what craft she’s been keeping herself busy with, or if she’s done Christmas shopping, or has she started baking cookies.

After we ate, I asked my mom who was seated at the table, if she wanted apple or pumpkin pie. She chose apple. I went to the kitchen and plated up a slice and added a dollop of ice cream. I then asked her if she wanted a fork or a spoon. She looked up and through me, her face blank, and shrugged. In that instant, I knew…I knew that she didn’t know why I’d ask her if she wanted a fork or a spoon. I calmly rephrased the question, “With your apple pie and ice cream, would you rather use a fork or a spoon to eat it?” Inside I crumbled.

The mother of a friend of mine died a couple weeks ago after losing a painful battle with cancer. Following the visitation as I was walking away from the church with my husband, Sparring Partner, I must have made said something trite like “I can’t imagine what she’s going through,” and in an uncharacteristically harsh response, Sparring Partner said, “No, you can’t. Some day you will.” His dad’s death a year and a half ago still leaves him raw.

The thing is I have already lost my mom. Physically she can sit beside me, warm in the way that a body pumping blood is, but she’s gone. I can’t talk to her like she’s my mom anymore. She doesn’t care that Aitch is a first grader and wants to be a clothing designer. A few years ago, she’d laugh and tell stories the hundreds magazine clippings of fashions I have glued to into tablets, or of the dozens of dress sketches I had that to were in a cardboard box in the attic. She doesn’t care that my son, Doodicus, is a year away from a school driving permit or that he went to his school dance. My son will never hear the story from grandma Jean about my first traffic ticket even though she was in the passenger seat when it happened. There’s no reflection or magnification of my pride, fear, humor in her eyes that anyone else might get when they talk about their family.

Three Months to the Day

For the past couple of months, I’ve been updating from my private group on Facebook. It’s not the same, but honestly, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Since we last talked, Aitch turned five; Doodicus started the sixth grade and his grades half-way through the first quarter were all As; and I found out that November 1st will be my last day at work for the surgeon as he has opted to retire early.

I’ve been a little consumed by the last point because I hate job-hunting. I mean, who doesn’t hate job-hunting, but for me, I hate it to the point I cry and get heart palpitations. Administrative jobs in a town of 20,000 are as rare as hen’s teeth.

In the past two weeks, I’ve applied for one position for which I really don’t qualify, but I figured what the hell. Actually I think the worst part is the interview. All those canned, pointless questions that the interviewer has written on a form and they write down the answers without truly even listening to what I’m saying… It’s the worst. I wish that they would just invite me out for coffee and just see if we like each other personally. Speed-interviewing, if you will.

Without my job, we will also be without health insurance. For our family, the ACA is a godsend. My apologies (insincere though it may be) to those of you who disagree. I’ve never pulled punches before and I won’t start now, but the only people I’ve heard vehemently appose the ACA are those who have had their coverage provided by their white-collar employer with little or minimal contribution from their paychecks. My husband and I make a decent living and have basically been responsible for a premiums. We are a blue-collar family that pays our bills. When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2010, we paid our medical bills in full and on time. And then after that, I was uninsurable unless through an employer, and I had to wait a year to even be eligible for benefits. I’m tired of hearing from friends and family through my social media contacts that the ACA is meant for deadbeats and people who don’t pull their weight economically. They are narrow-minded, candy asses.

With that, I bring you this in keeping with current events. It’s brilliant. It comes from Brian Krewson at “the metric ruler“.

So, Imagine that the company you work for held a poll, and asked everyone if they thought it would be a good idea to put a soda machine in the break room. The poll came back, and the majority of your colleagues said “Yes”, indicating that they would like a soda machine. Some said no, but the majority said yes. So, a week later, there’s a soda machine.

Now imagine that Bill in accounting voted against the soda machine. He has a strong hatred for caffeinated soft drinks, thinks they are bad you you, whatever. He campaigns throughout the office to get the machine removed. Well, management decides “OK, we’ll ask again” and again, the majority of people say “Yes, lets keep the soda machine.”

Bill continues to campaign, and management continues to ask the employees, and every time, the answer is in favor of the soda machine. This happens, lets say… 35 times. Eventually, Bill says “OK, I’M NOT PROCESSING PAYROLL ANYMORE UNTIL THE SODA MACHINE IS REMOVED”, so nobody will get paid unless management removes the machine.

What should we do???

Answer: Fire Bill and get someone who will do the fucking job.

Bonus: Bill tells everyone that he was willing to “Negotiate”, to come to a solution where everyone got their payroll checks, but only so long as that negotiation capitulated to his demand to remove the soda machine.

Bill is a fucking jackass.

This is my therapy.

Lots of things happening, but either not feeling the urge to blog about it or lacking the time. Right now, I’m sitting quietly next to a digital dictaphone while it records the dictation from another dictaphone because I screwed something up at work. Sparring Partner has eradicated the louder humans from the house, so I’m doing what I can with the silence gratefully acquired.

***********

We were on vacation a month ago. We spent a week at my Southern-living SIL’s vrbo beach house. The arrangements were perfect for us; specifically within a very short walk to the ocean and our own private pool. We had invited another couple and their two children who are close to Dood’s age, but they weren’t able to accept. Instead my single, child-free sister was crazy enough to accompany. I think by the time she got back home to her two cats, she was thankful to be both single AND child-free. I often felt torn between letting the kids dictate the schedule and making sure my sister was able to take advantage of the local offerings.

Unfortunately, the most memorable part of the trip for me was the harrowing return flight. I won’t bore you with details, but please for the love of the sweet baby Jesus, if you bring carry-on luggage with you, and even if you plan on not letting that item leave your side the entire flight, put one of those stupid little tags that are piled on top of the terminal’s check-in desk on your bag. Shit can, and will, happen if you don’t. I was so traumatized that I have cried each time I recount the details.

**********

I recently had a birthday. My mom sent me a birthday card and at the bottom of it she wrote, “Come get your rabbit.” I have no fucking clue what the hell that even means.

**********

My daughter turns five next week. I still get phantom let-down pains when I think about her infancy.

**********

Next month Aitch will start kindergarten. Not a big deal, certainly, but I’m mostly concerned about how my tu-tu wearing, pink! purple!, girly-girl will adjust to the navy/khaki school uniform requirements. I imagine it’s also more of a struggle with girls than it is for boys at that age. The worst part for Doodicus was teaching him how to tuck in his shirts and to button a fly. In the past year, Dood has worn one pair of pants that did NOT have an elastic waist, and that was for his grandpa’s funeral.

**********

Since my FIL’s death, my MIL has been holding my husband emotionally hostage. If before I didn’t care for her, I now want to kick her in her artificial hips. HARD.

**********

Sorry to end on what can only be the most somber of notes, but it is important to note that my son’s best friend’s dad committed suicide on July 4th. I had the chance to speak privately with Danny’s* mom the day after the funeral. While the dad probably had always had depression, it was both undiagnosed and untreated, however the circumstances that led to the self-inflicted gunwound were mostly acute in nature; an accumulation of events from the preceding handful of days. If the news hadn’t been horrific enough, Danny was the first on the scene.

I was lucky enough to be able to see Danny the day I talked to his mom, but I was utterly speechless with him. We made small talk as we admired the crucifix his pastor gave him at the funeral. While I am completely heart-broken for the family, I am also very angry at the selfishness of the dad. He left two young boys behind who are THE age they need to have dad around (not that there’s really an age a boy doesn’t need his dad…), but both currently face heavy bullying (one of the reasons my son gravitated to Danny in the first place because they were both picked on by the same kids when they first met years ago). Plus the younger child has emotional issues that likely will have to be closely monitored all his life. It all just makes my head and heart ache. It’s unimaginable the burden the mom carries. At the close of our talk, she said on top of everything else, she feels humiliated by what he did and knows that the community will judge her unfairly. Sadly, she is right. I know being there just to listen will help, but I really wish I had the ability to perform just one miracle…just the one.

*name has been changed

That’s ONE Way to Get Off the Do Not Call List

My son has been getting lots of junk mail, all from insurance companies. Even worse, it’s Medicare supplement insurances. Each piece annoys me anew because someone sold his name and address to solicitors, and I couldn’t think of anything I would have used his name.

This week while I was out mowing the yard, a car pulled up our driveway. A man wearing khakis and a polo got out and he had a folder in his hand: a salesman. I groaned, shut off the mower and met him at the door. He introduced himself as a rep from Mutual of Omaha. He explained that he likes to meet the people in our area that will be turning 65 and wanted to meet Doodicus.

Without missing a beat, I opened the front door and called out, “Doodicus, would you have a second?” A couple seconds later, he rounded the corner, fresh from a shower wearing his bathrobe. The salesman, Brian, was agape. I put my arm over Dood’s shoulder and asked,

“Hey, bud. When’s your birthday?”

“December,” he replied.

“And what year?”

“2001.”

“Great. Thanks!” and he ran off back down the hall.

Brian turned to me and said, “His birthday isn’t until December??” as if THAT was the most surprising thing about meeting my eleven year old son.

I explained that Dood gets lots of junk mail and not just from M.O.O. He was appropriately shame-faced even though I’m sure it wasn’t his fault. I guess that’s one way to make sure someone’s name gets off the contact list, wouldn’t you agree? I didn’t even have to get assholey on the phone.

240

Imagine this level of Crazy in YOUR home.

Even though I’ve known his collection was extensive, I just found out that my FIL owned approximately 240 firearms.

TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY GUNS OWNED BY ONE MAN!

And now five children will split that collection between themselves. That’s just shy of 50 each, including to my husband, Sparring Partner. I’m furious.

Would you believe that S.P. thought I would be less angry if he told me that he had no intention of keeping them all? He’d sell most of them. This coming from the man who still has his sibling’s Christmas presents sitting on his desk waiting to be sent out…from LAST year. This coming from the man who hasn’t finished insulating his shop that he built seven years ago and yet recently informed me that he’s ADDING on to it this year (over my goddamn dead body, he is! (which if he gets 50 guns, he increases his opportunities and odds)). This coming from the man who adamantly refuses to let the kids have a trampoline because of how dangerous they are.

I should mention that since he told me all of this about an hour ago, which immediately preceded me telling him that he’s fucking crazy if he thinks he’s bringing any of those guns into our house, he’s been trying to draw me into some small chat about Doodicus’s homework; the night sky; and now just a moment ago, a rerun of Frasier. Does he really think he can baffle me with bullshit?

(Image courtesy of The Guardian.)

Day Is Done

I found out that my FIL passed away very early last Friday morning when I woke up at 1:30 a.m. and realized Sparring Partner wasn’t in bed. I checked my phone and saw a missed call. I knew then.

SP made it home about an hour later and napped fitfully until the alarm went off at 6:00. Despite the awkward conversations between Grandpa and Doodicus, Dood adored his grandpa. I think it was one of those things where Grandpa took full advantage of his larger than life persona. SP and I decided that it would be best to tell our son right away about his grandpa’s passing.

When his dad told him that grandpa had passed away, Doodicus burst into tears. I made sure to give SP a heads-up that Dood may end up additionally upset because he was suppose to go to a friend’s house that night for a birthday party and eleven-year-olds aren’t exactly known for their unselfishness. And while he did ask through his tears if grandpa’s death meant he couldn’t see his friend, he also was upset that he hadn’t been able to see grandpa the night before like he normally does as he hadn’t been able to finish his homework in time to go visit.

We gave Doodicus the option to stay home from school or to go ahead and go and let that and his friend’s party be a distraction. I was a bit surprised when he opted to go to his classes, but happily so. We asked him not to say anything to Aitch since we had decided to tell her at the end of the day. I called my employer to let them know I would be on leave until Wednesday.

Friday ended up in a whirlwind of planning and appointments for my husband. Even though my FIL had terminal cancer and hospice care offered, he and the family had made no plans whatsoever. No plot, no casket, no obituary, no memorial, … Nothing. That coupled with the fact that many relatives would be traveling across country, the funeral was tentatively scheduled for Tuesday. The day after SP’s birthday.

My husband and his two sisters powered through the day, getting one appointment after another and making almost impossibly difficult decisions. With the kids in school, I went to the mall and tried to find appropriate attire for myself and both kids, something I literally had been thinking about doing a week earlier, knowing that the time would come soon. Dare I mention how difficult it is to find what I would deem as appropriate funeral attire for a four-year-old girl a week after Easter? Plus, there’s no place in town to buy children’s shoes except a small Payless store in the mall so I ordered several through Zappos knowing that I would have them by Monday.

By the end of the day on Friday, we were drained. We eventually told Aitch who at first seemed fine. However, as she thought it through, she asked, “Does that mean I won’t ever see Grandpa again?” and that of course brought new tears from all of us.

Over the weekend, my job was to simply keep the kids distracted and out of Sparring Partner’s hair. He spent it helping clean out the room at the nursing home and shopping for a suit. Again, small town living was detrimental. The only place in town was at a department store in the mall, which was akin to JCP. The only jacket they had in his size was a Long and it didn’t match the pants. When he tried it on for me, he looked at himself in the mirror, saw the jacket sleeves nearly covering his hands, and admitted that it simply was not going to do. Sunday, he drove to Sioux City to a menswear store and found himself a quality suit that fit. However, the tailor wouldn’t be able to alter the pants until Monday morning so SP had to make another trip, which thankfully he made to and back in record time with enough to spare for him to get ready for visitation Monday afternoon.

Neither of the kids brought up Grandpa over the weekend, and Monday they headed off to school like normal. It was an incredibly beautiful day, almost reaching 80F. It was SP’s birthday. I managed the the kids for school, made last minute preparations for the funeral the next day, and cleaned the house for visitors. I had intended to let Doodicus babysit Aitch while I went to the church for about an hour, but instead SP asked that I just come in with the kids and join him. Fortunately, I had already showered and dressed for the occasion; unfortunately, I had not prepared the children. Aitch ran around the church wearing a dirty sundress and no shoes. She looked like a hillbilly, complete with two ratty hair braids framing her face.

The most difficult part of the visitation was when Aitch spotted daddy in the front of the church surrounded by friends and family and she ran to him. He scooped her up and was holding her when she noticed the casket. “Who’s that man?” “That’s Grandpa.” “Why is he sleeping?” “Honey, he died.” Cue new tears.

Tuesday morning greeted us bleakly with cold and sleet. We were grateful that a friend was taking the little children and babysitting them together. Doodicus looked so grown up in a dress shirt and tie. Sparring Partner looked more handsome in his black suit than he did the day we got married. We arrived to be with family about 45 minutes early, but it seemed like hours. When I saw them prepare to close the casket, I asked Dood if he wanted to see Grandpa one last time, and as they closed the lid, he lost it and pretty much was weepy through the entire mass.

The ride to and from the cemetery was difficult. There were a couple stretch limos waiting for the family as well as one standard four-door Lincoln, which I chose as it allowed room only for just the three of us and the driver. Doodicus didn’t have to worry about being embarrassed as he cried on the short drive.

My FIL was given military rights, and the sight of the police officers and the Honor Guard at different intersections standing at full attention in that freezing rain was incredibly moving. They played Taps and a petty officer from the Navy presented the flag to my MIL.

Sparring Partner is holding up as well as can be expected, as is his mother. Out-of-state relatives trekked back to the airport early, no thanks to Winter Storm Waldo who delivered not just rain and sleet, but hail, thunder, lightning and snow (enough to leave us without electricity Wednesday morning). The support we’ve received from relatives and the community has made it a bit more bearable. The kids have a firm grasp of what has happened, but I think Aitch’s out-of-the-blue remarks like, “Grandpa’s in heaven and we won’t see him again,” over breakfast makes us all stop short for a moment. I’ve made sure to tell Doodicus that Grandpa was always very proud of him even though he had a hard time showing it. Each day will be a little easier as the unimportant and petty thoughts will drop away leaving behind the memories of how grand and formidable Grandpa was sitting at the head of the supper table.

DAY IS DONE (TAPS)

Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky
All is well, safely rest
God is nigh.
Fading light dims the sight
And a star gems the sky, gleaming bright
From afar, drawing near
Falls the night.
Thanks and praise for our days
Neath the sun, neath the stars, neath the sky
As we go, this we know
God is nigh.

P.S. I decided to journal this for Doodicus and Aitch for Some Day.

Grief by Proxy

Around midnight last Thursday, my FIL died peacefully in his sleep with my husband and his sister by his bedside. He lived an incredibly full and rich life in the nine plus decades he had, but his loss has profoundly affected Sparring Partner who spent more nights than not in his room over the several months at the rest home watching either football, baseball, basketball and even the coverage of the 2012 Presidential Election.

My first official date with Sparring Partner started with us going to his parents’ house where they were having a major party to celebrate dad’s 70 birthday. It was a big deal because family flew in from the east coast to surprise him. When I walked down the stairs to the basement where the family had gathered, I was instantly immersed in the sounds of what I imagined would be similar to a noisy pub in Boston. The laughter (braying) and the *clunk* of full beer glasses which followed the din of "Cheers!" are still fresh in my head as if I had heard it last weekend, not 20-plus years ago. Maybe it’s because even when there were no extended family members around, my FIL still could summon that impression just by sitting at the head of any table.

However, even with as much personality as my FIL had, we just didn’t click. It’s not because he was ever standoffish or boring, as confirmed by the sheer number of sympathies we have been extended, which were always extended along with an amusing anecdote. I’ve had time to think about the relationship I had with my FIL and to wonder why it seemed like little more than strained politeness. Everyone around me adored him! Even from the first moment my own father was introduced to SP’s dad, they struck it off like peas in a pod.

I think much of my inability to simply LIKE him had to do with the fact he was such a boisterous and unabashed bigot. I was furious the first time he dropped the N-bomb in front of Doodicus when he was a toddler. His prejudice would come up when simply watching a football or basketball game since it would seem that most players are not Irish Catholics (who knew??). The slurs he wouldn’t even bother trying to whisper should have sent people away from him. But not here in conservative, Republican, Christian, Nebraska. My FIL would even refuse to eat Mexican dishes, because "it might affect my eyes!" Of course, then there was the time early on when he referred to Middle Easterners as "sand-n****s", and I angrily told him that I didn’t appreciate that, especially as my brother-in-law is Jordanian. He simply poo-poo’ed me with the excuse "that was different. Jordan is politically neutral."

He had a brilliant engineering and designing mind, for that no one could argue. He was considered a respected leader in our community, and a generous benefactor for the Catholic and Lutheran schools, not to mention the hospital actually dedicated a family room in their name (which was incredibly insulting personally to me as that had followed right on the heels of me being fired from the very same hospital) ("Oh, thank you Mr. and Mrs. Bigguy for the enormous financial contribution! Should we mention that we fired your daughter-in-law?"). For me, I just couldn’t get past these offenses and simply like him as everyone else seemed to do.

I will miss him, but I had to honestly admit that my emotional responses to his death have been largely triggered by Sparring Partner’s need for comfort and support, or by the children’s tears and difficult questions about why grandpa had to go to heaven. I am grieving by proxy.

It’s Not Just Forgetting Birthdays Anymore

3:25 p.m. – My cousin calls my cell phone, but I’m with a client so I let it go to voicemail.

3:41 pm – I listen to voicemail. Cousin ran into a friend of Mom’s. Mom dropped off Dad for a doctor appointment and can’t find him.

3:44 pm –  I call Cousin, because what? What do you mean Mom can’t find Dad?? Cousin is on her way back home 25 miles away and asks I call her when I find them.

3:45 pm – I call Friend (who works at the hospital). She says the same thing: Mom said she dropped off Dad for a doctor’s appointment but can’t remember which doctor or WHERE. Friend said Mom can’t even remember Dad’s birthday in order for Friend to look it up in registration.

3:46 pm –  I call Brother. No, he didn’t know Dad had a doctor’s appointment. Call Brother when I find Parents.

4:00 pm – I leave office citing “family emergency” and drive to the hospital’s physician’s offices, which is just next door to my office building. Go inside and speak with registration to see if they can locate Dad in any of their offices. I should note that Dad’s been seeing a lot of doctors lately. He had a pathological crushed vertebra in January. Clerk calls Security as I explained that Mom is out driving around godonlyknowswhere looking for Dad and she has Alzheimer’s. We’re on the look out for an elderly couple. She’s driving an old white cadillac. He’s likely wearing a cowboy hat. Later I’ll discover I was half-right with that description.

4:10 pm – I start driving around the hospital’s and the adjoining offices’ parking lots looking for their car.

4:27 pm – I call the farm. Maybe they’ve found each other since the original phone call and are both home, safe and sound. No, neither of them have a cell phone. No answer.

4:36 pm – Brother calls. Have I found them yet? No. I update him on what I’m doing. He informs me they’re in the Towncar. I do another parking lot sweep.

4:41 pm – I call the farm again. Mom answers!

“So you found Dad!”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No.’??”
“I couldn’t remember what doctor’s office I dropped him off at so I left.”
“You just left him in City and went home?? How was that suppose to work, Mom?!”
“I don’t know.”

4:43 pm – Text message from Sparring Partner: “Your mom just called me. She’s looking for you. Wants you to call her right away. All she said was I don’t have [Dad]. She said she doesn’t know where he is.”

4:45 pm – I head back to my office. Just for shits and giggles I go next door to my office to the office of the urologist. There stands Dad at the front desk. He was no more than 50 feet away from me this whole time! He sees me and asks what I’m doing there. He is not wearing his cowboy hat today.

No more than two hours after they went missing, I drove Dad home. He said he would never have thought she’d forgotten where he was. She had dropped him off and wanted to run errands since she was in the City. She finished shopping and then simply forgotten where she was to return. It’s a small city, a close community. We were lucky.

This time.

Guns and Your Child’s Friends

I read today on Facebook that a friend of mine asked a mom if there were guns in her home before responding to a RSVP for a child’s birthday party. I was amazed by her audacity, her bravery, her awareness. Even though a day rarely goes by that I don’t think about the shooting in Newtown, it never occurred to me that as my children’s social circles expand that I need to consider more than the basic questions (what, where and when). As one of her other FB friends stated, it’s a question parents should “normalize.”

First of all, I am absolutely for gun control. I believe the 2nd Amendment is ridiculously outdated and grossly misinterpreted. It’s a topic that I know has lost me friends (if not, my name on a restricted list or two) because it’s one I’ll admit that I’m not flexible. However, what you probably did not know is that my husband, Sparring Partner, was a long-time member of the NRA, but while he’s no longer a member and his opinion about the NRA is now hardly favorable, he and I don’t see eye-to-eye on gun ownership. In fact, there are guns in this house. Right now. I couldn’t tell you where they are except I do know they are under lock and key, and that neither my 4-year-old or 11-year-old know we have them. Then there’s my husband’s father, who is a collector. Not just a half-dozen or so, either: we’re talking hundreds of guns.

I grew up with guns, specifically rifles. As a farmer, it was one of the tools of the trade and used for hunting, pest control and as brutal as it sounds, to humanely treat critically ill livestock. They were kept (and still are) in an unlocked cabinet in my parent’s house where even now my kids can see them and frequently ask about them when we visit. The only dangerous situation I ever recall happening was this incident back when I was still pregnant with Aitch (I never would have guessed it had been that long ago) when my husband had one of the old rifles misfire while he was handling it.

The point is, I’m not at all ignorant about guns and how they can be used effectively in the hands of a responsible owner, but I also know that there are a half-dozen less objectionable ways to protect ourselves or to put meat on the table. So simply put, I don’t like guns, under any circumstances. It wasn’t until I read my friend’s update mentioned above would I have ever thought to ask the parent of a child if they had guns before I considered letting either Aitch or Doodicus go to their homes. I then put the question to my friends (bear with me as I included ALL of the responses below):

I have to ask, and I do so respectfully (and expect the same in responses): would you ask a parent if they have guns in their home if your child was invited to a sleepover? And how would you address this with your child if the parent’s response was not favorable?

RN: I wouldn’t even think to ask this question, but I think it’s a really important one. If there is a gun in the home, I would follow up with asking how it is stored (is it locked up in a gun safe?) and if it’s loaded and where the ammunition is stored. If everything is locked up in gun safes and only a responsible adult knows the combo, it is probably ok. Right?

KA: No, because although it’s not completely unheard of here (we live in quite a rural area and next to a big game shooting area), legally they would have to be in a locked cabinet, inspected etc.

TGM: i don’t know if i would think to ask but then again i am not sure. if a parent asked me that i would answer them honestly. yes we have guns in our home. they are kept in my room, in a closet where the children can not access them easily. they are kept unloaded and the ammunition for them is not kept in the same area as the guns. if they objected to their child being there, i am ok with that and don’t see it causing any hard feelings on my part. i know that not everyone is comfortable with guns. i am not that comfortable with them. all of the guns we own are my husbands, used for hunting (no hand guns) and some are from his grandpa that were handed down. however, i don’t have an issue with my child being in a home where responsible gun ownership is being practiced. responsible being the key word. and of course i assume that i would know that family pretty well.

MG: Never thought of it before..

XV: 1. Yes. 2. I’m worried about a lot of kids in the same house with guns. Yes, I know the parents are very responsible, and I know you are careful, but you know as well as I do, darling child, that kids can be crafty and get excited in packs, so…I’d rather not risk it. I love you.

IPK: I would absolutely ask and if the answer was yes I would not allow my child to visit that home. I once visited a home and discovered after half an hour that my three year old was playing with duplos in a room with a shotgun leant up behind the door. I died ten times inside.

EGM: I don’t know that I would think to ask normally but if I did, I would follow it up with asking how they are stored and locked away. If the answers weren’t satisfactory, I would be honest with the other parent and say that I’m not comfortable with it and ask if the child could sleep over at my own house first. Then I’d address it with my child. With a child of [Dood’s] age, I’d be honest and explain my concern and the solution (hopefully the other parent would be OK with the sleepover at my house instead). With a younger child, I’d probably just say that we’d decided to change it to our house. For the record, we have a gun–it’s kept locked up in a coded safe, unloaded, and the ammunition is under separate lock-and-key. Only Jxxxx and I know the code to get to the gun itself, so even crafty kids couldn’t get it.

KA: I let M spend the night with a friend who I know the family has guns. They live on a rural property, and the guns are locked away. I think the dad usually does carry on his person though. I grew up on a farm though, and my father had guns, so my comfort level might be different.

KJW: I would ask. I’ve personally known 2 families that wish they would have asked as well. You can’t be to careful. You don’t get a “re-do” with a gun.

KA: Also, I’ve had some pretty blunt discussions with my M about guns and gun safety. I agree that there are people out there who might be careless with guns–and careless with other things too. Trust your gut. If you’re not comfortable, for any reason, keep your child home and do something else.

EMM: Yes, I would absolutely ask! If they were locked away and secured appropriately, fine. If not, explain the rules of gun safety with him (treat every gun as if it is loaded, etc.)

JF: Oh honey, I ask even if we have a play date and I’m staying. It’s an important question to ask.

EC: I have the gun talk with my boys A LOT. Their Dad and his brothers all have guns. They are locked up appropriately, but I’m paranoid. There are three houses in the neighborhood where my kids play and have sleepovers. I’m nosy enough to know that all the parents are crazy liberals like me and don’t own any guns.

MGK: Never would have asked that I grew up in a home with guns was educated starting at an early age (5) my daughter has been shooting since she was 5. I feel it is very important that our youth are taught about guns what is proper handling and how to act around guns. People can get hurt around guns if they don’t know proper handling and how to act. If children are brought up and taught to respect guns and that they should not handle guns without an adult present I believe you have a lot less to worry about. When kids are introduced to something and taught properly they are less likely to investigate on their own it becomes second nature. When I was growing up my dad had all of his guns in his gun room and I knew I couldn’t go in there and when I had friends over they were not aloud in the room and it was never an issue.

KY: We have guns and they are locked in a gun safe. I wouldn’t be offended if someone asked me about it but I have never asked, nor have I had anyone ask us. We have lots of sleepovers.

KA: [Yo-yo Mama], the more I think about this, I had to add that A LOT of things make me nervous about sleepovers. (Older siblings, drugs, other safety concerns, and so on.) I think for me, it comes down to how well do I know the family, how comfortable am I with them, and do I have a high enough level of overall trust for my son to be in their care for any amount of time? When I lived in Boston/Cambridge, guns probably would not have come up. Living in rural NH, I tend to assume that almost everyone, regardless of political leanings, likely has a gun. I went to get a permit myself recently, and had to go back, because the PD has run out of applications. I don’t currently own a gun, but I wouldn’t be offended if I was asked politely if I did, by a concerned parent.

CC: Yep. And if I wasn’t comfortable with the answer, my kid wouldn’t go over to that friend’s house. I’m the mama. I don’t give a fig about the other family. There are houses that are off limits to my children because I think the people are too stupid to be responsible (with and without guns). There are houses that are off limits to my children because I know drugs are present. There are houses that are off limits because the parents allow movies and videogames that my children are not allowed. My job is to do what I think is best for MY family…not be politically correct. And how I handle it…I’m honest with my kids about it.

JF: We have a lot of potentially dangerous medications in our house. For my child’s safety and the safety of those visiting our home, we purchased a medication lock box. We keep all of our daily meds in there (the scary stuff – not the vitamins). I think it was $30 but it gives us peace of mind. We also put it up high when we have kids over and our son does not know the combination (though he’s tried to get it out of us LOL)

KCN: Vitamins can be fatal too if ingested in high quantities. I would lock those up too.

JF: True [KCN] – they are kept out of reach as well. However, I’m more concerned with seizure meds and stimulants than vitamins and space is limited.

CMS: The harder part of your question is explaining it to your child. They really have no comprehension of the finality of gun accidents. If a parent is offended by you asking, I would wonder why. Shouldn’t they be just as concerned if the sleepover was at your place? I think an open discussion is never out of place.

KY: I agree that we don’t do sleepovers with people we don’t know very well – my son is just uncomfortable in that situation. So, with that said, we know the families and where they stand on the issue of guns. Now, one of my son’s best friends has parents that “act drunk” in his words, or leave the kids home alone often at night. He himself chooses not to stay at their home overnight.

KF: Do I have to let my kids go on sleep overs? . Never thought of that now I have another reason to be paranoid! . I am not sure if I personally would have the guts to ask but I wish I could! Good luck with that one!

KSB: Sleepovers aren’t what they used to be. I fear the older sibling or the older sibling’s friend or the creepy uncle who swings by for pizza. Medications, drugs, guns. I recognize that I can’t control every environment my children enter, nor do I want to limit their experiences. We haven’t reached sleepover age yet but I’m sure it won’t be long. We’ve already agreed that sleepovers aren’t allowed unless we are friends with the parents. Not just friendly. Friends. My nephew went to a sleepover and their house phone was turned off that night. The mother didn’t want to use up all her minutes letting the 10 yr old boys contact their parents, so my SIL had no way of contacting her son. The next morning the mom took the boys to a splash park without asking permission or notifying anyone. The police found my nephew in a parking garage outside the park. He was fine but terrified. Some if our close friends have guns. My kids could sleepover at some of their homes but not all. Not all gun owners are safe and responsible. In fact I am terrified that the house next door to us has four unlocked guns and two mentally impaired/unstable preschoolers. We don’t do play dates at their house. It’s likely nothing bad will ever happen over there, but why hang around to find out? I understand we will encounter tears and drama and “it’s not fair!” The first time W isn’t allowed to go to the big fun sleepover but I’m okay with that. It’s my job to keep her safe. Not keep her cool.

JLK:  It, coming from a no gun culture, scares the Willies out of me that people would have them in their homes. No matter how they are kept.

SR:  I absolutely would ask but I wonder how many people are going to tell you if they have guns but don’t store them properly? I didn’t grow up with guns and I’m scared of them but I know people who are responsible gun owners so I don’t think that anyone who has a gun necessarily is bad or irresponsible. As other people pointed out, there are so many things surrounding sleepovers that are troublesome for me but it all really boils down to how well do I know the parents (which I know isn’t a guarantee either).

ALH: Sigh. I would ask, if I was an American. Don’t know how I’d respond to a yes — and I come from a hunting culture and have handled plenty of guns.

JL: I ask, saying something like “you know how interested kids are at this age.” And he doesn’t go if I’m not comfortable with the answer. I also have a good long talk with him about what to do if the subject of seeing a gun comes up.

Even after reading the comments, I’m still not sure if it’s something I won’t feel awkward asking about, but it really is a question that shouldn’t be uncommon (“normalized”), and therefore shouldn’t be a question that anyone would find offensive. On the other hand, it makes me wonder how I would feel if a parent who was a hardcore NRA member refused to allow their child over to our house because I wouldn’t be the person willing to arm myself to save their baby in an event that would be a hundred (if not a thousand) times MORE unlikely than an accidental gun-inflicted injury.

And while we’re talking about accidents, it never occurred to me that we should have my son’s stimulants secured in a lock box, which we are now going to remedy. But what about the beer in the fridge? What about the carkeys on the hooks? What about the stairs to the basement? The toilets, kitchen knives and glassware? Sure, *I* know there’s a huge difference between a gun and a glass, but the difference comes in teaching Responsibility. For me, that is something I can teach and don’t have to have a gun in my hand to teach it. NOT talking about it isn’t going to make it go away or not happen, and that’s hard for me to remember because open discussions often feel as if I’m erasing innocence.

You Git Whatcha Git

UPDATED: photo of a little of the damage from the fire below.

It’s the start of another New Year and it’s time to take stock. Actually, I don’t really do that because as the quaint daycare saying goes, “you git whatcha git and you don’t throw a fit”. What I do know is that there will be some major changes coming up this year. Let’s start with my job.

It doesn’t seem that long ago that I started working again after a three-year involuntary stint of unemployment, but it would seem that this is the year my boss will be retiring from his practice. Something the corporation has known for years and for which you would think they would have prepared better for by securing a replacement surgeon for this office, one so very desperately needed in the rural anal of Nebraska, but you would have thunk wrong. Actually, I should give some credit. They have been actively wooing a new surgeon for practically two years. And still no commitment. Call me a pessimist but it might have behooved someone to pursue another specialist about a year ago. If New Boss continues to be evasive, the office could close sometime late summer.

Last night I brought this possibility up to my husband and we’ll have to give serious thought to whether I should find another job or if I can just become a trophy wife and soccer mom. I promised him that if I become a SAHM, I will become a fitness freak and whittle myself back down to a size 4 and grow out my hair to my ass and instantly lose 20 years of age off my face. I’m not sure why he’s not buying it.

I bought my mom new bedding and delivered it Saturday (all but the damn sheets, which I forgot by the door!). She was not happy to come home from church and find me upstairs in her bedroom and insisted she didn’t need new sheets, she just lays on the blankets and that a new mattress pad wasn’t necessary as the old one was currently in the dryer, just waiting for her to put it back on. I told her in no uncertain terms that the mattress pad, which had been the one ON FIRE could not simply be washed and put back on the bed (because, DUH!). She scowled as I pulled the new blankets out of the packaging and folded up the old ones, including the one she had attempted to sew the hole the size of a dinner plate. By the way, that doesn’t work when you just try to sew up the edges of the void when it’s in smack-dab in the middle of a rectangular blanket. It was a bit disheartening to know that my mom didn’t even really try to patch the blankets by sacrificing one and cutting it up and using it on the other, which I know she is/was more than capable of doing.

I tried not to make a production out of the bedding because I was taking the old blankets with me as I knew she would try to reuse them. I figured if they were out of sight, they would most certainly be out of mind. Especially her mind. On the way home, the smell of burnt polyester and wiring wafted from the folds of the blankets, which made me sadder still to realize that she hadn’t even bothered to wash them before trying to put them back on her bed. The smell was nose-wrinkling awful.

My daughter was with me, chatting happily with grandma who never took her eyes off of me. I’m certain having Aitch there kept grandma from going off on me in a tirade, but then Aitch said, “Grandma, you forgot my concert!” My back was to them, but I knew my mom’s eyes were boring into my skull. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t anyone remind me?” she asked pointedly. I calmly replied, “I did, but that was the day you went up to see [your sister-in-law] in the nursing home with the other Red Hatters.” “Oh.” Later, she asked Aitch if she had a Christmas Concert and I was relieved when my too-busy-playing-with-grandma’s-bell-collection-daughter didn’t hear her as I’m sure she would have said, “Grandma! I already told you!” Subtle, she is not.

The point of that whole story was that sometime this year, it’s likely mom’s health may indicate she would be safer if she was in a nursing home instead of at home. Based on how quickly she’s deteriorated in the past year, I can’t imagine she’ll have much more time living independently. Worse, I know there will be dissension within the family when the call has to be made.

And on a happier note, thank you to my readers who participated in the Card Exchange! I would show each card to my husband and exclaim, “And this is my friend from Scotland/Auckland/Portland!” He would just give me a blank stare and wordlessly un-pause the DVR and return to watching football. He didn’t say as much, but I know he was rather impressed because I caught him taking a picture with his phone the string of dozens of cards I hung across the dining room table heavily draped with cards. It’s the start of a New Year and I’ve hit the ground running.

It’s Been A Long Time Since I’ve Used “Penis” in a Post

I take an ambien every night. I have been for months. I fall asleep in a blink and then I sleep solidly until the alarm goes on in the morning. Even if I have to get up because I have to go to the bathroom or if Aitch is having a nightmare or if Doodicus is scared of a storm, I can always go right back to sleep. I love my ambien.

I recently had it refilled and while I dropped like a fly on Monday, Tuesday night I tossed and turned. I was awake more then I was asleep during the night. I ended up dropping Aitch off at school, coming home and sleeping for another three hours straight. Wednesday and Thursday (last night), I again struggled getting to sleep and woke with every snort, wheeze, and exhale from my husband, which eventually sent me to the silence of the couch. Still I tossed and turned. I also hadn’t been feeling well, waking with headaches and stomach cramps.

Last night, sometime around 3:00 a.m. I started wondering if I hadn’t got a bad batch of ambien with the recent refill. They couldn’t ALL be bad because Monday I had no problem with sleep. This morning I pulled the bottle of white pills from the cabinet and realized that for the past three nights I had been taking Paxil, an antidepressant and I had started and then stopped after a couple of months but hadn’t thrown out. It explained the headaches, cramping, even the jaw-clenching! Not to mention my inability to sleep.

Of course, it also explained how I was able to accept my mistake with little more than a “aw shucks!” kind of attitude, and why I am completely incapable of imagining a penis. Not that I’m always trying to imagine penises, but ADs really pulled the plug on my sex-drive and being unable to concoct any sexual imagery confirmed that I had been taking the wrong stuff. 

Thank goodness I had this week off from work or I’d be even a bigger wreck. I marked the Paxil lid and moved the bottle (I can’t bear the thought of disposing of them yet). Tonight, I will sleep.