Category Archives: DG

Bust a Move

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Back in January I herniated yet another disc in my back. To be fair, it was the SAME disc that I’ve injured several times before. This time wasn’t half as bad as others (No wheelchair this time!) but it was still some massive pain. And the pain wasn’t the worse part, the loss of mobility of someone with my energy and lifestyle was truly frustrating.

And of course, maintaining any sort of exercise with that issue is impossible. I couldn’t do laundry or load the dishwasher. I couldn’t make bed without help. I couldn’t even walk my dogs. I put on some weight. I wasn’t happy. I stayed in bed a lot. We had some stuff happen in our house (stress+stress+STRESS) and my mom’s health was declining. I finally snapped out of it, got myself into PT and got back on my feet. I was doing well, actually. Better than I had in MONTHS. No, probably better than I had in two YEARS. And just as I finished PT, got back to walking my dogs and got the OK to go back to regular workouts, my mother passed away.

Needless to say, the past four weeks have been a flurry of hospice, arrangements, finances, funeral, family issues, house issues and the like. People have brought us oodles of food (which I am SO SO SO grateful for!) and sent baskets. We’ve been spoiled, really. It feels good to be spoiled. I feel loved.

The problem is I got off my program.

This week my back started hurting. I know what’s coming and I’m going to stop it, see. I know the pattern, I know the routine. But it ain’t gonna happen this time, yo. IMA STOP IT.

I’ve gained weight again. In fact, I’ve gained so much I am now the same weight I was AFTER I had Bugaboo. And I gained sixty pounds with his pregnancy. SIXTY. POUNDS. I weigh the same as I did NINE MONTHS PREGNANT with Bug Boy. I’m also wearing the same size.

Yep. Since my Dad passed I’ve gained forty pounds.

That was about eighteen months ago. MOMMA AIN’T HAPPY. Now, I’m not as worried about the weight as I am my overall health. I don’t have any energy. The fatigue is seriously an issue. I am winded trying to keep up with the Bugaboo. I can’t keep my eyes open at night. I’ve started falling back into that ole “carb load, eat comfort foods, don’t move at all” pattern. I’m all MEH. And DG ain’t a MEH person, MMKAY?

Now, I know what some of y’all are thinking. “But DG! You’ve had SO! MUCH! GOING! ON!” or “Don’t be so HARD on yourself, yo! You’ve had STUFF in your life!” and “You’ve got these kids! It’s so haaaaaard!”

But those are the excuses I keep using. Again and again and again and again. I’m better than that. I deserve better. My FAMILY deserves better.

No more excuses, yo. I KNOW what I have to do. I know how to do it.

Here I go.

Coat of Many Colors

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My grandmother’s salon color was “frivolous fawn.”

I kid you not, she dyed her hair that color FOR YEARS. When she finally stopped putting color in in (I’m thinking she was in her late sixties? later?) she had the most beautiful white hair. And I mean pure white, whiter than snow. It was seriously lovely hair. She still went every week to have her hair set at the salon so it looked pretty for the weekend well into her nineties. Turns out my now-neighbor was her hairdresser for a few decades and even when she passed, my neighbor was called to the funeral home to do her hair.

My mom was more of a “copper penny” girl. She was a natural red head. And I mean RED. So when she started to go grey in her late twenties/early thirties (coincidentally around the time I was born!) she just wasn’t ready for it. So she found hair color that matched her vibrant red and I never saw a grey hair on her head. Even when she didn’t have the energy to color it any more, she bought herself red wigs and shaved off her natural hair. I had no idea how much hair she had until one of her hospital trips about three years ago when she didn’t have a wig with her and I saw her beautiful white hair for the first time. It was peppered with copper and was seriously beautiful. And I told her, “Mom, what the heck? Why do you color this? This is a color people PAY FOR.” Not sure if she listened to me or not but she did stop wearing the wigs and let her hair grow back in.

The night before she passed (two weeks ago) we were taking turns sitting in the room, holding her hand as she gasped for air. Her fragile lungs just couldn’t do it anymore and they slowly filled with fluid. She was no longer waking up and giving us zingers (YOU LOOK PREGNANT!) and wasn’t giving anyone stink eye when they told her she couldn’t have a milkshake because she was choking on them. I remember sitting there by myself in the dark, holding her hand, singing her favorite songs to her, stroking her beautiful copper and white hair and telling her it was ok, we were going to be fine. When I stepped out later to stretch and use the bathroom I remember I looked in the mirror. It had been several months since I colored my hair. And I remember thinking I’d need to get it done before the funeral.

Yes, dear internet friends, the red is not mine. Mine is grey. White, actually. I have naturally strawberry blonde hair (darker strawberry blonde these days) but no one has seen it in twenty-five years or more because I have this thing with coloring my hair. Blame it on my mother for her influence, if you’d like. I’m just a tad impulsive (again, like my mother). And I have a fairly fiery personality. So I got tired of the blonde, the gold, the peroxide (blame that on the eighties) and the like. I was a fake blonde FOR YEARS. Let me just say that someone with my skin tone should NEVER be blonde. I have the kind of skin people get snow blind for looking at. At some point after the boys were babies I stopped coloring my hair and my natural strawberry blondish, light brownish reddish hair came back through. It’s a color that seriously doesn’t exist in a bottle and I was getting grey hair. No, WHITE hair. I feel like I’m twenty-five and I decided grey hair wasn’t for me. Yet. So one week I was at the beauty supply store and picked up Copper Penny-ish. That’s how I’ve been for about five years now.

Well, until last week.

I never got around to coloring my hair for the funeral a week after my mother passed. It bothered me the whole day because I could see those white hairs. Monday I put my kids on the bus, went to the beauty supply store and spotted a new, ammonia-free, sulfate-free line of hair color and thought, “Huh! Bright Auburn! That sounds interesting!” And the color on the box was redder than my normal but I figured, “What the heck? I’ve got nothing to lose.” So I dyed it.

My first clue should have been the color in the bowl as I mixed it.

My second clue should have been the stuff sticking to my skin and making it look carrot orange.

My third clue should have been seeing the BRIGHT RED water rinsing out of my hair in the shower.

When I stepped back in front of the mirror I broke down in tears. Totally not the color I was going for. TOTALLY. NOT. THE. RIGHT. COLOR. I looked like Ronald McDonald. Or Wendy Thomas and her old-fashioned hamburgers. Don’t believe me? Feast your eyes on the before and after:

See? Reddish, a little grey (which I conspicuously cropped out)

Before I ruined my hair. See? Reddish, a little grey in there (which I conspicuously cropped out)

The day I did it. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

The day I dyed it. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

THis morning, after five washes. Sigh. Still RED.

This morning, after five washes. Sigh. Still RED.

Needless to say I’ve bought color corrector and a boat-load of hair repair. Even though everyone who has seen it thinks it is “awesome” and “brings out my eyes.” Well, everyone except The Guy I Live With, who is used to my impulsive hair mistakes and merely shook his head and said,”
It’s red.”

I think I’ve learned my lesson, yo. Stick with what I know. And once I fix this I may just let it go back to natural.

In about ten years.

 

 

 

When The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree (Happy World Autism ACCEPTANCE Day)

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Hi! Did you miss me? My mid-life crisis is over and I dyed my hair back to orange, wanna see?

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Got sick of the pink. I don’t even like pink. Why did I do it? PEER PRESSURE (Stark. Raving. Mad. Mommy. Made me do it).

Anywho, since the last time all ten of you stopped by, my life kept going (as it does) and I was up to my eyeballs as usual (as it happens) and I got overwhelmed again (as one does) and here I am a few weeks later, meds adjusted, clean bill of health, finished PT (thank you baby Jebus) and feeling more like my old self again.

And the other people in my family are just peachy, too. In fact, things are SO AWESOME around here I’m waiting for the proverbial “other shoe” to drop.

See, the Apples don’t fall far from the tree. In this metaphor the Apples are MY KIDS and the Tree is ME (and The Guy I live With). In other words, when we’re exasperated about their quirks and behaviors, we really don’t need to look that far to figure out where they get some of this stuff.

Like Bugaboo’s energy level? They haven’t called me Energizer Bunny for years for nothing (and TGILW isn’t any different).

Bug Boy’s drama and emotion? Your’s truly!

Bug Boy’s hunger for learning and nose stuck in a book at all times?Yep! Me again!

Bugaboo’s athletic ability and amazingly advanced motor skills? Actually, we haven’t a clue where that comes from because The Guy and I are about as coordinated as a bag of rocks.

Let’s just say we’ve had our share of stitches, broken bones, injuries and the like. So clearly that one was inborn or there was a mixup in the hospital nursery. Except we know he’s ours because he can also fall off of chairs (like his brother) when sitting perfectly still and get a bruise just by thinking about walking.

Then there are the boys’ quirks. Like the autism, ADHD, OCD and stuff. If you think about it, it’s REALLY not a mystery to see where all of it comes from. Let’s just say that when I was a kid I washed my feet obsessively. And my hands. I do everything in the same order every day (like my shower) and I need lists to function. I can’t order a pizza because calling for takeout gives me major anxiety. When I have to make phone calls I actually have to SCRIPT WHAT I SAY. The husband? Won’t even answer the phone. Texting and social media was made for people like us.

Sensory issues? You name it, we’ve got ‘em. I’m the “NATURAL FIBERS ONLY, no tags, smells and lights make me stabby” variety. Husband is “I can pick noodles out of a boiling pot, NOISE IS TEH DEBIL, FLOWERS MUST DIE” variety. Our kids are a perfect combination of both. One is easily over-stimulated, the other one needs a fire lit under him to notice anything (and he’s touched fire before!).

You smell what I’m cooking here? (But I don’t like the smell of cooked meat in my house. Hence, we grill 365. No joke).

 

As for the World Autism Day, I thought I’d link to a few posts from years past. Just so you can get an idea of what we think.

A link to Last April and my “Autism is…” posts

Last year’s World Autism Day Post

Great Expectations

What Autism is and Isn’t (World Autism Day from 2011)

World Autism Day 2010

Just Sayin’, The Sequel (Another Autism Month Post)

Autism in the News (2009)

DG’s Big Phat Post for World Autism Day

I was talking to the Bug Boy today when he got home today. We chatted about Autism Awareness Month and how some folks wanna change it to Autism Acceptance Day/Month. We talked about what he thought about having “a disorder” and how he felt about terminology. I’m loving that we can have these in-depth discussions these days. I love getting his insight. That’s when we talked about self-advocates and parents and how parents can’t be the only voices. And why adults with autism have a voice and why their voice is just as important, if not more-so, than parents.

Which is when he gave me stink-eye. And said, “Uh, Mom? Soooo you’re autistic, you know.”

And proceeded to list the reasons why he felt I was. And I couldn’t argue with any of it. Not one bit of it.

See, we are AWARE of autism. Now, to get people to accept it.

I’ve Got Nothin’

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Day after day I sit here staring at the screen and I write nothing. Or actually, I type nothing, since you couldn’t pay me to write stuff by hand (fine motor issues much?). It’s not for lack of wanting to. It isn’t a lack of trying. Time management? Not my strongest skill but I could honestly find five minutes to slap SOMETHING together. Anything. Heck, I blog about my toenail color. And I do interpretive dances. And yet tens of you still come back everyday!

It’s not like there’s a lack of content in my life. I could blog about my floors (or lack thereof), my dogs (Daisy gained NINE POUNDS. Time for doggy Jenny Craig!) or my backyard (this rain sucks. You can guess what my not-really-floors look like.)

Or my recent roof issues.

Or Bugaboo having the best handstand in his gymnastics class (with typical peers, by the way.)

Or Bug Boy making the honor roll again and crying over a B+ because he is his mother’s child and puts a ridiculous amount of pressure on himself to live up to ridiculous self-expectations.(hmmmmmm sounds familiar?)

And there’s more. So much more. So much more I could share so much more I cannot share. And THAT is the problem. There’s so much I am overwhelmed. In every aspect of my life. I’m in full-fledged survival mode, getting the basics done each day and everything else over and above is gravy. If the clothes are clean, the house is somewhat tidy and there’s food on the table I consider it a successful day.

This is where I admit that Ive been taking care of everyone else and there’s no time left over for me. And yes, I’m aware I need to take care of myself. But trust me when I say there’s been a level of sh*t hitting the fan like no other and there ain’t no way it’s gonna happen.

I’m making small efforts here and there. I finally made a hair appointment (six months later) and got the PT evaluation in so I can start PT next week and get my back healed and in shape. Someone has to keep up with Bugaboo! It’s like running a marathon, but more strenuous. I plan on calling the psych today for an adjustment in my meds (S.A.D. for the win!) and I’ve been spending more time walking and stretching. I’m getting there.

And I’ve gotten the boys squared away. No more broken bones! Things seem to be going back to normal. Well, you know, as normal as it gets here. We did opt to add an ADHD med back in for the Bugaboo because, well, it’s spring and he’s pretty restless and Elopement Season is in high gear right now. We’re shooting for NO CALLS to the police this year. I think that’s attainable, no?

So, dear reader(s), I’m trying. I’ll attempt to get something on this here blog once in a while. Maybe a pop quiz or a reader participation post. Perhaps you can help me pick wall colors or look at pictures of my dogs. In any event, IMA TRY.

In the meanwhile, this is the extent of my midlife crisis right here:

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How to Win Mommy of the Year

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The following message has been approved for all audiences and is intended to be SATIRE. As in, JOKING. KIDDING. DROLLERY. You dig?

"SCUSE ME. BUT DG IS THE BEST MOTHER OF ALL TIME. OF. ALL. TIME.

SCUSE ME. BUT DG IS THE BEST MOTHER OF ALL TIME. OF. ALL. TIME.

You know, I have this goal to be Super Mom. And not just Super Mom, mind you. SUPER AUTISM MOM.

(No, not really, this is me, being facetious)

I can’t help but feel the pressure. Especially during the Holidays. There’s some sort of imaginary competition going on. Like we’re all trying to be the Bestest at Everything. All I see on Pinterest?  Overachieving Moms making bento box lunches with food cut into stars, flowers and happy faces and little handwritten notes with calligraphy  Elf on the Shelf in various poses, in near-professional photos depicting his various (creepy) escapades and hijinx   Homemade shoes, hats, mittens, clothing, stockings, all knitted or sewn with homemade tags in super-hipster pattern and colors.

When do people find the time to do this crap? I’m lucky to have two extra minutes to rub together to grab a nap. Do they stay up all night doing this? I mean SHEESH. Sometimes I get dinner made before 5pm. I might catch up on the laundry, provided no one gets sick or wets the bed. If they do? Then it sets me back four days. I mostly get the sink emptied each night and the clean dishes run through the dishwasher (THANK YOU FSM FOR DISHWASHERS). And the floor? Let’s just say it hasn’t been properly mopped in a long time. You don’t wanna know when, either. Thank goodness for swiffers and damp rags. That’s all I’m gonna say about that!

Who the heck are we competing with? I mean, besides ourselves? Oh. Right. There IS NO competition!  We ARE competing with ourselves. And putting tons of pressure on ourselves. And then getting our panties in a twist when we don’t achieve these ridiculously lofty goals. And feeling guilty that we’re not as cool/hip/interesting/involved/achieving as other moms.

Dudes? You cannot compare apples to oranges. Moms are like apples and oranges. And watermelons, bananas, kiwi fruit, mangoes…the list goes on. We’re all Absosmurfly awesomesauce in our own special ways. In fact, it turns out we’re not doing such a lousy job after all.

As for the fancy lunches, elves, homemade clothes and the like? I let my kid buy lunch at the school cafeteria when he chooses (THE HORROR!), I do make homemade Halloween costumes (Because I’m cheap thrifty and he usually picks something obscure) and I give my kid pretty much every book he asks for (he’s the kid that NEVER STOPS READING). But that’s about as good as it gets. I don’t stress over not getting all the housework completed in one day (because there’s always tomorrow) and my house is messy or dirty sometimes. It’s always an hour away from being good for company but not so dirty I’d be embarrassed if someone popped by. Like my Nana told me, “No one ever went to their death bed complaining they didn’t clean enough. They always wish they spent more time with their families.”

I’m gonna be Aiming Lower** for now on.

(** speaking of Aiming Lower, you know I write there sometimes, right?  So go see me sometimes. And if you’d be so kind as to click that “Like” box over there that would be super duper awesome of you and stuff)

 

The Week That Was (The Least Awesomest)

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Some weeks I should just stay in bed.

Like weeks that start out with me getting locked out of the house? Yep. Bed. Covers over my head. Stay there for a few days. When it subsides, get out of bed. TADA! WINNING!

Except there’s that whole “I have to be a responsible adult” thing that’s totally cramping my style.

I’d like to forget yesterday ever happened. I woke up feeling kinda ooky. I had my baby nephew for the day so I was a tad busy and didn’t even realize why I felt ooky. Towards the end of the day I went into the bathroom and realized “ZOMG THIS IS WHY I FEEL SO OOKY.”  Because it huuuuuuurt to pee.

Yep. UTI. And naturally I didn’t realize it until after the doctor closed for the afternoon. So my choice was go to Urgent Care and sit FOR HOURS for them to say, “Yep!  UTI!” and hand me a script or drink a sh*t-ton of fluids, wait until the morning and call first thing to get an appointment. On a Friday. I have better chances of hitting the lottery. I don’t play the lottery.

Anywho. UTI. I suffered through dinner and a nighttime Home and School Meeting and got home hoping  to sit in a steaming hot bath for some relief and that’s when The Guy I Live With came downstairs to show me the Bugaboo’s ipad.

It looked like this:

Houston, we have a problem. A BIG EFFING PROBLEM.

Houston, we have a problem. A BIG EFFING PROBLEM.

You are looking at Bugaboo’s broken iPad. It still works (THANK YOU BABY JEBUS) but the screen has a teensy it of a crack to it. Ok, a lot.While I was at my meeting, Bugaboo took it up to bed. No biggy, right? Except The Guy I Live With went to check on him and found it like this. We THINK he tried to jam the button in too hard and ended up cracking the screen. At least that’s what it looks like. And before you say, “Otter Box!”  He has DESTROYED TWO OF THEM.  And they are no help for a broken button, yo. Just saying.

I figure that since three sh*tty things happened this week, we’re good, right? Right. Next week will be perfect.

(Except Bug Boy has been coming home every single day this week in tears. IT WAS THE WORST DAY EVERRRR because he is SO STRESSED OUT AND THERE’S TOO MUCH PRESSURE. Because he had speech and two music lessons in one day. And next week on his birthday he’ll miss four periods for practice for the winter concert next week. What kid COMPLAINS about missing class? My kid.That’s who. Oh, and he’s afraid of the new middle school violin teacher. Who is a sweet, sweet older woman.Only because he’s used to his old teacher of three years in elementary school. Sigh.)

(The good news is I got an appointment. Let’s hope they hook me up with some GOOD DRUGS)

Picture Perfect

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The only pictures I could find.

When my Dad passed away last year, we went through photos and made collages for folks to peruse before and after the funeral. We found photos from every aspect of his life (thanks to aunts and uncles and my immediate family’s collective efforts). One thing I noticed?  I saw Dad in photos with his siblings, his parents, my mother (wedding photos and maybe two or three others), my siblings, my children, my niece and nephews. One thing missing? His mother. Very rare photos, actually.

Of course, this prompted me to go through picture of my own childhood. I spent hours sitting on the floor going through a bin of old photos. I mean to get them back into albums, problem is I don’t have time for sleep let alone organizing pictures. I smiled as I reminisced about trips we took, concerts and dance recitals I performed in, church rituals I took part in and the like. Again, something was missing. Dad was smiling and beaming holding his children and grandchildren. But my mother? Not in many. Clearly the one taking the photos.

Now, I have a few actual pictures but the majority of my stuff is digital, particularly after Bugaboo was born and we bought our first digital camera. I have photos of them smiling, eating grass, getting filthy, enjoying baths, playing soccer, learning to ride a bike. They’re with their cousins smiling from ear to ear with ice cream smeared on their faces in clothes. They’re on vacation with Daddy, eating sand or faces lighting up as their toes touch the ocean for the first time. They are sitting with our dogs. Sound asleep, butts up in the air, in odd positions. One thing missing?

Me. And that makes me sad.

I have a handful of pictures with my children. I know why I avoid it sometimes. Either I have to take thirty pictures to get ONE GOOD ONE of the boys or I’m taking a candid shot when they are not aware. I’m taking holiday pictures and once in a while I get to jump into one. But pictures of our whole family? While I did get a few portraits done when the boys were younger (mostly for Christmas cards) I stopped doing that a long time ago due to Bugaboo’s extreme disdain for photo studios. I now have a decent camera and take my own little homemade portraits. However, we don’t have ONE family portrait. Not one. There is a really bad, blurry shot or two at a family gathering where we’ve pulled the boys onto our laps and gotten one looking up, one looking down or one crying and one with his head turned away. And I’m in that one. But not many others.

In fact, I searched and searched for a recent one of me with the boys. The only two I found? One from a day at the local historical railroad when they were 4 and 2-years-old. The other from four years ago in Yellowstone Park when we took that ill-fated, cross-country trip when Bugaboo started having the Seizures from Aitch-EE-Double-Hockey sticks again. I have one or two with ONE boy. But again, none of the four of us together.

Ouch.

I’m not going to be here forever. Some day, my boys are going to be going through boxes (or flash drives, or other yet-to-be-discovered technology) full of photos. They’ll remember the trips across the country to see cousins. They’ll laugh when they see themselves as toddlers, butts up in the air or sound asleep sitting at the table with their face down in pizza. They’ll smile remembering Daddy’s strong hands and kind eyes. But they won’t have many of their mother.

I know I’m not alone. Come on, moms, admit it. How many photos do you get in? How often do you hand the camera to someone else (like a spouse or partner) and ask them to take one with you in it?

I’m going to guess that a large majority of you don’t hand the camera over very often. Or your phone, since times have changed.

So let’s change that!

I’m going to make a concerted effort to get into more photos. I’m going to make sure we get SOMEONE to take a decent photo of the four of us as soon as possible. I’m not going to worry about my wrinkles or my grey hair or the fact that I’ve recently gained weight back due to lack of sleep and herniated discs.  I want my kids to look at pictures and remember me, remember my hair, remember my Irish temper. My smile. My laugh. Reading books to them. Attending their school events. Making a mess to cook them a special dinner. Cuddling with them to blow out candles on their birthdays.

They are going to see more of me. Even when I’m not there.