Category Archives: Stuff that sucks

He’s a Little Runaway. Again.

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I’m having kind of a rough week.

Because deceased parents and funeral planning aren’t stressful enough, Monday night we had a wee bit of excitement in my house. You know how I say I’m never bored? There’s a reason for that. It’s because I AM NEVER BORED. Basically, there’s non-stop chaos and excitement around these parts.

Monday night my Aunts decided to provide some dinner for our family. A few of my siblings were going to get together and look through pictures and make a little collage for the funeral and luncheon. Ok, 4 giant posters of pictures, but who’s counting? Anywho, we KNOW it is spring and Bugaboo is more restless than usual, thanks in part to higher pollen counts and the nicer weather. We have been more vigilant than usual, due to this restlessness. We’re back to padlocks on the doors (not just locks) and I even went out and purchased new door alarms, since the old ones went to door alarm heaven.

When folks come in the house I have to, you know, unlock the doors? And when there are twenty people in my house and everyone is unloading cars, bringing in food, hugging and the like it’s a little…chaotic. We try to lock the door immediately and we no sooner lock it than another person shows up. So in the midst of the chaos, Bugaboo was darting about, back and forth between doors. He’d slip outside, play a bit, come back in. Then we locked the back door. By the time I got some plates and napkins out I decided to head to the front door and lock it. Except it was unlocked.
Immediately The Guy I Live With and I searched the house.

No Bugaboo.

We checked the backyard and neighbors’ backyard.

No Bugaboo.

That’s when I hopped in the car and headed to the playground while my family checked a few more neighbors’ swing sets and trampolines. Now, we live TWO BLOCKS from a playground. Since I live on the corner you can see the playground and park from my back yard. The few times Bugaboo has made it to the park he has been sitting in the middle of the softball diamond, happily clapping and stimming away in the orange dirt. He typically sees me and sighs and gets up, following me back home or to the car. Except this time, no Bugaboo. I walked to the other end of the field to the swings and slide. No Bugaboo. I got back in the car and drove around all four sides of the park. Still no Bugaboo.

I went back home and yelled to my sister, “Call the Police.” Within two minutes three local police departments were there taking a report of his description and circling town searching for him

At this point my family was going door to door. The next thing I knew, our entire block was out looking, checking other parts of our little Mayberry-esque town. They searched every back yard, every swing set, every trampoline. They checked every back yard swimming pool they could find. Some of them hopped in their cars to circle town and look. People started checking nearby busy roads, thinking maybe he tried to walk to the pool or the Big Red Bullseye store.

Still no sign of Bugaboo.

A Faceplace post and email later, the entire town was out looking. I’m not being facetious. There were folks on ALL FOUR BLOCKS of our little town checking every place they could think of. They searched high and low. They got into their cars and circled, checking for him. They stopped and looked at every kid they saw.

An hour had gone by at this point.

Still no Bugaboo.

This while I stood on the front lawn, clutching my phone, sobbing, hoping for a miracle, hoping this wasn’t THE ONE TIME we couldn’t find him. It had been an hour. It was starting to get darker. The warm spring day suddenly became cooler.

At some point my sister and our babysitter ended up back at the park. Since there was a softball game going on and the park was packed with folks watching it and using the playground, they went person-to-person asking if they had seen my sweet boy. And suddenly someone said, “Wait. I noticed a little boy in that truck over there about thirty minutes ago. He’s been bouncing around and having a good time.”

(at least, that was reported back to me, I wasn’t there, see. Me, lawn, phone, cry, etc, etc).

Guess who was in the truck? The entire time? And no doubt got into said truck because so many people were at the park and he didn’t quite know what to do?

If you said Bugaboo, ten points for Gryffindor.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an adrenalin rush to get over and some more padlocks to install.

( PS – if you’re asking about the tracking bracelet we had? Company went out of business last summer. Hooray. Guess who’s looking into tracking bracelets again?  If you said me then ten points to all houses. Except Slytherin.)

The Last Word

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There is something inherently beautiful about being there when someone is brought into this world. There is also something inherently beautiful about being with them when they leave it.

If you are lucky enough to be there, if you have the privilege of being there, you feel emotions you’ve never felt before. You sometimes wait for the last thing you will hear from them. It becomes imprinted on your brain and you cherish that moment forever. You remember it day after day.

When my grandmother was ill, I went to see her one day and we had dinner together. She was still able to eat a little but wasn’t able to swallow or chew much. So naturally this meant softer foods. The last thing I remember her saying? “I hate noodles.”

Before my father slipped into a come and ultimately passed away I would go to see him every day. Whenever we could go back into the ICU and sit and hold his hand, I’d go in and say, “Hey, Pop! How are you doing today?” and he’d answer, “I’m still here, aren’t I?” And the day before he fell quiet he roused enough when I kissed him and answered, “I’m feeling a little rocky.” And then next day when he wasn’t really responding, he said, “OW.” Every time someone touched his hand or kissed him.

My mother’s body has decided enough is enough and is finished with the pain and suffering. We agree with her body, for the record. It’s been five years of gradual decline, hospital stays, therapy, nursing home rehab, tests and more tests, medications and more medications, specialists, not-so-specialists, the list goes on. When she went on hospice two weeks ago I was honestly relieved. She stayed with my Brother and Sister-in-law for a few days before ending up back at the hospice facility. We couldn’t manage her pain and suffering at home any longer. The first day in the facility the toxin build up in her body caused her to have some hallucinations but she’d still joke or ask us to do things. As she slipped further away there were less lucid moments and more slumber. Yesterday she was out for most of the day but would occasionally open her eyes or mumble something. At lunch time yesterday I told her that I’d be back with some lunch and she popped her eyes open, looked at me with a crooked grin and said, “YOU LOOK PREGNANT.”

And that’s the last thing I heard from her.

I realized today that I am an orphan. I know it sounds silly but I feel sort of alone for the first time in my life. The thing I’m most grateful for is the fact that I have so many siblings. We’re all there for one another. We’re spending tons of time together. We are driving each other crazy. We’re laughing and crying with one another.

I know I’m lucky. Not everyone has the awesome family I have.

And no, you can’t have them. MINE.

The Perfect Storm

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Ah, Adolescence. The perfect storm.

My boy has changed so much since middle school has started. He’s more self-aware, more aware of what’s going on socially, more independent and more responsible. He’s handling his emotions better, realizing what he’s feeling and owning it. He’s got much better self-control. He doesn’t make daily trips to the nurse (sensory break!) at 2pm and he isn’t coming home and falling apart.

Most days. Ahem.

He’s currently having a whirlwind of emotions. While he can advocate quite well when it comes to adults, he’s having trouble navigating his peers. He has difficulty making new friends and sustaining relationships. He WANTS friends. He WANTS to fit in. But other kids? They just don’t get him. And I’m not sure he gets THEM.

It’s no surprise to me that he’s more comfortable around other kids with autism. His best buddies, for the most part, are either Aspies or having a tough time socially (and with executive motor function). There’s a whole gang of them that hangs together. They belong to the same clubs, are in the same math class and have deep discussions about Minecraft at Lunch. When they get together they dig trenches and set up army men and recreate the Johnstown Flood. They watch movies and rip it to shreds because it was NOTHING LIKE THE BOOK THIS IS SO STUPID AND THIS SCENE IS SO FAKE I MEAN REALLY.

But even there he has difficulty. Right now he wants to QUIT ALL THE THINGS. He wants to quit orchestra, though he wants to continue with private violin lessons. He wants to quit his newly-acquired percussion lessons because he’s afraid of the High School Marching Band instructor, even though he won’t be there for three more years. He wants to quit fencing. He isn’t sure he wants to do diving this summer. He doesn’t want to go to any of the summer camps I’ve mentioned. I’m trying very hard to hold the balance between allowing him to make choices that make him happy and not allowing him to withdraw completely.

But that’s what he’s doing.

He’s withdrawing.

There’s a big-deal trip coming up for school. All year the 6th graders study a particular country. It’s sort of a theme for the year. They talk about the UN, geography and world culture. It’s pretty cool, actually. It culminates with a trip to the UN in NYC. For this trip they need a plethora of chaperones. Naturally, someone from the house of DG will attend (either TGILW or myself). But the kids have been charged with making their own groups this time. Groups of six. The problem? The 6th grade is divided into two teams. Team A goes one day and Team B goes the following week. Guess where the majority of his buddies are?

That’s right! The other team.

So even though the kids in one of his club teams is on the same 6th grade team he is? He cannot bring himself to ask the other kids about being in a group. He tried to get me to email everyone and I did mention it to their parents but ultimately want to leave it to them to decide. And my boy is panicky. Because he’s worried he’ll end up IN A TEAM OF GIRLS. Or worse yet, with a few other “misfits” (his term).

That brings us to a whole other level self-awareness. My boy is currently aware that he doesn’t fit in with the majority of the other kids. He realizes he is different. And while he celebrates his differences and is totally cool with them, he isn’t cool with the difficulty he is having navigating the Social Seas.

And that breaks this Momma’s heart.

And all I can do is talk to him, assure him, reassure him and give him some ideas on how to do it.

But when you’re talking to your child for the UMPTEENTH time about making his group and talking to other kids and finding out who has six and who needs another or two, and he says,

“This sucks. I’m never going to find a group. The other kids all think I’m a weirdo.”

It’s really hard to keep things in perspective. Especially when hearing that makes you want to cry.

Carry on

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When life hands you lemons, don’t make lemonade. Make mashed potatoes because they taste better. – DG

Ah life. I love lemons, really. The smell is divine to me and I like a slice or two in my water because I like the taste and it’s all refined and lady-like and stuff. And we all know I AM A REFINED LADY. Stop laughing, ho.

Anywho, lemons, lemons, lemons. Bushels and bushels of them. And I can’t slice open the lemons and show them all to you. Not all of them, anyway. Well, most of them. Suffice to say we are in survival mode and we’ve been stuck there for weeks. In some ways months and years. Many years. Twenty, really. And these lemons, well, they plague us. And come back to haunt us. Bushels of them in my dreams. And I’d really like to exclaim, “LOOK, LIFE, I’M F*CKING SICK OF LEMONS, MMKAY?”

As a “disgustingly optimistic person” who annoys the crap out of my peeps with my Pollyanna-Sunshine-and-rainbows-silver-linings outlook on life, I suppose this is when I say, “Just cut open the lemons and rub them on your elbows! Gets rid of the dead skin and makes your elbows look all purty like! You know, if these were REAL, LIVE lemons and not hypothetical lemons used as a metaphor.

But truth be told? Right now my emotional banks are a wee bit depleted. I grow weary of being the person who holds all of the sh*t together around here. The littlest things are zapping me right now. And I know it isn’t the little stuff that’s the problem. No, it’s the big stuff, really. And the big stuff takes SO MUCH ENERGY and so much of my emotional fortitude that the little stuff? I can barely handle it.

Hence the survival mode.

And worse yet, I can’t really elaborate on everything going on. To anyone. Because it’s not my story to tell. But it’s weighing heavily on my mind and suffice to say I’ve had sleepless nights and we all know I need a few less of those around here, eh?

So I just suck it up, put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Like I always have. And I keep it all together, because that’s my job. And it’s a BIG EFFING JOB but someone has to do it, right? I just wish once…just once…I could be the one that someone else is taking care of. I get to be the one tucked into bed, pampered, fed, massaged, the house kept quiet for. I may sound a little resentful but that’s not my intent. More like…weary. Tired. In need of a break.

Fortunately one of our FABULOUS WEEKEND GETAWAYS is planned in a few weeks. Can’t even begin to tell you how much I need it.

But until then, I carry on, like always. Because these human-types need me to do that. And the canine-types, too. And I’m rewarded with hugs and smiles and cuddles and happy humans and puppies. And that gets me through.

This should be my mantra:

Baby, Baby, Baby OOOOOH

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I watch my four-year-old nephew every week. We’ll call him Super Boy since each day he is a different super hero. Or Puss in Boots. But since he should probably wear pants, we’ll stick with the super heroes for the time being.

I’ve enjoyed the privilege of caring for him since he was at wee babe. I cared for two of my other nephews when they were wee ones and a niece, too. It’s honestly my favorite part of the week. Since my guys are at school all day (and have been since the age of three, thanks to early intervention) it is nice to have a chatty little dude hanging around two or three days a week for a few hours. I don’t like being alone all day and dogs, well, they don’t answer back too often. That gets old.

Anywho, We have the most interesting conversations. And he does some pretty funny stuff. Like yesterday, when I thought I’d sneak into the shower? And the phone rang:

Super Boy: HEWWO?
Cousin in Tennessee: May I speak to Aunt Marj?
Super Boy: SHE’S ON THE POTTY. WANNA COME PLAY STAR WARS WITH ME?

Or this morning to his 2-month-old cousin, who also comes to visit me once or twice a week:

Super Boy: HI BABY! HI! HI WEEEYUM! YOUR MOMMY AND DADDY AT WORK? MY MOMMY AND DADDY AT WORK, TOO! DON’T CWY! DAY BE HOME SOON! DON’T CWY WEEYUM! WANT SOME OF MY YOGURT?

It’s super adorable, yo. And if you don’t think it’s super adorable, you have a heart of stone and kick kittens, I’ll bet.

Anywho, Super Boy has been around more this week. More than usual. See, even though I declared this to be “THE YEAR OF DG” so far 2013 hasn’t turned out that way yet. Because remember the two ER visits? Well, there was A THIRD ER VISIT. Bugaboo was jumping on the bed Tuesday night as I was putting away laundry and before I could say, “Stop jumping before you fall off” he fell off and landed on his elbow. He thrashed around and whined most of the night and when we got up for school he wouldn’t let me anywhere near his right arm and it hung at a funny angle to his side. A trip to our favorite kids’ hospital and seven hours later, four of which were spent walking up and down the hall in a wagon, we walked out with this:

Yep. That's a cast. Broken humerus, except it's REALLY REALLY not funny, yo.

Yep. That’s a cast. Broken humerus, except it’s REALLY REALLY not funny, yo.

I’m trying to find the HUMOR in the fact that he broke his HUMERUS but it really wasn’t funny. Especially since it was our 3rd ER visit in two weeks with two kids. The same hospital. They’re naming a room after me, now. And since they’ve been punching my frequent visitor card, the tenth visit will be free! See? Looking at the positive!

But wait, there’s more!

My newest nephew was due this week and my bro and sister-in-law went into the hospital to have said nephew and he was born Saturday night. Except little dude took a turn for the worse and was transported to the VERY SAME children’s hospital (the one where I’m a frequent flyer!) to the NICU. Little dude has had a rough start and could use all the good thoughts, well-wishes, vibes, prayers and virtual hugs you can muster, mmkay?

Because he needs to come home soon to his so-gigantic-it’s-ridiculous-family, where he can be spoiled by his scores of adoring relatives, licked by Bruno the giant horse-dog and talked to by his big brother, Super Boy.

Who, I might add, will be an awesome big brother. Because he brings his Star Wars toys and cars and super heroes and places them around the 2-month-old (WEEYUM) and says, “WEEYUM! WAKE UP AND PLAY WITH MEEEE! WEEYUM! YOU CAN BE THE JOKER!”

Meanwhile, I’ve been going to bed every night before 8pm. Mostly because Bugaboo has had me up every night for two weeks and I haven’t had ONE NAP for three weeks. And he isn’t currently fond of sleeping in his own bed so guess who gets whacked in the head a few times a night with a heavy cast?  THIS GIRL.

Aaaaand. Fin.

Bad Toaster Oven Karma

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Appliances hate living in my house so much they make the decision to stop working, in the hopes of getting put on the curb with the trash and snatched up by a junk collector to be given a second chance.

The latest was the toaster oven. We’re on our fourth or fifth one in sixteen years of marriage. Or we were, anyways. Two weeks ago we had yet another cheapo counter top toaster oven go kaput, complete with flames and smoke. Fortunately I was standing near it when it happened and could unplug and extinguish it RIGHT AWAY. Unfortunately, this had to happen right before Christmas and the last thing I wanted to spend money on was a new appliance.

Unless it was a beautiful, new appliance I’ve been coveting drooling over for years. Ahem.

Anywho, toaster oven. It ceased to function. And Mr. Fixit (aka The Guy I Live With) wanted to try to fix it and IMMA ALL HELL TO THE NO. Because burning our house down? Not high on my list of priorities at the moment. And the Bugaboo, he needs a toaster oven. We’re trying to teach him to be more independent and it’s age appropriate for him to throw some tater tots and chicken fingers (gluten-free, of course!) in the toaster oven to make himself food. Right? I mean, instead of eating them frozen out of the fridge as he usually does. So. Toaster oven. I sent The Guy I Live With to a local house wares type of place that lets you use those 20% off coupons? Well, he came home with this:

OOOOOhhhhh. Aaaaaaahhhh. Shiny.

OOOOOhhhhh. Aaaaaaahhhh. Shiny.

Needless to say, Momma was happy. Because Momma has wanted that PARTICULAR Countertop Convection oven for a very, very long time. Happy Christmas to me! And next year’s birthday. And next year’s anniversary. Because it was $$$, y’all. But oooooh sooooo worth it. This thing is quite the gadget, I can assure you. It senses how many freaking pieces of toast are in it. It cooks to perfection. It pretty much does everything but predict the future and make twenty-dollar bills. I lerves it so hard.

Except.

Remember that part about teaching the Bugaboo to be more independent?

(You see where this is going, right?)

Sooooo I sort of had my newborn nephew the other day and Bugaboo was home from school. Normally I watch other children during the day because I cannot handle Bugaboo and another kid all by my lonesome (sometimes I get my neighbor’s daughter to come and help because she LOVES! BABIES!). Anywho, the nephew needed some sustenance, because it turns out you have to FEED babies. Like regularly and stuff. And although our kitchen is open to our family room, separated by a mere half-wall, I was sitting with my back to the kitchen. And a few minutes into the bottle for the baby, I heard DING! And smelled something a little…off.

Except it was on.

The toaster oven, I mean. The Queen Mother of all Toaster Ovens was operating without my knowledge. And the Bugaboo was in the kitchen. Behind me. Where I couldn’t see him.

That’s when I stood up with the baby and saw this:

Melted plate. Did I mention the toaster oven is NEW?

Melted plate. Did I mention the toaster oven is NEW?

And in case you don’t know what that is, I’ll give you a hint: Blue IKEA kids’ plate. With chicken nuggets on it. Melted in my brand-spanking-new counter top convection oven.

The good news is this is precisely when my neighbor’s twelve-year-old came over to ogle the baby and she was quite useful as I heated and scraped and heated and scraped and heated and scraped (lather, rinse, repeat) until the plastic was all removed from the rack and the toaster oven. And I never turned my back on Bugaboo in the kitchen again! THE END!

But wait, there’s more!

Then this past weekend, Bugaboo was camped out on the couch sick. His brother was in the basement playing with a friend, The Guy I Live With was outside doing yard work (read: hiding in garage) and I was tossing Frisbees and tennis balls for the dogs. For a whopping two minutes. Which is precisely the moment Bug Boy ran outside shouting, “MOOOOOM! A PIPE BURST AND WATER IS POURING DOWN THE BASEMENT CEILING!” And I ran inside to see water dripping down the step from the kitchen into the family room, water pouring down my kitchen counter like a cascading waterfall, water running under the BRAND NEW TOASTER OVEN while it was still plugged in, an ipad sitting on the counter top and the new spigot pointed over the counter and turned on.

So not a burst pipe. But let’s just say I had a lot of water to sop up very quickly while simultaneously unplugging and drying out electronical device who were resting very innocently on my kitchen counter.

Now. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.

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)