Last night I got to take a bath in my fabulous new old claw foot tub. It is really a significant milestone for me. On par with getting to sleep in my own bed. Yes. That important.
For the first time since I moved to this corner of East Texas, it became possible for me and my kids to live in our own little Hobbit Hole (I like that name better) without streaking anywhere for baths, to brush teeth, or anything like that. With our toaster oven and microwave we could even make it a while eating some really triglyceride-laden stuff. And fruit.
So I took the first chance I had to soak in a redonkulously long bath. There were no kids here and I locked out the adults from the Big Red House. Buddy texted me nine billion times to see if I was done. I finally asked if he was the appointed bath nazi and he stopped.
Mostly, however, my plan for the evening was to stalk my workstation (who is also named Scat...I know...it wasn't me) and try to determine exactly why the little bugger was shutting itself down every morning. And by "morning," I mean between midnight and 5 a.m. So we're talking really, really early.
So there I sat.
I frittered away my time. I wrote. Balanced all the books. Looked for tax stuff. Munched a bit and at 3:23 a.m. (I know, right?) I heard the telltale "meep" of death that indicated the workstation was shutting down the hard way. Of course it did this when I was using the facilities, so I went running into the office to try and see what was going on. I didn't manage to catch it in the act before the driver for the multi-screens shut down. If I had a monitor from, say, the late '80's I'd know a heck of a lot more about this as I'd be able to see things much early in the boot down and boot up cycles. I was extremely articulate about my disappointment. RAWR.
So there I sat.
This is usually the time at which I realize I've wasted not only a night but most of the following day, so I was in a general funk about the issue and threw in the towel about the whole thing. I was texting back and forth w/a friend of mine who was working the night shift and another who was just in a different time zone and having lunch. I was much disgusted. I mentioned fixing the issue with a sledge hammer and was told it wasn't healthy. Forget healthy. I was shooting for therapeutic.
Then I woke up today.
Not everyone else woke up today. I was told by Buddy that around 3:00 a.m., a man that I had just started to get to know since October had a massive heart attack and died. They managed to get him to the hospital where they pronounced him dead. He had been in town at church just yesterday with his wife and grandchildren. It was out of the blue. No reason to expect it.
I can't honestly imagine or say that I know what his family is feeling or what they went through, but something sunk in me and got very still and quiet. Subdued. I know where he's going, so that's not the issue. Believe me, when it comes to places I want to go, I want to go Home (capital H). I also want to be with my kids, but I know where they're going to end up, too.
Still, when someone passes like this. Out of the blue I feel like we as a community have lost something. As if we're working (hard!) together and a soldier has fallen. How could we ever fill those shoes? We can't.
And what was I doing "around 3:00 a.m?" I was cursing my workstation for simply turning off without my permission. I was awake then when I'm usually not and that now seems slightly significant. It was certainly significant to me that while someone I knew was dying, I was arguing with a hunk of metal, gold, copper, and silicon. This level of pressure that I usually keep on myself suddenly lowered significantly and I rested my head back and thought...
...none of "this"...none of it is really that important.
Scat
Monday, January 14, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
Stuff--Part Dos
I'm not downplaying one child over another AT ALL. They're just different. So no mommy-bashing. Sometimes life just works out on a weird, off-kilter sort of merry-go-round spun by a very freaky clown and you get what you get. Welcome to Earth.
I love both of my boys so much I can't stand it. But this one, for some reason unknown to me, is so highly intuitive and compassionate that he loves me so much I almost can't stand it. In a good way.
Anyway, I'll start with the disclaimer that he isn't perfect. BUT. On the other hand, I can't count the number of times in one day that he kisses me on the forehead or the cheek. Or makes me cards or letters that tell me he loves me, I'm cute, and I'm pretty. It's completely true that if you hear that enough you begin to believe it. After the end of a 2nd disastrous marriage (on both parts), I was one of the most damaged people I know and this kid right here thought (thinks) I'm beautiful, cute, wonderful, and he loves me. He tells me when he likes my hair. He comments when I dress certain ways. Granted, he goes right back to his Lego's or dinosaur creating, but I actually do feel more...beautiful...because of this kid. For me, that was life-changing.
Recently he asked me why I was writing so much. I told him I was writing a book. He asked how long it was and I told him how long it was in pages and by wordcount. By the end of the day, every person he crossed paths with knew about it. He was genuinely impressed and actually the first person to be such an advocate.
It isn't something I'd expect of a child. Or even ask for. He just does it and will continue to do it whether I say anything about it or not. When I get migraines, he kisses my head really gently and tells me he prays for my head. And, believe me, I'm not entirely sure that God himself would argue with Squib. He's one determined little dude.
So, it was with a very unsettled stomach that I left Texas Childrens' Hospital last Friday after his annual Neurofibromatosis Clinic visit. I thought we'd count spots, do a normal exam, and they'd look at the "NF signal" from his MRI and send us packing. But Squib has also been having headaches, a mild change in vision, and weakness in one side. And apparently NF kids also are prone to other brain tumors and that might be what the signals are. So...more MRI's...(plural) and almost a pint worth of blood to be drawn for more genetic testing than is even decipherable (says this biochemist).
It took me until Saturday morning to gnaw all my fingernails down to the quick. Mostly because I wasn't exactly sleeping. I read two trashy novels whilst gnawing and even the prospect of someone's "glistening wet shoulders" didn't do it for me. And now we are on day nine of Squib headaches and I dare not contemplate the means by which "we" shall make it until March 11 (that's six months from the last MRI so we can detect growth speed) without going totally bats.
It's taken me seven years to walk into Texas Childrens' Hospital without breaking into cold sweats. And take this for what it's worth: I really hate to love that place. And I don't know if we're starting on a new journey or if this is just a preemptive looksee. But I'm the mother. It's like telling your kids not to touch. I have to feel everything.
However, that being said....sometimes you have to remind the fear of it's boundaries....
I will not fear. Fear is a mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. Perfect love casts out all fear. (now is a good time to shut your eyes if "bad words" bother you) So get the fuck out of my house you malevolent bastard.
Scat
I love both of my boys so much I can't stand it. But this one, for some reason unknown to me, is so highly intuitive and compassionate that he loves me so much I almost can't stand it. In a good way.
 |
| This is for his "Got Milk" ad. I'm being totally serious. His idea. He saw Leonardo DiCaprio or some other male actor in a Got Milk ad and decided he needed one, too. Not bad for a first take. |
Anyway, I'll start with the disclaimer that he isn't perfect. BUT. On the other hand, I can't count the number of times in one day that he kisses me on the forehead or the cheek. Or makes me cards or letters that tell me he loves me, I'm cute, and I'm pretty. It's completely true that if you hear that enough you begin to believe it. After the end of a 2nd disastrous marriage (on both parts), I was one of the most damaged people I know and this kid right here thought (thinks) I'm beautiful, cute, wonderful, and he loves me. He tells me when he likes my hair. He comments when I dress certain ways. Granted, he goes right back to his Lego's or dinosaur creating, but I actually do feel more...beautiful...because of this kid. For me, that was life-changing.
Recently he asked me why I was writing so much. I told him I was writing a book. He asked how long it was and I told him how long it was in pages and by wordcount. By the end of the day, every person he crossed paths with knew about it. He was genuinely impressed and actually the first person to be such an advocate.
It isn't something I'd expect of a child. Or even ask for. He just does it and will continue to do it whether I say anything about it or not. When I get migraines, he kisses my head really gently and tells me he prays for my head. And, believe me, I'm not entirely sure that God himself would argue with Squib. He's one determined little dude.
So, it was with a very unsettled stomach that I left Texas Childrens' Hospital last Friday after his annual Neurofibromatosis Clinic visit. I thought we'd count spots, do a normal exam, and they'd look at the "NF signal" from his MRI and send us packing. But Squib has also been having headaches, a mild change in vision, and weakness in one side. And apparently NF kids also are prone to other brain tumors and that might be what the signals are. So...more MRI's...(plural) and almost a pint worth of blood to be drawn for more genetic testing than is even decipherable (says this biochemist).
It took me until Saturday morning to gnaw all my fingernails down to the quick. Mostly because I wasn't exactly sleeping. I read two trashy novels whilst gnawing and even the prospect of someone's "glistening wet shoulders" didn't do it for me. And now we are on day nine of Squib headaches and I dare not contemplate the means by which "we" shall make it until March 11 (that's six months from the last MRI so we can detect growth speed) without going totally bats.
It's taken me seven years to walk into Texas Childrens' Hospital without breaking into cold sweats. And take this for what it's worth: I really hate to love that place. And I don't know if we're starting on a new journey or if this is just a preemptive looksee. But I'm the mother. It's like telling your kids not to touch. I have to feel everything.
However, that being said....sometimes you have to remind the fear of it's boundaries....
I will not fear. Fear is a mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. Perfect love casts out all fear. (now is a good time to shut your eyes if "bad words" bother you) So get the fuck out of my house you malevolent bastard.
Scat
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Stuff--Part I
The longer I think about it, the more I find that I can't get over this one thing. Ok, two things if you're counting them as people. These two warriors I've been entrusted with. Fearlessly attacking life and everything in it regardless of risk to life and limb or whether or not they possessed said life or limb at the time:
In this particular photo, Beanstalk is laughing about something that, to be honest, I didn't even understand because he said it in his native language--Klingon. Squib looks either seriously mad or annoyed, but really he was trying to refuse to laugh and a split second later he was busting a gut right along with Beanstalk. I'll never know what for. Blue is in the picture. They share him. It's the favorite stuffed animal of choice. Well, now Squib has Sparkles from the Children's Museum so Blue is playing second fiddle with him.
When Beanstalk was born, I was engulfed by fear. Tragically so. He was born dead, essentially and then they sent me home after four days with this child that had a pneumothorax, club feet, questionable other maladies, pending test results, and I can't remember what else. It grabbed me by the ankles and sucked me right into a pit I couldn't get out of by myself. Even hollering for help didn't work. I asked everyone including God. I could feel it. You know? That feeling you get when you're trying to climb out of a pit but the sides are just crumbling under your fingers and you're screaming, "Hey! Guys? Over here?"
I was a gibbering mas of protoplasmic goo on the inside. And I couldn't have looked too awesome on the outside. Believe me. I think I dropped a good thirty pounds in under four months after Beanstalk was born. And I'm a believing person. I have morals and enough belief in God that I really thought I would have something to lean on, and I think I probably did. But oddly enough it was something Frank Herbert wrote that got me on track. If you are appropriately geeky, then you'll know it:
“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
-Frank Herbert
Only I changed some parts after a while. At first it worked as is. But I tried the "I will permit it to pass over me and through me" crap and I'm here to tell you that just doesn't work. It's like walking through your house with mud on your boots. It still leaves tracks. So I tweaked it a bit and came up with something workable.
"I will not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. Perfect love casts out all fear, so you can take your happy ass and your fear along with it and get the hell out of dodge. And when you're gone, I won't care. I'll still be here."
-Scatness
It isn't that I don't get nervous or worry or even get that rush of OMG-ness at times. It's just that I have to stare it down for a second and send it on it's way. I have to hold up my end of things, ask myself if there's anything else that can possibly be done and THEN deliver the mantra. I just really can't even stand to be around fear-driven people.
And those two boys? They wouldn't indulge fear if it smacked them in the face. They've been broken and poked and prodded and dismembered and reassembled and just look at them. They are the two happiest creatures ever to walk the face of the earth. Proof?
That stuff right there. That thing they have? I can't say where it came from. They've been like that from day one. The happiest clams in the ocean. Sure they cry when it hurts, but five seconds later it's forgotten. Forever.
One of my concerns/hopes/dreams was that they grow into a relationship so that Beanstalk would have family around him as long as possible. He can do things, but to add perspective, he's ten and learning to count to twenty and do simple math. We tackled counting to ten last year. But I never wanted to force it or tell Squib he had to watch out for Beanstalk.
Then, on the playground one day, I saw Squib draw himself up to his towering height of 40 inches (heart babies can be short) and about that many pounds, and make that face I knew so well. He stood between where Beanstalk was watching people come down the tube slide and laughing his head off and where another boy had stopped to 'comment.' "That face" is a combo of "I believe I can so do this" and "I will start by gnawing your knees off and when you hit the ground I shall move on to your hips." Add a touch of "over your dead body" and you know the look. He was about to granulate someone who made fun of Beanstalk. And my heart both swelled and throbbed with dire panic. Squib does everything he sets out to do. And the face in the pic up there is not far from his determined litle squint.
Do you know what he said later?
"I don't get it, momma. There's nothing wrong with Beanstalk."
EXACTLY. Take that, tetrasomy 18p and neurofibromatosis whatsits!
Scat
 |
| Squib (left) and Beanstalk (right) in the park. |
When Beanstalk was born, I was engulfed by fear. Tragically so. He was born dead, essentially and then they sent me home after four days with this child that had a pneumothorax, club feet, questionable other maladies, pending test results, and I can't remember what else. It grabbed me by the ankles and sucked me right into a pit I couldn't get out of by myself. Even hollering for help didn't work. I asked everyone including God. I could feel it. You know? That feeling you get when you're trying to climb out of a pit but the sides are just crumbling under your fingers and you're screaming, "Hey! Guys? Over here?"
I was a gibbering mas of protoplasmic goo on the inside. And I couldn't have looked too awesome on the outside. Believe me. I think I dropped a good thirty pounds in under four months after Beanstalk was born. And I'm a believing person. I have morals and enough belief in God that I really thought I would have something to lean on, and I think I probably did. But oddly enough it was something Frank Herbert wrote that got me on track. If you are appropriately geeky, then you'll know it:
“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
-Frank Herbert
Only I changed some parts after a while. At first it worked as is. But I tried the "I will permit it to pass over me and through me" crap and I'm here to tell you that just doesn't work. It's like walking through your house with mud on your boots. It still leaves tracks. So I tweaked it a bit and came up with something workable.
"I will not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. Perfect love casts out all fear, so you can take your happy ass and your fear along with it and get the hell out of dodge. And when you're gone, I won't care. I'll still be here."
-Scatness
It isn't that I don't get nervous or worry or even get that rush of OMG-ness at times. It's just that I have to stare it down for a second and send it on it's way. I have to hold up my end of things, ask myself if there's anything else that can possibly be done and THEN deliver the mantra. I just really can't even stand to be around fear-driven people.
And those two boys? They wouldn't indulge fear if it smacked them in the face. They've been broken and poked and prodded and dismembered and reassembled and just look at them. They are the two happiest creatures ever to walk the face of the earth. Proof?
 |
| Blurry, but a huge smile from Squib two days after open heart surgery and only hours off the vent. |
 |
| Beanstalk after a series of three surgeries to literally amputate his feet, use the parts to make new ones and reattached them. |
One of my concerns/hopes/dreams was that they grow into a relationship so that Beanstalk would have family around him as long as possible. He can do things, but to add perspective, he's ten and learning to count to twenty and do simple math. We tackled counting to ten last year. But I never wanted to force it or tell Squib he had to watch out for Beanstalk.
Then, on the playground one day, I saw Squib draw himself up to his towering height of 40 inches (heart babies can be short) and about that many pounds, and make that face I knew so well. He stood between where Beanstalk was watching people come down the tube slide and laughing his head off and where another boy had stopped to 'comment.' "That face" is a combo of "I believe I can so do this" and "I will start by gnawing your knees off and when you hit the ground I shall move on to your hips." Add a touch of "over your dead body" and you know the look. He was about to granulate someone who made fun of Beanstalk. And my heart both swelled and throbbed with dire panic. Squib does everything he sets out to do. And the face in the pic up there is not far from his determined litle squint.
Do you know what he said later?
"I don't get it, momma. There's nothing wrong with Beanstalk."
EXACTLY. Take that, tetrasomy 18p and neurofibromatosis whatsits!
Scat
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Perhaps...
It is quite possible I've reached the end of my proverbial rope. Psychologically speaking. I was just looking through this huge stack of DVD-R/RW's that we have in a drawer I'd rather forget about and just on the hunch that this isn't the most troublesome day I've ever had, I checked the disk on the bottom of the spindle. And it was a CD-R!!
I know, right? Who needs those? Well, actually, I do. And it's irritating to keep running out of them. So I looked through the whole stack and there were fifty or so and now I am actually feeling happy about it. Changed my entire outlook on the day. Sort of.
On the flip side of reality, I was wasting time on Facebook earlier and I began to notice the adds. And the same two kept popping up. It was really quite ridiculous on the part of someone's PR department:
(And I would show it to you NOW if blogspot would so indulge me. Frack. This is the day I have had. I don't need 24 new effects or to friend all my friends again so we can say what we've already said ninety more times in a slightly different but same sort of way. I want a picture to show up in my blog. Just. Like. Always. HERMPH. Who's computer is this anyway? Not just mine apparently. Just like the bank...who's money is it really? Well...it's not under MY mattress, is it? I'm going to barricade myself inside my little hut and never come out. When I get hungry I'll eat what's left in here and then the first one to drop becomes lunch. Maybe. And now I've downloaded something I didn't need. Disabled everything it tried to enable and finally got what I want. Pish!)
As I was saying, Facebook offered me two choices and I thought them rather...oddly paired:
I just really don't think we even need to take a vote on this one. No offense to any male readers, but a helpful hint for you: Never take your pic next to a set of diamond (or other questionable sparkly stuff) studs because every woman on this earth will look right at the sparkly crap and say, "I have to have THAT." Your only hope is if you take the pic with the sparklies in your hand for said woman. Srsly.
That is your only hope. Especially if you're anywhere over 35. It's not an age thing on your part. We like you. We just know a lot more about what we want. And the diamond studs are a whole lot easier to handle.
Scat
I know, right? Who needs those? Well, actually, I do. And it's irritating to keep running out of them. So I looked through the whole stack and there were fifty or so and now I am actually feeling happy about it. Changed my entire outlook on the day. Sort of.
On the flip side of reality, I was wasting time on Facebook earlier and I began to notice the adds. And the same two kept popping up. It was really quite ridiculous on the part of someone's PR department:
(And I would show it to you NOW if blogspot would so indulge me. Frack. This is the day I have had. I don't need 24 new effects or to friend all my friends again so we can say what we've already said ninety more times in a slightly different but same sort of way. I want a picture to show up in my blog. Just. Like. Always. HERMPH. Who's computer is this anyway? Not just mine apparently. Just like the bank...who's money is it really? Well...it's not under MY mattress, is it? I'm going to barricade myself inside my little hut and never come out. When I get hungry I'll eat what's left in here and then the first one to drop becomes lunch. Maybe. And now I've downloaded something I didn't need. Disabled everything it tried to enable and finally got what I want. Pish!)
As I was saying, Facebook offered me two choices and I thought them rather...oddly paired:
 |
| A (potential) man or (definite) diamonds? |
That is your only hope. Especially if you're anywhere over 35. It's not an age thing on your part. We like you. We just know a lot more about what we want. And the diamond studs are a whole lot easier to handle.
Scat
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