Crossing the Line

Literally AND figuratively. Admittedly, I took care of the literal, but the author of this fine note handled the rest ...

Jumping on the Bandwagon

Rumor has it, it's Kids Week here in Blogtopia. A time to flaunt shamelessly the beauty, brains, and brawn of our offspring. Well, that works for me, as every week is Kids Week at my house, as I am quite capable of seeing the genius (read: college scholarship) in even the smallest, and completely insignificant, of things. Take for instance, the following poem written by my 11 year old. While it would be much more impressive if I told you he was 5, nonetheless, I find it very funny and not a bad little piece of the written word. If anything, it's a glimpse of the creative, sensitive, good-natured man I know he will grow up to be. Enjoy...

Mountain Dew

Mountain Dew, who doesn't love you?

Your taste, so beautiful, like something Picasso drew.

The first taste,

A burst of citrus flavor

Even a queen would want to savor.

A little piece of Heaven's plan

Is contained in your gorgeous jade can.

When I am through and the flavor is gone,

Sorrow blankets me like the grass on the lawn.

You Know It's Time for a New Dishwasher When:

1. You have to wash the dishes THOROUGHLY before you load them.

2. You have to wash the dishes thoroughly AFTER their done.

3. You take out a plate and the entire rack comes with it.

4. Your utensils fall straight through the basket onto the floor of the washer.

5. The spinny-roundy thingy on the bottom doesn't spinny-roundy anymore!

About Last Night

"Um, you're going to have to repeat that, because I am sure I must have heard you incorrectly," I stammered in disbelief.

"I don't want you to tuck me in. I don't need you to," My 15 year old declared matter-of-factly.

Well, I knew he couldn't have really meant it, so I headed into his room to give him a quick kiss, hug and cuddle. He was having none of it.

"I told you not to tuck me in! Tuck-ins are for babies."

Ouch.

I left him as he was, turning off his iPod and packing his backpack for the A.M. But as soon as I thought he was asleep, I crept back to his room to sneak a kiss. You see, while he may not need to be tucked in anymore, I still need to tuck him in. Although, clearly, I need to get over it.

I gave him a kiss and straightened out his covers. And as I was about to walk away, I spotted this, under his arm, snuggled up next to him, and it made me smile:

Oh, and as I was walking out of the room, my big boy who didn't need me mumbled, "I love you, Madre." Phew...

WW: Living or Waiting?

No cross-dressing cows this week, sorry. I don't know if I am harder to deal with when I am being silly or when I am being serious. But, I'm not feeling the whole silly thing today. 

I love this picture and I hate this picture. I love this picture because it reminds me of how healthy, strong and athletic my son is. I look at it, and I see the swimmer, fighter and competitor in him. But I also hate this picture because it's just so misleading. My son, barring a really, really huge miracle, will die before me. I will have to watch him suffer, unable to do a whole heck of a lot about it. As if that wasn't bad enough, the diagnosis doesn't come with a timeline, so all I do is wait.

Oh, most of the time, I stay in a nicely wrapped little cocoon of denial. Look at the picture... It's easy. There's no way he could really be THAT sick. And maybe he's not. But there's just no way to tell. And to confuse things more, just because he's healthy today, doesn't guarantee his health tomorrow. Believe me, the doctor reminds me of that constantly.

But sometimes, like when he has a cold, I just get this wave of panic and sadness that is just so heavy. The poor kid can't catch a cold without the rest of the family freaking out. And that's because maybe it's not just a cold. Or even if it IS a cold, it could be damaging his precious lungs. So I tuck him into bed and go to bed, myself. Except I can't sleep. I lie there in the darkness, listening to him cough. And even in that darkness, I turn my head to see my husband, wide awake, jaw clenched, listening to him cough, too. But we don't talk about it. Ever. Going there would just make it so... real.

So I stay on top of him. Watching every pill he takes, making sure he doesn't miss a treatment... EVER. I text him when he's away to make sure he didn't forget to take his medicine. I am a complete maniac, unwilling to relinquish control. But the problem is, he's growing up. And even though his disease limits his future, he has big plans. Which is good, and how it should be. But 3 years from now, when he is away at college, will he remember to take his medicine? Will he do his breathing treatments? Will he get the exercise he needs to stay healthy? Or will it be the beginning of the end?

Oh, all this morbidity is just so unlike me and such a buzz-kill. It's much more fun to stay hopeful and know God will take care of us...somehow. I would rather laugh and think about all the thousands of ways this same son of mine drives me nuts. He's a special kid, living a special life. And that's exactly what I have to remember... he's living.

Thanks to Angie for letting me be a little (ok, a LOT) self-indulgent. Back to silly next week.

Identity

So, basically, I can't stand meeting new people anymore. "Hi, how are you?"... easy enough. Exchange a few pleasantries...Fine. But then, invariably, tensions begin to rise. Oh, nothing discernible to the naked eye. However, inside, I start to feel sick. And annoyed. And unsure. All of my insecurities come rushing forth, until I am having to will myself not to just bolt. As the innocuous words are spoken by my new "friend", my mind races to formulate an answer to the question that has plagued (and mocked, and ridiculed and tortured) me for the last 15 years.

"What do you do?" 

What do I DO? What kind of asinine question is THAT? You mean, what is my job? Do I have one? How do I spend my waking hours? What is my chosen destiny? How many lives have I saved? 

The "real" answer, I guess, is quite simple. I'm a mom. Some days, not a very good one. A wife. One who can hold a grudge for years. A caretaker to the pets that seem to be running my life with increasing demand. But how do I say all of that with a straight face? It's just so... unglamorous. So ordinary. So not good to say someone you are meeting for the first time.

But it's not that I feel undervalued or that I would rather be doing something else. Or maybe I do and I would. I guess the reality of being a cutting-edge fashion designer or the lead singer in a girl band is slim. Did I set those dreams aside to have a family, or was I too scared to pursue them in the first place? And what on EARTH am I to do about it NOW? So much to think about, yet so few people that actually care. 

Lesson here? If you meet me on the street, stick to the weather.

Hi, My Name is Debbie and...

I'm addicted to segues. I can't express myself without them. God forbid I have a thought in my head that wants to escape without having a good enough reason to spit it out. One reason I don't initiate conversations is I don't want to inconvenience/bore people with a topic that doesn't have direct relevance to what they want to discuss themselves. I guess that is the doormat in me, inherited from my mother.

Another reason is I don't want to seem self-absorbed or pre-occupied with things that aren't either excellent gossip or beneficial to the majority of listeners. If I bring something up simply out of the blue, that I need to get off my chest, doesn't that make me selfish? Maybe I feel this way because so many people I associate with ONLY talk about themselves. I could be standing there with a bleeding head wound, and they would still be going on and on and on about how they hope their kid makes the yearbook staff this year.

The final reason I don't talk about things that aren't already on the table is fear. The reason certain topics never arise is because I go to great lengths to make sure they don't. I avoid talking about them because, although I am pretty much consumed by them, they scare me too much. I am afraid that uttering what eats at me will only give it life and push me down a never-ending staircase. I'll be left alone to confront what I hate, what makes me sad, what chases me in my nightmares. It'll take over and I won't be able to function.

So unless somebody happens to say, "Hey Deb, let's discuss your deepest fears and biggest problems," they will stay neatly tucked away inside my soul. And, if perchance, someone does happen to go there, I'll probably just lie and tell them everything's peachy.

"Not a care in the world. And, hey, how 'bout those Redskins?"