Here is something from my drafts folder, a piece I started working on the summer I was living with, and losing, my grandmother.  I've been thinking about her a lot lately, about how much she made me feel capable and loved, and how difficult it is for me to make LilGirl feel that way. How it doesn't come as naturally to me, as it must have to her, and how I wish she were around to talk me through it.  So, I've been wandering back and looking at some of the things I've written about her, and about our relationship.  Here is something I think that's worth posting... I don't know why I never finished it, then.  Probably it hurt too much. But, it's a tribute to her, so I want it out there, on this the fifth anniversary of her death.  

-  

She talks in her sleep; probably all sorts of things that she wants to say when she's awake, but doesn't dare.  "Shut up ~ I'll only listen to that for so long;"  "Who do you think is the boss around here, Mister?"  "Well, I'm smarter than that, which you'd knew if you listened to me at all."

But it's not just that: sometimes she opens her eyes and talks to people who aren't really there, except for her.  "What are you doing here?" she'll say, "Where have you been for so long?"

The other morning: "Is that Brian's chin? Do I recognize Brian's chin? I know it's you, because you have my chin, boy: why won't you talk to me?" Her voice is sweet, and cajoling; later it's hurt and quiet. 

Brian is my father, and he's been dead for 13 years.  He was not, contrary to her beliefs, 'necking in the living room the other night with some girl.'  At least not that I could see, and I had a pretty good view of things, since I was sitting on the couch she claimed he was sitting on.

"I'm glad that he has someone;" she reports back, "but did he have to ignore me?  What kind of evil have I done that my own child would pretend I didn't exist?"

When I suggest that he didn't hear her, she gives me a look that says she knows I am not that stupid, and I should know that she isn't that stupid either.  She's right: neither of us is that dumb, but what else can I say?  He's gone: If she saw him in the living room, it certainly wasn't the Brian that either of us used to know, and trying to explain about hallucinations to a person who is hallucinating all the time, is like trying to explain about breathing: you don't do it consciously, therefore you can't think about all the bits and pieces that go into it.  You don't think to yourself "Diaphragm in" before each breath, and she doesn't think to herself "this could possibly be fake" before she has a chat with the person she sees so clearly.

Don't try to convince her that she's hallucinating, all the experts/books/hospice workers agree: so now I've got a woman who's sure she's seen her dead son, and that he ignored her, that he hates her enough to not even say hello, when she is clearly ill and needs his company.

 Even my father, whose memory is pretty tarnished (if only in my own eyes) was never that bad.

She pines for a little boy (sometimes two little boys) who is/are missing, but she can't recall their names or their faces, only that they are her littlest boys and that someone has taken them from her.  My uncle is sometimes cast as the willing accomplice, other times the clueless and cold father, still other times the evil mastermind behind this whole plot: he doesn't know where the boy(s) are, and he doesn't seem concerned enough with finding them, in her opinion.

We don't know how to search for pretend boys, or how to explain that no one has absconded with any of her children, and so she longs for them, brings them up in every quiet moment, wonders if they are fed and clean and happy and "where could they be?"

"Safe and happy; sound and cared for", we promise, but we haven't got enough details for her. There could never be enough details to satisfy a mother who is looking for her missing children.  What is the address, the phone number, the house like?  Where does the father work, the mother shop, the school bus let off?  Do they ever get an extra cookie at night, does the mother wash their hair with that special lice shampoo, are we sure they don't do their homework while sitting in front of the television?

Obviously my worrying genes did not come from the ether.

But what a wonderful mother she must have been, back then, when her kids where little.  To still worry so now, all these years later, about whether or not someone is making sure the little one brushes his teeth because 'he hates to brush his teeth and will just wet the brush and pretend he's brushed, you know'.  To have in her head that there are little hearts out there that it's her job to protect, and to be un-moving in that conviction - it's both awesome and horrible all at the same time.

Because I can so clearly see her in that mom mode - living through the daily struggles of raising nine children, one with a very severe disability in a time where kids with disabilities were hidden from sight more often than not; in the projects of a city she never liked, close to in-laws who treated her like a slave, and far away from the life she lived with her Grams in New Jersey. 

And yet, she excelled - she knocked it out of the park, if you ask me, even if she made mistakes along the way.

But how horrible, to feel that connection, to feel that pull, and to be able to do nothing about it.  This is a feeling I have my own experiences with, that wanting of a child, that feeling that your child is out there somewhere, waiting for you, but you can't get to them.  Our realities are infinitely different - she's reliving the life she's already gone through maybe fifty or sixty years ago, now and I'm looking forward to the life I want in my future - but that pull, that pang and hollow feeling, yeah: I know it too well.
-

This summer with my grandmother is awful.  It's an endless wait for an end you'd do anything to avoid; like you're constantly slipping towards a great big hole, and you know you're going to go into it face first, eventually, but the fall is taking an eternity and you can't figure out where to put your hands out to stop yourself, so you just keep slipping, closer and closer to the big fall.

She has days where she's fine, mostly, and those days of just sleeping for hours and eating and watching Judge Judy, well they're almost normal, except you can still feel the slide happening, deep down, under your feet, under your skin, in your heart.  It's there in the way that she asks what time it is, again, and you can tell her internal clock has run hours ahead of the actual time, and she's lost again.  The way she tilts to the side while we're watching the news, like a curious puppy who can't quite make out what he's looking at.  The way it takes her 15 minutes to get food onto her fork, into her mouth, chewed and into her stomach: It takes her so much energy to eat, that you want her to eat only the highest calorie foods, to make it worthwhile.  All those little steps, little bumps, all part of the slipping.

And then there's days where she's never here: she eats, but she doesn't taste it.  She talks, but her eyes are empty when she looks at you.  "Where's the mail?" and "What's the time?" over and over again, and they have as little meaning to her as they would to a two year old - all she knows is that those things might happen, and it might mean that something would be different than it is now.  And god, does she want things to be different than they are now.

I can't interest her in anything: the plots of television shows confuse her, peppered with commercials that annoy her.  Movies take too long, and have too many people talking at once.  Books are too heavy for her sore arm, too tiny for her eyes, too confusing if you read them to her.  Puzzles are not her thing, nor are cards - "I used to get berated for playing a card in bridge; your uncle" (my great uncle, actually) "would scold me so for not knowing what everyone else had played." And music is, for the most part, out: I turned on a Pandora station with her favorite song, and she took out her hearing aids and went to sleep.

We talk about a long time ago, but I never know how much of it is true anymore - was there really a woman named Bridgey, who lived above them in the Towers and would shout at Grandmother's misbehaving children as easily as she'd take her own to task?  Did my grandfather lace up his Hessian boots, or was it her father, her grandfather, one of her brothers?

We talk about yesterday, today and tomorrow - who's coming and what's on the schedule, and "does your list make you the boss of everybody?" About the weddings coming up, and how they're not today, or tomorrow, or even next week: "I've missed the bride" she'll tell me at least once a week - but no, Grandmother, it's alright: The wedding isn't until the end of September.

 "I need silver shoes," she shouted as she woke up this morning, before even hello, "add it to your list and we'll go shopping for some on the next nice day."

Never mind that we don't go shopping - that the doctor's appointment she went to last week wiped her out so badly her skin was grey - or that her feet are two different sizes due to the swelling.

 "Silver shoes to match my dress.  And a petticoat, with lace."

This year's word*

*This year will be brought to you by the word "Share"  - alternate, very Sesame Street-styled post title.

As always, I gave a lot of thought to what I want this year to be and provide, the benefits I'm hoping for, and the weaknesses I'd like to overcome.  I actually came up with this while writing my last post of last year, as I was going through my list of moments that mattered most to me, and trying to come up with ways to create that feeling as much as possible this year.

What it came down to, really, was that a lot of those moments were spent with the people I care about, or were about me being open to new things/people, or about embracing parts of myself that I have (in the past) tried to ignore or downplay. So this year's theme word is going to be sharing.

Sharing the parts of me I generally keep well hidden - including being more honest.  Both in general - I'm not some huge liar or anything, but I tend to keep things fuzzy and broad when I'm talking about myself - and, more specifically, about my health. Which, for me, will mean answering more truthfully when people that care ask me how I am doing. My stock answer "I'm doing" is both a family joke and technically true, but if I get the sense that the person who asks actually cares and actively wants to know, I'm going to attempt to be more open about how I'm actually feeling.  There are two keys here - 1) Only giving real information people I know aren't just asking as filler or who want the broad strokes answer and 2) Finding some sort of middle ground between smoothing things over and trying to accurately explain to people who love me how much I am truly suffering. After more than one missed opportunity last year, and a few run ins with family members saying things like "I don't even know what you're diagnosed with" or "Is that new?" about a serious heart problem I've had since I was a teenager, I feel like I'm doing myself a real disservice with the standard glib answer. So, where and when it is possible, I'm going to share this piece of myself a little bit more clearly.

Sharing means being open to new experiences and people and plans - both offline and on. I'm hoping to attend my first Con this summer (Boston Comic-Con 2014); I want to make plans with each of my siblings and nephews and niece for stuff we've never done before or stuff we haven't done in a really long time (and maybe get a portrait done for my mother, who's been asking forever); I'm going to be moving somewhere, somehow this year, and I've got to just embrace not knowing, and then wherever we wind up going; I've got to finally nail down a new treatment plan with Zach, even though I've been balking for a while (because all of the options are scary); I want to put myself in new positions & embrace being curious.

Sharing means taking more opportunities to create things, taking the things I create more seriously, and overcoming some of my fears about letting other people see/experience/know about those things. (It does not mean I'm telling my family about my blog, because Hell No.) But it might mean joining new forums, meeting up with like-minded creative people more often in real life, self-promoting a bit, or finally finishing some of the seventeen projects I've got in some form of unfinished.  It definitely means taking more pictures, writing more words, reading more books, playing more games, loving more people, embracing my inner geekess and librarian and letter-writer. 

Sharing means feeling feelings and not hiding them. Quitting the passive-aggressive bullshit and standing up for myself and others in more clear terms. More social activism - both online and in real life, if possible - and incorporating it into my own life better. Making sure my values are the things I'm living by, not just the things I'm hoping to live by.

Sharing is going to mean letting other people share more, being more open to other people's feelings and perspectives and lives with less judgment on my part. This is already something I've been working on, but I need to keep at it... I want to be the person people come to, and for some people, I am. I am very proud of that, and I value those relationships.  I also know I can't be that person for everybody in my life, but there are still some steps I can take to foster better relationships, and those I can take. This is going to be a rough year for my family, and some of them don't even realize it yet. I want to be as available as I can be - without getting taken advantage of (!!!) - because you're there for the people who matter to you, as much as you can be.

Sharing means more friend time, more chances for new friends, more linking and liking. It means embracing sadness but not the isolation it thrives in; having a good day and then telling people about the flare it caused and how that puts a damper on the happy; it means spreading my self-care strategies around so they can benefit other people.

Sharing is less hiding and more showing up; less worrying by myself and more accepting helping hands; paying compliments when I think them instead of hoarding them for later; keeping dollar bills and packs of gum in the car for people who beg on street corners; letting things I don't need anymore go out into the world where they can be of use to someone else.

Sharing is ...

It's just showing up more. And opening up more. And hoping that the world - or at least my little corner of it - follows suit.


And it's wishing all of you the happiest 2014 that there can be. Whatever comes, know if you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen. And know that you all play a large part in saving my sanity, if not my life, because I know you're out there listening too.

Ok 2014: Be nice to us.

One of these days they'll make it past midnight

Well, after all that build up, Lil Girl conked out on me just past 11:00, which, to be fair is two hours past her normal bed time.  She was totally revved until about 10:45, when we put in our third Disney movie (one thing about kids movies, is that they're generally shorter than regular movies).  She was nearly buzzing "Look how good I'm doing: I'm going to stay up till 1:00, for sure!"  She picked the movie, laid back down on the couch while I skipped over all the previews and just as Belle launched into "As long as there's Christmas"... I look over and she's snoring. 

Oh well.  I tucked her in and headed back to my bed, where I read through the night and cursed the fact that I've got Christmas songs stuck in my head already, and it's only the fourth of November. 

(And if you watch till about the three minute mark, so will you: sorry!) 

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A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray*

I started this post a week and half ago.  Here's what I wrote last Sunday, immediately after a moment of Grace ~

In the middle of transitioning her from her wheelchair to her bed after this morning's bathroom break, she suddenly stopped what we were doing, looked at me and said "Goodbye dear."  I wanted to hurry her along, get her safely in bed, so I started to joke, would normally joke "where are we going?" because lately she'll say just about anything at anytime, but something about her tone was different, so I looked up from what I was doing.  I looked right at her, and she was there.  She was in there, somehow, in the midst of enough drugs to be hot air balloon-high, she was lucid enough to offer me this.  "Have a good life", she told me, reaching for a kiss.  "And no matter what, no slander from you, no slander from me.  We'll just be happy for the life that we had these three months."  I swallowed back my tears and said "Yes ma'am. Never: I love you."  "And sometimes say a prayer for me."  "Always," I said.  It was all I could say, even if I could have managed more (and there was so much more I wanted to say: I have nothing but good things to say about you, forever.  I'm not going to let these last few months smear your memory, and I know in your heart you know how much I love you.  I'll miss you.  Don't go.) she had closed her eyes again, and you could see the cloud was back. 

Now this is not miraculous, you might say, but you would be wrong: for days, in the rare moments that she hasn't been completely knocked out, we've been talking about eating butterflies and dinner parties that happened in 1969; she's been (her version of) cursing out my Uncle and I for holding her prisoner here, when she just has to "go or I'll scream"; she's been in near coma-levels of sleep for the most part, waking only when her anxiety or pain levels break through what the meds can control.  She hasn't really been lucid in over a week, hasn't been aware like she was for those three minutes, in weeks to months, really.  So those three minutes?  More miraculous than any other I've been lucky enough to live through.   

Tiny miracles: I'll take them. 

Especially now ~

 My grandmother, a great lady, wonderful mother, open-hearted, strong-willed, surprisingly versatile woman, passed away on Saturday afternoon.  She had been having some trouble breathing earlier that afternoon, so I adjusted her oxygen, gave her her medicine, offered her a weak smile: "Don't give me that fake smile", she whispered in her all of the sudden raspy voice, "You look exhausted."  "So do you," I said "Get some rest."  And then she went to sleep and I laid down on the couch maybe 5 yards away. 

A half an hour later, my uncle went in the room and called out to me: "She's not breathing; I think she's gone."  Her hands were cold, but the rest of her was still warm, that's how recently she had passed.  Within a half an hour from the time I had been holding her hand, getting scolded, giving her a kiss.  She went quietly - I never heard even the tiniest gasp - a peaceful end after all these months of drama and unrest. 
 
 Thank you all for all your support these past months: I can't express just how much it means to me.   For listening to all the ranting about dementia and how much I hate it; about the pressure and the heartache and the loneliness.  I know it's been a dark blog as of late, because I had very little else to talk about, and I appreciate all of you who said even the smallest words of encouragement - I needed them more than I could say.

I don't really know what happens now: I'm feeling such a mixture of relief and sadness and numbness that I can barely get the simplest of tasks accomplished... I know that'll wear off as the days go on.  Her memorial is Thursday & the funeral on Friday, and I'm trying to get everything organized for all of that: it's good to have things to focus on... a project to complete.  I'm going to do that for now, and think about how lucky I have been to have her in my life, for as long as I did, even through these last hellish months.  To have held her hand right before she left this world, well, that's not something I'll ever forget. 

*Trees Joyce Kilmer: a line from Grandmother's favorite poem. 

It's time to light the lights...

I know I've told you that I am wicked excited about the Muppet Movie coming out this week.  I am a huge Muppet fan - from Sesame Street through Fraggle Rock, The Dark Crystal, and every Muppet movie or show I could get my hands on (I liked Muppets Tonight, people!)  Miss Piggy, although suffering from a more than a bit of Smurfette Principle, was the first character doll I ever had: dressed in a purple gown, with gloves and, oddly, a turban - I wanted to be her, purple sparkly turban and all.  So, I'm psyched about the Muppet movie, and am going to get someone to take me (which actually might turn out to be pretty easy, because one of my sisters has a crush on Jason Segal).   How about you - You interested?


In the meantime, head on over to Tor, for their awesome Muppet Week reads.  If you're in the mood for a little early Christmas viewing (which I am not: come Friday, it's fair game, but today I'm still in Turkey Mode), I can heartily recommend Muppet's Christmas Carol (which one of my other sisters will roll her eyes at the fact that I watch it every Christmas season).  Oh, and here's a picture of my Miss Piggy Doll, although you can't see her turban (with ear holes) all that well:

A little surprise archeology

Doing a little room re-organization around here  - which is to say, in my quest to keep from being buried underneath piles of stuff, I asked for help & people moved my room around.  It actually looks much larger and more open (the wheelchair and going around large pieces of furniture are not good combinations.  Ask any piece of furniture I've ever gone around), and, while it's not perfect, it's a lot closer than it was before.  Of course, move one thing, find another 19 projects that have to be completed, and since we (they) moved every stick of furniture in the room around, you can multiply that by about 300 to get the picture of how much work was unearthed.

In the course of clearing out today's boxes, I found the microrecorder I used way back when I was in college.  Originally, I bought it to take notes, but I quickly realized that I wound up transcribing all my notes anyways, because I needed to read them to understand them better, and so I stopped using the recorder in class.  Instead, it became a way of recording the fights the PUS and Nana were getting into, the aftermath discussions we were holding downstairs in my room, and basically a lot of Nana saying that she wasn't going to put up with this shit anymore, and they were going to be out on their asses.  And by 'a lot', I mean at least 7 years worth of it - just snippets of conversations about the latest brouhaha and her insistence that my former uncle and his family would soon be out of her will, her house and her life. 

Listening to all of that again was like flicking a stress switch in my brain - I remember, so exactly remember, the feeling of impotence, sitting there, listening to her, knowing that nothing was ever going to change.  Until it did.  Until she wasn't there anymore to listen to, and I was left with all these tapes where I could hear her voice, but not her spirit - listen to little pieces of her soul get carved away all over again.  I fast forwarded my way through a few of them, just so I could label them and not come across them accidentally again. ( I know I should toss them.  I even started to.  I think one day I will, but it wasn't today.  Because it's still her voice.) 

I wouldn't have even bothered with the fast forwarding, except I knew that I taped other things during the course of those years - a brainstorming session for a story I was writing here, a research paper's theories there - and I found those too. (And Oh God: does anybody like the sound of their voice, because I absolutely HATE mine: I sound like a snotty little kid all the time, and I don't know how anyone ever talks to me!)

 But  then I came across something I had forgotten - the thing that made my day, and made all the trips down twisted paths of memory lane worth it: A recording of No Longer Youngest Nephew, when he was just a little baby, probably 15 months old - practicing singing "Happy Birthday" for his mama.   His baby voice is both foreign and familiar - It's not him anymore, but wow do I remember when he sounded like that.  I can picture his little chunky self sitting in his high chair, talking about "cake" and "mama" and trying to sing along with us while we prompted him.  It's startling, really, how clear memories can be - especially ones that were tucked away somewhere, waiting for someone, or something, to sift through and unearth them.

(This would be a great time for me to have a wav. file or whatever of the recording, but the only way I could think of getting it on here was running my webcam, and then setting it up that way.  But a) then you would hear my annoying voice and b) I didn't get a chance to even think about doing that, so  you're going to have to take my word that he's adorable.  Then and now.)  

A few links for your Friday Night

Here's one that nearly had me in tears: An Open Letter to the Fat Girl I saw at Hot Yoga in NYC. The part that got me? 

Oh Fat Girl at Hot Yoga in New York, are you at war with yours, too? Has it let you down? Are you angry with it? I am. Righteously furious, actually.

This stupid body that has failed me in so many ways these last two years. It has been endlessly sick. It has required surgery and bed rest and vicious medication that got me well, but made me feel sicker.

I AM VERY ANGRY WITH IT for being sick, for getting fat, for not doing what I SAY.

But I am nice to it anyway, three times a week, at Hot Yoga.

Because I am A-OK, ALL FULL UP, TOTALLY ON BOARD with the being angry at my body. I would excel in that class, were it offered. But I'm sorely lacking in the being nice to it anyway department. She says 3 times a week for 75 minutes, she cuts herself a break, takes this class. I can't remember the last time I had a nice thought about my body and what it was able to do. When even breathing hurts, it's hard to be happy that you're taking a breath. It's hard, but it shouldn't be impossible. So I'm going to work on that.

Then there's the beautiful Kate, over at sweet|salty, who writes (with such grace and clarity) about something a feeling that is neither graceful nor clear:

The word 'anxiety', especially preceded with the word 'my', needs to be benignly neglected in the way that you ought to benignly neglect that kid who keeps saying the f-word at supper. The word 'anxiety', in its reference to a constant and entirely unspecial human state, needs a yoga retreat with a workshop about how inspiration is a myth that will only stunt its creative process and land it in the 75% of writers who will never type The End.

She talks about fitting in, and excluding yourself anyways; about jumping into the ocean and braving sharks, but hiding away while your friends roast marshmallows. She talks about living, really. And fear.

Sometimes, it's nice to know that other people are on the same page as you.  That's how I felt when I read this post from Black Hockey Jesus:

Do you remember, little girl, where we were when we read that book? There was no you or me or the circus of problems where the mind loves to play. We weren’t in a bed in an apartment nor could we be confused with the characters in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. We were simply gone. We gave way. We became the empty place where stories arrive, where they show, come to be told, appear, where they happen. Because it happened, didn’t it?

The magic of reading is overwhelming sometimes, and in his letter to his daughter, BHJ manages to capture that so, so well.


Lastly, there's this, a quote I had in my files for a while, but I saw it somewhere this week, and it was like a life preserver.  Delivering some hope, when I need it most:

It doesn't matter how long we may have been stuck in a sense of our limitations. If we go into a darkened room and turn on the light, it doesn't matter if the room has been dark for a day, a week, or ten thousand years -- we turn on the light and it is illuminated. Once we control our capacity for love and happiness, the light has been turned on.
—Sharon Salzberg

See you guys tomorrow! 

Sincerely, NTE

Dear Internets,

Thank you so very much for all of your wonderful, fabulous, fantastic links on today, Harry Potter Day! I am quite enjoying them. So much so that I am going to share some of them here, in case anybody else has missed out.

Zoot, who wrote the original template I used for this blog, so I've been reading her for at least six years, and her older son are adorable here. Cheers for tolerant teenagers.

Jennie culls through the Collective's archives for some of the most amazing Harry Potter-related posts ever.

s. e. smith (posting at Tiger Beatdown) talks about accessibility - or lack thereof - and why it is a bitch for people who like things or want to be happy for a little while that nobody (with the power to change things) cares about it very much.

Gretchen Alice compiled the Harry Potter project, full of other people's stories about their HP experiences. (Which I meant to contribute to, but just didn't get around to)

and Tumblr, dear Tumblr is chock full of magic today as it is every day.

-----

Dear Chunkys,

You are not to be thanked for having only one 2-D version available (and pre-sold) for your midnight showings of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Pt2. Some of us require 2-D versions, and also really appreciate being able to sit in comfortable chairs for close to three hours. Yours is the only local theater that is truly accessible to me, on most days, and you went and ruined it by insisting on 3-D (which is completely inaccessible, unfortunately).(Please see Tiger Beatdown link, above.) Since I have to choose between a Fibro-flare and unmanageable migraine & dizziness, I'm going to go with the flare, and take my business elsewhere for the show. But bad call, Chunkys; bad call.


(PS - I will be attempting to take my nephew to the same movie sometime next month - see if you can figure this out better for next time, won't you?)

---------------------

Dear Other Movie Theaters,

I do not really like you, because your chairs are very uncomfortable, and I do not have the option of ignoring that. You are also often inaccessible in other ways, and to many people other than myself. I recommend that you read the Tiger Beatdown link above, as well, and try to remedy that ASAP. As for tonight, I would appreciate it if you did your best to not be so stinking uncomfortable that I am unable to focus on the movie... there is much crying and squeeing to be done, and - while I realize your place of business generally forgets that people like me exist - I want to do my share. Also, on a more positive note, thank you for adding 2-D showings to your midnight offerings - it is much appreciated.

-----------

Dear Fibro-flare,

I know that you are making yourself at home, post-SisterCh's shower and family bad news, but I'd rather you didn't. As a matter of fact, should you choose to abandon me, I would be most grateful. In the meantime: do not mess up my very last chance to attend a midnight showing of Harry Potter... I would be most displeased. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

----------------

Dear Readers,

Hello! Have you read all the fabulous Harry Potter posts the internets are sharing with us today? In case you were wondering, I am wicked excited about attending the midnight showing tonight, and super psyched about the whole thing. We've talked before about my Harry Potter love, but I'm going to try not to rehash all of that right now (in order to refrain from writing about how 'magical' the whole thing is). Suffice it to say that the fact that it is coming to an end - the original series and all that goes with it - is bittersweet, for sure.

My family has had a bittersweet week itself - SisterCh's shower was beyond amazeballs - a lot of hard work (SisterJ rocked it out of the park, SisterK really showed up at the last minute and helped us pull it out), a few cranky "I don't play shower games"-ers (neither do I - but if there are games, the least you could do is pretend it isn't going to infect you with something), and a mess I've barely begun to clean, but still - she was quite happy, and people were definitely impressed - I'm going to have to steal some of the pictures SisterJ took, because I'm sure the only ones I got were of present-opening, but trust me, it went really well, even if said Fibro-flare tried to make me miserable (Fail!). The bitter came, unfortunately, later that same day, when we found out that my uncle - who was quiet and funny and far away - lost his battle with brain cancer. He is the fourth of my grandmother's nine children to die in the past twelve years, and the only one whose death we were (mostly) prepared for, but it's still been tough. To sit with my grandmother, and hear her talk about being superfluous and wondering why "He" would keep doing this to her. To hear from all the cousins and aunts and uncles who are grieving and remembering fathers, mothers, brothers, gone. To live through it all, again & to know that there'll be more grieving coming, and just want to run away and hide, and not have to face any of it. It's not an immediate loss, for most of us - because he was the recluse of the bunch, for sure - but it's still a loss, and I'm sick of losing.

Ahem. So - The movie better be amazing (and I have heard that it is), because it feels like I've been waiting for-ever for it, and for the chance to go to the midnight show (sans costume, unfortunately: things came up - although I'd make a pretty good Bellatrix, if I just didn't brush my hair), but mostly because I just need it right now. I just need the magic (crap: puns, there is no avoiding them when it comes to this subject: sorry!) and connectedness and community and love. I need the fandom and the characters, and the knowing that there are a million other people sitting out there in the dark somewhere, tonight, crying their way through the Forbidden Forest with me.

Total bonus is that I get to go with SisterK, seeing as how she's moving away in a couple weeks and is all "being a grown up" now and stuff. She was younger than my Oldest Nephew is now when we (BigBrother & I ) took her to the first one. She was eleven - just like Harry - when she started reading the books. And I'm pretty sure she's the only one in my family (besides me) who is still disappointed that no owl ever showed up for her. She got her drivers license (way late) especially for this - well, this and the fact that she has to drive halfway across the country in a few weeks, but let's just say it was for this. And I'm going to buy really expensive popcorn and not care at all.

I've been seeing a lot of "Thank you, Harry!" or "Thank you, Jo!" type posts around, and I'm in love with them all. Because those are my people - people who get that books and movies are more than words and pictures, and that characters can be true friends and stories can be more powerful than you can imagine. People who understand that the gift of forgetting about your own life for a little while - no matter how good or bad it may be - is a treasure. And who don't take it for granted.

Technically, I was 'too old'* for Harry Potter - it wasn't my childhood, or even my teenage-hood. I started reading them as they came out, but it wasn't until college. They've been important to me, just the same. Sharing it with my sisters, even though they were only kind of into it; sharing it with my nephew, even though he reads s o o o s l o w l y; battling my brother to get back my copy of the last book; laying on a bed with SisterK, trying to read more slowly so the day wouldn't end: these aren't things that I take lightly or will ever forget. It's good for me, today, this week, to have those things to remember & it's hard for me to believe that they all came about because one lady decided to start writing things down in a coffee shop somewhere.

To someone who loves words as much as I do, that is pretty much a miracle. That the writing down of words; the creation of a universe so different from our own, and yet fundamentally the same; the invention of spaces and spells and specialness; the journey of a boy and his friends, could come to mean so much, to so many.

It won't be the end of the world, when there's no more new Harry Potter movies, just as the world didn't end when George Lucas decided there'd been enough Star Wars movies (of course, some people rejoiced, but that's a little bit off topic), but that doesn't matter - it doesn't make it less sad that there's nothing new coming down the line. It's ok that it's sad - that's life. But the best part is, fifteen years ago, I'd never heard of Harry Potter, and neither had anybody else, really. So there's always the possibility that tomorrow, some other journey will start, and we'll all fall in love with somebody else. That's life too: exciting and surprising.

So I'll go tonight to the midnight show (my first! midnight showing!) and I'll try my best to have an amazing time & knowing that it's not the end of the world, and that it will be incredibly bittersweet. And I'll love every minute of it, and be thankful that I'm here to enjoy it.

Miss you! Be back soon!

Well worth applauding, I'd say

Last week, I turned 32. Those numbers still don't seem real, in relation to me, but I'm working on it. I'm thinking of throwing myself a big party next year, for thirty three, but I'm pretty sure that's another one of those things that sounds better in your head then it winds up being in actuality (you know, like pretty much every big party ever?), so for now it's just a 'thinking of'. I'm trying to be honest when I say that there were a lot of times I didn't think that 32 was a year that would apply to me - I mean, sure, when I was a little kid, thirty whatever seemed like "Ok, when I'm 3X I'll be a grown-up" and I had some vague notions of where I'd be and what kind of life I'd be living (read: nowhere near the life I am actually living right now). But in the past 10 years or so, as my diseases have taken more and more of who I thought I was, and presented me with a whole new set of challenges to face, there were more times than I'd care to admit that my thirties seemed to be a goal that I might not make.

And yet, here I am, two years into them. Still facing all sorts of challenges, still not where I'd hoped to be, but Still Here. Which is the most important part, when it comes right down to it.

For my 32nd birthday, I spent the day at my niece's first dance recital, which is - for me - a huge deal. Because I was a dancer for 13 years, and an assistant instructor for three years, and this is the first recital I've ever been strictly an audience member for. (Well, that's not actually true, I'd just rather forget about my other experience as a member of the audience: the year after I got sick, the year I had to quit dancing, I went to my former school's recital and tried to watch the show. I felt heartbroken, sitting there, barely able to walk unaided anymore, watching all my former friends dance the solos I would've danced and receive awards I would never receive and between holding back my jealous tears and the loudness of the music, I wound up with a migraine that left me incapacitated for the next three days. It was not a pleasant experience.) But this time it was different: I was there to enjoy myself, to cheer for Lil Girl, to clap at all the steps I knew were hard, even if they didn't look tricky.

Lil Girl did great - she had a big smile the whole time, she and I talked about being the tent-pole (the tallest dancer, middle of the line) and how it means you have to hold your pose the longest while you're waiting for the curtain to close, and we both watched the older girls dances with glee, so I hope this will be just the first of many recitals of hers I'll be willingly sitting in the audience for.

I also got to re-choreograph numbers in my head, and move things along at a better pace, and basically pretend it was my dance school's program, and how I'd make it better. (One of those vague things I thought I'd be doing in my thirties, if you'd asked me twenty years ago was operating a dancing school with my sister(s), just another one of those dreams that got put up on a high shelf a lot of years ago). Remembering years worth of selling wrapping paper and window clings and random candy bars in order to pay our way into competitions, I bought raffle tickets from the dance company girls, and won a basket full of coffee & other things I don't drink and quickly divvied it up between family members. I took pictures that came out blurry because you can't use your flash, and I remembered just how invisible the crowd seems from the stage when the lights are blazing in your eyes. And although I missed out on the post-show Chinese food, a tradition that even my brother remembered fondly ("Remembered? It was the only part of the whole thing I had to look forward to" was his response), I still enjoyed it very much.

It was a great way to celebrate a day I wasn't sure I'd make it to, and I'm still not sure I know how to deal with (numbers don't really matter so much, sometimes. Until they do. And when you're thinking of how much you want to be a mom, those numbers are all of the sudden much more important than they ever were before). And while all my brother could talk about (on the times that his little angel wasn't on stage, that is) was how much of a rip-off it was that the tickets cost $15 a piece and the costume was $65 and all some of the kids were doing up there was "playing ring a round the Rosie", I remembered how much fun it was to be the teacher in the wings, while the three-year-olds you'd been teaching for nine months, and you were sure weren't going to anything approaching an actual dance step, finally figured out how to link hands and make a circle. And, ignoring his statement that "clapping only makes it go on longer" , I applauded as much as I felt like it.

Here's one of the less blurry shots of our tent-pole girl, in all her glory:

It's the way we answer the question, How can such things be? Stories suggest that sometimes -not always, but sometimes, there's a reason

I've fallen in love with more than one writer, during the course of my life: I've talked before about how I'm a certified Noraholic, and how the fact that there isn't a new Harry Potter book coming out this summer (or any summer, :sob:) makes me want to cry. But it's always been this way for me: loving books, loving writing, loving writers.

Even at a young age, the ability of Laura Ingalls Wilder to make me feel like I was living in the Great House in the Big Woods (where children would rejoice to receive oranges in their stockings), or of Louisa May Alcott to convince me that maybe having three sisters (at that point, I only had three sisters) wasn't, in fact, the worst thing in the world, seemed like magic. Beverly Cleary got me through some tough times with her Ramona, who was as much of a pest as I was, and poor Anne, out there on Prince Edward Island, trying to make the most of her dratted red hair and freckles, was not just a friend, but a true Bosom Friend to me. Probably, a lot of young girls - young, literate girls, anyways - could say the same. Even today, I'm pretty sure I could find an eight year old who - while everyone else is outside hooping and hollering (or inside playing Call of Duty, more likely) - is alone in her room, crying, because Amy just fell through the ice, and maybe Jo and Laurie won't be able to pull her back out in time.

But the summer I turned eleven, I fell in love with an author so inappropriate that even my grandmother - a fifth grade teacher and stout supporter of my right to read "anything you can get your hands on and your mind around" - was appalled. That was the summer I fell in love with Stephen King. Later on, when I got to high school, I would find out that boys had also fallen in love with Stephen King around the same time, but I didn't know that then, or that he had fan clubs aplenty and movie directors vying for his next, scariest Baddie. At the time, I felt like it was I alone who had discovered him, like he was writing just for 11 year-old, gawky, and often times completely invisible, me.

The book was It - not his most famous book, perhaps, but surely the cause of more than one person (including my younger sister)'s coulrophobia. It was around a thousand, tissue thin pages of absolute terror, which, had I known what I was getting myself into, I more than likely would never have started. In fact, although it was the first book that made me feel like I was on my way to being a grown-up, I only started reading It for the most childish of reasons - because someone told me I couldn't. Between getting the rare kibosh from my Nana and my older (male) cousin's insistence that there was no way I'd be able to read it the whole way through - because I was a girl, and would get too scared - I basically had no choice but to read it. And the thing is, I think King would have gotten that, might even have gotten a kick out of it: the whole 'I dare you, chicken/ this is forbidden' vibe. Of course, that's exactly the kind of vibe It wound up having, so sometimes, maybe, the book you pick picks you instead.

I remember lying on my bed, in the middle of a summer afternoon - windows open, cars zooming by, other kids outside running through the yard, every so often yelling at me to 'come and play' or taunting me for being a 'four eyed bookworm' (back when I wore my glasses just for close-up work) - reading this book. Knowing that I had to finish this chapter (or the next chapter, or the next) before the sun went down, because there was no way I was reading it in the dark of my room by streetlights that night. Something I would have no problem doing with any other book, certainly. I often think, now, that if I had known about Joey's trick of putting a scary book in the freezer, the pages of that first copy of It might have frozen off, instead of worn down over the years. And, while it was - by far - the most frightening thing I had ever read, that is not what kept me reading.

What kept me reading, aside from the hope that the scariest-ass clown in the entire universe would eventually get what was coming to him, was the people. A bunch of eleven year old nobodies, playing around in the overgrown wilderness on the edge of their town, ignored by just about everybody, brought together through a series of chances, and calling themselves the Losers. A real group of Losers, who were like kids I knew (hell - they were like the kid I was), who wound up taking on the biggest, baddest Evil of all time - a timeless Evil, even - with their slingshots and asthma inhalers and the knowledge that if they didn't do it, nobody else would. That's all they had - the idea that it had to be done, the certainty that nobody else was going to do it, and each other.

And the fact that the author - a grown-up - understood that sometimes kids have things that are so big, they can't tell their parents, or their sisters, or anybody who wasn't there and felt it too. That sometimes they do things that are so out of the realm of possibility of who they normally are, it's hard to imagine it was them. That kids have lives of their own, even at eleven, and that they have So. Much. Power. - the idea that King got that, and got it enough to write such this book, was like magic to me.

It still is - maybe even more so now that I'm a grown-up. Now that I have a nephew who is eleven, and I cringe to think of what his own power might have to be used for, or what his private world might consist of, and I see just how easy it is to pretend that it just doesn't exist. That kids are just kids, and not young people. It's amazing to me that anybody is able to remember that experience - and retell it in such a powerful, truthful way.

I quickly glommed all of his other books - I am a backlist whore, more often than not: if you write something I like, I must read everything else you've ever put down on paper - and many of them, particularly the short story collections, also became favorites. The Mist , is my mom's favorite, and it still turns up to tickle my brain on a day like today when the sky couldn't be grayer, and even the headlights don't cut through the fog enough to show you which way you want to go. I loved The Body , another story about kids and powerful friendships - and Stand By Me, the movie they made out of it, of course: I can't read it now without Richard Dreyfuss doing the voice over in my head. Pet Semetary and The Stand, Needful Things and, later Insomnia all sped their way through my head and into my heart (and my keeper shelves): the only King books I didn't immediately like were from the Gunslinger series, and I think that's just because I wasn't a fantasy reader when I read them: they're certainly in my TBR pile now.

And when he wrote his tome On Writing , the writer in me rejoiced. (And cried - my previously friendly relationship with adverbs had to come to an abrupt halt. I wrote that last sentence just for him. ) It is still one of my top two books on writing ever: it makes sense (King's writing style is both chummy and no-nonsense); it talks about writing as a J O B (not just something any fool can sit down and do, as some people might purport) that you have to get up and do every day, but also as "magic" (which is what it winds up feeling like, if you ever finish anything); and manages to balance the menial (grammar and editing) with the grandiose ("And if I am able, even briefly, to give you a Wilkes'-eye-view of the world - if I can make you understand her madness - then perhaps I can make her someone you sympathize with or even identify with. The result? She's more frightening than ever, because she's close to real.")


The majority of Stephen King's writing is creepy, sure. His books, more often than not, will keep you awake at night. And that's why I can go years without reading them - when things are already heavy, when your grandmother has cancer or your own body is betraying you yet again or when everything after "wake up in the morning" on your to-do list seems like an impossibility, it can be hard (at least for me) to be reading about other people's terrors and nightmares - I'm the kind of reader who looks for happy endings when I'm stuck in the middle, a shining light instead of more dark. But sometimes, that extra dark is just what you're looking for. Sometimes, even if you're not looking for it, it turns out to be what you need.

This weekend I culled through my (bookcase-sized) To Be Read pile, and pulled out one of King's latest, Full Dark, No Stars , yet another short story collection. (I think if I had known that it wasn't a full length novel, I would've tackled it before now, but that belongs in another story - about the overwhelmingness of my TBR pile - as opposed to this one.) It was a horrifying and overwhelming read, for one reason: because each of the stories was all too real. Almost too true.

There are four short stories, each build around a significantly simple premise -
You've killed your wife;
A short cut leads you very far astray;
There's a price to pay for everything (but you sometimes might be willing to pay it);
You never really know anyone, not even those you love the most

- and goes off in directions that only King could take them. The best part, for me, was - as I was fumbling for my sticky notes and trying to count how many pages until the end of this story, because could it really end this way? - finding out, or remembering really, that I am still in love with King. He's not my steady, any more: I find I need more happily ever afters as I get older - but he's still my guy & I'm still his "Constant Reader", and when the afterword comes (oh, how I love a good afterword, and King never disappoints) , I know that I'll be back again to see him sometime.

And even though I realize that he'll most likely greet me with some paralyzing glimpse into the darkness of my own soul - or down the sewers of any given city - I find that I'm more than looking forward to it.

*The Post title quote is, of course, from Stephen King, Full Dark, No Stars.

A book recomendation

I just finished reading Raising Children Who Think for Themselves by Elisa Medhus, M.D., and it was incredibly thought provoking. I didn't always agree with her approaches or suggestions, but the main theme of the book - that children should be learning (through discipline, their environment, our role modeling and other means) to evaluate and assess their own behaviors, internally, based on their own expectations of themselves (that we've been teaching them) rather than external (either parental or societal) expectations of them.

In other words, kids who think for themselves. She raised a lot of interesting points, and provided a lot of practical examples of how to "guide, then step aside." I was really impressed with her knowledge of kids motivations for certain behaviors - and how to best guide them into turning their attentions in more positive directions.

I was, of course, horrified to see myself (or family members) in some of the more negative portrayals, because I know that the reasons we've done certain things have always been with the best of intentions, but the (often negative) outcomes are so easy to see when they're on paper like that. I recognized myself most when she talked about how often we step in to spare our kids (or, in my case, the nephews and niece in my life) from suffering & therefore eliminate their chances of learning from mistakes or problem solving their way out of them. I've noticed lately that I've become a 'warner' (my term, not the author's): I'm constantly saying "Maybe it's better if you tried it this way," or "do you really think it's a great idea to balance all of those dolls in one trip, why not make two?" Why not just shut your whore mouth (sorry: If you're not a Prankster, that probably seemed like it came out of nowhere, but I've been reading Aunt Becky a lot lately, and couldn't help myself) and just let the kid figure it out on their own? What's the worst that could happen? She drops the dolls and has to make clean up the mess? The horror! So I definitely recognized that I have a real need to step aside and just let them learn on their own - The worst part of this whole thing being, obviously, that I am a teacher, and know this already, so how did I get to this point of having to open my mouth all the time, but if I'm going to teach them to be willing to recognize when they've made mistakes, I have to step up and recognize my own as well. That's a problem area for Auntie NTE, and will be addressed posthaste.

So much of the strategies that Medhus proposes in her book are not new to me, but the practical parenting examples she incorporates into the text really made me think about how I am applying my training (and where I am failing to apply it), and how often, in the heat of any given situation, discipline doesn't stay true to it's logical guidance roots and instead turns into a form of punishment or control. It's easy to forget, when a four year old is throwing a tantrum in the store, that their problems are their problems, and I don't need to make them mine.

I will give myself a lot of credit for being the "this is unacceptable behavior" line draw-er in our house, but it's kind of hard to hold the line when there isn't a lot of follow through on the part of other people. After all, I am not these kids parents: They have awesome parents who love and care for them. But when the rules are so much different at Grammy's house then they are at home, it's hard to keep the behaviors that I consider unacceptable (whining and nagging, bickering and meanness) from bleeding over: Kids are going to get away with what they can get away with, and trust me, the kids in my life are no exception. So we have a little issue with consistency, and I know that doesn't help them to internalize things, but I'm really going to work on it for my part (and see if I can't convince my brother that he'd like to read this book as well).

Aside from "guide, then step aside", some of the other concepts that the author did a great job of explaining include the need for using guiding questions to help kids arrive at the right answers; the benefit of empathy in creating kids who aren't just focused on their own needs, but on the lives of those around them; the idea of respecting failure as a key step towards growth and that personal excellence is greater than perfection; the need for all consequences to arise as naturally as possible from a given behavior (and to be logical); and the vital role that adults play in modeling appropriate behavior.

It was all reasonable, common sense stuff, and it was presented in such a way as to not be overwhelming or tell you what a horrible job you were doing raising your kids: in fact, it was an optimistic and enthusiastic book whose title really reflected its overall goal - you can make changes in your behavior to help your kids make lasting changes in theirs. You can have kids who aren't motivated by whether or not they're going to be punished for doing something wrong, but rather on if something feels wrong to them and how important it is for them to follow that instinct. There are so many strategies for helping children gain confidence in their own decision making skills, in their ability to recover from mistakes, in their intuitions, and in their ability to do what's right when they recognize it.

I thought it was a worthwhile read, for parents and teachers (and aunties ;) ) because it helps you clarify what your intentions are as you raise your kids, or as you contribute to the raising of children: I know I want the kids in my life to be able to make their own choices and find their own ways in life, to be able to recognize happiness in whatever form it takes for them, and to have the courage to reach for it (regardless of if society says it is something they should strive for or not). I want them to be able to think for, and act, and believe in themselves, and I'm glad that I've got some more strategies to try in order to help them achieve that.

"Where are you Christmas... Do you Remember?"

Well I can't really leave that ridiculousness up, especially not at Christmas time. (Although I'm glad to that you all are outraged too.) So here, have a picture of Santa with some cute kids.



I took this picture immediately following one of our shortest lines to see Santa ever (about 10 minutes: it was like a miracle) and immediately preceding a trip to The Rainforest Cafe for lunch. Which we do almost ever year, because it's in the same mall as Santa and has all sorts of animitronics and what not 'to keep kids entertained' while we eat. If 'keeping kids entertained' means 'scaring them so badly that you have to take shifts out in the mall with a four year old so that everybody can eat their lunch' then Keep up the good work, Rainforest Cafe ! Simulated thunderstorms? Whose brainstorm was that? Giant gorillas that screech at you are so not lunchtime companions, thank you very much. We should have skipped lunch altogether, since Lil Girl was not feeling her best, but she was adamant that she was ok, and her brother and mother seemed to have it all worked out before they even got there. So we tried, and I got to spend a lot of time trying to look at fake fish and explaining that lightening wasn't actually going to come and get us inside the building.

Even with all of that (and having to pay highway robbery for the one sheet of pictures we bought, because they've outlawed just sitting on Santa's lap and using your own camera, unless you buy one of theirs), we had fun. I'm afraid it might be that boy's last visit to Santa - 10 seems awfully close to the Age of Not Believing even to this late bloomer - and so I tried to keep that in mind when I needed to keep my patience. We've been doing this since he was an infant, so it'll be tough when he tells me he's too big. I made sure to enjoy it this time - even the parts that made me wonder if it would be legal to just leave a kid in a candy store (It's a good place! She'd love it there!) just in case it was the last time it was all of us.

Just in case.

A happy update, for some change of pace

Hey everybody - just a quick not to say that things are going well here. Grandmother is home, and much improved. She's making me a little crazy because she gets up and walks away without her walker (which they've given her because her balance and leg strength are still chancy), but other than that, she's being a model patient. She's got a little bit of forgetfulness (which is frustrating UJ to no end, because of the repeated questions), and she's pretty tired all the time, but 20 days post TIA, her improvement is pretty remarkable, in my opinion.


I'm still staying here, for a number of reasons, including my own piece of mind. Ok, mostly for my own piece of mind. She's doing so much better, but she's still "kinda wobbly" (as Thumper would say), and both she and UJ seem a little overwhelmed by all the VNA / OT / PT appointments and evaluations, her new medication list, and all of the things that go into a recovery like this. Even though I know just about zero about recovery - as I have never achieved it myself - recuperation and readjustment following hospital stays and times your body has not behaved itself are pretty much my speciality, so I'm glad to help, however I can.

Right now I am concentrating on making sure that the right questions get asked, making sure that someone remembers the answers as well as I think they should (Hint: write everything down!). On insisting that the visitors treat my grandmother with respect - you wouldn't believe how many of the people just come in and start poking at her: How about you introduce yourself? How about you ask for permission? How about you remember that the patient is a PERSON? That they leave their contact information and a schedule of upcoming appointments (even if it's tentative, at least give us a day you might be coming back).

I've talked UJ through installing grab bars in the tub (even though it's upstairs), and reminded him that the PT suggests a bigger shower chair and a handheld shower hose (both are now purchased). I have explained how much better a pill box system would be than their old "Let's look at this list 16 times a day" system, and then watched UJ try to explain it to Grandmother this morning. UJ straightened the brick walk in the back yard and installed a handrail on the two steps out there (even though I tried to get him to use concrete so it'd be smoother, I got vetoed there). I've finally talked them into rolling up the rugs so she'll stop having to worry about them (That's not getting done for a few days, though, so I still have to watch her getting caught on the corners till then). I sit in my chair and anxiously follow her up the stairs with my eyes when she goes up for bed at night ---> She's supposed to wait for UJ to be behind her, but when he carries the walker up to put it at the top of the steps, she starts right up anyways. Another of my suggestions, that she take the pull out couch down here, was swiftly shot down and will not be entertained. I put the cream on her back every day, and watch as the rash she got from the unusual hospital detergent starts to finally fade.

Besides that, Grandmother shouldn't be left alone until they hook up the lifeline thing (even SHE remembers the "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercial: it was the first thing she said when they suggested it), so I'm still being useful that way - at the very least UJ can run to the supermarket and get something for dinner without worrying that she'll be hurt and unable to get help. Yesterday he went to mass, giving me the whole "I have my cell phone, you know how to dial 9-1-1, these are the signs of a stroke, are you sure you'll be alright?" speech, even though I am 31 years old. I understand his nervousness though: I don't know how I'll manage when I go home, because he hates the phone, almost as much as he hates asking for help, so if I'm not Right Here, then I know that he won't call and say he or she needs something.

So I'll stay for now. Even though I miss home, and my people, and my big comfy bed, and Lil Girl days, and my non-tivo tivo. But I don't want to leave till I'm sure they can manage, or until I absolutely have to (because I can't manage anymore), which ever comes first. (Although I am definitely going home for a shower tomorrow, come hell or high water.)

Hope your weekends have gone well, and that your Monday finds you ready to face whatever comes your way.

Checking it twice...

I have found the most amazing advice columnist ever, and gone back and read every single one of her columns. She is wise and sweet, and witty and sharp, and her pointed corners are covered in that nice fabric/foam stuff so they don't poke you too hard. She's reasonable and realistic; her commenters are (for the most part) also wonderful and present and fabulous; and she's not the least bit shy.

I want her to be my very best friend, but in lieu of that, I'm just glomming all her advice, and I thought I'd share one of my very favorite bits here:

In response to someone who was wondering what to do with their life, and lamenting the overwhelmingness of choices and forever and ... the whole wide world being out there, she suggested:

Option 3: Stop asking yourself what you want, what you desire, what interests you. Ask yourself instead: What has been given to me? Ask: What do I have to give back? Make a list. Make the list very long. Then give it, my addled friend. Give it.

I'm definitely going to be working on my list: it'll be nice to focus on the things I have, for a change, instead of things that I'm lacking.

Let's talk a little

My mind lately seems to be going at about triple it's normal speed. Frantic, speed-brain, for some reason. It's strange, really, because things are relatively calm (or what passes for it in my family anyways), and yet I can't get my stupid brain to slow down long enough for me to grip on to anything. Or - alternately - I get hold of something and just can't let it go.

July started off OK - I even took the month off from doctors, because all the news was bad and painful and just more of the same and I couldn't think about it anymore. But of course it hasn't stopped me from thinking about it: At the very least though, by taking the time off, I couldn't be poked or prodded or asked stupid questions about it anymore.

And then my brother and sister-in-law took the kids to the Cape for a week, and were too lazy to drive them up for a few days before that, and all of the "good summer fun with the kids" I had planned to cram into my month (and my mind) instead turned into "days of doing nothing but sitting around thinking about my life." These days were not nearly as much fun as the ones I had anticipated. Left with entirely too much time to ponder at least two major family situations (one of which has blown over and another that continues on without any solution to be seen), my own non-improving health and relationships situations, and the fact that yesterday was the anniversary of my father's death (not to mention a very rude person who treated it as if, because my father and I did not get along, this anniversary should be pretty meaningless to me); it's been an unexpectedly emotional time. There's just all this stuff, and I feel like I need energy to sift through it, and I haven't got the energy - emotional or physical - that god gave a gnat, so it's all heavy lifting.

It's all heavy lifting.

And I don't, as usual, realize how heavy, really, until I sit here with my fingers tapping away trying to explain why I haven't posted anything lately, or taken pictures of the gorgeous kids or why I've signed up for at least three projects this summer that I haven't even begun to consider, let alone start. Until I sit here and let my fingers start talking, I let my brain rev itself up into a frenzy, and don't realize that not saying anything, not posting anything is part of the trouble.

So here's some more of what I've been toting around, this week particularly -

We've been attempting to clean out Nana's storage: Yes, 2 years is a long time to pay storage fees, but when you roll up that door and the smell - her smell - hits you, I would gladly pay for another two years just to not have to sit there and sift through the contents of her life while my uncle - who is clueless - natters on about "Goodwill" and "Junk" and my mother and aunt try to move as quickly as possible so we can just leave already, and all I want to do is sit there with a box of stuff opened around me and absorb it into my skin. I've been taking pictures and saving things from the scrap bin; trying to hold all my emotions in in case my mom needs to let hers out.

I'm in that tiny little hallway, with it's concrete floors and neon orange doors, watching as box after box after box comes out. When my uncle pops out one of the windows on my grandmother's dollhouse (they're plastic and pop back in), I bite my tongue and control my need to scream about how important it is to fix it Right Away! I watch my aunt take a box of china she shouldn't be lifting and wrap it up so clumsily that it's sure to be in pieces the next time we open the box, but I don't say anything: I just wait till she turns around and slide the box in my direction, re-wrap it when she heads out for a cigarette. When my mom opens a box with baby shoes in it - shoes that Nana had lovingly wrapped in tissue paper, for her 'baby' who died twenty years before she did - mom doesn't cry, so I don't cry.

See, I know that this stuff is not my Nana, and that - in all honesty - she couldn't really have cared about the majority of it: glasses that lived in cabinets, tea sets made of gold that never made it to the table, knickknacks from places she never traveled to, lots of things that said 'grandma' because stuff that said 'nana' was so much harder to find. She wouldn't mind if we tossed all that out, would actually have done it herself if she'd have thought about us having to do it now.

But I also know that there are memories to be found here - not just my memories, but everyones - and so I feel like I have to safeguard them - for my mom, who isn't thinking anything except "get me out of here"; for all the grandchildren who can't be in that dark little hallway with me, and for all the great grandchildren - here now and to come - who never got a chance to know just how awesome a lady they missed out on.

So I sit there, allergies acting all renegade and body too sore to take breaths, it seems, setting aside a porcelain cat for one sister, a rogue leprechaun for my brother, a picture of himself that my cousin has probably never seen. Some of this stuff means something to me, some of it doesn't but I'm determined not to let the "one thing" that somebody would have wanted get tossed in a box for Goodwill. I feel like the only person there capable of remembering that this isn't just stuff, it has value to someone, and they should at least have the chance to say "No, you can toss that" or "Oh my god, I totally remember this!" So I click the shutter on my camera again and again and again, hoping that I'm capturing the something somebody wants, before I repack the boxes and watch my uncle roll his eyes again.

It's just heavy lifting.

And I try to be gentle with myself, try to say: Even though it doesn't seem like right now is a busy time, you are doing a lot of work. But it doesn't always sink in, because part of my heavy lifting is the way I think about myself, the way I don't give myself credit for the things that I do, the way I beat up on myself for all the things I don't do. It's a tricky line, I think - to hold yourself accountable without tearing yourself apart. (At least it is for me.)

I read, somewhere, in a recent blog post of somebody's, that one of the rules to remember in blogging is that your blog is not your best friend. If you feel like you need to vent, pick up the phone, don't complain to your audience or they'll stop coming back. I think that's probably good advice, but I don't know that I can follow it. I appreciate it, honestly, with my whole heart, that you people come back time and again to read things like this, where my head is a spinning top and my heart feels cracked open.

I won't say that I don't have people in my life who would listen, if I started talking, because I do, but it's different to write it here, freer somehow. Saying what I need to say to get my head back on straight is a large part of what's kept me writing for so long at this blog, and - while it may be the reason I don't have a zillion followers - it's also part of the reason that I cherish the followers I do have.

So, now that I feel somewhat normal again, what's going on with you all? I know somebody has a new job (YAY Ms J!!!) and other people are dealing with their own brands of chaos (Hope the bed rest is going well, Laurie!). I hope that you're all enjoying your weekend, come what may, and I promise to write again soon. (And less emotionally jumbled, hopefully.)

Best shots - 2 for the price of 1

Here are two of my best shots from the last little while -

Here's Lil Girl, down at the beach. Since Auntie and sunlight are not friendly, we sat up under the bandstand and blew bubbles that floated down to the ocean. Then the kids collected shells and rocks, and we ate pizza and drank Shirley Temples. It was the very definition of a fine summer day.



And here's another recent favorite - (No Longer) Youngest Nephew, reading along with the Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets book on tape. I love this picture for so many reasons: The fact that he was voluntarily reading; The fact that he'd never used actual tapes before and I had to instruct him on how to flip it over and press play (even though it made me feel ancient); The fact that, since the spring, he's powered through three of the books, and he's as excited as I am about part one of The Deathly Hallows coming out in November. It's just an all around favorite.



So there are the two kids I'm spending most of my time with this summer; Don't forget to head over to Tracey's place to check out who she's spending her summer with, and the rest of the Best Shots.

One of my favorite things

about Lil Girl is her singing. She's a singing fanatic. Picture an almost four year old who knows all the words to Bad Romance or Live Like We're Dying, and you've got a pretty good take on what kind of singing happens all the time around here. (We'll just pretend I don't have my own, hyper-judgemental issues about letting a four-year-old listen to Lady Gaga and move right along...)If there's anything more adorable than that little curly head bobbing back and forth, and little fingers twirling her Mr. Microphone as she belts out "You belong with MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE", with then I don't even want to know about. (Said in my best Mrs. Landingham voice.)

But there are a couple of complications - The fist being that she's infinitely more up to date in her song choices than I am... I listen to the radio with the specific goal of catching up on current songs so that I know what's coming out of her mouth half the time. (Although I also do my best to catch her up on a lot of music she wouldn't be otherwise exposed to - if you're 4 and not singing Disney songs, then I am sad for you - so there's definitely some overlap.)

And then there's the songs that I have no clue about - the ones she asks me to finish for her "Sad and on the dancefloor he left me there.... What's next, Auntie?" Um... I have no clue? I have never heard this song before. Or when there's some dance moves that she thinks I should know that go along with the song "When I say "Hope it brings you hell" you're supposed to do count like this:" she moves her fingers very slowly down from 5 to 0. O...k: why am I doing that again? "It's the way the song GOES AUNTIE!" Alrighty then, what do I know.

We've also made up our own routines: as a former dance teacher, it fills me with glee to see her hopping and toe pointing her way through a song. Although her favorite is just a Michael Buble cover of the song Hold On during which I have to try to sneak up on her and hold on to her every time he sings the words "Hold On". He sings those words a lot in that song. By the end, I am just pulling on her toe and trying to catch that, since the little bugger has a LOT more energy than her Auntie NTE.

Complicating the whole thing is the fact that she's not always clear on what the song is actually saying, but this is, by far, the best part of our singalongs.

A recent sampling of some slightly confused lyrics -

(In the interest of full disclosure, I will freely admit that, until I was a teenager, I thought the words to "Addicted to Love" ("Might as well face it... you're addicted to love.") were actually "Hyena's little faces you're addicted to love." I did not know why there would hyenas and their faces in the song, but it never occurred to me that I might be mishearing the lyrics until someone else sang the song with me and laughed their ass off when I sang the wrong words. Ah, 12 year-old girlfriends.)


From Eeeny Meeny Miney Moe, the perpetual help-me-choose song preferred by children of all ages: "Catch a tiger by the toe, if he liars" or, alternately, "if he lawyers let him go." True: If the tiger lawyers up, you've got to let him go - you aren't going to get anything out of him. Actual lyric: Hollers. Not a word in her vocabulary, I'm afraid.

From Hey, Soul Sister by Train: "Hey Soul Sister, ain't that Mister Licker on the radio, stereo, the way you move ain't fair you know." Obviously the correct lyrics of "Mister, Mister" would be a bit before her time, (as is stereo, come to think of it) so that's fine, but Mister Licker? I don't even want to know.

My current favorite is from the Lady Antebellum song, Need You Now which says that "I'm a little drunk, and I need you now". Her version: "It's a quarter after one and I'm a little trunk and I need you now." I actually giggled at this one, picturing a little suitcase siting out, abandoned, waiting for someone to pick it up. Also wonderful is her timing: the part where the sing "for me it happens all the time" has a little beat after it before the song starts up again, and she bops her head every. single. time.

Also heart tugging are the phrasings that she tangles up - adorably, IMO - so that "Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone" turns into "Romeo, take me, somewhere can we be alone."

These are like the last of her baby mispronunciations ("Yittle" has been fazed out over the course of the last 6 months or so, and that was one of my favorites), little blips in her road to growing up that I want to be able remember. The two of us, sitting on the floor in the dining room, her belting out a song about sad and lonely trunks, and me giggling along.

I am attempting

to write a letter of recommendation for SisterCh, in regards to an apartment she and her fiance are hoping to rent. It is tricky to do.

Particularly if I want to be honest. (It's a good thing I have my BS, because I have learned the art of putting a kernel of truth in the best possible light.)

All the advice says things like "tell how reliable she is, that she pays her bills on time." But I can't say that I have any experience of that personally - she doesn't pay rent here, and only just paid off the money she borrowed from me for SisterJ's wedding (yeah, that's nearly 2 years and various weekend vacations for her later). But, I do know that she paid her rent on time and in full when she lived in a condo before, so I can say that.

I am absolutely able to rave about her turning a temp position that was only supposed to last 6 months into a full-time position with full benefits and a raise 3 years later. I am immensely proud of her for that, and I know that she deserves a lot of kudos for it, so that definitely goes in. (2 paragraphs down, one to two more to go).

Next advice: "Discuss how neighborly she is" Um Yeah - Roadblock. See, SisterCh and I have a long and complicated history of her being particularly unneighborly, in my opinion.

I have a lot of needs that other people have to take into consideration, and SisterCh has not always understood, embraced, or really cared about that. She's been the hardest of my siblings to educate about my condition, hands down. Mostly, I think, because she was really young when I got sick, and I'm pretty sure she has a lot of resentment about how much of our parents' (mostly our mom's) attention I managed to siphon off by being, you know, nearly dead. I know part of her is still very much in the whole "suck it up"/"get over it already" camp, and her dismissive attitude has been incredibly hurtful to me for years.

Which isn't to say she hasn't improved. Because, in a lot of ways, she has: the smell thing is still a battle occasionally, but it's not a daily battle, it's not the constant me being trapped in my room until an hour after she leaves for work nonsense that it used to be. She may still roll her eyes when I say something is bothering me, but we don't scream and shout about it as much as we used to. We've both gotten a lot better at walking away before our feelings get too trampled (mostly).

Nowadays, she sends me e-mails when she finds unscented lip glosses, offers to share her work discount with me when I tell her I'm searching for a new computer, or posts a link to some FM article where they talk about vitamins (:sigh: on that last one, but at least she's trying). And she nearly decked a waitress last week when she patted me on the back, so that's a plus.

So, yeah, she's growing up. We both are, and it's helping us.

She's also taking responsibility for her fiance's kids, and I think that, in the process, she's getting to be more mature & understanding, and I hope that our relationship will continue to improve as we both get older, but she's still the same girl who told me I was a selfish bitch because I needed her to stop spraying her perfume in the house. She's still the same girl who rolls her eyes when I say she doesn't understand how lucky she is to not have to worry about whether or not a ride in the car will make her head spin for the next three days, or complains when I open the window to air out a (freezing but) smelly house. Or who stops speaking to her sister without even realizing that the thing they are 'fighting' about is not the end of the world.

Which is why you shouldn't ask your sister to write a letter of recommendation for you, I think. Because sisters' relationships are too complex. Because being her sister means I would kill for her, but sometimes I can't stand to be in the same room as her.

I could write about how much I love her, and how proud I am of her, and how brave I think she was the time she stood up to our dad and told him to fuck off (he really deserved it), but I don't think that that will get her the apartment, really. I could write about how she and SisterJ used to be thick as thieves (actual, literal thieves who stole all my good toys when they thought I wasn't looking), but now they just can't figure out how to speak the same language & that it hurts my heart, but that also doesn't really seem like what they are looking for.

So, instead, I'll write things like "In her previous living spaces, she took pride in maintaining a lovely home, always managing to keep her areas clean and tidy." Which, if you cold see her room right now, would seem like an outright LIE, but I know that when she lived in the condo, she was impeccable, so it technically isn't - I did say "previous" living spaces.

Back to work, trying to make 24 years of sisterhood & obsessive love (Do you think it would help if I mentioned how, when she was a little girl, she was really shy and I lugged her around on my hip for the better part of three years? Nah, I didn't think so either.) sound totally positive and not at all twisty and complex.

She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink. Some days, she's the reason you wish you were an only child.   Barbara Alpert

Merry Christmas

Hope you are all where you wish to be this Christmas. And with people who matter to you. Just thought you should know you matter to me.

Merry Christmas!

Happy Turkey Day!

After we built (tore down and rebuilt) a block city today, Lil Girl and I threw our own Thanksgiving Parade. Using all of the little people, birthday cake characters, and happy meal toys from our various childhoods (there's been a kid around here continuously since 1976), we wound up with a Sesame Street float, a Lion King float, a Lil Mermaid float, a bunch of clowns, a Bambi float, about 6 other Disney themed floats and had Woody from Toy Story leading the whole thing. Block City residents really seemed to enjoy, as did she and I. Afterwards, Lil Girl decided to invite every single float, wrangler and character back to the main house for Thanksgiving dinner. Here's hoping that your Thanksgiving has a few less participants, so that you don't have to rebuild your house (again) to fit them all in.