So--What's Next?

I know, I know.  I haven't posted for a minute.  I've been missing writing, but also feeling like maybe I've already said All The Things, but then I've also been having a sudden urge to ramble/journal for no apparent reason.  So I thought I'd pop back in and see if anyone's still out there.

You still here??

Having basically broken up with the internet and FB in October 2015, it's been lovely and quiet and fun and REAL around here, ever since.  Here are a few updates, because I KNOW you've been wondering:

1--We finished our garden fence last year, after just a shade under a decade of working on it...high fives all around.  Now the deer can only stand on the outside and wish.

2--We started traveling again...omg YES.  Just, so much yes.  That sentence will eventually morph into some thoughts on snow-bird lifestyles and not living in Idaho in the winter when we're old.

3--Our oldest is getting married, omg, yes, married.  In like three weeks.  So that cookbook project has taken on a whole new meaning and urgency.

4--Our youngest is graduating in June and already looking for her own apartment, because "omg mahm I can't WAIT to be on my own," which is kind of music to my ears, because (sorry) I am super against people being a crutch for their kids and talking babytalk to them when they're 19 years old and being all "ohhhnooomywittlebaaaayybeee...mommy doesn't want her little babyboo to leave her!"  What the heck is that?  Stop it.  Let them get their life started already.  Make their own budget.  Make their own mistakes.  Make their own dinner.  All of it.

Maybe that's what this post is warming up to be...a rant about parents who refuse to let go.  I tell people that our youngest is excited to get out on her own this summer, and I get this look:

"She's moving OUT?  RIGHT AFTER GRADUATION??"

And they're like, "Oh my gosh.  So soon?  Isn't that kind of young? Aren't you so sad? Won't you miss all this?"  And I'm all, "Not really.  We loved it all, but they're grown up now.  Shane and I are actually really FINE with the idea of having the house to ourselves.  We might even hang out semi-naked in the living room, drinking vodka and playing strip poker."  Wait-- of course I don't say that out LOUD, but you get the idea.  We're ready to be on OUR own, too.  We started as a couple of kids in love with each other.  We got married.  We spent about 9 and a half years hanging out doing all kinds of dumb stuff together, and then we decided, hey, this has been fun, but--why not have kids too, so we took a side trip to do that, and spent the next 20 years spending all of our time, energy, and every extra dime we ever could make or dream of making, on them and their needs.

Now it's our turn again.  We can go back to being those two crazy-in-love people doing dumb stuff together and finishing each other's sentences and thinking that hanging out in bed together on a Sunday morning is just fine with us.  We might even start spending our money on things we want to do again.

So, I'm sorry if this is you, but I'll never understand the people who are ooey gooey about having their grown kids move out of the house.  They are grown ups...let them go, and enjoy what's next.


*exhales*

It's good to be back, guys.

Panhandling in the Panhandle

The other day, I was driving with our youngest, and there was this guy standing on one of the corners by our mall, holding one of those cardboard signs that said something along the lines of  I don't have any money.  Can I have some of yours?

I won't bore you with a monologue on how I *feel* about panhandling versus busting your ass working for a living 6+ days a week, because then you might disagree and be like wow, you're really judgey, and I'd have to be all, well, don't read my blog, then, and then there'd be all this angst and we'd both think the other was being a jerk.

ANYWAY, there was this guy, for whatever reason, and it caused the following funny conversation in our car, after we went by.


Me:  Dude, seriously?  I thought panhandling was illegal in Idaho.

Teenager:  Isn't that why it's called The Panhandle State?

Me:  *laughing*  No.  We live in the Panhandle OF Idaho.

Teenager:  Oh.  Why is it called the Panhandle, then? I thought it was because of panhandlers.

Me:  Because Idaho is kind of shaped like a pan, and this is like the pan handle.

Teenager:  Idaho is the least pannish thing I've ever seen.  It totally does not look like a pan.

Come to think of it...she's right

More Stuff Our Kids Say

More fun from around the house lately, since nothing else is coming to mind...


Our youngest, after trying to eat an unsugared, raw grapefruit.   "Gah.  This tastes like being punched in the mouth by satan."

Same child, eating Top Ramen after coming home from school starving.  "I love Ramen so much that I could write a song about it."

More Stuff Overheard Around Here

I'm in full garden/summer/outside mode, which means that the story-teller part of my brain is off, and I can't find the "on" switch, but I still find funny things to jot down now and then.

- - - -

The other night I was in the living room, our oldest was in the kitchen, and Shane was in the dining room, searching through Spotify for a music channel that we could all agree to listen to. 

 (so basically:  nothing)

A country song started up, and it was one of those songs that must have been the "it" song one year recently, because I heard our oldest call from the kitchen.  

"Ahh! Dad!  I've heard that song SO OFTEN that I could literally play it right now, on a banjo, by ear."

Yep.  That's all for now.
I know.

So, I'm an Onion. Or an Artichoke

I always love the random text conversations we have around here.  This was from last night, when my husband and our youngest were out birthday shopping for me.
---------

Her:  home in 15 minutes.  what time were you born?

Me:  12:20 a.m.

Her:  Dad says that's not the right time.  lol

Me.  I'm like an onion

Her:  Because you make everybody cry?

Me:  That.  And you just keep finding layers of stuff you DON'T KNOW

Her:  Hahaha this is true

Me:  Mostly the crying tho.

Me:  If I had a nickel for every time I made someone cry, we'd all be so rich...

Her:  Dad says you're more like an artichoke because that's nicer and people like those.

I love that man.

I May Have Missed My Calling

Do you ever find yourself suddenly blurting out songs and/or movie lines but randomly change some of the lyrics to suit whatever moment you're in?

I do this all the time sometimes, but yesterday, it happened twice in one day with our youngest.  I think she's pretty sure I may need therapy.

We walked in from the car, and I can't remember what she did, but an old Mary Catherine Gallagher skit from SNL popped into my head, where the guest was Gabriel Byrne (or Rosie O'Donnell?) playing a Catholic school headmaster auditioning students for the spring musical or something.
Me:  Yes, that's not too..nice...Mary Catherine.

Remember her?  (Molly Shannon's best.SNL.skit.ever)

Oldest:  What?

Me:   It's a reference from an old Saturday Night Live thing.

Her:  Who's Mary Catherine?

Me:  It's from...before you were born.  But it was hilarious.

Her:  ...

Me:  Nevermind.

Later the same night.  We're all sitting in the living room, and we were looking at a little braided ankle bracelet that our oldest made for her out of strings with her new school colors. I couldn't help it...I just heard Cyndi Lauper's 1986 raspy voice in my head, and I started singing:

I SEE YOUR SCHOOL COLORS SHINING THROUGH.  I SEE YOUR SCHOOL COLORS! AND THAT'S WHY I LOOOOVE YOU!

Her:  Wow.

Me:  Ok, I'm done now.

I may have missed my calling.  I wonder if they're still auditioning for American Idol...


Am I the only one who mystifies my children with my randomly "awesome" musical ability? Ever embarrass your kids with some hidden talent that should possibly remain hidden?


P.S.  I found the link to the whole Gabriel Byrne skit, which doesn't have my lines in it, but still.  Here you go

Ah, I found it!   Here's the skit with Rosie (and the incomparable Whitney Houston).

You're welcome.

More Stuff Overheard Around Here Lately

We laugh a lot at our house, and sometimes I will jot down what made me laugh.  Plus, it gives me something to share when I have no news, (other than I finished knitting one sweater and started another one.  Yay, me).  Because I'm a giver, you guys.  YOU'RE WELCOME.

Here are a few (more) things overheard at my house recently:

1.  My brother-in-law describing a gold dredge, after an unsuccessful weekend spent turning over rocks in an icy creek in the mountains: "It's not a dredge.  It's called The Trough of Disappointment."

2.  My college daughter's roommate, describing the in-house food at the university: "This soup...it tastes like my nightmares."

3.  Our youngest, when describing some really loud coyotes one night that woke us both up because they sounded odd.  "I heard them, but I was dreaming and thought they were special-needs coyotes."

4.  Youngest to oldest, while watching a close-up shot of Russell Crowe in a movie:  "AYY YO GONNA RECYCLE THOSE BAGS UNDER YA EYES?"  (no offense, Russell).

5.  Annnnddd...a text from my youngest to my oldest when they were upstairs one night:

Awww.  Now give each other a hug.

The Niña, The Pinta, and The WHY ARE THERE NO BANKS OPEN?!?

Aside from all the total epic FAIL-ness of Christopher Columbus' reputation from the vantage point of like 522 years of hindsight...I really hated him a little bit more again today.

Maybe they were just looking for a BANK that was open.

This morning my alarm went off the usual 25 minutes before I need to drive our youngest to school.  Then I remembered that I also needed to get to the bank this morning. Not the drive-through...like, the kind of banking where you actually NEED TO WALK INSIDE THE BUILDING, preferably not in your jams, but the sign on the door only says you can't wear hoodies or possibly masks, so I'm probably OK.

anyhoo--

I hit the snooze only once, because I'm responsible like that, and got dressed in Actual Clothes That Match.  I even brushed my hair and put on makeup, even though I totally did not have time to shower, so my hair was barely passable.  I never do any of this at 7:50 a.m. when I'm driving, because it's a quick drive to the school and back, and I figure I'm good if I have shoes on, right?  I do pass people on my way home from the school sometimes, and I think...maybe I'm slipping a little. These people got dressed for the day like 2 HOURS ago.  I used to actually care about this stuff.

Today I knew I'd be a little early for the bank, so I went through the car wash, and got gas, then texted a friend I haven't seen in way too long, who I may see for lunch later (for which I will shower and possibly even shave my legs--I promise), to kill time.  I barely registered that the bank parking lot was...empty.   I KNOW.

At 9:04 a.m., I grabbed my banking stuff and walked to the bank door.  Yanked on it.  Nothing.

What the-- ??

I did the thing where you cup your hands on the glass and peer inside.  The place was dark.  My first thought was, Oh, great.  They've been robbed.  Followed by...seriously? No one showed UP on time?? 

There wasn't a sign on the door, so I drove through the drive-up window.  Like there's going to be some lady waiting there to help me, in the dark.  And THAT'S when I saw the sign that said:

"We will be closed Monday, Oct. 13th for COLUMBUS DAY"

Nice.

I have a smart phone that can tell me when I've eaten too much, but it can't remember to tell me not to get dressed on the ONE DAY OF THE WEEK when there's no one at the bank.

I'm celebrating by staying in my jams, for the rest of the day.

And...We're Back, with Things I Overhear Around the House

My teenagers share my odd sense of humor, plus a whole different one of their own, so, a lot of times they'll be laughing their heads off and I don't get it.  But still.

Here are a few things I have randomly heard around here lately, in no particular order.

Youngest:  If I licked a penny, I could tell you what state it's from.

Oldest:  I just sprayed myself with Febreze so I'd smell better.  I think I've hit a new low.

Youngest (to Oldest):  If you were a spice...you'd be onion powder.

Oldest:  Dude.  It's weird to think about things you don't normally...think about.

Oldest to Youngest (who is staring into the fridge):  Whatcha lookin' for?     Youngest:  Love.

Youngest (about extreme close-up of a famous actor on a movie):  Ayy, yo gonna recycle those bags under ya eyes?

Or one of my favorites--this text conversation:

School Lists and Little Cheese Dudes. My years of 'No Television' are Showing.

Back when my oldest was going into first grade, I remember taking her school-supply shopping with The List.  You remember The List, right?  That full-page of #10 font, single-spaced, 3-columns of SUPER IMPORTANT STUFF like this:
 "One full 987-piece pack of erasable color Sharpie brand fine-point nontoxic washable markers including neon and white (please make SURE they're washable. Mrs. K's classroom has just been painted again)"

Yeah.  She just graduated, but I SO do not miss those Lists. Of course, next month she starts college, and there's still a list, only now it has *just* two things on it.
1.  $700.00 worth of text books.
 2.  New Apple Laptop of $900 value or better.

*sigh*

moving on

I still remember that first-grade shopping trip, though.  We'd picked out a cute little-girl backpack and cute little-girl pencils and lunchbox and clothes and socks and shoes and the 987-pieces of erasable whatever, a pink ruler, highlighters in 10 colors, a pencil box, a container of 500 erasers, and a pallet of Kleenex, then we turned down the...notebook aisle.  She had to have several notebooks, of course, because learning to write takes LOTS OF PAPER.

Bear in mind that I have spent most of my life, and hers, without any TV, and especially without cable.  Or Nickelodeon.  So I had no earthly idea what I was looking at, on some of the folders.  I recognized Hello Kitty, because...hello...that cat has been around since I was in 2nd grade.  But the rest?  I didn't recognize any of them. What even ARE Bratz?!  You guys!!  They look like Angelina in size 14 shoes from some weird disco/roller derby nightmare.  Scary.

We stopped in front of the folders, and to this day we still laugh about the conversation:

Me:  Ok--Folders.  They have rainbows, Hello Kitty, puppies...some little cheese dude...?

Her:  Mom.  That's SpongeBob. He's not cheese.

Me:  Who's "SpongeBob"? He looks like Swiss cheese. Why are his eyes bloodshot?

Her:  He lives in the ocean. Can I get that one?

Me:  I guess so.  But not the one with the bloodshot eyes.  That's just weird.

After that, we actually started watching SpongeBob now and then, and once you get past the close-ups of the bloodshot eyes or the semi-gross jokes in some of them...he's pretty cute.  I get it now.

Little cheese dude... 

Sorry kids.

So, Mom--What DO You Do All Day?

A few weeks ago I was talking with my youngest, who prefers to be on the go A LOT and can be reduced to catatonic staring at a wall in boredom if she has to stay home for like, a whole day during the summer.

We had this conversation, while talking about the fact that I have spent the last 18 months with no car, except the one I share with our oldest, who works full-time now, so basically I'm home a lot, ALL THE TIME EVERY DAY FOREVER (which is where I love to be the most--they don't understand why my perfect day is a day when I don't have to drive anyone anywhere):

Her:  I can't for the LIFE OF ME figure out what it is you DO all day...

Me:  Well.  Basically I just hang around, painting my nails, reading, taking naps, studying French, fooling around on the internet, and WHATEVER ELSE I FEEL LIKE.  All day.  While you're at school.

Her:  *nothing*

In all fairness...between manicures I also manage to run our business, do all the books, scheduling, customer service, and taxes; take care of 2 acres of landscaping, an acre of grass, a 5,000 sq ft vegetable garden, laundry for four, keep 19 chickens, an orchard, 100 rose bushes, keep the house up, preserve all our own food for the year, make sure that there's always food in the fridge, the cats are fed (yes, every day), beds have clean linens, bathrooms are clean, and everything gets done on time and everyone gets where they need to go, and dinner is always delicious.

I also sometimes write blog posts, knit sweaters, and work on a cookbook that will hopefully be published in my lifetime.

Nothing much.

So--Here's to working, stay-at-home moms everywhere.  Because we ROCK, even if no one can see it.

Sorry--Can't help you.  I have wet nails.

Of Hot Coffee, Camp, and Navigation with Kids

So, today, I had to drive my youngest to camp at the crack of 9 o'clock, first thing this morning.  ALL THE WAY TO THE ACTUAL CAMP YOU GUYS.  Usually, we just meet at the church (10 minutes away), throw a bunch of teenagers and their gear at some grownups and a bus, and leave.  Then we come back next week and do the whole thing in reverse.  Everyone wins.

Apparently things have changed in the camp insurance world, though, due to probably the last two decades of grownups suing other grownups over every-little-ridiculous-thing, until now...no one can drive anyone anywhere ever NEVER EVER, but I didn't know this until about 12 hours ago.

We just got back from camping last night ourselves, unloaded OUR stuff from the camper, threw HER stuff in the laundry and BACK into another bag and into the trunk.  Then I happened to check the email for the info on her camp, for this morning.  I stopped at the part where it said "Hi guys! We're meeting at the camp this year."

*...*  It's an hour away.

What?  Ok, it wasn't actually that big of a deal.  I'm off, I have the time.  I even have a car, which is a rental, so woo hoo, because FREE MILEAGE.  Except for that thing I hate above all else:  I had to set an actual alarm clock.  I hate mine like you can't even believe, so I made coffee for the road.  As we turned out of our road, I handed it to my daughter and said, "Here. See if this helps."  Because hello, it was 9 a.m., and I'm pretty sure no one should be driving at that hour without coffee, plus don't forget we just got back from a long hard weekend of nothing, and we were both kind of groggy.

I forgot that she is completely unlike me, in the sense that she likes her food and drinks...lukewarm, whereas I like them to be still actually sizzling on the plate.  So she takes a sip through that dangerous little siphon-top on my travel mug, and I hear:

Her:  WOMAN!!!

Me:  What?

Her:  HOT!!!!!!!!  

Me:  Oh.  Sorry.  Yeah...it's hot coffee.  You weren't supposed to guzzle it.  But...sorry.

Her:  GAHHH.  THAT'S LIKE MORDOR IN A CUP.

What was really cool was that she set my phone somehow to navigate the trip for us, with that voice that tells you when to turn, and if it hadn't been "on", I'd have taken an actual wrong turn at the last minute and probably ended up in Albuquerque.  So the navigation voice was like the coolest thing ever.  I didn't even have to look at the phone, or zoom in on a map to see where we were, or pull over and look up directions.  I feel so modern.  Then she was like, "Mom.  Seriously?  You've never used navigation?"

I haven't.  Trust me to find out how cool something is, right about the time it's almost obsolete.  Yeah...I'm crazy techie like that.  (and, yes, I know they can steer you wrong...I'm not that old).

Anyway.  I'm back.  And oh!--I have a cool post to write coming up that I was invited to do by a fellow blogger who thinks I'm way more talented than I am, but I'll let that be a surprise.  Or like a surprise that you know is coming.  Or you can just act surprised later.

So, keep an eye out for that, but first I have to sort out four days' worth of business voicemail, glance at some random bills that probably needed my attention a week ago, unpack the camper, and do  ALL THE LAUNDRY from camping, which somehow multiplies between the camper and the laundry room, until it seems like we must have had about 100 people with us, judging from the heap of bedding and shorts and beach towels.

*sigh*

You mean, we have to UNpack it, too???

I'm No Hollaback Mom, I Guess

I love my texts with my oldest daughter.

She was on her way back from checking out her future university and town yesterday, when I asked her how it went:

Guess I can put my pom poms down now.

My Daughter's One of My Favorite Bloggers--AND We Collaborate

Here's a link to my oldest daughter's blog--she draws comic stories that make me laugh out loud.  Like today's post about her and her sister at her blog called Running With Cookies:

There is also a post over there where she drew the illustrations and inserted them in a silly highschool report that I actually wrote at age 17 in 1987, then posted it as an illustrated story, which is like...collaborating with your own daughter, at the same age.  If that makes sense.  

I feel like Nat King Cole and his daughter on that song from way back when.  Except that we're both alive, and it's not a song.

Not quite this, but close enough

Hurrah for Anesthesia...So, How Was YOUR Week?

              Great.  Except for THIS:

Yes.  OUCH

Pretty much nothing's been funny here this week:  Our youngest suffered a bad break of her ankle and leg last week and spent a week, SEVEN WHOLE DAYS, with her leg elevated and splinted, but still totally broken (like that picture right there, except just propped up on pillows), in tons of pain.  

On Wednesday she underwent surgery and now has 2 pins holding her ankle bone together.  She's recovering, and the pain is getting better slowly, but it's been the most frustrating and stressful week you can imagine.  She took a hit during sports in P.E. at school, and broke her fibula in half like a stick of kindling, and also the lower tibia, which is that piece at the mid-left in the picture (the one that isn't attached to anything).  I'm not a doctor, but judging from the displacement on the x-rays, apparently she broke her ankle bone right off.  

She straightened her leg back from its abnormal angle, by herself, in the van on the way to the ER, and then bravely told the nurses and doctor on arrival to back the heck off, when they wanted to move her leg around in all directions to see if it was actually broken...since the major swelling and awkward angle didn't seem to be dead giveaways.  

Yeah.  It's BROKEN.

We did manage to have a couple of laughs afterwards, about when she was getting ready for surgery.  Laughter helps everything...even pain.

She had to have a nerve block done to numb her entire lower leg before surgery (two, actually). If you don't know what a nerve block is...it's where they take a needle the size of a drinking straw and stick it all the way through your leg without the benefit of anything local like novocaine.  Then they sort of poke around (guided by ultrasound, so you can watch it jabbing around inside your daughter's leg on the screen), until they find the nerve they want, the "popliteal something something", and then they continue to move the needle around awhile to make sure they've hit everything inside her thigh with this needle; then they inject whatever it is that deadens that nerve, and thus the whole lower leg.  Meanwhile, she is totally not really asleep, so this wasn't one of her favorite things.  Fortunately, the anesthesia they gave her before this procedure did make her amnesic, so she doesn't remember it.  Much. 

I wish they'd given ME an amnesic...

She kept drifting off to sleep, which was a blessing, because she'd been miserably in pain for a week, so I sat very quietly with a book and was glad to see her resting, except for every time anyone came in the room and shouted in her ear, "HOW WE DOING IN HERE? ARE YOU SLEEPING?" I guess they didn't get my hand gestures, because apparently I only speak an ancient dialect of sign language that can't be translated:

I will have to kill you if you come in here and ask my child that again.

While she was coming in and out of unconsciousness, they gave her oxygen.  At one point when she'd been jolted awake for like the third time by a technician asking "HOW WE DOING? ARE YOU ASLEEP YET?", we had this conversation:

Her:  Oh...I'm awake.  I was dreaming about chocolate.

Me:  It's OK.  Go back to sleep.  

Her:  It was a really big bar.  But when I ate it, it didn't taste right.

Me:  That's sad.  Go back to sleep.

She nodded off.  Then she felt the oxygen tubes on her face...

Her:  Why are they putting air in my nose?

Me:  That's oxygen.  I think it helps your brain or something.

Her:  Oh.   (pause)   When I wake up, will I be smarter?

Me:  Yeah.  I think so.          (because, moms know everything)

Her:  But, how do they separate the oxygen from the air?  

Me:  Ummm...that's a good question.  Go back to sleep...  

We got her home with lots of meds for the first night and day, because the pain was enough to make her faint when she tried to sit up, which made us feel like this, every six hours:

Pills!!  Pills are goooooood!

She also managed to send heavily medicated texts to a lot of her friends at like 2 a.m. a couple of nights with texts like..."hehehehe !%#^&% depene",  but she totally doesn't remember sending any of them.  Yeah.  That should go over well with the other parents... (sorry, guys!)

In all seriousness, everyone was really great, and her surgeon was a kind and gentle young wizard, who we will be grateful to forever.  Absolutely the best.

Nice, huh?  Doesn't that look like it totally feels better?

And, to keep you occupied until next time, (though I feel some awkward encounter stories coming on)...here is a link to one of my favorite bloggers.  

If you are a wife and mother, you need this blog today:

http://jenhatmaker.com/blog.htm

Clumsiness Runs Downhill in Our Family

I'm spending a weekend AWAY from technology, meaning no cel service, no internet, no laptop, no customers, even though I'm taking those things with me (ok, not the customers, but the tech stuff), with all their various cords and chargers, you know, just in case.  And I need the laptop to charge my e-book thing, and...what if the mood strikes and I feel like writing? What if we find cel service 75 miles up on a mountain somewhere, and there's a rude customer email waiting to ruin my ONE WEEKEND OFF that I can.not.miss? I should be merciless and leave this crap at home, but...no. 

Since I can't think of anything else fun or funny to tell you before I go, and there's totally no time to make something up, here's a funny link to one of my daughter's own blog posts, proving, once again, that yes--klutziness IS hereditary:

Running With Cookies
  (If you're bored, check out her other posts--her drawings make me laugh so hard!)

Have a great weekend everybody!

Bad Medicine .. Dr. Mom Is "In"

Taking a break from canning soup from the garden and scoring spare change in the bottom of the washing machine, today I was pondering (not surprisingly): Health Care.

Just to clarify, if anything ever comes up that requires any of our family to need actual Medical Care performed on them, I will be ON it.  Until then...I will continue to fill in the blank on the school forms for "Family Doctor" with the word:   (nothing)

When our kids were little, we worried about everysinglething, every sniffle, every cough. We went through their early years attending ALL the recommended yearly or biannual or q.3 monthly Well-Baby Check Ups, immunizations, growth diagrams and percentiles charting how fast our babies were growing, teething, sleeping through the night, spitting up, sitting up, pulling up, walking, talking, learning advanced math, etc.  But after the second baby, though, doesn't it all just kind of seem like …WHATEVER?  After affixing the last "Required" gold star on my imaginary parenting progress sheet under the column of "You must take your child to the doctor, whether they are sick or not, at least several times a year, FOREVER", I just sort of…quit, after about age 3, or 5, or whenever that last 'required' shot was due.  It's been awhile--they're in high school now...

And guess what?  We're all still fine.  Having faced sometimes horrified looks of new mothers who ask me, "OMG. You haven't take your kids in for a physical in HOW long?!?" with the answer of "And why not? They're fine.  I don't have an extra $200 to give to someone to tell me that…yes, they're still fine.  I know this…I live with them."  Of course, sometimes there's always that fear that, what if I'm missing something?  What if we *seem* fine, but if we go in and see a doctor and get that X-Ray, MRI, CT scan, biopsy, and/or full blood panel, we find out that we're not fine?  What if *seeming* fine is a cover for OMGyou'reSOsick? 

Well, I guess I'd rather just *seem* fine, and save that money for a trip to the doctor for when I know I am NOT fine.  I'm pretty sure that, if I go in and ask for a million tests of everycellinmybody…pretty much guaranteed, they will probably find something that needs medicating or injecting or removing or watching or biopsying or having some form of Medical Science performed on it, and then suddenly I'll feel queasy and ill, and omigoshimsick, and then tah-dah--you're Sick and taking a giant list of meds (with side effects like "seizures", "blindness", and "death"--really?) out of one of those nifty color-coded, day-labeled pill dispensers, and your life now revolves around your next doctor appointment and whether you can eat this or that, how many times you've peed today, and whether today is a "good day" or a "bad day", medically speaking...

No.Thank.You.  I'll keep enjoying the garden a little longer, if you don't mind.

Like many people I know these days, our family is on the new (and fairly common) all-American health plan, (especially as we happen to be self-employed to boot), which I like to call the DGS Plan.  Which means:  DON'T GET SICK.  (ever).  I also worked for 16 years in the medical field, more than 12 of those as a medical transcriptionist for high-traffic hospitals, like Cedars Sinai Medical Center in L.A. and Boston Medical Center, so I have seen me some weird medical stuff, y'all.  Trust me.  If it can be dragged into the ER or the OR, there is a transcribed report for that, and I have typed hundreds of thousands of them. 

I have typed reports for every surgery and medical condition you can imagine, and probably many (many) that you'd never dream of.  I have typed reports for everyone from homeless people to celebrities, for everything from a common cold to a report that started with "She seemed fine when she came in" and ended three paragraphs later with "Time of Death:  0600". 

I have typed psychiatric notes, x-ray reports, brain surgeries, open-heart surgeries, transplants, replacements, amputations, augmentations, reductions, cataract removals, back surgeries, joint replacements, gastric bypasses, and gangrene treatments.  I can't think of a single medical procedure I haven't heard through headphones, dictated by this country's best physicians.

I have typed ER visits for everything from attempted suicides to trampoline accidents, car-versus-pedestrian injuries, stabbings, shootings, domestic violence, a guy who accidentally nailed his arm with a nail gun, and a woman who was afraid she was being robbed and hid her wedding ring somewhere she really should NOT have and then couldn't retrieve it.  Also, FYI: concerning Viagra…do not believe "if some is good, more is better"…that scenario is not pretty, and very painful, two days later… Just sayin'.

So...dont' get me wrong:  I have a lot of faith in doctors.  I love doctors.  I loved working with them, and I appreciate them in every way--when they're needed.

However.  I also grew up in the hippied-out 70s with a family who did the whole Back to Nature thing.  I grew up with organic everything, and I have seen the successful use of non-medical treatment for just about everything you can experience (outside of broken bones and severe trauma), with herbal and natural remedies, so I trust what I know, too.  I'd rather treat a flu or a cold, aches and pains anytime with lots of rest, tea, Vitamin C, goldenseal, echinacea, ice packs, hot packs, etc., rather than a trip to the doctor, where you won't get much more (and I don't like prescriptions, just because I think they're overdone to infinity, unless they are really really necessary), but you may come home with something much more serious than your initial complaint, just from sitting in the waiting room.  (Hello--they're all they're because they're also SICK).  I'd rather stay home and fight stuff in the safety of our own environment, thanks anyway. 

Plus we now own a collection to rival most medical closets, of almost every brace and/or support known to man, including an ankle brace, combo foot/ankle brace, knee supports, full leg brace, back braces, Ace wraps, wrist brace, carpal tunnel wrist support, finger splints in all sizes, and a thumb brace/wrist wrap.  I think the only things we don't have are a cervical collar and a walking boot/cast thing.  Oh, and a shoulder sling.  Which should tell you...our family has been fairly blessed with mainly non-serious prior injuries...

I think my kids thought I was crazy, or just a terrible parent, when they were younger, because they'd come to me pointing at their arm or leg or side or wherever and saying "This feels like something is really wrong.  I think I have a disease.  Or the bone is broken.  Or dislocated.  Or diseased and dislocated.  Or it could be a rare new condition unknown to medical science.  We should probably have a doctor look at this."  And I'd look at it, and say, "Well, it looks fine to me.  Give it a rest for a bit, take some Motrin/herb tea/ice pack/etc., and see how you do."  And sure enough…they're fine.  Wonder of wonders.  Other than ear infections, which I know better than to mess with, pretty much every ailment they went through as children, worked itself out just fine without a trip to the ER or the pediatrician's office.  Except for the time our youngest broke her thumb riding the mechanical bull at the fair...and when our oldest fell straight down into the crack between the back of the U-Haul truck and the unloading hoist mechanism, and stopped the fall--with her jaw...

I also laugh sometimes because I hear my mom in my replies to them when they were younger and said, "It hurts whenever I do THIS," and I'd say "So, don't DO that…" Ahmigash, that's my MOM…sorry, girls. 

I know I may err too far on the side of  "Unless you're currently carrying your severed ear in a box, bleeding out an artery, or have a bone protruding from the skin, you're probably FINE."  But when I say this, it's because I am certain (truly) that the doctor, who will charge us $200.00 to see him, will also tell you:  You're FINE.  Rest, ice and elevate.  Or… bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast.  Or…stay home from school and get lots of fluids.  Or, don't ride your skateboard barefoot next time.  I KNOW THESE THINGS.

I am also lucky that one of my dearest and oldest friends (who was right there with me, through those hippie childhood years) has been an RN for over 20 years, so whenever I think I'm being a bad mother and I might be missing some truly medically necessary trip to a doctor or an ER, even without a bone protruding from the skin, I can call and run the symptoms by her and get Real Medical Advice from her.

So...thanks Mom for all the natural remedies growing up, and thanks Teirza, for all the Actual Medical Advice ever since.  I owe you some soup, but the spare change in the washer is mine, baby.   :)

 

More Polish?--Some Family History Musings

A remembered conversation from when my youngest was little, and some family history. 

Possibly the ship my great-grandfather arrived on, c. early 1900s

My mom's grandparents (all four of them) immigrated to the US from Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary from the late 1800s to early 1900s, the men as coal miners.  Both her grandfathers were killed in coal mining accidents, which may explain why I extremely dislike caves...

Her parents (my grandparents) spoke Polish to each other when they needed to keep things secret (like which kid did something embarrassing at school, or what they got the kids for Christmas).  I so wish we had kept this a tradition--whyyyy don't I speak Polish?!? but, then...Shane doesn't, so that would be totally weird and not useful.  Or, I could just talk to myself and be all muttering in Polish in the corner about messy bedrooms and laundry piles.  Yeah, that could be useful...

Anyhoo. 

We always have tried to instill in our kids at least some sense of family heritage (except the language part.  Not that I'm bitter.  Thanks for nothing, Grandpa), so we have always made traditional Polish foods for holidays, or sometimes just because we like Polish food.  Hence, my family is used to, and loves to eat, potato pierogi, borscht, stuffed cabbage, babka, potato pancakes, cucumber salad, and Polish sausage with homemade saurkraut (which I'm canning today as I write this; maybe that's what triggered the memory).  Many of the recipes I use, came from my greatgrandmother and/or my mom's aunts (my great aunts? second aunts? Whatever, anyway, they're OLD), and they're definitely going in The Book (the cookbook project).  In fact, I think we're making stuffed cabbage tomorrow...maybe potato pierogi... *staring off into dreamy space for a minute*..

...Ok, I'm back.

My original point is, that once when the kids were little, we were talking about my family being Polish, and which relatives, way back, were *all* Polish (as in, full-blooded, purebred, non-English-speaking, from the Old Country, yada yada).  And I was like, so, if my mom's all Polish, then I'm half Polish, and you guys (my kids) are...letmethink...one-quarter Polish. 

My youngest (who was probably 8 or so at the time) asked, "So, when we get bigger, will we be more Polish?" 

I love how kids think. 

I also love that the girls actually want to learn to speak Polish, but figuring the cost of the Rosetta Stone language course, the fact that only maybe 3 of the 4 members of our family might try to learn it, and the fact that there's not a huge, uh, call for Polish-speaking college students out there, right now, in the work force, I'm leaning towards, sorry, but the heritage thing's dying out.  It would cost us like $100.00 per "good morning" or "nyet" or whatever, and that would just be disappointing.

Which reminds me...I asked my mom about this once.  Like, why, why, didn't your parents teach you kids the language?!  They grew up speaking it every day.  You heard it every day.  Your grandparents didn't speak English at all.  Why wouldn't they teach their kids their own language?  Her answer was simple, and sort of sad.  She grew up in the 1940s and 50s, and in post-War America, it didn't *do* to seem too...foreign.  Especially Polish. 

I don't know...do they seem like immigrant babushkas to you?




My paternal great-grandmother, Bertha (a.k.a. Boleslawa), who never spoke English.  I wish I could see the colors in the curtains behind her...! but she kind of scares me a little...













My maternal great-grandmother, Mary Simulcik, with one of my mom's aunts and one of her cousins, who looks eerily like one of our own kids at the same age, fast-forwarded to 2000.  I mean, seriously--like Photoshop weird.  Mary looks like a lot more fun than Bertha, though, and she has a cute dog, but...I'm a little concerned about the backdrop.  That is so 1935.  Is that the house?  And what are they standing on?  Maybe it's the plank for the door...

Shane looks at these pictures and is like, "Wow, babe.  You don't exactly come from a family of...lookers, do you?"   ow.

Well, at least they weren't going hungry, though, by the look of it--

Also, is there a genetic tendency to this body shape?  Ok, I'm digressing...



Anyway--the last thing my grandparents wanted was for their kids to be labeled un-American, or foreign-looking or -sounding.  My mom actually got a hard time from her in-laws (my other grandparents, New Jersey society folks, who definitely cared about this stuff), that she looked un-American.  Foreign.  She wasn't blond, with a name like Muffy Buffington, of the Boston Buffingtons.  She didn't play tennis or ride show jumpers.  I think she was cute anyway:

My mom (looking at camera) with her two sisters, Ocean City, NJ, c. 1958

Not surprisingly, her parents specifically didn't teach their kids to speak Polish at all.  They wanted them all to just seem...American.  I understand it.  I'm all for us being a melting pot country, albeit with a single, common language (don't get me started on the "Please learn English if you want to stay here" topic), but I'm also all for carrying on and keeping family roots alive, within families.

So, it's cute that my grandparents spoke in Polish for secrets and in their Christmas cards to each other, but at the same time, it's sad that we lost that language in our family.  Hmm.  I'm not sure I'm OK with that, but I feel like it's too late to learn Polish, so I guess my girls will have to settle for being *less* Polish after all. 

Here's one of the only pictures I have, of our whole all-American, hippied-out family with my mom's parents.  They came to visit us in Idaho in 1978, a year into our "back to nature" move, which is a story for another time.

  Grandma Josephine, mom holding my bro (who's like, 3--is it me or is he too big to be carried?), aunt Patty, aunt Dobi, Grandpa Stanley holding my cousin Oona, and my dad.  That's me on the bike, totally rocking the plaidest bell-bottoms ever.  And of course, now I'm going nuts trying to figure out, WHAT is on my shirt?

 
Late p.s.:  Is it me, or does 8-year-old me resemble my great-grandma Bertha a little?  yipes

Helpful Mom Text

Actual text conversation from my youngest, on her last day of school.  I think they had the usual terrible things like a pizza party and a scavenger hunt planned...


Her: "I don't wanna beeeee heeeeerrrreee".

Me: "Enjoy the day...it's almost over; and then you can weed with me."

Her: "oh great"

Me: "Yeah. You're welcome."

Sometimes you just have to, you know, encourage them. *muffled laughter in background*

Standing In Lines

(I wrote this about a year and a half ago, at the height of my running-every-direction with cakes and kids phase.  It's an interesting peek at how stressed for time I actually was...)


Is there a Fast Pass for this line? Somebody??

So, if you are one of those people who doesn’t mind being THAT person who is holding up the whole line behind you at the store, possibly keeping the cashier from taking a lunch break or their omg-i-need-too-pee break, or you are possibly delaying the ACTUAL STORE FROM CLOSING, please, if you are that person, just go read something else.

I’m not that person.

You can see where this is going, right?

Ok.  Today I promised my 12-year-old that I would go and get her 30 dominoes for a school project that she is working on after school, and this is something that will cause the project to not turn out, and she will fail this class, and possibly end up living in a van down by the river, if I don’t produce 30 dominoes.  I said, sure.  Because, you know, how hard can it be?  I’m not sure where you find dominoes, but I’m positive I can handle this grown-up responsibility.  I see them winning the award for the best project and her smiling at me like “Hey, we couldn’t have won without you getting those dominoes.  Thanks Mom!”

I left the house at a time that would give me plenty of time to accomplish this, plus go to the bank, stop at the spa supply store, and make a quick stop for my husband to pick up some hunting supplies at a sporting goods store.  Yep, definitely enough time.  Maybe even too much.

Got through the bank, no problem.  Hit the freeway and zipped over to the sporting goods store, which is walking distance from the spa store.  Ha, I think—I’ve GOT this.  I send a quick text to my husband to double check what I will need to get for him, and while waiting for the answer and not being one to waste time, I pop into the spa supply store to grab my two super-easy “I just need chlorine and shock” products.  Easy in, easy out, right?  No.

I walk up to the counter and stop behind the only customer at the counter, being helped by the only guy at the counter.  Actually the only employee on the property, by the looks of it, but I’m like, “Ok, no problem.”  So I wait.  Because the products I need are actually:  Behind The Counter.  So I can’t just grab them and be hanging out in line.  I have to Wait For Help.  Ok, still, no problem.

It turns out, however, that the guy (and his wife) in front of me, are in the middle of a very complicated purchase of a WHOLE HOT TUB SYSTEM, including delivery, setup, chemical analysis, and maintenance programming.  This is a big deal for them; yes, I get it.  But I’m starting to think, “wow, bad timing, huh?”  So they’re being helped by the guy, who is of course happy to help them.  It’s a big sale, you know, so I’m still pretty much ok with it.  They have lots of questions about electrical things that sound like “tie-in” and “GFS circuit”, and I have no idea what they’re talking about, but eventually they sign all 50 documents, get everything but a guided tour of the store, and they’re (tah-dah) done.  So I think, “Yay! I can get my stuff and jam outa here.” 

Meanwhile I’ve missed two calls from my husband, trying to let me know what he will need from the sporting goods store.  (Because I’m one of those polite types who turns their phone OFFPEOPLEOFFTURNTHEFREAKINGPHONEOFFINTHECHECKOUTLINE).  Sorry. Did I say that out loud?

Moving on…

As they leave, finally (yes, I’m happy for them; a new hot tub is awesome, go, people, go in peace),  I start to take a step towards the counter, when, out of the corner of my eye, I see…this guy.  From nowhere.  Step right UP to the counter in front of me.   I think, “Ok.  Maybe he was here before me, and if I step up ahead of him, he’ll freak totally out that he’s been waiting forever and he’s NEXT”, so I stand there and wait some more.  I’m starting to check my clock on the phone, because I am on a tight schedule with the whole dominoes-get-to-the-school-by-3:30 thing, and I still have the sporting goods store to go to.

He starts out with “Yeah…I have this little part on my hot tub that’s broken…” and I sigh.  Can’t I just pay for my two products and go? Please?  So the guy helps him figure out WHAT part he has that is broken, and whether it’s black or white, and what brand it is, and they look it up, call China for the part number, and ring him up.  “That’ll be $4.17.”  Yes! So close now.  He’s paying.  I’m almost leaning towards the counter, ready to spring.  Then he says, “so…Tell me about this XZY brand hot tub? Is that the same as the QRS hot tub you sell?”  The employee launches into an explanation of how the two companies were different, but merged 4 years ago, so now they’re “sister” companies, and starts in on the pros and cons of the brands.  I’m drumming my fingers a bit on the ledge behind me, and checking my clock.  I can hear it going TICK TOCK.  TICK TOCK. 

TICKTOCK YOU ARERUNNNINGOUTOFTIME NODOMINOESFORYOUUUUHAHAHAHA.

The guy asks for a brochure.  I’m like, seriously?!?  REALLY?  He finally goes away, and I am able to quickly step up and ask for my two products, and pay for them.  No, I don’t want any extra products.  I don’t want to be on the mailing list, though for some reason, it does take him awhile to “find” me in the computer.  I didn’t realize I needed to be IN there..  I’m holding my debit card here; what else do we NEED for this?  I sort of quick-step to my car and throw the chemicals in the front seat, and quickly call my husband back as I run/walk across the parking lot to the sporting goods store.  The nice couple ahead of me waits for me and holds the door for me.  Thanks.  J 

I get inside, and fortunately what he needs are two things that are easy to find, so I grab them and head to the counter, where, again, there is one tired girl helping a long line of people preparing for Hunting Season.  I know I have to wait, so I’m standing there behind the couple who held the door, waiting.  A guy shows up and opens the other till and says “I can help whoever’s next in line.”  Everyone (I swear) just looks at him, but no one moves.  (eyebrow up)

I say “Well, *I’ll* go over there.  So I step around to that side, and find myself somehow half a step behind the couple who held the door.  That’s cool; whatever.  We’re still way ahead, right?  No.  They are returning not one, but TWO axes, or mauls, or whatever they’re called.  So the new cashier here has to fill out some: Paperwork.  He needs their receipts, both of them, with the yellow tag still attached.  He needs their photo I.D. (really?)  He needs “the card # ending in….0413”.  He runs it as a credit but somehow it is wrong, so he has to repeat the process.  I visibly slump.  The lady keeps glancing towards me, but I refuse to meet her eye while I check my clock and wonder where the closest place to find dominoes is.  I still don’t know.  Do grocery stores have dominoes?  There’s one close, but if it DOESN’T have dominoes, I will have used up my allotted time searching.  Wal-Mart? Too far.  Target?  Ah-hah, maybe. 

The couple also decides they are buying something.  I slump a bit further.  I now have 15 minutes to get to the domino purchase and back to my car and get to the school by 3:30.  Sigh.  They are finally done.  She finally actually catches my eye and says, “Sorry!” I say, “no problem” because I know, it’s not technically their fault.  I think it’s me sometimes; I swear I cause lines to      s     l    o    w   d   o    w     n until time has no meaning.

I pay and jog to the car, still wondering where to go for dominoes.  I decide to actually CALL Target and ask them.  This turns out to be somewhat complicated to do while driving and being 2 stop lights away from the actual stop light for Target, where I will have to either decide to pull in and walk into the actual store to find out, or get past the recording with “Thanks for calling Target.  Our store hours are blah blah blah” etc., to a person who I can ask about “Hello? Yes! I’m almost to your storeandIneedtoknowifyouhavedominoesbeforeIhavetoturninatthelight.” I’m thinking hurry hurry hurry, please WILL YOU HURRY UP? I’m almost THERE!

The lady who answered puts me on hold twice, saying they are finding out if they carry dominoes.  I’m getting closer; I’m only one light away.  Turn in? or keep driving to Wal-Mart?  Tension!  I slow down a little to catch a red light (who does that? Lol) and buy some time.  She comes back and transfers me to Toys, where Jenny answers. 

Thank goodness for Jenny!  She says they carry them.  I’m at the light.  Do they HAVE them? She is going to look.  I’m turning into the parking lot as she says they DO have them.  I tell her I have to be AT the school in 15 minutes, what part of the store are the dominoes in?  She says, of course, the farthest back corner from the door.  On the wall, in the corner.  Of course she does.  But Jenny is awesome, and she says she has them in her hand, and she will come meet me up front with them.  I am so grateful! I’m in 3” heels and I don’t think I can run that distance and back to my car in 4 minutes.  I want to adopt her.

I walk in and see a girl just inside the doors, waving like one of those folks at the airport waiting for their party…”Dominoes?”  “YES! I love you! You are my new best friend!”  She also walks me right to the customer service desk where I immediately hand the guy $4.00, and I am heading for my car in less than 1 minute.  I think I’ll buy some Target stock if the market ever comes back…and one for Jenny, too.

I race to the school and get there with just minutes to spare.  I am so proud that I got all my errands run; I have Saved The Day.  I feel like one of those soccer moms who run errands and have kid stuff all organized and projects completed on time, every time, without any excuses like ”this-will-have-to-work-because-i-don’t-have-time-to-make-one-more-stop-for balloons, toothpicks, spraypaint, duct tape, and a goat hide (you need WHAT?) for the project tonight.”  Super. Mom.  Yep, I got your 30 dominoes.

The girls come out, and my daughter asks if I remembered the dominoes.  Like she’s really hoping I did NOT forget (she does not want to live in a van down by the river).  I smile and hand them to her.  Of COURSE I totally got the dominoes.  She’s getting a ride with her friend and her friend’s mom, so the other mom comes over to touch base with me about the project.  She sees me handing them to my daughter and says,

Ready?

“Oh, I already got some dominoes. You don’t need those.” 

I know, right? 

By the way, the box I got only had 28 dominoes.  /:{