It's Good For You...Or Not

It seems that the American Medical Association and whoever else that makes decisions about what products/foods/medications are healthy for you (or not) change their minds a lot. One day, something is the greatest thing since sliced bread; the next, it’s gonna kill you. I get so confused.

Did you know that in the 1940’s and 50’s, cigarettes were physician tested and approved? That doctors were used in magazine ads boasting about the best brands of cigarettes? If you went to the doctor as a smoker with a sore throat, they suggested you switch to a “smoother” brand. (I actually had a physician who was a smoker when I was a child. He eventually died of lung cancer.) Now cigarettes are known to cause lung and heart disease, stroke, innumerable types of cancer and other things they have not yet discovered, I’m sure. This goes from one end of the spectrum clear to the other.

Vegetarian diets, once touted as the healthiest of all eating habits, can make you seriously ill. Unless done correctly, that is. When I was growing up, eating vegetarian (as the name implies) meant you only ate vegetables. No meats. No animal by-products such as eggs, milk, cheese and the like. No one knew that you had to replace the protein in these products by eating nuts and protein-containing foods. Well, we know now.

I read recently (yesterday, in fact) that you should not take vitamin supplements. Definitely not. They do you more harm than good, say the good physicians who have taken their precious time to research this matter. Lab rats must be going crazy over this one. Billions of dollars are spent each year at GNC and other fine retail stores on supplements each year and now, yes now, they are telling us, “Stop! These will kill you!” I have to admit I am a supplement junkie. Well, not really a junkie. But I do take garlic, calcium and a daily multi, among other things. I have done so for many years and will continue until they take those bad boys off the shelf. I am very careful not to exceed my daily recommended doses of anything. Of course, they may be changing all those RDA’s to zero if those who must be obeyed get their way.

The latest in germ warfare? Antibacterial soaps have chemicals that can make you seriously ill. I never bought into the theory that you needed more than regular soap and water to make remove germs so I’m in no danger (in case you were worried). But again, this is another big industry about to hit the skids if the secret gets out…and it has gotten out. So much so that we have taken to calling hand sanitizer “hand poison” at my house.

Some of the other “discoveries” (AKA, ways our tax dollars are being spent) that have made headlines and heads scratched are so totally out there. For instance…

Sodas cause obesity? They sure do. And not just sugary drinks. Diet drinks as well.  If you asked me, I’d say that heredity and parents who don’t teach their children healthy eating/drinking habits have more to do with obesity than anything else but I’m no expert. Oh, and by the way, the fake sugar they are putting in those diet sodas has been known to cause cancer in lab rats.

Do NOT cook your steaks (or anything else) on a charcoal grill. Charcoal causes carcinogens to attach to your food. I think this goes for gas grills too but don’t quote me on that. Personally, I’ve burned anything that had the misfortune to make it on to my grill to the point that it was inedible, so my family is safe.

Microwave popcorn can be toxic. Apparently the chemical that makes it smell so good, diacetyl produces a lethal gas. Right now, it’s only harmful to those who make the stuff (called popcorn lung) but if it’s dangerous to them from just smelling it, what’s the chance it’s a hazard to eat it? That will be the next thing on the list.

Sunflower oil, peanut oil, olive oil, canola, corn or vegetable? I can’t keep up with which ones are supposed to be good for you. Or, as they put it, less harmful. I’ve made the decision to go with what I have a coupon for or is on sale. With the exception of olive oil. But even with that, do I go with regular, virgin or extra virgin? I don't know WHAT to buy anymore. It used to be easier.

And then there is alcohol. How much is too much? A glass of wine a day is good for you. No, wait, no it isn’t. Beer has ingredients that can protect against kidney stones. Or does it? We are now being told that alcohol can cause mental illness, sleep deprivation, aggression, dependence, dehydration, certain types of cancer and the list goes on and on.

Stress? Well, that is a real killer. It can cause headaches, chest pain, fatigue, sleep problems, anxiety, depression, drug or alcohol abuse, social withdrawal, lack of motivation, overeating, stomach upset…shall I continue? I don’t think so. Who knew, way back when, that just the simple act of going to work or balancing your check book could affect your life in detrimental ways? I think we were better off not knowing. Of course, to combat stress, you can do yoga or tai chi, practice meditation or relaxation techniques…until they tell us that those things may cause a myriad of other problems.

Basically, I think that scientists and those in the medical profession are telling us that the human race is doomed. We need to go back to Little House on the Prairie days, when you ate what you had and there was no one telling you things that only made you worry about what was going in or on your body. We would all be a little more relaxed and a lot happier. That’s where I’ll be if anyone is wondering. I’m breaking out of my plastic bubble (the one that probably causes uterine cancer) and heading there now.

A Sticky Mess

It is our habit when we go Sam’s Club or Walmart to get Elijah a gumball out of the machine when we're done if he’s a good boy while we are shopping. He always hopes for a Mover Blue one but takes what comes out anyway. We’ve never had an issue with him chewing gum…other than reminding him not to chew with his mouth open. He always gnaws it to death and then throws it away. No problem…until last weekend.

I happened to walk across our dining room after a trip to the store and got a sticky feeling on my toe. To my surprise, it was a piece of his gum from that day. I peeled it off, threw it away and went to find the boy. After a scolding, he promised never again. He said it fell out of his mouth and he “forgot” to pick it up. Ok, no biggie. The only piece that was on the carpet was the one that attached itself to my foot. No damage done.

It wasn’t until later on that night at bath time that my daughter found the rest of his wad. In his hair. Thick-as-a-girl’s hair which needed cut badly. We tried combing it out after shampooing. Then peanut butter. Then butter. All we needed was bread for an Elijah PB sandwich. A friend suggested vegetable oil. Nothing doing. It was stuck to his scalp. Out came my clippers.

Now cutting Elijah’s hair is like trying to…well, let’s just say the boy can’t sit still for anything. He wiggles. He looks up. He looks down. He jumps. He shrugs. I’ve been cutting his hair for almost a year now because I can’t see paying $15 plus tip to get an uneven cut due to the aforementioned movement. I can give him an uneven cut for free. Actually, I do a pretty good job with my professional clipper/razor unit. I’ve even learned to move in time with his gyrations.

Anyway, back to the gum debacle. He had it ground in to the roots. I tried cutting it out. It just left gaping holes. So I trimmed, we considered, I trimmed some more. He wiggled and jiggled. But to get it all out, I finally had to put on my smallest attachment and more or less shave him almost bald. But the gum is out. And now he looks something like this. Actually he looks just like this…

 

He keeps rubbing his head and saying mournfully “I’m ba-old”. Poor honey.

When the boy does something, he does it all the way. Even if it's something like smashing gum into his scalp. At least his hair will grow back and as fast as his grows, I’ll be getting the clippers out again in no time. As for his gum chewing career? We’ll be sticking to apples as a bribe for a while.

As He Grows

Sometimes being a grandparent is so much cooler than being a parent, especially in the early stages of a child’s life. I remember being proud of my kid’s milestones but in the stress-filled haze of working full time and taking care of them, the exhaustion of being a mom was overwhelming. With Elijah, I can sit back and watch the fun for the most part. I’m fortunate in that he lives with me and I get to see most of his evolving first-hand. It amazes me how he has, from almost the beginning, focused on one passion for an unbelievably long time before moving on to the next. And, as he is four, he has had four major interests in his life.

In his first year, he was all about sports. He would sit on our laps from the tender age of a few months and watch the Pittsburgh Penguins play hockey. You did NOT get in between Elijah and the television. To do so would bring on a tantrum of epic proportions. He watched the entire Penguins 2009 Stanley Cup win even though he was only four months old. He learned to wave a Terrible Towel during the 2009 Steeler season and wore his Troy Polamalu jersey with pride…as much pride as a child that age can have anyway. Even today, although he doesn’t watch sports anymore, his Sidney Crosby Penguin jersey is one of his favorites.

Animals replaced sports in his second year. Cows say moo and ducks say quack. But sheep? They say baa! There was a sheep farm near his daycare center and Elijah knew it. He would start “baa’ing” on school days as soon as we put him in his car seat until we got near the farm. We would automatically slow down so he could look at the sheep while we drove past. One spring day, I drove out in the country and found another sheep farm. Elijah was thrilled when I stopped, took him out of the car and carried him to the fenced-in field. He baa’d loudly and soon enough, all the spring lambs came running to the fence hoping for food. He was ecstatic.

We also took him to the county fair for the first time that year. A young boy’s heaven…at least it was for Elijah. Barns and sheds full of cows, sheep, horses and pigs. Llamas, chickens and bunnies. Ducks and geese. He had no interest in the rides or food. Only the animals caught his eye. He wanted to pet everything so we had to have eagle eyes to protect his little fingers that seemed to be poking in to every cage or stall, regardless of what was inside waiting to nip them.

 

Age three brought on the construction equipment and trucks. Ditch diggers and bulldozers and rollers, oh my! Semis and tankers and dump trucks, holy cow! Our entire drive from Pennsylvania to Louisiana consisted of Imagination Movers music and ear-piercing screams of “Dump Truck!” Elijah knew what a truck stop was and we had to visit quite a few of them. I was willing as it made the long trip easier for him and more pleasant for my daughter and I.

 

Four is the era of the public servant. Every sheriff’s deputy that has been to our complex knows Elijah. We meet them at our numerous ER trips. Walmart always has one and each one there has been interrogated. We have one living in our apartment complex who is his best friend.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, we are currently visiting every fire station in our city and since it is a very large metropolis, we will be at it for the unforeseeable future. Every one we bless with our presence is amazed at the questions Elijah asks and the amount of time he spends looking at everything. From my point of view, you’ve seen one fire truck,  you’ve pretty much seen them all but not him. They are all new and exciting. And the station we visited last weekend had … OMG … fire poles! He was afraid to slide down one, even with the fire chief helping him, but he watched while the big man did it and was amazed and astounded. Well, maybe not that but he was pretty psyched.

Since it is the latest of his passions, Elijah is currently wearing a fire hat everywhere we go and has been for almost a year. He was a fireman for Halloween and wore the coat to his costume every day for the next week, taking it off only long enough for it to be washed. Since then, he wears it every time he goes outside or watches Fireman Sam (Sam is the hero next dooooooor….) He has fireman boots that he’s worn so often, there were holes in the bottom of them in less than six months. He has magnets, badges, stickers and coloring books given to him by the various firemen we have visited. He has a metal sign on his bedroom wall that says “Real Heroes Wear Boots” with a fire logo. Yes, he is enthused. Can you tell?

 

 

Since year number five is coming up quickly, I can’t wait to see what happens next. Knowing Elijah? Oh, it’s bound to be something epic and he will dive into it with boundless energy, determination and his own special brand of weirdness. And that is the greatest thing to watch.

If It Weren't For The Boy

I started my blog two years ago and as you know, most of them are about the little man in my life. Almost nauseatingly so. I was thinking earlier, as I started yet another “he’s so talented/smart/funny” story, whatever would I write about if it weren’t for him?

My job? Writing, tweeting or posting about where I work is forbidden. Since I don’t want to get fired, I pretty much don’t do it. Oh, but the stories I could tell…

My free time? To be honest, I don’t have much of that to speak of. What little I have is spent writing and spending time with him (and his mother, of course). It would sound kind of like “I went to work today. Then I came home and ate dinner. After playing with someone I’m not writing about just now, I turned on my computer and began writing…” See? Kind of like a fourth grade essay and hopefully not my style.

My family? That would be my girlies and, yes, my little guy. We love spending time together, although time with my younger girl is via Skype. I’ve written about my daughters (as much as I can without running the risk of making them hate me) but they really don’t do anything cute or funny anymore. I’ve already written about their childhood. Their adulthood is pretty much normal (read boring). Who wants to write about normal?

My life? Currently my life is all about fire stations as we are currently touring every one in the city. And NOLA after that. “Our” latest obsession. And if I wrote about that? Well, it would be just another story about the boy and that totally defeats the purpose. I added the photo because it relates to this paragraph, not because it's the guy I'm currently not writing about. Honestly...

 

 

 

 

My dreams? Oh, I have so many. Some are attainable. Some not so much. But I never want to give up on any of them. I will finish that novel. I will be published. I will win the Mega Millions…ok, maybe not that one. If I played the Mega Millions (which I don’t), I would have a chance of winning. Not a good one but a chance nonetheless. But if I write about my dreams, I’d be afraid that someone would read it and ask me in a few years “Weren’t you going to…?” Then I’d be stuck. 

All in all, I believe that I’m better off writing the “he’s so talented/smart/funny” story. My guy makes a good subject, is never boring and is always coming up with new ideas that make me laugh or cry or think. Besides, he's just so stinkin' cute, how can I resist?

 

 

 

 

Stay tuned. The boy will return for the next blog.

In Memory

I found this today while looking for some  photos of my mom and dad. It is a memorial I wrote for my girls about their brother two years after he was killed. It was published in the local newspaper on March 17, 2000. I didn't realize that I still had it and was very moved to read it again. I hope all of you are touched as well.

What's it like in Heaven, Connor?
Do the stars shine brighter there?
Do you sing with the pretty angels?
Do you miss us all down here?
Have you grown as much as we have?
Do you go to school each day?
Can you see us when we cry for you?
Do you hear us when we pray?
We wish we knew all the answers.
And God says some day we will.
But it's so hard to wait for that day.
When we miss you so much still.

Connor Lee
11/30/93 - 3/17/98

Dear Dyson

I just wrote the following letter to the powers that be at Dyson. I wonder what kind of response, if any, I'll get...

Dear Dyson,

Nearly two years ago I purchased a DC33 vacuum from a local Target store, the second I have purchased in five years. I have since wondered why I did so as I have had the same issue with the second as I did the first. No, it didn't break; I left it with my ex-husband during a generous moment. Actually, that's not true. It wouldn't fit in the truck and I thought taking the crib was more important. Ahem...moving on...

 

What drives me nuts about this vacuum is the hose for the attachments. It is stiff and uncooperative even after all this time. As I said, I had the same problem with the first one for three years. It caused many gray hairs to sprout and may very well have ended my marriage. Well, not really but... Using my current one is as difficult now as it was when it was new. Two years ago. I stretch it out completely and begin to aim toward what needs cleaned (ceilings, corners, etc.) and it retreats back to it's original length within a minute causing the vacuum itself to tip over. Every. Single. Time. On top of that, it is causing me to say things that my four-year-old may or may not be repeating to the preacher on Sundays. Definitely not a good thing since I'm otherwise very mild-mannered and I usually don't spout vulgarities unless I am under extreme duress.

 

Your commercials show how user friendly the onboard attachments are and this is just not true as I have spoken to other customers who have the same issue and will never buy another Dyson product. I don't want to go that far because, for one reason, with the exception of the $%@# hose, I like the way it works. For another, I'm flat broke and can't afford to buy a toy broom, let alone a new vacuum cleaner.

 

What I want to know is how can this be resolved? All I ever hear in your ads is about innovative design, how suction is never lost, blah blah blah. And that is true (unless you happen to suck up a toy soldier or too much long, red hair). You never mention lost patience with a machine that frustrates me to no end each time I use it. I am just tired of the struggle. I can't take it much longer and I worry that my poor, aggravating vacuum will suffer the consequences.

 

I hope you respond to my question and end my torment. I get extremely stressed when I even think about sucking the occasional spider web from the corners of my family room and it's almost that time of year when I need to clean out the dryer vent. I hope you have a way to end my anguish.

 

Sincerely,

Suzanna Kellye

See Ya Later

I remember many years ago saying goodbye to my mother at the Pittsburgh airport before I boarded a plane to Dallas with my husband and two-year-old daughter. We were leaving after a week-long visit. Tears flowed down my mother’s face and I felt bad but I was ready to leave the cold and the snow that had fallen during our time there and get back to my warm Southern home. I never thought about her pain, even though we were very close, until recently when I left my own daughter at the airport in Baton Rouge.

I hadn’t seen my younger daughter in nearly two years when she came to visit at the end of September this year. I started crying as soon as I caught a glimpse of her coming down the escalator at the airport. She was sobbing when she got to me. We aren’t an exceptionally weepy group; we just have a very special relationship, my daughters and I. A closeness that I cherish. Something that time and distance can never diminish. And I count myself as very blessed to have that with both of them.

My girlie’s visit wasn’t very stimulating. When asked what she wanted to see and do while she was here, she said she only wanted to spend time with me. With her sister and nephew as well. And visit the Super Target, something that apparently doesn’t exist in Southwestern Pennsylvania. We got a family portrait done while we were there, the first since 2008 and the only one done of just the four us. That was an adventure in itself as Elijah was “in a mood” and not inclined to cooperate. They turned out very nice in spite of that. We spent a lot of time in the pool, alternately trying to work off the meals I was cooking...all of her favorites...and get the Yankee a little color on her otherwise pale skin. Poor thing inherited her grandmother’s Irish complexion and was just as colorless upon her return home.

The only excitement we had while she was here was the hot air balloon festival we took in one morning before hitting the outlets. Unless you count the accident that Elijah had while playing at Burger King’s play area. He was having too much fun to come out and use the restroom so he used his pants and then slid down the sliding board. His mother wasn’t thrilled as she headed in with a bottle of Lysol and a handful of paper towels to clean it up. We won’t be going back there to eat for a very long while because, even though we cleaned up his mess, the management wasn’t pleased.  Perhaps they’ll forget about it in time. I rather doubt my daughter will.

Anyway, back to my mother… Mom and I spent a lot of time together after I moved back to the Pittsburgh area. Shopping trips, bird watching on the porch swing, lunches at the Italian Oven. My girlies loved being on the farm so we spent a lot of our days there. As I made dinner every evening after work, I would talk to her on the phone until my dad would say “Why don’t you tell her to just come over?” Since it was only about three miles, I did that a lot.

The distance between my daughter and I is easier to bear now due to technology. Skype, free mobile minutes, Facetime. I’m sure it was harder for my mom. I can’t imagine going weeks without talking to my girl as she had to do.

I thought of all of this as I left my baby girl at the airport. Without her sister and our boy with me, I would have had a rougher time but it was hard. The delay she had at the airport and subsequent overnight stay in Houston after missing her connection to Pittsburgh didn’t help. I wanted to drive to Texas to get her because, even though she’s an adult, my little girl was spending the night all alone in a strange city. After she finally made it home, I cried for two days. Her visit was too short, the distance too great. I now know what my mother was feeling all those years ago. The agony of saying goodbye (or “see ya later” as we do in our family) is almost a physical pain. I’m forcing myself to grin and bear it until April when she comes back again. With plenty of Skype in the meantime…

Commercials Are The Bane...

Lately I’ve been watching a good bit of television for some reason. I usually avoid it like the plague, mainly because I hate…really loathe…commercials. Except recently. Call it boredom, poverty or the fact that I pay a lot of money every month for the privilege, but I’ve been watching TV. Getting rid of the cable service would certainly help my poverty situation but that’s part of a different blog. So I indulge but only if I can find a decent program which requires a lot of surfing. Not easily done and I end up seeing a lot more of those dreaded commercials than I care to. And I’ve found a few that annoy me beyond reasonable limits, mainly because the lengths that some product manufacturer’s will go to prove society’s stupidity amazes me.

Case in point…Walmart. They have a bunch of fruit sitting prettily on display while an announcer whispers as if he’s at a pseudo golf match that the people we are about to see don’t realize that this fruit is from…you guessed it…Walmart. Enter stage left, gullible customers agog at how beautiful the produce is at this wonderful place. The announcer then drops the bomb. This fruit is from Walmart! Cue the amazement. They just cannot believe it. I mean They. Can. Not. Believe. It. I can’t either. I have been to Walmart in many states and I have never seen decent fruit at any of them. And Walmart doesn’t have enough money in the kitty to pay me to act that stupid in front of a national audience. Well, maybe they do. I can be amazed and astounded about food for the right price, I guess.

A commercial for any attorney also makes my list. I see a lot of those during the morning news and what I want to know where they find their “actual clients”. You know them. It’s always some backwoods hick who says (and I’m paraphrasing here) “I was on I-10 during rush hour traffic and I got out my car ‘cause I saw this hubcap laying on the median across three lanes. I was just pickin’ up that hubcap when, bam, this crazy driver just up and run me down. I ain’t been able to work my job for six years and that Lawyer Crookedness got me a whole million dollars.” Chew tobacca, chew tobacca, chew tobacca, spit. I stole that last line from a Blake Shelton song, but it seem to fit. They don’t tell you that 75% of which went in said attorney's pocket for expenses, contingency fees and just plain greed.  Hell, give me a million dollars (without the expenses, etc. ) and I’ll act as backwoods as you want in your commercial, man.

Ocean Spray Juice. The one where you have the two overall clad, hat wearing dudes standing in a pond of cranberry juice? Yeah, that one. First of all, just the thought of drinking juice that two men may or may not have been standing in (I’m being facetious here) just turns me off of their product. Second, those guys are just too redneck for words…see Blake Shelton song reference above. Not to mention they don’t say anything about the fact that their “juice” is more artificial coloring and water than actual fruit product.

Have you seen the newest Eggo Waffle ad? Can’t touch this? Oh, yes, I so want to tell that child to sit down at the table and eat what is prepared for him if he knows what’s good for him. Mother dearest in this one needs a lesson in parenting. Where I come from, the mom’s are who are in charge, not the child. And he is just this side of being rude, which would equal some special discipline short of a smack down. The only good part of this commercial is the little girl at the end shaking him off when he tries to steal her waffles. You go, girlie!

Last but not least is everyone’s favorite. Viagra. Oh, yes, I did bring it up. There’s not much I can say about it because it is just too blatant and nauseating for words. Besides, and you know you’ve asked the question, who sits on the beach in a couple of bathtubs? There is nothing about sex that would make me want to do that. Seriously.

Now that I’ve actually put it all down on paper (or screen, as it were), I wonder why anyone at all watches television anymore. Or maybe it’s just me. But I really don’t think so. I’d rather be at the dentist getting a root canal or walking through a hurricane.

My Five Signs of Aging

Women everywhere (and men for that matter) are spending millions of dollars every year on “anti-aging” products. I have to admit that lately I’ve been interested in their claims that I would look ten years younger within a week (or two or four) if I’d only spend half of my paycheck on one them. But not only can I not afford it, I don’t believe a word they say. I used to proclaim that I would earn every wrinkle I would get, that I was going to age gracefully. Probably because I was about 25 at the time. But as I age mature celebrate each birthday, I am starting to rethink my position. The only thing I feel good about is that I don’t have any of the “normal” signs of aging. I have…others. And I honestly don’t believe there is a product in the world that can help me with any of them.

The most common sign most women have that they are maturing is wrinkles on their face. I’m fortunate enough not to have many. I’m blessed with my mother’s genes that way. No, my wrinkles have shown up in the most unlikely of places…my chest. I know, right? I was looking in the mirror not too long ago and as the light hit me just right, I saw it. Who gets wrinkles on their chest for crying out loud? When I brought it up to a friend, she suggested it was from side sleeping and keeping my arms crossed as I do so. To that end, I am now a back sleeper. Not a very comfortable one but it’s all in the name of a more youthful look.

As I was noticing my wrinkly, aging chest, I also noticed something else. A few little hairs growing out of my neck. What??? I don’t mind waxing the eyebrows. Have been doing so since I was in my early 20’s. But on my neck? I vaguely remember my mother pulling these things out of her chin from time to time but never thought that I would someday be doing the same. I got out my tweezers the first time and yanked those puppies out. And a week later, the little snots were back again. How is it when you pull something out by the roots, they can grow back? I know it’s only three or four but I’m vain. I guess I’ll keep plucking away as soon as they show their ugly little heads since I can’t afford laser removal.

I’m not heavy. I could stand to lose a few pounds, mostly in my butt, but that’s about it. In spite of my tininess (as my daughter calls it), it seems my belly button has turned into a donut hole, more or less. It’s like my spine is sucking it inside…or something. Is this normal or am I an anomaly? I’m waiting for a slobbering little alien to come pushing it’s ugly head out. I guess I should be doing more crunches but I honestly never thought I had much of a problem in that area. Crunches are a pain in the behind but I’m doubling up on them. And decreasing my intake of ice cream and most all things tasty.

You hear about cellulite when people talk about getting older and many ways to get rid of it. My butt, rather than having cellulite, has decided that it doesn’t like where it has resided for most of my life and has moved South. Not as far South as I moved several years ago but lower all the same. I thought chasing a four-year-old was supposed to take care of gravity issues such as this but obviously he isn’t moving fast enough. Or mayhap I’m not? My only solution…Move, boy, move!!!

My feet are another problem. They’re not widening. Or narrowing for that matter. They have just decided in the last few years to go their own way. Not literally, of course, but my favorite types of shoes just don’t seem to fit anymore. I’ve never really liked wearing shoes anyway but this little issue makes it even more of a problem. I can try on a pair in a store and if they aren’t completely comfortable, I know immediately that if I buy them because I like the way they look, they’ll spend a long, lonely life in my closet, never to be worn. Until I put them in the Goodwill bag and send them off. Lately, I’ve been trying on a lot of those but because I’m the thrifty sort, I put them back on the shelf and walk away. But cute little shoes (ok, Size 9 shoes) seem to be a thing of the past. I’m not going so far as to wear orthopedic styles but Sketchers make some that make life a little bearable. I am fortunate to live in a climate where actual closed toe, foot-suffocating, toe-cramping footwear are only necessary for about two months out of the year. I wear sandals and my feet thank me.

These are my issues. I’m sure I’m not alone in any of these but to me, they are monumental. Fine, they’re not. But they are really annoying. I guess it could be worse, so I’ll have to be grateful that this is the extent of my aging process…thus far.

The Slamming Door

Elijah has been impatient and has had a temper since birth. When he had a wet diaper, he wanted it changed NOW. Can’t blame him for that. When he was hungry, he wanted fed IMMEDIATELY. That’s understandable too. Momma was a milking machine. He wanted out of his car seat as soon as the motor was off. He wanted out of his crib the second he was awake…whether we had our coffee or not.  When these things didn't happen as soon as he realized he wanted them, he let us know. He had the reddest face of any blond boy ever.

 

We have noted that, as Elijah grows older, his way of dealing with his temper has changed. He still cries when he doesn’t get his way. Talking to him to explain the reasons why the answer is no is harder now that he is four. Because he is very independent. And, heaven help us, because he has his own opinion now. He has lots of opinions on just about every subject that comes up. He's such a guy.

I'll sit in time out but I'll do it the way I want to.

 

When he was two, saying no brought on a temper tantrum to bring down the house. He would lay on the floor, as most twos are prone to do, kicking his feet and getting red in the face. We would ignore him for the most part, just making sure he didn’t hurt himself or break anything. Eventually it would go away and he would be his own sweet self again.

When he reached three, he had words to go along with his tantrum. He would scream “I want it” over and over until we were ready to “give it to him”. Of course we didn’t but the thought was in the front of our minds. The tantrums were epic in proportion but didn’t last quite as long as the earlier ones. When he realized he wasn’t getting what he wanted, he found something else to do. He’s growing out of them, we thought innocently. We were wrong. Oh boy, were we wrong.

Now that we are in the fours, the aforementioned opinions have kicked in. Not being able to drink from the milk jug is “stupid”. The fact that we don’t allow him to practice his artwork on the walls makes us “meaners.” Watching the evening news (or anything else that doesn’t air on Disney) just shouldn’t be permitted. This is when we hear…dum dum dum…the slamming door. He stomps to his bedroom, muttering whatever nasty thing he can think of (and I don’t want to know) and we wait for it. Five. Four. Yes, we count it down. Three. Two…SLAM!!! The door opens, he yells out that we are the evilest, vilest creatures on the face of the earth (my words there, not his) and … yes, SLAM!!! The next thing you hear is YaYa’s feet stomping down the hall. You can guess the rest and door slamming is over. For the moment.

AUTHORS NOTE: Elijah is not injured or abused in any form during the door slamming incidents. His ears, however, occasionally ring at the volume of my voice.

Elijah has also discovered the threat of law enforcement. When we tell him he’s not allowed to go to his friends house to play because he hasn’t picked up his toys, he tells us he is going to call the police and have them take us to jail (insert the Southern form of jail which has six syllables). Sheriff Jimmy is his friend and he apparently has handcuffs to take away bad parents and grandparents. Sometimes we are tempted to let the good sheriff cuff us and go just to have a night of peace and quiet.

That, peeps, is life with the current version of Elijah. It’s strange that I am blissfully forgetful of these trying times when I was raising my own children. I’m sure that now it’s just amplified because I am a little older now…OK, FINE, I’m a lot older now. My only hope is that my sanity will survive the raising of this child or that Deanna will find a home many miles from mine before he reaches his teen aged years.

 

Without

I get so tired of reading and hearing about people saying “Where was ‘your God’?” when something goes wrong or something bad happens. Or they ask why God lets bad things happen to good people (or to anyone, for that matter). I hear coworkers and neighbors complain that so & so has this or that, why don't I? And I have my own answers to these questions when people ask them. Hopefully without sounding preachy or overbearing, it goes something like this...

When “bad” things happen to good people? My answer is without the bad, would you truly appreciate the good things? Or would you take them for granted? Would you get a feeling of entitlement? Without the tough periods in life to endure, how are you able to feel thankful for everything good in your life?

In the same manner, if you didn’t have to work for everything you have, would it mean as much to you? Would you feel the same way about what you have if you had it handed to you? I know everyone jokes about saying they wish they could have it that way, but is that really the truth? Without the struggle, how important is it?

Without the sorrow, how great is the joy? Without pain, how diminished is your pleasure?

I’ve had plenty of so-called bad things happen to me in my lifetime. But I’m able to look at my daughters and see and appreciate the gift that they are. I see a beautiful little boy and know that my life wouldn’t be as blessed if he weren’t in it. I remember another little boy who gave me more love in his short life than I ever deserved. I see beauty in life because it takes away the ugliness that is always right around the corner. And I appreciate and am thankful for what I have. Because of the pain, the struggle and the tears.

Humdrum...A Dog Well Traveled

Last year while we were at Toys R Us, Elijah latched on to a stuffed dog and wouldn’t give it up. Getting him out of the store without it was a battle of utmost proportions. Weeks later, he was still depressed that the poor little puppy wanted to come to our house to live with us and we left him behind. He was lonely and missed us, we were told. As it was close to his 3^rd birthday, I finally went back and bought it for him. When he took the gift wrap off of the little pooch on the big day, his expression was priceless. Forgotten were the drum set and train he also received. And life with Humdrum began.

He was named him Humdrum after that famed little cutie on his favorite show, The Imagination Movers. In the episode A Puppy Problem, there is a sweet little dog named Humdrum who gets lost in the warehouse. Elijah’s favorite part of the show is when Mover Rich takes out his megaphone and calls to Humdrum to the detriment of his fellow Movers’ eardrums. Of course it’s his favorite…it’s loud! Anyway, to this end, we took Humdrum to the Mover’s concert this spring so that all four of the guys could “call” him as he hid behind Elijah’s back. And did they? Of course they did!

Humdrum has had many adventures in his short life. He has gone to Church…because what self respecting stuffed animal hasn’t been there? He goes to Walmart…because we're told he loves to ride in the buggy. Target is one of his favorite places as he enjoys going down all of the toy “paths” to see what’s new and exciting. Humdrum is also a regular visitor to the sandbox. Which makes him a regular occupant of the washer and dryer as well.

Humdrum is also a source of comfort. He takes away a lot of bad dreams in the dark of night. He has been to the emergency room more times that I want to count. A trip to the dentist? Piece of cake with this little doggie in hand. Mad at the world (or momma or yaya), Humdrum makes the blues go away. Don’t want to go to bed? Humdrum is ever so tired and needs his rest (yes, that actually works).

Elijah talks about some day getting a real dog but for now, Humdrum is his best friend. In a furry sense of the word. He is joined by Big Bad Barry (also from the Movers), Hundley (of Curious George fame), Puppy Dog (his first Build-A-Bear), Frank (given to him by his Great Pap as a baby) and Big Horse (who is a…well, a big horse). But when push comes to shove, and it usually does, Humdrum gets the call. And he never lets our little guy down.

 

 

It's About Time

I was filling out my timesheet at the end of last week and thought for moment what a unique and versatile word “time” is. It can be used in so many ways and is the basis of so many expressions. For giggles (I have no life), I Googled it just to see what I could come up with and I was amazed at what was there for this one small word (because, again, I have no life). “A blog post?” I thought to myself. “Only if you want people to think you’re nuts.” Myself answered. Time will tell…

Seeing as I thought of this at work, some really simple things came into my head. Things like working part time or full time, what time is quitting time or can I take a month of vacation time (the answer to that question was a resounding “no.”)

Song titles with the word time in it? You would be surprised at how many you can find. I told you this word was amazing. You have Big Time. You can Love Me Two Times. Have Time In A Bottle (because who doesn't love Jim Croce...me). And Time After Time, Time Is On My Side (yes, it is). If you’re hungry, you can do the Breakfast Time Hollar (come and get it, come and get it). And that’s enough of that because It’s Howdy Doody Time.

I tried songs with the word time in the lyrics but that was just too much. The list is endless and I don’t have the patience for that. So I looked up television shows with time in the title. Just to name a few because most of them I don’t recognize, mainly due to the fact that I don’t really care for TV. I do remember Good Times which was pretty much dyn-o-mite. Timecop? Never heard of it. There was the fictional Tool Time…a television show within a television show. Much too confusing. And finally, Timmy Time, which is a kids show that is mostly annoying since it’s about a young sheep boy who goes to school and the dialog is all in animal language. Elijah loves it so it’s still on once in a while in our house.

There weren’t too many movie titles. All I found that I recognized were things like The Time Traveler’s Wife (read the book and hated it), A Time To Die and The Time Machine. And then I found Land Before Time…all eight, yes eight of them. I suffered through them all whilst I was raising my babies and am suffering again since Elijah just loves anything dinosaur.

One thing I didn’t have to look up was expressions that involved time.  Those are easy. I had a list in no time. Things like time is relative. Of course, if you have relatives like some of mine, time is endless. That’s when the time is ripe to hit the road, after saying a good time was had by all…whether it was or not. But then again, time heals all wounds, hopefully mine when some of those relatives read this post.  Quite honestly though I don’t see them wasting time getting angry over a few words because, after all, time is precious.

Well, speaking of time, what time is it? Must be almost bedtime. And I want to take time to post this before I fall asleep. And it’s only a matter of time before that happens, I hope. Here’s hoping you take the time to read this. I was able to write in up in no time.

 

"They're coming to take me away, ha ha hee hee ho ho..."

Hot and Bothered

It was a dark and stormy night…seriously it was. And it was also hot and humid (humid being that it was raining). We learned two things on that Thursday evening a few weeks back. One of those things was that having your air conditioner crap out during Louisiana’s 90° days (or 75° nights) is considered a maintenance emergency. The other thing we learned was that, even though maintenance would come to your apartment at 10 p.m. on a weeknight, they weren’t really prepared to do much. Our guy just kind of shrugged his shoulders and said the equivalent of “I dunno.” But he brought us a window unit to see us through the night. And we, in our innocence, thought it would be just one night. How wrong we were.

Now I’m not a spoiled brat or anything…ok, yes, I am. But when the weather is hot, which it is quite often here and I rarely complain about it because I like it, I do like to sleep in a nice, cool room. But I digress, as I so often do.

Day one consisted of a lot of “hmm’s” and “uhhh’s”. Not much got accomplished. Day two, which was Saturday, was pretty much the same. Sunday…oh, no, we don’t work on Sunday’s. By Monday, I was ready to blow a gasket. They decided that it was wired wrong and proceeded to “rewire” the inside unit. The outside unit, which was built before I was born (and that’s a long time ago), was fine. Or so they said. After two more days of this, they got it working. Then discovered that it was blowing warm air and wouldn’t shut off. Wednesday was when they decided they needed to order parts. My reaction? Not pleasant, I assure you. “We don’t know how long it will take to get the parts in seeing as tomorrow is a holiday.” But to pacify me, they brought another window unit. Which went in my daughter’s room because , amazingly enough, my bedroom window is sealed shut. Because it’s in the back of the building on the ground floor.

So my ceiling fan stayed on high, making me feel as though I were sleeping in a wind tunnel. An 80°+ wind tunnel. I tried sleeping on the couch because the other window unit was in my dining room which connects to my living room. While my couch is quite comfortable to sit on, a bed it is not. Too short, too narrow and it has this high back on it that gets in my way when I try to roll over. So I’m used to sleeping in divine comfort on a queen sized bed. I admit it. I can’t help it. And as I’ve already noted, I’m spoiled.

We’re moving on to week two.  Elijah has been sleeping with his mother, since her room is cool and comfy. I’m spending as much time as I possibly can in the living room. But I have to sleep some time. So back into the wind tunnel I go. When I walk out of the room, I have feel as if I’ve been listening to extremely loud music for a very long time. My eardrums are pulsating and my head is humming.

Parts ordered are received. We’re back to having two men’s asses sticking out of the cabinet that houses our inside unit and water heater. A lot of cussing and head scratching (I’m grateful that I work during the day and got to miss most of this part). The maintenance men insisted that we keep the fan running at all times to keep air circulating in the apartment. They didn’t seem to realize, or perhaps didn’t care, that it was blowing warm air. We didn’t take their advice and shut it off each evening after they had left for the day. 

After another agonizing four days, the unit was replaced and it was turned on for the first time. It blew a deliciously icy blast and I sighed in relief. The only downside was that new unit is extremely noisy but hey, I can live with that as long as it cools my home. The window units were removed and we all were back in our own bedrooms. My ceiling fan, which had become my best friend in the two weeks of the repair, was off. My ears slowly returned to normal. And I stopped dreaming that I was wrapped in a cocoon of sheep’s wool in the middle of the Amazon rain forest.

Daddy

I can’t give my dad a gift for Father’s Day this year. He’s been gone for over three years now and it hasn’t gotten much easier. In fact, it’s taken me two years to finish this blog. I know that people say he’s better off since he’s no longer in pain and that is true but it doesn’t make me miss him any less. So in lieu of giving him a gift, I thought I’d give one to myself by telling everyone else about him and what made him so special to me.

Daddy was the eleventh child, next to youngest, of immigrants. His father was from Austria, his mother from Czeckloslavakia. No, I’m not going to give you a history lesson of his life. But to understand Dad, you had to know where he came from. Pap was a gruff man not given to affection. Grandma was quiet, spoke no English and, from what I understand, bitter about her arranged marriage. They moved quite a bit when Daddy was young, going where the work was. It had to be hard, especially since “foreigners” were not well accepted back in the day. As a result, Daddy was a shy man who didn’t make friends easily, although the ones he had spoke very highly of him.

Although Dad’s dream was to become a school teacher, he worked in the steel mill as a machinist to support us. He retired after forty-five years of service there. In addition to his job, he had the farm he bought from our Pap where he raised beef cattle, pigs, the occasional chicken and, of course, we six children. If anyone needed a sense of humor to go along with that, it would have been him.

And had it, he did. A very dry, often strange humor it was. I remember a commercial would come on the television for life insurance. An older couple was sitting at their kitchen table discussing their final rewards and the arrangements that would have to be made upon their passing. The punch line, if you will, of the ad was that the couple didn’t want to be a burden to their kids. They wanted all of the funeral arrangements to be made prior to their death. Every time this commercial was on, Daddy would turn to Mom and say “I think I want to be a burden to our kids. How about you, Mary?”  

Daddy wasn’t very affectionate when we were young. I guess he was too busy or, given his upbringing, just plain didn’t know how to show it. He showed his love to us in different ways other than the physical. We all had cute nicknames, ones that only he called us. Some were appreciated, others not so much (I was Sylvia, go figure). Although to this day, we call our youngest sister “Bee”, which was Dad’s name for her from birth.

No, he wasn’t affectionate but he showed his love in many ways that we learned to appreciate when we were older. If you needed a hand fixing a car or moving to a new home, Dad was there. If you were short a few dollars before payday, he would lend it. In the summer, all of our refrigerators were full of fresh vegetables from his garden. We all ate the best beef from his farm. You never went to his house without eating. He loved to feed people so we all knew to be hungry when we visited. It was his way of showing love.

What impressed me the most about my dad, made me love him even more, was the way that he took care of my mother after she had a stroke. Mom was bedridden almost from the beginning; many would have had her cared for in a nursing facility. Not my dad. From day one, he was with her in the hospital and when she was able to come home, he took care of her. He bathed her every morning, fed her all her meals and cried when she got bed sores. He sang her favorite songs and read the Bible to her because he knew she had always enjoyed both. While we kids were there to help when we could, Daddy was her caretaker for over two years, the one she trusted the most. And when she took her last breath, he was with her.

I took Dad into my home eighteen months before his death after he had fallen and could no longer live alone. While I was sad to see that he was unable to do most of the things that he loved any more, particularly his farming, I enjoyed the time I spent with him then. I grew closer to him than I had ever been, learning things about him that I had never known. He became my friend.

He shared his love of cooking (a little of this, a little of that), tried to teach me how to relax (which didn’t take) and constantly told me I needed to quit working sixty hour weeks (It’s not worth it, Sooz). He told me about his father (who spoke twelve different languages), working at the mill (Midnight shift is for crooks and whores!) and how much he enjoyed camping with us as kids (We always had good campfires, Sooz.)

What he didn’t teach me was dignity in dying. He fought it to his last breath. Six times after he moved in with me, we called the ambulance. And five times he came back. We started calling him Lazarus…you’d have to understand my family’s strange sense of humor to get that. But in the end, he had been in pain for too long and he missed his beloved Mary too much to stay. And as he was with me from my beginning, I was with him at the end (along with twenty others who loved him), holding his hand and telling him to go home.

I miss you, Daddy! Happy Father’s Day!

An Inch Shy of Stupid

Every parent/grandparent has been there. That uncomfortable moment when something a young child says makes you feel dumber than dirt. And with a child as precocious as Elijah, I’m in that moment more often than I like to admit. The child soaks up knowledge like a sponge. Remembers everything he’s told, except how to stay out of things he’s not supposed to be in, and constantly asks questions about it (refer to previous blog about that). You have to read on to see what I mean.

I was playing a fishing game with him recently and when he “caught” a whale shark, I screamed “Look out, Elijah, that shark is gonna chew you up!” He gave me his patient look, the one that makes me wonder if he’s actually an adult in a child’s body, and replied, “Yaya, whale sharks don’t use their teeth to eat. They are filter feeders.” Um, ok. Yes, I asked. “What is a filter feeder?” I’m thinking, gotcha, brain child! “They eat plankton through their gills when they swim.” Thank you, Wild Kratts, for the idiot moment I just suffered.

While looking to add to his collection of dinosaurs, we scoped out the toy store’s offerings one weekend. “Look at this cool Raptor, E.” says I. “You don’t have one of these.” With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, he says, “Yaya, that’s not a Raptor. It’s an Allosaurus. Raptors are small. An Allosaurus is HUGE!” I see I’m going to have to pay a little more attention to Dinosaur Train, which is responsible for this bit of stupidity.

I sleep with a stuffed dog named Rufus. Yes, I admit it. He’s a gift I cherish. One afternoon Elijah and I were hanging out in my bedroom and Rufus’ origin came into the conversation. I explained how I got him for Christmas from his Auntie Debbie and that he’s very special to me. “I don’t like him.” Says Elijah. “Well, he really loves you.” I replied. He gives me a very serious look, as if trying to determine my intelligence level, and says, “Yaya, he’s not real. He’s a pretend dog and they can’t love people because they’re not alive.” Well, gee. My only pet has been fake all these years and I didn’t know it?

I was teaching the boy letters and numbers not too long ago and he asked me, “Yaya, how do you know so much stuff?” “I learned it in school, baby.” He considered that and asked, “Yaya school?” “No, just regular school and college. You’ll be starting school in a couple of months and someday you will know even more than me.” He kind of laughed and informed me “I know I will.” Should have offered him chocolate instead of encouragement.

I give up. I can’t win. And he’s only four. What will I do when he’s ten? Or fifteen? I used to be competent. I had all the answers to his questions. Now I’m finding out that I’m just an average person with no idea how to keep up with his ever expanding quest for knowledge. I’m going back to school. I’m starting back at Grade One and working up from there. Maybe then I’ll have the skills to keep up with him. Or not.

The Perfect Neighbor

Moving from a home with over an acre of ground in the quiet country hills of Pennsylvania to an apartment in the city of Baton Rouge took a lot of adjustment. And to be honest, even after more than a year, I’m still adjusting. With that in mind, I decided that I would make a list of qualities a good neighbor should have and give it to the office people at the apartment complex. Just to let them know how to screen those who were to be living near me or above me or … well, you get the point. The following is what I’ve come up with (so far). My idea of the perfect neighbor.

Goes to bed at the same time as I do (or close to it). No slamming doors and drawers or stomping after I have laid my precious little head down on my pillow. Or more importantly, no waking up the kid after we fight for an hour or more trying to get him to sleep. Ditto for early morning as far as the child is concerned.

Keeps their dog from barking at me every time I go out to sit on my patio. It’s my patio. I pay for it. I do not owe any canine an explanation as to why I am there or what I am doing. I have nothing against dogs, I really don’t. As long as they are well mannered.

Keeps their dog from barking all night long. Waking up the neighborhood dogs. So they can bark all night long. Again, I have nothing against dogs. But incessant yapping really gets on my nerves, especially when it’s after midnight and I have to get up at 5:00 a.m.

Does not drive past my window after 11:00 p.m. with loud vehicles. I’m not asking much here. Just don’t drive past my place with your loud pipes and music blaring when I’m either sleeping or trying to relax. Or after the aforementioned child is asleep.

Tolerates my strays. I feed 4-6 stray cats on any given day. They sit on my patio waiting every morning. They don’t bother you or your stuff. They don’t come to your door waiting for a handout. They come to me because they know I have food for them. Just have a little compassion for them because they don’t have a home or anyone to love them.

Keeps their intimate life between themselves. I don’t want to hear your arguments…or making up…from my place of refuge. It isn’t just consideration for your neighbors, it’s respect for yourself and the person you reside with. Everyone couple argues. But when walls are paper thin, it stands to reason that you would do your fighting on a slightly lower level. As far as the making up part, if you want to be porn stars, I’m sure you can find an agent on the internet. Just don’t practice within my range of hearing.

Well, that’s pretty much it. I don’t think it’s overly obsessive. Ok, so it is. I somehow doubt that anyone will listen but it’s worth a try. At the very least, I put it down on paper and got it out of my system. Until the next dog barks. Or a loud car comes flying past at midnight. Maybe I should look in to buying an island somewhere. A place where I don’t have to worry about such matters. Does anyone know of one for sale for about … well, I have about $10 in my checking account.

Emotions

Anger and impatience eat at my soul

Depression draws me inside
Deep seated fear breeds
Questions rock my every thought

Will there ever be enough

Or will the constant struggle to survive continue
Is success on the horizon
Or will my doubts cause my failure

Will he find me and kill me

Will I ever feel safe
If I had stayed, would I be dead
Or were they idle threats from a drunken mind

Will my friends remember me

Or will I just fade into the distance
Will time tell the story
Or will I never know

Can I finish all I have started
Where is my ambition, my drive
Is it hidden under selfish desires for too much
Or do I wish for too much

Will I live to experience the rapture

Or be buried deep long before

Will I ever be needed, feel deserving
Or get dragged down further by my unworthiness

Will I ever be loved again

Will I ever again feel caring arms around me
Will I ever again experience another tender kiss
Will I ever be enough

When The Why Button Gets Stuck

It is the age of discovery. Four. When life begins to get really interesting. For the four-year-old. And for their  parents. The kid is seeing things in a different way than he ever has before. And the parents are desperately searching for the remote to turn off the why button.

At our most recent trip to the emergency room…Why are there beds in here? So people who don’t feel good can lay down until the doctor comes in to see them. How did the doctors get here? (Note: by this time, it is after 3:00 a.m. and we’ve been here for over four hours.) They followed the nurses. Why did the nurses come here? Because this is where they work. Why do they work here? Because the doctors need them. Why do they need them? They are afraid of needles. Oh. Why…? I don’t know.

Driving home from the mall…wow, that’s a tall building. What kind of building is that? An office building. What’s an office building? Where people go to work. Is it fun work? Not always but sometimes. I don’t think I want to work there. You’re too young anyway. (At this point, I am biting my tongue, wondering why I kept the conversation going.) Why am I too young? Because they don’t let kids work until they are, like, 18. Why? Hey, Elijah, look at that dump truck!!!

Pointing to my hair…what’s that white stuff? It’s some of my hair. Why is it white? Because I need to color it. Will you color it red again? Yes, I will. Why do you color it red? So it matches the rest of my hair. Why does your hair get white? Because you ask so many questions. Why do I ask so many questions? Because that’s how you learn things. Why do I need to learn things? Hey, Elijah, do you want some chocolate?

Why can’t I go outside? Because it’s raining. Will I shrink if I get wet? Yes, you will. Why is it raining? Because the flowers and grass need water. Why do they need water? So they can grow and look pretty. Do I need water to grow and look pretty? Only at bath time. Where does the water come from? It comes from the sky. What’s water? *facepalm*

Ok. I get it. He’s four and he has a lot of questions. And that’s how kids learn. But every other sentence out of his mouth is a question. Will he ever stop?  I sincerely hope not. Seriously, I hope he never stops.

Advice From One Who Knows

It’s taken me a week to write this but I wanted to be clear in my head before I did it. The deaths of seven innocent babies in the Oklahoma tornado is hard to imagine. What their parents are going through is even harder. I’ve been in a similar situation so I’d like to offer a little advice to those who, like me, know one of the families of those children.

First and foremost, don’t say “I know how you feel.” You don’t. You couldn’t. Even if you’ve gone through it, the child that they just lost wasn’t yours. Their circumstances aren’t yours.

Don’t tell them to let you know if you can do anything. Ask them what you can do. They are not thinking clearly right now. And won’t be for the foreseeable future.

Give them closeness when they need it, distance when they don’t. Don’t hover but don’t be nonexistent either. It’s a fine line. Learn to walk it.

It doesn’t end when the funeral does. That’s actually when reality sets in. The reality that has become this family’s life. Don’t disappear. Don’t forget important dates…birthdays, special occasions. They will need you then.

Don’t avoid sharing memories of their lost little one. They will cry. But they will also appreciate you. Laughing is not disrespectful, it’s encouraged. Share a funny story or a sweet one. Unless they ask you not too. But most parents won’t.

As you can imagine, losing a child is one of the hardest things for a parent to experience. Whether it be from illness or an accident, it doesn’t matter. All you know is you will never hold that child in your arms again. You will never be able to play a game with them or watch them sleep. The best advice I can give you is let them dictate to you what they need and when they need it.

Top Six Reasons I Haven't Written

My daughters have been nagging me lately because I haven’t given them anything to read in several months. Ok, ok, it's been since before Christmas. They say they need something to amuse them from time to time. Reminds me of my favorite line in Dances With Wolves that goes "Somebody back home is saying 'Now why don't he write?'" To that end, and to get them off my case, I give you my top six excuses  reasons for my absence.

Lack of Motivational Thoughts…I tend to be a mite lacking in wordage (is that a word? Spell check seems to think so.) unless something truly bites my behind and screams “WRITE ME!” Yes, in capital letters. At least they are in my mind. This usually isn’t a problem for me since I have a pretty imaginative mind. Usually. Haven’t been bitten lately. Not even a small nip.

Drawing a Blank…I always write down my thoughts when they come to me. Most times I get these truly inspirational ideas in the middle of the night (good thing I’m single), which can be aggravating but such is the life of a writer. Lately, however, the screen has been blank, the pages empty. This is a different reason from the previous one because although I get these thoughts I write down (usually), they are not always motivational or even worthy of being written. On a happy note, I’ve been having quite a few hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time since I became a mother many moons ago.

Guilt…I spend a lot of my waking hours, like most people, at my real job. When I get home, there is this handsome four-year-old who wants to be with me. To talk, shoot some hoops or just to watch his favorite show on TV. Locking myself in my bedroom to write takes away from that and makes my stomach hurt. Especially when I hear a small voice calling at the bottom of my door “Yaya, are you done working yet?”

Lack of Motivation (which is different from motivational thoughts)…This can also be termed laziness. I prefer to call it focus challenged. I’ve been known to sit at my computer, prepared to write, when something calls to me. Twitter. Facebook. A stupid show on the television. At that time, all ideas/thoughts/words, other than the meaningless ones I tweet or post, ooze out of my mind. I’m not sure if they spatter on the ceiling (looking up would require movement) or just disappear into thin air. But they are gone.

Inappropriateness…(I don’t know if this is a word either but it fits.) I’m currently working on a serious article for a friend, a very sensitive issue involving her life, and I thought that it might be offensive to her to if I wrote something funny…ok, ok, mildly amusing. She assures me that is not the case so I’m not excused on her behalf.

Lack of Readership…Like most writers, at least the honest ones, I always wonder if anyone will even read what I’ve posted. I know my daughters do but that’s only because I threaten them with bodily harm if they don’t. My family? I don’t even think the majority of them realize that I write. But then again, we’re not really a Leave It To Beaver kind of family. Hell, I don’t think we’re even an All In The Family type of group. We share DNA and meet up at a funeral every once in a while to say hello. And so I rely on the world wide web to send my ramblings along, hoping that someone will find it interesting. At least I have the opportunity. That’s all I need.

And so, my nagging daughters, I have written something for you to read. Something to ward off the boredom that has entered your sphere. I have fulfilled my vow and now I suggest that you go out and find a more worthwhile way to fill your lives. You could die from holding your breath waiting for me to write a blog lately and it’s really not a good way to go. But thanks, anyway, for giving me a boost off my literary butt. I guess I needed it.