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!