Oh, great. I have another kitty. The inside kind. The kind that is 24 pounds, very short, and has new eyeteeth. Can anyone tell me why my children think they are animals? And why cats, in particular? He used to bark once in awhile, but now it's all meow. I had him and Wils in the bakery twice this week and he (the NEW kitty) was meowing up a storm. The OLD kitty, Wils, wasn't meowing at all. So I get one over it and the next one in line morphs.
The three oldest kids were all in a spring concert this week. Elijah did not permit us to watch his part, so we left the gym for awhile. Ben did great, he has always participated well. This time he didn't really do the arm motion stuff ("Mr. Sun, Mr. Sun, please shine down on me!") but I noticed a lot of the boys didn't. Ana had her very first up front solo and she did awesome, her voice was so strong and clear. And then....this kitty caught sight of his beloved sister up there and decided he was going up there too! He headed for the hills. I intercepted him and let me tell you, it was a long, long, long, long, walk to the back of that big, crowded, hot, gym, wearing high heels, holding a screaming toddler who thought he was going to do a duet with his sister.
She also had some very exciting news in that she get a great spartan award. That's an academic award that students get for various reasons. Ben got one in the fall for penmanship. Hers is for the top reading score in her grade on the standardized testing they do every spring.
Today Ana had her babysitting course through community ed. The content sounded excellent and it was taught by a retired nursing instructor that I have met before. Ana is very excited to put her new skills to use on someone other than her usual clients. I think she is about the right age for a "parent's helper" type job so I'll start poking around for opportunities for her. Elijah figures that now that she's in the real job market, he should get all the cash gigs at home. The thing is, he IS a great babysitter--nobody insists on rules being followed like that guy. The thing is, I can't afford him. Just watch, he'll join a union or something.
Wil was so cute all day. Well, he always is. But he's been into telling these long, long, long, involved stories and they take FOREVER and he talks like a CODA (child of deaf adults). He stops talking the minute you break eye contact and HE STARTS OVER AT THE BEGINNING. Oh, man. And he uses these big hand gestures. So he was telling me about this truck and trailer he is going to buy when he is a grown up (big hand gesture showing how grown up he'll be) and he won't need a booster seat when he drives it (hands show booster seat) and he will have a snogobile and a 4 wheeler on his trailer (hands show driving these items) and he will be a grown up (big hand gesture showing how tall) and he won't need his booster seat (hands show booster seat) AND...the best part.....Ariana can ride in the trailer. He'll be driving (because he'll be grown up.....hand gesture showing just how much.)
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Grandma Mary
I wrote this essay some time ago and decided to go ahead and post it in honor of Mother's Day, in memory of my Grandma Mary.
A handful of powdery grey ash in a plastic baggie tied with a rose-colored ribbon. Eighty-one years of living and three weeks of dying, packaged neatly like a bag of jelly beans. I keep it in my glove compartment, this incomprehensible statement of finality. It’s as good a place as any. Maybe, someday, I’ll come upon the World’s Best Garage Sale, and scatter her there. She’ll have finally reached her nirvana.
It was snowing, that day I saw her last. I brought the children in to see her individually. They kissed Great Grandma goodbye, protected by their innocence. The immensity of the moment stole my voice, my words. Would they remember this? Would this image be burned into their memories, indelible, defining? Would they remember her at all?
I looked at her hands to avoid her eyes. Farm girl hands, she had. Big, useful, used, crepe paper wrinkles and prominent veins. A mother's ring with three square rocks. Her mouth spoke simple words but the intensity in her eyes spoke forgiveness and something else, something I couldn't name, something that stabbed my soul. Her old-lady perfume was there, somehow, in the air around her deathbed.
We didn’t say goodbye. I walked out of that room, my heart in my throat, lead in my gut, down the long hallway to the door and out into the cold February day. We drove away in the silent falling snow, me and my family. The lead in my gut would stay and nearly drown me.
Her dying was brutally fast and torturously slow. Brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, in and out, saying goodbye, listening to her death rattle, smelling the cancer overtake her. I didn't go. I couldn't go there. The dreaded emotions would overtake me. Instead, I paced, 150 miles away, trying to prepare for what I knew I wasn’t ready to handle.
It came on a Sunday night. Your Grandma died at about 7 pm tonight, the email said. Tidy black words on the luminescent screen.
The euphemistic "celebration of her life" was held a week later. No casket, no urn, just flowers and a framed photograph, the one she hated. A minister was there, someone who didn't know her because she hadn't worried a bit about getting her ticket punched. He did his thing, a eulogy-in-a-can. She didn't think many people would come to her funeral. I wish I could tell her she’d been wrong. She'd laugh. Oh, you rotten little kid, she’d say.
Then it was my turn to publicly say what I privately couldn't even comprehend. I stood before the crowded room, note cards in my hands. The sea of expectant faces numbed me. Somehow I knew this was my penance, how I could apologize to her again for missing her last months.
I told her story in her own words, gleaned from old letters, saved emails, in her rambling, disjointed style that always made me laugh. Linda took me to Wayne’s Star Market for groceries today and I waited in the car. It makes me so angry when people leave their shopping carts in the parking lot instead of putting them away! I had a hotdog and bun for lunch, it was very good.
Emails from her Mailstation in her little apartment, the Mailstation I was so proud of her using. Thank you for the bakery stuff, it was delicious. Myrtle doesn’t like divinity, you know, so I ate hers.
Her goofy songs. Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the mooorrrrnniiiinnnng.
I tried to explain how contradictory her character was. Severe in expression, often caustic in her words. So very patient, content to sit for hours working on her “crossword puzzle books”. Deep inside, a buried softness and overwhelming shyness, forced into a nearly unbearably social life by her marriage to an extrovert. The original queen of denial. Her cancer had been diagnosed ten years before, well advanced, already eating through the skin. Impossible to ignore, but she had.
Every bonus year after her diagnosis, she threw herself a birthday party. It was my job to bring her the cake—or two, if a lot of people were expected. I’d ask her what she wanted on her cake. Well, she said, happy birthday Mary, I suppose!
Somehow, somewhere, I forgot that they were bonus years. I let a family disagreement come between us. Her last Christmas, I didn’t see her. I stayed away with my pride to keep me company. A few weeks later she was in the hospital, and a week after that, transferred to the dreaded nursing home to await her death. So little time to make things right.
Today, I hold in my hand an index card. At one time this card was in her living hands. Hilda’s Chocolate Cake, it says across the top in her strong cursive. I picture her in her favorite chair in front of her TV, Wheel of Fortune blaring, absentmindedly working on her recipe for me between vowels and consonants. We must have been in her thoughts, Hilda and I. Hilda, big sister, gone for 50 years already, and me.
A handful of powdery grey ash in a plastic baggie tied with a rose-colored ribbon. Eighty-one years of living and three weeks of dying, packaged neatly like a bag of jelly beans. I keep it in my glove compartment, this incomprehensible statement of finality. It’s as good a place as any. Maybe, someday, I’ll come upon the World’s Best Garage Sale, and scatter her there. She’ll have finally reached her nirvana.
It was snowing, that day I saw her last. I brought the children in to see her individually. They kissed Great Grandma goodbye, protected by their innocence. The immensity of the moment stole my voice, my words. Would they remember this? Would this image be burned into their memories, indelible, defining? Would they remember her at all?
I looked at her hands to avoid her eyes. Farm girl hands, she had. Big, useful, used, crepe paper wrinkles and prominent veins. A mother's ring with three square rocks. Her mouth spoke simple words but the intensity in her eyes spoke forgiveness and something else, something I couldn't name, something that stabbed my soul. Her old-lady perfume was there, somehow, in the air around her deathbed.
We didn’t say goodbye. I walked out of that room, my heart in my throat, lead in my gut, down the long hallway to the door and out into the cold February day. We drove away in the silent falling snow, me and my family. The lead in my gut would stay and nearly drown me.
Her dying was brutally fast and torturously slow. Brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, in and out, saying goodbye, listening to her death rattle, smelling the cancer overtake her. I didn't go. I couldn't go there. The dreaded emotions would overtake me. Instead, I paced, 150 miles away, trying to prepare for what I knew I wasn’t ready to handle.
It came on a Sunday night. Your Grandma died at about 7 pm tonight, the email said. Tidy black words on the luminescent screen.
The euphemistic "celebration of her life" was held a week later. No casket, no urn, just flowers and a framed photograph, the one she hated. A minister was there, someone who didn't know her because she hadn't worried a bit about getting her ticket punched. He did his thing, a eulogy-in-a-can. She didn't think many people would come to her funeral. I wish I could tell her she’d been wrong. She'd laugh. Oh, you rotten little kid, she’d say.
Then it was my turn to publicly say what I privately couldn't even comprehend. I stood before the crowded room, note cards in my hands. The sea of expectant faces numbed me. Somehow I knew this was my penance, how I could apologize to her again for missing her last months.
I told her story in her own words, gleaned from old letters, saved emails, in her rambling, disjointed style that always made me laugh. Linda took me to Wayne’s Star Market for groceries today and I waited in the car. It makes me so angry when people leave their shopping carts in the parking lot instead of putting them away! I had a hotdog and bun for lunch, it was very good.
Emails from her Mailstation in her little apartment, the Mailstation I was so proud of her using. Thank you for the bakery stuff, it was delicious. Myrtle doesn’t like divinity, you know, so I ate hers.
Her goofy songs. Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the mooorrrrnniiiinnnng.
I tried to explain how contradictory her character was. Severe in expression, often caustic in her words. So very patient, content to sit for hours working on her “crossword puzzle books”. Deep inside, a buried softness and overwhelming shyness, forced into a nearly unbearably social life by her marriage to an extrovert. The original queen of denial. Her cancer had been diagnosed ten years before, well advanced, already eating through the skin. Impossible to ignore, but she had.
Every bonus year after her diagnosis, she threw herself a birthday party. It was my job to bring her the cake—or two, if a lot of people were expected. I’d ask her what she wanted on her cake. Well, she said, happy birthday Mary, I suppose!
Somehow, somewhere, I forgot that they were bonus years. I let a family disagreement come between us. Her last Christmas, I didn’t see her. I stayed away with my pride to keep me company. A few weeks later she was in the hospital, and a week after that, transferred to the dreaded nursing home to await her death. So little time to make things right.
Today, I hold in my hand an index card. At one time this card was in her living hands. Hilda’s Chocolate Cake, it says across the top in her strong cursive. I picture her in her favorite chair in front of her TV, Wheel of Fortune blaring, absentmindedly working on her recipe for me between vowels and consonants. We must have been in her thoughts, Hilda and I. Hilda, big sister, gone for 50 years already, and me.
Stuff
I'm way behind again. School is finished for the semester and there were quite a few big projects due last week so that's where my mind has been. The semester ended up pretty good. I start summer school already in 2 weeks. I don't mind, I'd rather just keep plugging away. It'll be a heavy courseload but it gets me that much closer to being able to add "RN, BSN" after my name!
Psych unit story. Old guy with schizophrenia, chronic psych patient. A nurse walked into the bathroom and saw what he thought was this patient urinating in the sink. Oh, but appearances can be decieving. One must never assume. The patient was actually, to quote "washing my balls"
I went through some of the kid's school stuff from the year and found a cute paper Ben did. He was supposed to finish the sentence "If I had 100 __________ I would ____________". When Ana was in first grade her answer was "If I had 100 dogs, I would love them all.". That was so cute. Elijah's was "If I had 100 dollars, I would get 100 legos" that was so Elijah. And Ben? "If I had 100 dollars I would buy a motercicle and drive it to my Grammas"
Leo seems to be getting the hang of this only dog stuff. I noticed something really interesting--he and Minnie always barked their heads off at Mr Grundman, also known as "Crabby Neighbor". With Minnie gone, Leo is no longer doing this. Maybe it was all for show!
Thomas, our donkey, has some big news. He has been asked to serve as a stud. A less likely stud you will not find, trust me. Apparently the guy wants to cross him with his female pony to make a miniature mule. Now THAT I can't wait to see. Would it be a ponkey, or a dony? Thomas really is a funny little guy and if we had acreage I'd have more donkeys--or maybe a ponkey too.
I have prepared the summer schedules for the kids, for the most part. Ana talked her brothers into joining her at the crafty week at the school. So they are going to spend a week of summer school doing latchhook, perler beading, knifty knitting, etc. What a visual. Other than that they will do swimming lessons and Ana will do a theater camp (and babysitting course).
Running is getting really fun all of a sudden. I've been able to increase my mileage AND my speed, and my endurance feels much stronger. It must be true what they say about female runners peaking in the 30s. I decided not to sign up for the Twin Cities Marathon after all; I would love to, but I won't know my schedule for clinicals until fall and if I pay 100 bucks for the marathon and have to be in Fargo for clinical instead, I will not care for that. So I'll just stick to some local shorter runs.
Here's the thing though. I'm mad. I can run 6 miles a day for weeks at a time AND I STILL HAVE A GUT. Granted, that gut has contained a total of 45 pounds of humanity over the last decade, so i suppose I could cut it some slack. I still hate the damn thing though. It's a POOCH. A POOCHY thing. I want to get my belly ring back but it would look stupid on a POOCH. Maybe I'll have to pierce something else.
Brian and I are playing kickball on the VA league this summer. I'm excited that it's kickball--I suck at softball. I should be able to kick a ball--should. It's not a giant endeavor, only about 12 games total, always Monday or Tuesday at 5 or 6 PM so that works really well for our schedules. The kids can come watch if I can have a sitter with--but as one potential sitter pointed out--if Zac is there he is going to expect Brian to play while carrying him. A major case of spoiled going on there.
Funny conversation with Elijah...he was saying that he and Ana are not little kids, that's what some certain activity was for (I can't remember what it was). Well, I said, what are you then? He got his "jokin' ya" expression and said "I'm an adult, mother." Keep in mind this guy is 8. "I'm an adult, mother."
Psych unit story. Old guy with schizophrenia, chronic psych patient. A nurse walked into the bathroom and saw what he thought was this patient urinating in the sink. Oh, but appearances can be decieving. One must never assume. The patient was actually, to quote "washing my balls"
I went through some of the kid's school stuff from the year and found a cute paper Ben did. He was supposed to finish the sentence "If I had 100 __________ I would ____________". When Ana was in first grade her answer was "If I had 100 dogs, I would love them all.". That was so cute. Elijah's was "If I had 100 dollars, I would get 100 legos" that was so Elijah. And Ben? "If I had 100 dollars I would buy a motercicle and drive it to my Grammas"
Leo seems to be getting the hang of this only dog stuff. I noticed something really interesting--he and Minnie always barked their heads off at Mr Grundman, also known as "Crabby Neighbor". With Minnie gone, Leo is no longer doing this. Maybe it was all for show!
Thomas, our donkey, has some big news. He has been asked to serve as a stud. A less likely stud you will not find, trust me. Apparently the guy wants to cross him with his female pony to make a miniature mule. Now THAT I can't wait to see. Would it be a ponkey, or a dony? Thomas really is a funny little guy and if we had acreage I'd have more donkeys--or maybe a ponkey too.
I have prepared the summer schedules for the kids, for the most part. Ana talked her brothers into joining her at the crafty week at the school. So they are going to spend a week of summer school doing latchhook, perler beading, knifty knitting, etc. What a visual. Other than that they will do swimming lessons and Ana will do a theater camp (and babysitting course).
Running is getting really fun all of a sudden. I've been able to increase my mileage AND my speed, and my endurance feels much stronger. It must be true what they say about female runners peaking in the 30s. I decided not to sign up for the Twin Cities Marathon after all; I would love to, but I won't know my schedule for clinicals until fall and if I pay 100 bucks for the marathon and have to be in Fargo for clinical instead, I will not care for that. So I'll just stick to some local shorter runs.
Here's the thing though. I'm mad. I can run 6 miles a day for weeks at a time AND I STILL HAVE A GUT. Granted, that gut has contained a total of 45 pounds of humanity over the last decade, so i suppose I could cut it some slack. I still hate the damn thing though. It's a POOCH. A POOCHY thing. I want to get my belly ring back but it would look stupid on a POOCH. Maybe I'll have to pierce something else.
Brian and I are playing kickball on the VA league this summer. I'm excited that it's kickball--I suck at softball. I should be able to kick a ball--should. It's not a giant endeavor, only about 12 games total, always Monday or Tuesday at 5 or 6 PM so that works really well for our schedules. The kids can come watch if I can have a sitter with--but as one potential sitter pointed out--if Zac is there he is going to expect Brian to play while carrying him. A major case of spoiled going on there.
Funny conversation with Elijah...he was saying that he and Ana are not little kids, that's what some certain activity was for (I can't remember what it was). Well, I said, what are you then? He got his "jokin' ya" expression and said "I'm an adult, mother." Keep in mind this guy is 8. "I'm an adult, mother."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)