Festivus For The Rest Of Us

I'll never forget the first time I heard George Constanza nervously ramble to his boss about his father Frank's personal holiday, Festivus, a special observation set aside to protest all the mind-numbing, ridicules bullshit that surrounds Hanukkah and Christmas and every other sacred day recognized by the masses. It's not that I mind the days themselves, just the opposite really. What I do mind, though, is the way the entire population goes apeshit crazy as the day approaches. A man was killed this year at an early bird special, for Christsake.
Now, I know Frank Constanza is technically a fictional character, but Festivus is pure genius. And, as a matter of fact, it was actually inspired by a Seinfeld writer Dan O'Keefe's father's spin on the celebration of, well, not freakin' celebrating.
I'm sure all you Christmas lovers are going berserk as you read this. Well, hold on, friends, it's gonna get bumpier. My beef with Christmas has nothing to do with the holiday itself, in its rawest form, that is. But, really, the nuts-and-bolts of Christmas really wouldn't make much of a holiday, would it? Since the Bible gives no real guidelines outside of birthing in a pile of hay and then receiving some shit called frankincense and Mir from three wise men, which could be anyone I guess, we really don't know how God wants us to commemorate the birth of His son. Should we stuff a pinata and cheer Jesus on as he puffs out his candles, all 3,000 of 'em? I'm not sure what we are suppose to do, but I'm certain God's plan isn't for us to staple enough fucking Christmas lights to our house to single-handily melt the polar ice caps and make the old spinster woman go certifiably insane from all the blinking light reminders that she and her 7 cats are all alone at Christmas. I'm no Biblical scholar, but I gather from the whole feeding a crowd with a loaf of bread and three fish thing that Jesus dug conservation. I'm just not sure he'd want us to mark his birthday by packing three fucking landfills with useless Christmas paper that briefly covered a bunch of gifts we don't really need.
Not to mention that, Jesus seemed to shun both the prideful lust of worldly possessions and really all violence. Well, putting a bunch of genetically related people who can't freakin' stand each other and only manage to restrain from socking each other in the eye with a turkey drumstick because it would break poor ole Grammy's heart in the same room to trade notes over who's pulling down the biggest paycheck according the size of their wastefully wrapped gifts under the tree just makes perfect sense. As soon as the ribbons are untied and punches are flying, I'm sure Jesus is happy as a bride on her wedding day. Honestly, I don't know why we just don't start a new Christmas tradition of gouging out each other's eyes rather than turning the other cheek. That's the only thing missing.
In light of my obvious Bah Humbug spirit, Festivus clearly resonated with me. Festivus is packed full with much more reasonable customs and my favorite of them all is the "Airing of the Grievances." Just in case you somehow missed Frank Constanza's explanation of this practice to Cosmo Kramer, which would be like overlooking Hailey's Comet flying into Earth, this is the time-honored tradition of basically telling everyone that's disappointed you or pissed you off throughout the year just how they did so. Just imagine how the escalated depression and violence of the holiday season would decrease if we all embraced this rather than Christmas caroling.
So, in honor of Festivus, I want to share with you a small excerpt from my Grievances:

Mollie,
Not only are those horseshit knock-off Lego's that you gave Ridge for his birthday constantly sprinkled around my house like Mardi Gras confetti without the beer and flying chi chis, but when I stumbled haphazardly to the bathroom in the middle of the night, my unsuspecting foot struck one of those bastards and the skin on the bottom of my foot was cut. I woke up the next morning with a bleeding and aching foot and was forced to wear two mismatched Crocs to work at the Hog Trough the next morning because every other shoe hurt too freakin' badly to wear. On the account of that, several people continue to make fun of my fashion sense, which is obviously as dead on as that Calvin Klein person.
Also, you gave Ridge those prescription-less glasses so that he would stop pestering your son Carson for his, but I know it was really so he would love you more than he loves me. You were almost successful in that, but no cigar, biznotch. Thanks to you, Ridge is now that Sampson without his long, locks of hair if he doesn't have those damn glasses -- simply useless. A slow poke to begin with, he now takes more time to get dressed because he's looking for those damn glasses than it took me to grow him in my stomach. Freakin' thanks! I guess I should be comforted in knowing that my kids spend the entire time they are at your house being pampered into love since you want to be their favorite, but you are ruining my life with your quest. I'm currently searching for the most ridicules gifts imaginable to give your kids. Just wait.

AT&T,
Since you have acquired the small, local chain of cell phone providers, the suckage of my coverage has increased dramatically. What's up with that? The old guys had the budget to advertise on the local radio, you guys have the cash flow to make your bidding on every national station. Hell, if you can pull the strings to let Dick Cheney listen to my random phone calls about my man and kids without a warrant surely to hell you can make the motherfuckers work without dropping every five minutes.

Mother in Law,
My sons aren't instantly and magically going to be stricken with pneumonia or frostbit or some other terrible affliction if they thermometer dips below 65 and they aren't wrapped up like that poor bundled up kid in The Christmas Story. Seriously, a band of Cheyenne managed to keep their kids alive for decades 1/4 of a mile from here on the banks of a river with the scant help of a leather tepee. Had that asshole Custer not rode along and massacred them, I'm sure they'd have all died old and withered of old age. I know your concern is because you do so dearly love the boys and I am less annoyed when I realize if something ever happened to me that you would mother them into submission, but I promise not to let them freeze to death.

Kentucky Fried Chicken Man,
I'm not being a bitch for wanting my money back. The chicken was simply raw. I don't eat raw chicken. That's not because I'm a snob, it's because I don't like puking water through my nose for three days. I realize my ass could use the downsizing, but I want my money back nonetheless.

Mom,
If you happen to go a week without seeing the boys, all memories of you aren't going to be mysteriously whisked from their brain. I can't help that you work 20 hours a day and, for some damn reason, want to sleep those other 4. I'm not a miracle worker. You can either commission God for 4 more hours in a day or stop with the damn overachieving. I understand that this nagging is just because you love them 5 times as much as you love me, which I am actually cool with because I love that my boys are loved, but I can't produce more daylight.

Satellite Repair Man,
When we call you for a repair and then fork over that ridicules surcharge to get you out here, actually fix our shit. Don't strip some wires and then put together some technical house of cards that we'd have to be skilled magicians or, in the very least, engineers to make work after you leave in 5 minutes. I mean, seriously, if I wanted some solution that required some flimsy coat hanger to rest at an almost impossible angle while Rowdy and I jump up and down and pat our heads, we'd have saved our money and done it ourselves.

Rowdy,
Oh, this could be five posts in itself. In fact, I am not going to write anything here since, well, bitching about you is pretty well the premise of this blog. I will say that it kinda pisses me off that four years into parenting, you have yet to wash one pair of underwear and you still get to be John Wayne wrapped up in Super Man to the boys every time you walk in the door, which I think is total bullshit since you didn't let the boys live inside your belly for 75% of year, gaining untold discomfort, then to turn around and let them thrive off your breast milk for a year. I do all that and you still get to be the super hero. Fucking bullshit.

Melissa,
Seriously, openly laughing at someone who accidentally rubs peppermint oil in their eye and then agonizing through relentless pain because of it. Seriously. I don't know if I'm peeved or excited that you get my humor. It's one of the two.

Ridge and Rolan,
Along with your dad, you two are the loves of my life. If it weren't for you two, I wouldn't even begrudgingly drag myself through this holiday. Damn you two for lighting up my life through the wonder in your eyes. If you two didn't radiate joy and excitement with even the slightest whisper of the magic of Christmas, I'd be a peaceful woman with abundant rest. I'd use all the money I've spent on gifts and what not to buy a plane ticket to some sunny paradise stocked with hot men and cold beer. Instead I'm running on fumes to wrap all the gifts you don't need and to prepare the food for our celebrations just to see the two of you hold your breath as your rip through wrapping paper to discover your next surprise, to see your mouths drop with glee when you realize what lies beneath it. So, you two darling little shits get my ultimate grievance and I wouldn't have it any other way.

HAPPY FESTIVUS! Watch the Festivus video. It's your heritage.

Five Years

The date on the calender was December 4, 2003. Rowdy and I had spent the previous afternoon in Oklahoma City selling cattle and shopping for wedding bands. I know what you're thinking, well those two freakin' things go hand-and-hand. The cattle sold, but we found no luck in finding the ring that tickled my fancy. As we drove west, back toward the open prairies of our Western Oklahoma home, we made the impromptu decision to pull into Weatherford, a cozy town halfway between the big city and the vast openness that was ours. Lyndi lived there and her spare bedroom had hosted us more than one night. My in laws had bought their wedding set at a jewelry store there, so we wanted to give it a gander. I woke up early the following morning and did something I rarely did -- I called in sick. My boss, who doubles as my mother's big sister, didn't question the validity of my ailments. I think she knew I was trying to snap that ole' ball-and-chain on poor Rowdy's ankle. And since she'd be convinced for the better part of my life that I was a lesbian or would morph into some old spinster, I think she was honestly relieved that he was gonna make an honest woman of me at the ripe old age of 22.
We weren't in the jewelry store long before THE one jumped out at me, there from the corner. She was a three-stoned princess-cut beauty atop a platinum band. The never-ending quest had somehow ended. We returned to Lyndi's empty house while the Paige Jewelers sized the rings and celebrated in way only appropriate to do in your friend's house if you just officially became engaged.
As we picked up the treasure and pulled back onto the interstate, I knew in my heart this would be a day I would never forget. I just didn't know why. No more than three minutes into our drive, my cell phone rang. It was my mother and she was frantic. Just 2 short months prior to this, her father had suffered a stroke. His condition had improved and we had reasons to be optimistic, but he had yet to return to vibrant, order-obsessed, loving Mr.Fix-It he had been my entire life. With a blink of an eye, it seemed, he had grown old and frail.
When I answered my mother's call, her voice was soft, but her words were quick. Her father, my Grandpa Don, had died at a hospital in Clinton, a town we had happened to be driving towards, a town only 5 minutes from where we were. An aneurysm in his heart had taken his life in a brief and savage instant. He was gone.
As I walked into the room, a collection of my closest relatives, my mother and her siblings and a few of their children, were gathered around him and his wife, my widowed grandmother. I touched his warm body as my shivering tears landed, drop by drop, upon his lifeless chest. It was absolutely the most unreal thing I have ever lived through, as though I was living in some parallel universe and everything around me was merely a dream.
My Uncle Kent, the oldest of my mother's two brothers, lives an hour away, but somehow had beat us there. I suppose time can be cosmic in that way. On several occasions, I have tried to think of a time before that day that I saw him weep. And I don't mean eyes watering a bit, I mean struggling for air sobs. But, on that day, five years ago today, I did. Overcome with emotion, he sat in the adjoining bathroom while his mournful wails bounced off the hospital walls.
Sometimes it seems almost foreign to me that he's been gone five years, that in his absence I have become a wife and a mother. My cousins and my sister have as well. And then at other times, it feels like a dream, that he's been there all along. Sometimes I wonder if he was ever real at all. His life ended before either of my sons' lives started and that in itself constricts my heart.
But mostly, when I think of his passing, I mourn for my mother and my aunt and my uncles. While I don't see my mom's brothers too often, I do see her and her sister frequently. As time as passed, I've witnessed their pain evolve from a sharp hurt that seemed to almost stop many of their days into a dull and constant acceptances. And in many ways, I think the latter may even be worse. At least when his death still took their breath away, he seemed within their reach. Now he is just gone.
He was my mother's confidant, her greatest adviser. I can see that, when she faces a great obstacle, she longs for his opinion. As I've watched my mother struggle to accept his death, I have learned that she never will accept it, at least not in the way we typically view the word "accept." It is there, it is real and that is all it ever can be for her. Alas, she has stopped trying to make sense of it and I think she healthier for that. No matter how many years pass between her and the last time she touched his skin, she will never stop missing him. He is always there, in the low hum of radiators he worked on all his life or in the gentle breeze that blows over the wheat fields of his youth.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree!

My mom came over last night for Bedlam (the Oklahoma/Oklahoma State football game for all you non-Okies and non-football junkies) and I talked Rowdy into fetching the Christmas tree in this rather corny notion that three generations putting the holiday staple would be this postcard-isque memory for all of us. He tried to preach rationality to me, his wife who just happens to be completely immune to absolutely all reason. He said that I should wait until the boys were sleeping or away to put the tree together. Apparently, he's met our sons before and could foresee how this would turn out. I mean, he's no Nostradamus, but he has a pretty telescope for the future than I apparently do.
Well, we got consumed with the football game and the tree didn't get put together. But, since Ridge already has Santa on the brain from the endless loop of The Polar Express he's consumed in the past two days, so he began chanting to put up the tree since he woke up this morning.
Now, before I tell you, my darling readers, what I am about to, you have to promise that, under no circumstances, you will tell Rowdy what I'm going to divulge. I don't care if he ties you up and forces you to sit in front of Crocodile Dundee for 72 solid hours, keep those lips zipped.
Okay, here goes. I'm just gonna do it, like ripping off a Band Aid.
Rowdy was right. I should have waited until the boys were doing anything other than standing beside me when I decided to decorate for the upcoming holiday.
It was a fucking nightmare to say the least, an adorable nightmare I'm sure I will look back upon when Ridge and Rolan are grown all sappy and misty-eyed. But, in the here and now, my nerves were frazzled and those plastic pine needles are scattered across our living room floor like confetti on Bourbon Street the day after Mardi Gras.
Ridge was so excited about the assembly of the tree that his face, all lit up with eager joy, was one big frozen grin. Of course, he was so pumped about all this tree business that he just randomly stuffed the tree pole with various lengths of tree limbs. He put long limbs at the top and in the middle. He cascade short, stubby limbs on the bottom. When Rowdy emerged from our bedroom, which he seems to think is his football playoff headquarters, he quizzed me upon the utter lack of form or order our tree had clearly taken upon. Rowdy moved a few branches to more reasonable position as Ridge rattled off the play-by-play of our decorating as though it was some competitive sport.
I can truthfully say that Rolan, the 2-year-old, didn't place any limbs in the incorrect section of that tree pole. I can say that because he didn't even pretend he was going to use the limbs as a piece of our Christmas tree. No, when Rolan say that limbs on the table, he saw weapons. So, he periodically would snatch up one of the branches and then whack his unsuspecting brother, who would in turn grab another branch and do the same. It was a jostling match, except the boys used fake tree limbs in the place of knives.
As Ridge bounced around with delight and Rolan reeked general havoc, I think Rowdy was secretly enjoying his prophecy's chaotic revelation. He had warned me. He had tried to rationalize with me, obviously an insanely unreasonable woman.
Don't you do dare tell him I said that.
And, as you can see in these photos, all the messes and extra assembly time was well worth it. The boys had fun and, with the tree out in their daily sight, I can start manipulating them into good behavior with threats of Santa Claus.

Rolan Clinton, 2, tree sword fighter extraordinaire

I'm An Asshole

Yup, it's true. I know you are all, "That's not true, Shonda. You are a total humanitarian. Each and every time I think about you, the images of Mother Theresa pop in my mind. And not just because you look so rockin' hot without make-up, either, because you are so gosh darn saintly. It's like Mother Theresa and then Angelina and then you."
On most occasions, I would have to agree with you and wonder out loud just why the Catholic Church hasn't made one of those silver, round necklace thing-a-majigs with my holy image engraved on it for the worshiping faithful to clutch as they pray. Hey Pope, get that shit on your to-do list, mister!
Anyways, that's what I would so humbly say on most evenings, but not today. Today I am going to have to join the majority very small, almost nonexistent group of readers who come to The Cowboy Chronicles just to find evidence of my assholishness. Today they are right, I'm an asshole. Why, you ask.
I broke one of the cardinal rules of The Supreme Order of Chick Friends. I forgot one of my very best friend's baby shower. And I wasn't just one of the regular 'ole just-show-up-when-you-want-to-with-your-gift crowd. Oh no, I was a hostess, a freakin' hostess. Because I happily accepted that Chick Friend duty, I was suppose to bring a finger food of some sort, which is normally one of my strong suits, totally evident in light of my expanding rear end. But, I didn't get to relish in the lavish praise for my delightful dish because, during the time frame that I should have been preparing it, I was taking a nap.
That's right, I was taking a fucking nap. Don't YOU judge me.
As I was peacefully lounging in my bed, soaking up the rare treasure of a childless house, my friends were wondering if I was going to, I don't know, show up. Finally, and thank God, my friend Sara called and was all, "Soooooo.....whatcha doin'?"
And then I was like, "Sleeping, stretched out like a lazy cat, sleeping."
And then she was like, "Ummm....so, are you coming to Chelsea's shower?"
Yup, that's when I realized I had, in fact, written the shower down on the wrong date in my calender. Five years ago, before I had kids and my mind functioned better than a barely lucid acid freak, I wouldn't have had to put it in the schedule to remember to do it. Yeah, cellulite has dented my ass up like a golf ball and my mind has the memory retention of slobbering Courtney Love and, I don't give a shit what you say, I think Crocs are solid fashion gold. (Insert sharp sarcasm) It's definitely all uphill from here, bitches.
Chelsea is, of course, one of the most go-with-the-flow, easy-to-please people I know, so she was super awesome about the whole thing. In fact, she just chuckled at me and then let me rub her groovy baby belly. Still, she is a good friend and dropping the ball at her shower is just assholish no matter how you slice it.
After I left the shower, I stopped in the grocery store because we were out of milk and, really, how can Rolan be expected to survive without a vast ocean of dairy products. I loaded up the grocery basket with other much needed supplies, including eggs.
As I was checking out, the check-out girl, who turned out to really be an over achiever as far as check-out girls go, inspected my eggs to guarantee they were all in tack (or is it tact?). One little fella, smack dab in the middle of the carton, was cracked on top. She jumped to go fetch a replacement, but I was like, "Dude, you just keep a-scannin.' I'll go get the eggs," since I believed the oozing crack was most likely caused by the giant ham I threw on top of it as opposed to some random shipping or stocking mishap. I mean, I'm not a mathematician or a scientist or an egg-cracking expert or anything along those lines, that would just be my guess.
Anyways, in the meantime, a bag boy showed up and started sacking up my goods. Like the check-out girl, he was a busy little beaver. I mean, he was a sacking son of a bitch. I told him about my current asshole status due to the shower tardiness and he told me about how he was like 3 hours late for work because he forgot he was scheduled and went Christmas shopping instead. I kinda wanted to hug him and that's when I noticed that he had sacked BOTH egg cartons. So I asked if they had charged me for both sets and the girl was like, "Dude, you weren't suppose to put them both in the sack. One of them has a broken egg right in the freakin' middle."
And then my kindred spirit sacker was all, "Oh my, I didn't even check them. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am."
So then I asked him what becomes of poor cartons of eggs with just one fallen comrade. Do they find a replacement egg? Are they trashed?
After a little begging hinting, the sacker said since they couldn't be sold, they could just give them to me for free, which fucking made my day since I love all free shit, even when it is absolutely worthless shit a homeless person wouldn't sleep on in the dead of freezing winter, but especially when it is something like eggs, something I cook each morning. That's like hitting the lotto for a tight ass like myself.
As I walked out of the store, I thought, "Man, I am really am an asshole. First, I forget Chels's shower and then I hackle the grocery store out of eggs I broke."
I'm an asshole.
If you would like theme music for this post, which I think totally makes the deal, listen to Jimmy Buffet's song about assholes here or Dennis Leary's on the same brown-eyed subject here.

A Tribute To Mothers

Well, one day left until election, one day left until we (hopefully) have a winner. From reading this blog you should have no doubt about who I'm pulling for, Barack Obama. But, at this late date, I don't desire to debate policies and platforms and promises. Rather, I want to say no matter who wins, on Wednesday, we must come together as one nation, a whole nation. I realize you are probably thinking, "Sure, Shonda, that's easy to say right now when it appears your guy should stroll to victory."
Well, don't forget the past two elections that have left me drowning in at least 3 30-packs of beer, wondering how the hell Little George pulled off another one. But, at the end of the day, I accepted his presidency, even if I still doubted his Florida 2000 win.
Again, this post isn't an invitation for debate, just a small explanation of my beliefs, but moreover, my love for this country. I love this country so much that I actually learn about it. My quest for that knowledge will never end. I love reading of Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson and Theodore Roosevelt. I love reading over policies changes. FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm a covert dork. Okay, maybe not covert, but a dork nonetheless.
Simply and purely, I just think Obama's platform is the best for the country. But, I want to focus this post on something else that pulls me toward him.
When I see Barack Obama, I see my own sons. I realize that is probably a strange thought for many, since he is the son of a Kansas woman and a Kenyan man while my two sons are the offspring of two vanilla white Oklahomans. He lived part of his childhood in Indonesia, they will likely spend most of theirs in Cheyenne, Oklahoma. But still, when I see and read of his mother, Ann Dunham, I see myself.
I see a woman who valued education and wanted her son to have a broader knowledge of the ENTIRE world as it is, to see the big picture. I want my sons to dream of horizons beyond what society believes they, the offspring of cattle ranchers in Western Oklahoma, can achieve. When I see my sons, I dream for them, for their greatness. So, when I examine Ann Dunham and Roberta McCain, both women worthy of great respect, I simply relate more to Ann than Roberta.
In the last 8 years, our country has experienced the most divisive period of my lifetime. Regardless of tomorrow's outcome, I hope that we can move past our differences. We our one nation.
But, I'm also leaving you with a passage from Barack's audiobook, a part he reads of his mother. All mothers of sons will be warmed when hearing this. I listened with tears down my face, not because of Barack, but because Ann isn't here to see the achievements of her son. I hope you enjoy.

8 Mavericky Ways to Stress Free Parenting

A few weeks ago, my bloggy friend Anna taught me about the brilliance in lists, or rather blogging lists. It seemed easy enough, right? Well, it's that time again.
This morning as I was wandering around the home of my heart, the beloved Internet, I found this article, 8 New Mom Stresses and How to Relieve Them. Sure, some of the ideas were golden, such as this one:

There was one week when my daughter Faye screamed -- and I'm talking ear-piercing, uncontrollable screaming -- for hours on end. I would call my husband, crying, and hold the phone so he could hear what I was going through. By Friday I couldn't take it anymore. I put her in her crib and went into the kitchen to try to pull myself together. A few minutes later, she stopped! I realized that seeing me stressed and upset just fueled her fire. But when I left her alone -- and played it cool when I did go back to her -- she calmed down."

But, as I was reading this monstrous bitch, I realized none of my tried and true mommy tricks were on there. And, really, I'm nothing if not helpful. So here goes, Mommas. You want to survive newborns and toddlers, then soak up the profound wisdom of Momma Little.

1. Take the above-mentioned advice of walking away and taking a brief break from the crying baby. In fact, wander on into the kitchen as that mom suggest. But don't just play it cool, DRINK it cool. And when I say drink, I don't mean water. Beer's the poison of my preference, but I think vodka, tequila or rubbing alcohol will suffice.

2. Now, this "walking away" technique will only work for so long. At some point your darling little offspring are going to gain some mobility and, take it from me, this makes the whole "escape the shrieking madness" a bit tricky. Once they do start toddling all over the place, they are absolutely adorable exploring the world except, of course, when you want to escape them. Then they will bobble after you, all red-faced and screaming, and you will think back to how some yahoo told you to just "take a minute" when your babies are having some unexplained meltdown. At these times, you will be glad you put a lock on your bedroom door. Sure, they will plant their bottoms on the other side of it, belting out unholy shrills sharp enough to puncture a dog's eardrum, but you will have that moment you've been long for. My friend Mollie, who is Martha Stewart in living color, taught me this trick. For those of you can't stomach the sounds of your crying kiddos, I think those scrunchy earplugs are also nice to have on hand.

3. Speaking of the mobility of our darling spawns, when they aren't using their new found tricks to chase after you, they deploying the skills to run away from you. Now this can be particularly troubling if you have a little weight in your trunk, if you are picking up what I'm putting down, or if you have multiples running in different directions. And, if you just happen to be unlucky enough to be like me, a fatass with two wayward children, you are totally screwed. It is for that reason that I truly recommend a leash.....or some awesome laser that, like, paralyzes them in their tracks. Really, it's the only way you'll win.

4. More alcohol. I would seriously consider opening a liquor store so you can get that shit at a discount.

5. If you don't have friends with similarly aged children, make some. Not only will they share their tips for neutralizing the enemy combatants, but sometimes you can blend your herd in with theirs and gain a few moments of adult interaction.

6. We all start out our adventures in parenting with the good intentions of raising the only set of American kids who aren't all strung out on the baby-sitting goodness of Dora the Explorer or Spongebob the Terrorist, but then we get starved for a free minute to do laundry or some asshole lets them watch it at their house and the next thing you know you haven't seen a single episode of those fantastic Maury Paternity Shows because you are in a power struggle for control of the television. So, listen up, Readers, just swallow all your aspirations of productive and responsible parenting from the start and buy those kids a spare television.
Sadly, I still haven't taken my own piece of advice here and sadly, in between my remote hogging husband and kids, I almost never get to watch my shows. Take it from me.

7. Don't read ridicules lists posted on the Internet, clearly written by someone who doesn't have children or has the luxury of hiring a nanny. While I like to joke about this sort of stuff, I really don't lock my kids out of my room or walk them on a leash. In fact, I know if I did try to put my wild kids on a leash, they would just one-up me by sitting their darling asses on the ground and forcing me to drag them to our desired destination.
Truthfully I just get tickled when I read these parenting lists. Occasionally you do get a good tip, but normally it's just the same list over and over. So, if you want my advice and, let's face it, I know you want to soak up my genius, just love your kids and hope they have grandparents who want to be involved enough to give you a small break.
I hope my fake list made you laugh. If it didn't, you are either a fun hater or you are still in the eye of the storm. If that's the case, go ahead and guzzle the rubbing alcohol. And laugh.

8. I just realized the list I found on msn had 8 tips on it. I can't think of number 8, so let's just call this an invitation for you, my awesome readers, to give us your appallingly awesome tips for child rearing.

Old Friends Are Gold

I first came to know Jimmie Jackson when I was at the end of my high school career. I know I am using "career" a little foot loose and fancy free, as the bulk of my time was spent acing six-packs as opposed to sixth hour. But, that's neither here or nor there now, although my crafty beer drinking skills definitely served as a firm foundation for my friendship with Jimmie.
He went to work for my mother and her business partner Sherisse at their former hair saloon, The Creme of the Crop. Stop laughing, it was the 90s. Jimmie was unlike anyone I had ever met before. He was a large man, both in his size and in his vibrant personality. He was silly in ways that I still struggle to explain. His smile was that of a child, devious and ornery and, in so many ways, quite innocent. He was tender, he let his heart by seen by anyone who cared to see it and I loved him for that. And, he was gay, which put a human face on homosexuality for me. Although a few of my childhood friends have since come out of the closet, Jimmie was the first gay person to openly share his struggles and his triumphs with me.
Now, to understand Jimmie you need to know that he was a queen with a flair for drama that ran deep in his . spirit. And that, by the way, is just how he talked me into allowing him to color my hair a week before prom. The outcome was suppose to be deep red highlights. It was not. Instead, my hair was streaked with thick bands of a dark shade of purple that was almost magenta. Naturally, I cussed for a few moments while Jimmie poured me drinks, but it eventually faded and even grew on me a bit. That's the story of how I went to prom my senior year with purple hair. Mind you, this was before the funky-colored hair craze kicked off, so I now inadvertently look kinda like a fashion trailblazer, a farce I am willing to continue.
In keeping with Jimmie's love for the dramatic, he aspired to someday star as a Cher impersonator at a drag show. He loved Cher almost as much as he loved his mother, which was a lot. Seeking out research for his future show, sometime during that same time period, Jimmie and Sherisse talked my square peg mother not only into driving to the city to rock out at a gay bar, but even managed to talk her into letting me come along as well. Jimmie found an ID for me to use, so off we went. For about the first minute in the gay bar, I suffered a bit of culture shock. But then Jimmie introduced me to the owners and a few of his drag queen friends and I was in total heaven. These girls showed me their fabulous collection of evening gowns and metallic lipstick while I slammed keg beer in their dressing rooms. For an 18-year-old girl from Western Oklahoma, this was an epic adventure. We danced late into the night, hopping from gay bar to gay bar. Even as I type this now, a decade later, ABBA plays in my head as I recall shaking my booty with a multi-colored feather boa streaming behind me.
Although Jimmie was a solid 15 years older than I was, we became fast and furious girlfriends. We would stay up late into the twilight, sobbing over my latest teenage crisis while Jimmie consoled me and guided me toward much-needed giggles. He was full of love, ready on demand to dispense affection to those in need. I always marveled at how he freely put himself out there for new friendships, even though he had been burned in the past. He was a sweet spirit and, in so many ways, an innocent soul.
Then I grew up and our adventures took Jimmie and I in separate directions. After a few years, I had almost lost track of my friend. But then, through their miracles of myspace, he found me. Right off the bat, he told me of the death of his mother. Through our emails, his pain in that loss was profoundly seen. As I said before, Jimmie was incapable of loving only a little and his relationship with his parents was paramount in that. After a few emails, he just asked for my number. I sent it to him and within minutes my phone rang. We talked and reminisced for hours. I told him of the love of my life, Rowdy, and our two children and he told me of his, Ken. Jimmie laughed out loud at the prospect of me living on a ranch, running around in the mud chasing cattle. I laughed with him, knowing that image is that of fine comedy.
Our communication continued for months and I had planned to photograph his wedding to Ken. But then, out of the blue, it just stopped. I emailed him a few times, but got no response. After awhile, I was lost once again in my daily existence and forgot to keep trying. Little did I know, my friend had gotten ill.
So, you can imagine my surprise and my guilt when my mother called me on October 8 to tell me Jimmie had died. Truthfully, I still don't fully know what killed him. I just know that he had been sick for most of this year. I also know that he was one of the finest people I've ever had the good fortune to call my friend. I am comforted in knowing that in the last few years he found the love of his life. He was true to himself in ways few people have the courage to be. He was full of love and full of life and he ushered in acceptance for all people. Above all, he was a friend.
Jimmie's memorial is in Enid tomorrow. Sadly, I won't be able to attend. I've been meaning to write this ever since I learned of his tragic passing, but each time I sat down to it, the pain choked my words. It's hard even still.
Jimmie,
We loved you for all that you are. I hope we meet again somehow in the great scheme of things. You were the best example I know of honesty in the face of great scrutiny. May peace find you, old friend.
I love you,
Shonda

The Random Ramblings of a Sleepless Maverick

Well, Readers, I am staring dumbfounded at this blank page. In between the last presidential debate and wrapping my mind around that bitchy know-it-all Kenley somehow making it to the Project Runway finale, I just can't seem to compose a full thought. But, you know I am dedicated to your entertainment, Readers, so I thought I would jot down a few of my fragmented brain drizzle.

I love negative ads. It's just political shit talking. Is it true? Unlikely. Is it fun? Hell yes. So, listen up, boys: Why don't you come run some of those nasty tidbits on mommalittle. I won't player hate, I'll participate. Word.

That brings me to another. I love hip hop jargon. I've been trying to introduce it into my daily life, but thus far it has been unsuccessful.

I really like drinking coffee in the late evening. That is, until I'm laying in bed wide awake as a crackhead on a 3 day smoke feast.

Ridge snuck into Rolan's room and interrupted his peaceful nap this afternoon by shimmying into his crib and then subsequently pouncing on his little brother's head while chanting, "Wake up, Rolan!"
Rolan, in turn, spent the afternoon randomly jabbing his big brother in the eye for the torturous awakening. With each incident, rather than responsibly disciplining my offspring, I just thought, "Man, I'm so glad my sons are mavericks."

Speaking of swaggering with the big balls of a maverick, Ridge and I build some wooden car inside the house today and then proceeded to paint it on the kitchen table. He seriously had slaps of blue paint in his ears.

I am exhausted. I am so freakin' exhausted that I cannot sleep. Such is the divine comedy of life.

There are several ways to show your patriotism. One of them just happens to be paying taxes. God knows I pay my share, but I love America and don't want to further become a "sharecropper nation," as Warren Buffet described the negative effect of our expanding foreign held debt.

I love Kenny G. I mean, I really love Kenny G. He played on Dirty Sexy Money last week and my long, lost love affair was reignited. Few things get my blood pumping like that long-haired genius blowing away on his saxophone.

I think blue eyeliner rocks. I wore it daily for many years, using it for some reason on only the outer halves of each eye, which made it rock even harder. After much badgering from my more fashion savvy friends, I begrudgingly abandoned my aqua beauty trick. I'm really thinking about bringing it back. What do you think?

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. That's just how I roll. In fact, I think it is fair to say that's what I am doing right now. So, I'm gonna stop. I'm going to force myself to sleep so I won't drag around like a zombie tomorrow.

A Smokin' Good Time at the Zoo

Up until a few months ago, I could tell Ridge we were going to do something and then later change my mind without him noticing. But, like all good things, that has come to an end. Once the well-intended promise leaves my lips, it might as well be mafia blood debt. In other words, I better come through or my head's gonna end up in a meat grinder, or at least that's how it is going to feel as I am listening to hours of my hardass son line his mother out.
And so, that's how I ended up driving the city with my mom to take him to the zoo today. Yesterday Mom accompanied my sister's family to the State Fair, so she wanted to do something fun with my kids today. Ridge was within an earshot as she and I discussed a trip to the zoo, so he immediately questioned just what we were discussing. I asked if he wanted to visit the zoo and he answered with an emphatic yes.
However, when I was yanked from my peaceful slumber this morning by my youngest boy Rolan bouncing upon my belly as he belted, "Yeeeee Haaawwww," I quickly remembered the unwise pledge I made the day before to Ridge. I didn't want to drive a few hours to drag and chase two boys over a 100 zoo. I wanted to keep my fat ass on the coach while periodically snagging 15 minute naps. Rolan's wake-up call stirred Ridge and, before he could fully open his eyes, he said, "It's morning, Momma. Let's go to the zoo."
Before I realized it, I almost mustered some excuse. But, I knew I wanted the wishful seeds of adventure in his young mind, so I pulled myself from my comfortable bed and started my day. Mom called requesting a later departure time, admitting that she considered canceling. She heard her grandson's excited ramblings in the background and, like me, she knew we had to follow through with our plans.
After our last zoo outing, I learned that we are tram people. If you go, listen to me, get the tram tickets. It beats the hell out of chasing two boys sprinting in different directions.
As we started into the ape exhibit, I looked over at my mother to see her putting out a cigarette.
"Mom, you can't smoke in here," I said, shocked that she was sneaking a few drags.
"I know," she replied, "That's why I am putting it out."
"No, I don't mean you can't smoke in the exhibit. I mean you can't smoke in the zoo at all."
"Are you sure?"
"Ummmm....yes, there's a big sign at the front. Have you seen anyone else smoking?"
She, of course, was mortified. While I was a little scared that the men in the white golf carts were going to boot us out on our smoking asses, I had to giggle a little bit at my mom. I know she's a child of the 60s and 70s when the country was lighting up like a big chimney, but I would think you would have had to have been in a coma for the past 5 years to think smoking at a zoo was still okay.
After several rounds around the zoo, we took my delighted children across the street to the OmniPlex, Oklahoma's Science Museum. Miracously, we made it through that without either boy destroying a single thing. Ridge did wildly desire to scale the dinosaur bones, but we somehow managed to contain him.
The day was long, but well worth it. Through I didn't think so this morning, I am glad I made the promise to Ridge yesterday.

Another Mom Update

If your soul could bellow a sigh of relief, that would be the best way to describe my overall demeanor today. I'm still at the hospital with Mom, though I plan to go home for at least a day sometime this afternoon. With Mom's slow, but steady improvement, my desire for the simple presence of my husband and my children can be ignored no longer. Of course, if Mom's progress slipped even a little, I could shuffle that to the side once again. I won't stay home long because each time I leave, it seems to be an unspoken invitation for havoc.
My gratitude for all your concern is paramount. Once again, I have to sing deserving praise to my husband and mother-in-law. They have handled things at home without me even asking so that I can handle things here.
Much to her disappointment, Mom won't be going home for at least two days. Trust me, I can only imagine her eagerness to get home. I haven't had the tube in my nose, which was removed today, or the two surgeries or the freakin' pneumonia, but I'm ready to be free of this place. I compare it to Las Vegas, without the booze or, well, fun. With the exception of beer, everything you need is here. Night or day, you never see the sun or the moon. The light is a low hum.

A Rambling Update on my Mother

Humor has always been my most public emotion. Don't get me wrong, I cried until I had an asthma attack when I watched Armaggedon. Just ask Bobby Wechsler. I think he wanted to take me to the emergency room. But, for the most part, I've always preferred to communicate my feelings through laughter. I try to make that as apparent in my blogs as I do in my life. So, when you are reading one of them, assume that before thinking honestly that, for example, I believe Osama bin Laden is the SpongeBob Squarepants mastermind. I do think it might dumb down an entire generation. I don't think it is really al-Quada warfare. By far and large, my blogs are intended to entertain you.
This, however, will not be one of those. I'm not really writing it for anyone in particular, just bouncing it out of my mind, into the vast nothing.
If you haven't been reading or aren't one of my close friends I've actually spoken with, my mother had an emergency appendectomy on Wednesday, July 8 -- almost two weeks ago now. Although she was discharged from the hospital the following Friday, she made her return visit the next day. We've been here ever since.
I've tried to be at the hospital as much as possible and, for the most part, I have. I did, however, go home to my babies the night before last. My longing for them was consuming and, truthfully, Mom seemed to be on the upswing when I left. Of course, I planned on being back yesterday, but I expected to return to a patient on the near mend. And, that's exactly I found. It was just with the patient across the hall. Don't get me wrong, I was glad for Joe. I just hoped for the same with mother, whose progress instead had totally backslid. Blood transfusion. High fever. Another bowel blockage. More high fever. Rising white blood count. And, lastly, fluid on the lungs.
When I got back, my aunt was definitely stressed about all these combined new complications. Together, we started discussing our options, including a possible transfer to Oklahoma City. On one hand, a fresh pair of eyes might bring a new innovation to spur the healing process. But then on the other, moving any patient in the fragile condition Mom was in would usher in the new possibility of complications. Its just a balancing act.
After exhaustion fell over Mom, I stared at a blank screen last night. I expected that poetic words of blessing and concern would well out of me like a fresh spring from earthy soil. But, instead I just gazed at an empty page, paralyzed by the day's unexpected downturn and the fear of what might be ahead. One of my favorite authors, Hunter S. Thompson, used to say that WRITING WAS THE ROCK IN HIS SOCK. Of course, he was applying this to the likes of the bullying eye of Richard Nixon, but still, that's always resonated with me. When life hits the skids, I find solace in pouring myself into the written word. Yet with all this going on, with a thousand cluttered concerns scattered through my brain and with a million more thought fragments floating around them, I couldn't write one legible sentence.
Mom had about three good sessions of sleep last night, all of which were interrupted by mounting pain or spiking fever or rumbling nausea. We'd remedy the guilty nuisances as best as we could and then she would partially slumber for a couple of hours. Sometime after midnight, as I helped her to the restroom, I noticed that her flushed skin felt like a stretched heating pad. She was running fever.
Of course, her body temperature eventually lowered to normal. Each time Mom woke through the night, I did, too. Well, at least I think I did. I remember stirring briefly at 6 am to calculate on which hour we did what. Honestly, it wasn't waking up, but more like taking a brief time out from sleep and then plunging back into it. Even in a semi-conscious state, I could count each aged spring in the two-inch cot. It's no thicker than the average book. Not Gone With the Wind or some fancy parlor room Bible, but The Scarlett Letter. That size, by the way, is perfect in terms of reading, but not so awesome in terms of comfort.
Even so, I've been grateful for each night I've spent on the cot and each morning I've woken back up on, for I know that even the most wretched coil in my makeshift bed leaves me a million percent more cozy than my poor momma.
I feel asleep last night dreading the dawn of this day. We had made the decisions collectively, as a family, that if the antibiotics produced no progress, we would probably transport Mom to Oklahoma City. Beyond that, I worried each individual problem would had yesterday might get worse.
But just like the first day after winter's last frost, with daybreak, the color in Mom's face bore small traces of recovery. Now, I know I've already blogged this once and then 36 hours Mom started the worst day she's experienced thus far, but I do have renewed optimism.
Mom had yet another cat scan this morning. The surgeon filling in for our guy, who is celebrating his 60th birthday in New York City his weekend, came in after seeing the initial report and told us that he thought another surgery may be imminent. The partial bowel blockage, it appears, is not just a temporary effect of surgery, which is relatively common, I am told. Instead, it is possibly from scar tissue left from the ruptured appendix. The surgeon then explained that he was also having a radiologist look over the scan. After he received that report, he said that, compared to the cat scan from three days ago, the blockage is shrinking. The only reason this isn't totally greek to me is because I've had it explained to me as though I'm a kindergarten. (THANK GOD FOR THAT!) So, I don't know if I've done a very good job of relaying all this, but it is good news. Another surgery is still possible, but doesn't appear to be necessary at this moment. Mom's only been on the antibiotics for a day and a half, so he wants to see if this will continue to improve that situation.
While this turned out to be good news, the cat scan was not without peril. Yesterday's x-ray showed signs of a small amount of fluid in her lungs. The result of today's cat scan indicated that it is now pneumonia. This, of course, is always a serious condition, but is also easily treatable. I think. Hell, I don't know. What do you think? Any of you, drop an opinion.
Hopefully the antibiotics she's already on while correct the double lung conundrum, but only time will tell. Like I've said before, with each step we take forward, we take one back. Hell, sometimes we take two.
I've been in the lobby for quite some time now, pounding away at this keyboard. I left Mom's door cracked so I could check on her without interrupting her needed slumber. I've never been one to publicize my prayers, but I'm gonna break precedent. And to many of you, this might be a funny place to start since I'm throwing vulgarities around like a Death Row rapper. But, with all my strength and infallibilities, I know that God sees my genuine plea for the remedy of His hand. My mother, who has been a good and faithful servant to Him and a heaping bounty of her fellow man, needs repair. Now, I know her life isn't threatened, but it is difficult seeing your mother ache and hurt as I have seen mine for the past week and a half. Walking through the electric doors for the millionith time this morning, returning a hefty round of phone calls to concerned loved ones, it occurred to me that our hellish two weeks is the never-ending reality for those living with chronic and/or fatal diseases. Regardless of whatever anxiety I feel at the time, I mask it for my mother. I can only imagine what she's feeling. But, with that said, I'm confident within the next few days, we will finally wake from this nightmare. So, for all of you who spend your life or a big bulk of it scheduling medicine and re-wearing clothes because you thought you'd be home a day before you were and working from hospital lobbies so you can be with your ailing loved one and walking assisted because you are too weak to walk by yourself, you have my unfettered respect. We've had to not treat one sickness to properly treat the other. We've had to add one medicine because we've added another. It's impossible to balance, no matter how hard you try.

Well, I actually went home for two different nights, but I've tried to stay with her around the clock. Through me, she does a better job explaining what she is experiencing to the doctors and nurses. Plus, Mom and I have always been close and I think my presence is a small comfort to her. Just a few moments ago, I slipped away to the cafeteria for some much-needed coffee and she sent on of the nurses to find me. When I got back to her room, she apologetically whispered, "I hope I'm not smothering you."
That in itself tickled me. I've been worried that she might want a break from me, her ever-present chamber maid. As agonizing as its been to watch her painful and often scary journey to wellness, I've enjoyed our alone time. Since I become a mother nearly four years ago, we are seldom together when a bouncing Ridge and Rolan aren't soaking up the attention of the NaNa they so adore. I almost never leave my kids. Most of my work is done from home so that I can be an overbearingly watchful momma, so naturally my heart is aching in their absence during my lengthy hospital stay with Mom. But, like I said, this roller coaster ride has at least presented us with the rare opportunity to be a mother and daughter instead of a mother and a mother. That entire train of thought my be complete jibbish since I'm running on high stress and little sleep.

Home, in a figure of speaking.

It's midnight and I'm just finishing up the tail end of my household chores. Since Mom's first surgery, an emergency appendectomy, last Wednesday, I've slept all but two nights on a hospital cots. The thin, spring-riddled mat was most likely borrowed from some wildly underfunded prison in a third world Asian country, yet for some reason I slip into an abysmal slumber while laying upon it. Truly, this baffles me. And beyond that, it guilts me. Each night I have pep talk with my subconscious, pumping myself up to wake at least each hour. I want to be up to check on my mothet. But, in spite of my best intentions and the stiff coils of my cheap cradle, my body falls into a hypnotic trance. As my mind travels through the comatose Land of Nod, I dream the same continuously loop of actions -- just the desire to wake up and care for my mother.
In no way do I want to make this blog about me, but rather, just my earnest concern for my mother. While an appendectomy is a relatively common surgery, Mom's endured many complications on her path to recovery. Most appendix patients are children and young adults, it seems to me, so maybe her golden years are a disadvantage. Then again, she gets around ten times as good as most 20 year olds, so who knows. Her ailing body has battled infection, extraordinary pain, vicious sleep deprivation and a list of other nagging afflictions. After several days of sickly regression, she seemed drowning in a sea of hopeless despair. But, on Tuesday the surgeon performed a laproscope to tie down and correct the sneaky offender reeking such havoc upon my momma's body. It turned out to be a kinked intestine.
Though Mom was essentially back to square one in the surgical department, Mom's optimism and faith was restored when the doctor said the problems should be fixed.
And, honestly, for the first few days after the second operation, they seemed to be. Now that I've briefly skated around the situation's overview, I can go back to the achy place I started -- the hospital cot. Now don't get me wrong, I've longed for my fancy bed like the some long, lost lover. But, I've jumped from this cot as though it were a heavenly bed of massaging clouds each morning. My body, I suppose, knows its well-being is the least of my concerns.
Though the rickety old pallet has been more restful than I anticipated, I also didn't think I would miss it when I got home. But, now that I'm back, my family is asleep and most my chores are done, I find myself yearning to be back in it. Since I left the hospital, Mom has developed a few new complications. Don't get me wrong, none of them are big, just something that will keep her a patient of Great Plains Regional Medical Center a day or two longer. However, with that on my mind, I wish I could will myself back in that cot, in the shadowy corner of my mother's room.

Momma, get well. You are the NaNa-iest NaNa of them all. (Yes, I know I just made up a word. Eminem does it all the time and he's no whiter than I am.) And, to all our friends and family who have said prayers and sent well wishes to my mother, thank you. The concerns and love of such an eclectic group of friends is a true testimony to my mother's goodness. Thank you!

It's a New Day

Tuesday, July 14

After the first post from my long hiatus this week, I'm sure you don't believe me when I say that I'm about to get back on schedule. I know I promised cuss words. They are coming, I swear. If you've found your way to my blog, chances are good that you like 'em. SHIT! HELL! DAMN! I hope that will tie you over.
Although Mom was definitely still sore, she went home from the hospital on Friday. Albeit slowly, she was getting around. However, her recovery took a turn for the worst on Saturday and she was re-admitted to the hospital. Her tummy was extended as though she was several months pregnant, throbbing and tight from an unexplained blockage. Her skin wrapped firmly around her slim frame. To say she was uncomfortable is an understatement.
As excruciating as threading that plastic tube up through her nose, then looping it back through her nasal cavity and down her throat into her stomach was, Mom more than willingly accepted this treatment if it were a means to an end. Of course, this is not a natural path, so one of the many unsavory side effects was a bloody wound at its entrance. Her throat is now raw and her ears and teeth hurt. But, a full container of murky green bile, a sickly Everglade swamp broth, pumped out of her body within five minutes. Another followed within three hours and, by the end of two days, the nose tube had produced nearly six.
The relentless tormenting pang in her abdomen has steadily remained, at times being worse than the day after the surgery. Of course, each inch of her body that laid in the treacherous path of the nose tube was an avenue of agony. Days and days of laying bed left her back stiff and strained. It's been difficult for me to watch my mother in this endless bounty of pain, but it has been even harder for her to live it.
Each time I've left the hospital, the situation has been in utter disarray when I returned. I'm certain that's a coincidence, but that is the truth, coincidence or not. So, for that reason, I insisted on staying when they re-admitted her early Saturday evening. Cousin Stephanie fetched me a cot and other amenities. She proved quite useful since she was practically reared within the Great Plains Regional Medical Center. Now, if you know me well, you are probably surprised that I'm not belly-aching about the sleeping situation. I am, after all, more attached to my knock off Sleep Number bed than I am to the Bud Light. And you know how I love the Bud Light. Interestingly enough, I woke up Sunday morning bouncing from the spring-riddled cot, undoubtedly the first one ever made and recently stolen from torture chamber in Estonia. I expected to be stove up like an arthritic octagon, but oddly, my body was flowing freely like a trickling creek. Either way, I'm sure my concern for Mom has given me the energy of that drum-beating bunny with the jolted adrenaline of a skydiver. I am fully aware that Mom's care runs smoother when I'm there, so I push forward without even realizing that I am. I
cannot explain it, but I am invigorated by, well, just being needed.
Sometime around noon yesterday, Mom started perking up. Just two hours before that, I remember thinking that she seemed to be making no noticeable progress and then almost instantly, new life was somehow breathed into her body. I had been at the hospital, living in the cot in the corner, for almost three days. As much as I hated leaving, I missed by man and my boys. Oh, while it's on my mind, I need to brag on Rowdy. An appendectomy veteran himself, Rowdy recalls the wicked misery of his own vicious surgery. Plus, Mom likes my company, I suppose, and I fall slightly in the control freak category. He and his mother Glenda have been tremendous in caring for the boys so I can care for my mother. I am never, ever away from Ridge and Rolan, so their absence is tough enough for me. If I had to fret over their welfare in the midst of this, I would feel like a rag doll, torn at the arms in two different, but equally urgent directions. So, kudos to my hero, my man, my Rowdy. At times I forget that a marriage is basically a team and, during this horrific week, I wouldn't want anybody else taking the world on with me.
Though craving kisses from my children was drawing me home like a moth to a faint copper fire, I knew if I didn't return soon Mount Laundry, whose summit is impossible to conquer under regular circumstances, would overtake my ceiling. Around Hacienda Little, socks are mystic fibers, capable of total evaporation literally in front of your eyes. Regardless of the small fortune I spent on these woolly undergarments, I have to keep these bitches constantly washing for Ridge and Rolan to have some barrier between their soft feet and their muggy boots. With Mom's slow, but steady improvement yesterday afternoon, I headed north to baby cuddling and spin cycles.
Of course, I knew I would come back to the hospital today, so I stayed up late tackling the ominous pile of our filthy wardrobes. When I called the nurses' station at 2 am, one of my favorite nurses, Merrilee, told me that Mom wasn't sleeping much. As much as I feared for what this day might hold, I remained optimistic. I never would've imagined this outcome.
Because my little sister broke her hand on Saturday, she had an appointment with the bone guy, Dr. Ahn, to schedule her surgery to repair the vertical break. That fun will go down tomorrow, time unknown at this moment. Anyways, Katie was over here, so I knew she would stay with Mom until I tidied my cluttered home into relative hospitality. But then Katie got here. The dreadful tube had been removed from Mom's nose yesterday, but the physician was informing Mom that it might be installed again to combat the problem in her belly. As a surgeon who receives rave review from all my surgical nursing friends, I was impressed that he admitted that he really wasn't sure what exactly was our nagging culprit. He ordered a cat scan, but also said that he would probably perform a surgical procedure called a laproscope to better pin down the menace. When I told my friend Miranda, a surgical RN, that the doc would be doing this procedure, she informed me that this was a big surgery. The incisions from Mom's first operation would be reopened.
With my step dad, grandmother, aunt and bandaged sister with me in the waiting room, we all watched as the surgical nurse Dawn, a true testament to her profession, rolled Mom away, back behind the double doors and into the cold, sterile world of surgery.
After an hour or so in the waiting room, most of which was spent absorbing the cleaver charm of our grandmother, Dr. Horrileno came out of the operating room. Apparently her intestine had a small kink, just like a ornery water hose, and an unexplained hematoma on her left side was the cause to our obstacles. He cleaned this up, straightened out her kink and patched her back up.

Wednesday, July 15


We got her settled back into the mauve and taupe room that now seems to be our home. Although the nurses hooked Mom's morphine pump back up, they also gave her an extra shot of pain and sleeping medicine to lure her weary body to rest. God knows she needs it. From the unrelenting grips of agony, Mom stole about two hours of sleep. At about 2 am, the partial numbness wore off and Mom was up again for a bit. For two more hours, she hit the morphine pump every 15 minutes, which is what it's timed for, so that it could build up for more slumber. At 4, the nurses pumped one more round of the good stuff, which under normal circumstances I would be totally jealous of, and that put her out for another two hours. Four hours of choppy sleep typically wouldn't be something to celebrate, but it is by far the most Mom has gotten since this mess started a week ago.
As I said before, last night's procedure basically reopened her original wounds, so we know that today and tomorrow will be essentially the same as the first two days after her appendix was removed. But, with the intestine straightened out, we also are confident that by Friday, she should be sailing through the healing process. She finally sees the light at the end of the tunnel, which until today seemed like an unreachable desert abyss. Of course there will be pain as her body mends, but she now has a revitalized hope that was all but extinguished yesterday. To me, that's the most exciting recovery from yesterday's procedure. With each day that brought no new progress and often ushered in regression, I was starting to see my mom resign almost to defeat. It was truly heart-breaking.
I pulled her shades open this morning and the amber dawn cascaded into the room, across my cot and onto her face. It's a new day.