OK so at our Shaw’s, or as I prefer to call it, "The Place That Will Empty My Wallet with a Loaf of Bread and a Gallon of Milk", they have these miniature carts. They are cute little carts that fill your head with nice little images of mothers perfectly coifed, and their well behaved offspring, pushing their matching carts in search of organic and healthy alternatives to Spaghettio’s.
Yeah, they CLEARLY never actually tested this principal.
If I have taken out a small loan to go to Shaw’s, and Henry is with me, he always insists on pushing one of the little carts. I generally concede to this. The alternative would be the “car cart” that inevitably doesn’t steer correctly, and will take out entire displays or other small children that cannot dodge the monstrosity approaching them fast enough. So I don’t argue. Little Man gets his cart.
My problem is, Henry seems to think that this is an opportunity to practice for his stint in NASCAR when he is of age. He starts out all normal and calm, but then he sees that wide open isle in front of him, and you can see it, he just can’t help himself, and off he goes running, and laughing pushing his cart like a wild man. Making the break noise as he veers around corners "EEEEEEERRRRRKKKK"
This ends with lots of disapproving looks from parents of yester-year with their thoughts of “I would never have allowed my child to misbehave like that.” To which my response is:
“YOU DIDN'T HAVE STUFF THAT WAS KID ORIENTED. You didn’t have to worry about it. Come on Lady, between balloons, little carts and happy meals, it is a freaking romper room of terror for mothers out here…have some heart.”
We tend to actually get through the grocery store, but I have to tell you, we got up to the check out, and Henry was unloading his cart…there were a few things in there that I had to explain weren’t mine, and I was terribly sorry could they put it back?
The checkout lady rolled her eyes as she took the Depends Undergarments, Feminine Wipes, and big bag of Milky Way Minatures, and put them in that cart they have for unwanted items.
Yeah, it was really a fun trip…*Note: Dripping Sarcasm*
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Little Mans First Day of Preschool
So today was little mans first day of preschool. I am sure that this is supposed to stir up all sorts of emotions, crying, sadness that he is moving on in the world...but really? I just sat staring at my cell phone waiting for them to call me and tell me to come get him for any number of offences I was imagining in my head.
Maiming someone with a paintbrush after having a John Deere taken out of his hand, pooping in his pants and hiding it in a corner of the room, throwing a temper tantrum about having to go inside, outside, to the bathroom, or eat something he didn't want...you get the picture.
But alas, no phone call, not even a blip on the radar. I went to pick him up thinking, "wow, it was a successful day!"
Of course, I cannot have something go off with out a hitch, that might alter the universe in some adverse way.
So, I am thinking that things were all great...we pull into the garage after preschool. Henry opens the door, and proceeds to fall out of the car, knocking his head on the door, and has a lump the size of Arkansas on his head that is now black and blue and is turning slowly into a shiner too...
Arkansas....Do you know how big that state is?????
Maiming someone with a paintbrush after having a John Deere taken out of his hand, pooping in his pants and hiding it in a corner of the room, throwing a temper tantrum about having to go inside, outside, to the bathroom, or eat something he didn't want...you get the picture.
But alas, no phone call, not even a blip on the radar. I went to pick him up thinking, "wow, it was a successful day!"Of course, I cannot have something go off with out a hitch, that might alter the universe in some adverse way.
So, I am thinking that things were all great...we pull into the garage after preschool. Henry opens the door, and proceeds to fall out of the car, knocking his head on the door, and has a lump the size of Arkansas on his head that is now black and blue and is turning slowly into a shiner too...
Arkansas....Do you know how big that state is?????
Monday, July 28, 2008
Angst: Noun, Verb, Adjective, Adverb, Pronoun
OK so do you remember those years when being sullen was a sport? No? Hmmm perhaps I was at the Olympics by myself for that one. I remember it pretty well.
My eldest seems to be hitting that age a little earlier than I did, but from what I hear, I have poisoned her with highly hormonal meat and milk so much as a child, that now she is going to have gigantic boobs, and hit puberty early. (This rather scary picture of gigantic boobs and zits with lunch boxes going through my head right now, is very unsettling.) But there is nothing I can do about it now. Of course as we got educated, we changed how we bought milk and meat. We are more aware of it, and Jamie is glad, he was worried about Henry having double D’s in middle school.
None the less, last night, tonight??? (it is all running together as it is 2 AM and insomnia hits again!) I was taking camera footage of the kids…I know I know, SHOCKER.
Caroline had made up her own brand of dancing called “Sallet” (Pronounced like ballet with an s) which she claims, is “just like ballet but much more exciting because it is full of leaps and turns and stuff” I filmed it like a diligent mother. Ooohing and aahhhhing, as she leapt around the room, frequently knocking over lamps and tables, and running into the TV cabinet from time to time in her rendition of “sallet”. Then, there was the boy, who, was dancing to his birthday card music in his underwear. Yeah, another real shocker.
I turn the camera on Marshall and say, what shall we film you doing? This is what I got for her.
OH YEAH…I have some fun years ahead of me!
My eldest seems to be hitting that age a little earlier than I did, but from what I hear, I have poisoned her with highly hormonal meat and milk so much as a child, that now she is going to have gigantic boobs, and hit puberty early. (This rather scary picture of gigantic boobs and zits with lunch boxes going through my head right now, is very unsettling.) But there is nothing I can do about it now. Of course as we got educated, we changed how we bought milk and meat. We are more aware of it, and Jamie is glad, he was worried about Henry having double D’s in middle school.
None the less, last night, tonight??? (it is all running together as it is 2 AM and insomnia hits again!) I was taking camera footage of the kids…I know I know, SHOCKER.
Caroline had made up her own brand of dancing called “Sallet” (Pronounced like ballet with an s) which she claims, is “just like ballet but much more exciting because it is full of leaps and turns and stuff” I filmed it like a diligent mother. Ooohing and aahhhhing, as she leapt around the room, frequently knocking over lamps and tables, and running into the TV cabinet from time to time in her rendition of “sallet”. Then, there was the boy, who, was dancing to his birthday card music in his underwear. Yeah, another real shocker.
I turn the camera on Marshall and say, what shall we film you doing? This is what I got for her.
OH YEAH…I have some fun years ahead of me!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
My Life Is Becoming a Bad Country Song
As I sit down to write this morning, I am painfully aware that my life is becoming a bad country song. My house is broke, my grandmother broke, my car broke (for the second time since we broke our house), I broke, and now my boy broke, and it is slowly making my husband and I go broke.
I know, I know, oh woest me. It can only get better, but I am starting to get a little scared to keep saying that, because I am fairly sure that the Murphy’s Law Gang is somewhere going…YEEEEHAAAWWW she said it again!
My eldest had a “thing” at the library. So we went there…I should have known better…the dreaded library…bad things seem to happen to my family in that building, and this is the second emergency room visit that has occurred under the curse of that building! (Yeah, I do realize that I spend a lot of time there, and I work there, which quite possibly is tempting fate a tad)
So I am having a lovely conversation about the meeting that I had to go to later that night when I hear a shriek from the back corner… I may sound a little insensitive here, but in my defense the boy tends to shriek over hangnails, scrapes and let us not forget the limping incident, so I sort of casually turned around…and droned my automated response “you’re OK Henry”
Yeah, this is when I feel like a complete ASS, because Pam, the woman I was currently talking to, became a transformer, turned into “Super Nurse” and ran over to him. (yeah, she does kinda rock…)
She looks at me and says “He is probably going to need stitches Hon.”
The kind of jolts me from insensitive mom thinking he scraped his knee, to cupping my hand over his forehead to keep the buckets of blood from getting into his eyes. (You know head wounds) I will give myself some credit here, I did remain calm. Even when I had to physically hold my kid down while they gave him stitches, only to have him screaming at the top of his lungs “PLEEEAASE GET OFF MOMMY” “PLEEEEAAAASE MAKE THEM STOP MOMMY” I remained calm.
Needless to say, not only was my heart ripped out of my chest by his pleading, but when we walked back out into the waiting room there were a few traumatized waiting patients and parents, with eyes wide staring at my kid. Who at this point was bouncing around and asking for a sticker. I am not sure if anyone canceled their appointment, but I can’t say that I would have blamed them…it sounded like that scene from Law and Order about re-birthing.
But as you can see, little man is fine, stitched up (which he calls his “itches”) and already climbing he walls. Let’s hope that there is an ending to this country song soon, I am not sure my heart or my wallet can take it!
I know, I know, oh woest me. It can only get better, but I am starting to get a little scared to keep saying that, because I am fairly sure that the Murphy’s Law Gang is somewhere going…YEEEEHAAAWWW she said it again!
My eldest had a “thing” at the library. So we went there…I should have known better…the dreaded library…bad things seem to happen to my family in that building, and this is the second emergency room visit that has occurred under the curse of that building! (Yeah, I do realize that I spend a lot of time there, and I work there, which quite possibly is tempting fate a tad)
So I am having a lovely conversation about the meeting that I had to go to later that night when I hear a shriek from the back corner… I may sound a little insensitive here, but in my defense the boy tends to shriek over hangnails, scrapes and let us not forget the limping incident, so I sort of casually turned around…and droned my automated response “you’re OK Henry”
Yeah, this is when I feel like a complete ASS, because Pam, the woman I was currently talking to, became a transformer, turned into “Super Nurse” and ran over to him. (yeah, she does kinda rock…)
She looks at me and says “He is probably going to need stitches Hon.”
The kind of jolts me from insensitive mom thinking he scraped his knee, to cupping my hand over his forehead to keep the buckets of blood from getting into his eyes. (You know head wounds) I will give myself some credit here, I did remain calm. Even when I had to physically hold my kid down while they gave him stitches, only to have him screaming at the top of his lungs “PLEEEAASE GET OFF MOMMY” “PLEEEEAAAASE MAKE THEM STOP MOMMY” I remained calm.
Needless to say, not only was my heart ripped out of my chest by his pleading, but when we walked back out into the waiting room there were a few traumatized waiting patients and parents, with eyes wide staring at my kid. Who at this point was bouncing around and asking for a sticker. I am not sure if anyone canceled their appointment, but I can’t say that I would have blamed them…it sounded like that scene from Law and Order about re-birthing.
But as you can see, little man is fine, stitched up (which he calls his “itches”) and already climbing he walls. Let’s hope that there is an ending to this country song soon, I am not sure my heart or my wallet can take it!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Out of the Norm
While I am usually so full of snark and stories, you know the kind that make you wonder what divine being ever thought it was a good idea to allow me to have children, and even better...more than one! This week I just seem to be plum tired. Not that there aren’t plenty of funny moments, I just didn’t seem to have the energy to tell them…until today.
My friend and I had set our kids up to do a project at the library. Now mind you this meant that we had to corral our boys that are virtually the same age in a quiet place, for over an hour. This is a feat let me tell you. The boys were running around, fighting over blocks and cars, and finally settled on putting the earphones for the books on tape, and singing really loud. (Which when you are two and three consists of “laaaa laaa Peanutbutterrrrr laaa deee daaaa laaa when I drive meeeee mommmeeeeeeee llaaaaa in a traiiiinnnnn” I mean we aren’t talking “Bad Moon Rising”)
We started to recover from this embarrassment with lots of shushing and “in public correct parenting,” when, another little boy brought out this box of rubber snakes, flies, and frogs etc… that the library had left over from a Harry Potter Exhibit. Henry, clearly thinking that this is the coolest box of stuff EVER, runs over and immediately picks up the longest grossest looking snake in the pile.
Side bar: Now, I am not scared of snakes, I am thankful that my father or my husband were not there because they very well could have run from the library screaming like pre-pubescent girls if they were in charge…but I was OK…UNTIL, Henry started saying, in his NOT library voice,
“Mommy, come touch my snake.”
My friend and I looked at each other, and in a true Farley brother’s moment, started giggling. (Yes we ARE THAT MATURE.) OK so that is kind of funny, no big deal… the problem is, he wouldn’t stop saying it. He kept following me around the library asking me to touch his snake. The other mothers were laughing, although one of the librarians looked horrified and I thought she might have to take medical leave or something.
He finally stopped when he noticed my friend, whom he calls “Pretty Lady,” reading a story about trucks to her son. He sat down next to them and listened to the story. Then, in true Henry style, stuck his head in-between my friend and the book, looked up at her with his big brown eyes, and a look of true earnest flirtation, and said “Hey, Pretty Lady, want to touch my snake?”
I have found my laugh button again…thanks to Henry.
My friend and I had set our kids up to do a project at the library. Now mind you this meant that we had to corral our boys that are virtually the same age in a quiet place, for over an hour. This is a feat let me tell you. The boys were running around, fighting over blocks and cars, and finally settled on putting the earphones for the books on tape, and singing really loud. (Which when you are two and three consists of “laaaa laaa Peanutbutterrrrr laaa deee daaaa laaa when I drive meeeee mommmeeeeeeee llaaaaa in a traiiiinnnnn” I mean we aren’t talking “Bad Moon Rising”)
We started to recover from this embarrassment with lots of shushing and “in public correct parenting,” when, another little boy brought out this box of rubber snakes, flies, and frogs etc… that the library had left over from a Harry Potter Exhibit. Henry, clearly thinking that this is the coolest box of stuff EVER, runs over and immediately picks up the longest grossest looking snake in the pile.
Side bar: Now, I am not scared of snakes, I am thankful that my father or my husband were not there because they very well could have run from the library screaming like pre-pubescent girls if they were in charge…but I was OK…UNTIL, Henry started saying, in his NOT library voice,
“Mommy, come touch my snake.”
My friend and I looked at each other, and in a true Farley brother’s moment, started giggling. (Yes we ARE THAT MATURE.) OK so that is kind of funny, no big deal… the problem is, he wouldn’t stop saying it. He kept following me around the library asking me to touch his snake. The other mothers were laughing, although one of the librarians looked horrified and I thought she might have to take medical leave or something.
He finally stopped when he noticed my friend, whom he calls “Pretty Lady,” reading a story about trucks to her son. He sat down next to them and listened to the story. Then, in true Henry style, stuck his head in-between my friend and the book, looked up at her with his big brown eyes, and a look of true earnest flirtation, and said “Hey, Pretty Lady, want to touch my snake?”
I have found my laugh button again…thanks to Henry.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures...
There are few times in my life that I can remember stooping to a new low out of complete desperation....OK well maybe not, but at least in my adult life with kids...Ok, yeah, not then either, (as I think of all the bribes, partial truths and desperate TV measures for survival.) So I guess what I should just say is, my desperation is sending me to a dark place...a place that is so bad to me, that nails on a chalk board sound like the Mozart Requiem in my ears...
Elmo’s World
Now I am fully aware that there are huge Elmo fans in this world...I have nothing to say to them except...I don't know what gene mutation they may have in their family gene pool, but I didn't receive that one.
Henry has been "potty trained" since last fall. I put "potty trained" in quotes because I use that term lightly. He can pee in the potty, always, and rarely has an accident. However, the boy continues to poop in his underwear every day. There were all sorts of medical reasons at first, dietary excuses to chalk all the accidents up to, and to keep me from throwing him and his nasty underwear out the window.
But now, after countless hours of gagging, rinsing, bleaching, begging, bribing, pleading, yelling, reasoning...I have resorted to...yup, Elmo. I netflixed "Elmo Potty Time."
If this doesn’t work, I am going to paten a pair of underwear that is like a self cleaning oven so that I don't have to do it anymore, maybe they can self-incinerate...that is if I have any of my mind left after hearing Elmo and his Father discussing toilets, and listening to Stevie Wonder or who ever it is, sing cheesy songs about "trying, trying, trying" … Or if I can stop talking about myself in Elmo language…
Well, Pie is going to go and clean up to go for a Hike, because Pie needs to get out today. Pie is feeling a little housebound…
Uh-Oh
Elmo’s World
Now I am fully aware that there are huge Elmo fans in this world...I have nothing to say to them except...I don't know what gene mutation they may have in their family gene pool, but I didn't receive that one.
Henry has been "potty trained" since last fall. I put "potty trained" in quotes because I use that term lightly. He can pee in the potty, always, and rarely has an accident. However, the boy continues to poop in his underwear every day. There were all sorts of medical reasons at first, dietary excuses to chalk all the accidents up to, and to keep me from throwing him and his nasty underwear out the window.
But now, after countless hours of gagging, rinsing, bleaching, begging, bribing, pleading, yelling, reasoning...I have resorted to...yup, Elmo. I netflixed "Elmo Potty Time."
If this doesn’t work, I am going to paten a pair of underwear that is like a self cleaning oven so that I don't have to do it anymore, maybe they can self-incinerate...that is if I have any of my mind left after hearing Elmo and his Father discussing toilets, and listening to Stevie Wonder or who ever it is, sing cheesy songs about "trying, trying, trying" … Or if I can stop talking about myself in Elmo language…
Well, Pie is going to go and clean up to go for a Hike, because Pie needs to get out today. Pie is feeling a little housebound…
Uh-Oh
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
What Happens When You Have Two Older Sisters...
Sometimes you want to play a little dress up and then play with your remote control tractors...sometimes you want to be a lion...sometimes the best you can do is a cat suit with a fuzzy tail and a remote control with no batteries, and you just have to lean back and look cool about it...
Yeah I know, even Jamie called him "Heff" this morning...you should see him in his robe...it is a little frightening. But I have to say, Jamie has certainly loosened up a little with him being the third kid...He even allowed him to go out for ice cream in this getup...He didn't let him out of the car....but he went out for ice cream...baby steps...just baby steps.
Yeah I know, even Jamie called him "Heff" this morning...you should see him in his robe...it is a little frightening. But I have to say, Jamie has certainly loosened up a little with him being the third kid...He even allowed him to go out for ice cream in this getup...He didn't let him out of the car....but he went out for ice cream...baby steps...just baby steps.Thursday, March 20, 2008
What am I raising?
In this time of insecurity. This time of not knowing what the future holds for all of us, or our children, I am watching my kids flinging their arms over their heads like bad 80's dancers, music blaring, and I start to wonder, what am I raising?
Sitting around the table tonight for my first family dinner of the week, after a long week of sick kids, maneuvering schedules, hand-offs in the library parking lot, fixing dinner and running to choir practice, and all the other things that call us from our tables at night, I looked at my family and smiled. There is a saying between my sister and I:
"You know life is good when you can dance in the kitchen."
So here is my addition to today. In the midst of chaos, insecurities, sickness, and hanging on by a thread...it is still good enough to dance in the kitchen.
Alas, I am not sure that the messages my children will carry on from our music are OK, since, they are head banging to "Everybody Must Get Stoned." I won't even go into all the explanations I have come up with for that song, All the double etendres I have sought out, all the various justifications...but in the end does it really matter???? We are still dancing in the kitchen. For the record, I do recognize that my kids...well, lets just say, will not soon be on MTV, or dancing with the stars...although I am thankful for that. There is only so much of Mario Lopez one can take with out multiple trips to the gagatorium!
So here is my contribution for the day! and folks, the answer is blowing in the wind!
Sitting around the table tonight for my first family dinner of the week, after a long week of sick kids, maneuvering schedules, hand-offs in the library parking lot, fixing dinner and running to choir practice, and all the other things that call us from our tables at night, I looked at my family and smiled. There is a saying between my sister and I:
"You know life is good when you can dance in the kitchen."
So here is my addition to today. In the midst of chaos, insecurities, sickness, and hanging on by a thread...it is still good enough to dance in the kitchen.
Alas, I am not sure that the messages my children will carry on from our music are OK, since, they are head banging to "Everybody Must Get Stoned." I won't even go into all the explanations I have come up with for that song, All the double etendres I have sought out, all the various justifications...but in the end does it really matter???? We are still dancing in the kitchen. For the record, I do recognize that my kids...well, lets just say, will not soon be on MTV, or dancing with the stars...although I am thankful for that. There is only so much of Mario Lopez one can take with out multiple trips to the gagatorium!
So here is my contribution for the day! and folks, the answer is blowing in the wind!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
I finished "Every Mother is a Daughter"
I am not trying to copy Leila* here (no worries Leila, I couldn't hold a candle!) but I figured instead of spending all my time being sarcastic, I will add a little something about things I have read etc... You know, so you all think I have some semblance of intelligence!
I finished listening to Every Mother is a Daughter , (yes, I do listen to books around the house or in my car...it is NOT a cop out...it is a busy moms way of staying involved in literature...so says I! But in my defense, I still read some too, it just takes a long time.)
I would love to have something sarcastic to say about this book, but I don't. Being 35 and lucky enough to have a 92 year old grandmother to take care of, also being lucky enough to have a mom, (who would kick my butt if I said how old she is on here,) and the great fortune of having two lovely daughters, I devoured this book whole heartedly. Not always identifying with one character over another, but with little bits of both of them as they wove their way through writing this book.
It lead me to wonder about what my mother would write about me, of who I am. Or what we would have to write about if we were to write a book together. It made me look at my daughter and realize that she is going to grow up and at some point have to take care of me, and what would she say about that? What would be her memories of my strengths and weaknesses be? What observations would she make about my life, that I would have never seen as having impact?
Perri Klass, and Sheila Solomon Klass, the mother and daughter that wrote this book are both, obviously, writers, and both have lived extraordinary lives, of travel, adventure, and humor. Lives truly rich in academia, which led me to realize the opulence of my own childhood. Not in monetary wealth, but a life that was steeped in educational pursuits, travel and the desire of my parents to open my eyes and take in the world around me and all that it has to offer.
So no snark here today, if you are a mom, or a daughter, it is worth a read. Take a minute like I did, to laugh at the idiosyncrasies of people, the dysfunction of all our families, and swell with the emotion of it all. In the end, those links and bonds that we build with our families and pass on to the following generations, are our mark on this world. They are our legacy, and they are precious.
* Leila is a friend I work with at the library, who is Uber smart, (to use one of her words,) reads like, 400 books a day, and then writes an incredible blog about them. In comparison on the book front, I am the kid in the back row stretching my bubble gum out to see how far it will go and getting it stuck all over my fingers... But she never makes me feel that way, so I love her anyway!]
I finished listening to Every Mother is a Daughter , (yes, I do listen to books around the house or in my car...it is NOT a cop out...it is a busy moms way of staying involved in literature...so says I! But in my defense, I still read some too, it just takes a long time.)
I would love to have something sarcastic to say about this book, but I don't. Being 35 and lucky enough to have a 92 year old grandmother to take care of, also being lucky enough to have a mom, (who would kick my butt if I said how old she is on here,) and the great fortune of having two lovely daughters, I devoured this book whole heartedly. Not always identifying with one character over another, but with little bits of both of them as they wove their way through writing this book.
It lead me to wonder about what my mother would write about me, of who I am. Or what we would have to write about if we were to write a book together. It made me look at my daughter and realize that she is going to grow up and at some point have to take care of me, and what would she say about that? What would be her memories of my strengths and weaknesses be? What observations would she make about my life, that I would have never seen as having impact?
Perri Klass, and Sheila Solomon Klass, the mother and daughter that wrote this book are both, obviously, writers, and both have lived extraordinary lives, of travel, adventure, and humor. Lives truly rich in academia, which led me to realize the opulence of my own childhood. Not in monetary wealth, but a life that was steeped in educational pursuits, travel and the desire of my parents to open my eyes and take in the world around me and all that it has to offer.
So no snark here today, if you are a mom, or a daughter, it is worth a read. Take a minute like I did, to laugh at the idiosyncrasies of people, the dysfunction of all our families, and swell with the emotion of it all. In the end, those links and bonds that we build with our families and pass on to the following generations, are our mark on this world. They are our legacy, and they are precious.
* Leila is a friend I work with at the library, who is Uber smart, (to use one of her words,) reads like, 400 books a day, and then writes an incredible blog about them. In comparison on the book front, I am the kid in the back row stretching my bubble gum out to see how far it will go and getting it stuck all over my fingers... But she never makes me feel that way, so I love her anyway!]
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
My Eyes are Burning!!
3/12/08
MY EYES, MY EYES,…I CAN FEEL THE BURNING, I CAN'T SEE.
What is wrong you say? My eyes are developing scar tissue as I type since this morning my sister and I were summoned to help my grandmother take a bandage off her head….after her shower…which she insisted that we sit in on to make sure that she did it right…. Yes this was our thought too…after 92 years of showering…is there a worry you would get it wrong? But this is the way it is with my sweet grandmother…which she really is…most of the time. But she worries about everything, and with this, just another worry session that she would do something wrong in the shower and would somehow…I don’t know, I guess explode or something.
So there we were, my sister and I sitting dutifully with our two year olds, trying to keep them from beating each other over the head with rare, antiques in her living room…which by the way, my grandmother always protests “There is nothing they can hurt here” to which my sister and I always politely respond: (while removing the 400$ crystal candy dish top from the sticky fingers that are holding it in throw position) …”Um, yeah, its been a while since mom was 2 huh?!?” (This is my mothers mother.)
We hear our summons, my grandmother, frantically yelling for us to check and see if she has wet down the bandage on top of her head enough to get it off.
Us: “Do you want a towel to cover up?”
Her: “No, I am 92 what do I have to worry about”
Us: Um we are more worried about this lovely memory burned into our brain than yours, since you are likely to forget it in the next ten minutes! (We really didn’t say this, My sister and I are actually good granddaughters, but we did look at each other and instantly understood that is what we were thinking.)
We dutifully got to work at un-sticking her bandage from her hair on the top of her head while skillfully avoiding eye contact with our grandmothers naked body dripping in the shower…which come on folks, I am not being mean here, but lets face it…gravity is not always kind to us as we age…and there were parts that were down to other parts that just…well, It was just NOT ok. (I know that I am securing my place in hell for this story. But I promise we are good grand daughters.)
Us: “we are trying not to hurt you, are you sure you don’t want a towel, aren’t you cold?”
Her: “No I am fine, can you see the scar?”
Us: “Yeah it isn’t too bad” By which we mean “OMG I have to get the heck out of here before I barf in the tub and add more bad memories to this entire affair”
My grandmother had a small cancerous growth on the top of her head, which from what it looks like, they scooped out with an ice cream scooper and then plopped a bandage on top and left it to us to look at and take care of. I know that this isn’t fair because the Dr was wonderful and really did do a good job, but looking at this hole in her head, sort of made me realize why I never went to medical school…well that and the fact that beer was a better friend to me in college then my books were…but that is neither here nor there.
But set your minds at ease, all was ok, the bandage was removed, the body got covered in a robe eventually, AND we managed to keep my son, who at this point has a fairly un-healthy (or healthy according to my husband) obsession with “Boobahs,” out of the bathroom while we worked on my grandmother in the shower. I really was concerned about this, especially after his experience with the man boobs in his Swimming lesson, that he wouldn’t stop talking about, and clearly was traumatized by. And while the scar tissue on my eyes will not last as long as the memory of my grandmothers “boobahs” in the shower, the end result was her feeling secure and taken care of…and in the end that is what is important…right?....RIGHT?????
MY EYES, MY EYES,…I CAN FEEL THE BURNING, I CAN'T SEE.
What is wrong you say? My eyes are developing scar tissue as I type since this morning my sister and I were summoned to help my grandmother take a bandage off her head….after her shower…which she insisted that we sit in on to make sure that she did it right…. Yes this was our thought too…after 92 years of showering…is there a worry you would get it wrong? But this is the way it is with my sweet grandmother…which she really is…most of the time. But she worries about everything, and with this, just another worry session that she would do something wrong in the shower and would somehow…I don’t know, I guess explode or something.
So there we were, my sister and I sitting dutifully with our two year olds, trying to keep them from beating each other over the head with rare, antiques in her living room…which by the way, my grandmother always protests “There is nothing they can hurt here” to which my sister and I always politely respond: (while removing the 400$ crystal candy dish top from the sticky fingers that are holding it in throw position) …”Um, yeah, its been a while since mom was 2 huh?!?” (This is my mothers mother.)
We hear our summons, my grandmother, frantically yelling for us to check and see if she has wet down the bandage on top of her head enough to get it off.
Us: “Do you want a towel to cover up?”
Her: “No, I am 92 what do I have to worry about”
Us: Um we are more worried about this lovely memory burned into our brain than yours, since you are likely to forget it in the next ten minutes! (We really didn’t say this, My sister and I are actually good granddaughters, but we did look at each other and instantly understood that is what we were thinking.)
We dutifully got to work at un-sticking her bandage from her hair on the top of her head while skillfully avoiding eye contact with our grandmothers naked body dripping in the shower…which come on folks, I am not being mean here, but lets face it…gravity is not always kind to us as we age…and there were parts that were down to other parts that just…well, It was just NOT ok. (I know that I am securing my place in hell for this story. But I promise we are good grand daughters.)
Us: “we are trying not to hurt you, are you sure you don’t want a towel, aren’t you cold?”
Her: “No I am fine, can you see the scar?”
Us: “Yeah it isn’t too bad” By which we mean “OMG I have to get the heck out of here before I barf in the tub and add more bad memories to this entire affair”
My grandmother had a small cancerous growth on the top of her head, which from what it looks like, they scooped out with an ice cream scooper and then plopped a bandage on top and left it to us to look at and take care of. I know that this isn’t fair because the Dr was wonderful and really did do a good job, but looking at this hole in her head, sort of made me realize why I never went to medical school…well that and the fact that beer was a better friend to me in college then my books were…but that is neither here nor there.
But set your minds at ease, all was ok, the bandage was removed, the body got covered in a robe eventually, AND we managed to keep my son, who at this point has a fairly un-healthy (or healthy according to my husband) obsession with “Boobahs,” out of the bathroom while we worked on my grandmother in the shower. I really was concerned about this, especially after his experience with the man boobs in his Swimming lesson, that he wouldn’t stop talking about, and clearly was traumatized by. And while the scar tissue on my eyes will not last as long as the memory of my grandmothers “boobahs” in the shower, the end result was her feeling secure and taken care of…and in the end that is what is important…right?....RIGHT?????
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