Happy Birthday Ethan

Ethan is 10 years old. I don't have any kids in single digits anymore. I'll only have him for another nine years. I miss him already. I knew at the end the of Summer of 2011, it would be my last summer of my baby and me. This last summer he hung out with me, but I know he secretly wanted to be with his friends. A year ago I was his best friend. Now he tells me Abby and I are neck and neck in the running of his best friend that's a girl. I did remind him that I carried him for nine months and changed his diapers, got up in the middle of the night, and I buy him stuff. But he said Abby is softer. On his birthday we made cupcakes when I got home from school, then he opened his presents. He is getting so grown-up. It makes me sad. I have to remind him that he used to love me so much he said when I die, he'd bury me in the back yard, so he can dig me up every day to see me. Now he says "that's really gross". I thought it was sweet. Every once in awhile I see a snipit of little Ethan. The little "Bonk-O-Zonks" in front of him are one inch plastic figures. He made a tournament of them racing the other night and he was talking for them, to himself, and cheering for them. It made me smile. Ethan is a good kid. He's so sensitive to other people hurting, he's so sweet, and smart and funny. He loves animals and his big brother so much. The other day he told me he didn't know if he wanted to be a vet, or basketball player when he grows up. I told him he should be a pediatrician, and he said, "I really don't like a lot of kids that much..."  Ethan is still my buddy. I love him so much. I'll try to keep him little as long as I can.

Once Again...

I know- I'm wearing too much make-up.

Sometimes Abby doubles as a football.

He's the handsomest 12-year-old I know.

 

Once again I am wishing my life away. Now that school has started for the boys, we are insanely busy. Ethan has football practice Monday, Tuesday and Thursday nights from 6:00- 7:30. A game every other Monday night from 5:00- 7:30 and games Saturday mornings which last two and a half hours. Both boys have Sunday school on Sunday. Noah has Wednesday morning Sunday school for confirmation, along with Wednesday night confirmation activities from 5:30-9:00. He also has practice every day from 4:00 (right when school gets out) until 6:00. Two to three days a week he plays football from 5:30-7:30. So Wednesdays for Noah look like this; Wake up at 7:00. Confirmation 8:00-8:50, school 9:05-3:55, football 4:00-6:00, confirmation 5:30 (yes, I KNOW they overlap) until 9:00. When is the kid supposed to eat or do homework? I know it was our choice to put him in football and confirmation, but it seems like you really can't do both. Also, 7th grade is soo much harder. Noah is in the advanced classes- which again is out choice, but every teacher takes the "half hour of homework each night" as "half hour of homework in every one of your seven classes each night." I just keep thinking, if we can make it through September and into the middle of October we'll be fine. There you go- wishing away my life. I decided to take it one week at a time, but that's still wishing it all away.

 



I think I am a little autistic. I'm taking an autism class and I read the first chapter and a half. At times, I think it describes me to a tee. I always eat my Skittles in this order; orange, green, red, yellow, blue and then purple- except I leave one orange for last because they are my favorites. I have to eat them in that order because it's complimentary colors. I also eat my vitamin gummies in order too. All of the reds first, then orange, then yellow, then purple. And I have issues with my feet. If I think my feet are at all dirty, sweaty, smelly or sticky, I have to wash them before I climb into bed. I can't wear flip-flops where the shoe strap touches between my toes because it gives me a stomach ache. I also fixate a little on the seem on my socks if it's touching the tips of my toes. When that happens, I can't quit moving my toes. I can't help it. I don't throw a tantrum or anything if I can't have my skittles or vitamins a certain way, but I do know I will have three weeks of bad luck if I eat them in the wrong order, and I could never fall asleep if my feet weren't just right. Another thing- I have to say "The Hail Mary" after I say the Lord's Prayer- even when I'm at my LUTHERAN church, a weeding or a funeral. I think if I don't give Mary her due attention God will send me straight to hell. That may not be an autistic thing but a weird Catholic thing. Some priest probably told me that once. You know them- always wanting to weed out who gets to go to Heaven, as if it'll get too crowded and they won't be allowed in.

 

Hopefully the next six weeks will go by quickly, my baby will have time to do homework AND confirmation, and my autism class will teach me how to be normal.

 

Thoughts I think: I used to have super powers, but then my therapist took them away.

Funerals

As I was sitting at Harriett's funeral I noticed something. Light olive green is the new black. To avoid crying I count stuff sometimes, and out of the 67 people at the funeral, 15 of them wore a light shade of olive green, and 11 of the 15 were my relatives. My child was one of them, little did I know I was setting him up to be in fashion. I guess I like green. I like black better because it's slimming, but if I wear it too many days in a row Noah asks me if I am turning "goth", and the gym teacher asks why I am in mourning. Last year I told him I was in "silent protest of the school year". The funeral was nice. They didn't talk about September 11, like at my mom's funeral, or how seven maidens were late for a lunch-on with Jesus therefore were kicked out, like at my grandma's. Both topics were really stupid. Do the priests close their eyes, pick a page in the newspaper or Bible and try to make that one work? My mom was so out of it at the end, she didn't even know 9/11 happened. And my grandma's family is NOTORIOUS for being late every where, so that really one didn't make sense, unless the priest was telling us all "you fools are always late and will be banned from Heaven." Which is not comforting at all. I know what you are all thinking, 'at least being late runs in her family...' See, I really can't help it. It'd be like trying to change my eye color- which actually comes from the other side of the family. Anyway, after the funeral we all drove out to the cemetery in Downer. The cemetery is basically a "family cemetery" where a few neighbor's family members are buried as well. It's at least 2/5 Heng. While we are standing by the casket I look to my left and see my mom's foot stone. She is to the right of Harriett's husband, Johnny. Harriett's hole was not left of her husband. It was on the wrong side of the foot stone. The whole time I am thinking I've got to be wrong, but nope. They dug the wrong hole. They were about to lower the coffin when I leaned over to dad and said, "That's a foot stone, not a head stone. They dug the wrong hole." Dad told Harriett's son that she wouldn't be next to her husband. He said he "didn't care, as long as they are in the same cemetery." Dad talked to the guys who dug the hole, they were actually waiting on the road near by to cover it up- I've never noticed that before. They swore the foot stone was a head stone and started digging as if it were a head stone looking for Johnny. They dug more than seven feet down and didn't hit anything. Then they dug as if the foot stone was a foot stone and found Johnny's vault. After that, they dug the right hole for Harriett. I think I should go paint a big red x as to where dad is supposed to be when the time comes. I didn't go to the lunch-on after because I didn't want to deal with the step-monster. But I heard they served drinks, just like Harriett would have wanted.
Thoughts that I think: If I liked eating a little bit less and exercising a little bit more, I'd like my clothes and going in public more.

Good Bye Aunt Harriett

Today I said good-bye to my aunt Harriett. She lived a long, healthy, happy live. I would love to have half the adventures she had. She had  the most wonderful marriage to the love of her life,  and lived each day to the fullest. She was 92-years-old. It's only been the last few months that she hasn't felt well. She actually wore high heels up until she broke her hip five years ago. She didn't break her hip wearing heals, she broke it taking a picture of the flowers she got on her birthday. Harriett loved to talk. She would talk and talk, then cover her mouth and say, "Oh my, I'm talking too much", but then continue on talking. Her and her husband, Johnny, truly adored each other. Maybe it was because she talked so much, or because she said anything that popped into her head, but she always had knew what to say. When I lost babies, she told me, "It is the most horrible thing in the world. You'll never get over it." Then went on to tell me about the times she lost her newborn babies.It wasn't the politically correct thing to say. It really isn't something I would tell a grieving mother, but it did make me feel better. I realized it could have been worse (even though saying "it could be worse," really is the worst thing you can say), and I'll probably never get over it, but like her I can go on to live a happy live. When my mom died she said, "It's unfair that you are too young. It'll take a long time until it gets better, if ever." At the time I thought 'wow- thanks Harriett', but she was right. You just learn to live on. She was a living example of how you can't let tragedy define you. Nothing slowed her down. A few weeks before she died, she told me she was hoping to go to my cousin's wedding. I think it was a hint that she wanted me to take her. Harriett had something to say about everything, and could to relate to anything you are talking about. She worked at Hornbacher's for years in the meat department, usually handing out samples, and telling people what kind of meat and how much to serve for guests. That is actually kind-of funny, because Harriett always made the same amount of food whether she's cooking for three, or twenty. I bet there were a lot of hungry guests in Moorhead back in the day. When I started working at Hornbacher's, she was thrilled I was at her old stomping grounds, and I knew a lot of the same people. One of the people she knew was 'Alice'. Alice was a sweet, little old lady who gave out meat samples and always washed her dishes in the deli, where I worked. Actually, she didn't wash the dishes, one of us working did it for her as she talked to us. We all thought she was this sweet, tiny lady who couldn't even reach into the bottom of the sink. We loved when Alice came because she would tell us college kids how proud our parents must be and how wonderful we are. One Thanksgiving, Harriett asked me if I knew Alice. I got all excited because I loved Alice, I said, "Yes! She is so sweet!" Harriett replied in her normal tone, "Oh how I hate that woman." It was hilarious. I didn't think Harriett could hate anyone, and it was funny how calmly she said it. Turns out this woman would "steal" all of the good shifts from Harriett, and she would tell the person making the schedule that Harriett wanted her to. When I told Harriett Scott and I were going on a cruise for our honeymoon, she said, "Well I hope that lady doesn't crawl in bed with your guys like she did with Johnny and me." As if there is a lady living on the ship who goes around slipping into bed with people. I have many wonderful memories of her. In the past year, I've lost two uncles, a grandma and Harriett. I cried the night my grandma died, just because things should have been different my whole life with her- it was more out of anger. I cried a little at her funeral, because it reminded me so much of mom's funeral. At my uncles' I was sad. But Harriett's death has hit me the hardest. Of everyone who died, she was the closest. I'll miss her stories, her compliments, her nurturing, her funny ways, and her engaging personality. As she would say, "It'll take a long time to get over it."

Being a "Home Maker" is Hard

You know those women who "have it all"? They have perfect, clean children who wear matching clothes, a blissful marriage, an immaculate house, they plan, cook, and serve delicious meals every day, teach Sunday School, and workout, have perfect teeth, all while weighing 105 pounds, and dressing like a model. Why can't I do that? I must say, I do have perfect children, although they aren't always clean, and their clothes rarely match. My house is never clean, and I am far from 105 pounds. I think I took the advice I heard when I was pregnant with Noah too seriously, "You can be the perfect wife, the perfect mom, the perfect teacher, or the perfect house keeper/cook. Pick one and let the rest take care of itself." Or "Don't clean your house while your kids are little, it's like shoveling when it's still snowing." Or "When you are on your deathbed, you'll never say you wished you spent more time working (well it was either working, or working out- I took it as working out)." The piece of advice I could have taken too seriously could have been, "Make sure you take time to do something for yourself every day." Or "If you can't answer the question,'what do you do for fun daily?' something is terribly wrong." The last two came from my therapist. But now I get bitch-be-gone pills, so I shouldn't have to have fun, or time to myself to be happy. Cooking, cleaning, working out, getting braces and a whitening procedure should by all means make me ecstatic. The last piece of wisdom I got wasn't exactly advice, but a keen observation, "Sara. You are a terrible cook." It was always OK with me to not be the "woman who has it all", and be happy to ignore my imperfections. However, as I look around, EVERYONE is the woman who "has it all" except me. I'm just a frumpy, old, fat, boring, bad housewife with crocked, yellow teeth with a cavity. I used to think, they just APPEAR to be the woman who "has it all", and there is some aspect of their life that is not perfect. Nope. Now I know, they really are perfect, and I am damn jealous. So this week I decided to fake being perfect and the woman who has it all. On Monday I worked all day, making money- that's a good thing. Tuesday I stripped wallpaper until my arm was about to fall off. Wednesday I decided to organize all of my recipes, make a monthly menu of delicious and nutritious meals for supper. The menu includes two brand new recipes each week, no take-outs, and ALL meals including preparation and at least seven ingredients. On Wednesday I also went to the store to get a brace for my sore wrist, got home, realized I bought it for my RIGHT hand and I needed it for my LEFT, so I had to take it back. The cashier was a dumb-$hit. He wasn't going to let me have an even exchange, but after a ten minute discussion with the store manager he finally did, but refused to give me a receipt. I was perfect woman who has it all during that time because I wore make-up to the store, something I didn't think I needed before, but have been told maybe I should start wearing more last week. I matched, and I didn't have one mean or impatient thought. I went to two different grocery stores looking for the "Sunmart broccoli cashew salad" because it WAS on the Wednesday menu, so I better find it or make it. On Thursday I literally cleaned all damn day long. On Friday I spent the day shopping for the month's worth of recipes, as well as cooking to freeze meals to pop in the oven once school starts. I also made appointments, registered the kids for school, bought some school supplies, got an estimate for a new fence, and looked into finding three places to call about siding on Monday. I still have to finish the wallpaper, paint the entryway, the big wall in the upstairs living room, paint both bathrooms, the entire downstairs entertainment area, hallway, and my bedroom. School starts in 17 days. I can't "have it all" now, what will I do when school starts? I haven't even started laundry yet. I've been in the kitchen making all of these nutritious and delicious meals, so I spend at least an hour a day cleaning the kitchen. Speaking of the wonderful meals, I literally sat at the table tonight getting more and more mad with tears in my eyes because I made roasted garlic potatoes (I had to learn how to press garlic in order to get "fresh minced"), corn on the cob, and baked chicken that I marinated for half of the day. No one mentioned how delicious my meal was. I had to sit on my hands to avoid throwing the damn chicken across the room. I think just to make me more mad, the grown-up child even had the nerve to mention my need to lose weight.
This week I have not gone into the pool once, read my book, or watched any TV- even at night because the grown-up child at my house refuses to watch anything that remotely interests me, so I work on the dumb wall. I go to bed exhausted, and get up at 7:00, because the same grown-up thinks the dogs should be locked in the kitchen so they can bark and bark and bark and bark because he's awake.  Did I "have it all" this week? Defiantly more than any other week. Ethan wasn't always clean, but I can only nag him for so long. I didn't work-out, or weigh 105 pounds. I still have snaggly, yellow teeth with a cavity, and a crappy wardrobe, but I totally did the "house-wife" stuff. Why can't I do it? Seriously? Everyone else has their act together. I find it really hard. Cooking isn't worth the taste of the food, and it certainly isn't worth having to spend so much time cleaning up. I spent the whole day cleaning on Thursday, by Friday morning it needed it again. My house is NEVER clean and I have to keep it up by myself. I don't want to teach Sunday School. I teach Monday- Friday, why would I want to do it for free on Sunday too? Would the mailman deliver the mail for free on Sundays? No, and I would never expect him to. I secretly thinks he doesn't deliver it on Saturday either, and he just takes the it home until Monday. I don't want to work out, first of all, when would I have time? I literally only sit down when I eat my damn cooking. Also, working out isn't fun. And I'm tired. There goes the 105 pound dream, and the "non- frumpy" clothing. I can't afford braces. I'll be lucky to get my cavity filled before I go broke buying those little flossing picks to pick the stupid food out of my teeth. Food was never a big part of my life- but being the "woman with it all"- it is a major theme and I don't like it. Everyone else who "has it all" is blissfully happy. Why is it so hard, and makes me so sad? Am I just lazy? All I think of is, "Maybe tomorrow I can go in the pool, or read, or nap." But I know I can't. I have to do laundry, finish the DAMN WALL, and of course COOK, and clean. I swear, there must be some "mess up and dirty the house fairy" that stops by each night. My mom was a happy home-maker. Sure, I made supper every night (maybe the reason I hate cooking) from the age of 11 until I moved out, but she made two other big meals a day, plus baked a cake, bars and two batches of cookies each week for the 3:00 meal. I vacuumed, cleaned the bathrooms, did laundry and took out the garbage every Saturday while looking for the blue handled scissors, but she kept the house clean during the week. Her house was so clean you could eat off the floors. Today as I unpacked the dishwasher I realized my plates aren't even clean enough to eat off of.  So, if any of you know how I can "have it all" and be happy, please let me know. I need to be let in on the secret. During the week, I also spent a lot of time thinking about what it meant to "have it all" when I was little. Louise Jefferson from the "Jefferson's" had it all. She didn't work outside the house. She had Florence doing all of the cleaning, cooking, ironing and shopping. She was far from 105 pounds, but George loved her just the way she was. She probably wore dentures, and was drunk most of the time, but it didn't matter because she wore sparkly dresses. Back in the 80's we felt bad for the mom's (Alice and One Day at a Time) who had to work outside the home. We never expected them to cook, let alone clean, have perfect children, and a perfect body. When will society go back to the good ol' days of thinkin' ? Maybe I was just born in the wrong generation.

My Trip to the Doctor

I went to the doctor the other day because I got hives while visiting my brother in Nebraska. Not a big fan of Nebraska, my brother, Paul, told me I was allergic to Nebraska, or their water. My hives were way worse after a shower, so maybe Paul had a point. I also had terrible heartburn. I've only had heartburn once and that was while suffering a bad hang-over from poisoned beer and a night of eating deep-fried pickles. Apparently I rolled the dice with my digestive track and lost. While leaving Nebraska I was sure I'd get better. I didn't. If anything it was worse. When I got home I made an appointment to see my doctor-  which was set for a week and a day later. I assured the receptionist I was going crazy and she put me on the "cancellation list" as well as ordered a psych eval. I learned not to tell people in the medical profession that "I am going crazy and it is an insanely short trip". So I waited my week and a day and went to the doctor. Unfortunately, my hives were gone. Even after a hot shower. I went in with the nurse. I was weighed, had my blood pressure and temperature taken. Then she asked, "Have you gained weight in the last 6 months?" I'm thinking, 'You have my records in front of you smart-ass.'  "Do you take your medication regularly?" 'Duh. I didn't run out the door crying when you weighed me, or yelled when you rubbed it in by asking if I gained weight. I kept my mean thoughts in my head now.'  "Do you feel safe in your home?" 'Why? Is there a bugler? a gas leak? a tiger? An evil step mother?' I expected her to ask again if I take my medication. "Do you menstruate?" REALLY?? 'I am in my 30's. Do I look THAT old?' "Do you know what caused your hives?" 'No. I was hoping you would. If I knew, I'd stop using it.'  Turns out it was something I ate. The hives stay in your system for 14 days and I probably had hives in my throat causing heartburn. Or it's all old age. My left wrist and right shoulder hurt, but I wanted to tackle one problem at a time. Stay tuned for my next blog called, "You know those women who have it all? The perfect marriage, perfect kids, cook nutritional delicious meals three times a day, has an immaculate house, several friends, and a full-time job, all while weighing 105 pounds? Well, I wish I could get some of them to do stuff for me."

Old People

I ran into a mean old lady at the grocery store today. Actually she ran into me- literally. I was at the check-out, using my patience, because the "new guy" can't find the UPC codes as quickly as the veterans and this old lady came down the checker aisle at me and ran into me HARD with her cart. I thought, 'oh, old people can't judge distance- she didn't mean to', so I half smiled at her. She gave me a dirty look and said, "What the hell are you smilin' at? Pay for your damn groceries and get the hell out of my way!" Seriously? If it were a kid talking like that I'd say, "Do you kiss your grandma with that dirty mouth?" But this WAS grandma! I have old aunts, I had an old grandma, they would NEVER do that. Now I'll probably have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder like I do when I go to Target. One time when I was at Target pregnant with Ethan and had Noah in the cart I said, "Excuse me" to a crazy lady who left her cart parked in the middle of the laundry soap aisle, and she yelled, "You're RUDE!" Everyone stared at me and my poor child and my pregnant belly and thought 'great- rude people SHOULD pro-create.' Since then I never say "excuse me" (especially in Target) if someone is in the way. I just sit and wait for them to move. Now I'll have to bring body armor for the left side of my body when I go to CashWise. I understand if she's just generally crabby. She probably has aches and pains, can't see well, hear well, get around well, and is hot. But I didn't order the weather! Why take it out on me? I have hives, heartburn, itchy foot, sprained wrist, sore shoulder, and I'm hot, but I didn't yell at her. Mean old lady. I bet she was a mean lady before she was old. She needs a cat. Old ladies who collect cats are not mean at all. Crazy? Maybe. Never mean.  

Thoughts I think:  If trees could scream, would we be so careless about cutting them down? I think we might,  especially if they screamed all the time without a good reason.