A Mother's Musings and Mumblings

I try not to talk about work on my blog. Really I do. Unfortunately the family is getting tired of hearing about it. Specifically, there seem to be certain generational issues at play that are rapidly eroding my sanity and spiking my blood pressure. No matter how hard I try not to, I end up sighing the words “kids these days” at least once a week.

Today’s folly is brought to you through the process of reading student peer evaluations. So students evaluating each other – something they hate doing with a burning passion based on the amount of push back we’ve received. Still, it’s a necessary skill and a required activity. Worse (for all of us) they don’t just get to use little check boxes – they actually have to write at least two words. I say two words because there are two questions:

1. What could they do better?
2. What do they do best?

If you’re creative, you can manage one word each but only if that word is not “nothing” because that just means, well, nothing. And there’s a whole lot of nothing being said by students who just really wanted to fill this thing out twice because they thought the directions didn’t apply to them.

But that’s a different vent. I’m chatting today about the students who actually wrote something. Not venting, chatting. Because believe it or not, this time I’m amused.

The second question I tend to skim because they have an easier time complimenting each other and generally those comments don’t need editing. Of course there were a few where I had to question what exactly the evaluator was trying to say. I mean “Sally has a sunny disposition and a smile that can light up the whole auditorium. Birds appear every time she comes near!” doesn’t really sound like a peer evaluation so much as a love letter. The flip side of this was the student who wrote “She’s fine” about every female in their group. Depending on the tone, that has several meanings some of which might not be appreciated by the aspiring professional woman.

Once I started paying more attention to the second question it became clear to me that either this class isn’t as wonderful as they say they are or they just don’t know how to give feedback. I mean, if you’re asked what your fellow student does best what message do you send when you say “They show up.” Seriously? That’s as good as it gets?

Nope. It got better.

“Often on time.” If what they do best is tell time correctly “often” then I question our admissions process.

“Keeps our papers organized.” Good! I’m not going to minimize the positive impact of well-controlled OCD but holy damning-with-faint-praise Batman!

“Seems to enjoy the activities.” A love of learning is important. Don’t get me wrong. But that’s what they do best? Honestly? That’s up there with the faculty fall-back of “bathes regularly.”

But just when I thought I had seen it all. Just when I thought that they couldn’t come up with anything else to say about their fellow students that would shoot coffee out of my nose I found this little gem:

“Does a good job clipping the attendance sheet to the answer sheet.” Make way folks. Surgeon in training.

After all of that, “She’s fine” is starting to look downright respectful!

(With apologies to all my friends in surgical specialties.)

Settle in with a cup of tea, this is going to be a bit long.

Es war einmal…..

The Winter Solstice 2010 was a special event for a number of reasons. It was a full moon on the solstice. AND a full lunar eclipse. This is a combination of events that doesn’t occur very often. And that’s perhaps why Iggy and I chose that date for our handfasting.

Now before anyone feels left out let me explain that we kept this fact off the public radar as much as we could. The reasons for that are varied and complex and some make no sense at all – but there you have it. The children found out on the way into town as we were driving to the site of our Solstice Ritual. And Thing 2 had to be told twice because it didn’t sink in the first time.

We wanted a location that would be more-or-less unchanged in 20 years or so, where we could be outside and fairly secluded. Many, many ideas were tossed around and like so many other details, this one fell into place with only days left when we realized that the University was nearly deserted for the holiday. That left the Gardens off the Lawn, declared an historic site in 1987, open for use. Better still, the Lawn was lit up for the holiday and would be a beautiful setting for a wedding.

Review of the descriptions led us to Garden III where we could find a stone sculpture for use as an alter.

One thing we hadn’t left for last was the selection of an officiant. Both Iggy and I agreed that there was only one person who would suit – A Wonderful Witch that was known and loved by the whole family. We would have moved the date to have WW there and she was the reason we could be so relaxed about the details – we knew that with her anything left to mystery would be perfect.

Who knew that this would include movie references during the ceremony and a little petty vandalism?

We arrived at the garden to find that the sculpture (our alter) had been covered with a large wooden box for the winter. I’m not sure whose idea it was, but the box ended up on its side near the sculpture and Iggy’s leg ended up with a nice gash in it – but we had our alter. We waited an appropriate amount of time for security to come in response to the noise before we placed the alter cloths and set up. WW had brought an activity for the girls so they we occupied. Luckily for us, security had better things to do and soon the alter was set up.

All during this time we weren’t alone in the garden. Squirrels were jumping from tree to tree and occasionally dropping in to see what was going on in their space. Several jokes were made about the distraction, most of which had to do with the movie “Up.” Sure enough, just as we were getting started one of the tiny wedding crashers decided to knock a bunch of his dinner out of a tree. At this point I don’t remember who started it but the end result was a chorus of “Squirrel!” As if to remind us to be careful what you invoke in sacred space, the rodent in question then came down and stood at the edge of the circle and very respectfully ate his dinner while he watched.

First was the exchange of rings. Iggy had been wearing his ring on his right hand as an engagement ring so that was easy. We’d not really discussed a wedding band for me so I’d guessed that he’d put that off and it would happen sometime later. I was wrong. The night before, while watching the eclipse, Iggy had surprised me. At totality he pointed out how the center of the moon was the darkest and the light ringed the moon like a thin band. He asked if I wanted to see a magic trick and then put his fingers up like he was pinching the moon then brought them over to my hand and dropped a thin platinum band onto my palm. It was that wedding band that he placed on my finger.

We had left our vows for the last minute and as expected WW bailed us out. She had words for us that were perfect for us and summed up how we treat our relationship.

“I promise to be your lover, companion and friend, your ally in conflict, your greatest fan and your toughest adversary, your comrade in adventure, your student and your teacher, your consolation in disappointment, your accomplice in mischief, your strength in your need and vulnerable to you in my own and most of all, your associate in the search for enlightenment.”

Iggy and I had knitted six cords for our handfasting – purple for me, green for him, black, white, red and blue. The colors, like so many other things, we chosen by mystery. We had decided to knit the cords ourselves and wanted to have natural fabric. These were the colors we could find that seemed to work best. We’d tied charms of wood, stone, metal, amber and sea shell onto them but other than that, hadn’t really sorted out what was to happen.

WW suggested that Iggy and I take the purple and green and hold them together then give the other four cords to the four girls. The girls were asked to channel their wishes and their element into the cords.

The purple and green were earth – Iggy and I are both Earth signs and pretty firmly grounded there.

White was air – that went to Elf as she is the most inspired one of us. She took that to mean “air-head” but I explained that she is the creative one who links things together that have no business linking.

Fire was red and was given to Thing 2. She told me later that she knew when I gave her that one that I wasn’t handing them out randomly.

Blue for water went to Devil. Of the lot of us she is the most likely to go with the flow.

Black was center/mystery and went to Thing 1. She plays everything so close and embodies that element for me.

After the vows, the cords were tied. Well, re-tied. It appeared that purple and green got tangled waiting for us to get to them and had to be sorted out first. That’s what you get for living together before marriage. The knot was a bow tie and WW reminded us that it symbolized our relationship. Everyday we should remember that we have a choice to strengthen the knot or to weaken it. To help us remember that, we put it on our door with the broom.

WW then introduced us as the new couple. This is the part where traditionally one would say “Man and wife” but given how much stock I generally put in tradition we used “Partners in Mischief.” Don’t say you weren’t warned.

The last step in the ritual was jumping the broom to symbolize cleansing and new possibilities. Iggy and I jumped together, then the girls, then Thing 2 wanted to jump with me. Then Thing 2 wanted to jump again. And again. Because? Squirrel! Of course.

~humming~

That’s the way they became the Brady Bunch. Without boys. Sorry Iggy.

Friday. The day that the witchlets return to me from WF’s house. Thing 2 arrives hoarse but otherwise well. Her theory is that she may be allergic to the horse she’s been riding all week. Good guess so I pack her up and bring her home to give her the Dr. Mom treatment.

Well-hydrated child in no apparent distress. Voice is raspy but she denies sore throat. Lymphadenopathy present in the posterior cervical and sub-mandibular chains but non-tender and moble nodes all. Ear drums both slightly dull but no fluid noted. Nasal mucosa normal. Posterior oropharynx normal with no drainage or erythema. So prolly allergies.

Now, all first year med students and other students of Dr. Google – tell me what’s wrong with my approach. Yup. I didn’t look at a damn thing below the neck.

So as we’re wrapping this up, Thing 2 says “This doesn’t have anything to do with the bruise on my leg, does it?” I love immediate feedback on exams, don’t you? Too bad I’m an idiot.

Thing 2 drops her drawers and shows me the “bruise” on her leg. Kinda a bruise, kinda burst blood vessels. And no matter how I asked, she swore that she did NOT injure herself. “No, mom, that part of my leg never touched the horse.”

I decide to go with my first impression, call this allergies and ignore the bruise as something that happens to children who don’t quit moving.

Fast forward to this morning when Thing 2 is ready to head to the pool and I get a look at her arms. (Told you I was an idiot. Yup, even with the hint the size of a former Soviet Republic I still didn’t look her over head to toe.) She has the same bruise/blood vessel thing on her arms. Worse on one side than the other but still there on both.

Stepping out of her swimsuit and back into my office I instruct my child that no physician should ever ask you to completely strip. Except me. Now strip. She does and the ONLY spots I see are her arms and leg. Nothing anywhere else. No other findings. No abdominal pain or masses, no murmur, lungs are clear, adenopathy is stable. And most importantly, she’s acting fine. Perfectly normally. For Thing 2.

At this point Dr. Mom is asking herself: “WTF?”

I’ve asked this kid every way I can about injury and she denies anything – so bruising/purpura without trauma opens up a can of worms. I start to run through the list, ruling out most of the infectious things. Somewhere in the middle of my monologue, I see the scrape on her arm.

No trauma? Scrape? Back this train up.

WM: How did that happen?
T2: Getting out of the pool?
~pause~
T2: Doing 53 belly flops wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would it?
WM: Go to your room.

You know, it’s hard to generate an accurate differential diagnosis without a good history. I wonder if anyone has told Dr. Google that?

I don’t have a lot of friends at work – not because everyone I work with is intolerable but because I seem to lack what you would consider normal regulation when it comes to sharing. Don’t believe me? Read my blog. IRL, I tend to be the same open book I am here – I just put it all out there. You can see where that would make work a bit uncomfortable, can’t you?

In any event, I do have a couple of friends at work with whom I share some common skeletons (or at least closet space for bones of various sorts). One of these friends, Marty, is someone that I have a lot more in common with than either of us would ever admit publicly. Marty is a great source of support for me particularly in the area of drugs. You heard me. Drugs. Marty is one of the few people I can talk to about drug use and be completely understood – he gets it. And when he stopped by for a quick chat and a hug today, I was reminded how much that means to me.

So here goes. I’m going to try to explain to the rest of you what it’s like to be more-or-less regularly reliant on narcotics.

First, notice that I didn’t say “addicted” to narcotics. I do not consider myself an addict and, luckily for me, neither does my doc. I’ll go days/weeks without even thinking about narcotics until I need them. If I don’t need them, I don’t take them. It’s really that simple. Where I behave like an addict, however, is that I *always* know where my drugs are and can get to them quickly. Even when I haven’t taken any in weeks, I still know where the bottle is. Why? Because I do.not.like.pain.

Pain is the driver here. Chronic, unrelenting pain. You know that scale of 1-10 that docs are always asking about (“Where 10 is the worst pain you can imagine”)? Our agreement is that I don’t even try to aim for a 1. In fact, 3 or 4 is the threshold for taking pain meds for me. So even when I’m NOT taking drugs but know exactly where they are, I’m still walking around in pain most of the time. I’m just waiting for the pain to be “bad enough” to do something.

When you talk to most people about narcotics, they think about being stoned or loopy or just plain passing out. This is because narcotics make you sleepy. They’re used as part of the drug protocol for conscious sedation for everything from dental work to outpatient surgery. That makes it hard to talk to people about narcotic use for those of us who rely on them to get through the day. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had someone ask if I was okay to drive after taking narcotics. Truth be told, I’m often better off with the narcotics than I was without. It’s easier to concentrate with 5mg of oxycodone in my system than it is with a Scale 6 headache. And that doesn’t even take into account that pulling my hair can obstruct my vision!

But there’s more to it than the difference between pain and narcosis. Anyone who has chronic pain can tell you, pain makes you tired. This week I slept 12 hours one night only to fall asleep on my desk the next day. I don’t know why, but pain wears you out.

If you’ve followed me so far, this is where it gets interesting.

Marty dropped in just in time to catch me mid-dilemma: What to do about the pain/fatigue issue. I’m in pain and I’m flat out exhausted. If I take drugs, the pain will get better. This generally would wake me up but if I’ve waited too long then all it will do is take the pain away enough that my body will collapse into the sleep it wants so badly. But if I don’t take something then I deal with pain-induced fatigue and brain fog. And I can take a half dose which might not do anything but might contribute to either of the above and if I get more tired/sleepy after half dose is that because I didn’t take enough or I took too much? Really, at that point is pulling one’s hair easier?

Marty didn’t tell me what to do. He just gave me a hug and told me he understood. And really? That was just what the doctor ordered.

So for my friends out there who suffer with me – and you know who you are – consider yourselves hugged. I understand this is a bitch. We’ll all get through it.

Help! I’ve fallen! And I can’t get up!

(That was for those of you who think I’m a drama queen and not a Pagan queen)

I am unspeakably tired. My huge project at work is beginning to roll out – slowly and clumsily – but it is rolling. Thing 2 has is currently out of town with WF. Of course, she’ll get home and head straight over here so he can get work done after his two WEEKS of vacation (I would KILL – literally – for two weeks of vacation) and that will leave me with shopping for school supplies and clothes as well as child care and transportation duty while things at work continue to slowly progress to full speed.

Thing 1 is NOT on vacation with WF, she’s home with me. Last week she was helping with a camp that had some of the most inconvenient hours I can imagine – cutting my work days short. This week she’s not in a camp so she’s hanging out in my office all day so I don’t have to drive the extra hour at the end of the day to get her to the club. Today we had to leave early to get to the orthodontist only to find that WF hadn’t paid his half of the bill this month.

So, cutting my hours last week, this week, paying ortho, school shopping and cutting hours again next week all during the busiest time of my professional life. Why? So that WF’s life works smoothly.

He’s not alone. There are others who I feel I’m keeping afloat. To avoid a fight, I’ll avoid details. The bottom line is that I feel very much like somehow at some point it became my role to keep other peoples’ lives running smoothly.

Really, this might just be a case of teaching an old dog new tricks (this is where I sound like PMS depression but it’s totally off cycle). I’m not accustomed to being rescued. This goes back to, well, let’s see, birth? It was made clear to me then that I was a burden and should be grateful for anything that I received. I wasn’t helped emotionally or financially or logistically with getting my life rolling. School, social events, college from testing to moving in – none of that was supported. And yet, here I am at 43 wishing that for once in my pathetic life someone would actually want to help me manage things. At 43 I have had a full lifetime of watching other people come home and disappear into their own heads while I sort out what needs to be done.

So here I am tonight. I’m home, I’m in pain and I’ve been crying on and off all day. There are dishes and trash to be dealt with as well as sorting out how to scare up the money to pay for the new air conditioner. That’s what it’s going to take to make my life work tonight. But instead I’m going to take something for this pain and cry myself to sleep. Princess Charming is taking the night off. Everyone is on their own for making life work.

I’ve been talking to a lot of people lately about the crisis of faith I’m having about my career. There’s something about watching a younger, less experienced man promoted over the top of you that can cause you to have a lot of questions. Even my shrink tells me this is a normal reaction.

Anyway, one conversation was with a woman in the field who is years ahead of me in her career. We shared stories (yes, I know things are getting better, but they still aren’t fair) and she told me that women like me are part of the problem.

She didn’t say that to be mean. Let me explain. She said that women like me make it look too easy. We have a great career, keep on top of developments in the field, continue our education, produce at work AND raise kids (in my case as a single mother). When the men in charge see this, of course they don’t feel compelled to reward all that hard work – it doesn’t look hard.

That conversation happened weeks ago and I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Mainly because as it becomes clear that I need to find a new job I’ve been having panic attacks. What’s out there? What will I end up doing? How is that going to impact my schedule with the kids? Will I like it? What will be the long-term impact on my career? See? My chest is getting tight now.

And despite this, nobody around me knows I’m feeling this way. Why should they? There’s nothing they could do to help and there’s no point in upsetting anyone. In short, I’m doing it again – I’m making this look easy.

This is where I could turn my blog post into a long character dissection about why and how it is that I am compelled to be so stoic about so many things. Don’t worry, I’ll save it for my shrink. The point for you, dearest reader, is to know that this is not easy, I AM in a state of panic and this will pass. I know how to put one foot in front of the other and I certainly have learned somewhere in the last 43 years how to land on my feet.

I think I’ve discovered the female version of the “midlife crisis.” Men, so the stereotype goes, have a midlife crisis and chase after younger women and faster cars in an effort to relive their youth. I’m beginning to question that. If it were a matter of reliving one’s youth, why wouldn’t women be equally afflicted?

I think it’s something a bit different. Maybe it’s not reliving but a grieving for the road not taken. I understand that, but still question why women wouldn’t have similar reactions to similar feelings. And while I’m sure there are women out there who do, my circle of friends and I are having a different sort of midlife crisis.

Career women all, we’re getting to that age and beginning to question what we want to do when we grow up. Not because we don’t love our jobs – we uniformly do – but because we’ve all learned that our jobs don’t love us. We’ve slaved and sacrificed only to discover that we can go no further – in many cases because we lack penises. We’re underpaid, overworked, and unappreciated. And across the board we’re toying with ideas as drastic as catering, writing and coffee shops as good uses of our advanced degrees.

I think this is the female version of the midlife crisis. Men feel unappreciated at home and seek the attention of younger women to give their egos a much needed boost. Women feel unappreciated at work and find themselves floundering to figure out what comes next.  If anyone figures it out – let me know.

I’ve been seeing a lot of wildlife lately including some quite impressive up close and personal sightings of a fawn or two. It’s always the same – I unexpectedly come up on an unsuspecting creature who neither knows nor cares how interested I am in getting a closer look and at that moment I’m faced with a split-second decision on what to do next. If I keep going exactly as I had been, the encounter will be over as quickly as it began and yet any change in my course of action may draw attention and scare off the timid creature that I am so interested in.

That’s exactly the feeling that i had last night while tucking in Thing 2. She and I were chatting and she made some comment or another about the future. You know, the kind of innocent thing that Mommies and Little Girls talk about at bed time – how she’ll always be my baby even when she’s old enough to have her own babies. It was late, I was ambling along and reflexively came back with a comment about WF. Basically, I asked her if she had this conversation with him, too.

Those of you who do not know Thing 2, allow me to explain that this child is Drama incarnate. Nothing with her is small or insignificant. NOTHING. Her kindergarten teacher once said: “That’s our kid, everything is larger than life!” and that’s about the best summary I’ve heard.

So when Thing 2 very matter-of-factly came back with reply: “No. He’ll be dead too soon to ask him that. Unless they cure cancer he’ll be dead while I’m still a kid.” I froze. Literally. I was afraid to physically move for fear of shattering that moment.

I’d been laboring under the misconception that her silence on the subject meant that she hadn’t absorbed it or had and was just rejecting it. But she very clearly spelled out exactly what her understanding was with chilling accuracy. What is a Pagan Queen to do?

We chatted for a good bit after that. We talked about what she was feeling (a little sad) and how I was there if she wanted to talk about it (she doesn’t) and what kinds of questions she had. She’s the literal child of the two so it shouldn’t surprise me that he questions were very concrete: What happens to WF’s house when he dies? Where does that money go? Do I get to keep the things in my room at his house?

By the end of that I was feeling a bit bolder so we talked about losing my Grandpa when I was 15. I didn’t go into much detail, there’s stuff there that people my age struggle with when they lose a parent as adults that is just plain hard and I still don’t have the heart to warn her. I did tell her that I’d always be there for her and that we’d get through it because I’d always be her Mommy. And that brings us full circle on this conversation.

WF gets home in just over 48 hours. It will do Thing 2 good to have him back and it will do me good to be able to talk to him about some of this stuff and see if we can get on the same page. Because right now, I’m starting to feel like the deer in the headlights myself. I know this is coming and I’m powerless to stop it. I’m not sure what I can do to prepare myself or my girls for the trauma and I suspect that WF isn’t prepared to talk about that at all. I’m not sure I could if I were him.

But this week as I was trying to wrap my brain around how I would ever manage to get us through this, I turned on the radio and heard an ad for the local Hospice. WF isn’t ready for Hospice care at this point by any stretch of the imagination but I wonder if it wouldn’t be worth talking to the folks there who, sadly, have more experience with children in these circumstances than I do. A little information might just save us all from becoming road kill.

So today’s blog entry is going to be written as a tribute to my life the way it has been for the last two weeks while Thing 1 was in Norway because she left Thing 2 behind and then Iggy’s girls were here for two weeks as well and you see Thing 2 is 8 years old and she’s pretty hyper and would meet the criteria for ADD or maybe ADHD if WF and I would only take her in to be evaluated but we don’t want her to be medicated so we just kind of try to manage her behavior without anything and wait and hope and pray that she’ll just grow out of this phase and eventually settle down a bit but then I look at Iggy’s oldest and she’s going to be 14 next week and when I look at her I lose all hope that Thing 2 is really going to grow out of this phase because Dev is the typical teen who doesn’t end every sentence with “why” but only because she never really ends a sentence at all as she runs right on to the next one and then the next, often talking right over the top of her younger sister Elf (who is 10) while Elf talks in her high-pitched tweeny twang starting sentences with “Daaaady” while she competes for attention with both of the other two girls and you might have noticed by now that anything that resembles punctuation is missing from this entry because that’s the way my day has been including a trip to Staples to buy school supplies for Thing 1 and Thing 2 while also listening to a dialog about Elf’s backpack that she wanted but they didn’t have and so it had to be ordered and we needed to figure out if it would be here on time for when she got back next week because it really can’t be all that hard to figure out what day it would arrive if it comes in 3-5 business days while also sorting out how much the packs of 100 lined 3×5 note cards cost and if it would be better to buy the multi-pack or not all while listening to three girls who wouldn’t know how to pronounce a punctuation mark if their short little lives depended on it – which it might soon – and how in the world do they manage to keep talking like that all without ever taking a breath because I’m getting winded just sitting here typing like this and even if they’re staggering their breathing I swear there’s at least two of them talking non-stop at any given point in time and really I honestly can’t wait for Thing 1 to come home from her vacation on Tuesday but I’m sure she’s going to have a lot to tell me when she does and I’m scared that she might have lost her punctuation coming through security on the flight home so I really need to find a case of periods to give to her at the airport just so I can maintain my sanity because it seems less likely to get me reported to the police if I tell my 12 year old daughter that I want her to have a period than if I tell her that I want her to avail herself of the roll of duct tape that I’ve brought along with me or at least the part of the roll that’s left once I’m done with Thing 2 because I can’t duct tape up Dev and Elf but Thing 2 might just take most of the roll on her own anyway unless of course I want to try managing the other half of this equation and just get myself a pair of earplugs which could make other aspects of my life difficult but would allow me to smile and nod whenever I see a female under the age of 15 moving their lips provided of course that I didn’t nod too vigorously because if I did that then I’d give myself whiplash from the non-stop moving of mouths all around me and it would only get worse when Thing 2 started in with the questions because she might be waiting for answers at least occasionally when she stops for breath but as long as there are other girls here then I don’t have to worry about that because they tell her to quit and I don’t have to bother with an answer very often at all except when my brain starts to leak out of my ears and she demands to know if I’m okay and then she won’t let me off the hook even though the talking still keep going and going and going.

Look. A period. Pray that they’re contagious.

I’m officially “that” age. That age when a woman wears Spanx not because she wants to look hawt but because it’s less conspicuous than ACE wrap and still fills the need to squeeze all the aching spots that need to be squeezed. At least until the Advil kicks in.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go shop for support hose.