Everyday Halloween and its consequences

If you know me and my kids, you'll know that Halloween is an everyday thing for us.  When my kids ask me if they can wear a costume to church or the store, I always say yes.  The world will someday make them feel silly and they will stop.  It's already happened to Pearce and Cole.  But Stone and Cade still make the request and we rarely go anywhere without a full costume or mask or cape or plastic sword.  
This Halloween, an interesting thing happened.  Chad bought the younger boys' costumes about a month before Halloween and let them have them.  Cade later destroyed Stone's Optimus Prime mask in a spirited (translate: out-of-control, totally nuts) play session.  I guess you could say Bumblebee won that day because he destroyed Optimus' face.  So, Stone refused to go in a maskless costume when Halloween night rolled around.
Luckily, the pirate costume I ordered online for Cole was so small, it fit Stone.  So, we juggled costumes and everyone was pretty happy.  And when I went to get Cade ready, he didn't want to be Bumblebee, he wanted to be Optimus.  When I reminded him there was no mask, he didn't care at all.
This is the interesting consequence of wearing costumes everyday.  To Cade, Halloween wasn't anything special.  He didn't worry one time all night about his alter-ego being displayed for all the world to see.  And truthfully, what parent hasn't experienced the masked costume's short mask life span?
Not only that, but Cade dressed himself and put the Optimus costume right over his school clothes so that Optimus looked very preppy.  And below, pictures of our everyday Halloween life. 

Preppy Optimus

Superman jammies and cowboy boots.  Of course.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



And because it might be my favorite video ever - and one I watch over and over with Pearce and Cole.  And because we laugh until we cry when we see it, here you go. 

Spongebob Squarekidney

On my 36th birthday, I spent the day in the ER with my first kidney stone.  After that, I had a series of stones and landed me in a urologist's office.  After MANY tests and months, I was diagnosed with Medullary Sponge Kidney.  It's a birth defect (my brother is now vindicated).  My kidneys have filled with cysts over my life and now hold onto all the elements that create kidney stones.  Aside - isn't cyst a disgusting word?  I used a Thesaurus.com to look for an alternative, but there really isn't one. - End aside.

Instead of passing the stones, my kidneys like to hold onto them.  They are embedded in the spongy stuff. My body has created a warm, cozy den for them.  But the nature of the defect isn't to keep them indefinitely.  They travel on occasion.  To the sunny shores of my ureter.  Another aside - this is the grossest post I've ever written. - End aside.
   
That's where the pain lives.  I don't want to get into a big discussion about what causes the most pain, but this is MY personal breaking point.  I've had four kids and I'd have four more without medication before having another kidney stone.   When I have to go to the ER because my pain medication isn't cutting it, they ask me about my pain.  They ask me to rate it from 1 - 10.  I always say 10, but I'm telling you it's a 20.  It's the worst pain I've EVER had doubled.

This last week, I was having a lovely lunch with my friend, Paul, at Pho 95 (great place) when one of these travelers dropped into the chute.  We drove to the ER.  I was there 20 minutes before I made my head and torso a home in the 55 gallon trash can there in the room.  Aside - Pho 95 not such a great place at this time. - End aside.  I've never had pain so intense it made me throw up.  It was horrifying.  They doped me up.  I mean REALLY doped me up.  They sent me home.  I threw up for several more hours and wished for death.  Then the pain went away and I thought I was out of the woods.

Until my follow up appointment a week later, when my urologist told me that the stone was still there, that it was 6mm, and there was a smaller one sitting on top of it.  A kidney stone rock garden of my very own.  How very zen of my body.

He gave me the choice of 'waiting it out' or having a procedure called a lithotripsy.  Like there was a choice.

Since that trip to the doctor, I've been on the phone with Chad, my parents, work, Paul, and my ex-husband making arrangements for the procedure.  I've said Medullary Sponge Kidney several times.

Today, Cade and I were watching TV in his room and Spongebob came on.  We watched about 10 minutes before he turned to me and said,  "Mommy, you have a Spongebob Kidney."

Thank God - THANK GOD - for my kids who keep me laughing when I'm nervous.  Who say things that give me mental images of two eternally optimistic, yet chronically troubled kidneys living inside me.  Who love on me when I'm sick or in pain.  Who are amazing.       

Plumbers and Psychiatrists

I know psychiatrists say we marry our parents, but I think if I submitted my husband and my father as test subjects, they’d have to admit they are wrong.


This week, I called my mom in tears because I’d reached my stress limit. Do you ever get overwhelmed and as you are venting, all of it seems to culminate into one issue that is completely irrelevant? All the women are nodding and all the men are like, “Huh?”

I had one of those moments. I was crying to my mom about all the stress (job, financial, parenting, marital) as I was doing dishes and suddenly, the semi-broken faucet became the single, utterly ridiculous but unbreakable impediment which defined them all. The damned faucet! The faucet that won’t *sob* swing back and forth! WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE SO HARD?????!!!????

Obviously, the faucet wasn’t the root to all the stress in my life. It was just in the wrong place at the right time and became the scapegoat to what was really going on – which I still haven’t figured out because I’m enigmatic like that. Venting done, I ended my conversation with my mom. Who loves me very much and who worries when I cry. Who bounces ideas for how she might help me off of the other person in my life who loves me very much. My Dad.

Several days later, my dad called me because he had an idea on how to easily fix that faucet. Because the broken faucet was frustrating enough to make me cry, and therefore needed to be fixed PRONTO!

Ok – a little backstory on the faucet. We have one of those sinks with two sides. And the faucet is sort of stuck over the center partition. It moves about an inch to either side, but it makes filling up one side and using the other side of the sink for rinsing almost impossible. Very frustrating. Should be an easy fix, but as Chad and I have discovered, nothing in our new (old) house is an easy fix. The shut-off valve to the hot water is corroded and rusted shut, so Chad can’t turn it off to remove the faucet to replace it.

Back to the story. My dad called to ask why Chad didn’t just turn the water off to the house and remove the faucet at the sink and replace it. And worry about the corroded valve when it became a problem.

Seems logical, right? Seems like a quick fix to something that’s causing Dori so much grief. The fact that the faucet doesn’t really have anything to do with why I was crying is another blog post. Actually, I think the answer is in Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, so since it’s already been written, I’ll skip that one.

Anyway, I mention this to Chad and his answer is that if he has to fix it, he might as well do it right all at once.

Here’s the meat of my point. You know the saying, ‘Measure twice, cut once’ – my father and my husband lie on opposite, exaggerated ends of that theme. Here’s what my mind hears when I listen to my Dad on fixing things.

“Dori, just pop the thing, smack the other thing, spray it with some WD-40, grab your duct tape, wrap the round thingy a couple of times. Should be good for 10 years or so.”

This is what I hear when Chad talks to me about it.

“I’m going to replace the entire ductwork with copper tubing, which probably extends into the attic by way of the bathrooms, so I’ll have to take out the carpet and the subfloor as well. It would actually be great if I could find unicorn horns, they are so much stronger than copper tubing. Once I get that done, I need to find some titanium alloy thread to create conduction through the flux capacitor and we will be fine as long as the Libyans are providing us with uranium core.”

What do I do in the meantime? I wash dishes thinking, “I really need to call a plumber. And probably a psychiatrist.”

The long overdue Mother-In-Law post

Take a deep breath. It’s going to be ok. I haven’t lost my mind. Nor am I planning on villanizing Chad's mom. Without daughters-in-law and mothers-in-law, we’d have little reason for college subjects like Anthropology and Psychology. There’d be no wise sayings like, “It takes all kinds.” There’d be no ‘Everybody Loves Raymond.’ Right?

So, buckle up – here we go.

I guess I need to start with the oldest story – the best story. The story that started it all. The wedding dress story. Chad and I were engaged and I was over at his Aunt’s house. Sande (my mother-in-law), Chad’s aunt, and I were in one of her bedrooms talking and his aunt asked me about my wedding dress. I hadn’t bought it yet but I had some ideas and Chad’s mom said, “You can borrow Dede’s dress. I still have it.” For those of you who aren’t in the know, Dede is Chad’s ex wife.

I’ll wait while you gasp or laugh or to collect your jaw from the floor.

To say I was stunned doesn’t really cover it. I’m a classic overthinker, so I naturally assumed Sande hated me. She then cheerfully offered Dede’s silk flower bouquet, the serving ware they used at the wedding, and a cookbook signed “Merry Christmas, Dede.”

Years went by and I kept these things and others like burrs under my saddle. Burrs that dug in over time and got so under my skin, they became a part of me. I spent ridiculous amounts of time thinking about them from various angles. I pondered, fretted, overthought every word out of her mouth and never considered that I might be spending too much of my energy being the classic, suspiscious daughter-in-law.

Luckily, we mature – even in our 30’s. I now realize that my mother-in-law is almost comically my complete opposite. And she really makes me look kind of hilarious. Here’s my admittedly VERY BASIC reasoning. I’m Metaphysical Mary and she’s Practical Patty.

Objects to Practical Patty are just that, objects. Practical Patty looks at an item and asks one question, “Is it useful?”

Objects to Metaphysical Mary are not JUST objects. They have energy, memories, associations. Metaphysical Mary asks a multitude of questions. “Does it remind me of a good time or a bad time?” “Is it pretty?” “Is it sentimental?” “Does it match my other belongings?” “Does it have a positive energy?” “Is it out of date?” “Did someone I love give this to me?”

Practical Patty will keep an object for an indefinite amount of time if it is useful. Some Practical Patty’s find that even if a thing isn’t currently useful, it might have a future use, and they keep those things, too.

Metaphysical Mary will throw an item out on an emotional whim and later regret it. She might hold onto a completely useless item for sentimental reasons. She might do anything at all based on her current mood. She is by her very nature, impractical.

Metaphysical Mary and Practical Patty have a very large gap in the way they see things. But, as all things that are related to WHO WE ARE, there isn’t a wrong or a right. There’s my way and your way and the gray matter in between. The negotiable space.

I admit, as Metaphysical Mary, there’s little room for negotiation. I’ve had to grow a lot in terms of understanding the wedding dress was not an intentional insult to me. It had a future use. It was an item of large monetary value that had been worn once and was still in good shape. She later gave it to someone who needed it and was very appreciative. I’m humbled by that.

So, to my mother-in-law (if she still reads my blog), I’m sorry it took me so long to make sense of your offer (and all the offers after that I didn’t understand).

To all Metaphysical Mary’s – chill out. Really. Stop overthinking. Maybe people aren’t as passive-aggressive as you think. Maybe they are just practical.

To all Practical Patty’s – maybe a little effort in understanding the Metaphysical Mary in your life… they don’t make a lot of sense, but if they are in your life, they are worth the effort.

It really does take all kinds.

Parenting Patterns

Last night, I started thinking about all the things that have changed about me since having children.

In a movie theater, when a particularly loud moment happens, my natural reaction is to yell at Chad that it's too loud (because it will wake the kids up). An entire two-hour movie isn't enough for this reaction to go away.

Last night, when Chad fell asleep in a particularly loud movie, I completely understood how he could. Napping has become a frightening endeavor at home. You could be settling into a nice REM state only to be pile-driven by a preschooler. So, we sleep less deeply - and look haunted - because there is no safety in sleep. Only terror.

Before I had kids, I looked at parents of loud children in restaurants the same way I look at people who don't know how to merge onto the freeway. As a parent, I look at them with empathy. Last night, when a tiny toddler knocked over a wall of rocks in the hibachi restaurant, I looked at the mother with all the patronizing sympathy I could muster. "I've been there, my soul sister."

I am somehow pathologically driven to rocking when a baby is in the same room as me. I don't have to be holding the baby; I just rock along with the person who is. Rocking, swaying, bouncing...

Before I had children, if I was holding a baby and it started to cry, I practically threw it at its mother. Now, if I'm in a room and a baby starts crying, I practically throw people down to hold it, even if it is being held by its mother.

Let's not even talk about the things that come out of baby (toddler, preschooler) noses and hind quarters. It's not polite. But you know what I mean. Before...no way. Now, just hand me a wipe. No wipes? No problem...I'll improvise. MacGyver has NOTHING on me.

Before having kids, I talked about...uhm. Forget this point. I don't remember what I used to talk about. I don't think it had anything to do with poop, though.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not at all complaining. There's the other side.

Before kids, I didn't laugh all day long.
Before kids, I didn't walk around with a camera waiting for something amazing to happen.
Before kids, I didn't go to bed praying harder for other people than myself.
Before kids, I didn't know how calming it was to hold a baby.
Before kids, I didn't know how strong I really was.
Before kids, I didn't know what it was to be willing to lay your life down for another person.

Before kids, I didn't know the love of God the Father.

I do now.

Aging Gracelessly

There it was. Tucked away beneath a pile of other, appropriately colored hairs. It brazenly took hold at the front of my head, near the bangs. It was coarser, more wild than it's cousins. And bright...it was so bright.

A beacon.

A stowaway.

An intruder.

A gray hair.

I consider myself youthful. My kids tell me I'm immature - and I consider that a good sign that I'm living youthfully. I quote iconic movie lines. I wear ironic t-shirts. I play video games. I'm trying too hard, here, aren't I?

Sigh. In all honesty, my introduction to the knowledge I *might* be aging started on my 36th birthday. I was visiting my parents' house and suddenly, I was in pain. Significant pain. I thought maybe I had the worst constipation of my life (no, that's not the moment I realized I was aging), but the pain became excruciating. I was in my parents bedroom, lying on the floor in a fetal position, crying, when my Dad said, "I think you have a kidney stone." A kidney stone? No way. Kidney stones are for old men.

I'm going to save you the agony of a long story here and just say my Dad was right. It was the first in a long line of kidney stones that I ultimately discovered I'd never get over because I had...wait for it...a congenital deformity called Medullary Sponge Kidney. I still laugh at the diagnosis. I watch way too much Sponge Bob for that not to be funny.

That weekend, the litany of tests from there, the surgery that went along with it, and the diagnosis that I'd always have kidney stones was not really the moment I realized I was aging. It was the information that I'd had this condition all my life, but it only becomes symptomatic "at my age."

Then, I started having mood swings. And break outs. And other...um...hormone related things. And the doctor said it wasn't at all uncommon for women "of my age."

And then my oldest son started to exclaim how much I was starting to look like my father. And every time I looked at my hands, all I saw was my mother's hands.

We will call the gray hair the final straw. It was the undeniable proof that I am aging. So, I plucked it. I stared at it there in my hand and I realized, my hands are beautiful. They are my mother's hands as I remember them when I was a girl. They are big, warm, rough, weathered. They are what Seinfeld would call 'man hands.' And I looked up at the mirror and I saw my Dad. I saw the way his eyes kind of slope down at the outside. I saw the nose known as the 'Pearce nose' (my grandmother's maiden name is Pearce). I smiled and my Daddy smiled back at me.

I saw the break outs - benign little constellations that I can't for the life of me get rid of. I saw the laugh lines, the deep wrinkle between my eyes, the one age spot on my left cheek. And I looked down at the gray hair and thought, "You are a flag of triumph, aren't you?" My little gray hair, who I know won't come back alone next time, is more proof that I follow in a long line of people who aged while loving, laughing, learning, living. A line of people who are in their 60's and 80's and are beautiful beyond words.

I'm not saying I'm going to stop using anti-aging moisturizer. Let's not get carried away. I'm just grateful that I had a peaceful moment about getting older and maybe realizing that it's going to be sooner rather than later that I have to retire those ironic tees.

It's the thought that counts, right?

Maybe it’s because it’s not my love language, but I could quite possibly be the world’s worst gift-giver. I try so hard to listen, really listen to people and come up with unique gifts that show them how much I love and/or care about them.

Case in point – the Elvis cookbook I bought my brother one Christmas. I mean, he loved Elvis. Really loved him. I remember being so proud of that gift. And years later, I learned that Derrick gave it away in a white elephant gift exchange. He still brings up the book as an example of my horrific gift-giving deficiency.

Then there was the huge amethyst. This was the year that my mom told me giving something that you’d love to have is always a good idea. I gave my brother a huge piece of amethyst. I was a teenager. Unfortunately, my 20-something brother was more than a little baffled by the gift.

There was the hat rack. It was during my ‘making your own gifts is a sign of your love’ phase. I made it from a spare piece of 2x4, three nails, and silver spray paint. My dad appreciated the hat rack – but not the hat rack-shaped silver outline on the garage floor.

My dad loves this gift, but in retrospect, it needs to be added to the list. The magnolia tree. My Dad was born in Magnolia, Arkansas. He mentioned that he loved magnolia trees. So, for Father’s Day, I spent $50 on a twig that I was promised would one day be a magnolia tree. It really is pretty now, but seriously…a tree.

I also gave my dad an antique saw for Christmas. Honest to goodness – an antique saw. Not too much more to say on that. Just let it simmer.

I gave my friend, Katie, a themed gift. Last time I’ll ever do that. I asked her if she remembered the theme and she answered, "Um...Something about sea creatures and stars?" All I remember is watching her take each gift out of the bag and wondering, 'What the heck was I thinking?' We are good enough friends to laugh about it now. Actually, I think we laughed about it as she was opening it.

Sweaters, antiques, hand-made, themed gifts – all bad. All really bad.

My biggest fear at this point is that I have all sons. Meaning I’m going to be that mother-in-law giving my daughters-in-law things like owl candles, or a chair shaped like a hand, or a lava lamp, or a year’s worth of Omaha steaks. I have to remember that just because someone said they loved Cabbage Patch Dolls when they were little doesn’t mean they want one now.

And the kicker is that I’m writing this because I just bought my friend a gift that I’m petrified will be the *update* to this post. The next example of my gift-giving ineptitude. Her birthday is on the 31st.

Stay tuned.


*Update*

Ok - there's already an update. As I was posting this on Facebook, my mom texts me this picture:

Behold, the computer-lap-light-fan-cup holder thingy.

The Antique Saw - see how much my parents love me? They still own it and have made it actually look cute.

The Magnolia Tree - no longer a twig