Two years ago I was pregnant and didn't even know it yet. Now I look at this amazing little girl bouncing around in front of me and my eyes fill with tears. Sometimes it's still hard to believe she's real. Then she drops a hard, plastic toy on my foot for a reality check. Ouch!
Another month gone by... I can't believe how quickly she is changing. Every day brings something new as she transitions from a baby to an independent little girl. Her personality is so defined now. I can read her distinct facial expressions like a book. I know her moods. I know what she's thinking. I know her current angel to devil ratio. Lately it's about 80:20 as she defiantly learns about her world...her way.
I need to start thinking outside the box and find new ways to amuse her. I truly think she is getting bored with her toys and her daily routine in general. And I think her behavior lately is a reflection of it. She wants to learn and explore, but she's already tackled everything she's allowed to do/touch in our house. All that's left is the no-no stuff so that's where she's focusing her energy. And getting into trouble. And not listening very well when we catch her and try to redirect her attention. I hope the return of warm weather will bring many opportunities for new experiences; we've barely been making it into the fifties here lately. Too cold for much outside fun.
On that note, I fear she may be getting sick again. I hope this isn't a trend we'll be riding for a while. She went a whole year without so much as a cold, and last month she was really sick for the first time in her life. I guess in my head I expected to go another year between illnesses, but last night she started coughing and this morning she didn't sound so good. Her dad kept an eye on her today but I really think we will end up back at the doctor's before the weekend. Her nose is runny, she is still coughing, and a low fever is lurking. Tonight may be a rough one.
We had planned to start a mama & baby swim program this Saturday, so if she is really sick we'll miss the very first class and that stinks. I'd been so looking forward to it. I know she'll absolutely love it. She'll think it's one giant bathtub and will be pleasantly surprised to just play without mama struggling to wash every inch of her slippery, little body. I bought her two adorable swimsuits at the mall this weekend. Oh well, there's always next week if we miss this one.
One of her favorite pastimes this month has been sitting in her toy box. She is big enough to get her leg over the side to climb in, then she plops her butt down and proceeds to dig all the toys out from underneath her and throw them on the living room floor. Sometimes she needs help getting back out, only because with all the scattered toys she has nowhere to step.
She had more opportunities here and there to perfect walking running in the grass and I'm happy to say she is no longer afraid. She loves to be outside and cries when it's time to go back in the house. Rocks fascinate her and she quickly selects a favorite to carry around with her while she plays. Sticks, leaves, pine cones, and weeds are also great things to explore.
I love watching her expressions as she makes new discoveries and learns about her world. I wish I could bottle the look in her eyes when she has one of those "Aha!" moments. It sounds strange, but somehow I can tell when something clicks... when she makes a connection and reaches a new level of understanding and comprehension. Those are such exciting and amazing moments!
Her vocabulary is consistently increasing. This month she mastered the names of some of her favorite dolls/toys and many other random words. One night we went out to dinner and were both blown away when Punky pointed to a wall in the restaurant and told us "Clock!" Who taught her that word? In the next few days, without any coaxing on our parts, she pointed out every clock in the house the same way, including the digital ones which really threw us for a loop.
Other miscellaneous new words include school bus, cookie, stuck, thank you, hug, pup, bed, here, there... I was just commenting the other day that I think it's so strange she hasn't said "no" yet. I thought that was one of the first words kids typically learn, and lord knows she hears it enough. I guess it's a good thing because I'm not ready for backtalk yet. The temper tantrums are plenty to handle as it is.
About two weeks ago, I was reading some boards on a website dedicated to parenting. It came to my attention that other kids Punky's age had already mastered the art of using a fork. Hmmm. It never even crossed my mind to give her one. Isn't she still at the age where she'll poke her eye out with something like that?
So, at the very next available opportunity, I handed her a baby fork. I showed her how to use it to stab her chicken instead of picking it up with her fingers and... she did it. Okay, that wasn't so hard. She's a quick learner but occasionally needs help based on the food's level of slipperiness. She starts out great, but towards the end of the meal she gets bored with the fancy gadget and goes back to using her fingers.
All in all, she is really doing great. I'm so proud of the little person she's become. She surely has her moments like all kids do, but on the whole she is such a sweet, loving little girl. Let's see what the next month brings. I'm expecting to have a total chatterbox on my hands by eighteen months.
We made the trek to the mall on Saturday as planned. The closest one is almost a forty minute drive. It's a nice size and there are many additional stores surrounding the mall itself. All the big names in retail are represented. I suppose the ride is worth it if you love to shop. I, on the other hand, would rather get poked in the eye. Shopping just isn't something I've ever really enjoyed. My goal is usually to get what I need and get the hell out of there ASAP. It works for me.
Anyway, my quest for new shoes landed us in many more stores than I care to visit in one day. I needed practical, business footwear which seemed to be non-existent in most stores. 'Tis the season for sandals, flip flops, and those stupid, plastic-looking things they pass off as shoes. None of which appeal to me...
I don't do feet. Seriously. Feet are yucky. Often sweaty. Sometimes obnoxiously fragrant. While they are designed perfectly to serve a necessary function, feet are simply not attractive. I rarely even look at my own. I don't appreciate being forced to see other people's either. I was definitely in the minority when my office changed its policy on open-toed shoes. Not having to see almost naked feet, nor hear the annoying clickety-clackety of flip flops in the office, does not break my heart one bit. At the beach? Appropriate. At work? Highly unprofessional. And gross.
The only exception, of course, is cute little baby feet. Those I can stomach, and even kiss when the mood strikes, but I have to admit I don't do that as often now that Punky is running around in sneakers. Even her adorable little piggies can make me gag when I peel her socks off and her feet are sweaty with globs of sock lint stuck between her toes. But, living up to my mama duties, I happily contain myself as I pick it all out and wipe her feet down with fresh-smelling baby wipes. As silly as it sounds, I'd rather a dirty diaper any day.
At any rate, our journey into multiple shoe departments this weekend made me think about what has to be the most awful job in the world: shoe salesman. I could never do it. I just... couldn't. To me, this job is worthy of it's own special on Mike Rowe's Dirty Jobs.
In one store, I couldn't help but notice a salesman fitting a woman for some dress shoes. She had three bandaids on the dirty foot she proudly held up for him so he could slip on a shoe. I think I threw up a little in my mouth. I don't understand how he didn't.
In another store, a saleswoman struggled to find a pair of sandals to fit an elderly woman comfortably. After about the sixth try, she was successful in finding something the woman could live with but it allowed me far too many opportunities to see her crooked toes and yellow nails as I shopped along the nearby wall. No one could pay me enough to touch her foot once, let alone six times. And why does she want sandals to show those puppies to the world?
One lucky salesman was spared in another store by a big guy who decided to try on new sneakers sans any outside help. I had the pleasure of being right next to him as he removed his old pair. What on earth do people do to achieve that level of offensive foot odor? I don't get it. Unless you run miles a day, in ninety degree weather, in wool socks, in ten-year-old sneakers, and you haven't heard of the new invention called soap, there is absolutely no excuse for a stench like that. Not to mention the vast array of foot cremes, powders, and shoe inserts now available in the modern world that specifically target the problem.
I can't imagine the all the horrors a shoe salesman faces on a daily basis. Aside from the odors, there are corns, blisters, fungi, missing nails and more lurking among the feet of the public. Blech. And, for those who actually waste precious life time doing it, painted toe nails do nothing to make feet more attractive; they simply draw even more attention to the ugliest part of the body.
God bless the shoe salesman. He has far greater strength than I.
The skies are clearing. I got one leg up on the edge of the rut I've been stuck in for a week or so. Hopefully, after a relaxing weekend, I'll be able to pull the other one out as well.
Rock bottom came on Wednesday. The previously mentioned door burst open as anticipated and my mounting anxiety finally peaked. As icing on the cake, I was also sick as a dog. It really wasn't a surprise; I always seem to get sick after a period of intense stress. I guess it's normal. They say stress weakens the immune system, but it still couldn't have come at a worse time.
Although I forced myself to last through the entire work day, my poor physical and emotional states left me useless at home that evening. Punky's dad and grammy kept her busy and amused while I sat on the couch feeling miserable. Runny nose, sore throat, dull headache, low fever, chills, and body aches...all dipped in a nice coating of anxiety, depression, sadness, self-pity, and bouts of salty tears. I dug in the back of a drawer to find the leftover pain meds from my c-section almost sixteen months ago, popped a potent one, and went to bed early. And to my surprise, I actually slept.
As soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, I knew things were different. Physically, I felt so much better. I was still a bit achy and my nose wasn't quite done yet, but it was a world of improvement from the night before. Emotionally, the storm had passed. One way or another, I got it out of my system and felt somehow refreshed. Confident, even. Everything will be okay...
The last few weeks were rough, but I'm finally a bit optomistic about the next ones. It will still be a lot of change, but I feel better about handling it. As far as my job goes, several conversations with my boss-to-be reminded me of how much I really wanted that position in the first place. He seems so excited and enthusiastic about me joining his team, and he has some big plans for the direction of my new role. His attitude has helped mine greatly; now I hope I can live up to all his expectations.
On the homefront, one specific issue Punky's dad and I were having for months has been resolved. We finally arrived at a compromise we can both live with so hopefully brighter days are coming in that department.
I am looking forward to the weekend. I'm in the mood to shop... and that only happens about twice a year so I need to take advantage of it when it hits. I really need some new clothes for work... especially shoes since all my favorites seem to have broken in the last month ot two. And Punky needs a bathing suit if we are going to start a mom & baby swim class next week.
And I need to buy myself something... frivilous. A reward just for me. I never buy myself much of anything, usually just necessities and only when I really and truly need them. But once in a while I feel like I deserve a little something special. A bonus for not slapping the lab tech yesterday when she still missed the vein on the fourth attempt. A treat for maintaining professionalism instead of telling them exactly where to stick this job move and mooning them on my way out the door. A gift for being a great friend, even if it's not always reciprocated.
And the results of the bloodwork? Still too high; skip a pill a week. I was sure it had gone the other way based on how I felt the past few days, but a trip to the ladies room this afternoon revealed the true source of my hormonal imbalance. Surprise! Sneaky bitch...
I think all the crazy events from the last few weeks have finally taken a toll on me and I've landed in a serious funk. I also think my thyroid has shifted to underactive with this new medication and that's probably contributing to my mood.
I made several attempts to write over the weekend, but each time I just sat staring at the keyboard and empty text box on the screen. It's like I've essentially turned off my brain somehow to protect myself from over-thinking the pile of shit that's built up in there recently.
Now I can sit back and wait for the explosion. That's how I roll. I ingest all of life's not-so-precious moments and efficiently lock them away in a closet in the far corner of my mind. As time passes, the pile continues to grow. The point will come when it bursts through the door and engulfs me in a cloud of anger, depression, and self-pity. My instincts tell me there isn't much room left in the closet and it's about to blow.
Admittedly, I don't do change well. Especially when it's something I view as bad change; good change is somewhat easier to take. But either way I tend to get very anxious. On edge. My mind races as my OCD struggles to get life back into neat, little, predictable buckets. It overwhelms me. It frustrates me. It exhausts me.
This upcoming change at work has already raised my anxiety level to high... and it's dangerously approaching panic mode. The cat's out of the bag now. Everyone involved knows the scoop. I have yet to face the guy whose job I'm essentially taking. I've been hiding in the attic where my current office is for two days now. Cowardly, I know. I need to face the music at some point; I do need him to train me before the big move takes place.
And on the top of the shit pile I've recently added a whole slew of relationship issues, from immediate family politics that always leave me feeling like the lowest priority on everyone's list... to friendships revealing themselves to not be what I thought they were... to my relationship with Punky's dad as he continually seems to put himself before us as a family. It seems like almost everyone I am close to has managed to let me down in one way or another in the last few weeks.
Except Punky, of course. I think she's responsible for my sanity right now. My baby needs me so I have to hold it together and get out of this funk. I'm starting with blood work tomorrow. I need to know how much of it is rooted in hormonal imbalance and how much of it is my true inability to cope with life in its current state of disarray. Either way, it's still a long ride to destination normalcy on this grand funk railroad I've boarded.
My job is one thing I've kept out of this blog thus far, but I need to work through something that happened today and I hope writing will help.
I started with my current company about two and a half years ago. Punky's dad and I had been dating quite a while, but since we lived 150 miles apart we were lucky to see each other one weekend a month. Moving in together meant my relocation which was completely understandable. He didn't want to move that far away from his sons and I totally respected his decision. That's all part of being a good dad.
Finding a job in this area was difficult to say the least. It's everything you'd imagine "Hickville" to be and there's not much industry here. A lengthy commute was certainly in my future. I sent a few resumes but heard no response until I enlisted the help of an agency. They quickly found an opportunity for me and I was thrilled with the prospect. A small, local company in business for about 125 years. Stable. Great reputation in the community. Good starting salary. I couldn't have asked for more.
I originally applied for one position (A), but was asked if I would consider also interviewing for another (B) availble opening in the company. In reviewing my resume, someone determined I could be a great match for position B which they were having trouble filling due to a lack of qualified applicants. Of course I was thrilled to have both opportunities; it upped my chances of getting hired.
My interview for position A was incredible. I've said many times it was the best interview I ever had. We seemed to click right from the start. By the end of the interview we were finishing each other's sentences. I thought he'd be a great boss; we seemed so on-the-same-page about everything. His comments at the end of the interview echoed my thoughts. I so wanted that job!
Then his final comment took me by surprise and left me feeling empty. He said he needed to tell me that if the person hiring for position B was even remotely interested in me for that position, he would be trumped from offering me this one. Ouch.
The interviews for position B were rather lengthy, from a peer interview, to a VP, to the company president herself. They went well but I still wanted the other position. After a multitude of personality profiles and miscellaneous tests, I was offered position B. Damn. It wasn't what I hoped for but it was the job I needed to relocate.
The first few months were awful. I couldn't understand why they were so rushed to fill the position because I was bored more than I was working. The days were dragging. My self-esteem was in the gutter because I felt so...unproductive. I started looking for another opportunity and realized position A was still open. In a bold move, I asked my boss to consider letting me re-interview and possibly move to that position.
No dice. She wouldn't let me go. She told me that I was so over-qualified for that job and I'd be bored to tears. I had so many skills that wouldn't be utilized in that position. It was better to stay where I was...
A month later I found out I was pregnant. Needless to say, I stayed where I was. I was in no position to look for a new job at that point. I needed the insurance for what was bound to be a rocky pregnancy. Starting over wasn't an option.
Over the next two years my current position grew on me, but it wasn't until maybe the last six months or so that I really began to like it. I was busy, finally. I was working on multiple diverse projects at the same time. I was finally feeling a sense of satisfaction with my work again. I was finally doing what they hired me to do...
Today they told me they are eliminating my position. Although it is still technically needed, with the current economic situation and the loss of some major customers in the last year it has been bumped to the bottom of the list.
The real kick in the ass? They are moving me to position A. The one I originally wanted. The one my boss swore up and down I was over-qualified for many times over the last two years. The one I no longer want. Sigh.
I just spent two months working on a project that directly involves that position. I have been observing the current occupant. Watching what he does, how he does, and why he does everything. I've been analyzing everything from data, to the current computer system, to the administrative aspects, to the procedures or lack thereof. I can honestly say it's a huge mess and I really don't want that job. And now I'm stuck with it.
And as an added bonus, in the next few days the guy I had been observing, analyzing, questioning, and documenting will find out that I am taking his job and I get to look like the biggest asshat on the planet. He's going to think this was planned all along, and even though I had no knowledge this was going to happen I'll still feel like I screwed him over somehow. He was just telling me yesterday how much he likes his job. I'm sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
At least he will still have a job. They are moving him back to the department he originally worked in with the company. But I know it will be of little consolation to him. I don't want to move either but I simply cannot afford to quit, and chances are they would still move him back to his old job even if I did.
I am not looking forward to the next couple of days. Or what lies beyond for that matter.
Let's face it, buttons are fun. Even as adults it's hard to resist pushing buttons. Literally and figuratively. And Punky's learning the joys of both.
She can lock us out of the TV remote in five seconds flat. We have no clue what she hits to do it, but it can take twenty minutes to fix.
The buttons on the TV itself are hard to resist these days. If it's off, she turns it on; when it's on, she turns it off...
She grabs the phone whenever she can sneak it and happily dials away...I'm waiting for the hefty phone bill or fine when she calls China or 911 by accident. And if the phone is out of reach, she pushes the page button on the base and giggles at the shrill beeping across the room.
If I'm talking on the phone she loves to hear the voices talking to her and smiles ear to ear, but no matter how I try to block her she manages to hit a button or two and deafen the person on the line.
The dishwasher buttons are still a source of amusement. If we keep it locked, she turns it on; if we try to prevent it by keeping it unlocked, she just pulls the door open and tries to crawl in instead.
When she climbs up on the bed in our room, she goes right for the monitor receiver on the headboard. She turns the volume dial and flips the channel switch in addition to playing with the power button. We have to remember to check it before relying on it to hear her.
She is learning the concept of cause and effect. She pushes a button and something happens. And sometimes that something is fun. Whether it be a loud noise, a silly sound, a bright light, or a mama that suddenly darts across the room to undo what she just did, she is equally amused and giggles at her accomplishment.
As if that weren't enough, she is also mastering the art of pushing the figurative ones as well. Lunch on Saturday was a disaster, and no amount of "No! Stop that! Don't do that! Mama said no!" was going to change her behavior in that moment.
After dumping her entire plate of macaroni and cheese, peas, and carrots all over the highchair tray, and mushing it around into one disgusting mess, and throwing fistfuls all over the dining room carpet, and slicking her hair with handfuls of cheese after she just had a bath the night before...she had her mama frazzled and I was soooo ready for naptime. She went right from the highchair to the crib. Cheese hair and all. I wiped what I could with a baby wipe...the bath could wait.
By the time she woke three hours later, I was refreshed and she was back to her normal, sweet self. Her hair was a bit crusty but easily fixed in the tub...once I got her to stop pulling the stopper and letting the water out, that is.
Time for some much needed comic relief after an emotionally grueling week. In light of recent events, many childhood memories have been whirling around my head and this is one story Punky will surely hear. It was one of my favorites to tell as a kid. I hope I can remember all the details now; I haven't thought about it in years.
Many summers, my sister and I would go with my grandmother to stay at my aunt's house for a week or two. Due to my asthma-inducing allergy to dogs, we would sleep out in a pop-up camper they had in their carport alongside the garage. Overnight was too long a span for me to sleep in the house with the pet dander.
This particular summer I was nine. My cousin closest in age was eleven. One night we had the bright idea to watch a scary movie with her older teenage brother in the basement before bed. The Thing. I think it may be a classic now...you know, for people who like that horror movie crap.
Anyway, he warned us not to watch, he said it was too scary, we were too young, blah blah blah... We watched it. All of it. And then out to the camper we went.
My aunt was already asleep in there with my little sister. All was fine and we fell asleep right away without a problem. See? What did her brother know?
I'm not sure how long we were sleeping when my cousin woke me. "Do you feel that?" she whispered. She said the camper kept shaking, like someone was trying to get inside. I felt nothing and told her to go back to sleep.
A few minutes later, she woke me again...and that time I felt it. It was rocking. The door latch was rattling. We wanted out but were too scared to move.
We looked across the camper to my aunt's bunk. She had the canvas closed on her window and the porch light from the house illuminated it. We saw an arm go past the window. Someone was out there. The Thing.
Turning to our own window facing the woods, a scary shadow appeared. Oddly shaped, with little limbs that seemed to be clinging to the screen. We practically killed each other to get down to the bunk below. We were going to die. We just knew it.
My aunt and sister slept peacefully while the camper started shaking even more wildly. How the hell didn't they feel it? Maybe it already got them. Maybe we were the only two left.
Prepared for the worst, my cousin made her way across the rocking camper to my aunt's bunk. We were so relieved when she sat up...I mean, she was the adult and we needed her to get us out of there. Immediately.
By this time my cousin and I were in hysterics. She could barely understand us; we were talking a mile a minute. She felt the violent rocking and agreed we needed to head for the house. She devised a plan.
She was going to carry my sister rather than wake her. She said we would all go out together and calmly walk towards the house. We needed to stick together. Don't get separated. Crazy plan...
To me, this was a life or death moment. Something was out there trying to eat me. It would catch me quicker if I walked. And I certainly didn't want to be the last in line, i.e. the first to get eaten. I was fully prepared to sacrifice my sister. She was asleep; she wouldn't even know what happened.
We lined up in front of the door and my cousin reached down to unlock it. "Stay together," my aunt reminded us. We barely heard the second word.
The second my cousin's foot hit the blacktop, she took off running. Oh, no you don't...I'm not ending up as some Thing's dinner. I was half a step behind her in a desperate sprint for the back door of the house. My aunt and sister were on their own.
My cousin reached the porch first and tripped and fell over the dog's chain on the second step. I had no time to stop...nor did I even try, the thing was behind me eating my relatives...and I ended up on top of her. We scrambled to get up and in the door. Arms and legs flailing every which way to get on our feet.
We made it to the kitchen and kept on running...right down the basement to her brother's room. My cousin thought it might have been him outside pulling a horrible practical joke on us. We were mortified to see him sound asleep in bed. I wish someone was able to capture our faces on film.
We headed back to the kitchen and heard my aunt outside screaming. She was yelling our names. Telling us to get out there right away. Yeah, that just wasn't happening. No way, no how.
We cowered under the kitchen window and listened. We knew we had to look. We had to know what was coming for us next. Slowly we lifted our heads high enough to just peek over the window sill. Gulp.
My aunt was standing in the driveway with my sister beside her now fully awake after all the yelling. My aunt was holding a flashlight and shining it toward the top of the camper. It wasn't one Thing; there were several. About eight or nine in fact.
Cats. The neighbor had a ton of them, and they apparently decided it would be fun to play on top of the camper in the middle of the night. They were wrestling around, shaking the hell out of the camper as they romped on the top. The crazy shadows we saw were the cats climbing up the canvas sides of the camper.
Nobody got eaten, but my cousin and I refused to go back out there and spent the rest of the night on a pull-out sofa in the living room. My breathing sucked come morning, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
We got picked on for years about the night we were terrified of ordinary housecats, but it made an everlasting impression on me. I have no desire to see any horror movies of any kind. Never. Ever. And my fear that night was so real that simply retelling this story now, close to midnight with him at work and me home alone with the baby, means I'm not getting much sleep tonight at all.
Now it's time to get back to writing about normal daily life, so let me back up to Easter weekend aside from the tragedy that plagued it.
I had Friday off so Punky and I were headed home for the weekend. Her dad had to work straight through the holiday so there was no sense in us hanging around the house.
Friday morning I was busy packing so we could get on the road by naptime. Punky was amusing herself nicely...playing with her toys, flipping through her books. I was in the kitchen washing sippy cups for the trip when I heard a bang. I had just looked at her five seconds earlier and she was dancing in the living room.
By the time I got to her she was already standing up, so I'm not quite sure exactly how she fell or what she hit. She was crying hard and I picked her up and tried to comfort her. She put her head down on my shoulder and I rubbed her back, rocked back and forth, told her she was okay in that comforting mama tone... The crying eased substantially within a minute and she picked her head up and looked at me. Cue the heart attack here...
There was a circle of blood the size of a softball on my shirt, and strings of blood running from her mouth to my shoulder. I screamed, literally. Her dad was still sleeping since he worked till three a.m. the night before, but he was in the living room in ten seconds flat. I had no idea where the blood was coming from or what the hell to do next. Yeah, I was in full panic mode...
At least Punky has one calm, collected parent to handle the situation. Her dad quickly pointed out the deep gash in her upper lip, and the fact that it had instantly swollen to the size of a superball. He got a soft, damp washcloth, wrapped it around an ice pack from the freezer, and actually got her to clamp down on it for about ten minutes to stop the bleeding and swelling.
Da da da da...it's Superdad! Able to stop the bleeding with a single washcloth! Able to stop the swelling with a single ice pack! Able to stop a panicked mama with a single word of reassurance!
But seriously though, if I was home alone with Punky at the time, we would've been on our way to the ER to see if she needed stitches. It took a little while for the bleeding to stop completely but it did stop without medical intervention. The swelling went down considerably with the ice pack but she still had quite the fat lip for a day. By Saturday morning, a huge black scab had formed right in the center of her upper lip. Just in time for Easter pictures...yay!
I'm sure it was sore, but it didn't affect her eating or drinking and she was happy as could be. By Monday night the scab was dangling and finally fell off before bed. I was worried she'd have a nasty scar on her lip but thankfully it seems okay.
We made the drive without a hitch and headed to my sister's for some egg dipping on Friday night. At fifteen months, Punky wasn't the least bit interested in dying eggs but my nephew seemed to have fun with it this year.
On Saturday we had an Easter egg hunt in the backyard at Grammy's house. My nephew found the hard ones and left the 'right out in the open on the grass in front of you' ones for his little cousin. Punky had fun picking them up (of course, she thought they were balls) but she wasn't wild about putting them in her basket and finding more. She just wanted to shake what she had and forget the rest. With time and persistence she managed to pick up twenty-three eggs and got a nice mound of coins for her piggy bank.
On Sunday Punky was all decked out for the holiday in a six to twelve month dress that my aunt bought her last year when she was baptized. It's one of my favorites with matching bonnet, sweater, and socks but she never had the opportunity to wear it. It was too big last summer and when I put it on her to take a picture at nine months, she was still drowning in it. My mom wanted to buy her an Easter dress this year, but I was determined to get her in this outfit at least once. It fits perfectly now and I'm so glad she got the chance to wear it before it gets passed on to her new cousin on the way.
The Easter Bunny was good to her again this year. We had given her our basket Friday morning at home. We figured she could use some fun after busting her face. But between her aunt, uncle, and grandparents she was not lacking treasures on Easter morning. Books, bubbles, Gerber snacks, and pajamas were just some of the things filling her baskets. And she got some candy as is tradition, but won't even be tasting much of it yet at her age. She had a taste of a marshmallow peep and turned her nose up at it. She's really not crazy about sweet stuff, probably because she hasn't had a lot of it. I wasn't a sweets eater as a kid either so maybe she's taking after me.
She really enjoyed Easter dinner at Grammy's though. She had ham, potato salad, stuffed shells, paska bread, and a huge hunk of this bland, cheese ball stuff that I can barely say let alone spell.
We left shortly after dinner and made the long drive home. She slept the whole way. I cried most of it.
I had the opportunity to meet many of Rita's wonderful friends at the viewing last night, though I wish we would've met under better circumstances. She was just as lucky to have each and every one of you in her life as you were to have her.
I wanted to take a minute to thank all of you for your kind words about the post I had written. When I wrote it Sunday night, it was my way of coping and getting it all out. I had no idea so many would read it and be moved by it.
Life will go on, and I will continue writing about my life and my beautiful little girl, but the post will always be here in the April archives; it will never be deleted. So whether it be a week, a month, a year, or ten years from now, when you hear a giggle off in the distance and think of Rita... When you see a sunflower and think of Rita... When you simply miss your dear friend... The post will still be here for anyone to read and remember, as well as any comments anyone adds over time.
I am so very sorry for the loss everyone feels now, but I'm so honored that my post seemed to help some of you reading it as much as it helped me to write it.
It has come to my attention that the link to my blog has been posted on someone's Facebook page. I am both humbled and honored that so many people have been dropping by to read about Rita and the beautiful person she was. It also made me realize there is so much more I could've said, so feel free to leave a comment and expand on her life and spirit with memories of your own.
Please scroll down a few entries to find the post you are seeking, or simply click here. Had I known so many would come to read it, I wouldn't have posted a poop post in between...but all those who knew Rita know she'd see the humor in that and is probably giggling right now...
I still need to write about Easter, but after that last post I need to lighten the mood. And I have the perfect tale to tell.
Due to his work schedule, Punky usually has only one full day a week with her dad. When we're home together she tends to cling more to me, so I'm glad they have that day together alone while I'm at work. And I'm also glad she pulls her worst stunts on his shift.
Last week he needed to use the bathroom. You can't ignore nature's calls even when you have to keep an eye on a toddler. Usually she accompanies me to the potty, but he seems to manage a few minutes of privacy while she plays in another room. He keeps the door open and will call her when one of those odd silences signal she's up to no good.
After a few minutes he no longer heard the music from the toy she was playing with and needed to know what she was doing. He called her and she came trotting in the bathroom right away like she usually does. Only this time, she had a surprise for Daddy.
Two patties full of crap. Not junk. Not stuff. Shit. The real deal. Apparently she stuck both hands down the back of her diaper and pulled out two good handfuls, then proudly pranced in the bathroom and held them up for him to see. So, in addition to cleaning her up of course, he also had to search the living room for anything she may have touched before showing him her treasure.
He he he...
One of my mom's life long friends killed herself yesterday. Committed suicide is too pretty a term. Killed herself. Hung herself in a stairwell.
During the whole drive home from our Easter visit today, I searched to find the right words for a post like this. There simply aren't any. Yet I feel like I need to say something. I need to write something. I have to get it out in the best way I know how.
How does a woman in her early sixties come to such a gruesome end? I just can't wrap my head around it. Especially Rita. She was one of the toughest women I've ever known.
Life kicked her. And kicked her some more. And kicked her again for fun when she was already down. But she took it in stride. She played the cards she was dealt and always stole the pot. Some how. Some way. This time she folded.
She grew up in a mentally abusive household. An alcoholic, nasty, miserable excuse for a father. A submissive mother who let him get away with it. A crazy bum of a brother. And by crazy, I don't mean the fun way. But she survived them.
She endured failed marriages and raising her son entirely on her own. She worked hard, she ploughed through, and made it. Taking shit from anyone wasn't on her list. She would tell it like it was and spared no words for anyone who wronged her. She stood up for herself. She fought for all she had. She struggled more than anyone should ever have to.
Bad luck was her only luck. The hell with Murphy's Law. It should be called Rita's Law. Imagine the dumbest, craziest, most off-the-wall thing that you can. I can almost guarantee it happened to Rita.
And through all this, anyone reading along would imagine a cranky, bitter woman who absorbed life's beatings and lashed back at all humanity. But the exact opposite was true.
She laughed. Actually giggled. She had one of those infectious little chuckles that would suck you in to laugh along with her. She smiled. One of those sweet, natural smiles. Never forced. Always sincere. She joked about her luck in life. Whenever anything went wrong, and it always did, she picked herself up, brushed herself off, relayed the story to her friends in a manner that could've been delivered on a stand-up comedy stage, and she got back in the ring for another round.
She had a kind word for everyone in her company. She never hesitated to give a compliment. She told people how beautiful they looked, how smart they were, how nice they were... repeatedly and with sincerity. Right to their faces. Not many people can do that. Not many people take the time to brighten someone else's day. Especially when life is kicking them in the ass. But Rita did. And she wasn't just saying things to be nice. She meant every word.
She wore her heart on her sleeve and would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it. No matter what she was facing in her life, she never turned her back on a friend. And she had friends. So many friends. A regular social butterfly she was. She loved people and loved to talk. Sometimes it was hard to get a word in with Rita, but when you did, she was listening and there to help.
Life dealt it's last fatal blows over the past few years. She lost her job and her third marriage failed after thirteen years. She was already wallowing in a deep depression when he walked out on her for another woman. Normally for her, these things wouldn't have been more than minor speed bumps on the road. She would've told him to screw himself. Plain and simple. She would've moved back home to be closer to her son and her friends. She would've gotten another job. She would've spent the next few months effing him up an down. Life would've gone on.
This time it was different. The depression that had been looming sucked her into a dark place and she couldn't climb out... She lost herself. Her fight was gone. Her spunk was gone. It took her sweet smile and infectious laugh. All that remained was a shell of a person totally alien to those who knew her and loved her.
Friends tried to help. They tried everything they could to reach her hand and pull her out of the hole that consumed her. The truth is, nothing they did or could've done would've have made any difference where she was. She was too deep to reach. She heard their words, but couldn't understand their meaning. She felt their love, but it couldn't warm her. The boxing gloves were within reach, but she no longer had the strength to fight.
Her family history of mental illness left her terrified at the prospects. She feared she would be locked up forever. She was sick and needed help, but the system failed her. She made several attempts in the last few months to end it all, yet each time she grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder before it was too late. She had been seeing a doctor. He knew the story. He had the facts. He refused to have her committed. She had no insurance.
So the end came in a stairwell on a holiday weekend. She found a way to escape once and for all, to the utter devastation of her son and friends.
Rita, I will remember you as a firecracker. As a force to be reckoned with... As a good mom who did all she could to raise her son on her own. As a true and loyal friend that was loved by everyone. I will never forget that smile. I will always hear that giggle. I'll never fully grasp the depths of you sorrow or all that led to your decision, but I hope you found the peace you so desperately hoped for and needed. And I'll never forget the pain on my mom's face when she answered the call on Saturday. And I'm not sure yet if I can forgive you for that. Rest in peace.
It's Easter weekend and we are home visiting, so this will be a quick one.
Punky's aunt P was great at playing the annoying little sister role when we were kids. Okay, she still has her moments... Anyway, one story that has been retold over and over through the years involves bubble gum and a bush along the driveway.
When we were in elementary school, mom usually had supper ready as soon as we got off the school bus. My sister was always starving and could eat grown men under the table. Once when we had a snow day off of school, she decided to write down everything she ate that day and it filled two and a half pages in a spiral notebook. Oddly enough, she was a tiny, little stick straight up until she had her son in her late twenties. Prior to that, she had no butt, no boobs, no belly...just a bean pole with feet.
At any rate, the minute the bus driver opened the door in front of our house, she was salivating and ready to eat. The walk across the driveway to the door took a whole five seconds. For whatever reason, she couldn't wait to make it in the house before ditching her gum in preparation for supper. The bushes along the driveway became her dumping ground, though I never saw her do it. She was a quick little shit...
After a few weeks of her habit building up, my dad noticed the multicolored speckles that adorned the row of bushes. He quickly determined it was chewing gum...and promptly sent my sister and I out to pick it all off the branches.
I knew I didn't do it and thought he was being totally unfair. At the same time though, she swore she didn't do it, and since I never saw her do it I was gullible enough to believe my sweet, little sister. At that age, I'm not sure exactly where I thought it was coming from...passing cars perhaps? Boys in the neighborhood being jerks? Adults said no, but maybe gum could actually grow on trees...
We were out there picking chewed gum out of the bushes more often than I care to remember. Dad said that until one of us confessed, we both had to do it. I felt so strongly that we were suffering a great injustice at the time. One day the gum stopped appearing in the bush. No more speckles. No more gross gum picking. All was forgotten for years.
We were in our twenties and out on our own when the 'gum in the bush' days came up in conversation. My sister blatantly gloated about how it was her all along and I had to help her clean it up every time. Little witch. And to think I believed her back then. I defended her and said it couldn't have have been her because I would've seen her do it. Cleaning up gooey, chewed gum was disgusting. She still owes me big time for that. Brat.
I did cut all her barbies' hair though, so I guess maybe we're even.
This post will be long. This post will be serious. Unlike the post below, this will be one story Punky probably won't know until she reads it herself far in the future.
It all started two weeks ago. As I was leaving work that day, Punky's dad called to ask if I had a preference for dinner that night. During our quick conversation, he mentioned that his twenty year old son and his girlfriend were coming over for a visit that night. My response was "Why?" He said they just wanted to see Punky.
I immediately got the feeling that something wasn't quite right. It was a Tuesday night. They never come over on a week night. They hardly come over at all. And never just to see Punky. That fact alone makes me sad because he seemed excited at the thought of having a little sister while I was pregnant, yet he hardly has time for her. I know, he's twenty...
Anyway, during my commute something popped into my head and I felt like I was punched in the stomach. The intense gut reaction to that thought made me sure it was fact. I haven't had the opportunity yet to blog about my oddly accurate sixth sense, but over the years I've learned to trust my gut and it hasn't failed me yet.
When I got home I boldly declared, "She's pregnant. I just know it. Don't ask me how I know it. I just do." Of course Punky's dad just scoffed and rolled his eyes. No matter how many times I've proven to him that I have a knack for prediction, he chalks it up to luck and dismisses my insight as nonsense.
His son and girlfriend arrived a bit later and stayed a few hours. They brought Punky a new dress and ate dinner with us. The evening was quiet and uneventful. When they left without incident, I got another eye roll and a look that said "I told you so" from Punky's dad.
He got the same look back from me. I wasn't buying it. I wasn't convinced. I had to be right. There's no way such an intense gut reaction could be wrong. So the night was quiet. Nothing was said. No obvious hints were visible. It didn't mean I was was wrong.
Fast forward exactly one week. It was the day we first took Punky to the doctor and I stayed home from work. About mid day, he got a text message from his son's girlfriend that simply said there are things he needs to know. I couldn't help the smug smile that appeared on my face. After a few hours of phone tag, he was finally able to speak to her and confirm what I had told him a week earlier: she's pregnant.
She also went on to tell him that they recently broke up for a while and his son has been dating someone else. We already suspected as much since he showed up at the house a few weeks ago with a girl in the car. He didn't bring her in to introduce us and said she was just a friend. You know how that usually goes, especially at age twenty. His dad asked if his girlfriend knew they were hanging out since they are "just friends" and his reply was a quick "no" followed by an immediate change of subject.
Anyway, she said she told him she is pregnant but he feels their relationship is over and he wants to continue seeing the other girl. She was obviously upset...and nervous about the pregnancy...and wanted his dad to talk to him about all of this.
His son came over that evening and we got to hear his side of things. To avoid getting really long winded with the details, I'll just say that when comparing what they both had to say it seemed there might be a chance she was never really pregnant at all. I still thought she was...of course. But his son confirmed that he has no interest in continuing their relationship. They had been dating since high school and she is a very nice girl, but even we expected it to eventually end. They fight a lot, and it seems like they have different ambitions now that they have entered the grown-up working world. They are young. People change. Relationships end. It just happens. And in reality, very few first loves end up together forever.
He also said he knows this baby is his responsibility and he wants to be a part of his/her life. That's the main thing we wanted needed to hear him say. Regardless of his relationship with the mother, it is his child and he needs to take care of it. Period. He was worried she might try to keep him from seeing the baby if they are no longer together. He left that night with a lot of thinking ahead of him.
We didn't hear from him again until Sunday. He came over and told us she had been to the doctor. She is definitely pregnant. They both feel they aren't ready for this step in life. "We've decided to abort."
Abort...
Abort...
Abort...
That last word echoed through the house as if we were in a canyon. An awkward silence filled the room and I struggled to sort the thoughts swirling around my head. We never saw it coming. It never even crossed our minds that this would be how the story ends. Not for one second did we think it was even a possibility.
Pro-choice. I have always been pro-choice. Proudly pro-choice. Adamantly pro-choice. I never doubted that belief. Not once.
I fought the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. "Don't kill your baby! Please don't kill that inncoent little baby!" I screamed over and over in my head using every ounce of strength to keep it from flying out my mouth.
My attention turned to his dad. He appeared to be lost in a sea of thoughts himself, but then a definite hint of sadness and disappointment appeared on his face. He will never have the opportunity to know his first grandchild.
His son left soon after and we talked about it for a while. Although we both had the same feeling about their decision, neither of us felt it was our place to intervene. They are adults. They are within their rights. Why risk alienating him at a time when he needs support the most? To save a baby's life...that's why.
I've been miserable the last few days. I regret the decision I made. I should've said something. Anything. Every time I look at Punky I think of that little baby about to die. Or maybe it already has. Neither of us thought to ask when. On a subconscious level, I don't think either of us wanted to know exactly when.
They have a right to make this decision and they have to live with it the rest of their lives. Someday, as they gaze into the eyes of any future children they go on to have, they will think of this baby they so quickly discarded and long to know what could've been had they chosen a different path.
And what happened to me? How can someone so sure of her pro-choice belief suddenly feel so strongly against their decision? Can I still respect the right to choose without respecting the choice to do so?
A friend of mine surmised that maybe it's harder to accept now that I have a baby of my own. That somehow it's easier to be pro-choice when you have no children. When you haven't experienced pregnancy. When you haven't fallen in love with a tiny bunch of cells the instant the second blue line appeared. How can they not be in love with those little cells and the tiny heart beating away?
The mood's been somber at home. Soon it will all be just a bad memory tucked away. It won't be discussed aside from a possible slip of the tongue from time to time. I somehow need to organize my thoughts and get my beliefs back into neat, little buckets in order to move past this. I don't function well in a sea of mixed emotions. I seem to be stuck in mourning. As strange as it sounds, that's the closest way to describe how I feel. Mourning the loss of a baby I never knew. A baby I wasn't even related to...
But Punky was. It was her nephew. For what it's worth, my gut said boy. And we all wish we had the chance to meet him.
