A Girl and her Potty...

We have been working on potty training. We have both the potty and the potty seat insert that fits on a "big girl potty". We have stickers and mini M&Ms as bribes. We have special books and toys that are only for potty time. We have Elmo and Tinkerbelle panties. We have Princess pull-ups. We have books to encourage and teach, videos for instruction, and have asked, "Do you have to potty?" about 20 times in an hour only to be told, "No," until she says, "Yes," and then it's off to the races. We are ready. Hannah is interested and has peed in the potty numerous times. (And, I have promised her a pony, her choice of Shetland or Miniature, if she poops on the potty). But, there isn't consistency in our lives when it comes to the potty. But I think I've figured out the problem. This is what I found one evening when I stepped out of the kitchen while preparing dinner.

Now I know our strategy has been wrong. We should have been reading to the potty all along. Perhaps a chapter of Winnie the Pooh at bedtime? Or an emotive rendition of Once Upon a Potty at naptime? And there's always a soulful oration of Everybody Poops first thing in the morning. Because you know the old saying, "A Girl and her potty should be well read."? What, you've never heard that one?

Gullible you say? Nay. I am merely trustworthy.

My desire to believe the best in people comes and goes. Sometimes I am so into peace, love, and understanding I want to puke. And sometimes, I think everyone is just out to get me and the world is full of no-gooodnicks. But when I choose to believe that people are essentially good and deserve the benefit of the doubt, humor ensues. I offer you two cases in point. Please, laugh along with me, or at me, or next to me. Please don't laugh behind me, though. That's hurtful and let's face it, pretty tacky.

During the month of August, something happened that hasn't happened since I was in college. I saw two concerts in the same number of weeks. I was fortunate enough to see both The English Beat and Green Day. Both shows were awesome and I'm still feeling the high. Granted, The English Beat ended early due to a highly pyrotechnic storm that breezed in just as the band took the stage, but the few songs they did were amazing.

During the 2nd song, the sweet smell of wacky tobackey came wafting through the crowd. My friends and I looked at each other and laughed. There were some people in the audience who were really enjoying themselves. In between songs, the lead singer said something along the lines of, "I don't want to alarm anyone, but it appears that a small skunk has been wandering through the audience."

I am terrified of skunks. I loathe skunks. Some little kids had monsters in their closets, I had skunks in mine. If I see one, I freak out. Plain and simple freak out. So, after the small skunk announcement had been made, I almost climbed my husband's leg to get away from the small, woodland creature that had joined our happy crowd. And then it dawned on me, mostly because Bryan told me, that skunk meant weed. Haha. I'm a silly, silly person.

Fast forward a week or so to our evening with Green Day. Amazing, wonderful, life-affirming show. And we had floor tickets. We were in the crowd. You could feel the excitement like static electricity during a thunderstorm.

Before the show, I noticed a girl in the crowd. She was standing just to the left of Bryan and me. She also seemed to be dancing to the beat of her own, special drummer. Her outfit was inventive. She had a hot pink, leopard-print, tunic-style top on over red and black, zebra-print leggings. It went lovely with her bright, carrot-colored, long, slightly feathered hair.

Franz Ferdinand took the stage and were great. I admittedly don't know much about this group, but they were a great appetizer to the main course. I again noticed our brightly dressed co-audience member grooving to a beat that was most decidedly not in time with the drummer, guitar, keyboardist, or lead singer who were performing. It was at this moment that something in my head came to the conclusion that this girl must be a little special. (Please note it was not the clothing or the dancing that drove me to this conclusion. It was the total package this girl presented.)

I started looking around for the friends or family members who must have accompanied her to the show. She looked alone. I began to get a little upset. Who would bring a special needs person to a live show and abandon her in the middle of a hyped-up crowd? But then, then my friends, I started to feel triumphant for this girl. She must have come to the show on her own. I was proud of her decision to not let her disabilities keep her from the show she wanted to see. I imagined her catching the bus, or taking a taxi all on her own and was so happy for this girl. I began to feel a sense of righteousness, justice, and equality. I felt a quiet thrill for those who had been kept on the sidelines because of their disabilities or handicaps. I was soaring for this girl!

And then I discovered she was high.

Sweet Hour of Prayer

Just over one year ago, my father had his first stroke. It was the morning before Bryan's and my 7th Wedding Anniversary. We had spent the night before playing mini-golf and eating hot wings (well, I ate hot wings, Bryan had chicken with "Hello Kitty" sauce because Bryan is a wuss). When the phone rang in the middle of the night several hours after we'd returned home and had gone to bed, I knew it wouldn't be good. Because the phone doesn't ring that early in the morning with good news. It just doesn't.

We made the drive to Michigan one day later, on our anniversary. When we got to the hospital the Tuesday after his stroke, I took one look at my dad and wanted to run away. He looked horrible. Here was my dad. The man who encouraged me, who made me laugh, who made me so angry I could spit, who grounded me, who neglected to tell me I no longer had a curfew, who performed our wedding ceremony and made everyone with a pulse cry or at least mist up, and who was one of my staunchest supporters. He looked horrible, and weak, and miserable. He was scared. For him, yes, but mainly for my mother. Her health is not so great, to say it mildly. What would happen to Susan? How would he continue to take care of her? I didn't know that there were worries that had existed in him for years, job and family related, that most likely caused the stroke that would eventually take him from us, from being Hannah's Grampa (this was my dad's preferred spelling of his grandfatherly title), from being my dad. He never told me. I never knew the struggles he was going through. I never knew how absolutely frustrated he was with the way things were. I had an inkling things weren't great, I'm not completely self-centered (in the words of a blogger I adore, Shut Up!). But, in the way that parents do, he shielded me from the worst of it. He also knew I have a temper and it will flare and burn and I will set things on fire with my words. Perhaps he held back for that reason, too.

Over the next two months, he had multiple surgeries, laid on his back in a hospital bed and thought and worried, wore a funny helmet because they'd removed a large section of his skull (I'm still a little irked I never got to decorate it with cool stickers), missed and begged for sips of Diet Coke, and in his way comforted people. I've heard several stories about him from during this time, and all of them have an aspect of him putting others at ease, not that others went to him for help, but my dad's very nature was soothing (except when I was a bratty teenager), comforting, and companionable. Oh, and he managed to get after me one last time while he was at it.

He spent the last three weeks of his life in a nursing home. While there, he developed bed sores. Bed sores that come from an understaffed nursing home. Bed sores that come from too much work, too many patients, and a patient's paralysis. I am in no way saying that the staff at the nursing home weren't caring. They were, but the bed sores still happened. A breakdown of the flesh that occurs from too much time spent in one position where the bone forces its way through to the other side or when a patient is not moved 100% perfectly. And they are painful. And they get infected. And my dad had them.

During our last visit with my dad, we all trooped into his room to look at our feet for a while and to feel uncomfortable and sad and to not discuss the things that needed discussing. Bryan was wheeling my mom in the home's borrowed wheelchair, I had Hannah, and a couple bags worth of stuff. When we got into his room, I wanted to put everything down so I could get over and kiss my dad hello. My mom wanted to be wheeled closer. I asked her to wait a moment so I could get everything down and out of the way. My dad told me, "Don't make your mother wait." As much as I wanted to roar, "She can wait for a minute and it won't kill her! I have stuff and things I need and want to do, too!" I refrained, and dutifully got my mom closer.

I slowly burnt for a long time. I had been taking care of my mother as best I could all week. I had been dealing with her health issues and her depression issues and her fears and her frustrations all week. I had gone to the lawyer's offices. I had gone to the doctor's offices. I had driven her here and there. I had done the shopping. I had been a wife to Bryan and a mother to Hannah and a co-worker and an employee (who was literally hours from being laid off) all week. I had worked all week. I was DONE. I was done being nice. I was done being patient. I was done being a good daughter. But, then I wasn't. And these days, whenever I feel myself getting overwhelmed with what needs to be done, I hear my father's slurred and weakened voice tell me, "Don't make your mother wait." and I find my patience seeping back and my attitude shifting back into place and I do what needs to be done.

My dad died on November 1, 2008. He was 59 years old.

That Saturday morning started out pretty well. My friend was coming over for breakfast, Halloween had been successful and Hannah had a pretty good pile of candy that we would be stealing from, the weather was chilly, but still pretty nice considering it was November, and we were going to have a relaxing day. And then the phone rang at 7:30 am. And I knew it wouldn't be good. Because the phone doesn't ring that early in the morning with good news. It just doesn't.

I can laugh about this now, and in fact I could laugh about this while it was happening. The nurse who called had a speech impediment when she encountered stressful situations (I don't laugh at people with speech impediments, that's just rude and mean. Just getting that out there lest you think I'm a rude, insensitive beeyatch who laughs at the difficulties of others). And she stuttered on the letter "P". And she told me that my father, "had been discovered with no pulse and no blood pressure". And then a bit later she called back to tell me that my father had, "passed away". I remember thinking, "This is going to be really funny someday." And you know what, it is. A bit bittersweet, but it does make me chuckle.

The next two weeks (and more) were hell. Not hell on wheels, which might have been kinda neato, but stuck in crap and mud hell. And there were so many lovely, thoughtful, loving people who were there and that are still there. And I still owe most of them a thank you note. Some of those notes have been written and not sent. Some have not been written at all but exist in my head. The thanks is in my heart and it will always be there, but getting this thanks down on paper is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Thank you for sending lovely flowers to my father's funeral. Thank you for arranging for food right after my father's death. Thank you for watching my little girl while we eulogized her Grampa. Thank you for helping me clear out 37 + years of junk and memories from the first house my parents had ever bought. Thank you for cleaning this house before we arrived so my baby wouldn't accidentally find and eat a lost pill that slid into a corner of the kitchen after my mom tried to kill herself. Thank you for the beers, the food, the time out when I wanted to crawl under a rock and cry but had to keep on keeping on. Thank you for helping me because all I wanted to do was walk away from all of it, including my mother. Thank you for supporting me, loving my family, and just....just Thank you.

The title of this post has very little to do with what I've written. I started this thinking I would go one way, but I've ended here and not there. And, that's okay. I've been working through a lot over the past year and I'm not through. I have many things to start thinking about and many things to wrap up. I have rage in me that I still can't let go of, but manage to only dwell on when alone or with that friend who ate the chocolate chip pancakes I made the morning I found out my dad had died. And of course there's Bryan. Amazing, wonderful, non-hot wing-eating Bryan. But you see, he loved my dad, too. Not in the same way I did, because Bryan's dad is still very much alive and an important part of our lives. And is even more important to me now than he used to be. And I haven't told him that and I don't know if I will ever speak those words to him, but when I see him, I want to cry and have my daddy-by-marriage hug me. And that's probably not fair to him, but it is what it is.

But Bryan, he hurts, too. And he's a bit angry by what happened, too. And he knows the truth, well our side of the truth, about what my dad was dealing with, too. And he knows the crap my dad was up against and kept inside, too. And Bryan can feel the heat of my anger and probably knows it's not best to discuss it. Even though he has been, can be, and will be the wall I fling my hurt, sorrow, frustration, and fury at. Even though he knows it's not aimed at him and we're on the same team. Friendly fire can hurt and kill. So, we limit how far we will discuss the bad, and we remember the good together, as much as my rawness will allow.

And eventually, someday, somehow, at some point in the future, I hope that all I will think of when I think of my dad is the love, the silliness, the support, the fun, the lessons, and the care he gave to me, to Bryan, to Hannah, and to almost everyone he encountered.

The hymn Sweet Hour of Prayer was what my dad was listening to on his CD player just a couple of days before he died. It was on repeat and my father listened and listened and listened to this song. And I thank Richard for being there to witness that last Wednesday's sunset with my dad, and for sharing his memories about a man he is so very similar to, and for his words on the Sunday morning after my father died.

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief,
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare,
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
The joys I feel, the bliss I share,
Of those whose anxious spirits burn
With strong desires for thy return!
With such I hasten to the place
Where God my Savior shows His face,
And gladly take my station there,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
Thy wings shall my petition bear
To Him whose truth and faithfulness
Engage the waiting soul to bless.
And since He bids me seek His face,
Believe His Word and trust His grace,
I’ll cast on Him my every care,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
May I thy consolation share,
Till, from Mount Pisgah’s lofty height,
I view my home and take my flight.
This robe of flesh I’ll drop, and rise
To seize the everlasting prize,
And shout, while passing through the air,
“Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer!”

Nothing New to Report

I have nothing new going on these days. I feel like there's a rut I keep falling into. Going along, happy as a clam, doing what I do, and then BLAMO! I'm bored and slightly blue. It happens at this time every year. The sun sets earlier, the weather turns cooler, the leaves start to change, and I lose some happiness.

I keep wondering what I can do to change this feeling. What is it? A new job? A new wardrobe? Better reading material? Exercise (Haha!)? A hair style? Who knows. All I know is that I'm tired of feeling this way.

I have a lot of daydreams of what I think my perfect life would look like. It changes or is altered depending on my mood or what's going on in our world. And just as I think I've figured it out, set things in a way that I can identify my heart's desire, I get annoyed with my visions and start a whole new daydream. Or reality sets in and I realize that I'm too old and settled to be a rock star archaeologist in a French-speaking location who designs her own lights but doesn't have to climb ladders. And I really don't want to go back to school...or do I?

I apply for jobs I think I would love. I've even gotten an interview or two out of my efforts. I interview, I feel good, and then, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. And then I get discouraged and settle back into my dissatisfying routine once again.

Why can't I just be happy with what I have? Why can't I just be secure in what I am and what I do? Why do I feel so restless and frustrated? Will I ever stop feeling like I need to be defined by what I do for a living? Will I ever discover the Holy Grail formula for cover letter writing? And why won't someone, anyone see that even though my Master's is in Theatrical Lighting Design, it's still a Master's Degree and THAT IS WORTH SOMETHING.

So, as Fall quickly approaches, I feel my mood plummet and dissatisfaction begin to set in. Something's gotta change, and maybe it's just my attitude.

Cedar Street Memories part 1

This isn't my story. Technically, I wasn't even there when it all went down. But, I was asleep on the couch in my old apartment that is right next door to where this story took place. So, I was at least nearby, right? Doesn't really matter because I'm going to tell you anyway. It's just too funny to keep to myself.

In the summer of 1998, I visited my old roommate in Kalamazoo, MI for the weekend at our old apartment. It was a bit of a crap hole, but it was a really fun place to live (more Cedar Street memories later as I've been in a remembering kind of mood lately) and I had the bestest roommate, Jeremy, and two amazing next door neighbors, Shana and Jessie.

During this summer, Nichole was subletting for Jessie and Chris had taken over my half of the lease. Anyways....I was asleep on the couch on Saturday morning, around 7:30, when Jeremy gently woke me up and told me he was headed over to help Nichole with a problem she'd had. I sort of noticed he had a mop, but in my sleepy state, it didn't seem too strange. I would later hear the entire story in all its glorious detail, but not for a couple more hours.

Nichole was rudely awoken that morning by the sound of a horrible crash outside her bedroom door that seemed to come from the kitchen. She jumped out of bed, rushed to the door and flung it open to reveal that the ceiling was now on the floor. Water was everywhere and continued to pour from the hole in the ceiling. The hole revealed glimpses of the apartment above. Nichole called Jeremy for help and then called the landlord for a plumber.

It appeared that a water pipe had burst in between the ground and top floors right over Shana and Nichole's kitchen. The mess was vast and the clean up would be arduous (I've always wanted to use that word, I'm so proud of me). And poor, poor Nichole. She was just subletting and the clean up duties fell to her as Shana was out of town that weekend.

After the plumber had arrived and Jeremy and Nichole did what they could, the two non-plumbers stepped outside for some fresh air and to give the plumber some room. They'd been outside for a few minutes when the plumber came to join them carrying a pretty annoyed cat. He handed the cat to Nichole and said, "Here's your cat." Nichole replied, confused, and holding the cat, "But, we don't have a cat."

But the upstairs neighbors did.