Milestone

There comes a day in the life of every mother when she has to let her child down easy, to somehow burst her bubble without incurring life-long insecurities, to keep her from getting her hopes up only to be shot down.

I have had that day.

Today was Day 1 of acting camp, where the Girl and several other children up to the age of 11 would be getting together to put on the musical "The Lion King." Although she's been signed up for a few months, we didn't really start hyping it until a week or two ago. The Lion King is a good musical because there are potentially lots of characters and chorus members a kid could be. Of course, the first thing out of her mouth is: "I want to be Simba!" Ah, jeeeeez! How am I going to talk her down from this one?

"Errr. . . well, Honey, there are lots of good roles! Wouldn't it be fun to be Ed?" (Ed is the idiot hyena who does little more than laugh and roll his eyes around in his head.) "Or Zazu? Or Sarabi?" All the while I'm thinking, ". . . or Gazelle #4 in the background. . ." because, let's face it--she's a 5 1/2-year-old in a class with kids twice her age. Urgh.

Fortunately, she did decide that Ed or Sarabi would indeed be good roles, and my only hope was that there would be few enough kids that she would be able to have one of those roles. So today when I took her, about 10 other kids trooped in, many who already knew each other. Seriously? My worst nightmare. Had I been a kid there this morning, I would've hidden behind whatever would have covered me and not come out until my mom came to get me. Yep--PLENTY of kids to cover all the big roles and then some. Whee.

So I left her with a kiss and took of for work, the continuation of my intership in Cedar Park. It was wonderful to be back in the hospital, and to make it even better, I got kisses from a tiny puppy and lots of attention from the hospital cat, Mr. Kitty. On the downside, I managed to attempt to read a cytology slide with the wrong lens in the oil, and whacked an uncapped hypodermic needle from a colleague's hand as I was attempting to restrain a dog. I remain amazed, however, that I can still love it the way I do. I love being in rooms with a doctor who doesn't glower at me or require me to disappear into a non-entity in her presence. I love staining slides and walking out back with dogs and a ladle to catch their pee. I love asking the doctors questions and filling prescriptions. I love being able to answer client questions most of the time. I would probably die of bliss overload were they to pay me. Which they won't, so I will continue to be merely extra happy.

After work, stopped to see Mom at Christopher House, where I met with the chaplain, a social worker, and the doctor in charge. It really is a wonderful place, but it appears she'll be going back to the rest home tomorrow. She has stabilized enough that she's out of immediate danger, and the plan is to continue hospice services at the rest home. What this means is that there will be another layer of care in her life. The next time anything happens to her (and it will,) instead of sending her directly to the hospital, the home will call the hospice nurse, who will come out to evaluate her and do what is necessary to keep her out of the hospital. Because we have a DNR order on her, if she develops aspiration pneumonia again (and she likely will,) the nurse will know not to give her antibiotics, and instead, do everything possible to keep her comfortable as we let nature take its course. Having known Mom my whole life, I know this isn't the "life" she would have wanted, and will do everything in my power to ease her suffering. I figure it's the least I can do, given that she took care of me for far longer than she needed to. The same way I would, for the Girl, by the way. I told her once when she was scared of something and needed to hold my hand, that I would ALWAYS hold her hand, even when she was a grown up lady, I would hold her hand if she needed me to. I wish I'd figured out earlier how much my Mom loved me. It might have made me act differently. Or not, I don't know. It seems unfair that this knowledge is something you only get when it's too late to be the perfect kid, you know? Then again, even though I am constantly wearied by the Girl's propensity to growl and huff and tell me I'm mean when I tell her to do or not do something, I secretly love that her will is so strong and her ego is so solid and healthy. I love that she isn't afraid to let me know she's angry, although sometimes I do wish she'd just SAY that, instead of giving me all these theatrics.

And speaking of theatrics? She was cast as Simba.



So I say, "Congratulations to my Princess of the Stage, who, as the youngest kid in the second musical production she's ever been in, was awarded the lead role. You continue to amaze and delight me."

Yes, I have had that day, the day of letting her down easy. . . and it was unnecessary. She doesn't expect second best, and she rarely gets it. Who IS this Girl!? With 100% of my heart and brains, I believe she'll change the world.

If anyone's in Austin on July 3rd and 3 pm, join us for the show!

June sucks, I find.

Mom went into hospice care today, at a place called Christopher House. The way it has all been laid out for me, she'll be there maybe 4 days, and then when she's stabilized, she'll go back to her nursing home, where she'll receive hospice services from a different organization than the one that runs Christopher House.

In all honesty, I'm not sure I see her making it to 2010, which would really be a blessing for her. Many years ago, I remember her telling me that she didn't want to be kept alive with machines. We aren't exactly there yet, but we have gotten to a point where we're using technology to make it easier for her to stay alive, if that make sense. I think if we took her off the oxygen and antibiotics and pain medications and psychotropics, she would remain alive, but for less time. I also remember her on a few occasions saying, "If I ever get Alzheimer's, just take me out back and shoot me." That kind of decision is quickly coming for me, I think. I know what she wants. And I know what I'll do, and I hope she'll be proud of me for that one last time, doing what she wants.

Because really, isn't that what all moms want? According to the Girl, I want her to be my servant. If only. . .

Denial

I think this is going to be the year of Not Trying So Hard.

At first, the idea of making a Cleopatra costume seemed simple. . . deceptively simple. Because once I got MY hands on it, I couldn't just use a stiffened piece of fabric with sparkly paints on it to make one of her spectacular beaded collars. No, I had to set out to find the beads and other stuff needed to make an ACTUAL spectacular beaded collar. Nevermind that I can buy one on ebay for $6. See, there's a major disconnect in my head. Let me illustrate it thusly:

This is what I WANT:

And THIS is what I can BUY:

No, no, no, no, no no nononononononoooooooo! Now, while I wail about the intense cheesiness of this one, let there be no doubt that the Girl would probably swoon over it. I cannot let this happen.

But do I really need to be the mother who handcrafts every single thing her kid wears on Halloween? I mean, I'm getting to the point where I have to ask, "Does she really NEED actual Egyptian linen? Are scarab beads and an enameled pectoral pendant imperative?" And really? the answer is no.

I can still make parts of it, and I will, but I will also be buying some pieces in the interest of my own continuing sanity and the saving of the hours that I would undoubtedly spend making a costume to be worn one time and then relegated to the costume box under the bed. I may no longer be the Coolest Mom on the Block, but I tell you what, I'll be the Mom Who Isn't Completely Insane.

For once.

Suckful

Mom is finishing up her second full day at the hospital, where she was sent Monday evening with pneumonia. I spent the better part of Monday night and Tuesday morning/afternoon there with her, and ended up coursing at the speed of light through every emotion known to man.

I honestly had expected that when the time came where I had to think about her passing away, I would be relatively okay with it. It isn't like I haven't seen it coming for the past few years. And I always tell myself that our relationship had been so adversarial and everything, but that's not meaningful, as it turns out. Your mother is still your mother, no matter what your relationship might have been like, and so to find myself crying about it was really quite a shock to me.

And THEN, on top of that, try having dual emotions --"I hope she's okay," and "I hope this is the end." They're like oil and water in your brain, and no matter how much you shake it, they don't mix very well. What would "okay" mean for her, anyway? It would mean going back to the nursing home where she will lay in bed or sit in a wheelchair all day, staring into space and occasionally mumbling. In what universe is that "okay?" But do I want her to die? No, I don't. Then again, what would dying mean for her? It would mean the exact opposite of the scenario I just painted, and depending on one's beliefs about death, it could quite possibly mean some serious happiness, fun and games galore! Old friends! Family! And end to whatever this life has turned into for her. Do I want THAT for her? Yes, I do. So what do you do?

In this case, you call on the local Catholic priest to come give her the Anointing of the Sick, and then sit with the hospital's chaplain for awhile, discussing the whole thing. And you whine and complain about why why why, and eventually come back to faith and what it means and you go home and eat two Coke floats.

Butter!

With "Pioneer Week" we dyed muslin with vegetables (note: if you're ever stricken with the desire to dye like they did in olden days, stay away from beets. The water is a gorgeous color, but it rinses right out! Now, blueberries are a different story. . .) and we made butter! The sample you see above was made by simply shaking heavy cream in a jar for about 7 minutes. It would have been a much more enjoyable project had the Girl helped shake, or even been able to tear her eyes from whatever episode of "Wow Wow Wubbsy" was on, but I thought it was keen. I packed the butter and bonus buttermilk away in the fridge, and am scared to ingest either one of them. This is because I am, as you know, well--me. But I'll tell you, it made me feel like Ma Ingalls on steroids.Here you see my labor-intensive yet low-yielding veggie factory, as well as the muslin squares that we washed in the "stream" just like pioneers. ("Stream" = a bowl of soapy water and the squirty attachment on the hose.) We were taking advantage of the sun, which in Texas sits about 20 feet above the treetops, to dry them. The first three batches burst into flames. The plan is to make a quilt out of them, but I don't know if that's going to happen. We have three left to dye, and I've run out of options for natural colorants. We used onion skins for an orange color, blueberries for a purplish color, and beets for a mottled pinkish effect. I suppose we could tea-dye the final three, but I was hoping for a more exciting color than brown. We tried spinach for green, and that washed right out, as did the orange beets, too. Maybe I should just open a vein.

So Pioneer week didn't go much of anywhere, so I'm going to try an Ancient Egypt thing next, in keeping with the Girl's decision to be Cleopatra for Halloween this year. Given that I fully expect to overdo it again, I've begun looking for instructions to make a collar necklace out of safety pins and beads all over the interweb, and seriously, I think it's gone wherever things like missing socks and Jimmy Hoffa go. In fact, I suspect Jim's wearing one right now. I have no real plans for this Egypt thing, although I'm guessing at some point, we'll make a mummy and sarcophagus, and maybe fool around with heiroglyphics. Ooh, and make some yummy Egyptian food!

Stay tuned. . . I have a metric buttload (yes, that IS a technical term) of incipient projects--watch them all come to fruition here. Or not.

Ennui, 2009

Maybe it's the weather, or maybe it's being home all the time, and maybe it's even Moe's constant paw-licking habit, but I find myself slowing down more and more as far as "having a life" is concerned.

Pooh.

I'm happy anyway, though. Maybe picking tomatoes and cucumbers really is as exciting as I think it is. Or planning how to redo the yard or kitchen (both which need doing, by the by.)

Still, there's a whole long list of stuff I WANT to do, but can't seem to haul myself off of my kiester (I'm using the "i before e" rule here, so don't blame my spelling if that was incorrect. . .) to do any of it.

See? Lookit:

Stuff I want to do: sew for me; sew for the Girl; exercise; lose 5 pounds; get my hair colored (I can't do this myself anymore, because last time I tried, I ended up looking like Goth-Mom and had to have it professionally rescued for $130.); do more crafty things; do actual work for actual money; update my blog more often; take more photographs; cook healthier foods; see my girlfriends more often; get our f@*&$ing phones fixed; look good; sleep more; dance.

I also need to post more photos, which I might be able to convince myself to do sooner or later. Maybe I can include a picture of the ONE chinese long bean my plants produced. It's very long. On the other hand, I'm doing wildly well with cucumbers. I'll have to figure out how to make pickles.

I think I should've been a country wife a long time ago, except for that cleaning the house part. Bleah.