Accepting A Blessing

Was talking to my gf tonight. She wanted to go out shopping, but Wolf wasn't home yet...and I told her I've got my BIL coming, and desperately needed to clean the house.

She offered to help.

I immediately turned her down.

She offered again, more insistantly.

I faced facts. I needed help. I can't do what I used to. I just can't. I have company coming, and the house, while not ready to be condemned was far below even my admittedly non OCD standards.

I accepted her offer.

Its a weird mixed bag of emotions. On one hand, its MY mess, damn it. My family. My responsibility. Having a FRIEND see it at its worst was a blow to my pride and ego, let alone accepting an offer to help clean it.

On the other hand...how incredibly lucky I am to have such a friend that comes over and pitches in, whole heartedly. When I pushed too far and simply had to give in and sit at the table fighting not to cry from hurting, she chatted away, cleaning my stovetop, making it seem like the most natural thing in the world that I should be sitting down watching while she cleaned my kitchen.

I was truly blessed this evening.

Many thanks to you. You know who you are, and you are much loved for what you did. I'm not graceful with words, in person, but I know that you'll read this and understand that I could say here what I couldn't tonight.

Thank you.

Dear 'Well Meaning People',

Dear Well Meaning People;

There have been more than one of you in my life lately. Let me explain a few things for you quickly.

CRPS is NOT arthritis. It is NOT a pulled muscle, pinched nerve, or a product of my imagination. Just because your friend's sister's cousin's aunt's husband's nephew's girlfriend had AMAZING results with ground up bat droppings made into a poultice and applied to their feet on the evening of the first full moon does NOT mean that a) it would work for ME and b) that I'm going to rush out and gather bat droppings. I am under the care of NO LESS than five freaking doctors at the moment. I'm willing to bet that if bat droppings had any medicinal affect, ONE of the 5 would have heard of it. So stop already.

DO NOT tell me how horrible my life is, and then ask breathlessly for details. My medical situation, history, and proposed treatment is simply none of your business. If it were, I would tell you. Heck, if I thought it would actually HELP me to talk to you, I would...but not when you're all eager and salivating for the latest news just so you have something to talk to your friends and family about.

And another thing. DO NOT tell me how there are children dying of cancer, managing disabilities, pain, etc and doing it far better than I am. This is MY personal struggle, MY battle, and I quite frankly don't give a fuzzy rat's behind how I rate in your personal view. Poor lil Jimmy is just a breathing head, drags himself across the ground with his front teeth, how dare I complain? Well, good for Jimmy. I don't care. I get to moan, whine, and gnash my teeth if I so desire, BECAUSE this is MY life. Attempting to guilt me, manipulate my emotions doesn't work. So just back the heck off.

I don't have booze or chocolate. Consider yourself WARNED.

And if you still have the need to tell me about some mythical treatment, or children who are having their limbs ripped off an inch at a time by maggots, I sincerely hope you get something large and unwieldy stuffed in a body oriface. Repeatedly.

And to those who will feel compelled to point out, "They were only trying to help!" Please, just don't. Help doesn't guilt. Help doesn't invalidate, manipulate, or leave you feeling like absolute crap BECAUSE you hurt.

Actual Conversations At The Stepford House

I'm pretty sure 'normal' families don't have conversations like this.

Wolf: Women are malicious. Men will just kill you, but women want to watch you suffer...preferably for years.

Me: Name one thing I've ever deliberately done to cause you pain.

Wolf: *grins*

Me: MARRYING you does NOT count!

****
(Bedtime for Tazzie)

Taz: Uh oh

Me: What?

Taz: I stink

Me: What?!

Taz: I farted. I can't sleep, its stinky *starts flapping his blankets*

Me: *just about gagging* Too bad, you made it, you sleep in it.

Five minutes later:

Taz: Woof! Woof! I'm a dog!

Me: ok, night puppy...*puts glass of water on his headboard*

Taz: Woof! Woof! Puppies need a bowl, not a cup! Woof! Woof!

Me: You can use the cup.

Taz: Woof! I don't gots thumbs! Puppies can't hold cups! Need a bowl! Woof!

Me: Then when you get thirsty, you'll have to change back into a boy. G'night!

Taz: *starts crawling out of his room, 'woofing' and wiggling his butt.

Me: Puppies don't have thumbs, so they can't play xbox tomorrow. And little boys that get out of bed can't play either.

Taz: *runs back into his room*

Honestly, this can't be normal. Can it? For the record, Taz has been an issue to get to bed lately. I don't doubt that he saved his gas emissions all day just to try and use gas warfare as a delay bedtime technique. And no thumbs? Ok, so I've told the cat that since he didn't have thumbs he didn't get his choice of seats in the livingroom, but oy!

My Children Are Weird

Ok, that comes as no big shock to anyone that's ever read my blog, but honestly, their weirdness (or as Wolf prefers, 'uniqueness') is getting outta hand.

For one thing, we have a cat, Jack. ONE cat. Honest.

But there are times that you'd be hard pressed to tell. Both Taz and The Princess have issues with feline behaviour these days. Crawling around, meowing, and getting quite ticked if they're not petted. Princess was found playing in the kitty litter (it was clean, people, just changed!) and told that kitty litter wasn't for little girls, and removed...to which she immediately crawled back, meowing and acting like a cat...and attempt to play in the litter again. *sigh* She also does the head butt and rub against your face. I'm not sure who'll need therapy first, her or I.

Then there's this am. Princess, the whack a doo she is, LOVES R**e Kr**pies. (* are to ensure I don't get busted for any copy right infringement) Give her the choice of sugary goodness and the RK, she goes for the RK. I *said* she was a whack a doo, didn't I? I don't make this stuff up, folks.

ANYWAYS...she found the box of RK. Wolf buys it pretty much just for her, since the other kids have long since figured out the magic powers of sugar. She proceeds to pour some onto a plate, and LICK it up. Yeah, cat behaviour strikes again. So, being the (lazy/permissive/indulgent/awesome) Mommy I am, I indulge her creativity, and simply remove the box of cereal to prevent a larger mess. Until she starts using it as confetti, and apparently pretending she's at a wedding.

Which leads me to Tazzie. The child BEGGED to vacuum the mess. Seriously, folks. "Pleeeeeeassseee, Mommy, pleeeaaassseee!!! I wanna vaccuum!"

What, oh WHAT was I to do?

Plugged in the vacuum, handed him the hose and sat down with a coffee, that's what!

Now...if I can only convince them that housework is fun, I could have my own set of slaves....er...helpers!