I failed.
*sigh*
I simply got my butt handed to me by my RSD. I can't handle making the dress for Diva.
So, I'm giving her the material, etc for Christmas, and it will be a project that we do together (ie, I supervise)
I'm angry, depressed. I wanted to honour my daughter, and RSD robbed me of that.
I'm not 'me' right now. Wolf has even commented on how quiet I am the last day or two. Apparently, "A quiet wife isn't a happy wife" as far as he's concerned.
Hopefully, I get back to being 'me' soon.
Merry Christmas to everyone. God Bless.
Ever feel under attack? Like someone or someTHING has you in its sights, and is throwing emotional crap at you, one after another, until you feel like you're going to snap under its weight? And its done so insidiously, that nobody else around you really knows whats going on, just that you're completely snarly and unable to please, and you get angry over things that are probably completely ridiculous, but your anger stays, and so does feeling justified for it?
Yeah. I'm having one of THOSE days.
Its started out, as it often does, with a lack of sleep. The last few days my sleep has been terribly broken, with incredibly vivid dreams. I had dreams that Wolf and I were arguing in bed, and then when I dragged myself to consciousness, discovered I hadn't even rolled over. And not just once. THREE times in the same freakin night. Like I got back to sleep just to have it repeated.
Then last night, I had a dream...and in it, my heart was beating so incredibly hard, it was like I could see my pulse in my hands, arms. When I woke up, my chest ached. I wonder if my heart was beating really hard (for whatever reason) and it became part of my dream, or if my dream became part of my reality.
I woke up at 5 am, with Tazzie awake at 5:01 am. Wolf showed up for coffee two hours later. I felt like I was going to fall over, so went back to bed...and COULDN'T SLEEP. Talk about insanity.
Insanity: Feeling like you're going to fall over, throw up, or both due to lack of sleep, and then not being able to sleep. And that's WITH melatonin to help things along.
So, I got up again. Talked to Wolf about potentially Christmas shopping today. He huffed a bit, reminding me he had a maybe hockey game to play this afternoon. I finally said that I wouldn't go shopping, and he tells me that's for the best, it would be insane crowd-wise, and Tues during the day would be better for less people...then he follows it up with saying that my not shopping meant HE could go out and get a hockey stick this am!! And then he wonders why I'm ticked off at him. Seriously.
I go back to bed, and as I'm trying to drift off, one more thing hits me.
Wolf and I lost our first child together, due to an ectopic pregnancy. Found out before Valentine's that we were expecting, moved up our wedding date, and by the end of Feb, there was no longer a little heartbeat, and I had stitches in my bellybutton (laproscopic surgery).
For a long time, I hated my body. It had rebelled against me, and cost me our child. I grieved for the loss of my little one.
Time went on as it always does, and healer-thief that it is, the pain went away. Two healthy babies and almost seven years later, and I'm ashamed to admit that I don't think of my lost one much at all anymore.
Then, this am, it came roaring back at me. That Tazzie would have, should have an older sibling, Diva a younger closer to her age. That that unknown, gender unknown child would have turned seven in September.
People have pointed out, and realistically so, that if we'd had that child, Princess wouldn't be with us. That kind of logic, as honest and real as it is, enrages me. Like it was a trade off, that the child we lost wasn't as valuable, that missing my unknown is somehow devaluing the love I have for my Princess. Its not an either/or thing in my heart.
Part of the mourning is the loneliness of it. Wolf just didn't understand at the time. He understands more now, having had Tazzie and Princess, but its not a wound for him in the same way. For him, it has always been a matter of fact situation. The ectopic was caught on a fluke, and almost cost me my life. He almost lost his to-be wife. It was a medical condition to him.
So that hit me today. And I've been crying on and off since, quietly, where nobody sees or hears.
I know that I should be counting my blessings, and I do, I do. But sometimes, things lost need their moment to be honoured too.
Like I said, I feel under attack right now, and the attacker knows the right places to hit...of course.
If you are reading this, say a prayer for me, k? I need them to get through today.
I have to be honest, its not going so well. I managed, after several hours, to get the pattern cut out.
I'm talking the TISSUE PAPER pattern, not anything to do with actual fabric.
By the time I was done that, I was in pain so bad I was trembling.
I didn't sleep last night, finally managing to get a few hours this afternoon.
I want so badly to honour my daughter with this dress...I just truly don't know if I can physically manage it.
Wolf asked why I would attempt such a thing when I have RSD. Perhaps its because I have RSD. I want to do something special, that my beautiful daughter deserves, as her mother, RSD be damned. If I was able to find a beautiful dress for her, I would go that route...but I can't. She's 11, and in women's sizes, only an inch shorter than I. Any dress I could find for her was far, far too mature. Any pretty party gowns in the girls/teens ran out before we found her size.
Sewing seemed the only option...I just don't know if I can.
I'm praying that I'm able to honour my daughter with this, that God will give me the strength to get through this.
I had a complete meltdown and panic attack last night. It wasn't about anything you might think.
It was about a sewing pattern.
Yes, a sewing pattern. An 'Easy' sewing pattern at that.
You see, its my feverent hope and plan to make Diva a lovely dress/jumper for Christmas, and then give her the pattern so that she can make one of her own. I, with the help of K, picked out an easy pattern, and a lovely fabric that Diva will look wonderful in.
Believe it or not, its not the one handedness issue that has me freaking out. I plan to do the sewing on the days after I get the lidocaine infusion, so to be in the best possible physical shape.
And, a part of it is no doubt, spitting in the eye of RSD. To do something for my girl, regardless of the pain.
I also want to make her this incredible stocking as a surprise...it looks like a ballerina slipper. But, I promised I'd make the dress first.
So, last night, I finally put off getting this thing done. I wanted to pin the pieces into place, so that Saturday I could at least manage the cutting, if not some sewing.
I read the directions and promptly freaked out. It seems I'd forgotten how long ago it had been since Home Ec, and that the one sewing project I'd had was supposed to be a long sweatshirt with pockets (Hey, it was the 80s!) but looked like something with four arms.
I'm terrified. I have no flipping clue about sewing darts. And why the top would be in FOUR pieces. All it needs is a front, and a back. So WHY the four pieces???
But, this is about pleasing my daughter, not about my fears and insecurities. So, tonight, I will proceed. I will not allow my disability, or my shortcomings ruin this, or rob her.
I just pray that I don't completely screw it up.
For those that followed my older blog, you will be familiar with this piece...for those new to the Stepford Family, please enjoy. I would request all readers to take a moment of reflection to remember all of those who fought in wars of yesterday, and who fight today to protect the innocent, the weak...who are the very reasons that we are able to live the lives we do today.
This is especially personal this year, as my eldest son has decided to join our Armed Forces. May God watch over him, keep him safe.
A Promise To Keep
According to my eldest daughter, my husband and I are weird. Nobody else's parents insist that they attend Remembrance Day ceremonies, she protests. Be it on television, or in person, my husband and I insist that our family solemnly observe the day by attending ceremonies. For my husband, its a strongly held belief, bolstered by his grandfather having served in World War II. For myself, its something that I've always held to be sacred, believing that those that forget history are doomed to repeat it. Its also about a promise I made, almost thirteen years ago now. Every year since, when observing the Ceremony, I remember back to that one Remembrance Day that ensured that as long as I live, I will attend, observe, and do my very best to instill in my children the importance of the day.
I was a single parent then, working, struggling to meet our day to day expenses while still ensuring that I was there for my son. It was a juggling act at best, and I was known at work for always being available for shifts, so when I went in and booked Remembrance Day off, it came as a shock to my supervisor. “It's just Remembrance Day,” she protested. I couldn't make her understand that it was something that I simply had to observe, to teach my child about. He was only three at the time, and to him, Mommy having a day off work was a novelty, and I found myself attempting to explain why Mommy had taken the day off.
It wasn't easy, explaining to a 3 year old about the purpose of the day. As we rode the bus that chilly November morning, I did my best to explain to him, in preschooler terms, what Remembrance Day was about. Explaining that our 'good guys' had to go to war and fight the 'bad guys' so that people could be safe. I felt like I was walking a tightrope between wanting my child to understand the sanctity of the day without frightening him or glorifying violence. Explaining why the 'good guys' used guns when he wasn't allowed to play with them had me trying to explain 'big bad vs little bad' . I wondered if perhaps this had been a bad idea, if my child were too young to really understand, but on we went to the Cenotaph.
Standing on the sheltered bridge over the Cenotaph, watching the ceremony, my son's questions continued. I answered him, noticing a Veteran watching us from the corner of his eye. I felt self conscious, concerned that we were disrupting this gentleman's observance of the service. I mouthed, “Sorry” to him, and thankfully, he smiled and nodded at me.
After the ceremony ended, I gathered my courage, walked over to the Veteran and shook his hand.
“Thank you, Sir, for everything you did.”
"I was glad to do it." He replied.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Sir? We're just going to get some hot chocolate and a coffee, would you like to join us?”
He thanked me for my offer, but declined, so we turned to walk away. Just then he called to me.
"You asked if there was anything you could do..."
"Yes Sir?"
Fastening his eyes on my child, he said quietly, "Please...don't let him forget."
Somehow, I managed to speak around the lump in my throat, and whispered, "No Sir...I won't."
Years later, I met and married my husband. Had more children. And still, Remembrance Day is a sacred day in our home, to discuss the sacrifices that were made, the current war being fought, the parents who have lost children, the children who have lost parents. Three more times I've found myself having the same discussion with a bright eyed three year old, the good guys vs bad guys, right and wrong, and its never gotten any easier. I don't think it should. I think that trying to explain war should always come with difficulty, not with any glib or pat answers. Still, despite my daughter's protest that other families don't, we continue to observe.
I have a promise to keep. And I will never, ever, forget.
Diva turns eleven today. Yay Diva! Happy Birthday!
And she got her first period last night.
*Insert Mommy fainting here.*
Thank heavens she knew from our talks exactly what was going on, so she had that half excited/half embarrassed look to her.
Wolf on the other hand...He about dropped. I mean, worse than me. I just wanted to cry, because having to deal with menstruation at eleven just seems like a rotten thing (its rotten at my age, I wouldn't wish it on an eleven year old, lol!). He on the other hand, turned green at the very idea that his little girl...lol! On the good side, seems to finally *get* why I've been ranting about hormone free meat and milk, whole foods, an acreage, growing and raising everything that goes into our mouths.
He's even going to talk to his buddy about going hunting for the first time. Wolf's anxious to start providing 'clean' meat now and not wait. Venison is about as clean as it gets, and free to boot. If Wolf finally gets around to getting his Metis status, he can hunt year round, not just in season...same with the buddy he'll hunt with.
Oh, any parental "Oh my, she's too young!" momentary freak outs were done away from the kids, and unheard. Just so nobody thinks we flipped in front of Diva 
Ok, technically, this is 101. I actually hit 100 posts. I'm not sure if I should celebrate or be really depressed, since my intention has been to blog weekly...daily, really, but at LEAST weekly. *sigh*
Here's the thing. I debate with myself if I need to create a new blog, and delete this one. I don't want to, but I'm not so sure the Not A Stepford Wife fits me as well as it used to, before I had some personal changes set in this summer...and don't want to disappoint anyone stumbling on by.
At the same time, I'm still so-very-NOT-perfect that it still fits...so I figure I'll keep on bloggin.
Ever start something, find yourself in the midst of it, and realize that somehow the direction has changed? Ya huh. That would be me. I intended for this to be a mostly light hearted Erma Bombeck with an edge sort of blog, and stray into the reality that is my life without the promised laugh track. Ack.
So, bear with me through my growing pains, and we'll get there. Hopefully. And yes, I do so vow that laughs are coming...Oh! The Incredible Eating Machine! Coming up, blog entry 102. Promise!
While the title is appropriate, I now have that David Bowie song in my head. And I've never even liked the song! *sigh*
There have been some changes around the Stepford Home. Literally around the home...or in it.
Wolf *finally* got around to moving some furniture that I've been begging him to do. I now suddenly have THREE bookshelves in my homeschooling/computer area. Not only do I have all my books out on the shelves, but room for more! It makes my book junkie heart race with delight, lol!
Also, much to the delight of the entire family, we ditched the three legged table to the basement and moved the table that had been holding my printer and file boxes into the kitchen. I wish someone could explain to me how it is that once Wolf moved the broken table downstairs, he FIXED the dang thing. Why couldn't he have done that, oh, say THREE MONTHS AGO when the table leg initially fell off? I swear, I just don't understand the man.
He also rearranged the living room. We suddenly feel like we have a larger home to be honest.
Its funny how rearranging furniture can rearrange attitudes. For the first time in I don't know how long, we're all eating at the kitchen table. Like, for every meal. It used to be that we'd eat in front of the tv. *waiting for all the gasping and 'tsk tsk' to die down* Hey, I did say this was the NON Stepford blog, right? Never did I claim perfection in anything.
While the Flylady would die of mortification and shame, I'm finding it much easier to keep the house clean with this new arrangement. Yeah, still one armed, my sink isn't shiny, I don't have shoes on...heck, I haven't even brushed my hair yet this am, but I'm feeling better about the house.
Here's the biggest shock of all: I'm not drinking coffee any more. I know! Me, the person who swore that you'd only get my Timmie's cup away from me by prying it from my cold, dead hands is no longer drinking coffee!
It wasn't intentional. I got hit with some sort of weird illness on Saturday. (It never fails. Ever since I was a kid, I'd get sick before/after/during an anticipated event...Hallowe'en, Christmas, etc. Or one of my brothers would.) I lay shivering under several blankets, looking like death...without a costume or make up. I don't mind looking like death warmed over for Hallowe'en, I usually consider that a triumph of my theatrical makeup skills, but this wasn't intentional, and therefore, completely unappreciated by me.
And its left me unable to stomach coffee. I just can't do it. I've tried, honest! I've finally made the switch to tea, so I could get my caffeine fix. Sorry, but I just cannot stomach Coke or any other caffeinated soft drink in the am. Caffeine must be delivered via a hot beverage.
I don't even own a tea pot, for pity sakes. I'm nervous about anyone from the government reading this, since I'm fairly certain that lack of a teapot is grounds for revoking my Canadian citizenship, declaring me American, and shipping me across the border.
While I love my American friends, I can't live in the States. No Timmies, no Smarties, and I've heard that our Oreos are better for some odd reason.
****PSA ANNOUNCEMENT****
If you boil water, add it to your mug with a tea bag in it, wander away, get distracted by kids and blogging, it WILL turn into a substance suspiciously similar to lye.
Just a friendly heads up.
*******
So, I guess I need to go get a teapot soon, before the government tracks me down. And a proper kettle. I'm using a flipping sauce pan to boil water.
In my new tea drinking defence, I'm drinking Red Rose. None of that decaffeinated-herb-ground-mouse-toe stuff.
I should also mention that I was astounded by how much CRAP we got rid of over the weekend. I'm talking about SIX garbage bags full. And BIG garbage bags. I didn't even know we had that much stuff, let alone crap! Holy decluttering, Batman!
I told my gf K, it feels like we're gearing up for a move. To be honest, that's usually when we declutter and ditch stuff, because both Wolf and I have a bit of a pack rat tendency.
The one thing that does worry me is that he ditched a whole slew of baby gear. Toys, clothes...He isn't completely daft, and did keep the bassinet and swing. I've warned him before that getting rid of baby gear tends to guarantee conception. It happened before. When Tazzie was around eight months old, Wolf got rid of his swing, and a few other things. Boom, I was pregnant with Princess before Tazzie's first birthday.
He's hoping that keeping the bassinet and swing will be enough to ward off the stork. I'm thinking its only bought us time, lol!
So, there's us at the moment. In my next post I promise to tell you about the Incredible Eating Machine.
This is what I need to tell my husband. I know, I know, there are women out there that would give an appendage for a husband that cleans house.
But not the way Wolf does it.
He throws everything in the garbage that *he* doesn't think is important. Stuff he *does* think is important he stuffs in a box, or on my desk/homeschooling area. Then, of course he nags me about the mess my desk/homeschool area is. *sigh*
I cannot FIND things when he 'cleans'. Case in point, I can't find the reimbursement form for Diva's homeschool stuff. I've looked everywhere, and nope. The entire 'welcome package' we were sent, including a computer disc, has vanished. *Poof* Heaven only knows where the heck it is.
I've already called and thrown myself on the mercy of the folks at the school board, and they're emailing me some files (as soon as they can figure out how to make them smaller, because apparently my email doesn't like the current size of the files) so that I can at least get the reimbursement done.
All I can say to the women whose husband's don't clean is to be careful what you wish for...because one day, he might.
I've finally figured out WHY I'm the Non Stepford Wife model.
Its my kids' fault. And, by DNA responsibility and other issues, my husband's.
But definitely the kids.
Lets start with the fact that there isn't a parenting manual in existence that deals with the issues I face on a regular/daily basis.
Take today for example. There isn't a parenting manual on the shelf that deals with potty training a la non-Stepford style. Princess has been 'sorta' trained for about a year. The 'sorta' parts come in when she will not ever wear anything on her butt. Initially, putting underwear on this kid had her screaming like I'd dipped her in acid. And not the funky hippie dream, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds acid either.
Sooooooo, we let her go bare butt in the house. Never an accident.
But the problem arises when its time to go somewhere. Yes, even homeschoolers take their kids out. Occasionally.
Put a diaper on her, she uses it. Usually in the worst, smelliest, leakiest way possible. I know there are other moms that read this blog, so I know I don't need to get any more detailed than that. Same with disposable so-called training pants. Training my left foot! Only training that occurred was when I had to teach/train Wolf that they rip down the sides, you don't have to slide a poop filled training pants down her legs. Lets all take a moment for a group shudder at the visual that sentence produced. *shudder*
Until.
I found a no name brand disposable training pant that had PRINCESSES on it. From my Princess' all time favourite movie(s), Shrek 1-3. Well now. Defiling those were obviously a no-no. *cue angels singing*
Of course, me being me, didn't figure this out ahead of time, and neglected to buy out the entire in store stock (they were even on sale). However, the bridge between 'bare butt' and 'scream like a banshee' has been bridged, and she will wear underwear now. *cue angelic chorus*
But only if they're pink. With flowers. aka 'pretty'. *headdesk*
Sigh.
I figure that she'll be in normal underwear about a week before she turns 21, and then will be demanding thongs a week after THAT.
In the meantime, I have a three year old that appears out of nowhere, panties around her ankles, announcing "I pooped!", handing me a roll of toilet paper, and bending over. All my other kids had the grace to simply holler at the top of their lungs for help from the bathroom. Not her. *sigh*
Take that, parenting manual. Never read THAT being discussed.
Its not just my youngest either. Tazzie, at 4, has been known to listen to me, cock his head to the side with a puzzled look, and tell me, "I just can't visualize that, Mom." and walks off.
Seriously.
And, the most psyche scarring event of all occurred with Diva, my eldest daughter today. I.Had.To.Teach.Her.To.Shave.
I may never recover. I literally crawled into Wolf's lap, shaking.
(As an aside, why do men think the cure to psychological scarring is them receiving...uh...personal attention? Or is it just my dh?)
As my ever helpful husband said, "At least it was just under her arms. She could have been asking about bikini---" He wasn't allowed to finish that sentence.
Parenting manuals at the Non-Stepford home...best used as paperweights. Or to start fires...if we had a fireplace. *sigh* And I could use some help, dang it!!
Migraine came back, ended up in the ER.
Very long evening cut short, the CT was clear, they did 3 tries at a lumbar puncture and couldn't get it. Wanted me to stay the night and get it done this am with xray and dye.
I said thanks, but no thanks and came home. There was something like a 2-3% chance it could have been missed in the CT...I figure thats a pretty low chance, and was way sore and in tears when I made the decision.
I basically laid on the couch yesterday. The Littles took turns snuggling with Mommy. My back is still really tender from the three attempts at the lumbar puncture.
The nurse that was there when the Dr was doing the puncture was a young woman, probably a recent graduate...she was sooooooo nice! Poor girl...she was attempting to comfort me, and rubbed my bad arm...I yelped. But, she stuck by me, letting me attempt to break her hand as the Dr did the three attempts.
Headache is still present, giving me a vague pressure/pain thing...but unless it gets dramatically worse, I'm going nowhere. The Dr warned me that if it does get dramatic again, to get my butt in to the ER again...and go through the whole song and dance once more, but to stick around for the xray puncture if needed. He said the majority of potential aneurysms turn out to be horrifically bad migraines, but my description of it sounded like a sub arachnoid aneurysm. I hear arachnoid and think spiders, lol!
I've had migraines as long as I can remember.
The one I had last night scared the heck out of me. I've had some bad ones since developing RSD, but this...this was something else.
First, keep in mind I'm on pretty heavy narcotics to start with, with a short term 'emergency' narcotic to take when the pain is beyond coping with.
So, for a migraine to get through my 'normal' meds is pretty harsh.
For it not to respond to my fast acting meds...that's even worse.
This was so incredibly bad that not only could I not move my head because my neck muscles completely seized up, but I also vomited x2. Normally, if I'm sleeping during the day (this hit at about 1215 pm...I woke dh from a nap at 130, and was in bed shortly after) I wear ear plugs and use a shirt rolled up over my eyes as a sort of sleep mask.
I couldn't use the ear plugs. They hurt like I was putting hot drill bits in my ears.
I couldn't use the shirt. It felt like I was trying to gouge out my eyes with my thumbs. Even unrolling and draping the shirt over my eyes was too much to bear. I pushed it aside, but it was still touching the top of my head, making me feel like something was trying to crush the top of my skull.
Even laying on my side, the pressure of my hand under my pillow was too much. Rolling over made me feel like my head was going to fall off.
Normally, with a migraine, I have my hand/arm over my eyes. Going up the stairs to bed, I couldn't figure out where to hold...my eyes, forehead, top of skull or back because it all hurt so badly, and felt like my skull was going to shatter.
The light and sound sensitivity was beyond incredible.
Today, I still feel very nauseated, and my neck muscles are still tight...not as bad as last night. I have pressure in the back of my skull, creeping up the right side, and beginning to make my right eye water as the pain/pressure starts up again.
I called my Dr, he's on vacation.
Called the health link, nurse says to go to a walk in clinic.
My gf, that had an aneurysm a few years ago is demanding I go into the ER, because what I had last night is EXACTLY how she felt a few days before she ended up in the hospital...after hers had ruptured, she was still walking around for a few days.
Wolf is at work. Unless the pain amps up, I'm waiting til he's home to do anything.
Yes, its Thanksgiving in Canada. Well, technically tomorrow is, but I'm cooking today...I figure I get a day to rest and recover before Wolf goes back to work!
Thanksgiving is one of those weird times of year for me. I live across country from my parents, grandmother and sibs. Wolf's mother is in another province (I count it as a blessing) and his bsibs are scattered. Its rare that we have company.
Unfortunately, for turkey buying purposes, I'm still mentally stuck in the 'feeding the hordes' mentality that I grew up with my mother doing.
I was at butterball.ca last night. Needed to find out how long to cook the turkey today.
They also have this nifty thing where you put in the number of guests, and it tells you what size turkey to buy. So, curious to find out how I did, I put in the number I'll be feeding tomorrow. Hmmm. Says I need a waaaay smaller turkey than I bought. So, I kept going.
Turns out I have exactly enough turkey to feed FIFTEEN people. To the decimal. That would be, oh...TEN more people than will be eating here...more, considering three of them are under the age of 12! 
I had the giggles so bad that I had to explain why. My husband gave me the 'geez, you're weird' look, shook his head and walked away.
He just doesn't get me.
For the record, its his fault. He usually restrains my turkey purchasing issues, but this year let me loose with only Diva for protection. We grabbed the biggest turkey out of the freezer she could lift. *blushing*
So, from our home to yours, Happy Thanksgiving!
And if you're in the neighbourhood, stop by for some turkey. We have plenty.
Stay away from the pumpkin pies though...somehow there's never too much pie.
Princess kills me
I had boiled eggs for egg salad yesterday. I made some for Wolf's lunch, and then was making some for mine (none of the kids like it...well, as far as I knew!) Princess has changed her mind...about boiled eggs, anyways.
I caught her on the couch with a boiled egg. She'd peeled just enough shell off to take a bite and loudly announced, "YUMM!" Apparently, she's had a change of heart about eggs.
For breakfast this am, she had the last boiled egg, and asked for another one, dragging the carton out of fridge. I explained that they weren't cooked, they were still raw, so she couldn't have them...and promised to make her some later.
Next thing I know, Princess is heading at me with a pot...with 2 eggs in it. One broken, one whole. "Egg NOW?"
I guess later had arrived
Now I'm hearing, "Egg ready yet?" every few mins.
She's gone from not being willing to touch them with a 10 ft pole, to being an egg addict!
I was thinking about how to describe RSD in a way that someone can visualize. Heres what I came up with:
There's a dragon living in my arm. Its scales are made up of broken jagged glass and razor blades. Sometimes, the dragon is quiet, only moving restlessly in its sleep, breathing its steam breath. Even just by being present, the scales dig and rip at me...the restless dreaming is the best I can ever hope for. Then there are the other times, when its active, twisting and turning, its tail wrapping around my wrist or shoulder or elbow, and then dragging its tail away. It breathes fire everywhere, and it feels like every where its scales and claws are, my arm is being torn, ripped. This is my 'normal'.
Then there are the really terrible times. The dragon is angry about being trapped in my arm and wants out. It writhes in fury, clawing, biting, ripping and tearing, while trying to set fire to burn its way out.
These sensations are so real that I look at my arm, expecting to see the jagged glass trying to push through my skin.
Thats the most visual way I can think of to describe what living with RSD is like.
At Chapters on the weekend. My gf K and I were out, getting books for Diva, and I had $100 worth of gift cards (God bless Airmiles!) to spend.
I think I'm permanently scarred. My psyche will not recover quickly. Their 'classics' section was a whopping 2 bookshelves. And most of the books were REPEATS. Anne of Green Gables was there in 3 or 4 forms. The top shelf was all dvds.
I cannot tell you how many shelves were dedicated to vampire/supernatural/romance aimed at teens, however. I closed my eyes and hurried past
WTH is going on in our society?? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for kids reading, and one of my brothers was gifted comic books simply to get him to read ANYTHING at all.
Why do preteens/teens need to be reading about sex? Why are so many books aimed at preteen girls about boyfriends? Isn't it teaching preteens/teens that the world revolves around having a guy in their life? How about something that is about a young woman achieving something, other than hooking the guy she has a crush on?
Ack!!
There's tonnes of updates that I'll get to another time. Someone asked me what I wanted for my kids, for their futures. This is my answer.
When I think about what I want for my children, what readily comes to mind is what I DON'T want.
I don't want them to be like me. Worker's Comp forced me to go through a battery of psych testing, including IQ. All it did was prove my pain WASN'T in my head 
and that I'm in the top 4th percentile of ppl my age. Not that being bright has done anything for me. I was a lowly nursing attendant, FINALLY going to go back to school (online, part time) get my Licensed Practical Nurse cert, and from there my RN with an eye to either being a Nurse Practitioner or a midwife. Of course, one assault by a resident has left me with a lifetime of chronic pain disability, so that's shot all to h*ll. At this point, I couldn't handle ONE course at a college/University level due to the pain and unpredictable nature of it, sitting through a single class would be a nightmare if the pain were bad, and completing coursework? Yeah. Not.
So I don't want them to be like me. I want them to use the brains God gave them (all my kids have shown clear signs of being very bright) and DO something. Find something they love and pursue it.
I don't want them to struggle financially as I always have.
I don't want them to be a single parent.
I don't want them having a family before they've had a 'life'. I want them to have pursued everything they want to as young, single people that tends to be put aside when raising a family. Higher education, travel...whatever. And if they don't want any of those things, that's fine! But if they do, I want them to have the chance to do it.
I don't want them to be in their 30s, 40s and beyond with 'I wish I had...'
I want them to be young and foolish, to make mistakes, but not life altering ones...no scars on their minds, hearts, souls.
I want them to grow with faith. I want them to be steeped in it, to KNOW without question that God loves them, and is always there for them...especially when the day comes that I'm not any longer. I don't want them to struggle to find their way to God the way I've had to.
I want them to know, with every fibre of their being, that their Mommy loves them, forever and for always.
I want them to know that their Daddy loves them, is proud of them, would give everything he has, is, and will ever be for their safety and happiness.
I want them to be strong,confident, healthy, secure people. To trust others. To make friends easily, to know good from bad, truth from lies.
Yes, I want my children to be and to have everything I'm not and don't.
I want them to grow up to be anybody but me.
Ewww boy.
MIL called yesterday. She was trying to force her way into staying with us for another wknd. Wolf told her that we haven't addressed all the issues she had with our home, so that wouldn't be possible. She told him that she didn't know what he was talking about, so he let her have it with both barrels.
He told her that all she did all wknd was criticize. She even had issues with the children watching Magic School Bus, because it was *gasp* Magic. He informed her that it was an excellent science show that the Littles enjoyed, it was merely a tool being used for their education, and unless she saw dragons and Satan, it wasn't evil.
She protested that, "SHE wouldn't let them watch the dvd *I* sent!" Which set Wolf off again, explaining that a) sending our son a dvd with the 'Demoniac Boy' on it was inappropriate b) the age levels were 6+, and c) the Littles didn't need to be watching anything about demons or possession.
He then went on to inform her that since our children weren't any better behaved, our house wasn't any cleaner, she didn't need to be coming back for a visit. He was completely sick and tired of her constant negativity. She told him that ppl had criticized her when she was parenting him, and that it helped (*snort*). He told her that she hadn't said a single positive thing all wknd, and he was not going to put up with her criticizing his children, his home, his wife, or himself any longer. He even told her that she forces herself on people without so much as asking if they were ok with it, and that her presence wasn't actually a blessing, but something to endure, since she was always so negative, complaining and critical. 
I have no idea whats going to happen next. I asked Wolf what he wanted me to do when she called (because no doubt she will call and yell at me) and he said to just ignore her calls. She's going out of town for a reunion this wknd, so he figures by the time she gets there, she'll have totally reorganized everything in her head that its all wonderful. *sigh* MIL has the ability to either not hear or promptly twist, or outright 'forget' anything she doesn't like.
To be honest, I'm blown away that he actually took her to task for her behaviour. Its been happening every summer for the last six years, and he's never lost it like this before on her. I told him that it spoke volumes about our marriage...obviously he's secure enough in our marriage that her never-to-be-had approval didn't matter to him anymore. On one hand, I'm proud of him, on the other, concerned. I don't want him to regret this.
I really can't get into everything right now. Things have simply been insane. This past week, on Thursday, Wolf's Grandpa passed. He was 106. Then, we had MIL this weekend.
We survived. Just.
I'd promised Wolf to try and protect him. Lets just say it didn't work as well as I hoped.
She fired the first shot when we went to pick her up. With both hands, she went to seize my bad arm. I turned away, while firmly grasping her wrist in my good hand, and said, "T! Do NOT touch my bad arm!" all of this in front of witnesses of course. *sigh* She immediately went to her whiny little girl pout and whined, "I forgot!" *deep sigh*
Supper and bed were uneventful, thank heavens for small mercies.
The trouble started this am, while Wolf was at work, and continued while he slept for a cpl of hours. She criticized everything. Kids were watching a TV show, and she kept asking, "Well, what are they learning from this?!" I told her they were learning to laugh
Then she demanded they watch something 'educational' and demanded we watch one of the videos she'd sent. I'd explained to her the night before that the minimum age for them are 6+, Tazzie and Princess are too young. Plus, I hadn't had a chance to watch them myself yet to decide if they would enjoy it, or need to be the proper age. She told me that "Wolf said they could!" I told her I found that unusual, as we had an agreement, and I was going to stick to it.
So, in the interest of educational viewing, I put on The Magic School Bus.
Oh boy.
Apparently, because the bus is 'magic' its bad, and against the Bible...or at least her SDA sensitivities. *sigh*
I went to make lunch, nothing major, just Kraft Dinner. She proceeded to wedge her body btwn me and the wall that the stove is up against, supervising every. freaking. move. I asked her to please leave, as I was nervous about her bumping into my bad arm, only to be told, "Oh, I'll be careful!" She then watched me dish up for the kids, criticizing portion sizes, etc. 
Then, after lunch, she decided to tear apart my counter beside the sink. It simply wasn't clean enough for her, and I was informed that Diva was too young to be doing dishes and wiping down the counter. 
Finally, it was time to wake Wolf up. I found out later that I misunderstood...he didn't say, "Wake me in 2 hrs" but rather "...at least 2 hrs." He finds his mother scrubbing our counter top, and blows a gasket, informing her that the whole family had spent yesterday cleaning in prep for her, so if it wasn't good enough, that was just too danged bad.
We took her home shortly after.
In the entire time, she never ONCE offered condolences for Wolf's Grandpa, indeed, never mentioned him at all. When Wolf had talked to her on the phone before the visit, he had to INTERRUPT her to tell her that Grandpa had passed, and her response? "Oh...so about you picking me up..." 
After we got home, Wolf said that he doesn't know if he's going to bother having her even over for dinner again before she leaves. He's just so thoroughly sick and tired of her negativity, self centred, ridiculous behaviour that he just doesn't want to put up with it a moment longer. "Life's too short to spend it with someone you don't like." He also contrasted his relationship with his mother and the relationship with his Grandpa, and said that he couldn't imagine spending three days at her bedside. He figured he'd pop in every now and then, then go play golf while he waited. 
That bothers me so much, because its just not the cold, heartless man I know and love...but speaks volumes about the pain she's caused him.
I'm not sure that's a great idea, as I'm afraid that he'll regret it, but I told him I'd support whatever decision he made.
I just wish I knew how to help him.
So, Michael Jackson is dead.
The King of Pop.
Prince o'Weird.
Kiddy Diddler.
Whatever you want to call him, dead at the age of 50. Leaving behind three children (two with the same name I believe, both boys are Prince Michael something...what, in case one got lost?!) by who knows which uterus.
Can you tell I'm not a fan?
I was, once. Back when I was a preteen, and Thriller was huge. When Moonwalking was the rage, and the one white sequined glove was cool. Back when MJ was black, basically.
And even still, over the years, I gave a nod to his musical talent, because I do acknowledge his musical gifts. He *was* talented, no doubt. But what also became rapidly clear, was that he had an unhealthy affection for young boys.
I'm sorry, no matter what lack of evidence and lack of conviction occurred, you don't pay parents off unless there's guilt involved. You just don't. And repeated accusations by different families...If it quacks, walks, and looks...it be a duck.
The fact that he had children of his own frightened me. And yeah, I watched the MJ special that he invited a journalist into Neverland and cooperated with. And it was uber creepy...worst of all, he didn't even REALIZE IT.
But, I beg of everyone out there in the 'net...for all that's ever was and will be...
QUIT COMPARING HIM TO ELVIS AND JOHN LENNON.
Seriously.
Yes, he was talented. Got it. But neither the King of Rock and Roll nor The Walrus were ever charged with kiddy diddling. So can we NOT sully their memories with the comparison? Please?
The Domestic Goddess, for one, would be very appreciative.
Dear General Public,
I am sick to DEATH of hearing people slag on police officers. Yes, there ARE police officers who screw up. No freaking doubt. They are human beings in a high pressure job, in high pressure situations. Its bound to happen that they screw up, and when they do, they should be held accountable, no doubt about it.
That being said...
Friend of mine was spouting recently about how he dislikes cops. On and on. He's a cab driver, and the fella that takes me to appointments and such. He was complaining about how he got a speeding ticket, and the cop was unpleasant. I asked if he was speeding, and the answer was, "Yes, but the cop didn't have to be so unpleasant about it...I was trying to talk with him, joke around a bit, and he was having none of it, just wrote the ticket." Oh, so because the police officer stuck to his job, he was unpleasant. OK.
I'm sick to death of the culture of it being ok to put down the police force, police officers, call them pigs, etc. Its ok to 'hate cops'.
But isn't it funny how fast that changes when you need one, huh?
So, I invite all of those who proclaim how they hate cops, how useless they are, how corrupt they are, etc...if you're ever in trouble, don't call one.
Since you hate them and don't trust them anyways, don't bother calling.
Sincerely,
The Sister of a Police Officer
I'm not exactly sure where this post is going, so bear with me, k?
I'm not sure if its just the week that's getting to me...the going for yet ANOTHER exam by a stranger for Workers Compensation, and the ramifications (aka pain and exhaustion) of that, but I feel like I'm treading water and its frustrating the daylights out of me.
Diva is doing incredibly well, as I've posted at the other blog, and I'm so proud of her.
The Littles are...well, they're The Littles, lol!
What makes me nuts is wanting to move so badly. Wolf and I have wanted to live on an acreage since before we married. I'm a real estate junkie, checking out real estate sites and drooling the way others do porn. I'm forever looking at properties online. I know of at least FOUR properties in excellent locations for me (warmer weather than where we currently live...winters are brutal on me here) but not too far away, would carry a mortgage for around the same as we pay in rent...but we're completely stuck here, because of Workers Comp. Moving would be equal to quitting my job, and therefore I would lose all my Workers Comp benefits.
Its like I see all these wonderful opportunities before us, but are completely unable to even CONSIDER going after one of them. Heck, I'm not even sure that we'd qualify for a mortgage with our credit, but why even bother to find out since we can't procede? Even checking causes your credit to have a hit on it, and I'm not about to hit my credit for nothing, thanks. Plus, I'm fully aware that Workers Comp does owe me a settlement based on my 'non work loss'...some weird thing they do, figuring out that all my non work life (social, family, parenting, marriage, etc) is worth $x a year, and they pay your whatever % of that $x based on one year. One year only. Doesn't matter that you'll always be disabled, its a one year, one time thing...completely STUPID to me, but better than nothing...and that settlement would be a down payment, albeit a small one, on a house.
So, I sit, treading water, watching these beautiful properties that we could totally afford come and go, and pray and pray and pray that when the time comes there is still a property that we can afford and that is suitable for a family our size available. As unpredictible as the real estate market is, I live with the fear that by the time everything is sorted out, we won't be able to afford what we need, and will be stuck renting for years to come.
I hate living in the city, in a townhouse. I hate that my neighbours are so close that we have to constantly remind the children to be quiet. I hate that the yard is so small we can't have a swing set, or any type of play structure at all. Our 'garden' is a small brick structure out front. I want my kids to have room to run and yell and not worry about disturbing the neighbours. I want a garden that actually has room for vegetables...enough to feed us, and then can for the winter months.
I shouldn't whine. We have a park right across the road we can go to anytime, and a community centre for swimming very close. I just see opportunity a breath away and cannot even consider pursuing it.
I keep telling myself that God has a plan, that God knows what is right for us, and God will provide a way when the time is right. Unfortunately, I'm very, VERY human, and patience is NOT one of my many virtues!
If you *don't* go to Homeschooling, The Non Stepford Style, you might want to make an exception this once...major, MAJOR Diva braggin goin on...Nope, I'm not gonna spill the beans here, you've got to check out the other blog. That's all I'm sayin.
Major Brag.
Major Diva brag.
Major, MAJOR, Diva brag.
Get over there already!
I just wanted to hit on a comment about generalizations. Just as much as there are folks in genuine need of food stamps, welfare, etc and not abusing, and those that do abuse, the same can be said for disability...and let me tell ya, its no picnic to be the one who truly NEEDS Workers Comp to ante up and pay right when you're truly disabled. I doubt its any different in the States than here in Canada from the horror stories I've read on other boards, and yet much of the same attitude prevails..."What do you mean you can't WORK?!" despite the fact I have three doctors saying that I'm unfit for any level of employment...its not my personal opinion of the situation, its their medical assessment. Add to it that chronic pain is an invisible disability, and it makes for loads of fun. Comments like, "You look perfectly ok to me!" make it even more so.
Yes, there will always be some jerk that is on the 6 pm news for painting a house when he's on disability for a supposed back injury, or others who know how to milk the system for all its worth and then some. Heck, I've witnessed people like that at the treatment centre I was forced to go to for several weeks of useless, albeit excruciatingly painful pt, who bragged about moonlighting at other jobs while using their WCB funds to pay the rent. Its jerks like those that cause the issues for people like me who need the system. Its jerks like those that people think of when they hear that I'm on Workers Comp.
I guess what I'm starting this thread for is an open thought or plea that if you happen to run into someone that is on Workers Comp, don't start listing a whole bunch of jobs for them to try. Its pretty frustrating to hear. I've worked with a vocational specialist. Its not that I don't want to work that keeps me from taking you up on 'my cousin Joe has a company, I know he could use a worker like you, lemme give you his phone number!' its that I genuinely, medically, am unfit for any employment. Please don't get offended when someone doesn't take you up on your offer of help. Its not that they prefer to be on WCB. Trust me. Unless you've run into the probably 6 or 7% of folks that are milking it, they'd rather be working.
The more I hear about some of the tactics being used in American schools, the more frightened I start to become for American parents and American families on the whole.
There has been a proposal in California dealing with bullying...but with a rather narrow focus on homosexual issues. This will run from kindergarten to grade five or so. Parents have been told that they are not allowed to remove their child from this program. No opting out, regardless of their personal feelings or religious faith/teachings of the subject matter.
First, the 'no opting out' of the gay curriculum. Since WHEN does a school or school board have the right to demand a child's attendance for particular curriculum, even when its directly contradicting a family's religious beliefs, or a parent strenously objects? Exactly when did the school become more powerful in the child's life than the parent?
Then, there's the absence issue that I've read about time and again on the boards I frequent. While I understand that truancy can be a genuine issue for some children/families and a red flag for negligence and/or abuse, more and more I'm reading of absolutely ridiculous standards that schools are setting, and iron fisted demands being made. Since when is a parent not allowed to say, "Johnny is taking a week off to go visit Grandma."? Since when is it up to a school to APPROVE a parent/family decision?!
The more I hear of this sort of thing, the more frightened I become. I seriously start to wonder how long it will be until the school has complete control over the children of the nation, and the parents have little say at all. I wonder if the spectre of handing a child over at the age of 5 to a government run facility 'for their own good' is all that far off, since it seems that little by little, the schools are already eroding parental authority. Parents are having young children doing hours of homework that they don't agree with because 'the teacher says so', being frightened of being hauled into court if their child is sick another day because they are out of 'approved absence days'.
Whose children are these? The parents, or the schools? Who is the ultimate authority in the child's life?
No, I'm not calling for everyone to homeschool. I'm just an outsider looking in, and gravely worried for the future of the American family if things keep on the way they're going.
Am I allowing my writer's imagination to simply run away with me? Perhaps, maybe even probably. Then again, I never would have imagined in a million years that a school could tell parents that their child could NOT be pulled from a certain class, or be threatened with truancy court for taking a family vacation, or having too many sick days.
It seems surreal to me. Wednesday will be the anniversary of my injury. The day my life ended, my NORMAL life. When I was whole of body and spirit and mind. Before every day became a question not if I hurt, but rather to what degree. A year ago today I was planning my future, schooling and LPN graduation, buying our home on an acreage...it was so, so close. I could almost taste it. I had even begun studying for the anatomy and physiology prereqs that I would be enrolling in that summer. I had the very best of my two worlds. Home during the day, with my children, homeschooling Diva...then to work for 3 pm every afternoon. I loved my job, my career, and I was good at it. Very good at it.
Now...well...now. As I said, there's pain. Always. There's depression, a natural occurrence, I'm reassured by the professionals. Losing use of your dominant hand/arm and all that effects, plus pain, tends to produce that reaction. Nifty of them to validate me, isn't it? And there's stress, and anxiety. Being in public is avoided at all times if possible, since someone bumping into me causes hours of excruciating pain...so of course I'm extremely anxious to the point of vomiting if I'm forced to be in public. And just in case all of THAT wasn't fun enough, lets add in the toll something like this takes on your husband, marriage, and children. Oh, and as an EXTRA special bonus, we'll throw in having to battle WCB and one of the nastiest case managers known to man. That's not just my opinion of her, folks. My union rep shares it, and when she was quiet for a while, he actually thought we'd managed to get her fired, since he has six or seven other case files on his desk, all complaints, all with her as the case manager.
Figure this one out. The one pain treatment that's actually had any REAL effect for me is the lidocaine block. I can actually hug my children with BOTH arms. That is a huge thing. Unfortunately, the effects don't last long, 12-18 hrs or so, but I'll take what I can get. My pain Dr Rx'd it for me to have at home, via a home nursing service, an IV and pain pump. Its the same treatment I get at the hospital/pain clinic, only diff being the pain pump rather than normal IV and it runs for 12 hrs.
WCB DENIED THE TREATMENT. I kid you not. My case manager, without requesting any of the 20 or so pages of studies and literature that the pharmacy has about these blocks, went to the medical advisory team, who didn't know much about it...so it was labelled experimental. Cause THEY DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT IT. Meanwhile, they've been being billed for my treatments in the hospital and pain clinic, and my case manager (aka The Hag) tells me that I can still get the treatments there!!!
Here's the problem though: the pain clinic is short on space. Too many paitients, not enough time. So if I (or anyone else) can get their therapy in the community, then that's what the pain Dr wants to have happen. So I've been told I can have a few more treatments at the clinic, but that's it. To pay for this myself, looking at $200 a treatment...not to mention that if I DO pay for it, WCB could turn around and claim all my probs are from the 'experimental treatment' and cut me off.
So, I'm planning on getting completely wrecked drunk on Wed. I've gone from having plans for my family's future to this...not being able to even hug my children with both arms. Getting drunk won't solve anything...but nothing's going to solve RSD anyways. Not like getting drunk will make it worse. And no, I won't take my meds, so no worry about interactions. I'm a weak drunk anyways. Two or three drinks and I'm hooped.
We've been struck down with illness at the Non Stepford Home. No, it doesn't appear to be of the swine variety, but rather of the tonsillitis sort. However, we didn't know that until yesterday. Did you know that severe tonsillitis mimics the flu, complete with fever, upchucking, body aches, chills, and all those delights? Nor did I, but Tazzie has left me a wiser Momma. Thanks kid. Really.
Now Princess has joined the illness brigade, just as Tazzie decided to recover this am. So, she's on the couch, looking like a wee scrap of herself, until we can get to the Drs tomorrow and get her an Rx of her own.
I love Wolf. Sometimes I don't understand him though. I'm not saying that in a snarky manner at all, so please don't get me wrong. We just view things so differently...I think that's probably why we make as good a team as we do, even if it occasionally leaves us tilting our heads at one another, trying to see that perspective.
Give you an example.
Tazzie, as mentioned, has been sick. Today has been the first almost human day he's had. He's been eating, drinking, and thoroughly annoying his big sister. Like I said, almost human...except for the too pale face, and crashed out boychild napping at the moment.
Wolf calls from work, wants to know if there's anything to pick up on his way home from work. Realizes he has to come home first, as his bank card is here. Okies. Then he says:
"I'll pick up Tazzie and take him with me. He hasn't been out in a few days, except to the Drs."
That. That right there is where I tilt my head and go, "Huh?!" To him, Tazzie needs some fresh air, out of the house, etc. To me, out in public, immune system still under attack, nuh uh, no way, not a plan. Both parents with the child's best at heart, polar opposites in perspective. I know Tazzie will be staying at home when I tell Wolf my concerns about the immune system...But I also know that there are times when I would keep the kids close to me whereas Wolf rightly encourages them to wander further and explore.
Balance.
And I think that's what I'd also like to hope people keep in mind at this time of media blaring, conflicting reports, WHO numbers...balance. Caution isn't a bad thing. Freaking out is, just as complete disregard. Be aware. A little extra handwashing never hurt anyone, anyways, right?
One of life's ironies, as Wolf like's to point out is that I have to take somewhere in the neighbourhood of 30 pills a day. No, that's not a typo folks, that actually is 3-0, as in thirty. The irony being, I choke on chewable vitamins. Watching me down pills is something of a family entertainment. I've caught Wolf on the phone, taking bets, on if I choke, and to what degree. I hope he at least makes enough money to buy me flowers out of it.
Anyways...
Just had a choke session. Quite the dramatic one, with coffee spewing from mouth AND nose, progeny a 'running to ensure that I will live to make supper. I choked out a request for a towel, and Tazzie returned with one moments later, proudly announcing, "Here, Mommmy!" and just as I was about to wipe my face with it, I hear Diva shriek, "Don't use that! I cleaned up Princess' pee with it off the bathroom floor this morning!"
At least she warned me BEFORE I used the towel. Its those special moments that prove a child's love, folks. I've no doubt that by the time she's 14, she'll wait til AFTER I used it, then tell me while she snickered. Course, if Princess is still peeing on the floor in four years, we've got other issues...Maybe we'll have a puppy piddling on the floor by then? But I digress.
Just an interesting note to close on...I now know what its like to have coffee scented snot. Interesting.
Yes, I consider myself to still be a 'young woman', so you can stifle the giggling right now, thanks very much.
I said, STIFLE!
I have puppy lust.
There, I said it. I've confessed. I know some women go through pangs of 'baby lust', but not I. Wolf usually knocks me up before I usually realize I want to be pregnant. Ok, not so much with Tazzie, but definately with Princess.
Anyways, I find myself deep in the throes of puppy lust.
How deep, you ask?
Well, deep enough that I would forgo my deeply held and long cherished dream of getting a Douge De Bordeaux, my all time favourite breed that I've promised myself would be my publishing gift (when I finally get a novel published, I'm buying one with the advance...assuming the advance is big enough, lmao!) and get another pug.
Now there's some serious puppy lust happening, folks.
We have had two pugs. Our first, beloved but none too bright and well...rather untrained (our fault...fell into the 'its a small dog' mind set and didn't bother with training *blush*) scooted out of the house on Hallowe'en a couple of years ago. The Mom with the trick or treaters PUNTED him like a foot ball, and he ran off, yelping. Diva took off after him...only to witness him being killed when he was run over by a speeding car.
Utter heartbreak, as only an eight year old can know.
Last year, we tried a pug again. Winston. He was 18 mths old when we got him, from a 'breeder' I kinda sorta knew. Biiiiiiiiiiiig mistake. Huge. He was nervous as all holy heck, high strung, couldn't be trusted around the Littles...as bad a fit as could ever be. We ended up rehoming him with a sweet sixteen year old whose mom used to breed dogs, who would pamper the heck out of him, and most importantly, had no small children, and wouldn't for years to come.
A few weeks after, we got Jack the Cat, whose about the size of a pug, if not bigger. Great cat, as far as cats go. Lets the kids maul him, until they go too far, and then he gives them a nip or a bit of a swat to keep them in line.
But he's still a cat.
And I'm a dog person. And like his Momma, Tazzie is also a dog person, since he's been heard lamenting lately, "Can we trade Jack in fow a dog? Pwease?"
Kid after my own heart.
Reality of it is, now just isn't the time for a puppy. Wolf's just gotten back to work, so we're starting to bail out our financial boat. His 2nd pay will be going to an accountant to file taxes (yes, late, bad bad bad!) finish catching up on bills if we're not all caught up by then, and kitting out the family for summer gear.
But...the van's paid off in July.
I'm just sayin....
This is something I've heard more and more. "Would you let a teenage BOY mind your children? You would?!" *gasp* *choke* *wheeze*
I've had a brother and sister team mind my kidlets...if one wasn't available, the other would mind them. Occasionally, for a day time job, both would come, since 2 kids under 3 can be a handful for anyone.
Why should having a PENIS render someone automatically suspect? There seems to be a growing trend across North America these days...Suspicion of The Danglers.
There have been situations when I was working that Diva would invite a friend over, and the question would come, "Is your Mom home?" and the answer, "No, my Dad is." and the child wouldn't be allowed. Meanwhile, my husband has far more patience and tolerance for opk (other people's kids) than I do, on any given day. He's the one making them popcorn for their movie while I'm fleeing for the sanctuary of my bedroom to escape the shrill giggling of little girls.
OK, not quite that extreme, but you get the picture. He's more the Mr. Rogers type when it comes to a host of other kids, and I'm more the Miss. Hannigan type. Adore my own, adore a FEW other kids (friends of mine, basically...one here in my city, hers are freaking adorable!)
And he's judged unsafe...because he has dangly bits. Parents would leave their little heathens with ME, assuming I'm perfectly safe, on the basis that I have a uterus. Meanwhile, I could be (and probably am) contemplating how quickly I could duct tape their child's big mouth shut.
Trust me, out of the two of us, Wolf's the safer bet if you're looking to leave your kid with someone. *HE* won't actually duct tape anyone.
I probably won't either, but that's cause of the whole one armed thing, not for lack of desire or trying.
Just a quick explaination as to why I've been MIA. For those new to my blog, I have RSD, which affects my entire right arm, shoulder to finger tips. Wolf's gone back to work as of Monday, which is a wonderful thing for us financially, and for him emotionally...but for me, its meant that I've been chug-a-lugging the meds the minute he hits the door and going to bed, so its seriously disabled my blogging abilities.Moving on to the real post of today:
The Princess was walking along the edge of the brick raised planter thing the landlords put out front of our place shortly after we moved in. Something she's done a billion or so times before. Last year, they sawed off an evergreen that croaked, leaving a small stump. So of course, when The Princess fell for the very first time, it was towards the stump.
Thankfully, she wasn't hurt. Well. not in terms that you or I would consider 'hurt'. No gushing blood, no eyes missing, no puncture wounds, nothing needing an ER trip.
She does, however, have a scratch in the palm of her hand. About 2 inches long.
And we're out of band aids.
Well, lil Miss Drama Queen keeps looking at the palm of her hand, gasping, and moaning, "Oooooh! Ohhhhhhh!" and coming over for a cuddle, and mournfully pleading, "Ban aiy? Ban Aiy, Momma?"
I sent Diva to the store. I can't take it.The Princess is now the proud owner of a Hello Kitty! bright pink band-aid, and all is right with the world again.
*sigh*
Yes, I realize the last post was Sunday. Bite me.
Moving on.
I'm happy to announce that I'm now affiliated with what I think of as 'The Cool Moms Group' but what is actually called 'Moms Without Blogs'...you can see the button on the left hand side. They took a look at my blogs and decided I was nuts...errr...cool enough to join them.
I'd flip up my collar and do the Elvis sneer, but I'm wearing my uber comfy sweatshirt, and there's no collar. And the sneer just doesn't work without the popped collar, ya know? You just look dorky without the collar.
I was over reading at the MWB site, and it was about getting a pedicure, which brought back a memory of my own, that I thought I'd share.
Back when I was pregnant with The Princess, (I'm talking about 8.5 months pregnant) I waddled in to the local ritzy spa place for my first (and to date, last) pedicure. Wolf, being the well intentioned man he is, gave me gift certificates for a mani, pedi, and massage for my birthday. Now, I don't blame him, entirely. He explained to the folks there that it was for his extremely pregnant wife. (Why, oh WHY they would sell him a massage package is beyond me, because unless you're specially trained, you cannot do a massage on a pregnant woman, for fear of sending her into labour. But that bit comes later.)
Anyways, I took Wolf's cousin's wife with me. (Follow that one?) She and I get along fantastically well, and she was the one willing to mind Diva and Tazzie while I had the next lil critter. So, in we go...la la la.
Well, I thought the poor girl doing the pedicure was going to have a conniption fit over my feet. She scolded me about them, going on and on about the condition they were in. M stared at her in shock, her mouth agape, and I looked at this woman kneeling at my feet, resisted the urge to plant my foot in her mouth and said, "Its kind of hard to take care of my feet when I can't see them let alone reach them" She looked at me like I was stupid and asked if I had back problems. I looked at M, she looked at me, and this time she answered, saying, "Only when she's eight and a half months pregnant!"
Folks, I'm not one of those women that shows up in labour and people question if I'm really pregnant or not. I go into maternity clothes about three days after the stick shows positive, and get out of them sometime near the baby's second birthday, ok? There's no missing that I'm pregnant.
Two minutes after this, the Massage Dude walks in, and asks who is scheduled for the massage. M points at me. Massage Dude takes one look, and says, "I'm sorry, but I'm not trained to do massage on pregnant women."
So, Massage Dude, who looked to be all of twenty could tell at a glance from across the room I was pregnant, but Pedicure Woman who looked to be in her thirties, kneeling at my feet could not.
*blink*
So, at the end of the day, the price of the massage was taken off M's mani/pedi, which was cool. I had pretty feet, even though I couldn't see them. I figured that Wolf wanted me to have a few hours of pampering for myself, which I had and appreciated...and maybe the OBGYN would appreciate pretty feet in his face.
*sigh*
I'm getting really tired of some of the stuff that's happening in society these days. The only solution I can think of is finally winning the lotto and buying the acreage that Wolf and I have been dreaming about for years now.
Its just really getting insane.
Take today for example. Diva is 'friends' with the kid across the sidewalk from us. Got invited to the movies. The kid's parents are taking her to see Adventureland. (I say 'friends' because they're the only two girls in the neighbourhood. If Diva had the option of another girl, she would gladly take it.) 
These are 10 and 11 yo girls, folks. Adventureland is rated 14A, and deals with a story line where the highlight of the lead character's summer is getting to smoke pot all summer long. I soooooooo don't think so. Diva was not granted permission, which led to a long conversation regarding differences in parenting styles, morals, principles, etc.
But, there's more than that. I'm tired of walking down the street and hearing kids in elementary school use profanity like it was a mastered second language, I'm tired of seeing young girls dressed in ways that only seem to serve the purpose to render them physically desireable, and then there's the rising rates of sexual experience amongst children, younger and younger.
And then there's the violence issue. I'm sorry, but I can remember when I was in school, you did NOT talk back to adults. It just did NOT happen, period. Now? *snort*. Things are getting dang scary out there, folks. On the streets, in the schools, in our neighbourhoods.
So, winning the lottery and moving out to an acreage seems like the only reasonable solution. Anyone want to join me?
So, Happy 6th Wedding Anniversary to Wolf and I! Wow...6 yrs. Boggles my mind. I won't waste time contemplating the crimes I could have committed and be paroled for by now, because that would just be a downer. But 6 yrs! That's somewhat impressive...unless you're Sm, or other folks like her that have been married for 17 yrs and the like. 6 years is impressive to ME, ok? :oP
Anyways, Wolf and I have been in a wee bit of a financial bind. I've kept it out of the blog, but its pertinent to this story, so thats why I'm mentioning it here. We're so freaking broke its scary.
So, my gf K came by last night with some groceries that she'd pulled from her storage. She swears her husband, 'Costco J' buys apple juice and ketchup by the vat. She had asked that Wolf go out to the car to bring the stuff in. No prob.
What I didn't know was that the sneaky wench had something up her sleeve. $10 to be precise. Which she slipped to my husband, with the commandment,
"Thou shalt by thy wife an anniversary card. And not one of those funny ones either, Bub. It better be romantic, got it?"
I woke up this afternoon (yes, I was allowed to sleep in...until 1230, at which point folks started to worry that I wasn't actually sleeping but had died, and the attempts to check my pulse woke me) to find a lovely card on my night table. It plays, "How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You." What really, REALLY got me was what Wolf wrote on the inside. Its intensely personal and private, so I'm not sharing it :oP but it rocked me...One of those, "Wow...he really *does* get it" moments...he really does understand how much I do work at this whole marriage gig some days. Sometimes I feel like I'm invisible, ya know? That he just doesn't see. But he does. And that means more to me than anything else he could possibly have bought or given me today.
Dang. I absolutely DID marry the right guy...and he's bought himself another year of it...poor bugger.
I think its starting to set in. I've even changed my name, and am toying with changing it back again.
Bear with me.
I've been Domestic Goddess for a bit, simply because it makes me snicker at the complete oxymoron at ME being labelled a Domestic Goddess. A prime example of sarcasm at its finest. So, I switched to Not A Stepford Wife on my profile.
But then, I started reading through my posts, and dang, I refer to myself as Domestic Goddess a LOT on here. Which would mean a LOT of editing.
And I'm one handed typing.
Or just lazy.
We'll stick with the one handed typing. And as much as I am very definately the prime living breathing ultimate example of Not A Stepford Wife, its a dang long name to have...so I'm going back to the Domestic Goddess.
Plus...it makes Wolf's eye twitch in that really neat way every time he happens to read over my shoulder and sees it.
*grin*
And I realize that's not a HUGE shock to anyone that knows me in the slightest (aka has read here a time or two) but geez, folks...every now and then it catches ME off guard, k? Cause certain levels of weird are just beyond acceptable.
Take this am for example. I was still in a lousy mood from the rejection of the short story contest, and ended up blubbering again telling Wolf about it, since he'd already gone to bed when I read the email. Now, at first he tried the old, "they don't know what they're missing, buncha jerks, try again, rah rah rah" speech thing that for some reasons guys actually think will make a woman feel better. WHY? I mean, seriously, does it EVER work?
For any male readers that may be lurking, or that may ever stumble across this article or blog, let me, the Domestic Goddess, author of Not A Stepford Wife give you this one bit of advice that will automatically put you at the head of the line when it comes to boyfriend-hood, and winning the husband awards.
When your girlfriend/fiancee/wife/live-in/significant other has had a disappointment and is upset, tell her you're sorry and HUG HER. Honestly, it will work wonders. You don't actually have to say anything else in particular, perhaps an 'mmmmhhhmmm' or an 'uh huh', but holding her and rocking her will cover everything. I promise you, saying "I'm sorry" is not always an admission of guilt! Honest!!
Now, *my husband* doesn't take that kind of advice. Nope. He stands there in the kitchen, looks at me with tears running down my face, and asks, "Are you drunk?"
I kid you not.
Now, the fact that we're flat freaking broke and have no booze in the house so its a freaking impossibility to start with aside...oy.
Then, I had emailed my gf K when I got the response...forwarded it to her. She responded this am. Thought it was an April Fools gag.
I kid you not.
She had to CALL ME to confirm that no, this was not a prank I was pulling, this was seriously the situation. I'll take that as a serious vote of confidence as to my talent as a fiction writer and the strength of the entry I submitted.
Crazy day.
Hannah's doctor's have stabalized her enough that she's going to have surgery today. It could be as long as 17 hours. They had been keeping her in a medical coma, but she woke up enough before her surgery this am to smile at her mom before being taken for surgery.
The surgery itself is very risky, as the tumour has at least attached itself to one of her kidneys. If everyone could please pray, vibe, do what ever you do according to your beliefs for Hannah and her parents today, I know they would appreciate it.
No child should be going through this. I know it happens every day...but that doesn't make it right...at least not in my heart.
UPDATE:
THE TUMOUR IS OUT!!! Thanks to everyone for their prayers and support! That the drs were able to get the tumour out completely is a miracle in itself! There may be chemo in the future, but at this point, it can be said that the surgery was a success! Thank you, everyone, and THANK YOU GOD!!!
I'm sitting here crying. No, my family is all well, thanks. No, I'm not hurt (anymore than usual) or damaged more than normal.
I had the first results come in from my short story contests that I'd entered. It was from the story that I was most sure of, most proud of, was so certain was the BEST work that I'd done.
Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero.
So, I sit here, sobbing like a spoiled child whose just been told she can't have the chocolate treat she wants.
I know, I KNOW intellectually what a crapshoot these contests are, that what one editor considers a steaming pile of dung another considers the literary boon to mankind. I know that.
I also know that literary accomplishment aside, placing in the contest would have meant some badly needed funds into the Stepford home.
So I'm sitting here crying.
I'll get my spoiled rump off to bed shortly. Assuming I quit sucking my thumb long enough, of course.
This daily blog thing isn't as easy as you think, ya know. I'm trying though. Because I keep my promises, dang it.
That, and I'm just plain stubborn. Ask Sm, she knows. She won't hesitate to confirm the fact either, at the slightest prompting. And at length. In detail. Great detail. Minute detail.
Then again, my tendency to babble and ramble is one of the reasons that I'm a pretty good blogger, so I suppose the command to 'watch the scenery, Dear' perhaps wasn't one of the better pieces of advice offered to me :oP
Suppose I should explain that tidbit.
Ok. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back when, before I was a Domestic Goddess, I was a Goddette. (Shup, Sm.) Roll with it people. Yes, I made up the term, Goddette. Deal with it.
Anyways, one fine weekend, I was invited to join Sm and her folks and go to her grandparents. We had a blast, although there was a bit of confusion on the way up as to why there seemed to be bits of misting rain every now and then. (Turned out Sm's Dad is a joker and was deliberately shooting off his windshield wiper fluid so it would drift back on to her windshield. We were teenagers, k? Not so much on the bright part? Hello? Hormones? ok? 'nuff said.)
So, there's me. Grand old age of 16? 17? New place. Never met the grandparents before. Feeling a wee bit uncomfy. So I do what I do best. Babble. Incessantly. Until Sm's Grandma, bless her heart, love her always, kindly reaches over, pats my hand, smiling, and quietly says, "Dear, why don't you watch the scenery?"
Understand, it was said with such a smile, and in such a tone, that you would have thought at first blush it was a compliment...took a full 30 seconds for it to register in my brain that I'd just been royally put in my place by a Master. The entire family roared with laugher, myself included.
One of the best weekends, if not THE best weekend I can remember of my childhood.
Thanks, Sm, for sharing your grandma with me that weekend. Give her my love, and tell her that I still don't watch the scenery as much as I ought to!
====================
A Mom on a message board I'm a member of has a little girl that I'd appreciate everyone keeping in their thoughts and prayers. Hannah went from having the sniffles on the weekend to being rushed to the ER with breathing issues. She was found to have a cancerous tumour today, and even the surgery is life threatening. If everyone would please pray, or do what you do for Hannah and her family, I would appreciate it, and I know they would too. For those of you who have blogs, please feel free to share Hannah's story on your blog, to let your readers know of her, so that they can pray for her too. She can use all the prayer she can get.
*Ahem, ahem, ahem* Been fiddling around with the layout in these here parts. May I draw your attention to the lovely side bar, found on the left hand side of your screen. Yes, I've been reduced to following my own blogs. I realize how pathetic that is, but there's more to it than patheticness (is that a word? It is now, darn it!) It makes it easier for you, loyal reader (please, let there be one or two of you in existence) to follow me, even if you haven't been able to either a) figure out how to 'follow me' or b) get blogger to allow you to follow me.
Speaking of Blogger allowing things, I've heard from a few folks that Blogger won't let them comment...either at all, or on a consistent basis. So, in the interest of ego stroking (my own) and cutting down on frustration (yours) I offer you my email address if you would like to comment on a blog entry but Blogger isn't cooperating.
domestic.goddess.blogs@gmail.com
How special is that? Yes, I opened the email just for my blogs. All together now, awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!! That's how much my ego strokes, I mean readers mean to me.
I'll even post it in the left hand side bar for your communication convenience. What more could you ask for from a Domestic Goddess?
More posting, yeah yeah yeah.
I'm working on it, people! Sheesh! There are THREE blogs on the go now, ya know.
*sigh*
Stupid should hurt. I even have shirts, etc that say so in my shop. It really should. So should narrow mindedness, bigoted behaviour, racism...but really, when you boil all that crap down, it comes down at its base to 'stupid' or at best, 'ignorant'.
I don't know if its only that I've become less tolerant (and I know I have) or that it really is on the rise, but I witness more and more stupidity, comments that make me want to reach over and smack the living crud out of someone. Do ppl really believe the crap they're spouting, or is it done in an effort to provoke a reaction? Sometimes I have the urge to ask, but am kinda afraid of the answer. I mean, how do you nicely ask someone, "Excuse me, but are you as stupid as that statement makes you sound?"
Nowhere does stupidity seem to raise its ugly head than in parenting issues. Now, I am not now, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be, a perfect parent. I don't play one on tv, and I don't even pretend to be one online even. I have my opinions, as does anyone else. But there are some things that are just common sense folks.Discipline is a fine example. If you don't discipline little Jimmy when he's little, he's going to be a brat. And he'll be a brat when he becomes teen Jimmy, at which point you'll have a kid that's bigger than you, cursing and swearing, intimidating you, your spouse and his siblings. If you're inconsistant in your discipline, its not going to work. We're not talking The Dead Sea Scrolls here, people. Parenting, while frustrating as holy Hades at times, actually isn't rocket science. Unless you're a homeschooler, and choose to study rockets. But I digress.And please, before I'm left a million and three comments about how your little darling has a medical diagnosis, I realize that different children require different parenting. Did I say one size fits all? Nope. I realize that for some parents, finding the right way to discipline is way harder and requires far more creativity than for the average bear, and I salute you. I salute you for two reasons: one, its simply harder. Two, unlike SOME parents that I've had the misfortune of meeting, you haven't used your child's diagnosis as a 'get out of parenting free card', shrugged your shoulders, and hid behind a three letter label to excuse any and all misbehaviour by your child. Unlike that mother of the kid at the community pool a year or two ago, that just about brained Baby Princess with a weighted diving ring, while she sat on her rump, calling out, "He has ODD!" rather than actually doing anything. Or the kid that ran merrily around the park, throwing sand, stealing toys, shoving kids, while Mom sat on the park bench calling out, "Sorry, he has ADHD...Honey, be nice! Be nice!" which continued until Tazzie had enough and shoved the kid back. Suddenly, there was a problem. Uh huh. Wolf told her, "Sorry, he doesn't have ADHD. He just doesn't like being shoved around."Anyways. Where was I?Oh yeah. Stupidity and parenting.If you buy your kid everything they want the minute they want it, please don't wonder why they have entitlement issues, k? And for HEAVEN'S SAKE, don't be complaining about it where I can hear you. Yes, I'm referring to YOU, neighbour across the way. I just about had coffee out the nose this am when checking the mail. And since when are YOU awake before 6 pm anyways? I know you work nights, because your kid complains about being stuck in the house with nothing to do but play with all her electronic gizmos because you're asleep. Here's another tip: Spending time with your kids. Always, always, ALWAYS a good idea. Honest. It won't spoil them rotten. I know, I know. You think we're ruining our kids, cause they're homeschooled, and they'll never make it in the 'real world'. Your kid told mine that too. Yeah, she's got a real mouth on her, doesn't she? But here's the thing...your kid BEGS to come over here, constantly. Why? Cause I'm HERE, with my kids. Spending time with them. You know, like...doing stuff. Reading, arts and crafts, popping popcorn, cuddling up...*gasp!* I know! What a concept! Unfortunately, between the swearing, lying, bullying of my toddler and preschooler, and general mouthing off, your kid isn't welcome here. Not only that, but despite your not so subtle hints, I'm not interested in being your free daycare. Another tip: If your 11 year old needs boot camp, thats a big old red flag for you, right there, k?Here's my last tip for the post, and its one that doesn't make me quite foam at the mouth and twitch as badly as the parents that seem to think that children don't require discipline, that they can be their kid's bestest buddy and everything will be just fine and dandy, but its dang close. You ready? Ok. Here goes:You cannot make up for whatever you missed as a kid through your child. Now, I'm not talking stuff like being hungry, neglected, wearing rags to school. I'm talking about other things. Its very simple, really. Your child isn't you. Your child will not have missed out on what you did, so a closet stuffed with more outfits than they could possibly hope to wear before they out grow them does them no possible good. A playroom crammed with more toys than any child could possibly play with is overwhelming, and if anything, teaches them a sense of entitlement. Its not going to do a thing for the child you were that desperately longed to see something under the Christmas tree, year after year. Only a good counsellor can help that. And I'm not saying that with any mean spirit at all, but with kindness. You can't make up for the fact that you always wanted to play hockey but your parents were too broke, especially if your son loathes the cold and only wants to curl up with a good book.Spend the time with your child, and learn who he/she is, rather than who you want or need them to be. Take joy in who they are.
Honest to Peter, I'm going to have to set myself up some sort of nasty consequence for leaving my blog(s) unattended. No coffee unless I blog? *gasp* That would be somewhat counter-productive, since I'm unsure that I would be able to type, let alone form coherent words, let alone sentances without my beloved go-juice. So, caffeine withholding isn't going to be an option. Hmmmm...No web surfing before blogging? Now that would work...assuming there was anyone to hold me to it...and there isn't. Diva, who would LOVE to have such power over her mother, isn't going to get such a chance, Wolf would look at me blankly and nod, and the Littles...well, yeah. So not going to work. I guess it'll just have to be my word of honour, that I'll blog more regularily.
*snort*
Uh...I know! I'll view it as a writing assignment! That'll work! Until I realize I'm not getting paid, even by comments...*sigh* Its hard to be a Domestic Goddess when the audience is silent, ya know. So, if you're out there, COMMENT, PEOPLE!! Goddesses require adulation. Its in the contract, read the fine print. Why do you think they had all those temples and stuff, huh? Read Greek or Roman mythology, and see what happened when Goddesses didn't get their proper worshipping. It wasn't pretty, trust me. Don't make me pull out my Magic Erasers and go all scrub crazy on your heinies. Won't be nice.
Now that my pointless and worthless blustering threats are over, I'll resort to begging...please leave a comment, my fragile ego needs it, k? :oP
You comment, and I post more.
Deal?
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