tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677830857662025192024-02-19T10:53:37.343-06:00Alabaster Mom"You ain't a beauty but, hey, you're alright"Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.comBlogger1249125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-26097473686106188702023-05-19T16:37:00.007-05:002023-05-20T06:29:25.746-05:0014 Weeks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNJzg5TILvGWTWgI-xxPGl5DjqHp3b1MWyz7ZPc2NGcPPt6Z27dauP6t14xs-C3uHTBZxyUzoWuRxoCiubo_stHcrfo7eGGmrxujMLc3u2qA8DFEuSwkl_xXFo0TPAyuAN17l7Cq1xFC1lVy1cbmFCErQM1z7mvRlbVHellHBNP946O1OFsOkL17Z6A/s686/12-25-05061.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="686" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNJzg5TILvGWTWgI-xxPGl5DjqHp3b1MWyz7ZPc2NGcPPt6Z27dauP6t14xs-C3uHTBZxyUzoWuRxoCiubo_stHcrfo7eGGmrxujMLc3u2qA8DFEuSwkl_xXFo0TPAyuAN17l7Cq1xFC1lVy1cbmFCErQM1z7mvRlbVHellHBNP946O1OFsOkL17Z6A/s320/12-25-05061.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>My baby is leaving me in 14 weeks. </p><p>She and I started touring colleges in May of 2022. When I applied to colleges back in 1988, I was an English major so there were no auditions. Colleges basically just said, "Sounds good. Come on in." I was the first person in my immediate family to go to college and as a whole, I don't think we understood the importance of campus visits and such. I ended up being fairly miserable that first year until I transferred to a school closer to home. For my daughter, I wanted to make sure she had an opportunity to see lots of college campuses so that she had the best shot at figuring out what she wants out of the college experience. I wanted her to look at elements like campus size and location, diversity, activities, distance from home, and distance from the nearest "big city" (since performers often head to larger cities with active theatre scenes after college). </p><p>Last summer, we began the daunting process known as "getting into a BFA Musical Theatre program." I had nary a clue about what lay ahead. A's vocal coach was tremendously helpful. She held an info session for the parents of her students and provided countless Google files - spreadsheets, checklists, and an overview of the process from start to finish. I learned all about pre-screens. To get into a BFA (Bachelor of Fine Arts) Musical Theatre program, applicants have to submit pre-screen videos. Generally, the pre-screen requirements include two songs from different time periods, one dance/choreography video, a headshot, and a monologue. In some cases, schools requested additional information such as a "why do you want to attend this university?" video. Schools use the pre-screen videos to determine which students they'd like to invite to audition. </p><p>You may be wondering about the difference between a BA and a BFA degree. I wondered as well. The BA track allows for more exploration across different areas of learning. The BFA is more intensive and focused. Although we initially toured a college that offered a BA and not a BFA, she quickly decided that the BFA degree will give her the training she wants. </p><p>A worked on the two songs with her vocal coach. Her coach also helped her to select a monologue. I set about finding a choreographer for the dance requirement and a photographer for the headshot. Then I had the headshots printed - that's a whole process, too. Who knew the name had to be printed in a specific font?! It was a busy summer indeed. I also joined a Facebook group for parents going through the same process. Many of them were helpful; a few were absolutely off their rocker. One mom told me that since there was a slight shadow present in my daughter's headshot, she probably wouldn't get into a program. Another mom initiated a full-blown conversation about which way the staple should be facing when you staple the artistic resume to the headshot. I had to turn off notifications from the group so that I could keep my head from exploding. The group had lots of good information, too, just to be clear. It was just . . . a lot to absorb. </p><p>Before getting into a BFA program, of course, my daughter had to get into the colleges academically. Knowing that most BFA Musical Theatre programs are small (we heard statistics along the lines of 2-3% of applicants getting in), we knew she'd need to cast a fairly wide net to increase the odds of getting into a BFA program. We live in the Midwest; she applied to 12 schools in the region. Of those colleges, she got into ten (academically). We sort of abandoned the process with the last two since they are farther away. One of the remaining ten doesn't have a BFA program so that one also fell by the wayside. That left nine schools. One of the nine declined to have her audition. Their loss, amiright??? </p><p>In February and March of this year, my girl auditioned for seven colleges. The eighth one considered her pre-screen videos to be her audition. We put some serious miles on my car during the audition period. At one point, we drove to Chicago twice in one week (four hours away). Two universities rejected her from the BFA programs (after her auditions) but lobbied heavily for her to go for a BA instead. One university accepted her into its BFA Acting program instead; that one came off the list as well. If you're keeping track, that means five acceptances into BFA Musical Theatre programs. </p><p>Of the five remaining contenders (University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Viterbo University, Drake University, Columbia College Chicago, and Rockford University), there were two campuses we hadn't visited. So, I took a day off work and we completed those visits. She sat in on some classes, too. </p><p>If the preceding paragraphs feel like far too much information, you're not wrong. I figured I'd document our journey just in case it's helpful to someone in the future. Along the way, I created a spreadsheet to compare the five universities and their respective BFA Musical Theatre programs. I wanted my daughter to be able to compare tuition, financial aid offers, distance from home, and other factors. One extremely useful piece of advice I received from the MT Parents Facebook group was to create a "blind" curriculum so that A could compare the five schools without knowing which was which. I found course listings online and created a document for each, trying my best to produce an "apples to apples" scenario. My daughter found this exercise to be extremely helpful. </p><p>After pondering the courses offered by each school, she narrowed her choices down to two: Drake University and Viterbo University. I felt that the curriculum at Drake was a great fit for her (and we both loved the campus), but it was the second most expensive after Columbia College in Chicago. I must confess that the distance would have been a bummer. Drake University is nearly seven hours away from us. After speaking with her vocal coach, she made a decision. She is headed off to Viterbo University in 14 weeks. </p><p>I imagine we'll spend the summer getting her ready for college life, buying what she needs for her dorm, and crying a lot. Oh wait, that last part is just for me. It'll be a hard transition, but as my middle sister once said of her role as a mom, "I raised my children to fly." Her eldest currently lives in Spain; fly she did! Similarly, I want my child to fly, to soar. </p><p>I'm supportive of the decision she ultimately made. The university is 3 1/2 hours away but much closer than the first runner-up. I wanted it to be feasible for her to come home for Thanksgiving and such. </p><p>As far as the college admission and program audition process goes, I feel like I did my job as a parent. But how does my scorecard look for the past 18 years? I know I've made her life too easy in some ways. I think of all the times she left something at home that she needed for school or for a rehearsal. Instead of letting her learn a lesson, I drove the left-behind item over to the school. I've reminded her endlessly of missing assignments rather than letting her fail. One time, we planned to go swimming at a local pool only to find that it was closed. Rather than letting her feel the sting of disappointment, I found a different pool and took her there. She has one pair of feet and countless pairs of shoes. She has one body and a dozen swimsuits. She's been to Disney and Universal several times. That is not to say we haven't butted heads. Have we ever. Most of our spats arise from my night owl child not getting up on time for school. There's never a part of me that wants her to be a different person. I just, for the love of God, want her to understand how time works. If only you know how many times I've said the words, "School starts when it starts, not when you get there." </p><p>So yes, I worry that I didn't teach her enough about taking care of herself, of doing her laundry, sewing on a button, and improvising when the situation calls for it. Maybe I wasn't strict enough. Maybe I let her eat too much junk. I may have overridden her father's "no" with a whispered "yes" a few times. Maybe I didn't give her enough space, enough privacy. Maybe I was altogether too much. But. My daughter is kind, funny, and caring, so maybe she turned out a'ight. She's 18 now. An adult! Her dad and I high-fived on her birthday. "We kept her alive to adulthood!" we exclaimed. </p><p>When I miscarried repeatedly in my early 30s, my arms ached terribly after each one. I suppose it was mostly in my mind, but I remember the feeling so distinctly. Then, thanks to the gift of adoption, my arms were full. So full. In 14 weeks, they'll be empty, but I don't think they will ache this time. These arms will help her move into her dorm and then give her one more hug to last until the next time we see each other. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEh-BhmNkVO0IGBBrcyHpYLcXJMLc1aSI4uQmrr40AkDNcxjznastQ-OIwBIgiLm0coKuDSRsRc7Yyp3ZdheOaDYG_djOlUrVfvWs07t3SM1yxXTUtwDKTHeZQ9XOYhQXI_CEr-AzaaIRy_ATKKzJjM11V86juL9yTmbcLP4UjuPhcslTpUZe9dJu7A/s2048/342597080_187524824204456_8284649465895687195_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEh-BhmNkVO0IGBBrcyHpYLcXJMLc1aSI4uQmrr40AkDNcxjznastQ-OIwBIgiLm0coKuDSRsRc7Yyp3ZdheOaDYG_djOlUrVfvWs07t3SM1yxXTUtwDKTHeZQ9XOYhQXI_CEr-AzaaIRy_ATKKzJjM11V86juL9yTmbcLP4UjuPhcslTpUZe9dJu7A/s320/342597080_187524824204456_8284649465895687195_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-45608664162871229312022-10-24T18:50:00.010-05:002022-10-24T19:07:58.264-05:00Senior Year: The Bittersweet Lasts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDduAanfr0CL5_e2_V1Y_5W4_kdPDQXmwY1_k6fBizvS3rZ7mHc-vBiiQbKL1NI3ZbzTbbzwXUvxL2VIH8eYTbXvzdv0cgyvaZDAn-Fw9Y2hwBTiacMjbp5krFRZ_9HJEfdoF3FFTrD3xHAjq64H8UMjap-T9zIyAwnKzADRFyKc2_DRnBS7MsdVQbQw/s686/07-15-08142.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="514" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDduAanfr0CL5_e2_V1Y_5W4_kdPDQXmwY1_k6fBizvS3rZ7mHc-vBiiQbKL1NI3ZbzTbbzwXUvxL2VIH8eYTbXvzdv0cgyvaZDAn-Fw9Y2hwBTiacMjbp5krFRZ_9HJEfdoF3FFTrD3xHAjq64H8UMjap-T9zIyAwnKzADRFyKc2_DRnBS7MsdVQbQw/w300-h400/07-15-08142.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p>13. That's the number of years I've spent trying to get my child out the door for school. She entered the local school district at the age of four. She is now in her final year, and nothing has changed. When she was little, I would sometimes tug off her pajamas and hand her that day's clothes. My futile attempt to speed things up. She generally chose to remain naked. </p><p>Now, she simply doesn't get out of bed. I send the dogs in. They hop onto her bed and step all over her, overjoyed, in that canine sort of way, that she exists and once again lived through the night. Grover, in particular, cares not where his paws land. Eventually, once she's crossed the line into "no way to get to school on time," she gets up. Barely, and with a slowness that makes her father's head explode, but she gets up. One of my favorite threats: "leave on time or . . . I'll DRIVE YOU!" Having your mom drop you off at school might be the worst thing that can happen to a senior. </p><p>Sometimes, I try a gentler approach. I lean over her and hug her while she's still tucked under her fuzzy comforter, her body still warm from sleep. I rub her back. I tell her that she'd really be doing me a solid if she'd simply get up. Sometimes, I wish I could hold her all day. On one of those recent mornings, I asked her if she needed to jump in the shower before school. Because of her incredibly thick, curly hair, daily washing of her considerable locks is not recommended. The shower is not a given, unless there is some possibility that a boy might come within an arm's length of her - and then the legs must be shaved, evidently. </p><p>"Do you need a shower?" I asked. </p><p>"Do I stink?" She asked the question in earnest. She'd had a show choir rehearsal the day before; some days, the dancing is more rigorous than others.</p><p>I leaned down and pressed my face against her cheek. "You smell like my baby," I said. She sighed. My feedback was not helpful.</p><p>Perhaps it's just the sentimentality talking, but for me, that scent has not changed. That 17-year-old head, full of show tunes and boys and tacos is no different from the newborn head against which I pressed my lips in the hospital. I remember being nervous when my daughter was in the nursery with the other newborns. Because I did not create her and had not spent nine months with her in my womb, I was worried that I wouldn't recognize her when I went to see her after visiting her birthmom. But I knew her. I have always known her.</p><p>My daughter leaves for college in roughly 10 months. I have already suggested to her that she not take any early-morning classes if she can help it. </p><p>Other parents who've been in my shoes tell me that this is the year of "lasts" and "last firsts." Last first-day-of-school photo. Last high school Homecoming dance. My daughter landed a lead in the school musical. I've thrown myself into the role of parent coordinator because . . . it's my last. I've had a lot of fun doing it, though. I built a headshot display out of painted PVC piping. I never thought I'd utter the words, "I own a ratchet-style PVC pipe cutter." And yet here we are. A freshman mom is shadowing me so that she and other moms can take over next year (just like other moms showed me the ropes). I'd say "parent" but, I mean, we all know it'll be the moms. </p><p>I'm doing my best to be present and mindful as my daughter winds her way through her senior year of high school. The day when I don't hear singing coming from the room at the end of the hall . . . it's coming all too soon, and I don't know what to do with those feelings. Sometimes, in the car, we sing soundtracks together. We particularly love Hamilton, but I always leave the rap part in "Satisfied" to her:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px; text-align: left;"><span jsname="YS01Ge"><i>It's the feeling of freedom, of seeing the light</i></span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px; text-align: left;"><span jsname="YS01Ge"><i>It's Ben Franklin with a key and a kite</i></span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px; text-align: left;"><span jsname="YS01Ge"><i>You see it right?</i></span></div></blockquote><p>My middle sister once said to me, "I'm raising my kids to fly." We were having a conversation about holding onto children too tightly. I feel the same way. I want to enjoy the lasts and then watch my daughter fly. She's becoming more independent, though I'm always just a text away when she forgets a script she needs for rehearsal or when she needs that taco money. The other day she held up two pairs of over-priced sneakers and asked me which one she should wear. I pointed to a pair - I mean, they were both white, so I didn't feel terribly invested in this whole scene. Later, I saw the pair I had chosen on the floor. I wasn't offended. I'm fine with my opinion on the little things in life holding little weight.</p><p>At the end-of-year music banquet in May, my daughter received an award for "building confidence." She received the award for building up people around her. Her teachers have always said that she talks way too much but also that she is kind to everyone. That's just the type of human that I'd hoped to send out into the world. With her hazel eyes that turn magic in the sun to curls so wild that a boy once got his hand stuck in there, my daughter is physically beautiful. Having a good heart, though? Priceless.</p><p>My daughter already knows that there will be a scene when we move her into her dorm room next fall (I hope her future roommate has a high tolerance for clutter). She plans to study Musical Theatre. Whether her college is an hour away or six hours away, I plan to cry all the way home regardless. Once my tears have dried, I will watch my baby soar. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbv7yj7pQXmetvu-fFOCmzRkOUYDrPyV7DF3pSZjDLGUp3FJkpEUUu4tXsQSKSJ3H7K7TJ35Yh11YvCYya4jfgtTakC_3M9r5Agzlhi6jbWOqHzPPXPJh0Yu1QU81znozFy9OPfnKA6z1j9QJ2yh0mV5qX0EQibxWoe62S0cmi8E4UEas3mZE9AA3hg/s1600/AdrienneSenior092%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbv7yj7pQXmetvu-fFOCmzRkOUYDrPyV7DF3pSZjDLGUp3FJkpEUUu4tXsQSKSJ3H7K7TJ35Yh11YvCYya4jfgtTakC_3M9r5Agzlhi6jbWOqHzPPXPJh0Yu1QU81znozFy9OPfnKA6z1j9QJ2yh0mV5qX0EQibxWoe62S0cmi8E4UEas3mZE9AA3hg/w400-h266/AdrienneSenior092%20(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-74675777879532706562022-03-28T19:25:00.009-05:002022-03-29T05:13:13.101-05:00Life is too short for white walls and self-hatred<p>The life expectancy for an American female born in 1970 is 74.7 years. My weird health history makes me think that I could be looking at a lower figure. I definitely need to live long enough to see if my husband finally figures out how to put the frying pans away properly. (He puts the largest one on top, which results in me shrieking, "They're meant to NEST, for fuck's sake!") I also need to make sure my baby girl pursues her dreams relentlessly - she might need me on hand to swat away any doubters. </p><p>Thinking about my own mortality lately has led to a couple of minor revelations. The first involves our home. The three of us (plus two dogs, one cat, and one gecko) live in a fairly standard three-bedroom ranch-style house. We could have moved to something bigger years ago, but we opted not to do so. We moved several times in our younger years (including a cross-country move) and we were pretty much over the joys of moving by the time we bought our home. We've raised our child here (and various furry friends and foster animals). We have lots of equity in our home and expect to have it paid off in a handful of years. Plus, who has the energy to update their driver's license with the correct address after they move? I'd give up a finger for walk-in closets but that's really my only regret.</p><p>I've always heard that it's a bad idea to paint a small room in a dark color because it makes the room appear smaller than it really is. Thus, I've spent the past 24 years with white and off-white walls. Last fall, I swore off white walls and painted the dining room red. I love the way it turned out. It features a tin ceiling tile salvaged from an old building in Chicago. I added some touches like an elephant figurine that I found in an antique shop. I hung a brass Hamsa hand over the entrance to the living room. When hung with the hand facing upward, it represents protection. When hung upside down, the Hamsa can symbolize fertility. Because I have a teenager in my home, I made sure the hand was fully upright and that it did not dip down even for a moment. </p><p>More recently, I painted my rock-n-roll-themed bathroom grey. Additionally, I had some new artwork I wanted to display and decided to paint the small hallways at each end of the house. After gazing at taped-to-the-wall Dutch Boy paint samples for a couple of weeks, I opted for a beautiful (but rather aggressive) shade of blue not commonly seen in residential interiors. To make sure the hallway doesn't feel too cave-like, I purchased this <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/B07NVYLN11" target="_blank">art display light.</a> </p><p>Just to prove I haven't gone off the rails, I am allowing the kitchen and bedrooms to retain their subdued color schemes. The living room is a caramel color that can stay for now. I am eyeing our second bathroom for a teal/peacock-type color but that's a project for next spring. </p><p>The second revelation floated to the surface after Will Smith smacked Chris Rock in the face on live television at the Academy Awards. That event is a bit too recent for me to have digested it fully, so I won't add a lot of commentary here. It strikes me (no pun intended) as something that a non-wealthy, non-celebrity type of person wouldn't have gotten away with, but what do I know? The mister and I just watched King Richard on Saturday night and loved it. I guess I probably did have a bit less respect for Will Smith after the Oscars than before, but again, I'm still pondering the whole thing. It would have fallen off my radar rather quickly if not for one facet of this story: alopecia. </p><p>I have battled alopecia (and vitiligo) all my life. I learned to deal with the vitiligo in time, but the alopecia has always been a more soul-wounding condition. I imagine it always will be. This blog post is not about how I overcame that pain or how I don't care who stares at me. At 52, I care a whole lot less about what people think than I did at, say, 22, but I will never be comfortable with stares. What I <i>did</i> overcome, however, was my steadfast refusal to talk about it. I wrote <a href="https://alabastermom.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-one-where-my-worst-fear-came-true.html" target="_blank">a blog post </a>about losing almost all of my hair in 2020; it was nothing if not cathartic. I wore a wig from the summer of 2020 until the spring of 2021, when my dermatologist's interventions resulted in a "socially-acceptable" amount of hair. After eight months of being wig-free, my condition took a turn starting around Christmastime. While stress/anxiety seems to make the condition worse, it's always hard to point to any sort of trigger. It's just my immune system going rogue. </p><p>Last Sunday, I chatted with my friend Amy after church. "How are you doing?" she asked. </p><p>I gingerly patted my hair, which was carefully wrapped in a scarf. "I'm losing my hair again," I said matter-of-factly. It's an upsetting topic for me, still, but Amy is a safe place - as are so many of my friends and family members. By the way, if you ever run into anyone with my particular constellation of medical issues and they confide in you, your best bet is just to say "that sucks, I'm sorry" and not try to offer a cure.</p><p>As a child, my peers made sure I knew that my appearance was profoundly unacceptable. It took a long time to get some distance from that. The wig I wore last year forced me to acknowledge what I had worked so hard to hide all my life (after all, it's not like anyone would have believed that my fine hair transformed into luxuriously thick locks out of the blue). My friend Natalie introduced me to the phrase "you can do this hard thing." And indeed I could. </p><p>I'm hoping the current recurrence won't be as severe as the 2020 episode, but I'll roll with the punches either way. Because I have to. </p><p>Jada Pinkett Smith's celebrity, I imagine, has not shielded her from the sting of having this frustrating condition. As women, we are raised with the understanding that hair is IMPORTANT, that it's a primary ingredient in our very beauty. For a Black woman, I am sure there are many other factors in that relationship that I shouldn't really guess at. But still, I understand what it's like to have alopecia and to wake up every day knowing that it's fully out of my control. Jada Pinkett Smith and millions of other people know it all too well. </p><p>The incident at the Oscars highlighted one thing for sure: alopecia is a traumatizing condition - so much so that her husband couldn't let Chris Rock's joke go, I suppose. Perhaps it's not the ideal situation in which to highlight auto-immune conditions like alopecia, but the increased awareness likely does help. I guess the Smiths took one for the team? It was an odd situation - I have no more clarity now than I did a few paragraphs ago. </p><p>Alopecia, it seems, is having a moment. Vitiligo has been on a similar trajectory. In recent years, I've been amazed to watch people like <a href="https://www.instagram.com/winnieharlow/?hl=en" target="_blank">Winnie Harlow </a>rise to prominence. What? Beauty and vitiligo aren't mutually exclusive like the world told me 40 years ago? I even saw a display ad at Kohl's recently that featured someone with vitiligo. There are many people like me who have multiple auto-immune conditions. And believe me, all of us who suffer from them are well aware that it "could be worse." We know. </p><p>I would still love to have a longer period of respite between flare-ups with my hair. I want to worry less about windy days and swimming in public pools. I'm not ready to be carefree about the whole thing, but I'm ready not to hide my pain. </p><p>Oh . . . I asked my husband if he would smack someone who made fun of my condition and he was fairly non-committal. Whatcha gonna do, amiright? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnaHjVNGgZFfKVUpHZMJLobSATAbg5G_avcgvEUsuxyF5IyCbNtr_q3CQi_LB9z_Hs6XQYPax7zXZeS0SxlZtNuo8OJ2IHz0o0MRfBZw9KGDM254bA7qXHPsiN5hh4Lf_xkjmniEzmksSJX4DutsKdgyE9JIaF_uztcnS2KUutrkhnL02qAAehHCxndg/s3088/IMG_5063.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnaHjVNGgZFfKVUpHZMJLobSATAbg5G_avcgvEUsuxyF5IyCbNtr_q3CQi_LB9z_Hs6XQYPax7zXZeS0SxlZtNuo8OJ2IHz0o0MRfBZw9KGDM254bA7qXHPsiN5hh4Lf_xkjmniEzmksSJX4DutsKdgyE9JIaF_uztcnS2KUutrkhnL02qAAehHCxndg/s320/IMG_5063.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here are a few photos of my recent painting frenzy:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6rMLf-bxW0bOjKja_w9NV_ntB05gBPATOGxA38mfa3gN6Pud-9BpTtgNms12AnWFoJRT6m2ARE6ZtMyxHBMfITVH96IZbKcG2zRkxifeFO0LKYDuaKsiS-iZSkqwDjQ9BEzpB7zmbwNnOcDzfD9v9ZPW2aMTpb80JfuXQjah-_8fopTU9yh2DPUc4w/s4032/IMG_5296.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6rMLf-bxW0bOjKja_w9NV_ntB05gBPATOGxA38mfa3gN6Pud-9BpTtgNms12AnWFoJRT6m2ARE6ZtMyxHBMfITVH96IZbKcG2zRkxifeFO0LKYDuaKsiS-iZSkqwDjQ9BEzpB7zmbwNnOcDzfD9v9ZPW2aMTpb80JfuXQjah-_8fopTU9yh2DPUc4w/s320/IMG_5296.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzGT4ppptMSF9La316MdlxA6f81i7Oq_0YQJcAaisGsSqJiwv0l1u5Sm5G_lnQ0v3m4KnzJC_w7cbWIyQA8QVaCPSt_0NPhyeMdhyIYNwB-hzwx_dOIzYHYI2qYb6XDibUzdfic5NWzmUvI40pVd27oWlJivmjHyssfSNbPIY1JK4sz3uIDrDqwatnA/s4032/IMG_5307.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzGT4ppptMSF9La316MdlxA6f81i7Oq_0YQJcAaisGsSqJiwv0l1u5Sm5G_lnQ0v3m4KnzJC_w7cbWIyQA8QVaCPSt_0NPhyeMdhyIYNwB-hzwx_dOIzYHYI2qYb6XDibUzdfic5NWzmUvI40pVd27oWlJivmjHyssfSNbPIY1JK4sz3uIDrDqwatnA/s320/IMG_5307.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTkz6SbhJytdWCD4M-FnMCpd8whO992-qmHLN5CMOz8njmydZCtVuxKc8BQnK4d0pawilGZxy0sJlCXg2Dc_yeKJJR8cJeqO2e2dfpYsAn7debJ4aSyG8tqgaKCRG7uDeGz_hyl_0nSqHwcm6-V85VjXfNdVVbLqzrzwzPe0-T0QoZig5Z2TV7MXYWg/s4032/IMG_5297.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTkz6SbhJytdWCD4M-FnMCpd8whO992-qmHLN5CMOz8njmydZCtVuxKc8BQnK4d0pawilGZxy0sJlCXg2Dc_yeKJJR8cJeqO2e2dfpYsAn7debJ4aSyG8tqgaKCRG7uDeGz_hyl_0nSqHwcm6-V85VjXfNdVVbLqzrzwzPe0-T0QoZig5Z2TV7MXYWg/s320/IMG_5297.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78Wlba9GM_VJ6-EOdBe1Jg3PNIu2xO0BnVN-kAL-xs2tEdSqzU0xJ-XE58INRxcmDcyeqAyb6vnEtw98Hxvg9B-IwK7Ym-CS77YmdAKVN59cjD5Q825ru3EsSIzYMKzErgEI9_o6XiJF8Y-NEcNSFDBN3FC-eqIoUftUKqgTpHEFAWV99Dc_BGOrAdg/s4032/IMG_5299.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78Wlba9GM_VJ6-EOdBe1Jg3PNIu2xO0BnVN-kAL-xs2tEdSqzU0xJ-XE58INRxcmDcyeqAyb6vnEtw98Hxvg9B-IwK7Ym-CS77YmdAKVN59cjD5Q825ru3EsSIzYMKzErgEI9_o6XiJF8Y-NEcNSFDBN3FC-eqIoUftUKqgTpHEFAWV99Dc_BGOrAdg/s320/IMG_5299.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXmkgl0Ii0wbwtBRHaohRt9QnjYJ3FlYpblSzuN3oh6C9af4IbF9YmaYI1R8WoXcP5S1Qjun3pDI9OqWfyRihgVnQiqXb2U191OOLGi150219c-tFFLGjV3nyHJa6Z7YT3YjtE3phwDQQlrG79I6aIDaFMUq5SmLnh2iK_d2MQCSkUSc1vYllj396Bg/s4032/IMG_5300.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXmkgl0Ii0wbwtBRHaohRt9QnjYJ3FlYpblSzuN3oh6C9af4IbF9YmaYI1R8WoXcP5S1Qjun3pDI9OqWfyRihgVnQiqXb2U191OOLGi150219c-tFFLGjV3nyHJa6Z7YT3YjtE3phwDQQlrG79I6aIDaFMUq5SmLnh2iK_d2MQCSkUSc1vYllj396Bg/s320/IMG_5300.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLVa4WtwxoAn2trgGomp3m7uOzAaOFdFttx4e0z5jUkwsAbR1bBw12v2qgrJ3O7ZaO-uA6FM0RgIFsQaxd2y2CUX4RK2jmPDYlA52IdEDg6o_nLCZxSxRD9ZY8kt2OpYW9c6jGYT6LSaf6tDFZoCcrlF4VPVVA-c3Itk4Fw2IPaFx9QdfqwcpBbZ24Q/s4032/IMG_5301.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLVa4WtwxoAn2trgGomp3m7uOzAaOFdFttx4e0z5jUkwsAbR1bBw12v2qgrJ3O7ZaO-uA6FM0RgIFsQaxd2y2CUX4RK2jmPDYlA52IdEDg6o_nLCZxSxRD9ZY8kt2OpYW9c6jGYT6LSaf6tDFZoCcrlF4VPVVA-c3Itk4Fw2IPaFx9QdfqwcpBbZ24Q/s320/IMG_5301.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4U5A4AiRKODAwhI7RBfha1PEO743304HxC5mRhloheU76JlOacTQXIWEY3gjmjHskES8qM18rSrToAf5lIZV0jX-ZXYDYX9Rv8o3mRZeJaGyfVMAg6fnV2RT02tS22Chn_VKMtsnLIW51mzZ034XpfHxeDQ3vRp5AzndK6rtCGtWB8wNiZvESAGp2lw/s4032/IMG_5302.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4U5A4AiRKODAwhI7RBfha1PEO743304HxC5mRhloheU76JlOacTQXIWEY3gjmjHskES8qM18rSrToAf5lIZV0jX-ZXYDYX9Rv8o3mRZeJaGyfVMAg6fnV2RT02tS22Chn_VKMtsnLIW51mzZ034XpfHxeDQ3vRp5AzndK6rtCGtWB8wNiZvESAGp2lw/s320/IMG_5302.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNOCF0fCPpJANAeR6jeHPdnICgliZti9YEcOrLs7kvH4J0jbGUemPfdU2vfJF7TYBoen8eT9TExGedpZQa1J4w2ejAxB2q8XzcgbyjtjlD0a3m6bOao4yXY4XvGy7RF2kEY_8A-ZLlhEe7pjHQKlXMpPbvWHK2uUciATE5t5cPyHrz4F_K4ieMlJk-Q/s4032/IMG_5303.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNOCF0fCPpJANAeR6jeHPdnICgliZti9YEcOrLs7kvH4J0jbGUemPfdU2vfJF7TYBoen8eT9TExGedpZQa1J4w2ejAxB2q8XzcgbyjtjlD0a3m6bOao4yXY4XvGy7RF2kEY_8A-ZLlhEe7pjHQKlXMpPbvWHK2uUciATE5t5cPyHrz4F_K4ieMlJk-Q/s320/IMG_5303.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-60656118507664124482021-10-02T21:01:00.011-05:002021-10-03T07:48:37.810-05:00Back to regularly scheduled programming (sort of)<p>I'll bet you thought I forgot I had a blog. When my daughter was younger, there were so many milestones to document and celebrate. I churned out blog posts pretty regularly back then. How many did I write on potty training alone? These days, there is much to celebrate but eh, she already knows how to walk, is potty trained, and can ride a two-wheeler. Recently, I hung a framed letter board in <a href="https://alabastermom.blogspot.com/2021/03/something-out-of-nothing-cozy-hangout.html" target="_blank">A's hangout room</a> in the basement. It currently bears a quote from Hairspray ("I'll eat some breakfast, then change the world"), but I've definitely been tempted to change it to something like, "She used to poop in the tub." </p><p>My daughter is now a junior in high school. Losing over a year of in-person schooling to COVID leaves me feeling perplexed about how we got here. She was a freshman and now she's graduating a mere 20 months from now? Her school is currently in session five days a week, in person, and masks are required. I've heard of parents pulling their kids out of school because of the mandate, but I think the kids are generally pretty compliant. My daughter also has to wear a mask at work (she works as a server in a senior living center) for 4-8 hour shifts and she just deals with it. Sometimes she forgets to take the mask off even when she can. I think most kids don't mind if it means they can do all of the "normal" high school activities. </p><p>Speaking of regular activities, my daughter and two of her friends went to the Homecoming dance last weekend. Friday night was the Homecoming game; A joined her choir to sing the national anthem before the game. It was great to see the kids doing all of the goofy Homecoming activities like beach day and pranks that always seem to involve silly string. I never thought the sight of toilet paper billowing from the trees at the high school would make me so happy. She's also in the fall play and in show choir at school, as well as a city choir that rehearses on Sunday nights. She's busy, but not too busy to have a boyfriend! They started dating in the spring and seem to get along really well. When they first started getting to know each other, she kept telling me that he was "just a friend." The night before her birthday, he called her at midnight so that he could be the first person to wish her a happy birthday. I have some wonderful friends, but I can assure you that none of them are dying to be the first person to acknowledge my birthday on any given year. Even the person who gave birth to me is not *that* sentimental about what time she calls. Not surprisingly, they made it official a few weeks later. He's a smart guy; he's learned to wait at home until she is fully ready before coming over vs. sitting in our living room or driveway for the better part of an hour. When she's wearing leggings, he carries her phone in his pocket. They seem to get along really well. I knew he was practically a member of our family when he started letting our dogs in and out. </p><p>I know 2020 was hard on everyone. 2021, in a global sense, has been nearly as disheartening/tragic/maddening (but at least we now have vaccines). Last year, I was pretty close to putting my daughter on antidepressants (we discussed it with her doctor but she decided to wait). For the extroverts, I think quarantine was particularly challenging. She stopped singing in her room (or anywhere, really). I missed her voice ringing out with various show tunes. My mom, who raised three girls, still talks about the "teenage girl energy" that filled her house once upon a time. I was missing that, too. A's grades plummeted. It was harder for her to connect with friends (or make new ones) without the proximity benefit of seeing them in the hallways at school. As I write this, I hear her belting out "You Will Be Found" as she plays games online. A welcome sound indeed.</p><p>Next month, she'll get her driver's license and, at long last, will be able to drive herself around. She's about six months behind because she wasn't super motivated to take the classroom portion of driver's training online. I am not ashamed to admit that I bribed her to finish those classes and get her temporary permit. Of course, once she has her regular license, I'll miss the time in the car with her. My grandma told me that she loved the learner's permit days with her kids, when she had to be in the car while they drove. "They'd talk to me," she said. It's bittersweet, but it'll mostly just be sweet when she can drive herself to her many, many rehearsals. </p><p>I'm trying not to think about how she'll be an adult before too long and will be out of the house. While there is still time, I've volunteered for three different activities at her school: board member of the Music Parents' Association (which is like a sports booster club but for music programs), chairperson of a show choir competition committee, and parent organizer for the February musical. Where will I find the time? Who knows! I'll make it work. </p><p>My charitable daughter has given me her cold, so I'll sign off now. I've taken some NyQuil so I'm unlikely to be conscious for much longer. I'll share a few photos from the past few months. We had a fun summer. We had a new patio installed, so we've been able to spend more time outside. One of my nephews visited for a week in July, and we went to Myrtle Beach and Charleston with friends in August. Our family vacationed in Myrtle Beach several times when I was in my early teens. Did it get hotter since then? Holy cow, I was unprepared for that caliber of humidity. I repainted and redecorated the dining room over the summer, too. My husband has had just about enough of my pandemic projects. Or I think that's what he said. Blah blah blah. Stop buying stuff blah blah blah. </p><p>Okay, Nyquil's kickin' in.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgee3Cjs-p5I1MIzYiRYUVpC_XLb9pvEV-heuZFmBTbl4cu3n5kKSXoEvfnOn3zBwTqzjmTdF2MD9D8ghLo4TulE7Byn9EKBpJMhoBC8yZMvX1BfLwPhuqnG_xacPZovd0X_qOloXPzVyXW/s2048/IMG_3337.jpeg"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgee3Cjs-p5I1MIzYiRYUVpC_XLb9pvEV-heuZFmBTbl4cu3n5kKSXoEvfnOn3zBwTqzjmTdF2MD9D8ghLo4TulE7Byn9EKBpJMhoBC8yZMvX1BfLwPhuqnG_xacPZovd0X_qOloXPzVyXW/s320/IMG_3337.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCat-CJWUpXWfVMg8tPbkrT-aoDItMAG2OvOBgzv8EruWfWt4JOv88Keo_XlPiryViBdCpU4dCKiDR3R0_GWcGhDMx1n8jdE4ECueA1r8ILaPXvt53NJVKadwmvmyy5wN6Roo9JA1fb8mp/s2048/IMG_3616.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCat-CJWUpXWfVMg8tPbkrT-aoDItMAG2OvOBgzv8EruWfWt4JOv88Keo_XlPiryViBdCpU4dCKiDR3R0_GWcGhDMx1n8jdE4ECueA1r8ILaPXvt53NJVKadwmvmyy5wN6Roo9JA1fb8mp/s320/IMG_3616.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMK2KRFbyPn4DXx_p0qrXo3Q5UnWnPDkv8WuZNaNDZ6YgfRHNvJVHn8k_j1mHv7LBhDeOWi6EDSgS1Y82O2LXAXPy116p759B2n64dnSaj9dmnelVNR_xmkTFSeHyxez06pFzEGJg5EHw3/s2048/IMG_3788.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMK2KRFbyPn4DXx_p0qrXo3Q5UnWnPDkv8WuZNaNDZ6YgfRHNvJVHn8k_j1mHv7LBhDeOWi6EDSgS1Y82O2LXAXPy116p759B2n64dnSaj9dmnelVNR_xmkTFSeHyxez06pFzEGJg5EHw3/s320/IMG_3788.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmP5HT0PeAmjMZCJvv-GDoUNaPf9SLGVqDJyNweMFd4CpIkGcotGval1fUQJPZxUd3GNYwZzOnKujWfMLKafrMWHqxt_9So-EpmA3tbOWJrDaz9WLsWb-Nb11lGB8NScA3GKKtLLaBJfA5/s2048/IMG_3804.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmP5HT0PeAmjMZCJvv-GDoUNaPf9SLGVqDJyNweMFd4CpIkGcotGval1fUQJPZxUd3GNYwZzOnKujWfMLKafrMWHqxt_9So-EpmA3tbOWJrDaz9WLsWb-Nb11lGB8NScA3GKKtLLaBJfA5/s320/IMG_3804.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8MLhKCjgfPIJTlflum37Mgsmq4qQMLUp9SNnleUCPDiMeODbSpnen3nhYlmcFS18ieAlr-RmSLpU9WFu9d-5OA4NBHwKNm7-ZHdaHoOuy2mlmePqE7SaFnryp6nDoOE_8caXi9VO8Ezw/s2048/IMG_4249.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8MLhKCjgfPIJTlflum37Mgsmq4qQMLUp9SNnleUCPDiMeODbSpnen3nhYlmcFS18ieAlr-RmSLpU9WFu9d-5OA4NBHwKNm7-ZHdaHoOuy2mlmePqE7SaFnryp6nDoOE_8caXi9VO8Ezw/s320/IMG_4249.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-77359580465274680562021-04-13T18:26:00.001-05:002021-04-13T18:26:25.874-05:00No booze, but just enough hair to get by<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1m4-0DZoipqTyK9_chPxJ9TzeZ4TFolo3D4vpXaxZkYDIGOyN2SlSY2NdS1jZIirq8TRClkNvkiTuwo591AFIJOBy2qAxk6GpCNdsGsUaG-jCYLpMJyp7ZP60b4MPoWXjTFbb2GI7fcs/s960/claudiawine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1m4-0DZoipqTyK9_chPxJ9TzeZ4TFolo3D4vpXaxZkYDIGOyN2SlSY2NdS1jZIirq8TRClkNvkiTuwo591AFIJOBy2qAxk6GpCNdsGsUaG-jCYLpMJyp7ZP60b4MPoWXjTFbb2GI7fcs/s320/claudiawine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Today is my 100th alcohol-free day in a row. January 3rd was the last time I raised a wine glass to my lips. The next day, I started a 100-day challenge with one of my sisters. Her challenge also included daily activity - my commitment to that part was much more sporadic. We can't all be athletic, you know! Geez! </p><p>There have been a few drinkers in our family tree over the centuries, so we are well aware of how easy it is to slide across the line from "I enjoy a glass of wine after work" to "I need wine and lots of it. Now." I've never considered myself to be a problem drinker, but sometimes I think I enjoy it more than I probably should. Typically, I just have a glass of Cabernet and go to bed. If I have an extra glass of wine, I'll have to get up and pee in the middle of the night. There are practical reasons not to over-indulge, you see. #oldladyproblems</p><p>When my sister told me about the challenge, I thought it would be an interesting experiment. I invited myself to join. As I reflect on the experience, I feel like I did learn a few things about myself. One important lesson was that I <i>can</i> get through my days without it. I filled my post-work hours with other things. I did a lot of jigsaw puzzles to relax. Oh, and I accidentally lost eight pounds. Imagine if I'd actually worked at it!</p><p>I didn't find myself sleeping better, though that would have been a nice side effect. I didn't save a penny (thanks to the puzzles). While skipping alcohol for a hundred days didn't yield any miracles, I did like the fact that I thought about it less and less as the days ticked by. I celebrated my husband's birthday in January - no wine. I celebrated my own birthday in February - no wine. My sister did give me some sort of festive Kombucha concoction in a wine glass, however. Now that the challenge is over, I'm feeling pretty content. Will I cozy up to a vodka-cran or a nice Malbec in the future? I'm sure I will, but I'm not in a hurry. </p><p>Another big change in my life is that I was able to ditch my wig after eight months of wearing it. The wig got me through some really tough days since the pandemic began (let's also give props to Zoloft, shall we?) and frankly, I thought I looked something-close-to-pretty when wearing it. However, over time, I started to want a divorce from it. Wigs are beautiful but holy cow, they are so hot. That's one thing no one tells you. I wanted to be done with it by this summer so that I don't have to walk around feeling like my skull is on fire. Plus, human hair wigs are a lot of work and require a lot of maintenance. And finally, daily wear causes them to break down over time. The wig's days were likely numbered regardless.</p><p>In March, I made an appointment to have my hair cut in April. I made it well in advance in hopes that I'd manage to grow a few more strands by then. It worked! Last week, I walked out of the salon feeling like a whole new person. I have the pixie cut I never would have dared to get (but now had to get because the length is all I had to work with). I'll keep working towards more/longer hair but for now, I'm thrilled! </p><p>Come back next time for more oversharing. </p>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-8204971151040725042021-03-21T19:01:00.006-05:002021-03-21T20:58:39.192-05:00Something out of nothing: the cozy hangout room<p>Like most families, we've spent a LOT of time together over the last year. Our house is not huge (it's a three-bedroom ranch), which is fine for our smallish clan. However, there aren't a lot of options for space when one of us wants to watch a show that no one else likes or when my husband wants to play some dumb game on his PS4. I have an office, but I work from home and spend 50ish hours a week in there already. In other words, not where I want to hang out on a Friday night. The three of us end up competing for the living room. When my daughter and her boyfriend were still together, they'd often watch a movie in the living room and the mister and I would have nowhere to go. We'd usually just watch TV in our bedroom. One time, I stayed in the living room and watched a movie with them, which wouldn't be noteworthy except that there was a prolonged sex scene and A's boyfriend looked like he was hoping the couch would swallow him whole. "Not in front of my girlfriend's mother!" he lamented. </p><p>A few weeks ago, my daughter mentioned that she would love to be able to hang out in the basement. I jumped on the idea; I'd had similar thoughts over the years. Sure, it can be chilly in the basement, but not so cold as to exclude it as a hangout location. Almost immediately, I dug in. I love a good project. I used painter's tape and blocked off a section of the basement. I spent a day just clearing it out, shoving bookcases into new spots and finding new winter homes for our bikes. From there, the kid and I set up a Pinterest board and started sharing ideas. She chose a color palette and I ran with it. She wanted a cozy environment so I bought fuzzy rugs, pillows, blankets, and chairs. I picked up an over-sized bean bag chair. We added some fun decorations, too.</p><p>All told, the project took just over two weeks. We painted, we shopped, we made it awesome. If my husband asks you how much it cost, just say . . . I don't know . . . $7.00 or whatever. </p>
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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCIBwJLlZfn_o4Fai51udK0Hx6uBqyzHIEH2rujTpaXbcMCSB5tiWJJU-WFPuo8uOdM_9UyX43FkCXA56lEdjp_WpQQPYawOhGoCfGdVelXojeHqFtzVHZoV8mEcaqtldJv3Z_NyfBTrkw/s4032/IMG_2696.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCIBwJLlZfn_o4Fai51udK0Hx6uBqyzHIEH2rujTpaXbcMCSB5tiWJJU-WFPuo8uOdM_9UyX43FkCXA56lEdjp_WpQQPYawOhGoCfGdVelXojeHqFtzVHZoV8mEcaqtldJv3Z_NyfBTrkw/s320/IMG_2696.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5JGJKIE8KrQwclCNoIsBxKePt0evG59rXiqT55iGSEiIICBfQzjEYpVwPBJeDtfBazry1q49khfgbRbPyo2l6aVreaPgGFPXTz1xqNrCHlSxp9wS0a7U5PwubyfwLEb5FkFlXgfDjfla/s4032/IMG_2723.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5JGJKIE8KrQwclCNoIsBxKePt0evG59rXiqT55iGSEiIICBfQzjEYpVwPBJeDtfBazry1q49khfgbRbPyo2l6aVreaPgGFPXTz1xqNrCHlSxp9wS0a7U5PwubyfwLEb5FkFlXgfDjfla/s320/IMG_2723.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-45922411189555619772020-12-25T15:12:00.019-06:002020-12-25T20:56:30.058-06:00I did a thing - let the shaming begin<p>Let me start by saying that I'm well aware that we are in the throes of a global pandemic. I wear a mask everywhere I go. I carry hand sanitizer even though I've always preferred good old-fashioned hand-washing. I also carry disinfecting wipes. I work from home and do delivery/carry-out more often than my budget can accommodate, if I'm being honest. For my groceries, I either schedule no-contact pick-ups or I shop at 6:00 a.m. when only weirdo morning people like me are in the grocery store. </p><p>I've traveled a few times since the pandemic began, not because I'm throwing caution to the wind, but because I think we have to find a way to do some normal stuff, but more carefully than before. After carefully weighing the risks, I decided to fly to Texas with my daughter recently. We had an invitation to attend my cousin's wedding. Technically, it was my cousin's daughter. I always thought my cousin's child is defined as my second cousin, but <a href="https://www.famlii.com/what-relation-cousins-child-to-me-second-cousin-once-removed/" target="_blank">I did a little digging</a> and that's technically incorrect (but widely believed). As it turns out, your cousin's child is your first cousin once removed. #themoreyouknow</p><p>Our flight to Houston (which connected through Denver) left at 6:15 a.m. If you've ever lived with a teenager, you can imagine how much fun I had waking her up. As it turns out, she was more coherent than I was that morning. I managed to leave my carry-on on the parking shuttle. I was able to call the company and the shuttle driver brought the bag back on his next pass. Whew! Our flights to Denver and then to Houston were pretty uneventful. Once in Houston, we grabbed our rental car and drove to Galveston. I had booked a room at a Holiday Inn right on the seawall. The temperatures were in the 60s, which was a nice break from the frigid weather back home. </p><p>We had been invited to the rehearsal dinner at 5:00. I hurried my daughter along and rushed her out the door. I fussed at her and told her how frustrating it is to be late for every single thing we attend. We walked inside the venue and . . . no one was there because the dinner didn't start until 6:15. I had the time wrong. I apologized profusely to my daughter because moms have to do that sometimes. </p><p>I didn't want to go back to our hotel since we were dressed and ready to go. Way back in 1988-1989, I attended Texas A&M University at Galveston. I later transferred to George Mason University and received my degree from that school instead. Since we were in town, I was curious to see if I'd recognize anything on campus. We drove over and wow, did it look different. I recognized a couple of dorm buildings and that was about it. We didn't get out of the car - we just circled the exterior. The kid stared at her phone because yaaaaaawn, I guess. </p><p>We picked up a few groceries since our room had a microwave and refrigerator. By then, it was time to go back to the party room that had been booked for the rehearsal dinner. I didn't know many people other than two cousins and of course the bride. It was a very nice dinner and I was grateful to the groom's mother for the invitation. Everyone was good about staying masked except during eating and a few photos. </p><p>The next morning, I really wanted to do something fun before the wedding, which was scheduled for 5:00 p.m. (for realz this time). I also knew that there was 100% chance of rain in the afternoon. As I waited for Her Highness to shower and get dressed, I read a book on the balcony while enjoying the breeze coming off the Gulf. </p><p>My youngest sister and her family were in town, so I really wanted to catch up with them. They were hanging out at the <a href="https://www.pleasurepier.com/" target="_blank">Pleasure Pier</a> which, I promise you, is not an adult book store. By the time my kid was ready, it was well after 1:00. We headed to the pier and bought walk-on passes. No sooner did we find my sister, brother-in-law, and nephews and play a few arcade games . . . the sky opened up. My daughter and I headed back to the rental car, our shoes squishing all the way. I had an umbrella, but it was mostly useless. We were soaked to the bone. It was all I could do not to say, "if you'd gotten ready sooner . . . "</p><p>We stopped for ice cream (there was a Ben & Jerry's very close to our hotel - non-dairy cookie dough for the win!) and then spent the rest of the afternoon drying out and getting ready for the wedding. My daughter's high-top Vans were still wet two days later when we flew home. </p><p>The wedding was held at the Bryan Museum in Galveston. Originally planned as an outdoor wedding, the rain shifted the ceremony to the conservatory instead. The <a href="https://www.weddingsinhouston.com/blog/venues-we-love-the-bryan-museumespecially-the-conservatory/" target="_blank">conservatory</a> is like a greenhouse, but much fancier. The rain stopped just as the ceremony began, which was nice because then the large doors could be left open (worth mentioning since fresh air and circulation are so important these days). It was a beautiful ceremony. I felt really fortunate to be there. My family is spread out across the country and sometimes, many years go by in between visits. I had last seen my cousins in 2007. </p><p>After the ceremony, the conservatory (which had amazing lighting, by the way) was reset with banquet tables. An adjoining tent with more seating allowed the guests to spread out. After dinner, some of the standard wedding activities were completed - first dances, cake cutting, etc. Guess who caught the bouquet? My kid! If she thinks she's the next person to get married, she's got another thing comin'. </p><p>As for the bride and groom, they seem to be perfect for each other and it was so much fun just watching them together. My cousin (once removed!) looked absolutely stunning and her mama did, too. It's been a while since I attended a wedding. At my age, everyone is already married and in some cases, long divorced. Traditions have changed a bit. Instead of rice, the guests waved colorful fiber optic wands at the departing couple. </p><p>The next day, the kid and I decided to walk out on the jetty that was located directly across from our hotel room. We climbed on the rocks and took a few photos. After a quick stop in a gift shop, we headed to Conroe. We'd made arrangements to visit my daughter's birthmom and family. (Conroe was a convenient mid-way point.) This was the other important reason for this trip. My daughter hadn't seen her birthmom in quite a few years. </p><p>We met the whole crew for lunch first (A's birthmom, her husband, and their three boys). My kiddo keeps in touch with the two older boys through social media. We had a nice lunch at a Mexican restaurant. I'd brought a gift for J (a framed photo of A) and she'd brought a gift for A. Her husband insisted on paying for lunch. He's a super nice guy (and no, he is not A's birthfather). He thanked me for bringing my daughter for the visit. In fact, he thanked me twice. I knew it meant a lot to his wife to see the child she'd birthed nearly 16 years ago. </p><p>After lunch, we decided to head to a nearby park since it was a nice day. I'm not used to being at a park in December! I sat at a picnic table in a park shelter while the six of them hung out on the playground. I sat by myself for a few reasons. One, I needed to get caught up on some emails and to balance my bank account. Two, that visit wasn't about me and I didn't need to be in the middle of it. I know some may want to pat me on the back for arranging such a visit but honestly, I have no reason not to. My daughter's birthmom is a wonderful person (who has never asked me for anything) and it's truly the least I can do for her. Back in 2005, I signed a communication agreement indicating that I would honor the open adoption. That document was not legally-binding, but my word is always good. Over the years, I've sent photos, updates on big events in my daughter's life, etc. The way I see it, the more people who love my child, the better her life is. She and I are tightly bonded and always will be. Her spending time with her birth family does nothing to diminish that. In fact, I'm glad she has contact with her biological half-siblings since she's an only child in our home.</p><p>After leaving the park, we finished our visit with a trip to an ice cream shop. I was glad for the kids to have a few extra minutes together before we needed to head back to Houston. Our flight was leaving the next morning. </p><p>After a very glamorous dinner at Denny's (the closest thing we could find near our hotel), we spent the rest of the evening packing and getting ready to fly out the next morning. Our trip home was pretty uneventful. We connected through Orlando and briefly entertained the idea of fleeing the airport and spending 15 minutes at Disney before catching our final flight. </p><p>My cousin and I have vowed to get together again soon. I have lots of other relatives in Texas but it just wasn't safe to visit during this strange time. I have an elderly aunt who'd just spent three weeks in the hospital after a fall. I wasn't able to visit her, but I'd like to fly back in a year or two and expand my visit to more people. </p><p>I know many people will frown on this whole trip. COVID weddings aren't easy. Everyone did their best to stay safe. The guest list was cut way down in order to accommodate social distancing. Between attending the wedding and setting up the visit for my daughter . . . the trip may not have felt like exactly the right thing to do during such a weird time, but it didn't feel bad or wrong either. </p><p>Here are a few photos from the trip!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxHZdpE0ioJai5_gCizysQt9GmECSZ6D19X51DknEcS67kQAu3j9ANLz5FhcnlwOUKkPIn0eNjy5LcfwajZU5pzSNjQf1hBPFqLgkxnrgpJed6Mj3JIT2ltQ14S0BxBIFjaN467mJoikP/s1009/IMG_2299.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxHZdpE0ioJai5_gCizysQt9GmECSZ6D19X51DknEcS67kQAu3j9ANLz5FhcnlwOUKkPIn0eNjy5LcfwajZU5pzSNjQf1hBPFqLgkxnrgpJed6Mj3JIT2ltQ14S0BxBIFjaN467mJoikP/w300-h400/IMG_2299.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At the airport in Denver. She didn't want me to take this photo because there were some cute boys walking by.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio0DrvjpwvPxoHxFdUew_llM6yJcxso8K8KzDBs0kqsixRkwivVS5LI9-Nt4dqU9B3oMk_rrbEzw9iPsTLDn2uMHLRoRUbgQQorADY6joruk9XJ97awoiPiLsvOrZWxsXu9NIo1E_D_k2I/s1009/IMG_2301.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio0DrvjpwvPxoHxFdUew_llM6yJcxso8K8KzDBs0kqsixRkwivVS5LI9-Nt4dqU9B3oMk_rrbEzw9iPsTLDn2uMHLRoRUbgQQorADY6joruk9XJ97awoiPiLsvOrZWxsXu9NIo1E_D_k2I/w300-h400/IMG_2301.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At the rehearsal dinner. Why does she look so grown up???</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Bi4OxlV9Bs-NzEwOHEwoamTMRmeFI_uuUFk9fPVZ41Y9-dtWGKGUJkM7trlbyPjsX8EoPyg2Xs6NcVLzrx5LApgI0Ux9D6fSxl38DI1Zj0FSZN_Uka7fJvxMzBN4NNdGuY4QX5S00bfc/s1009/IMG_2302.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Bi4OxlV9Bs-NzEwOHEwoamTMRmeFI_uuUFk9fPVZ41Y9-dtWGKGUJkM7trlbyPjsX8EoPyg2Xs6NcVLzrx5LApgI0Ux9D6fSxl38DI1Zj0FSZN_Uka7fJvxMzBN4NNdGuY4QX5S00bfc/w300-h400/IMG_2302.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>View from our balcony in Galveston.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbyHmnL8YASegyBYHSfVU_cMMMVrW-XOA3DpPGEE8ehWxMPHkeG1dYw7UG6I9miX26A4fxCuNo7fi01YjvBgy2-0kHFg1TnsV302a-k9RnkLbdZRMIUTFaOEBNPCGZvSyN2jnG38vBSve/s1009/IMG_2311.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbyHmnL8YASegyBYHSfVU_cMMMVrW-XOA3DpPGEE8ehWxMPHkeG1dYw7UG6I9miX26A4fxCuNo7fi01YjvBgy2-0kHFg1TnsV302a-k9RnkLbdZRMIUTFaOEBNPCGZvSyN2jnG38vBSve/w300-h400/IMG_2311.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At the Pleasure Pier.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuft4XHt_scvpgqbKT3PS7MmgWs7GAK2HK-7r2QKENKMvLMHVN6Td87OtT_NaoO2_2AWk0Ow5ZIHl7yqq30MXO0rzm8sf3mjYBYpLxDpNgZr3VE2Q2kv3RrVjIfe_V5LR_WcnJfUgu9eO/s1345/IMG_2319.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1345" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuft4XHt_scvpgqbKT3PS7MmgWs7GAK2HK-7r2QKENKMvLMHVN6Td87OtT_NaoO2_2AWk0Ow5ZIHl7yqq30MXO0rzm8sf3mjYBYpLxDpNgZr3VE2Q2kv3RrVjIfe_V5LR_WcnJfUgu9eO/w400-h300/IMG_2319.jpg" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Look at these two! My sister and brother-in-law.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_67b8uyl5HATPKeoxq_vUbgzW-h-6cTzsjabOmvqW24uekkjnpKfa7DyNJyy6rAD3ep9ct8xcyO0ZD7-GVnI_s6nGK2VTtt78qIdPHDWGh5Jf0AWJl3GzpVjZG4zFS-98R7Xoshz-cfga/s1345/IMG_2322.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1345" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_67b8uyl5HATPKeoxq_vUbgzW-h-6cTzsjabOmvqW24uekkjnpKfa7DyNJyy6rAD3ep9ct8xcyO0ZD7-GVnI_s6nGK2VTtt78qIdPHDWGh5Jf0AWJl3GzpVjZG4zFS-98R7Xoshz-cfga/w400-h300/IMG_2322.jpg" width="400" /></i></a></div><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjyhZ-9aJcHXi21X7IV-8Kr0kemIqgvmtIwMs1Wasun6650R2FRNuy50IblDpC4iO6nU2zuofHIo_iRxqreZLyyMf-Hjfd7eOKefvpZzuWbfjPdyMf2JxVbe19fR-N3FxKCULemqoGYYR9/s1009/IMG_2326.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjyhZ-9aJcHXi21X7IV-8Kr0kemIqgvmtIwMs1Wasun6650R2FRNuy50IblDpC4iO6nU2zuofHIo_iRxqreZLyyMf-Hjfd7eOKefvpZzuWbfjPdyMf2JxVbe19fR-N3FxKCULemqoGYYR9/w300-h400/IMG_2326.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></div><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nGmM9OVj15NxPeTQIB7sjKvLhtHaJfBgj487P4pjjKhvgtD7Rksw1nxXT-LfDi_JfYJSYC_ungD-_2MDala7VIW48ZI_ezdhSZDYc8XMGZkU3zBfOnQ1ocK6bGsIAxHlTWwp-1UvXjkB/s1009/IMG_2335.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nGmM9OVj15NxPeTQIB7sjKvLhtHaJfBgj487P4pjjKhvgtD7Rksw1nxXT-LfDi_JfYJSYC_ungD-_2MDala7VIW48ZI_ezdhSZDYc8XMGZkU3zBfOnQ1ocK6bGsIAxHlTWwp-1UvXjkB/w300-h400/IMG_2335.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yes, Virginia, you can dance with a mask on. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMA8gJL_kITeJqcJHUQw2AOWpu9i4JKEgx9etjOEkswLsUJXElBF7JgfjNLsX1sbeOwJGZV7lIAkbhoGtTtGwEpuzfPMNy6CIAyMsDm42eguvFveGHC77p8fFkd-oCCXn9SMTHUUYVjni/s1009/IMG_2339.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMA8gJL_kITeJqcJHUQw2AOWpu9i4JKEgx9etjOEkswLsUJXElBF7JgfjNLsX1sbeOwJGZV7lIAkbhoGtTtGwEpuzfPMNy6CIAyMsDm42eguvFveGHC77p8fFkd-oCCXn9SMTHUUYVjni/w300-h400/IMG_2339.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I can't get over this girl. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbaB1jBa9-19cPmn7Y-ce8aeQ7ISFEVhScxpwS-lWQVan66VDMzF4oF6U0_hQsGpmCjgSSn9zsYwXkixaLnSk3zh-ulfzodJAtQZSD-itCdbszbguAnz2i7_ACFxNpbIq4sRfzcQdIPVi/s1009/IMG_2348.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbaB1jBa9-19cPmn7Y-ce8aeQ7ISFEVhScxpwS-lWQVan66VDMzF4oF6U0_hQsGpmCjgSSn9zsYwXkixaLnSk3zh-ulfzodJAtQZSD-itCdbszbguAnz2i7_ACFxNpbIq4sRfzcQdIPVi/w300-h400/IMG_2348.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Caught the bouquet!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-sfb6oYuWXbJkW0vWxtcRGwCjTE4b4AZ2B87v7SuWHuIpix1nGl0SPAwn2HG1fPXpb_k25TZ4_3VCJ3PYGIdEBrseUPSfy16Q7ewuXqb-UM_uWkfcvbblLmouZKAjk9FOQaKK91j0LADx/s1345/IMG_2354.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1345" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-sfb6oYuWXbJkW0vWxtcRGwCjTE4b4AZ2B87v7SuWHuIpix1nGl0SPAwn2HG1fPXpb_k25TZ4_3VCJ3PYGIdEBrseUPSfy16Q7ewuXqb-UM_uWkfcvbblLmouZKAjk9FOQaKK91j0LADx/w400-h300/IMG_2354.jpg" width="400" /></i></a></div><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3-Fshu7gpZb14arkjG1WosO5ZjgCMr3YCe15EPO_h6SJ07f9JF0zEhyzZUH_fBiXtKKxgiig58NY2tXQz93c4s_imbwbnWaJxsSMXPREFb7LWEqcGnPfz1rtlcItk0jxsMmNgxB1SktW/s1345/IMG_2363.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1345" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3-Fshu7gpZb14arkjG1WosO5ZjgCMr3YCe15EPO_h6SJ07f9JF0zEhyzZUH_fBiXtKKxgiig58NY2tXQz93c4s_imbwbnWaJxsSMXPREFb7LWEqcGnPfz1rtlcItk0jxsMmNgxB1SktW/w400-h300/IMG_2363.jpg" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Visit with A's birthfamily. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixMK1aeyjLvOtcyby16GiF49orniMgcT7clcO5qiBeMWnDnAC1DmTOKaqFSITmMsDv6kqCfXwQT2UYEZJ_2AlKOVMpL_mVGB0D3s7ebNj5Zk6qEnlngO2GwoSciEobDRy_-RrDDaTCHpe/s1009/IMG_2365.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="757" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixMK1aeyjLvOtcyby16GiF49orniMgcT7clcO5qiBeMWnDnAC1DmTOKaqFSITmMsDv6kqCfXwQT2UYEZJ_2AlKOVMpL_mVGB0D3s7ebNj5Zk6qEnlngO2GwoSciEobDRy_-RrDDaTCHpe/w300-h400/IMG_2365.jpg" width="300" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A and her birthmom. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><p><br /></p>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-80582476577840439322020-11-08T11:09:00.010-06:002020-11-08T11:39:33.824-06:00Digesting Some Thoughts on the Election<p>I got the news as I was out shopping for birthday gifts for my niece. I had just pulled into a Mobil station to get gas and a Wild Cherry Pepsi. My phone dinged with a new email. It was from Rolling Stone magazine. "Joe Biden is the President-Elect" read the headline. Immediately, I felt like a weight (a racist/homophobic/transphobic/ableist/xenophobic/misogynistic/climate change-denying weight) had been lifted from my shoulders. I finished filling my tank and headed inside to grab my Pepsi. I don't drink coffee but I was in need of some caffeine. There was no one inside except the clerk. Suddenly, I became Mrs. Extrovert. "How are you?!" I asked. Then, when I was checking out: "I love your nail polish!" </p><p>Back in my car, a scene from Toy Story 2 popped into my head. Remember the flight attendant Barbie in the post-credits scene? I posted a meme of Barbie saying "Buh Bye Now" on Facebook with no caption. On my way to my next stop, I called my husband. "Biden won!" I exclaimed. "Now maybe my hair will grow back!"</p><p>My husband already knew about the election results. He'd heard the news in the weirdest way possible: in a chat on one of the dumb games he plays with strangers. Then I called my mom. She didn't even say hello when she answered. All I heard was, "WOOHOOOOOOO!"</p><p>By now you might have guessed that I voted for Biden. Was he my first choice? No, I really wanted Elizabeth Warren in the White House. She's super smart and does not hesitate to call out injustice. If you've ever seen her grill someone during a Senate hearing, you know what I mean. My main concern about Joe Biden is simply his age. I need him to be at least 10 years younger and maybe more like 20. But, he's the guy and I'll take what I can get. I have faith and trust that he will surround himself with experts (across many fields) and, most importantly, <i>listen to them</i>. We badly need a leader who can address COVID in a solid way and not just assure us that it'll go away like magic. </p><p>I know my conservative friends are, of course, unhappy with the election results. I see the term "socialism" being thrown around a lot. I don't think that's likely to come to pass but I also don't want to disregard another person's concerns. I know Trump appealed to many because he's not a politician. People were tired of seeing the same ol' career politicians in the White House, and I get that. I've also heard concerns over abortion and religious freedom. </p><p>Years ago, SNL aired a series of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rq-Q6IaN5QQ" target="_blank">skits</a> that depicted a panel of Black people who were asked about Obama's performance. The premise was: is there anything Obama can do to lose your support? The host listed several outlandish scenarios like "what if Obama repealed healthcare?" Maya Rudolph responded: "I'd just wear a warmer coat." </p><p>I feel like some of Trump's supporters have a similar level of loyalty that I can't pretend to understand fully. For four years, I waited for a Trump voter to disavow their decision. I wanted someone, anyone, to say, "I voted for him, but I honestly didn't realize it would be like this." Earlier this year, it finally happened. One of my Facebook friends expressed regret for having voted for him. She was uncomfortable with his rhetoric. "He lies," she said simply. </p><p>A high school classmate of mine wrote <a href="https://kindnessliveson.com/kindness-politics-and-leaving-the-gop/" target="_blank">an amazing essay</a> a few months ago. I've shared it widely. Corey, a lifelong Republican, shared his profound dismay over Trump's version of the party. I particularly liked how Corey laid out the reasons why the Republican party had appealed to him in the first place. He believes in a smaller government, with more power/responsibility being shifted to the states. He believes the government should be fiscally conservative. Highlighting differences between the two major parties, he cautions Democrats not to believe they have a moral high ground, which I also took to heart. This year, Corey switched his affiliation to Independent. I'd like to think that most of my Republican friends are like Corey - primarily concerned with government overreach and Constitutional rights. I can't bring myself to think that anyone I know voted for Trump because they support him as a person (let's not forget how he mocked a disabled reporter). He was their only choice. </p><p>On the rare occasion that I dislike a fellow human, I always remind myself that that person was someone's baby once. For Trump, that was the best I could do as far as finding some humanity there. He was someone's baby once. I agree with exactly one thing Trump did while in office, which was to make animal cruelty a felony. I will also give him props for being present. I'm sure he golfed as much as any president but he also struck me as a hard worker in some sense. </p><p>And that's where it ends. Listen, I'm 50 years old and have lived under Republican rule more years than not in my lifetime. I didn't particularly care for either Bush but I also didn't worry about their mental stability. Trump's disjointed speeches have, quite frankly, terrified me. Under Trump, I've also watched my LGBTQ friends and family grow sick with worry over all of the legislation that's been passed with the overt intent to make their lives miserable. I've watched environmental protections get rolled back. The last four years have felt like zero steps forward, incalculable steps back. </p><p>Since I talked about Corey's beliefs, perhaps I should list a few reasons why I've been a lifelong Democrat. I was raised by a highly liberal mother, so I'm sure her general outlook colored my perspective from my early days. When I got home from shopping yesterday, my daughter was still sleeping. It was past lunchtime, but I digress. I crept through her door and watched her eyes slowly flutter open. "Biden won!" I exclaimed. </p><p>Her sleepy brain started to spring to life. "Really?" she asked, a smile spreading across her face as she struggled to sit up. I walked over to her bed and gave her a hug. She hugged me so hard you'd have thought she had been elected president. While I'm sure her generation will still have the conservative/liberal split, I suspect it will not be cut right down the middle as with prior generations. From what I've seen, the kids of Gen Z don't spend any time wringing their hands over whether or not the LGBTQ community has a right to exist or not. They aren't caught up on race quite so much. I think they will do great things (and I'm counting on them to, you know, save the planet). </p><p>Like my mother and daughter, I believe in across-the-board equality. While I'm not chomping at the bit to have my hard-earned money siphoned off and redistributed in ways that are out of my control, I'm also okay with having a little bit less if it means that someone else has what they need simply to live. I'm fine with taxes being increased for the super wealthy. I believe that healthcare is a right and not a privilege. I believe that Black Lives Matter. I believe that our immigration policies need an overhaul (badly) but that we must always remember that we are citizens of the world and not just the United States. I don't support the death penalty. I believe that love is love. I don't believe we should tie ourselves to documents that were written during a time when life was so vastly different as to be unrecognizable to modern Americans. I think it should be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy to vote. If the government trusted me to fill out the Census online, the same should work for voting. I believe the planet is in peril and that the window for saving it is closing fast. This I believe.</p><p>Perhaps I'm naive, but I'm hoping that Biden's election will nudge us back towards some sense of civility. I love the story of the friendship between Michelle Obama and George Bush. Seatmates at many state events, he even passed her a piece of candy at a funeral. Wouldn't it be nice to see more of that? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0iI05xbmprawiB_uj9apvnStjDDTp425tUI5DGGZbnDNE35ecMdYvKrhTgf3yTpu8Inyg4MwV0ck129oJ6gG8q005x0aDEOTET8tVSAl9SEEe99xRKvo6gR033ruarg_7N-yODBZXwFO/s2400/michelle-obama-george-bush-friendship-today-main-191210_0d9cf077fc99e98430c12ff786f513fe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="2400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0iI05xbmprawiB_uj9apvnStjDDTp425tUI5DGGZbnDNE35ecMdYvKrhTgf3yTpu8Inyg4MwV0ck129oJ6gG8q005x0aDEOTET8tVSAl9SEEe99xRKvo6gR033ruarg_7N-yODBZXwFO/w400-h200/michelle-obama-george-bush-friendship-today-main-191210_0d9cf077fc99e98430c12ff786f513fe.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-50358405446945718632020-10-31T16:27:00.023-05:002020-11-01T06:09:46.370-06:00My visit to the Twilight Zone - er, Oklahoma<p>Now that I've laid bare my angst over remote learning, let's chat about my wacky trip to Oklahoma. Is it a weird time to travel? Yes. Did I go anyway? Also yes. My youngest sister and her family already had COVID so visiting them didn't feel super risky (to either party). I was also visiting my mom and stad, which was certainly scarier. They confirmed that they definitely wanted me to come, with my mom saying, "Well, you gotta drop dead sometime." I think we've all developed this sort of gallows humor now. </p><p>I boarded a flight at the crack of dawn on October 21st, "enjoyed" an extended layover in Denver, and then arrived in Oklahoma City by mid-afternoon. My flights were fine (it's nice that Southwest is keeping middle seats open at the moment), though I definitely developed a new appreciation for people who have to wear a mask all day at jobs and such. When I landed in OK, it was roughly forty degrees warmer than the weather I'd left that morning. I'd dressed in layers so that I could start disrobing upon my arrival. My parents had booked a hotel room for me (I needed to work while I was there, so having reliable wifi was a must) so I checked in and then promptly jumped into my rental car to head 40 minutes west. I wanted to get to my sister's house because it was my nephew's 12th birthday. When I arrived, his older brother was the only one home. The dogs lost their minds once they saw a car (and! OMG! a person!) they didn't recognize. </p><p>My nephew let me in and then told me about all the theories he'd instantly developed about a car pulling up to their very rural homestead. "I thought maybe someone was coming to steal my dad's truck!" he said. A few minutes later: "Or maybe a meth addict trying to figure out how to get in!" They live on a road with no name and no neighbors anywhere close but sure, meth addicts probably wander by quite a bit. You know, casing the joint. Plus, who doesn't want to rob a house with seven large dogs in it? </p><p>Soon, my sister arrived with my other nephews and before long, my brother-in-law was on the scene, too. We had dinner (my sister is a great cook) and chocolate cake. I left right after nightfall to stop at my parents' house for a quick visit. Those rural roads are something else after dark, let me tell you. No street lights for miles and miles. On the way back to my hotel, I grabbed a few groceries (my room had a microwave and refrigerator) and then settled in for the night. </p><p>The next few days were great. I got some work done and spent lots of time with family. I spent an afternoon with my mom, scanning old photos. With COVID still so prevalent, I didn't "do" a lot on my trip except to hang out in various locations. I enjoyed spending a lot of time with my nephews. My sister made some great vegan meals and even made a second birthday cake after the boys scarfed down the first one within hours. </p><p>After three days in the first hotel, I moved to a small motel in Cordell for the weekend. This put me 15-20 minutes away from my sister instead of 40. I knew what I was getting with this place. It's very old, and the vibe is somewhere between "nostalgic" and "ew, this carpet." The bathroom featured pink and green tile and you sort of had to sit under the sink to use the toilet. #quaint </p><p>The middle nephew (the one who'd just celebrated a birthday) stayed with me Saturday night. I'd booked a double because I figured one of the boys would want to get away from his brothers for a minute. I warned him that I have to take my wig off at night and that it would be on a wig stand in the bathroom. That didn't stop him from promptly forgetting and then scaring the shit out of himself when he walked into the bathroom right before bedtime. </p><p>On Sunday, my last night in OK, the eight of us met at a Mexican restaurant in Clinton for one final hurrah. After that, I headed back to my motel room to prepare for my trip back to Oklahoma City the next morning. Early Monday, my sister sent me a text warning me that the roads were icy and school had been canceled. I hadn't looked outside, so I appreciated the warning. I had a 90-minute drive to the airport so I made sure to get moving a little faster. </p><p>My rental car was fully encased in ice. No scraper. I ran the defrost at full blast and tried to figure out how to get the ice off. The rental office was closed until 10 so that was a no-go. Out of desperation I scraped the windows with my daughter's library card because God knows she does not use it. One of the owners must have noticed my predicament; he came out and handed me a scraper. Soon, I was on my way to the airport at a slow and steady pace. </p><p>I was about a mile from the airport when my phone dinged with a new text. It was Southwest Airlines letting me know that my flight had been canceled. I had been re-booked on a flight for Tuesday. I pulled over into an empty lot. "Okay, I can handle this," I thought. I called Budget and extended my car for another day (to the tune of $60). My brother-in-law was kind enough to use some of his Hilton points to book me at a Double Tree hotel near the airport. No sooner had these new plans been made when another text came through from Southwest. Tuesday's flight had also been canceled. Son of a biscuit! I had been re-booked for Wednesday.</p><p>Here's where the trip goes downhill a bit. Since I now had time to kill and couldn't check into my hotel, I took myself out to lunch at a great place called <a href="https://www.theredcupokc.com/frontmenu" target="_blank">The Red Cup</a>. Then I drove to an Old Navy to grab some leggings and a jersey dress. I had a few unworn clothing items in my suitcase but they were for warmer weather, which was now long gone. I checked into the hotel room that had been booked for me. It was very nice! I started hatching a plan to get home sooner than later. Just then, the power went out. And stayed out. I decided to cancel the Wednesday flight and book a flight out of St. Louis on Tuesday afternoon. Was I crazy? I'd have to drive 7.5 hours. Next, I called Budget to see if I could return my rental car at STL instead of OKC. The chick puts me on hold for a moment and then came back to inform me that I would need to pay over $600 to return the car to a different city. This exorbitant rate included a "one-way penalty" because you know, they can't have rental cars MOVING ALL OVER THE COUNTRY. "No thanks!" I said. </p><p>I then used the Priceline app on my phone to book a rental car with Alamo. It was $140, which was nearly $500 less than Budget's nonsense. I drove over to the airport and returned the car to Budget. Then, I walked over to Alamo and picked up a white Nissan to replace the white Hyundai I'd been driving. I felt like I was stuck in a bad sitcom. </p><p>Before heading back to my hotel, I stopped at a Del Taco to grab some dinner. I'd heard of Del Taco but had never eaten at one. The drive-through menu display was covered in ice so I couldn't see it. However, I'd looked online and knew they had an Impossible (plant-based) burrito on the menu. So, I ordered that and took it back to my hotel to eat it. You'll be shocked to hear that the burrito had none of the Impossible "meat" on it. It was just beans, tomato, and lettuce. And I'd been charged roughly $8.00 for it. If not for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. </p><p>Meanwhile, the sun had set and various forms of precipitation continued to fall. I decided to say in my hotel room and get everything set up to leave in the wee hours. I tell you, my phone's flashlight has never had such a work-out. I set my alarm for 2:45 a.m. and climbed into bed at around 8. My bestie called me and we chatted for a while. I couldn't watch TV or read a book so I figured I may as well sleep. Since the heat was out, the temperature in my room was dropping. Fortunately, I'd brought a hoodie and slept with that over my pajamas. My alarm screamed to life at 2:45 (the alarm sound is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3yRgXFRm84I" target="_blank">Crackity Jones by the Pixies</a> and if that won't get you moving, I don't know what will). I fired up my flashlight again and got my act together (well, as well as I could, anyway). I brushed my teeth in the dark and didn't really attempt any make-up. </p><p>Here's the scary part. I'd half-expected the lights to come on in the middle of the night or something like that. They had not. I opened the door to my room and headed into a dark hallway. I mean to tell you it was pitch black. Even the exit signs had given up and had gone dark. The elevator was not an option, of course. So, I found my way to the stairwell and clunked down the stairs with my suitcase in tow. I am not one to get spooked easily but being in a strange place, alone, with no lights? It was a little frightening. I found my way to the front desk to check out. They had some emergency lights running. I handed over the key card. The front desk person pulled it up on her computer (not sure how that was working). "Thank you for being a Diamond member," she said to me. Then she handed me a breakfast-to-go box that I wouldn't be able to eat and I left. I kinda thought there might be some kind of "sorry you slept in a cold, dark room" but she was fully committed to the "business as usual" thing. </p><p>Once again, my rental car was encased in solid ice. And once again there was no scraper. The library card was pressed into hard labor once more time. It took a while to get the car into a condition that felt safe to drive, so it was close to 4 a.m. by the time I pulled out into the still-dark street. I realize that it may seem like this was a foolhardy (and maybe even dangerous) endeavor but I knew that if I could just get out of Oklahoma City, the ice would give way to rain and that it shouldn't be too bad. I drove verrrry carefully and before too long I was closing in on Tulsa. By then, the roads were no longer icy and the drive felt less harrowing. I was able to drive the speed limit and made my way through Oklahoma and then Missouri. I regretted that I didn't have time to stop at any of the tourist traps. I passed a festive spot called Uranus, which is apparently known for its fudge (the billboards say things like "The best fudge comes from Uranus!"). As I was driving northeast on highway 44, I saw a terrible back-up on the westbound lanes. There was a car-be-que complete with smoke billowing into the sky. I hope no one was injured. I felt bad for those folks but also fortunate that it wasn't on my side of the highway. I realized it wouldn't take much to keep me from boarding that flight. </p><p>I made it to the airport with about an hour to spare. I had only stopped once during the long drive; I was starvin' marvin. I grabbed a bite to eat before boarding my flight. The flight went smoothly (had the row to myself) and landed safely at my local airport about an hour later. I was home by dinnertime. </p><p>Was I crazy to drive from OKC to STL? It seemed like a wacky idea at the time, but honestly, I'm very glad I took the chance. I am on a couple of prescriptions and had not brought extras. I was out of clothes, underwear, etc. Sure, I could have stayed at my hotel but I wouldn't have been able to work (or do anything, really). The bad weather story continued for the Okies. My sister lost power on Monday and didn't get it back until Friday. It all seems a little surreal but all's well that ends well. </p><p>One of my favorite clients called me yesterday to ask about the trip. "Oh, C!" she said. "I told you not to go!" I don't remember her telling me that but there is something in my DNA that prevents me from NOT doing something once I've said I'll do it (even if that something is dangerous, ill-advised, whatever). Seeing my people, even during these scary times? Priceless.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQJJzB_02i7Yi7HPT5_G8C-JNgK3zM6C8GKE3rMQK-R9cbm7pKBAXTwqKckeifjPXwQTZxEIEznUXTqEDJElSHZGylyeuh6XZ1PZzuPdnYGpnFIv8e7xeeGvIPgKEyrg4u4XgT8Hngcmk/s960/122217431_10157958888303370_673524439385242086_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQJJzB_02i7Yi7HPT5_G8C-JNgK3zM6C8GKE3rMQK-R9cbm7pKBAXTwqKckeifjPXwQTZxEIEznUXTqEDJElSHZGylyeuh6XZ1PZzuPdnYGpnFIv8e7xeeGvIPgKEyrg4u4XgT8Hngcmk/w400-h266/122217431_10157958888303370_673524439385242086_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my sissy (circa 1984). One of the old photos I scanned.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLfFgSsgJls8DhAQtbJw2rfiF_YGTYKTgTOnA9OdaDCLLyymu5G2-6OXUBdFVscpTeCDoQRxA6cYv4C9bkfhsuchbzwNFvDgGgnuDH5b3fe7Qvu7P7t9Pai0ET5A4Iz0sCyAefjVKvilM/s4032/IMG_2050.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLfFgSsgJls8DhAQtbJw2rfiF_YGTYKTgTOnA9OdaDCLLyymu5G2-6OXUBdFVscpTeCDoQRxA6cYv4C9bkfhsuchbzwNFvDgGgnuDH5b3fe7Qvu7P7t9Pai0ET5A4Iz0sCyAefjVKvilM/w400-h300/IMG_2050.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And here we are in 2020.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWofkNIjUDG28Z-fSXY-GpTanUg4oaOTZL6k4rCVMJTjTn_hffFBzaBZWa7-m5wi7uZvVviMpm5g5ucfKhIM6fFkGY0PVvgNJyj89vyVrPFDsWMj8rF2Dk-v3zdt1FK0ycnWwi_1S6r_C7/s960/122551394_10157963958988370_231519778786770874_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWofkNIjUDG28Z-fSXY-GpTanUg4oaOTZL6k4rCVMJTjTn_hffFBzaBZWa7-m5wi7uZvVviMpm5g5ucfKhIM6fFkGY0PVvgNJyj89vyVrPFDsWMj8rF2Dk-v3zdt1FK0ycnWwi_1S6r_C7/w400-h300/122551394_10157963958988370_231519778786770874_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys.</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXx-KeXe-jToaD8lMpB8caBqfi3hPjM2q_0Cz2wtLeWVoRtkw7EjFcxGSeHGX2Z5EA9F0V5tbKml9oSUiyVxdObQUpa3gepQWTO1sJnkDp8yuFHcbLAFTk-dXf0u-FP1OFHjiuXcEnoca0/s960/122580612_10157963959283370_6685339681030249787_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXx-KeXe-jToaD8lMpB8caBqfi3hPjM2q_0Cz2wtLeWVoRtkw7EjFcxGSeHGX2Z5EA9F0V5tbKml9oSUiyVxdObQUpa3gepQWTO1sJnkDp8yuFHcbLAFTk-dXf0u-FP1OFHjiuXcEnoca0/w400-h300/122580612_10157963959283370_6685339681030249787_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The motel in Cordell is conveniently located in 1978.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzc5TspJ024DUBQqy11ViZlh4tWVjYRGpggu3bso96g0VqK3DM3SSgLW1QPhKT7UWL40ACdOd9wriU3m-p_iVrzFQRflrvcxMrb17PxCbM8s6jAYRBaPoA96U6Rz86d6pWnhnb-8yaq9gT/s960/122626363_10157963959343370_2151057135285980081_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzc5TspJ024DUBQqy11ViZlh4tWVjYRGpggu3bso96g0VqK3DM3SSgLW1QPhKT7UWL40ACdOd9wriU3m-p_iVrzFQRflrvcxMrb17PxCbM8s6jAYRBaPoA96U6Rz86d6pWnhnb-8yaq9gT/w400-h300/122626363_10157963959343370_2151057135285980081_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One nephew plus my parents.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkoQqBni1I4x4gwT8HUvVhhlLOC4mVOtn2yzFp4MPeddS3CvZ0pAzM5BkZqgMBqDzu2RXbw_wgcyx2xVAmGfFUX0Q9iUTkGJ5xrJW_7lqv3VIJobSXLsRZa_13RMHMhSxiGnKU1JSsdjH/s960/122503062_10157963958353370_7272625850561408317_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkoQqBni1I4x4gwT8HUvVhhlLOC4mVOtn2yzFp4MPeddS3CvZ0pAzM5BkZqgMBqDzu2RXbw_wgcyx2xVAmGfFUX0Q9iUTkGJ5xrJW_7lqv3VIJobSXLsRZa_13RMHMhSxiGnKU1JSsdjH/w400-h300/122503062_10157963958353370_7272625850561408317_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The birthday boy. Is that . . . a halo???<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-19288357539207075412020-10-29T19:00:00.004-05:002020-10-29T19:11:28.440-05:00I have been one acquainted with the night<p>I slept on the couch last night. I wasn't mad at my husband. It wasn't because he snores (he does, but so do I). More and more, I find myself up at night. I go to bed at a reasonable time, and fall asleep fairly easily thanks to Tylenol PM, but then my eyes pop open in the wee hours and my brain says, "Game on." Last night it reminded me about an email I'd received earlier in the day. My daughter's social studies teacher sent me a missive to let me know that my child is failing the class. As if . . . as if I didn't know. I know he's just doing his job, but still, it stung. I responded and let him know that alas, I'm well aware. I check the parent portal a few times a day. It's all there in stark terms. </p><p>Sometime after midnight, I started dwelling on that email and spiraled from there. Keep in mind that I get up at around 5 a.m. so anything after 11:00 seems late in my world. I didn't want to keep my husband up with my tossing and turning, so I took up residence on the couch. My cat thought about keeping me company but then attacked my hand when I somehow rubbed his fluffy belly incorrectly. I thought about my daughter's future, which feels very much in jeopardy now as a direct result of remote learning. I thought about dashed dreams, opportunities lost, and about how I wish I could go back just to being her mom and not the person who says, "DO YOUR HOMEWORK!" a thousand times a day. </p><p>Last week, I was in Oklahoma, visiting family members. We stopped to get a bite to eat at a Qdoba. A bunch of boys from the local high school walked through, wearing their football jerseys. It was sort of jarring to see students enjoying a "normal" high school experience while my kid is at home, falling deeper into a hole filled with incomplete homework assignments and utter frustration. And yes, I know that COVID is devastating and that we are fortunate compared to what so many families have suffered. I just wish I knew how to cope with this better. Which part? All of it, I guess. </p><p>I have suffered from anxiety for decades now, but 2020 seems to have sent me into a freefall. The new me plays Words with Friends at 2 a.m. in hopes of falling back to sleep. The new me is also <i>that </i>mom. The one who emails the district superintendent directly (he replied - super nice guy). I've also contacted my daughter's guidance counselor countless times. She's a very patient woman. </p><p>To be clear, I know that this is no fun for teachers either. I haven't talked to a single teacher who doesn't want to be in the classroom, working one on one with students. Everyone is doing their absolute best. My beef is with the whole system. It's not working. That's why I've reached out to every teacher, the guidance counselor, the principal, and the district superintendent. No one can accuse me of being an uninvolved parent, that's for sure. Honestly, I would pull my daughter out of school altogether (and do what, I don't know) but that would also pull her out of the two classes she likes (advanced concert choir and ASL) and restrict her from doing show choir, which she also loves. </p><p>Let me set the stage for you. First hour starts at 7:30. From there, she logs in and out of classes all day long. She doesn't get to see her friends between classes or at lunch or after school. For the kids doing distance learning in the age of COVID, it's all work and no play. In addition to being online all day, she has assignments, quizzes, and tests. There is an after-school resource center (a number she can call) but that's more for comprehension. Her issue is not comprehension but rather the volume of work. She tends to do well on tests, and I must confess that does lead me to wonder about the need for quite so many assignments. Despite being at her desk all day and doing as well as her ADHD brain will allow, she is failing her core classes. Before COVID, she was college-bound and had a respectable GPA (3.37). Now I'm not even convinced that she'll graduate with her class. Could she work harder? Sure. Is there a better way for distance learning to be done? I feel certain that there must be. The responses I've received from the principal and district superintendent indicated that they are evaluating elements like screen time, etc. </p><p>I am not an educator and don't have a lot of answers here. All I know is that my extroverted daughter, the one who always participated in class, is being crushed under the weight of remote learning. Hats off to my friends who were already doing homeschooling. I know it works great for so many kids . . . just not mine, I guess. (And yes, I've tried putting a positive spin on this "unique experience" but my kid is miserable regardless.) I also want to state clearly that I'm not asking for special consideration for my child (though I have pondered the merits of an IEP or 504 plan). I'm not asking for her to receive grades she hasn't earned. I'd love to see fewer assignments and a restructuring of screen time. This may be the year in which less ground gets covered as far as course material - and really, is that the worst thing? </p><p>Until something changes, you can find me on the couch in the middle of the night, fighting with my cat and trying to make words with four i's and three e's. </p><p>Since I "borrowed" Mr. Frost's words for my title, here are the rest of them: </p><div class="c-feature-hd" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 4px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><h1 class="c-hdgSans c-hdgSans_2 c-mix-hdgSans_inline" style="border: 0px; display: inline; font-family: canada-type-gibson; font-size: 1.75rem; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.231; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Acquainted with the Night</h1></div><div class="c-feature-sub c-feature-sub_vast" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 33px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution" face="canada-type-gibson" style="border: 0px; color: #494949; display: inline-block; font-size: 0.875rem; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: 1.4px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">BY <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/robert-frost" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: color 250ms cubic-bezier(0.215, 0.61, 0.355, 1) 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">ROBERT FROST</a></span></div></div><div class="c-feature-bd" style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 1.25rem; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3; margin: 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-poem isActive" data-view="PoemView" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have been one acquainted with the night.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have walked out in rain<span style="border: 0px; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">—</span>and back in rain.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have outwalked the furthest city light.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have looked down the saddest city lane.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have passed by the watchman on his beat<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">When far away an interrupted cry<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Came over houses from another street,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But not to call me back or say good-bye;<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And further still at an unearthly height,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">One luminary clock against the sky<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have been one acquainted with the night.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br style="background-color: white;" /></div></div></div><p> </p>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-80326813412724980022020-09-26T19:24:00.004-05:002020-09-27T14:22:24.520-05:00Sisters in Ink<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBntc1GNRvVqDetQD8AoeXmIFlmm2LcNjuidkwXKrEphs3CBwMhP0GsZCW1X2gsOnUTDYQIddpn0_raVYyDgWpJDrHmFdZWrGdAsdfd0gsA0RBhUawZLAv5s1whDXXmUx6Rn4OcBPbL_S/s1903/IMG-1824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1147" data-original-width="1903" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBntc1GNRvVqDetQD8AoeXmIFlmm2LcNjuidkwXKrEphs3CBwMhP0GsZCW1X2gsOnUTDYQIddpn0_raVYyDgWpJDrHmFdZWrGdAsdfd0gsA0RBhUawZLAv5s1whDXXmUx6Rn4OcBPbL_S/w400-h241/IMG-1824.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>For some time now, I've been toying with the idea of getting a tattoo in honor of my two sisters. Having sisters has always been one of the very best things about my life. I also got very lucky in that department because they are both kind, creative, funny, and smart. Beautiful, too! </p><p>I struggled to land on a design idea that fit my personal aesthetic. Finally, fish sprang to mind so I pursued that idea. I placed an ad on Fiverr and connected with a great artist who understood what I was trying to do. She was fabulous to work with. </p><p>Now, I know some of my friends and relatives will shine a frowny face in my direction, not because they disapprove of tattoos but rather because I got one during a pandemic. I can assure one and all that extremely strict protocols were followed and that it was no different than a doctor's appointment - in my mind, anyway. Getting my new tattoo was considerably less, um, invasive than my recent visit to my gynecologist. </p><p>So, here 'tis. The fishies are arranged in birth order. The colors represent our birthstones: amethyst, ruby, and topaz. I think it'll look amazing once it heals. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SCb2ylpC958aQcLkUIPLlbpJ35zT_CM1cCerpY3SgQNuOli14GfcrCbXxWM6SW-Zqylf5la3S25VskOtHa_1xLsJID0Eu3qwQw-3IeTJqeiPkDTaZeEBzGxRT9Od3QL04YHDlvmwup-o/s960/120025692_10157893141258370_4410454859461937362_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SCb2ylpC958aQcLkUIPLlbpJ35zT_CM1cCerpY3SgQNuOli14GfcrCbXxWM6SW-Zqylf5la3S25VskOtHa_1xLsJID0Eu3qwQw-3IeTJqeiPkDTaZeEBzGxRT9Od3QL04YHDlvmwup-o/w400-h300/120025692_10157893141258370_4410454859461937362_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-55857416566947316982020-09-13T16:41:00.036-05:002020-09-14T16:17:07.042-05:00Rx: Toes in sand, stat<p>I want to start this little blog post by saying how truly humbled I was by the support I received after my<a href="http://alabastermom.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-one-where-my-worst-fear-came-true.html" target="_blank"> last post</a>. I feel like my spirit has been buoyed by those around me, and I have been particularly grateful for my faith community. My friend Annette (a fellow Unitarian Universalist) sent me a wonderful letter in the mail (a real live letter!) She closed it by saying: "Just hold on to the love that all of us feel for you. We will hold you up until you are ready to stand on your own." Wow wow wow. </p><p>It's not easy to admit that your mental health has been in shambles, but I've felt nothing but support from friends and family alike. I'm feeling sturdier every day. </p><p>Gaston ("My, what a guy, that Gaston!") is around four months old now. He's an absolute lunatic who is determined to use up most of his nine lives before his first birthday. The little dude is fearless. He'll jump into a kitchen sink full of knives and then climb the nearest window screen. He makes us laugh multiple times per day. Gaston's a pistol but I have zero regrets about adopting him. I fell asleep on the couch a few days ago and woke to find him snoozing on top of me, his nose just inches from mine. We joke that he has two moods: love-dovey and bitey-bitey.</p><p>After agonizing over our summer plans, we did end up taking a trip to the eastern shore last month. We'd originally planned to go in July but my kiddo got sick so we postponed it. We hit the road in mid August (with a teenager in the back seat complaining bitterly about the length of the drive and blowing through cellular data like tree branches through a wood chipper). We were supposed to leave on Friday and arrive at the beach on Saturday. We altered our plans a bit at the last minute. My dad and stepmom, who live at the beach, had a (possible) COVID exposure so we needed to wait for them to get their test results back. My sister and I had a Groupon deal (a very expensive Groupon deal) for an oceanfront hotel in Ocean City, Maryland. We couldn't check in until Sunday, though (hence the need to kill an extra day before our arrival). Our little family decided to take a detour to Cleveland, spending an afternoon at the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame. I felt "okay" about it because they were limiting attendance and tickets had to be purchased ahead of time. The joint was not overly crowded and of course everyone was masked but I tell ya, people are so weird. There was plenty of room for everyone and yet, every time I stopped to read a display, a stranger had to read that very same information at the very same time. Wait 20 seconds until I'm done and have moved on? No can do, apparently. </p><p>While we were at the Rock Hall, I got word that my dad and stepmom had received negative test results. So technically we could have gone straight to the beach but I had already made a pre-paid hotel reservation in Baltimore's Inner Harbor for that evening. So, we headed there after leaving Cleveland. I thought it would be kind of fun to walk around the Inner Harbor a bit, but it was pouring rain. We pulled up to the hotel with the expectation of using the hotel's valet parking. Nope, they don't offer it anymore. We parked and were about to enter the hotel when a tall man stopped us. He was bleeding pretty heavily from his arm. He said he had a room at the hotel but didn't want to freak anyone out by walking into the hotel and dripping blood everywhere. He asked us to tell the front desk clerk that he was there. I'm not really sure what happened after that. </p><p>We checked in and loaded our suitcases into the elevator. We entered our room and found . . . a bed that had been slept in, as well as wet towels on the floor and carry-out containers on the nightstand. This has never happened to me before. I kinda thought hotels had this sort of thing down pat. We were soon re-assigned to a different room. Thaaanks, Baltimore. </p><p>The next day we drove to Ocean City, arriving at lunchtime. We visited my dad and stepmom for a while before checking into our hotel. We were at one end of the second floor and my sister and three of her four children were at the other end. My brother-in-law stayed home<strike> to get some peace and quiet </strike>to work. We had zero complaints about this hotel. Oceanfront view, comfortable beds, and no weirdness. We took the stairs as much as we possibly could because elevators are another thing that's gotten weird in the age of COVID. People will see that an elevator is already full and hop right in. <i>That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works. </i></p><p>I know the media outlets love to show an aerial view of U.S. beaches and tsk tsk tsk over the crowds. I agree that large crowds are problematic, but it's possible to go to the beach and not be shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. During our visit, we waited until around dinnertime each day to hit the beach; by that time most people had headed out and there was plenty of room to be had. </p><p>We enjoyed several days at the beach and got to celebrate my dad's birthday with him. My oldest niece happened to be staying in Rehoboth with her Penn State roommates that week, so she came down and joined us for the day. We ate at a restaurant on the bay side of Ocean City. The outdoor dining area is right on a little beach; my sister's two youngest kids had fun playing in the water while we waited for dinner to be served. </p><p>Before heading to my sister's place in Northern VA, we took a little trip to Assateague Island. We badly wanted to see the wild horses and scoured the island. We saw a handful of horses from a distance but that was about it. Then, just as we were leaving the island, one lone horse stood on the side of the road, munching some grass. We called him the Consolation Horse, thinking he was probably paid to be there so that tourists didn't feel short-changed when they left with no equine sightings.</p><p>The three of us stopped and visited my grandma in Arlington on our way to Centreville. I hesitated to visit but we decided to keep our masks on and keep the visit short. I had a gift for her so we stayed long enough to drop off the gift and chit-chat for a few minutes before leaving. If we had somehow passed the virus to my elderly grandmother, I would've been beside myself. Not many people my age have a grandma still around! Fortunately for me, my mom married a much younger man; his mom is the person I consider to be my grandma (a role she has fulfilled since I was in third grade). </p><p>The next few days were spent with my sister, my brother-in-law, and their kids (the oldest was back at Penn State). Mostly, we just hung out. The kids splashed around in a pool that had been set up in the driveway. We played games and enjoyed a cook-out. I spent a lot of time hanging out in the sun room, which my sister prefers to call The Solarium because it sounds fancier that way. Their yard is heavily wooded so at night I would just hang out and listen to the creatures calling to each other and the insects buzzing about. It was very relaxing. My daughter and I did take one field trip to Potomac Mills (outlet mall) because she was in need of some ugly shoes as well as jeans that come with holes already in them. </p><p>As we hit the road to head back home, we stopped at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/GloryDoughnuts/" target="_blank">Glory Doughnuts</a> in Frederick, Maryland. If you're ever in that neck of the woods, you must stop. So. Good. As Homer Simpson once said of doughnuts: "Is there anything they can't do?" No, no, there is not. </p><p>After another hotel stay on the way home, we arrived back at our humble abode on August 24th, ten days after we'd left. Our house/pet sitter kept Gaston from killing himself while we were gone. The little bugger seemed to have doubled in size during our absence. </p><p>I realize that traveling cross country during a pandemic was a bit risky. I am glad we went, though. We avoided crowds as much as we could, mostly sticking with carry-out for meals (other than the bayside dining for my dad's birthday). We stopped at a few rest stops, but got in and out as quickly as we could. It's not like anyone really lingers in a public restroom in Ohio even in the best of times. I had packed a cooler with drinks and snacks so that we could reduce the number of stops for food. People seem to be pretty good about wearing masks, in general. </p><p>You may be wondering about my wig. Or maybe you're not. I dunno. I picked up my wig about a week before we left. I had a lot to learn as far as taking care of it, but I've gotten reasonably good at it. It wasn't cheap so I have an incentive to make sure it remains in service for as long as I need it. A stylist cut bangs into the wig for me. She was very kind and friendly. Acted like I was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. </p><p>The wig helped my anxiety almost immediately. Meanwhile, I'm on a new treatment plan with my dermatologist and I'm starting to see some modest but hopeful results. In the meantime, I'll keep rocking the wig. In the immortal words of the poet for our times, Ariana Grande: "You like my hair? Gee thanks, just bought it." </p><p>One thing nobody tells you, though: a wig is HOT. Not hot like "me so sexy" but hot like "are flames coming out of my cranium?" hot. That bayside dinner in direct sunshine? I thought I might spontaneously combust. I'm glad for falling temperatures here in the Midwest because I need a break from the summer heat. </p><p>I'll wrap up now because my daughter says she's doing homework, but I need to investigate and confirm. Her school is fully remote (much to her disappointment) but she's muddling through. She's also taking driver's ed remotely. Her dad and I can't wait until she can take a shift on the summer road trip. Maybe we'll sit in the backseat and complain about how Ohio seems to have gotten even bigger since our last road trip.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdVD3S4ELxA2KmFeuz1WxfAPrpiILPik8Fj92EoZeWZmHXX5xeEcGfxOexwBtE26JdW1-wNcMX54HLFU87yo6tSV-0u-iawAe14xB0BK7KRkLr4wRJ4HpuvkoWPtuOEVS6mJQgYIzrA9z/s960/118342255_10157809134398370_4604749940626935780_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdVD3S4ELxA2KmFeuz1WxfAPrpiILPik8Fj92EoZeWZmHXX5xeEcGfxOexwBtE26JdW1-wNcMX54HLFU87yo6tSV-0u-iawAe14xB0BK7KRkLr4wRJ4HpuvkoWPtuOEVS6mJQgYIzrA9z/w400-h300/118342255_10157809134398370_4604749940626935780_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpv-xxTjOAiTRDtJjARKacQDhHbaheW2LgfAXQ9_peCZUTSgXHd-XzO3o1BCmEo6wTlhxJL68-nkra1cI12aD1r1j8U0uW9HqGTCaaWBZwiOl62MNDJPO1PfYdipOD4cxnyyOAt4f4HaeU/s960/118820063_10157841238418370_4542542927899745206_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtE1eygzLdwTC5vc8b03Jo2w7w905NdOCs6gUggNbT5sDqbcnti1IzzDPQx5Y-bRIsf0XuhHJ54IcwJklnQSPvFrOSSjGXDf17Do1YhZt7zLTEbzN8w0knqjp7fkS0BJu9RvqSszobE8CJ/w400-h300/118384247_10157809133968370_8918637275501704212_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-54046796709863384872020-07-19T15:58:00.001-05:002020-07-20T04:57:26.580-05:00The one where my worst fear came true and I tried to fix it with a kittenMy daughter got her hair cut last week. The appointment was supposed to be for my hair but I gave the time slot to her. Mindy, our kind and beautiful stylist, cut off about 5 inches. My daughter's hair is thick and curly and amazing. When she asks me to pull her hair into a ponytail, it's all I can do to get the elastic around those combative curls. When I twirled her hair into an updo for her <a href="http://alabastermom.blogspot.com/2020/06/taking-back-what-was-lost.html" target="_blank">recent prom adventure</a>, I actually broke a sweat from the sheer force it took to get all of those bobby pins in place.<br />
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Later that day, after her haircut, my daughter said, "I like my hair a little shorter like this. I feel like it makes me look a little older and more mature."<br />
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I must have hesitated for the briefest of seconds. The corners of her mouth turn slightly downward. "You don't like it," she said.<br />
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"Oh!" I quickly responded. "No, I love it! Your hair looks beautiful."<br />
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I had hesitated because the first thought that popped into my mind was that if I had her hair, I'd grow as much of it as I possibly could. I would let it cascade down my back. I would weave flowers into it. I would live in a tower and let suitors climb my hair. Oh wait, wrong story. But still, what I wouldn't give . . .<br />
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I gave her my appointment with Mindy because I do not have enough hair to bother cutting. You see, I am in the process of losing all of my hair. I would love to tell you that I'm taking this blow with my chin held high, but that would be disingenuous. I haven't taken it well at all and in fact I cannot recall the last time I made it through the day without crying. It's all I can do to roll out of bed and function "normally" during the workday. I have stepped back from committees at church because right now, any little thing feels like too big a thing. I feel brittle and fragile. I do not want this.<br />
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As those closest to me know, I have battled hair loss all my life. I have several super-fun auto-immune conditions. My body's capricious immune system has long occupied itself with rejecting things (whatever it deems to be a "foreign object"): pigment cells, hair, and even embryos. At times in my life, my hair has settled into a remission of sorts. Never thick or beautiful, but a "socially acceptable" amount. After a lifetime of practice, I know all sorts of voodoo and black magic to make it look like I have more hair than I actually do. At other times, my hair has entered an extended telogenic phase. Sadly, I have known the term "telogenic phase" since early childhood. This basically means that the hair moves into a resting (non-growth) phase and sheds. For most people, that's around 100 hairs a day. For the past few months, mine has been coming out by the handful.<br />
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In the past, medical interventions (via my dermatologist) have successfully curbed the downward spiral. A lot of those treatments have involved injections, which are just as fun as they sound. Currently, I have three prescriptions and three over-the-counter treatments. Nothing is working. My voodoo is no match for this type of aggressive loss. Most days I just throw on a bandanna and try not to think about it. My hair fills the shower drain and wraps itself around the vacuum cleaner brush. The other day I found one of my hairs frozen into the ice in my freezer. It's a wonder I have anything still attached to my skull.<br />
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The tricky thing about my condition is that if a higher-than-normal percentage of my hair falls out and then grows back (which it has done a thousand times), it's hard to track because the cycles of the hair follicles are fairly long. I can never be sure if a particular treatment was effective or if it would've grown back anyway. When my daughter was a baby, I had back-to-back surgeries - a broken thumb repair and gallbladder removal. My hair entered a bad phase after that; my doctor theorized that going under anesthesia twice in a row was just too much for my body. My stupid body.<br />
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Many times, stress and anxiety worsen conditions like mine. I think I can thank COVID-19 for putting me over the top this time around. I don't have the virus and haven't had it - I just mean the stress of living in such a scary time. It just can't be a coincidence. The only treatment I haven't explored at this point is anti-anxiety medications. I'm still pondering that one. Despite the current prescriptions, I actually hate taking medication of any kind. I prefer not to if I can help it.<br />
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So here I am, facing the thing I've feared most for decades.<br />
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I would love to tell you that I have the confidence to rock a hairless look but alas, I do not. Vanity, thy name is Claudia. Last week, I put a down payment on a wig. A good wig, as you might imagine, is very pricey. Trying it on was a surreal experience. I patted the back of my head and couldn't believe how many layers of hair were there. Is that what it feels like to have normal hair? Holy cow.<br />
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On my better days, I tell myself that maybe this will help me feel more confident. All my life, I have lived in fear of windy days and rainy days. Public swimming pools are particularly anxiety-inducing. A wig will limit me in certain ways (can't swim with it, for example), but it feels like something I simply have to do. I remind myself that the people who love me will continue to do so no matter what. Some people say, "It's just hair" but for women in particular, the toll on one's mental health is a hefty toll indeed.<br />
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One recent bright spot in my life: I adopted a kitten. I know, I know. After Ella Fitzkitty died eight years ago, I said there would be no more kitties. There are plenty of reasons for me NOT to get a cat. I'm mildly allergic, for starters. I'm the only one who cleans the litterbox. I'm the only one to do all the things. Plus, it can be a challenge to have foster dogs coming and going, never knowing if they are cat-friendly or not.<br />
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I volunteer for the humane society and belong to a Facebook group for foster volunteers. Every spring, "kitten season" rolls in and suddenly the humane society's five campuses are flooded with litter upon litter of kittens. The foster volunteers who take these often-motherless litters are nothing short of miracle workers. Round-the-clock feedings and lots of sleepless nights, all just to give these tiny souls a shot. Many times, despite the very best of care, kittens crash and die - they are particularly susceptible if they didn't come in with a mama kitty. Over the past two years, I've seen the photos and videos of the kittens that make it, and over time I started softening to the idea of getting a kitty. You see, I was raised with cats and had them as an adult, too. I love dogs, but I also adore having a cat in my lap.<br />
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Last Saturday, I decided that my days of fostering dogs have mostly drawn to a close. 21 years of fostering is a good run, I think. I may take the occasional dog for respite care (or a dog that's known to be cat-friendly) but I also feel like I can support shelters and rescues in other ways, too. I checked the humane society's website and sure enough, my local campus had a litter of kittens named June, July, August, and September. I made an appointment to meet them. My eye was on June (the sole grey kitty in a litter of orange tabbies), but I wasn't too picky. Later that afternoon, my daughter and I brought home a little ball of fluff. We wanted a G name to go with Grover and Glinda (our dogs). My daughter chose Gaston. Beauty & the Beast was in heavy rotation at our house when she was little. "Marie! The baguettes!" We know every word.<br />
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<blockquote>
<i>It is impossible to keep a straight face in the presence of one or more kittens. - Cynthia E. Varnado</i></blockquote>
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Since then, I find myself constantly smiling and laughing at Gaston's antics. It's the most joy I've felt in quite some time. Like most kittens, he has that wild-eyed look like someone rang his bell. Last night he saw his own shadow, puffed up, and sprang vertically into the air. He made himself dizzy watching a ceiling fan. I definitely surprised myself by bringing this little guy home so quickly (normally, I'm not what you'd call "spontaneous"), but something about it feels right with my soul.<br />
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Now if you'll excuse me, there's a young gentleman sitting on my shoulder, chewing my earring. This situation seems to require my immediate attention.<br />
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<i>Postscript: if you are reading this, thank you for understanding that I am not seeking medical and/or homeopathic advice at this time. </i></div>
<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-59943037533694214842020-06-23T18:14:00.000-05:002020-06-24T11:13:08.607-05:00Taking back what was lostCOVID-19 has taken so much from so many. I don't even know how to articulate that without it sounding like a massive understatement. On a global scale, the virus is cutting a catastrophic swath, of course. On a smaller scale, it leaves countless disappointments in its wake. Sometimes I think about some of the major historical events of my lifetime: the Challenger explosion, the fall of the Berlin wall, the attempted assassination of President Reagan, 9/11, and so many others. COVID-19 seems to eclipse them all, and I can only hope that the future holds nothing worse. I am sure it will always loom large for the younger generations.<br />
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As far as disappointments go, I think I felt the most sympathy for the Class of 2020. I mean, you can say it's no big deal and that they won't dwell on what they lost, but I'm not so sure. I remember being a senior. After all those years of hard work, I was rewarded with a senior locker (at my high school the upperclassmen got bigger lockers than the underclassmen), senior prom, graduation, etc. I'm sorry that the class of 2020 didn't get to experience the denouement of their senior year. It sounds overly simple just to say "it sucks" but seriously, that was a lot of suckage for them to endure.<br />
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For my daughter, her freshman year was cut short. Sure, there will be other track seasons, other choir concerts (we hope, anyway), but it was still a blow. Between March and June, we definitely learned that home schooling is not for her. Her fabulous ADHD brain needs to be IN a classroom. I am hoping there is an opportunity for on-premise learning in the fall. I'll send her in a plastic bubble if that's what it takes - I just know that she needs to be there. This week, she should have been in show choir camp, working with the choreographer. No one knows what will happen with choirs and such. For those who live to perform, not being on stage is just another disappointment. By the way, be sure to support some of those great Facebook live concerts and fill the virtual tip jars. Strange days indeed. I'm now taking yoga classes online, which is also an odd experience. I'm warming up to it, though.<br />
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One big experience that many kids missed this spring: prom. My daughter's boyfriend is a junior and he invited her to his prom. We bought her dress at the end of February. She found one she loved and it fit her perfectly. We dropped it off for alterations in mid-March, just as things were starting to get weird. The dress stayed there until early June. The shop was closed as a non-essential business and of course the prom had been canceled by then anyway.<br />
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Once the alterations shop re-opened, we had one final fitting (the seamstress was adamant about not cutting off the bottom of the dress until we were absolutely sure, and with A being just five feet tall, there was plenty of cutting to be done). About a week later, the dress was done. Between the dress and the alterations, we dropped a few bucks but hey, it's a fabulous dress.<br />
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Fortunately, her boyfriend was still interested in planning a special night out. His mom and I were also in communication to connect on the date, photo plans, etc. They ordered a tuxedo to match her dress. I was busy watching YouTube videos in an effort to figure out how to create an updo. We shopped for shoes and a gold clutch. Last Saturday was the big day. Armed with a handful of bobby pins and a can of hairspray, I managed to tame the curls into one of the YouTube 'dos. I also needed to help zip her into the dress. I know I am biased, but my baby girl was breathtaking. I let her borrow my diamond stud earrings just to add an extra little touch.<br />
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The plan was to meet for photos (A's boyfriend's brother is a great photographer) at 5:00 and then the happy couple would head to dinner. The weather did not fully cooperate (thanks, rain and humidity) but the photo shoot was a lot of fun. We had permission to shoot inside a historic hotel as long as no hotel guests were included in any of the photos.<br />
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A's boyfriend showed up in his tux to pick her up. So handsome! Their outfits coordinated perfectly. Her dad and I drove separately to the hotel so that we could tag along for the photo shoot. The hotel had a lot of amazing features (like balconies, antique couches, etc.) that provided a great backdrop for the photos. We then headed to a gazebo to get a few more shots. It started to rain but they simply included an umbrella in some of the shots.<br />
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After the shoot, the dapper couple headed to dinner and the rest of us headed to our respective homes. I wasn't expecting to see the photos for a day or two but they hit my inbox just a couple hours later. I am unable to articulate just how much I love them. You'd never know it had been a rainy day. Nearly every shot was perfect.<br />
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When we were in the middle of the outdoor shoot by the gazebo, a woman ran out of a nearby pub to ask what the special event was. Apparently, everyone had been watching from the windows and she had been elected to find out what was going on. We looked over at the pub and people were waving. With the dark times we are in, I think people are just genuinely happy for any good news they can get. And seeing two high school students (who are madly in love with each other), get their prom back (albeit a very different experience) is the good news we all need right now. I know I was happy to see them get back some little bit of what they had lost. We are all learning to adapt in ways we never imagined.<br />
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So, here's to prom dresses and tuxedos and fancy dinners. And here's to love, which always wins.<br />
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Here, enjoy some photos of the cutest couple ever.<br />
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-67707952218345037482020-03-21T16:09:00.001-05:002020-03-21T16:35:11.680-05:00When a car accident seems like the better bad thing . . .I've been meaning to write a new post for the past few weeks. I wanted to recap my February trip to Orlando. That seems like a million years ago now. But for the record, the trip was mostly great. My youngest sister couldn't make it, but my middle sister and my niece made the journey. Before they arrived (I flew in a day ahead of them), I went to Animal Kingdom with a friend who lives in the area. I had never met Ashley in person but we've known each other for almost 15 years. We both have May 2005 kids and met on a BabyCenter "birth club board" back in the day. Spending a day together wasn't awkward at all. Conversation flowed and we had a great time! <br />
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My sister arrived later that day and we headed straight to Disney Springs for dinner and drinks at the House of Blues. It was warm enough to walk around outside - ahhhhh. The next day, we got up and headed to Universal Studios. We kicked off the day by riding the Hollywood Rip Ride Rockit, an insane coaster that starts with a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSR2j6XNa_g" target="_blank">90-degree vertical climb</a>. A Mardi Gras celebration was underway so that made the day even more amazing. At dusk, we hung out and watched the parade, catching bead necklaces from the folks on the colorful, brightly-lit floats. <br />
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The trickier part of the Florida trip was getting my niece there. She is a student at Penn State and turned 21 a few months ago. My niece is a brilliant student (she took so many AP classes in high school that she walked into Penn State with enough credits to be a sophomore) and is in the honors college. However, in a momentary lapse of reason, she lost her ID in a bar. So, we were worried she wasn't going to make the flight because the replacement ID hadn't arrived yet. She was able to fly after all (she had an expired ID and got through with a warning) and arrived in Orlando in the wee hours of the morning.<br />
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The next day, Friday, was my birthday. My sister went all-out and brought all kinds of festive "50" decorations - napkins, sparkly pin, tiara, you name it. My niece played a sweet little ditty called "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPejk_-rMDI" target="_blank">Birthday Bitch</a>" for me. We then headed to my favorite place: Disney's Hollywood Studios. When we drove into the parking lot, the cast member saw my "50" pin and upgraded us to premium parking. Woot! I had gotten us fast passes for my favorite ride, Tower of Terror. Getting to ride Tower of Terror on my birthday . . . I was as happy as I'm even capable of being. The whole day was a lot of fun. So many people wished me a happy birthday, including a Green Army Man in Toy Story Land.<br />
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It started to rain right after sundown so we decided to head for Disney Springs for dinner. It was Valentine's Day so we knew it would be packed no matter where we went. It took an eternity to find a parking place. The first restaurant we tried had a very long wait but we found a Mexican restaurant with a table available. We had a nice dinner and then walked around for a while, window shopping and such. The rain started again and it was getting chilly, so the three of us decided to head back to the condo we were renting. Our condo was in Kissimmee. I rented it through Air B-n-B and it was very nice - three bedrooms, gated community, etc. By the time we made it out of the parking lot and onto E. Buena Vista Drive, it was around 9:30 p.m. Here's where the trip took a downward turn.<br />
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Traffic on Buena Vista was heavy. The light ahead turned red and cars began to slow down ahead of me. I braked. The SUV behind me did not. We'd been hit from behind. I don't remember what I said, but it probably wasn't PG-rated. I maneuvered onto a strip that was between the merge lane and the flow of traffic. My sister got out and spoke to the driver of the other car. We weren't injured but it was hard to know exactly what to do. I called 911. Had I been in my own town, I would have called the non-emergency number but at the moment the situation seemed urgent. The 911 operator passed me to Florida Highway Patrol. FHP was kind enough to inform me that if I didn't get off the road, I would be cited for impeding traffic. So, some kid plowed into my rental car, on my birthday no less, and I'm about to get a ticket? Great. I called Allstate and Budget. Both indicated a need for a police report before anything else could be done.<br />
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I pulled over into the Cirque du Soleil parking lot and the other driver followed me. I have to say, he was a very nice kid. Just 18. It was his first road trip with his girlfriend. He was driving his parents car. He was very apologetic about the whole thing. We all thought that FHP would be on the scene shortly. We ended up waiting three hours. They never came. Eventually the other drive had had to leave anyway. He'd already given me all of his information and we were in touch by text. It started to seem pointless to stay when the other driver was gone. Ultimately, I called to cancel the request for a trooper. They told me that I could just file a report online.<br />
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As you can imagine, I didn't get much sleep that night. Every time I'd wake up, I'd think, "Did that actually happen to me? A car accident on my 50th birthday?" The next morning, I decided I'd better get the ball rolling. I called FHP to confirm where I needed to submit the accident report. I mentioned that we'd waited three hours and wow, did that set her off. "Ma'am. Some people wait up to EIGHT HOURS for a trooper." Florida friends, you have my sympathy with this nonsense. <br />
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I found the form online and realized that a fillable PDF was going to be tough to complete on my phone. I decided to head to a Fedex so that I could use a computer. I did some Googling, grabbed my file containing my car rental information, and headed out. The car was still drivable, though I had my concerns about the bumper being detached on one side. I arrived at the Fedex location and quickly found out that it was inside a resort. And of course there was no parking. I pulled up another location and drove there. Also in a resort. Grrrr. I decided maybe I should just suck it up and go inside. Then I learned that this experiment would cost me $24.00, the daily parking fee for that particular resort (if I want to stripped of every cent, I'll hang out at Disney, thanks). And what if this location was just for packages and didn't have computers? I called Fedex and asked them to direct me to a location that was not inside a resort. The woman on the other end seemed very confident as she recited the address. Also. In. A. Resort. I was just about fit to be tied. I called Fedex one more time and this time was given correct information.<br />
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I spent the next hour or so wrangling this stupid form. While it was technically possible to fill it out online, it was like an elaborate practical joke. Some of the fields didn't expand enough for me to see what I was typing. There were different font sizes everywhere. I printed a hard copy and filled it out by hand. Ultimately I submitted the crappy electronic version and a slightly better handwritten version. I emailed the form as instructed. I receive an auto-reply letting me know that they don't give case numbers for self-submitted reports. Son of a biscuit. This whole Fedex adventure was a colossal waste of time and also caused me to miss precious hours with my sister, who was flying out that day.<br />
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When I got back to the condo, I called Allstate. At long last, a friendly voice. I mean, I know I pay them to be nice to me but I have to say, this lady was incredibly reassuring. She felt terrible that I'd sat in a parking lot for three hours. She didn't seem concerned about the lack of a police report. She gathered information from me and got the claim started.<br />
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Meanwhile, I needed to figure out what to do about the car. Next, I did something pretty stupid. My sister asked me if the trunk still opened (so that she could load her suitcase). "Sure, I think so," I said, using the key fob to pop the trunk. Well, of course it wouldn't close after that. I was kicking myself for my stupidity. My sister ran to a nearby market and picked up some duct tape. I duct-taped that bugger shut. You can imagine how pretty the grey tape looked against the white car. I called Budget about swapping the car but they were profoundly unhelpful. I decide to drive my sister to the airport and then go straight to Budget in hopes that they'd be more helpful in person. Two other fun details that I should mention: the car knew that the trunk wasn't latched and therefore went "beepbeepbeepbeep" all the way across town AND I belatedly realized that my iPass unit was not compatible with the SunPass tolls, which mean that I had been running tolls without realizing it.<br />
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To their credit, the Budget people seemed wholly unalarmed about me pulling in with a dented, taped up vehicle. They filled out a report and sent me and my niece on our way with a new vehicle.<br />
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Finally, after nearly 24 hours of drama, the feeling of dread in my chest started to lift. I was eager to make the best of the time we had left. We went to dinner at <a href="https://www.dixiedharma.com/" target="_blank">Dixie Dharma</a> - I highly recommend it if you're ever in Orlando. The food is amazing and it's very eco-friendly, something that means a lot to my niece, who is in the process of changing the world. After dinner, we visited the <a href="https://onepulsefoundation.org/onepulse-foundation-memorial/" target="_blank">Pulse Nightclub memorial</a>, which had evolved quite a bit since my last visit. Back at the condo, we hosted a visit with my niece's aunt (my sister's sister-in-law) and cousins.<br />
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The next day was our final day in Orlando. We had tickets for Epcot and decided that we'd suck everything we could out of our visit to the theme park. We shopped, we split a couple of vegan meals, and we even rode the Finding Nemo ride. We did a lot of the stuff that I'd bypassed on previous visits. We even watched a movie about Canada. Eventually, the day had to end and it was time to take my niece to the airport. I can't begin to articulate how much it meant to me to have this time with her. I'm tearing up just thinking about it. She is facing a lot of big decisions in her life right now. Soon she will be out in the world (she interned in New Zealand last summer and even applied for an internship in Paris for this year) and it just feels like it will be a lot harder to see her.<br />
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Late that night, I flew back home and stayed overnight in a hotel near the airport (I arrived at around 2 a.m.). The next day, I headed home to resume my regular, non-Florida life. Other than the car accident, it was a great trip and I feel really fortunate that I was joined by two people who are so precious to me. If we ever do this again, I'm hopeful that my wee baby sister will be able to come along, too.<br />
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In the weeks following my return, we proceeded with our normal activities. My daughter had two show choir competitions out of town. She got into an a capella choir at school and I drove her to the 6:45 a.m. rehearsals every Thursday. She is also in a girls' choir outside of school, and those rehearsals are on Sunday evenings. I went to yoga. I took my dogs to the groomer for nail trims. I upgraded my license to the new Real ID at the DMV. My daughter competed at Solo & Ensemble and qualified (as part of a duet) for a spot at the state competition. Major highlight: I bought her a prom dress. Her boyfriend is a junior and invited her to prom. The dress cost more than I had planned to spend, but she looks just beautiful in it. We got together with friends for a game night on Leap Day. We turned our clocks forward. I attended a Gay-Straight Alliance meeting. I bought plane tickets for a trip in July. My daughter joined the track team at school and went to her first few practices; she was elated to find that she ranked quite well among the sprinters. I visited a cat sanctuary. I fell while digging through my purse for my keys (it was on a sunny Saturday afternoon, downtown, directly in front of a restaurant, so I'm sure no one saw me). I tore the knee of my jeans and told myself that I'm just like the cool kids now. <br />
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And then. And then. The virus.<br />
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I've seen the heartfelt posts on Facebook about how we should appreciate this time at home with our families, how we should be glad to have life slow down for a while. I fully understand the catastrophic nature of the virus. I know it's no joke, and I am taking it seriously. I already worked remotely (for a company in Denver) so nothing changed for me there. I am very glad to have a job - so many people have lost theirs. Still, I feel like it's permissible to lament the (temporary) loss of daily life. I'm a very event/task-driven person. I get shit done. <br />
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I keep wishing that my daughter were a toddler again. Then I could hide everything that's happening and she would be none the wiser. But, she's almost 15. The first week of the quarantine was spring break so we didn't have to worry about her education right away. The school district is switching to remote learning in the coming weeks. I worry that she'll struggle to stay focused if she's not in a classroom.<br />
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Meanwhile, track practices have ended for the meets that will never happen. Rehearsals have ended for the concerts that will never happen. And then, of course, there's prom. In a bid to pretend, for a moment, that life is still normal, we dropped the dress off for alterations last week. We know that prom, originally scheduled for April 18th, is very unlikely to happen. However, I've talked to my daughter's boyfriend's mom and we are determined to make something happen once the quarantine is lifted. Even if they just go out to a nice dinner and we take lots of photos, it can still be a special night for them. My heart really breaks for the high school seniors. For my daughter, there will be other track seasons, other concerts. For the seniors, they've waited years to enjoy the perks that come with that last year of high school. Ah, so many things to lament.<br />
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The other morning, I found myself really wanting to have a good cry. It's all so surreal, isn't it? I'm eager for the weather to warm up a bit so that I can at least get outside and walk the dogs. I try not to focus too much on the inconveniences that have been heaped on all of us because, I mean, people are dying from this thing. I worry about my parents (both sets). My brain swings from one extreme to the other. One minute I'm wondering what will happen when we run out of toilet paper and the next minute I'm reeling over the latest news. Speaking of which, I'm on a news detox this weekend. I'm not trying to put my head in the sand, but there is no good news and I notice I've developed a permanent headache that emanates from the spot directly between my eyes. So, I take my escapist moments when I can. Last night I watched the new Bert Kreischer special on Netflix. Laughing at highly appropriate things was exactly what the doctor ordered. Or what I ordered, anyway.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and My Blondie at Epcot</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister, after dancing with some Mardi Gras performers</td></tr>
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-29433472650891742612020-01-25T20:21:00.003-06:002020-01-25T20:44:11.999-06:0050<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On Thursday night, I picked up my daughter from school after a rehearsal for the upcoming musical. These days, if I'm not working, I'm either dropping her off at a rehearsal or picking her up. "It's been a pleasure to serve you," I always say as she hops out of the car. I can't tell if her eyes are rolling back in her head as she turns away, but I imagine they are.<br />
<br />
As I waited for her to come out of the building on Thursday, I sat in the "no parking, no waiting" pick-up zone with all of the other law-abiding parents. I listened to a podcast about the DC Sniper and scrolled through the news app on my phone. I saw the theater kids and musicians start to trickle out of the building. We've had quite a bit of snow lately and I watched as a few of them slid down the sloped sidewalk as they headed toward the parking lot, some of them clutching each other's sleeves as they fought to stay upright. All it took was one gleeful kid grabbing a handful of snow and hurling it a castmate and it was game on. Soon, half a dozen students were lobbing snowballs at each other. My daughter came out of the building and joined the battle. It was open season as even she and her boyfriend threw handfuls of wet snow at each other.<br />
<br />
It was after 8:30 p.m. by this time and I really wanted to go home. I had to get up early the next day and I was just done with Thursday by that point. I rolled down the passenger's side window and started to call out to my daughter, but then I changed my mind and rolled it back up. The kids have been working so hard on this musical and they are in the home stretch now. I watched them shrieking and flinging snow at each other, laughing and shouting goofy threats into the chilly night air. I wished I could scoop them all up and let them stay that way forever. Some of them are headed off to college next year and they'll find out soon enough how much groceries cost and how the world is pretty great and pretty awful all at the same time.<br />
<br />
My daughter finally noticed I was there and gathered her belongings. Her boyfriend leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. She hopped into the car and flung her bag onto the floor. "Hi Mom," she said, her voice still full of the laughter from the snowball fight. "My butt is wet!" she exclaimed, explaining how she had fallen in the snow. Her cheeks were flushed and her curls were extra wild, it seemed.<br />
<br />
Ah, youth.<br />
<br />
Age is on my mind because I'm about to turn (*gasp!*) 50. For starters, I should probably apologize to my beloved sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Crawford. She was my all-time favorite teacher. When I was in her class, I thought poor Mrs. Crawford was, like, a senior citizen. You know how it is when you're a kid - you think 30-year-olds are collecting social security. Later, as an adult, I realized that Mrs. Crawford was around 51-52 when I was in her class. Not much older than I am now. Dang. I'm sorry, Mrs. Crawford!<br />
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I knew I wanted to spend my 50th birthday with my sisters. I've seen both of them within the last year, but it's been over six years since the three of us were in the same room. We batted around a few ideas. Vegas? Texas? I decided that I'd really just like to go to Orlando. Sure, I've been several times before but honestly, I'm just a big kid at heart and I have an unapologetic love for Disney. So, that is where we are going. On my actual birthday (Valentine's Day) we will be at Hollywood Studios riding my favorite ride, Tower of Terror. We're also spending a day at Universal Studios. I can't wait!<br />
<br />
My youngest sister is worried that her kids will be upset if they find out she's going to Disney/Universal without them. So, she is telling the kids that she is going to Williamsburg. If you happen to talk to one of my nephews, you'll need to back us up on this story. Where are we going? "Williamsburg." I told my sister that she should have given the boys a location even more boring than Williamsburg, like say we are going to tour a Penicillin factory or something. My sister pictured herself telling the boys, "That crazy Aunt Claudia! If that's what she wants to do, that's what we'll do."<br />
<br />
As I near the half-century mark, I feel like I should probably reflect on how things are going so far. Physically, I am a bit of a mess. I have chronic, daily pain (and no, I don't want to take CBD oil, but thanks for asking) thanks to trochanteric bursitis. I have a prescription for an anti-inflammatory but I know I can't take it forever. My health is probably "okay" in general, though of course I need to lose some weight. I've been saying that for a few decades now, but hope springs eternal, I guess.<br />
<br />
There is a line from The Handmaid's Tale (book) that has stayed with me since I first read it in college. Offred reminisces about her old life and thinks: “We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?”<br />
<br />
I've always tried to remind myself that these might be the very best days of my life. I may look back on the present time someday and think, "Wow, that was amazing." It's a bit trite to say it, I know, but no one knows what lies ahead. After all, I'm a pretty fortunate soul. I have a great job that I actually enjoy. At my last few jobs, I liked my clients and I liked my co-workers (generally), but not the companies or the culture. I almost feel guilty about how much I like my job now. Maybe I thought suffering was a requirement.<br />
<br />
My husband and I have been together for almost 28 years now. That's a long time to hang out with the same person and I think there's a lot to be said for making it work. I have a loving extended family and lots of great friends. My bestie from sixth grade is still my bestie. I love my church and enjoy being part of that faith community. I now have two decades of rescue work under my belt. I wish I had logged all of my foster animals and kept better track. I know it's a large number and I'm proud that I was able to help all of those dogs, guinea pigs, and hamsters on their journey. <br />
<br />
One of my jobs at work is to write a website bio for each new employee who comes aboard. It's one of my favorite things to do. The feedback I often get is, "Wow, you made me sound a lot cooler than I really am!"<br />
<br />
One of the questions I often ask when interviewing new employees (to gain bio material) is, "What are you most proud of?" I tell them that it can be something personal or work related. Parents will almost always say, "My children."<br />
<br />
I am no different. I know that my parenting skills are often lacking and surely I make plenty of mistakes, but raising a child truly is my proudest accomplishment. Since the day my daughter was born, I've never stopped feeling like the luckiest mom in the world. My daughter is smart, funny, and kind. I can't take credit for her beauty (or those curls!) or her musical talent, but I like to think I influenced the parts of her that make other people happy to be around her.<br />
<br />
My old-lady hips are starting to hurt now so I'll wrap this up.<br />
<br />
I wish I had some sage advice to pass on to the youngsters, but I really don't have any. Kids, what I can tell you for sure is . . . our music was definitely better than yours.<br />
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<i>Thanks to my cousin Doug for taking the time to scan old photos and post them to Facebook! </i><br />
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Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-42244909604706985592019-12-13T16:29:00.000-06:002020-06-30T05:28:50.285-05:00Deep CutWhen you're a parent, you become aware at some point that you are, in all likelihood, embarrassing your child in some way. I've sometimes wondered which aspects of my personality/appearance/behavior are causing angst for my child. Is it my too-loud laugh? My tattoos? Nose piercing? My daughter is, at her core, a kindhearted person who would never identify the offending attributes out loud, so I may never know. I can only guess.<br />
<br />
Granted, there are times when I definitely act up just for fun (and to keep my daughter from getting too big for her britches). For example, her dad and I enjoy behaving as though we may not be able to suppress the urge to square dance at school events. Last week, I was waiting for my daughter after rehearsal (story of my life). I was idling in front of the school and had the dogs in the back of my Equinox. I saw her walk out with her boyfriend. He grabbed her hand as they started down the sidewalk towards the parking lot. Right on cue, I rolled down the passenger side window and yelled "NO TOUCHIE!" at them. He dropped her hand. I was laughing so I hope the poor boy knew I was kidding. When my daughter got into the car, she rapidly texted him to explain (or beg forgiveness for) my behavior.<br />
<br />
"Oh my God, Mom," she said, shaking her head as her fingers flew across her phone screen. <br />
<br />
Fitting in is almost always a challenge for kids. I thought we got through the worst of it in middle school. She always had lots of friends. While I didn't buy her designer clothes, I was always willing to get her "socially acceptable" clothing. When I was in fifth grade, some kids made fun of me because they recognized that my shoes were from Safeway. I don't remember why sneakers were being sold at the grocery store, but there you go. So when my kid wanted a pair of Converse low-tops, I bought them. We don't get too crazy, though - for the most part she doesn't get anything unless I have a coupon. I'm also caught in an endless cycles of Kohl's cash ("I'm here to spend my Kohl's cash. What? I just earned more? Son of a . . . ").<br />
<br />
I'd like to think that I'm raising a young person who has the strength of character to be a little bit different and to be okay with that. Some of her differences are not by choice. She's short, for starters. Some of her friends call her "fun size" and even have her listed in their phones that way. She did crack the five-foot mark over the summer, but the doctor says she's basically done. She's 5'1/2" so if she tells you she's 5'1" just go with it. We live in a town where most people are Catholic or Lutheran. We are Unitarian Universalist (though, to be clear, I have always told her that she is free to choose her own religion when she grows up). She was adopted (though I don't think this is a source of embarrassment - she usually tells people freely). She's a vegetarian. She has epilepsy (there is a really solid chance that she'll outgrow this within the next year). She has ADHD - inattentive type. I doubt she'll outgrow that. So yes, a few challenges but nothing that seems, you know, insurmountable. <br />
<br />
My daughter is different in ways that are amazing, too. She has the most beautiful head of curls. What I wouldn't give for five minutes of having hair like hers. She has stunning green (technically hazel) eyes. She sings beautifully and I'm not just saying that because I'm her mother - I have external confirmation on this! She can act and dance, too.<br />
<br />
It's no secret that I'm very proud of my girl. I told her that I hope her boyfriend is good with #2 fan status because I've already taken the first position.<br />
<br />
What is a mother to do, then, when her daughter rejects a component of her upbringing? I am trying to cope and I am failing. I feel like the world's worst track and field athlete, knocking over every single hurdle as I scramble along. My daughter no longer wants to be a vegetarian. I am beside myself.<br />
<br />
When A was younger, I told her exactly where meat comes from. I kept it age-appropriate, but I wanted it to be crystal clear that pigs don't donate their body parts voluntarily ("try one of my ribs - they're delicious!"). The way I feel about factory farming has not changed in decades. It's a visceral thing for me. My daughter loves Esther the Wonder Pig. She loves animals. Why is she closing her eyes to what happens to them? Plus, even if we take the abject suffering out of the equation . . . factory farming is a huge contributor in the destruction of the planet. I thought Generation Z was up to speed on these things.<br />
<br />
I can't lie - I have shed tears over this. The irony of the whole thing is that it's easier than ever to be a plant-based eater. Even fast food has gotten on board with vegan options. Burger King, Qdoba, Chipotle - easy! Are kids really that hard on kids who don't eat meat? I guess maybe they are or I wouldn't be writing this.<br />
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I'm doing my best to set aside my broken heart and respect her choice. I don't understand why she's made it, but I'm trying. To be honest, we haven't talked about it a ton because if we do, I fear I'll end up bombarding her with facts that she does not want to hear. Maybe being vegetarian was one "difference" too many. All I can do is to hope that when she gets to college, she'll switch back. <br />
<br />
I can't help but feel that I was not sufficiently warned about this aspect of parenting. Sigh.<br />
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Hang in there, Esther. Hearts and minds change all the time.<br />
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-9065101186647251802019-12-09T17:30:00.000-06:002019-12-09T17:44:44.503-06:00Hold on loosely, but don't let go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Every year, for a decade or more, my daughter and I have attended a holiday-themed lighting ceremony downtown. Families gather on the appointed corner to hear the mayor say a few words. Carols are sung. Then there is a countdown that ends with the mayor flipping the switch that lights up all the trees in the vicinity. The kid and I drink hot cocoa, browse the shops, pet a shop cat at the floral place, and try on weird hats at the antique store.<br />
<br />
I asked her if she wanted to go this year and she said yes. The lighting ceremony was scheduled for a Friday and I looked forward to it all week. I even had it on my work calendar so that I could make sure we got down there in time to catch the mayor's switch-flipping. On Friday afternoon, she came home from school and announced that she was going ice skating that evening. I couldn't tell if she had forgotten that we had plans or if she just didn't want to go. When I reminded her, she asked, "Would you be mad if I go ice skating?"<br />
<br />
What could I say? She wanted to go out with a girl who hasn't been terribly nice to her in the past. "No, I'm not mad," I said. It didn't seem right to obligate her to go with me. I gave her some money and dropped her off at the ice rink.<br />
<br />
I decided to go downtown by myself. I don't mean to make it sound like I don't have friends. I do, but it's not easy to round people up for last-minute plans. I stopped at an upscale bar for a drink. I know I am getting old because this bar typically has jazz musicians playing live and I have never really cared for jazz. But I like how you can hear the music and still hold a conversation. I finished my fancy drink (a pomegranate martini, as I recall) and then browsed a few shops. I picked up a retro ornament and yes, visited the shop cat at the floral place. After that, I went to see the new movie about Mr. Rogers. I should add that the mister would have come downtown with me but not to the movie. He only likes movies in which multiple people die in very violent ways.<br />
<br />
The next morning, Saturday, our city's holiday parade was held. I was still feeling down about Friday and didn't bother waking up the teen. So, we missed the parade, too.<br />
<br />
All good things must come to an end, I know, but I guess I wasn't ready. Freshman year has brought all kinds of changes - most of them good. Her grades are excellent, which makes me happy (one less thing to nag about). Having a study hall definitely helps. She's having a blast in show choir and musical.<br />
<br />
Last week, she auditioned for a specific choir that she wants to join next year. This would be an elective class. She didn't get in. The choir director said he wanted to see more leadership from her (or at least that is how she relayed it to me). She was just devastated. I reminded her that she won't always get a part, won't always get a solo, etc. Two days later, he invited her to audition for a different choir and she got in. She leads a charmed life, I swear.<br />
<br />
The biggest change that's happened this year: she has a (*gasp*) boyfriend. Her dad and I never set a specific age when she is allowed to start dating. We just made vague proclamations like, "Sure, once we're dead." However, she seems to be on a more accelerated schedule. She developed an interest in a blond-haired, blue-eyed cast member when she was in the fall play. He's a junior. I do wish they were closer in age, but I'm not going to put the kibosh on it just because they aren't in the same grade. Plus, I'm pretty sure she hunted <i>him</i> down so it's not like he necessarily set out to date a freshman.<br />
<br />
They've been dating officially for one month now. I check her phone periodically and I've seen some of the text conversations between them. It's all pretty cute, I have to say. They have a lot in common - they're both theater kids, they love to sing, and perhaps most importantly, they are both in Hufflepuff. They even have the same initials.<br />
<br />
When I was a teenager, my mom always said that she didn't care who I dated "as long as he treats you well." It was nice to know that I didn't have to worry about race, religion, etc. When my daughter was little, she was steeped in Disney movies so I fretted a bit about her worldview. I didn't want her to think that every little girl has to grow up and marry a prince. I remember telling her, "Maybe you'll grow up to marry a boy or a girl or maybe you won't get married at all." I needn't have bothered - she is firmly heterosexual. The "as long as he treats you well" part applies, though, and I have to say . . . her boyfriend is unfailingly respectful towards her. It's easy to see that he has been raised well. He didn't even hold her hand until they'd gone out a couple of times. He always texts her "goodnight" before he goes to bed. He tells her that he loves her singing and she tells him that she loves his singing. Sometimes he buys her iced coffee before school. She "stole" one of his hoodies and then wore it to bed because it smelled like him. After a couple of weeks, I finally forced her to wash it.<br />
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So yes, my girl is smitten. She's not obsessive, though. She spends time with her other friends, watches nonsense on Netflix, and continues to belt out show tunes in her room. And persists in living in squalor and hoarding dishes in her room, but that's a whole other blog post.<br />
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The Hufflepuff duo went out on Friday night. They saw a movie called "Knives Out." Her dad and I kept saying that we wanted to see that SAME movie, but we were advised that we are NOT funny. The movie was over at around 8. She sent me a text asking if she could hang out at his house for a while. I knew his parents and brother were home so I said it would be fine. ROOKIE MISTAKE: I did not set a specific time to be home. Both of them had to be at school for musical rehearsal at 9 a.m. on Saturday. So, one would assume that common sense would lead one to be home at a reasonable time. She was not home at a reasonable time. So now she has a curfew. The boy was worried that we would be mad him. She assured him that no, we would be mad at <i>her</i>. She was correct. She can be very persuasive so if she told him that she wanted to stay longer, he would have been no match for her powers.<br />
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As for me, I've gotten over the disappointment over the missed tree lighting ceremony. I take whatever time I can get. Yesterday, she and I picked out some stocking stuffers for her dad at World Market. We laughed at our inside jokes and sang in the car. She played the drum solo in "In the Air Tonight" as we drove home. This morning, she took a shower and then came to find me. I was on the couch playing Words with Friends. She had a towel wrapped around her, her curls still dripping. She leaned down and held her weight against me so that I could hug her. I had a brief flashback to three-year-old her wearing a hooded towel with a kitty on it, back in the days when she said "fridgelator." <br />
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A few minutes later, I got up and packed her lunch because she never leaves enough time for practical matters. Moments later, I heard "Love you! Bye!" and then a door slam as she sprinted to catch the bus.<br />
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"I love you, too, Goober," I replied. Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-79086595496394754302019-10-09T21:50:00.002-05:002019-10-14T09:10:13.296-05:00Frosh!<div>
Her bedroom door is closed, but I can hear every word she's belting out. "Good morning Baltimoooore!" she sings. My bias is as certain as the rotation of the earth, but I believe wholeheartedly in her talent. I never get tired of hearing my daughter's voice. Now she's moved on to another show tune. "Come on, babe, why don't we paint the town . . . " </div>
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She's trying out for the musical Chicago at school in a couple of weeks. She's hoping for a lead role, of course, but I've reminded her that the more mature roles may go to upperclassmen. But secretly I believe she can do anything. </div>
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Our love of Broadway is one of our shared interests. We're going to Hamilton next weekend. We're unsure of how we'll keep ourselves from singing along, but we're beyond excited. Music is always a connector for us. She tolerates my old-school music and has memorized the lyrics for hundreds of New Wave songs. My heart swells with a weird sort of pride when she matches me note for note on some ancient New Order song. Popular music gets some action, too. We have Lizzo singalongs on the way to church. "You tried to break my heart? Oh, that breaks my heart." She pretends not to know the bad words.<br />
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Freshman year has started off with a bang. She got into the fall play right off the bat, so those rehearsals were added to the show choir rehearsals. Often, they are back to back. She leaves to catch the bus at 6:40 a.m. and frequently isn't home again until after 8:30 p.m. Her grades have been surprisingly good - perhaps my warnings about the GPA clock ticking as soon as she walked through the school doors paid off.</div>
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Homecoming came and went a couple weeks ago. I took her to Macy's for a dress. She and her friends looked so cute together. I love how kids just go the dance in groups. When I was in school, you had to wait to be asked. If you weren't asked, you didn't go. It's just the way it was. For her big night, I took lots of photos and tried not to cry. I let her wear my grandmother's diamond heart pendant. </div>
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I've encouraged her to keep her grades up over the next four years, but also to have fun. I want her to look back on her high school years and feel like she really sucked the marrow out of the whole experience. I've joined the music parents' association at school so that I can do my best to support the music/theater programs. Does that make me a stage mom? </div>
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Despite the excitement of all the changes that come with freshman year, I can't help but feel like this is also the start of a long, slow good-bye of sorts. I have just four years left with my songbird and then . . . off to college she goes. It feels like that day is coming much too soon. The day she was born, one of the first things I did was to figure out her high school graduation year. 2023! At the time, it felt like some crazy way-in-the-future date. Like the Jetsons. Would I have a jetpack by then? A flying car? Now it's just a few years away. </div>
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But this is my job, right? Preparing her for independence? Sometimes I worry that she doesn't need me anymore. But then I find her shampoo in the refrigerator and remember that we still have some ground to cover.</div>
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"Come on, babe, we're gonna brush the sky . . . " And all that jazz!</div>
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Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-74236988488155561842019-08-17T13:47:00.000-05:002019-08-17T14:36:29.566-05:00Foster failure? Nope. Let me tell you why.I recently read an article called <a href="https://barkpost.com/good/why-telling-foster-parents-adopt-dog-harmful/" target="_blank">An Open Letter to People Who Tell Me to Adopt My Foster Dogs</a>. It echoed many of my own thoughts, but not exactly. The writer indicated that it's hurtful to her when people suggest that she adopt her foster dogs. I don't find it hurtful, but I do find it frustrating. I wanted to share my own thoughts on the topic.<br />
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It's common for foster families to adopt at least one of their foster animals over time. It's sometimes referred to as a "foster failure." There is nothing wrong with it. Sometimes you develop a bond and, particularly for new foster volunteers, it can be unbearably hard to sever that connection.<br />
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A few reasons why I don't adopt my foster dogs:<br />
<ul>
<li>There is a two-dog limit in my city and I already have two dogs. Sure, I could apply for a variance but I don't want to.</li>
<li>I don't have a terribly large house. It's big enough to accommodate a third dog on a fostering basis, but not permanently.</li>
<li>The yard is fenced but small. It's all I can do to get any grass to grow - it gets peed to death as fast as I plant it. With a small yard, it's not possible to disperse the dogs' output over a larger area. </li>
<li>A third dog would increase our veterinary care budget, boarding budget. etc. </li>
<li>I simply enjoy having two dogs and, to be honest, I don't really owe any sort of explanation beyond that. </li>
<li>My foster animals are guests in my home. Our home is a part of their journey - not their final destination. </li>
<li>Sometimes, my dogs don't particularly care for our foster dogs. Just like all humans don't love all other humans, we shouldn't expect dogs to become besties with every single dog they meet. </li>
<li>I am the primary caretaker. I would love to say that my family members pitch in, but um . . . </li>
</ul>
If I had kept my first foster dog nearly 20 years ago, imagine all the dogs I wouldn't have been able to help beyond that. I wish I had kept track of the numbers. I'm confident that I've fostered well over a hundred dogs. Is it easy to give them up? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. If a dog is young and healthy, there is no reason to keep him/her in foster care any longer than necessary. A family is out there waiting and I think it's best to get that match moving as soon as the vet care and behavioral assessments are done.<br />
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If a dog has medical issues and requires rehabilitation, or is elderly, I do shed a few tears when they get adopted - or in some cases die prior to adoption. Those cases are definitely much, much harder. The more of an investment I have to make (physically and emotionally), the harder it is to let them go. I still feel sad when I think about Duncan, a sweet Boxer who came into rescue with one leg in paralysis. Before long, the other three legs became paralyzed (likely the result of a spinal injury) and I had to let him go. Did that dog ever pull on my heartstrings. I can still see his face. I remember Fritz, who waited a solid year to get a home. He was 11 years old when an adopter finally came forward. Oh, how she spoiled him. Fritz-a-Million, I called him. Or sometimes, Fritty-Cent. What a character. Could I have kept him? Sure, but I felt strongly that he deserved 100% of someone's attention in a home of his own. I remember Arlo, who had some pretty severe temperament issues. I had him evaluated by a professional behaviorist. Ultimately, I had to have him euthanized. He died on my birthday and I still remember the feeling of his face in my hands.<br />
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I could go on and on. Many furry friends have passed through my home and many left an indelible mark (sometimes literally - there are teeth marks in my dining room chairs). My role, as I see it, is to prepare them for the next phase in their lives. It is an honor to be part of that journey. Fostering can be emotionally challenging, of course. Why do I do it? It's simple: because there is a need. If not me . . . who? I know a lot of people say, "I could never . . ." Well, maybe you're not in a position to foster. Maybe you live in an apartment that does not allow animals. Believe me, there are plenty of volunteer opportunities even for those who cannot foster. Any rescue or shelter would be happy to have your help.<br />
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When you see a photo of a foster animal posted on social media, please think twice about saying, "He wants to live with you forever." Foster families are already doing their part - please don't inject guilt into the situation. I know you mean well but just . . . don't. Please. :-) <br />
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My current foster dog is as cute as a bug's ear. He was surrendered to rescue when his owners got a divorce and moved into separate apartments. My own Boxers are not white but I've always had a soft spot for white Boxers. Avalon's little white eyelashes make me swoon. He loves to cuddle. The tips of his ears turn pink when he gets tired.<br />
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As fond as I am of Avalon (and I would be a lot fonder of him if he were housebroken), he is still a guest in our home and not a permanent resident. My job is to get his medical needs (like routine vaccinations) taken care of, to train him to the best of my ability, to get to know him well enough to figure out what kind of adoptive home is best for him, to love him like crazy, and then to send him along when the time comes. It is an honor to play that role for this amazing creature.<br />
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Fostering isn't for everyone, but it sure as hell is rewarding. <br />
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-84667707525750298662019-08-06T18:14:00.001-05:002019-08-06T18:17:29.745-05:00Hey, AnitaI've been trying to remember where we first met. I think it was at a local dog training school, back in 1998 or 1999. My Boxer Lucy was still a youngster - an unruly one at that. You were just getting a German Shepherd rescue off the ground. I was learning about rescues and started warming up to the idea of fostering a dog. I told you I'd foster a German Shepherd sometime.<br />
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Instead of fostering a Shepherd back then, I got involved in rescue myself - Boxer rescue. For the next 15 years, we ran into each other pretty regularly - at fundraisers and other events. Rotating in similar, if not the same, circles. I even ran into you at the grocery store a few times. I was more than a little surprised when you announced that you'd adopted a vegetarian diet (after some urging from your cousin). We chatted about veggie burgers and such.<br />
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Once my long tenure on the board for Boxer rescue ended, I thought it was about time I honored that long-ago promise to foster a Shepherd. I contacted you and before long I had a handsome and oh-so-smart Shepherd in my home. Most people think of me as a "Boxer person" and to be honest, I am. However, I've always had a soft spot for German Shepherds. My Pop-Pop had one when I was a kid. They are truly beautiful dogs. The hair, though. Holy cow. GSD people don't even bother complaining about it. "German shedders," they say with a shrug.<br />
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I fostered a couple of dogs and recently did some respite care for a dog whose person was in the hospital. I'm always amazed by how smart and trainable the breed is. Such a contrast to my beloved class clown Boxers.<br />
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You invited me to a fundraising meeting a couple years ago. I attended but quickly saw that even though you were listening to ideas voiced by others, you'd make the final call in all things related to the rescue. I shook my head. "That Anita - so stuck in her ways," I thought. The most successful rescues are run somewhat like a business, always with an eye on making sure that expenses do not exceed the revenue. In other words, act from your head and not your heart. As we both know, rescue work will rip your heart right out of your chest. Here's the thing, though. Your "heart first" method always seemed to work. You always found a way to pay the bills and seldom said no to a dog in need. I don't know how you did it.<br />
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Although we were friends for two decades, we really didn't have that much in common. You were politically conservative. I am the opposite of that. You once forwarded an email to all of the volunteers that reflected that "boot-in-yer-ass" brand of patriotism that has always bugged me so. However, I liked your dry sense of humor. I remember laughing at a comment you made until I lost my breath. One time I volunteered at a Halloween fundraiser and you yelled at me because I gave a kid two pieces of candy instead of one. Later you said that you hadn't been feeling well that day. I don't know that your health was always the best but you never let it show and never seemed to feel sorry for yourself.<br />
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I've sometimes said that when I die, if the only thing that anyone can think of to say about me is "she helped some dogs," I'll be fine with that. I suspect you may have felt the same way. You helped a lot of dogs, Anita. Hundreds of them. Nothing scared you away - not medical issues or behavioral challenges. Some of the Shepherds you took in had questionable breeding (like maybe their parents had simply MET a Shepherd one time) but as long as the dog was in the ballpark, you were there to help. You built a community, Anita. Look how many people turn up at the rescue events. I've seen people gleefully showing you photos of the dog you brought into their lives.<br />
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I'm not a big believer in the concept of heaven, but I like to think you have been reunited in some way with the dogs that passed on before you. I hope you're covered in dog hair, having the time of your life.<br />
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I'll miss you, Anita. You always remembered my birthday. You once dropped off a Boxer totebag at my house because you saw it and knew I'd like it. You were incredibly big-hearted and dedicated and, of course, sassy.<br />
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[My condolences to Paul, as well as to Anita's children and grandchildren.] <br />
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-43532206659106406152019-06-23T19:07:00.000-05:002019-06-23T19:07:43.014-05:00Oh Bursa, My BursaAfter about 25 years of slowly worsening chronic pain in my hips, I finally made a push for a formal diagnosis. I've been complaining to doctors about my hip pain ever since I can remember. Various theories have been offered to me. When I was in my 20s, a physician's assistant postulated that there was too much laxity in the ligaments that hold my hips together. That actually seemed plausible.<br />
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When I told my primary care physician that my hip pain was getting worse last year, she said, "Okay, but did you schedule your mammogram?" The hip pain has been noted in my file by various doctors over the years, but that was about it. Sometimes I wondered if doctors were ignoring me because of the opiate crisis. Maybe they assumed I was bitching so that I could get some narcotics. What I actually want is: sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep. I've invested in expensive mattress toppers and have done everything I can think of to keep myself asleep for more than a couple hours at a time. If I someone manage to forget how poorly I sleep each night, my FitBit gives me the full rundown every morning. Oh, 4 hours and 19 minutes? Greeeat. Tylenol PM helps a little. Menopause does not. The mister claims that I turn our bedroom into a wind tunnel every night (we have a ceiling fan and a regular oscillating fan), but he is also welcome to sleep on the couch where it is less windy.<br />
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Because our insurance deductible is basically paid for the year (thanks, kidney stone!) I decided to see an orthopedic specialist. I had that appointment last week. The doctor ordered a full set of xrays and as an added bonus, I had to wear orange basketball shorts while the xrays were taken. You might be able to guess that I am not a basketball shorts kind of girl.<br />
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When I was back in the exam room, the doctor came in and gave me a brief physical exam. He pushed my legs this way and that, and tested my reflexes. Then he pushed on the outside of my hip. The jolt of pain was unreal.<br />
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Moments later, we were admiring my xrays on the monitor. "You have <a href="https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/4964-trochanteric-bursitis" target="_blank">Trochanteric Bursitis</a>," he told me. The bursa is a fluid-filled sac that cushions a joint. The human body is full of them. In my case, the bursae in my hips are very angry and have been angry since Naughty by Nature's Hip Hop Hooray was on the radio. (hey, ho!) The doctor gave me some exercises to do. I'm not terribly optimistic in as much as the problem has been going on for so long. He also gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory that I can try for a few months. I joined a Facebook group devoted to Trochanteric Bursitis. I see the members trying everything they can think of for the pain - from ointments and creams to CBD oil to drastic steps like having the bursa surgically removed. I think I'll just wait patiently for ye olde THC to become legal in my state.<br />
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Seriously, though, I think I'm just glad to have a diagnosis. My pain is real and now it has a name.<br />
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-60312847697093771022019-05-31T20:09:00.003-05:002019-05-31T20:16:56.960-05:00On Letting Go Too Soon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I come from an affectionate, demonstrative family. We said "I love you" freely - and still do. It is no small blessing to know, always, that you are loved. While I am sure that my husband's parents loved him, he never heard those words. Ever. It took a while, but his heart is open now. Even a little mushy sometimes. Plus, he's a great dad.<br />
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He hates it when I tell this story, but it's one of my favorites. When our daughter was three months old, we took her to the state fair. We had a great day and she looked so cute in her hat and sunglasses. As I was pushing her stroller up a hill on our way out at the end of the day, I asked my husband, "Have you ever told her that you love her?"<br />
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With a straight face, he replied, "I don't know her that well yet."<br />
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He wasn't making a joke - that's just how is brain works. Despite that goofy response, he's thoroughly devoted to her. He overcame the lack of affection in his own upbringing and routinely tucks his daughter into bed. His hugs might be accompanied by a reminder to "turn in that science assignment tomorrow," but he's there for her in body and spirit. <br />
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Growing up, I accepted affection from my family but was hesitant to interact with others in that way. I suffered with vitiligo and other visible physical conditions, resulting in a desire not to be seen and certainly not to be touched. It led to a lifetime of chronically low self-esteem.<br />
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As I've gotten older (and have grown in some ways more comfortable in my own skin), I've gotten better about receiving and even initiating physical contact with others. A beloved member of my church lost her husband several years ago. She got up to light a candle in his memory, her voice shaking as she spoke about her pain in losing him. Karen was new to our congregation then. I didn't know her. But as she made her way back to her seat, I found myself rising to catch her in a hug. It was out of character for me, but it was genuine. <br />
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I try to connect with people when I can, and when I sense that they are open to it. A hand on a shoulder while asking, "How is your dad doing?" seems like the right thing to do. I dole out compliments on the regular - it's amazing how startled people are to receive a compliment sometimes. If you like the cashier's necklace, tell her so. Of course, I've gotten no better at small talk (like, how do you end it? just walk away?), but I'm out there tryin'.<br />
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Lately I've been thinking about hugging, perhaps the most human way of all to connect. A couple months ago, my friend Carrie officiated at a memorial service. The service was held at my church so I was standing near the kitchen in case anyone needed help finding the bathroom, coffee, whatever. I greeted Carrie and she hugged me. She is a very warm, genuine person and her hug reflected that. I mean, it was some kind of great hug - long, steady, and sincere. I felt like she was saying, "You matter to me." <br />
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Here's where I go wrong with hugs. I assume that people would not want to touch me any longer than necessary, and I always pull away first. Always. I did so with Carrie but nope, she was still in full hug mode. I can't tell you how many times I've done this. I mean, what is wrong with me?<br />
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Last weekend, my friend Heidi experienced an unbelievable tragedy. She and her husband, along with their daughter (they also have an adult son), were at their cabin. Chad mentioned some slight nausea and shortly thereafter, he died. If I understand correctly, it was a cardiac issue. Heidi is a nurse and tried to save him, but it was out of her hands. His death happened with a quickness that feels especially cruel. I should mention that Chad was just two months older than I am. It's always particularly startling when you lose a contemporary. Chad was a great guy. I saw him annually at the circus protests that Heidi organizes in our community, and crossed paths with the whole family at other events, too. Heidi and her children are reeling, as you can imagine.<br />
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Heidi is not a person who is inclined to ask for help on a personal level. She has a lot on her shoulders now. Obtaining new health insurance, figuring out how to do the chores that Chad used to do, making sure that her children are coping . . . the list goes on and on. The only bright side here is that there are a lot of people who care about this family very much. A GoFundMe campaign already has a pretty healthy balance (enough to ease some immediate worries, anyway). I wanted to help in some small way (in addition to making a donation) so I made a casserole. Heidi is vegan so I knew that I could whip up some comfort food for when she needs it. Another mutual (vegan) friend has been cooking for her as well. I think Pam and I were both worried that well-meaning neighbors might drop off food that Heidi and her family could not eat. <br />
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Heidi is someone for whom I've always had a lot of admiration. I've known her for several years. Not only does she organize circus protests and try to educate people about the realities of factory farming, she is very active in TNR (Trap Neuter Return). I'm sure she has saved hundreds of cats. She inspired me to get rid of my dumb excuses and to switch from vegetarian to vegan five years ago. Heidi has a big heart but she's not a mushy person. She has an offbeat sense of humor (which may be why I love her so much). She once posted a meme on Facebook that related to hugging. She was not, from what I gathered, a hugger.<br />
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I was prepared to deliver my casserole to her home, but Heidi said she'd be nearby and offered to stop and pick it up. She said she would have her parents with her. I told her that sounded great because I'm currently fostering a puppy and Lexy has been looking for some new flesh to gnaw on with her razor teeth. I told Heidi, "Don't worry, I won't hug you." It's been a running joke between us because I did hug her the first time we met in person.<br />
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"I've been hugging. It's okay," she responded. I'm so proud of her for letting people help her. I know it's not easy.<br />
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And so, I hugged her when she arrived. I tried not to let go too soon.<br />
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I'm going to keep working on this hugging thing. Life, as they say, is short. Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-78465184736812089332019-03-10T16:48:00.004-05:002019-03-10T18:33:30.629-05:00ADHD (Sub-title: Parenting is Hard, Y'all)The funny thing about being the mom of an only child is that for every new challenge that comes along, I'm technically still a first-time mom - even though my child is a teenager. While my daughter does have biological half-siblings (through her birthmom), she is my only child. I can't compare her behavior/illnesses/whatever to my other children, because they do not exist. This sometimes leaves me wondering if I'm making the right call when decisions must be made (and my husband, as you might guess, is not a decision maker).<br />
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If you had asked me a decade ago, I might have been one of those people who said, "Geez, kids are over-medicated. Just let them be kids." Now I've been forced to re-think my uninformed stance. My child has been diagnosed with ADHD - Inattentive Type.<br />
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Since my daughter started school back in 2009, I've made jokes about how she talks too much. I've heard words like chatty, distracted, talkative, etc. from teachers at every parent-teacher conference I've ever attended. I think it was her second grade teacher who said, "She can't walk across the room without stopping to entertain every table."<br />
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I love the fact that my daughter is friendly and extroverted. People tend to like her and to enjoy being with her. My dad once said, "She makes me feel like I'm special." I think that's her superpower - making everyone around her feel special in some way. I wouldn't want her to be any other way. <br />
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The other side of the coin, alas, is that she struggles to focus and is profoundly disorganized. It was a problem in elementary school (unfinished assignments, lost assignments, etc.) but her grades were always fine. At times I wondered if she was getting by on pure cuteness (I mean, I am biased but she is pretty cute). However, I'm sure her teachers could see that she understood the material and may have let some of the homework slide. I've been hearing about her intelligence all along, too - even if she doesn't turn in the homework, she is 100% capable of understanding the content. She tends to do pretty well on tests.<br />
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Middle school has been a challenge, and that's an understatement. Cuteness gets her nowhere and teachers care a lot more about missing assignments. Sometimes, she has done the assignment but it's crumpled at the bottom of her backpack. She is constantly behind. She has had an F in some of her core classes at various times this year. Her dad and I feel like we have no choice but to harangue her about her homework every night. We resort to taking away her phone, iPad, etc. Tears are shed. We started to wonder . . . were we fussing at her for something she truly couldn't help? Then we started thinking about high school. She'll be a freshman in September. Her GPA will start to matter a lot more. Our daughter plans to study music in college. We've told her over and over again that even if she studies music, she'll still have to take the core classes like math and science.<br />
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If I'm being honest, I actually think homework is a bit of a crock. (Apologies to my teacher friends!) I understand that it's meant to enforce lessons learned during class but I feel like it's just a time-suck with no real payoff. Nonetheless, I tell my daughter that she has to play the game and Get. It. Done. We do our best to help her. We remind her constantly. We don't make her do chores or anything that would interfere with homework time. We buy her the tools she needs (a new desk, post-it notes, etc.) But still, she has struggled. She truly cannot focus on this stuff. <br />
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I called her neurologist's office to see if any of the symptoms are related to her epilepsy (and meds for that condition). They told me that the symptoms I described are not really on the list of side effects. Plus, I can testify to the fact that the focus issue was present before the epilepsy meds came into play.<br />
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Next, I called her pediatrician's office. I had started to think, "Maybe life doesn't have to be THIS hard?" It's not like we enjoy riding our daughter about her homework day after day. They sent us a packet of forms. It's called the Vanderbilt Assessment, which provides a scoring system to determine if a child is exhibiting ADHD symptoms. Her dad and I filled out the form (separately) and the rest went to A's teachers. Her pediatrician compiled the responses and called us in for a meeting. Yes, it's clear that she has it. I should also add that I spoke to A's birthmom and two of her sons have ADHD and are on meds for it. The third son tested borderline and is not on meds (as far as I know). So, with the family history, it's not too much of a surprise. I should add that she doesn't really have the H (hyperactivity) but I guess the same acronym is used regardless. She has the "Inattentive" type. Here's an example: a few weeks ago she brushed her teeth and then went to bed with the water still running. Not trickling, mind you - full-on running. She can remember the lyrics to a thousand songs but not to turn the water off after brushing her teeth. I think one reason we waited so long to look into it is that her dad and I don't really know what's normal teenage-girl-who-thinks-about-boys-a-lot stuff and what constitutes an actual problem. Once it became clear that her future may well be affected by her inability to focus, we started to see it differently. <br />
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Dr. T gave us a list of medications that can be used to treat ADHD. We're checking with our insurance to see how much each one will cost so that we can decide which one to try. From there, we just see how it goes. At this point, I'm feeling like . . . if there is a tool that can help my child, I owe it to her to look into it, at least.<br />
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Last weekend, A competed at the district-level Solo & Ensemble Festival. She performed in a solo (Class A), a duet (Class A), and a madrigal. She is moving on to state for the solo and duet! (the madrigal was a less complex Class B song that was therefore ineligible for state - however, the judge said it was the best thing she'd heard all morning). I am so proud of my girl. She is so talented, if I do say so myself. I firmly believe that she will go far in life. She may just need someone to pay her water bill while she does so.<br />
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167783085766202519.post-11546215099669418272019-02-28T05:30:00.000-06:002019-02-28T07:48:37.956-06:00Sven, Part 2At the end of November <a href="http://alabastermom.blogspot.com/2018/11/another-bodily-organ-goes-rogue.html" target="_blank">I wrote about my bout with a kidney stone</a>, whom I affectionately named Sven. My kidney birthed Sven about two weeks before my daughter and I were scheduled to leave for our Christmas trip to Orlando. At the emergency room, I was told that Sven would probably pass in the next few days. I was given a plastic insert for the toilet and a strainer. You have not lived until you've strained your own pee, let me just tell you.<br />
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Sven did not pass within the next few days. I called the urologist to whom I had been referred. She gave me a prescription for a medication that was supposed to "relax my ureter." It just figures that I'd have an uptight ureter. The pharmacist indicated that Tamulosin is typically prescribed to men. I quickly realized that the odds weren't in my favor. Sure enough, nothing happened.<br />
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I went to Disney as planned. On the long drive to the airport that morning, I felt quite a bit of discomfort and thought, "Ohhhh, maybe today's the day!" Having experienced the pain of the initial attack (pain so intense I couldn't form actual thoughts in my head), I was scared to have a recurrence while walking around Epcot or something. Eventually, I started to think that maybe it had passed and that I somehow didn't notice. Maybe Sven broke apart or something - I didn't know what his options were. I had secretly hoped that that roller coasters and all the crazy rides would force an eviction either way. <br />
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The original pain I felt occurred when Sven traveled from my kidney to my bladder - or at least that's my understanding of the situation. Fortunately, once that pain had passed, I only experienced mild discomfort from time to time. Once the new year passed, I was hesitant to generate any new medical bills since the deductible starts over and all that jazz. I still owe over $2,000 from an emergency appendectomy that I had a year ago. I told myself that everything was juuuuust fine. Denial is a powerful thing, mes amis.<br />
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About a week ago, I spent a day feeling really crappy and I suspected it was Sven. The mister encouraged me to call the urologist's office. They sent me to the hospital the next day for a CT scan and bloodwork. On Friday, I met with a Nurse Practitioner at the urologist's office. "It's still there," she said, tapping the screen on which my scan was displayed. SON OF A! Sven had barely moved at all. He was blissfully hanging out in my bladder. The intermittent discomfort was occurring whenever he attempted to block the flow of urine. Sven was endangering my kidney. <br />
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The NP advised me that surgery was needed. She opened a brochure with pictures and started pointing out what needed to be done. I don't know why I hadn't expected this news, but I didn't. I started to feel woozy and hot. I closed the booklet. "I'm sorry, I can't look at it right now," I told her. I then used it to fan myself. I am not a queasy person in general - and goodness knows I've had plenty of surgeries. However, my urethra is intended for outbound traffic only, and the thought of a medical device going in the other way . . . it was just a little too much.<br />
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My surgery was yesterday. It was scheduled at the older hospital in town, which is affiliated with a Franciscan sisterhood. There are crosses everywhere. I winced when I saw a painting in one of the hallways of a surgical scene in which Jesus was present with his hand upon the surgeon's shoulder. I never never never look down on anyone's faith, but I basically just want science in my operating room, thanks. I wondered if the nurse who started my IV noticed my UU chalice tattoo on my arm. <br />
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My husband and I arrived at the hospital at 8:30 for my 10:30 surgery. All of the preparatory stuff went fine. The nurse separated me from my husband so that she could weigh me and then ask me a couple of mandatory questions: was I in fear for my safety at home? did I have thoughts of suicide? I think it's good that they ask these questions.<br />
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The hospital is indeed old but they've modernized a lot of stuff. They have a digital surgery display board. I was assigned a patient number and then my husband I could watch the color coded board to see where I was at any given time - in the operating room, in recovery, and so forth. He and I hung out in a pre-op room for a while. We watched some of the Cohen hearings, mostly because the broadcast was on virtually every channel. Will his testimony be enough to change the minds of Trump supporters? I doubt it. "He's being railroaded! Fake news!" Whatevs.<br />
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A parade of people came through my room to meet me. The hospital calls it a "Circle of Care." My favorite was Jenny, the nurse who got my IV in on the first try. My veins get a little uncooperative sometimes. I met the anesthesiologist and a couple of other nurses. Then the urologist herself came in. I had already read the reviews on her, most of which seem to frown on her bedside manner. Indeed, she was not the friendly sort - just matter-of-fact. That doesn't bother me too much as long as she's competent at her job. I asked her a couple of questions and I could tell that she would have preferred that I had kept them to myself.<br />
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Now, there must have been a note in my file about my pre-Disney attempts to get the stone out, because the nurse who wheeled me to the operating room asked about the trip. She is getting ready to go to Disney as well. I was moved to the hard, flat operating table and then three of us were chatting about Disney. They were a friendly bunch. Soon, the anesthetic was added to my IV. Apparently, my last words before sleep were something like, "I really thought the Tower of Terror would have taken care of this."<br />
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I woke up in recovery with a young nurse named Rachel looking after me. "So, you thought the Tower of Terror was going to fix your stone, huh?" The OR nurse had passed along the news. Then she asked me if I wanted more ice chips. I didn't remember asking for any. Holy cow, anesthesia is just the weirdest experience.<br />
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Eventually, I was wheeled to a normal hospital room and my husband was there. I was given a Vicodin (and some Saltines) and was accompanied to the bathroom with a male nurse whose name I've forgotten. I'll spare you the details on my bathroom trip but . . . owie.<br />
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I almost forgot one super important detail (not that anyone is still reading). I was originally told that a stent was a sure thing. The stent would be installed in my ureter to make sure it stayed open. When I met the doctor, she called it a 50/50 chance. This had been my biggest fear all along - leaving the hospital with hardware that was likely to be very uncomfortable. Fortunately, I did not need the stent.<br />
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Once I felt well enough to get dressed, my husband drove me home. We stopped along the way to pick up my prescription for Vicodin. I went home and went to bed. I spent the rest of the day in bed, watching dumb daytime TV shows. Daytime commercials are the worst - no, I am not at home because I've been injured in a motorcycle accident, have Mesothelioma, or have a child with a birth injury. But let me know if y'all have those things and I can tell you who to call.<br />
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So, that's the tale of Sven. The pain isn't too bad today. I've taken half a Vicodin so that I can still work in a couple of hours. Wheeeeee<br />
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I don't really have any photos to share with this post so here is my Chalice tattoo. :-)<br />
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<br />Alabaster Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07135441846204787611noreply@blogger.com1