Trying to Kill My Sister

Today is my sister Carrie's birthday.  I had mentioned in another post that I would tell you about the time I tried to kill her.

Here ya go.


When I was little, my mom got up every morning and made me pancakes, eggs, or French toast.  I know, because I had never eaten cold breakfast cereal until my sister came along.  By then, I didn't like cereal.  I had had the good stuff.   The warm stuff.  The tasty stuff.   The non-soggy and  non-funky tasting, non-Grape-Nuts-oh-dear-Lord-add-some-sugar-so-I-can-swallow-it-down stuff.  I know this is true also because Mom has admitted it.  I  remember, too,  if she didn't feel like cooking on a Saturday, we would go as a family to Lil' Sambos for breakfast.  On one occasion, I distinctly remember being so proud to get to wear my Cookie Monster dress to the restaurant AND not having to sit in the booster seat.  I was stylin' and profilin'.

*I* was a big girl.

Then momma's belly started growing, and they started talking to me about sharing toys and having someone to play with.  I remember being told to hug her belly.

Even then, I thought it was weird.

I was three.

I don't really remember hating the idea of a baby right off.   I think I was fine with it.

At first.

One day I  was presented with a doll, a baby bathtub, a real washcloth and a tiny little bar of real soap.   It was one of the coolest dolls I had ever had, and I loved how the Ivory soap smelled.   I also got a doll bed and a high chair.   This was so I could take care of *my* baby when Mom took care of hers.

Things worked out for awhile I guess, because I don't have any memories of them not.

Until THAT day.

Carrie wouldn't leave me alone.  She crawled around after me all the time.  She got into EVERYTHING.  She broke and ate MY crayons.  She messed with MY toys. Then she started walking.  I would go into my room to play, and there she was.    We weren't allowed to close our doors, so I couldn't lock her out that way.   I just had to tolerate her.

I remember, one day, I was playing with my doll.  Carrie was everywhere I wanted to be.  I had the baby in the doll bed, and then Carrie wanted in the doll bed.  My baby doll had just woken up from her nap and was crying, just like Carrie did all the time, so I knew my doll was hungry.  I tried to put the doll in the high chair, but Carrie was hanging onto me trying to stand up.  When her wobbly toddler legs could hold her and she was steady,  she lurched toward the high chair, knocking off my play baby food and spoon.   Great!  Now I had to clean up pretend baby food off the carpet. Do you *know* how long that takes?

Carrie put her little leg on the high chair and tried to climb it. I pushed her leg down and told her, "No."  She went back to the doll bed and tried to get in.  I told her, "No" again.  My frustration was mounting.

Carrie came back over to the doll high chair again.

And then it happened.

I was so angry at her.  She was always bothering me and I  just wanted her to leave me alone.  I wanted her..... GONE....back to the days of when I could play with my toys.  ALONE.

I pushed her as hard as I could.   She fell right into my bed.  Specifically, into the rails of the bed frame.

She was still and silent for a second and then there was blood.

Lots and lots of blood and lot and lots of screaming.  Bad, bad high-pitched screaming.

Mom came running into my room, and then started yelling at me.

Apparently when Carrie *fell* (notice I used "fell" like it was her fault and not "was pushed" like it was mine), she managed to hit the bottom of her chin causing her little baby rat-like teeth to bite her tongue in half.

In.  Half.

With each little demon-filled scream, you could see that her tongue was hanging by just a little piece of sinew on the side. 

Mom was furious. 

She loaded my butt up into the car and held Carrie, screaming, in her arms as Dad drove us to the clinic.  Momma said I had to watch while they sewed her tongue.

I remember them putting that little bitty baby on a papoose board, strapping her down so she was immobile, and then putting her tongue back together.   Mom made Dad hold me and watch what I had done.

I'll never forget it.  

I guess all is well that ends well.   The coolest thing that came from all of this is that now Carrie can do these crazy shapes with her tongue and fold it in half.   Whenever she sticks it out, it has this weird shape to the end of it.... like an evil face-eating clown or maybe this guy......

Happy birthday, Carrie.   I'm glad you're still around.  

The Only Child

The Kid is an only child.  Her father is the only child of an only child.

I come from a huge family (think the Waltons mixed with the United Nations with a little Special Olympics thrown in), and I never planned on having only one child.

After a miscarriage and my uterus attempting to vacate the building though, surgeries were done that secured her only-childness.

When she was little before THE SURGERY, we would ask her if she wanted a little brother or sister, and like all only children who have been given everything they ever want and have all the attention, she would scream, "NO!"  My husband took it to mean that it was a sign we should never have more.

I hadn't wanted my sister Carrie, but that didn't stop her from entering the world.

And I only tried to kill her twice.

And maim her once. Though that one wasn't really my fault....was it, Carrie?

I promise *holding my fingers in the air* to write a post about all that very soon.

This story, however, is about my child who has suddenly decided she wants brothers and sisters and since she knows this is no longer an option, she's started recruiting the animals to be her siblings so that she can gang up on me the same way we used to gang up on my mom.

For the past three days, The Kid has been begging for pancakes every morning.

My responses were as follows:

Day One: Pancakes?? On a school day?  Are you nuts?
Day Two:   Pancakes?   I'm on stinkin' Tamiflu, my knees are killing me, my head is about to do me in, and I'm running fever.....are you nuts?
Day Three:    NO.

Today, however, I hear this from the bedroom....

Kid talking to the Dog:   She's told me, "No," for three days.  You ask her.
Dog:  silence.
Kid:  I know!   She's mean when she's sick, but I can taste that maple-y goodness now.  Go ask her.
Dog:  silence
Kid:  I'll be right here.   We have to have pancakes.  You know how much you like them.   Go. Ask. Her.
Dog:  silence, but comes into my room.
Kid, whispers from the other room:  You can do it!
Dog: silence.
Kid:  She said, "No," again didn't she?
Me: I didn't say anything, because the Dog didn't ask me anything.
Kid, all downtrodden:   Some day, we'll get them, Puppy, some day.
Kid, brightening up a bit:  PsychoticKitty, YOU go ask her..  Help me, PsychoticKitty, you're our only hope (said like Princess Leia).
PsychoticKitty:   Rawr....pfft, pfft.
Kid:  No, ask her.
PsychoticKitty: *jumps on  my bed*
Kid:   Come on, I can taste their fluffy goodness right now.   You know you want some. Ask her!
PsychoticKitty:   *jumps off  my bed*
Kid:   It's just not meant to be... I'll never have pancakes before I die.
Me:  Are you planning on dying today?
Kid:  No, but I just can see how my life plays out, and there are no pancakes in it.  It's a stalemate.   *sigh*

No, the guilt did not work. She didn't get pancakes.

Expect the Unexpected.... An Unexpected Post after an Unexpected "Visit"

I am not linking this post to my Facebook, because frankly, I'm too embarrassed.

Today, I had an appointment with my obgyn.   Not the annual one all women put off.    Just a good old-fashioned consult.

At least, that's what I thought.  

I thought he would chastise me for putting off my follow-up appointment a YEAR ago when my ovary decided to explode and bleed internally for days in a full-on attempt to kill me.   I thought I'd smile and tell him that after the first follow up when he told me it WAS my ovary and not cancer that I figured the second follow-up appointment wasn't really that important.  I knew he would shake his head and tell me to take better care of myself.  I would nod and tell him I know I should, but....   Then, he would fuss more.  I would bat my eyelashes at him, and explain my current problem with the same bastard of an ovary.  And then he would  CONSULT.

That's what I thought I was there for.... a CONSULT.

Until I was told to strip down and wear the paper gown of shame.  

I hadn't prepped.  I hadn't preened.  If I'd known I was having visitors, I would have picked up the house.

Not only was there a surprise visit, but surprise fingers, surprise lube, surprise medieval torture devices, and surprise sonograms (notice the s!).

Surprise. Surprise. Surprise.

I hate surprises.

To top it all off, there was also a surprise obgyn med student to witness my shame.

Hello, bright and shiny intern-like obgyn student.  

This is what motherhood looks like.   It ain't like the book.  

TBI



I wanted to use a picture of Dory from "Finding Nemo" instead
of using a picture of a real fish,  but I
was afraid that Walt Disney would sue my butt, and
I'm too poor to go to court.   

I write today's story with my husband's blessing.  Not that he may remember he gave it next week, but there it is.

I shared the sweet story of how we met here. Today's a story about the ever after. The in sickness and in health that you're never expecting.

My husband has a TBI, a traumatic brain injury.

He was rear-ended by an 18 wheeler, pushed into oncoming traffic, and then t-boned by an SUV. His extended cab Chevy was totaled.

As was his brain.

He walked away from that wreck without a visible scratch.
All the damage was in his head.  Literally.

Honestly, we got out pretty lucky. I was at work and he called and left me the absolute worst voicemail of all time.

"Hi. It's me. I've been in a wreck with an 18 wheeler in Oklahoma, but I'm fine. Just wanted you to know. Bye."

Of course, I tried to call back immediately, and he wasn't answering.

After letting my principal know and securing someone to cover my class, I rushed up to Oklahoma in a panic. One does not get hit by a semi and turn out fine.

When I finally laid eyes on him, he did *look* fine, but after speaking with him for a few moments it was obvious he wasn't.

"A smarter man would get the circles from the square to put the stuff in from the truck."

"The circles," I wondered aloud.

"The circles!" he said in frustration. "In the square!"

"The square?"

"Yes, Kristi.  The circles from the square!  Jeez, we have a ton of them. We used them when we moved!"

"OH!!! You mean the boxes from the shop!" I said, proud that I figured out what he meant.

"That's what I said!" he muttered in disgust.

"Um, no! You said circles and squares, not boxes and shop."

"No, I didn't.  Why would I say that? That doesn't make any sense."

Oooooooooh.....kaaaay....

I got him in my car and after a few errands to the police station and around town to do wreck-related junk, I finally headed back to Texas, becoming more and more concerned and begging him to go to the hospital the entire way.

There was construction on the road, and we had to take a shortcut.

"Turn left," he ordered.

"Left? But that makes us go north. We want to go south. I need to turn right, " I reasoned.

"That's what I said! Turn left," he said, getting more frustrated.

I was beginning to get the picture, but he steadfastly refused to go to the hospital until I made a phone call to our regular doctor and he refused to treat him.

To the hospital he went. The entire time we were in triage, Big Daddy made fun of what he calls my "tendency to hyperbolize."  Whatever. When I say that there were a million and two people and Wal-Hell or that it's a gazillion degrees outside, you people know it's exaggeration for effect. 

I was not exaggerating how screwed up he was, though....how his words made no sense, and the medical staff soon realized it. In the ER, the nurse and the doctor kept looking at me over the top of his head every time Big Daddy spoke.   Nothing was making sense.  In was out.   Right was left.   On was off.   The hospital bed was now a sleigh.  It was like talking to a drunk kindergartner who had just learned opposites.

We were told it was a severe concussion, give his brain time to heal.   Unfortunately, it didn't get better.

Big Daddy was having awful headaches.   The only way to get rid of them was sleep, and he did that about 16 hours a day. If he wasn't asleep, we were on a ferris wheel of emotion.  He went from laughing to crying to raging within minutes.  He started crying over commercials, getting upset because something was the wrong color of red, or laughing at inappropriate times.  Back to the doctor we went where, after much testing and a half million dollars (exaggeration....but only by about 5 bucks), we discovered he did not have the concussion they thought.   He had a traumatic brain injury.  He had damaged the front part of his brain from the initial impact and the left hand side from when he cracked his head on the side window from the second hit.     Those are the parts that deal with memory, emotions, decision making.

You know, the parts you *never* use.

We are now three years out, and the brain has healed now all it's going to.   We are left with, in the doctors' words, what we are left with.

On good days, it's a nuisance.  On bad days, it's devastating.

Sometimes, it's like living with Dory from Finding Nemo.  He has little to no short term memory now, though memories of things that happened before the accident are fine.

One night, I was browning some hamburger meat.   In came my hubby, searching.  "I'm starving.  What's for dinner?"

"Tacos," I replied.

"I love tacos!"

"I know."

And off he went to watch TV.

I started adding spices.  "Oh, my gosh.  That smells so good.  What are having for dinner?" he asked from the living room.

"Tacos."

"Good!! I love tacos!"

Back to watching TV.

I started warming up the taco shells in the oven, making the house smell like a Mexican restaurant.

"Oh wow!  Something good for dinner!  What are we having?"  Big Daddy asked.

"I'm making you tacos, because I know you love them,"  I replied with a smile

"I do!  Can't wait to eat.  I love tacos."

"I know."

About 10 minutes later, I dished up the plates and called him in for dinner.

"I'm glad dinner's ready!  I'm starving.  You made tacos! You haven't made those in forever! I love those!"

Really?   I had no clue.

Another time, Big Daddy came in to the living room from the bathroom after brushing his teeth, looking confused.

"I can't remember if I've brushed my teeth, yet," he said, running his tongue over his teeth.

Being the teacher I am, I saw a teachable moment. "Well, I know how you could tell.  If you go in the bathroom and your toothbrush is wet, you've brushed your teeth."

"Why would my toothbrush be wet?"

"Well, if you've brushed your teeth, you're going to have put toothpaste on your toothbrush and scrubbed your teeth and then you're going to have rinsed the brush.  That would make your toothbrush wet."

"Oh!" Big Daddy said excitedly.  "That reminds me, I think I need to go brush my teeth."

"Yeah, you do."

*sigh*

I don't know how many times he's started our high efficiency washer filling up with water, went to get the laundry, and forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

Not so high efficiency, after all.

It's not just the short term memory.  It's the inability to concentrate that makes him unable to focus in a crowd; unable to listen to any kind of music and drive;  unable to drive in traffic or unfamiliar places; unable to multi-task in any way.   Heaven forbid, you try to talk to him while he's doing something.   He will bite your head off faster than a fat kid eating a chocolate bunny on Easter morning.

Big Daddy's not good with time either.  He doesn't know if 15 minutes have passed or an hour.  Sometimes he'll spend hours doing something and not realize it.  Conversely, he may work for 15 minutes, get tired, and think he's been at it all day.

He doesn't remember the dates of things anymore or when something is supposed to happen.  Bless his heart, he had a doctor's appointment this week on Monday at 2:30.   I started by telling him on Friday when I made the appointment.  Then I followed it up with several reminders during the weekend just so he wouldn't make plans with anyone for Monday afternoon.  Monday morning, when I went to work, I woke him up and reminded him.    Later that morning, I texted him.   He asked for me to call him later after lunch and remind him again.  Around 12:30 I did, and then I sent another text at 2:24 just in case.

I know lot of folks have memory issues or suffer from bits and pieces of these issues  but mix them all up and throw in a touch of a grizzly bear with PMS who doesn't know whether he wants to laugh, cry, or eat your head, and you'll have Big Daddy sans his medicines.    Meds help some with stabilizing mood and focus.   Nothing is a forever fix, though.

And so we laugh. Together.  A lot.

We, he and I, make fun together when he forgets a word, when he calls inside, the outside; the fridge, the stove; the dishwasher, the fridge; and the cabinet, the sink, as he always does.   We laugh when Big Daddy's driving and a guy cuts him off, and Big Daddy calls him Skipper Doodle the Butthead Clown and gets angry. We laugh when the OCD which  his damaged brain has developed makes him color-code the towels, or the closet, or the plastic cups in the sink, and he doesn't even realize it.   I move things around so the obsessions and compulsions make him fix them, and then tell him I did it later.   Evil, I know, but together we laugh.  

Together.

We laugh when I use my "Big Daddy voice", this gruff and grumpy Grizzly Adams voice, to ease him out of a bad mood.  As I said on Facebook the other day, teasing him out of a bad mood  is like juggling unstable dynamite when riding a unicycle up a Tibetan mountain pass during a hail storm in the dark while being stung by Africanized honey bees.  Totally easy and doable.  

I don't correct him.  I don't tell him when he has the wrong word for something or that it's been three hours that he's been in the backyard working and he's ruined our afternoon plans.   I don't complain when I remind him to pay the Visa bill, forty-seven times, and he acts like he can do it later, and then forgets.   He's not able to do it later. I don't complain about reminding him thirty gazillion times about a dentist appointment.  I try to be patient when it takes him a full minute to process the question and respond, and then he uses the wrong word to answer.

It's part of my guy.   For better or worse, right?   And it could be a LOT worse.  We are so blessed.

So he forgets stuff.  What guy doesn't?

My only fear is this.......

"Old-Timers" runs in my family.  My only hope is that it skips me.  Selfish I know, but I'm afraid he'll forget to feed me.

The Starbucks Effect

Every now and then I enjoy a Starbucks.  Not often, because I'm poor and I have trouble reconciling the fact that a cup of hot water that has been run through some ground-up seeds costs the same thing as a hamburger AND has more calories.

But occasionally, I do enjoy a Carmel Macchiato (whatever the hell a Macchiato is)  or a Coconut Mocha Frapaccunio (yet another made up word). 

I've noticed something when I do.

The first time, I thought something was wrong with me.   The second time, I wondered if I was the only one.  The third time, I asked a friend, because that's how you know you're  not alone on this big ol' rock hurtling through space, you ask someone else if they are as jacked up as you are.   If they are, you're normal.  If they're not, then you ask around until someone else has the same thing going on that you do, and then you consider the friends that don't have it, the weird ones.

Oh yes, my friends, that's how the human mind works.

So anyway, the first time I drank a Starbucks drink, I noticed that my pee smelled exactly like coffee the next couple of times I went to the bathroom. 

How odd, I thought.

When I asked around, lo and behold, other suffered the same fate in the name of their caffiene buzz.    Some didn't, but lots did.

Now right now, you are thinking to yourself, "Self, the last time I drank a Starbucks did my pee smell funny?"

I submit to you, it did.   Due to my very fancy and formal friend-polling of people as they leave the bathroom, I submit to you that about three out of four people suffer from Starbucks pee.   

Yes. Three out of four.  It's almost a syndrome, I tell you.

Recently, because the java goddesses love me, and because I have a generous mother-in-law who gives cash AND presents for Christmas *and* since I have a friend who sniffs out bargains, I became the proud owner of a Keurig coffee center or a what-the-heck-do-they-put-in-those-expensive-little-cups-of-coffee-goodness?-Crack?  coffee machine.

I paid only 44 bucks for a brand new Keurig and felt like because of this, I could splurge on several of the boxes of caffeine-infused crack the coffeemaker requires.

I got morning hot tea.  I got coconut mocha coffee.  I got coffee shop coffee.  I got lightly roasted coffee.  I got dark Sumatra blend coffee.

The result?

Every single one, except for the hot tea, makes my pee smell like coffee.   Every. One.

So here's your assignment, you Keurig devotees.

Go brew a cup of coffee.  Drink it up.  Pee.  And then tell me I'm not alone.

Please.

Tell me, I'm not the only one. Tell. Me.      

Oldmanass-itis

NOT Big Daddy.  My Big Daddy is way hotter, younger,
 and doesn't wear tighty whiteys, but the premise is similar.
And the ass is the same.  Kinda.   

Back in the day, I loved Big Daddy's booty.  Lately it has slid off his body, like California off the West Coast during The Big One.  

I'm not sure where it went, I guess it slowly eroded away.   His back now just goes straight down to his knees.

From the rear, he looks like one of the old men at the Feed Store in a pair of Wranglers they've had since Carter was President.   Or like he has a full, dirty diaper.

Whatever.

There's no butt there; it's just wrinkled, empty material.

The other day, he remarked on the fact that his pants are all suddenly too long.   He wondered aloud what had happened. Maybe he'd lost weight.

"Nope.  Oldmanass-itis,"  I replied, sagely.

"What?"  he asked.

"Oldmanass-itis.  You know like Hank Hill or  those old men whose asses have disappeared and their ears have started sprouting ear hair.  They speak slowly and just stand around in a loose circle talking about nothing for hours, hitching up their pants every now and again, even though they're wearing belts.  You know the ones.  Hey, speaking of that. Do I need to pluck your ear hair again?"

"I have never looked at an old man's butt before."

"Well, the next time we go to Golden Corral or Cracker Barrel, check out all the old men's butts, and then look in the mirror.  It's the same.   Oldmanass-itis."

"Let me get this straight.  You want me to look at guys' butts?"

"Yep."

"I'm gonna make THAT my facebook status."






****A response to the numerous people who emailed me directly, and one lovely TROLL who emailed  *HATE* specifically to me and my boobs.....  I would like to say I have mentioned  several times on my blog that time is taking/ has taken a toll on  has destroyed my lovely physique, as well.   I took on my own body issues in several blog posts, here, here, and here, not to mention also here and definitely here  (because everyone wants to read about my colon issues or the time I farted!) but I mentioned my boobs specifically in this one.  Perhaps you are new, and didn't realize that I'm constantly making fun of myself.   So, to the *awesome* hater who said Big Daddy would leave me for making fun of him... first, know that I publish everything AFTER he has read it and said it's okay to put on the internets AND just in case you are still here and reading, I want you to know I also wrote a  lovely little ditty about a tick in his  ASS here (I know how much that word bothered you since you capitalized it 13 times  in your email...be careful though, it's called ASStick..).  To the comment you made that I was emasculating him by my post,  obviously by the number of posts making fun of myself, I  emasculated myself first.  

Wait... That didn't come out right.  ;)

Gotta Cut Footloose.......

Sometimes, The Kid doesn't know how lucky she is....

Case in point...

Last week, I was driving to school, and the radio was playing all awesome 80s songs....

You know...like "Some Like It Hot" by The Power Station.

It has that awesome hand clapping part.  So there I was driving down the road, clapping with the clap solos. I  totally rock that part.  Like I could be the hand clapper in a professional band.  Really.

The Kid started freaking out.   "MOM!!! You're gonna kill us in a fiery auto crash.  Seriously.  Hands on the wheel! Just drive!"

I was fine...my knee totally had the steering wheel.  "Chill, child.   My knee is in control.  We're totally safe!"

"Mom!  I'm serious. That is not safe."

I relented to my little parental unit and put one hand on the wheel.

"BOTH MOM!  That's not okay!"

"Fine!"

Geez....who's the parent?   Doesn't she realize this song was awesome and that I had to time my claps *just right* in order for them to sound like the song.  It was an art.

To sing, clap, drive, and harass my kid?   That's a quadruple threat right there.

The next song was Foreigner's "Feels Like the First Time."    Yet another awesome song.   It's like the DJ knew I was going to need to be pumped up for the last week of school.

Oh yeah.   Immediately  my hands started dancing.  I did The Wave and The Robot.  Yes, it's not really a Robot kind of song, but The Kid was freaking out enough, that I couldn't resist showing off my awesome moves.

Oh, and singing it at the top of my lungs.

Good.  Times.  She'll probably need therapy later.

"MOTHER!  I just told you!   Both hands on the wheel.  Ten and two.  It's not funny!  Seriously.  Stop laughing.  Not one finger like that either, MOM.  All five fingers.  Of BOTH hands."

"I've got this," I said laughing.   "I'm not going to risk our lives!  I am totally in control of this vehicle.  I'm not even messing around when there is a car coming if you notice."

"MOM.  I'm not joking.  You are not setting a good example.  STOP.  Seriously.  Will you just drive?  Gah, you're so embarrassing."

"Ummmm... there's no one here to hear me or see me.  If it bothers you this badly, I'll stop......maybe."

But the DJ gods were against me.

They played "Footloose" next.

Now years ago, when the original movie came out, I spent hours trying to learn how to do my feet just like during the title sequence.

I couldn't let those hours of practice go to waste.

My only sadness was I didn't have on Converse.

Pity.

I did the best I could in black patent leather heels.

"Are you kidding me, MOTHER?   Stop. I command you.  Hands on the wheel. All five fingers. Feet on the pedals.  Quit laughing too, mom. It's not that funny and you're freaking me out. Do you know EVERY song on the radio?"

When did my 12 year old turn into an 80 year old constipated woman who couldn't find her prunes?

About that time, I pulled into the school parking lot, late for work.

Right in front of the school principal.

Busted.

"We're late, mom.   You know, we would have been on time if you hadn't been trying to dance and had been driving right.  You need to go explain to the principal why you are late!"

"Because 'Footloose' was on the radio? And you are grumpy and act like an old lady and wouldn't let me dance all the way through because you don't like me to have fun?  That reason?"

"MOM!"

"I'm just saying."

"MOTHER!"

"Fine, I'll tell him."

And I did.