Good Enough

So what is a woman to do that finds herself with child…and has already been stressing over getting her other three children some coverage?

She pulls herself together, that’s what she does. She swallows her pride and her innate tendency to procrastinate.

She gathers all the documents and information that she thinks they could possibly want.

She drives to the closest State office. She gathers her youngest two and marches in. She tries not to notice the people sitting around the waiting area, she doesn’t want to know what they’re thinking. The lady at the counter says she brought the wrong papers. “Your in the wrong place.” the lady says.

It’s all she can do to keep from crying. She knew this would happen.

“Where can I go to turn these in?”

“Here’s the number.” Says the lady.

Defeated she takes her children back outside. She buckles them in. She tries to swallow the lump building in her throat. She breathes. Then  she calls the number on the post-it the lady wrote down. After a brief conversation with a helpful woman, she is advised to sign up for a different kind of state funded insurance. This would bring coverage for her growing family in a more timely manner.

So what should she do? Go home, print out more forms, come back another day? No. She was in fighting mode. She wanted to get this taken care of in the most efficient manner possible. She was already at the building. She may as well go back in and demand some help. Why didn’t she deserve some help and kindness? Obviously all those people already sitting in the waiting area had more backbone. They were staying put until their troubles were to be addressed.

She felt somewhat entitled. Her husband had always paid their taxes. She volunteered in the community. She regulary gave money to local charities. She told herself there was no reason to feel ashamed. She needed this for herself and her children now. There was no room for pride here.

So she took her children back inside. She went back to the counter where a kind older man stood. “Here is my situation” she said as she tried to control the quiver in her voice. “Can’t you help me? Can you show me what to do? I promised myself I wouldn’t leave here without taking care of this.”

“You must go see the nurse. You must take a pregnancy test. Here is the paperwork. You can come back and see me when you’re done.” He said.

Back to the room they trudged. The children were exuberant. This was a great adventure for them. Into a little room with the nurse. She was old and grey, her skin was dark and her voice was gentle. This nurse had much experience with hormonal women. “What are you’re plans with this pregnancy?” the nurse asked. “Do you plan to terminate it?”

“No!” She almost shouted. But she realized many women did this. They had unexpected pregnancies and came in to seek this cruel form of birth control. “This baby is wanted.” She stated. “We have plenty of money to feed,clothe, and shelter our children. We just can’t afford the medical expense.”

She could guess what the nurse, as well as many others would think of this. Perhaps no more children should be had by families that rely on the state to cover medical costs? Isn’t three enough? She could see their point, their thought process. She couldn’t keep the tears from falling from her eyes. Was it selfish of her to want a bigger family when she was already blessed with three beautiful healthy children? She couldn’t help feeling slightly ashamed, and humiliated here in this small office where many women had come before her. But she tried to remember that someday they would be able to afford their own health care. The business was growing. Her husband was a hard worker. “Someday” she thought, “I won’t have to go through this.”

The pregnancy test was of course positive. The nurse kindly shooed them out of her office. Handing her the forms.

She took herself back to the front desk asking for further instructions.

Today she sits with a packet in her hand ready to take to the post-office. Her husband worked on it for three hours the previous night. Providing documents and receipts. She will take it in very soon and send it back to be processed with all the other applications. When it leaves her hands she will be relieved. She did what she could. Now she can only hope that soon she will receive a coupon saying she can go see a real doctor. And maybe she can take her 2 year old in for immunizations he is 1 year overdue for. And maybe every time her children get sick she won’t have to pray it doesn’t turn into infection. Maybe the pressure of diagnosing her children and wondering if they’re sick enough for a $73 doctor’s visit will be taken off of her shoulders for the next year.

For now she will turn in the papers, and then she will pray.

My husband said said it right, after I relayed the story. “So you had Beattlemania?”

In so many words, Mr.Good. Only I think it’s SoYouThinkYouCanDancemania!

Thanks to an amazing birthday gift from my little sister. Check out the link because I write in full detail at Seattle Mom Blogs!

After that night Buster’s health did not get any better.

He still had trouble uri*nating. He was moody. But after the hospital visit, Mr.Good was even more assured that nothing was wrong with our boy.

The next weekend rolled around, and matters became clearly defined.  Buster began throwing up and having loose bow*els by Sunday evening. I stayed up with him all night. He began complaining of intense stomach pains. I let him relax in the bath, where he could barely sit up straight. He was getting very weak. By Monday he could only sit on his little inflatable bed. We had to carry him around on it because he was in too much pain for us to touch and hold him directly.

Mr.Good left for work that morning.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I loaded up Missy and Buster in the car and headed to Auntie’s house. I would leave Missy there and take Buster to his pediatrician. I had given him some ibuprofen that morning and it seemed to help his mood. His pediatrician was, of course booked that day, we saw the Nurse Practitioner. I immediately liked her. She took me seriously, she was sensitive to the fact that we had no health insurance. Although Buster performed like a champ for her she was still suspicious. She poked his inflated tummy. He seemed to have a lot of gas, and said it didn’t hurt that much. She asked him where it hurt the most, he indicated to his right side. But even then, not that much, he said with his three year old wisdom. She asked him to jump up and down. He did. She asked if it hurt. He said no. He had a smile on his face.

This was a different boy than I had nursed the night before.

She suspected appendicitis. She said we should go to Children’s Hospital to be diagnosed. They had programs there for people without insurance. We would have to wait in the E.R. that was adjacent to the Regional Hospital. Everyone had to be admitted through there.

Picture the waiting room of the regional E.R. in downtown Anaheim CA. It was packed. We waited for four hours. I debated leaving. Buster seemed fine. Was it really worth it? He was smiling, laughing, walking around. After two hours I asked the admitting attendance. 

You should wait. She said. Even if you go back to his ped’s and he gets diagnosed with appendicitis there, he’d have to come back through here to be admitted. It shouldn’t be too long now.

I couldn’t help judging the people I saw as I sat there with Buster and his favorite blanky curled in my lap. No one really seemed as sick as he had. The little 11 year old girl across from us sat there with her father. She looked fine. She was being over dramatic to get out of school. That’s what I thought about her.

Then there was the little baby with a head wound. Why didn’t they make him priority?

It looks worse than it is. They told the mother.

I wanted to scream. IF MY SON IS HAVING AN APPENDICITIS IT COULD BE ABOUT TO BURST! DOES ANYONE CARE ABOUT THAT?

But we waited in silence. For two more hours.

What a relief it was for me when we saw a real nurse. She weighed Buster, took his temperature. It was high. We talked about his symptoms. He was admitted to a small room decorated for children, with a TV/Video on the wall. Oh joy of joys! He could finally relax. A nice Doctor came in and apologized for the wait. He was handsome. As far as I was concerned nothing else mattered. This man would tell me what was wrong with my child.

They started Buster on an I.V. drip. He was dehydrated. I told the nurse he only got one poke with Buster, he better get it right the first time. Buster was eerily calm with all that was going on. He didn’t seem to care. He kept his eyes on the movie. The nurse got it in right away. By this time Mr.Good and Grandpa Good showed up.   

They came and took our little boy in for an ultrasound. I remember seeing a technician and a doctor in the small room. They were shocked at what they were seeing. His appendix had burst, and been broken for many days now. Pockets of infection riddled his stomach. The largest one was covering his bla*dder and ure*thra.  Which was why he couldn’t use the toilet.

He is the bravest little guy I’ve ever met, said the Doctor. I can’t believe he’s not screaming in pain right now. 

So what’s next? I asked. Are you going to operate? I had visions in my mind of a quick, easy surgery, and Buster coming home in a few days.

Little did I know that the diagnosis was just the beginning. My husband and I had no idea what a nightmare that next month would be. The battle was far from over.

Because things had been a little too “happy” around here.

Because We all know what happens when things feel too happy and perfect and life is just how mommy wants it.

Because I had recently declared to all friends, family, and neighbors that no more babies were in our plans for another year or so.

Because I almost fainted at the Hair Dresser’s.

Because some how this little pooch seemed harder to stuff into the jeans than usual.

Because a simple lesson in Fifth grade, and my last baby should have been an indicator at how easy it can be for us.

Because it is still hard to believe that it only takes one “oops.”

Because the stick said I am.

So I am.

And I couldn’t be happier.

This is my veteran, my Grandpa Bud. My hero.
We celebrated his birthday last night.
My 6 year old son was proud to know that he had a veteran in the family.
“Grandpa, which war were you in?” I asked him.
“I was in World War II, on a ship called the USS Tucson.” said Grandpa
“Did your side win?” my son wanted to know.
Everyone laughed.
“Sometimes we did and sometimes we didn’t,” was his reply.

He told us some stories. He was in charge of payroll on the USS Tucson. “Were there any perks to that job?”
“Well, no one minded when I cut in first in the chow line!”

My Grandpa said the worst battle he saw was with Mother Nature. There were some storms that even the massive ship he was on could barely handle. He could literally see the ship bending in the storm. Other ships were not as lucky and didn’t survive.

Writing this today I realize there is still so much about my Grandpa’s life that I don’t know. He’s a quiet man, unless something is irritating him. In my 31 years knowing my Grandpa, I’ve known him to be extremely generous, a little intimidating, very tough and hard working, and the hugest fan of my Grandma.

My Grandparents have been all over the U.S. and I’ve been lucky to go with them on some of their travels. I have many wonderful memories of visiting my Grandparents, who spoil us because we are there only grandchildren. That’s why my mom had 7 children.

I’m so grateful to my Grandpa for his sacrifice for his country, as well as all the others that have before him, and those continue to do so today. And for the families that support these men and women. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help hoping my children won’t become veterans as well. Yet if that is the road is the road they decide to travel I hope they will return home safely like my Grandpa Bud.

Thanks is not enough Grandpa! We love you, we appreciate you, and we’re proud of you!

So I write a full report over here, but I think I can be even more free with my opinions on my own blog.

Believe me people I still have much to say on this matter.

A little history…

I’ve been through many a musician in my time. No one very successful, mind you, but some of them have been on small tours and played venues that were pretty packed. They could never get to the next level. Maybe my love, once forsaken, left them empty with nothing new to write about? At least that’s a nice way of looking at it. None of them made for good boyfriends. Although some had day jobs, one slept on the couch of his brothers condominium. A bit of an inconvenience when we were making out. It was that same one that would ask me for money when we went out to Denny’s after the shows. He was going nowhere fast.

Ben Lee looks like a Hobbit Rockstar. He’s very short, and has wild curly hair, but I don’t know how big his feet are. That being said, the guy must have an easy time with the women. I know if I was pre-Mr.Good I would become a groupie. Because when Ben Lee sings and plays his guitar…sorry, I spaced out there for a minute…where was I? Oh yeah, when he performs it’s amazing. That’s all I can say. Go see him when he comes to your town. It’s a beautiful thing.    

So let me preface with the fact that my youngest sibling is away at college for the first time in her life. I asked her if I could post SOME of her e-mail…she said yes. But I can’t post only SOME of it. I must post it all. I cannot edit this e-mail. To me it is TOO GOOD for so many reasons! I wasn’t sure how she’d take to college, she is brilliant so I knew she’d do well in her classes…but let me just say she’s a bit eccentric (the theatre type) and I was nervous for her and how she would relate to the minions. Plus she IS the youngest of six, and let’s face it…spoiled! There, now that the air has cleared…I’m sorry I doubted you Sis. I’m sorry that I’m so shocked your handling your roommate problems so well. And my heart is gladdened that you have grasped the concept of how sometimes motherhood can be so thankless. Thank you for thanking our mom. Thank you for realizing so soon how hard she works for us.   

So my fellow people…here is the e-mail that made my chin drop… 

Hello Family,
So, for almost a week now, ever since the whole ordeal with [my roommate], I’ve been doing everyone’s dishes. All the time. Always. Every single day. I figured, “Hey, if they see me constantly doing their dishes, they’ll feel guilty and start cleaning theirs right away as apposed to filling them with water, laying them in the sink and thinking that counts for them doing their part.” MAYBE it would count if we had a dishwasher, cause all I would have to do would be to stick them in there. But no, I have to scrub them off, rinse and de-contaminate them with dish soap, and then dry them. Well, my act of charity, (if you could call it that, seeing how my intentions weren’t very Christ-like,) has had the opposite effect. Instead of encouraging them to clean themselves, they have either consciously decided to take advantage of my hospitality, they got the idea that a kind little elf magically makes their dirty dishes disappear, or they simply just don’t care. Because noow, they NEVER do their dishes. They used to every once in a while. We would kind of take turns. But now, no. Never. They know I’m going to do them. So why should they?
   I’ve been sick for the past three and a half days so I haven’t eaten anything at all. I can’t keep it down. And the things I HAVE eaten have come in disposable containers. So you can imagine my surprise when I’ll leave my bedroom for THE FIRST TIME at the end of the day to find a sink filled to the brim with bowls, plates, cups and silverware, most of which haven’t been rinsed, just WAITING for me to take care of them. I didn’ dirty one of those dishes, yet I’m the one who stops what I’m doing to make the problem go away.
   Now, might I say, after seeing that my plan for silently urging them into submission wasn’t working, I realized, “What kind of MORON am I?” I remember when mom used to gather all the things I had left around the house and pile them in front of my bedroom door, thinking that I would see them and put them away. No. One of two things would happen; 99.9% of the time, and I meant that statistic literally, I would simply hop over the pile and move on with my life. I would do this for days on end before she decided to shove them over the threshold herself. OR, I would push the pile in after a couple of days and just let it sit THERE forever. Mother never seemed to understand that I was not compelled to put things away by this particular tactic of hers.
   Well, this is the same kind of situation. And I am aware now that if I continue to do their dishes, I am going to continue to do their dishes. It’s not going to make them start doing their own. Guilt does not work on most people. I feel like an unappreciated mother. This is GREAT practice for being a mom in fact. They eat, I clean up after them, and MAYBE, MAYBE every once in a while I get a, “Thank you.” But it’s NEVER a , “Thank you for starting to do my dishes, but let me take care of it. It’s my mess.” No. They might SAY thank you, but they never ever offer to help. Some thanks… I would rather skip the gratitude and take the labor.
   What I’m excited for is Thanksgiving. Because I’m the only one going home for five days. My roomates are only leaving for the day of. So while I’m gone, the dishes are going to pile up to the ceiling and they will be so confused… And maybe, for one moment in time, they’ll actually appreciate me. But I, now being aware of human selfishness, know perfectly well that once I get back, they’re not going to act any differently. They’re not going to think, “Wow. She helped out a lot while she was here, maybe I should reciprocate the kind gesture.” No. HERE’S what they’re gonna think, “Thank HEAVENS she’s back. Now she can do her job again.”
   Regardless of that fact, I’m still going to do their dishes and take out the trash all the time. If I go the extra mile I’ll never have to feel like a bad roommate. And I can’t force them to be good roommates. The only one I can be sure to take care of is myself. So I will and be content with that.
   That being said, Mom? I want to apologize. I’m sorry for always leaving my bowls in the sink full of water instead of taking an extra two seconds to rinse it and stick it in the dishwasher. I’m sorry for hopping over the pile of my stuff that you always left in front of my bedroom door. I still think it was a pretty silly idea of yours that it would ever compel me to actually put it away, but still, I can’t fix your silly ideas. I can only fix my inconsiderate actions. And, I know I always said thank you for all the meals you made me, but I’m sorry that I never offered to help you make them. It’s the same thing with the dishes. They might say, “We appreciate it,” but if they don’t show gratitude, why should I believe them?
   Oh, and I’m sorry for not doing things right away when you told me to do them. One time, we were COMPLETELY out of toilet paper in this apartment, and I had to go really bad. It was [roommate’s] turn to buy it, so I asked her to go get some. Now, there is a grocery store IN the apartment complex. Not nearby, not across the street, IN the apartment complex. But for some reason, Sarah didn’t grasp the fact that it was a necessity to have the paper NOW. So when I asked her to go get some, she said, “It’s on my to-do list.” PARDON?! IT’S ON YOUR “TO-DO”?! WELL THAT’S JUST GREAT! I’LL JUST STAND HERE DEVELOPING A BLADDER INFECTION WHILE YOU’RE NOT GETTING TOILET PAPER BECAUSE YOU’RE BUSY DOING….WHAT? NOT THE DISHES! THAT’S FOR SURE! Yeah…it was then that I decided to do things that people asked me to do as soon as possible after they make the request. And if it has anything to do with urinary functions, I will get on it right away.
   It’s amazing that living in an apartment with two women my age is preparing me for being a mother. They’re teaching me how to deal with working really hard to make someone happy and then being unappreciated and yelled at. GREAT practice for raising teenagers.
   And apparently it’s only taken me eighteen years to learn that most people don’t want to better themselves. They just want to continue being the same immature, inconsiderate, rude, slobs that they are and tell themselves that everyone else has the problem. Because if they admit they anything is wrong with them, that means THEY have to fix it. That means that THEY have to feel guilty. Another thing, apparently people LOVE admitting that they feel guilty about something, but they don’t love so much actually DOING something to CHANGE what it is they did that they feel guilty about. “So,” they think, “why feel guilty in the first place? Why not just never admit or let it cross my mind that I did anything wrong.” So if nothing I am going to do is going to be fix them, I’ll just stop trying to come up with ways to fix their problems and only paying attention to what I’m doing wrong. I’m the only one I can attempt to perfect. I’m the only one who I can make be a better person. Took me a while to realize this… Even though I swear dad’s been telling me that same thing for years. I swear I listen to everything he says. I just really didn’t get the significance of that one till now.
   Meanwhile, I’m still sick. I’ve been sick for three days now. And I’m sick of it. Today is the worst yet. One side of my nose is stuffed and the other side is really runny, my throat is sore and I keep coughing and sneezing.
   I’m coming home in seventeen days.
   Just thought I’d share.

Hang in there little sister! We’ve all been through it! Roommates are such a necessary evil. And I’m wanting to know…fellow bloggers and lurkers alike…what are your pyscho roommate stories? Come on, you know you’re still bitter!

I sit here, eating bite sized Twix bars and fighting back tears. Sure, I jest of having a personal relationship with Buster’s teacher because I get a weekly phone call home…but it’s beginning to get old. I don’t want to have this kind of relationship with his teacher.

I feel completely helpless. It goes beyond embarassment too hear my child is pushing kids in line and talking back to the teacher. This is my first born. My test subject, if you will. I hurt because he is struggling in school. Academically he is fine. He is intelligent. He is learning to read. He is doing well on his spelling tests. I’d say after helping out in class that he is slightly above average for a boy his age, which is exactly where I would want him to be. But he is having a hard time paying attention, listening to directions the first time around, and he’s not being respectful to his teacher…These are things we work on at home. We work on respect…we work on it every day. He never follows my directions the first time around. Or the second. But how can I help him at school when he’s away and it’s even more crucial for him to get this right?

I feel like the respect issue, and keeping his hands to himself are clear cut problems that Mr.Good and I can easily address. What really has me worried is how to get him out of his own head…how can I help him daydream a little less, so that at the very least he can hear his teacher when she says it’s time to get ready to go?

I feel for his teacher, I realize she has 21 other students to help. I don’t want my child to be the problem student. I love Buster. I want him to do well and reach his potential.

I didn’t see this coming at such an early stage in his academic career.

Advice is welcome and sought after regarding this conundrum.

I hesitate to put myself out there. To be honest the thought has never even crossed my mind. I’m wondering why I have this sudden urge to write something bigger?

Maybe I’m just a little tired of reality? And the thought of leaving it every day for an hour or two sounds fun. Maybe it’s my little identity crisis, or maybe this blogging thing has helped me recognize where my passions lie.

Whatever the crazy reason I have joined National Novel Writing Month. It sounds like a great adventure I can have at home, and I’m always up for experiencing something new.

I have no clear idea or plot in my head…I just know that I want to try this. I have no expectations of myself other than I will write every day and see where it takes me. Still, with as little pressure as I have put on myself I can’t help but be scared. You must understand my personality. I’m not a marathon runner…a novel is a literary marathon. I’ve always been drawn to sprint triathlons, they hold my attention because each portion of the race is short, and you have to be able to change focus. Short stories, anecdotes,  these are pieces I enjoy writing. I still say I will never run a marathon, but I may walk one someday! And I may finish half a book by the end of November. Or even just get a solid idea out there that I can go with. Who knows? I won’t unless I try. So wish me luck. Encouragements and inquiries are welcome. Just don’t ask to read this so called story…I’m already bashful about it and I don’t even know what it’s going to be about.

Don’t you think she’s a natural?

“So tonight Emilie shaved her legs for the first time.  I wanted to scoop up the hair in
the bathtub and tape it in her baby book.  She cringed at the idea.
My little girl is growing up.  I felt my eyes welling up with tears.  She giggled with
glee at her long awaited smooth legs.  Not a tear in sight.  Do I really have to wait
another 20 years until she understands what’s it like and we cry together over my
granddaughter shaving her legs?

Happy Mothering,
Red”

Good luck Red, I love your little Mimi, and I’m crying with you. But let’s face it, that girl was born a grown-up!

Ahhhh, the memories. Do you remember when you first went to shave your legs?

Where you as terrified as I was? 

I was about to enter Junior High (da da dun!) and I knew we had to take P.E. and I knew I’d be wearing shorts in front of all these girls and boys. I didn’t want to do it. I was extremely reluctant to grow up. I was extremely reluctant to move on to that next phase of my life. I fought it with my whole being.

I knew I had to do it. I had no idea how to bring up the issue to my mom. I was the oldest girl of my 5 siblings. There was no one to go before me. No one to “break my parents in” so to speak. And the very idea of holding an object in my hand that was so sharp it could slice off the fine blond hair on my legs paralyzed me.

After stewing and putting off the inevitable, I went to speak to the only woman that could truly help and guide me through this pivotal time in my adolescance.

“Mom” my voice was shook with uncertainty. “Mom, how do I shave my legs? I need to learn before I start 7th grade.”

She looked at me, with all the love a mother of 6 in the middle of changing a dirty diaper could muster and said…”YOU JUST TAKE A RAZOR AND SOME SOAP AND SHAVE! I DON’T KNOW!?”

And that was it.

Mom, you know I love you. But Mom, I was going to SHAVE MY LEGS MOM! Cut an over dramatic, freaked out girl some SLACK!

After some disappointment at the fact that I was on my own with this one, I did just what she said. I took some soap, worked up a good lather, and ever so lightly I touched the razor to my legs. To this day I have yet to cut myself. (totally a lie.)