How could I possibly forget?
I talk to you more in person now, so writing to you seemed less important, but I think that was a mistake. Sometimes I need your calm and content presence in my heart to remind me of what I have. You remind me so much of all the wonderful things that I have and of all the wonderful things that could be that we aren't even aware of.
Squib is having some medical issues. I imagine your response to that would be, "So, and?" And we would commiserate and laugh. Who in our family doesn't, right? Or your secondary response, "But we still have music!" Do you know what I wish for the most? Believe it or not it's on par with being able to visit with you in my house. I wish we could just talk. I know from your frustration that you wish that, too, sometimes. It's a funny juxtaposition. Would I give up seeing you if I knew you would be totally healed? Or would I turn it down because I'm your mom and you're my son and I need and love to see you? To be honest...I'd turn it down. At least at the moment. We are who we are and you're abilities make you...you.
Still, I wish I could ask you how to make this better for Squib. Or what you remember. Maybe even that you and he could talk about it and share your gruesome tales of Texas Children's just to get it out of your system. His fear of shots and needles. Your fear of anyone or anything in scrubs.
But most of all, I want to say--to both of you boys--how very much I've not only come to love you but also found that I need you, too. As babies you were such foreign things. Cute little cuddly guys to wash, change, feed, burp, take to the ER every Thursday whether we needed to or not, LOL. Now, as your personalities have grown and you have become the young men that you are, I find that I don't just love you. I need you, too. Just as you need me.
I need you to steal my chair when I get up during the movie to use the restroom. I need you to glare at me when I dare desecrate a viewing of Andrea Bocelli's Sacred Arias (for Pete's sake). I need you to call me a turkey. I need you to randomly scream "race!" when we're walking so that I have to run to catch up. I need you to bolt for the parking lot as though you are invincible to large, moving machinery. I need you to snitch every bite of anything I try to put in my mouth because you turned it down before, but it's apparently better if I'm trying to eat it. I need you to quietly and innocently say, "try moooore" when you're on my back piggy-style while I do the hula and jump on one leg as though I have infinite strength and endurance.
And oh, man. Try more.
What I couldn't do if that was my mantra and encouragement as well.
Momma
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Arming My Children Was A Bad Idea
Perhaps.
But I am glad I started with NERF gear. It is advisable. When I was a kid, we were armed with disk guns and/or BB guns at approximately the same time. I am really, really, really not sure why we were not more injured back then. Yesterday, Squib shot himself 3 out of 5 times. His learning curve is INCREDIBLE, though. Today he's almost as good a shot as I am.
And I am hurting!!! And not just because I am old...er and slightly creaky in new places and have been running about hell-bent on demolishing my offspring. But also 'cause those little NERF darts can smart a bit if they hit you in the wrong places...like the earlobe.
I specified all the appropriate "how to shoot" tips...but I didn't think either of them was quite the shot to zing me in the earlobe. Thrice now. And when being taught how to shoot...things...with things...I don't ever recall anyone saying anything about earlobes. Well...not in this context...
I was arming two people who still ask for pieces of "tandy" and three kisses at bedtime and every time I leave to go somewhere...
...and then...
...mid fight...
...this morning...
I was hiding behind the island in the kitchen and it occured to me that the smallest one had gone quiet. He's five. I thought he'd lost interest or found something he'd lost and forgotten we were waging war in the living areas, so I went out to search for him.
And found him.
He was stripping off his belt. He had already shed his shoes, dumped out his pockets, and was jumping up and down inside the closet listening to see if he made any noise. I asked what he was doing. He said, "I think I make too much noise, Momma, that's how you always find me. So I was making sure I was all quiet before I came back out to get you." He had the most focused and serious look on his face, too. It was downright terrifying.
Tomorrow he will have discovered grease paint and duct tape...I had better sleep with my dart rifle...
Scat
But I am glad I started with NERF gear. It is advisable. When I was a kid, we were armed with disk guns and/or BB guns at approximately the same time. I am really, really, really not sure why we were not more injured back then. Yesterday, Squib shot himself 3 out of 5 times. His learning curve is INCREDIBLE, though. Today he's almost as good a shot as I am.
And I am hurting!!! And not just because I am old...er and slightly creaky in new places and have been running about hell-bent on demolishing my offspring. But also 'cause those little NERF darts can smart a bit if they hit you in the wrong places...like the earlobe.
I specified all the appropriate "how to shoot" tips...but I didn't think either of them was quite the shot to zing me in the earlobe. Thrice now. And when being taught how to shoot...things...with things...I don't ever recall anyone saying anything about earlobes. Well...not in this context...
I was arming two people who still ask for pieces of "tandy" and three kisses at bedtime and every time I leave to go somewhere...
...and then...
...mid fight...
...this morning...
I was hiding behind the island in the kitchen and it occured to me that the smallest one had gone quiet. He's five. I thought he'd lost interest or found something he'd lost and forgotten we were waging war in the living areas, so I went out to search for him.
And found him.
He was stripping off his belt. He had already shed his shoes, dumped out his pockets, and was jumping up and down inside the closet listening to see if he made any noise. I asked what he was doing. He said, "I think I make too much noise, Momma, that's how you always find me. So I was making sure I was all quiet before I came back out to get you." He had the most focused and serious look on his face, too. It was downright terrifying.
Tomorrow he will have discovered grease paint and duct tape...I had better sleep with my dart rifle...
Scat
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A Funny Little Day (NOW)
I took Pawpaw and Baba Scat to radiation today. Well, Pawpaw Scat was having a radiation treatment. Baba Scat believes it is her bound duty to drag her tired self around with us. We all know not to argue, so we don't and after only three days, she is already getting too tired for things like manners and tact toward even perfect strangers. Usually they benefit more from manners than we do.
For whatever reason, they have decided the only reasonable place to eat is the hospital cafeteria (two enthusiastic thumbs down except for the gummy bears which are exquisite). The hospital cafeteria at lunch time is interesting because most of the tables are round or long and seat six or more and if there are only three of you, you end up sitting with people you don't know. Fostering community interaction or some such rot, perhaps. I think this secretly horrifies Baba and we try to insulate her from "the others" by sitting her between us and keeping the conversation between us as much as possible but I foiled that by commenting on someone else's back pack. Yes, yes I did. To be sure, the pack was a Swiss Army pack identical to mine with no distinguishing marks (like mine) and a white iPhone in the cell phone pouch (like mine). I did almost feel the compunction to pick up said pack and walk away. I continued conversing with the owner of said pack, Ira. Ira was a nice man waiting for his physical therapy appointment. After a brief chat, I finished my lunch and we got up to leave. Very minor interaction amongst humans.
We were still within reach (and definitely earshot) of Ira when Baba shouted, "Scat, I think he's in love!" Just dig a hole and bury me. She's gonna ride that horse into her grave.
Reminds me of when we had a 60th birthday party for her and she started every conversation with "Oh my God, how fat you are!!!"
After an eternity of waiting and driving about in circles, I had finally collected everyone from the far reaches of Spring proper and we were once again lake-bound. Baba decided to teach Squib how to play white-car-black-car. It went something like this.
Pawpaw: I see one black car!
Baba: One white car. One for us!
Squib: We have one!
Baba: Two, three, four...
Pawpaw: Two, three...
Squib: Pawpaw is losing.
Baba: Yes, he is.
Pawpaw: Four! We're tied!!!
Squib: Tied to what?
(he doesn't even know he's so funny)
And it went spiraling downhill from there...
Pawpaw is the only human alive who with play "tell me what else I did yesterday" with Squib. Yes, that's the name of the game and the rules all in one. Squib says, "tell me what I did yesterday!" You tell him one thing. He says, "tell me what else I did yesterday!" You tell him another thing (of course, you might be guessing or being obscure--like using breathing or respirating as an answer). He repeats ad nauseum as long as you humor him. Pawpaw has the heart of a 4-yr-old and thinks this game is fun and funny. They played this game for 45 minutes straight. Thankfully, we pulled into the Post Office about the time I was going to call the game in the interest of sanity.
Meanwhile, after leaving the house at 5:30am, Buddy and Mimi Scat made it to Palladium hospital for some outpatient surgery only to have their van overheat on the way home. Buddy had to half-carry/half-drag a still slightly-shnockered Mimi into a Whataburger and get her "situated" while he tried to fix the vehicle in the parking lot. No joy. The cooling fans would not come on. Soooo....they let it cool down and made a run for the freeway. What a pleasant trip.
So, in short, every day this week we have taken a trip to radiation treatment and a car to the shop. E. Gads.
Dollars. Dollars. Dollars. Dollars. Dollars.
Dollars that we just don't have.
Bramble Scat
For whatever reason, they have decided the only reasonable place to eat is the hospital cafeteria (two enthusiastic thumbs down except for the gummy bears which are exquisite). The hospital cafeteria at lunch time is interesting because most of the tables are round or long and seat six or more and if there are only three of you, you end up sitting with people you don't know. Fostering community interaction or some such rot, perhaps. I think this secretly horrifies Baba and we try to insulate her from "the others" by sitting her between us and keeping the conversation between us as much as possible but I foiled that by commenting on someone else's back pack. Yes, yes I did. To be sure, the pack was a Swiss Army pack identical to mine with no distinguishing marks (like mine) and a white iPhone in the cell phone pouch (like mine). I did almost feel the compunction to pick up said pack and walk away. I continued conversing with the owner of said pack, Ira. Ira was a nice man waiting for his physical therapy appointment. After a brief chat, I finished my lunch and we got up to leave. Very minor interaction amongst humans.
We were still within reach (and definitely earshot) of Ira when Baba shouted, "Scat, I think he's in love!" Just dig a hole and bury me. She's gonna ride that horse into her grave.
Reminds me of when we had a 60th birthday party for her and she started every conversation with "Oh my God, how fat you are!!!"
After an eternity of waiting and driving about in circles, I had finally collected everyone from the far reaches of Spring proper and we were once again lake-bound. Baba decided to teach Squib how to play white-car-black-car. It went something like this.
Pawpaw: I see one black car!
Baba: One white car. One for us!
Squib: We have one!
Baba: Two, three, four...
Pawpaw: Two, three...
Squib: Pawpaw is losing.
Baba: Yes, he is.
Pawpaw: Four! We're tied!!!
Squib: Tied to what?
(he doesn't even know he's so funny)
And it went spiraling downhill from there...
Pawpaw is the only human alive who with play "tell me what else I did yesterday" with Squib. Yes, that's the name of the game and the rules all in one. Squib says, "tell me what I did yesterday!" You tell him one thing. He says, "tell me what else I did yesterday!" You tell him another thing (of course, you might be guessing or being obscure--like using breathing or respirating as an answer). He repeats ad nauseum as long as you humor him. Pawpaw has the heart of a 4-yr-old and thinks this game is fun and funny. They played this game for 45 minutes straight. Thankfully, we pulled into the Post Office about the time I was going to call the game in the interest of sanity.
Meanwhile, after leaving the house at 5:30am, Buddy and Mimi Scat made it to Palladium hospital for some outpatient surgery only to have their van overheat on the way home. Buddy had to half-carry/half-drag a still slightly-shnockered Mimi into a Whataburger and get her "situated" while he tried to fix the vehicle in the parking lot. No joy. The cooling fans would not come on. Soooo....they let it cool down and made a run for the freeway. What a pleasant trip.
So, in short, every day this week we have taken a trip to radiation treatment and a car to the shop. E. Gads.
Dollars. Dollars. Dollars. Dollars. Dollars.
Dollars that we just don't have.
Bramble Scat
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Musings on Opera and God
I never gave much thought to Opera until you came along. I always knew Wagner was, well, very Wagner because of the crushing and oppressive nature of his music. Tristan and Isolde was familiar to me from the ballet. Valkure for other reasons (forgive the limitations of my English iPhone keyboard in appropriately marking German language). I still love Wagner, though, for his great passion. But of other opera I know virtually nothing and am a cultural misfit while you, at the almost age of eight are becoming a conoseur. Yet another thing you shall have to teach me.
Of classical music, though, I know a bit and only a bit and would offer to you here my favorites:
1. Rachmaninov's Rhapsodie Espagnole (Oh, do forgive the spelling. Especially if this is really Ravel. I shall have to dig through that file box of cassettes only a hoarder would keep just to find out).
2. Holst's The Planet's (Jupiter is my fave with Mars a close second).
3. Rimsky-korsakoff's The Firebird
4. Peter and the Wolf by Tchaichovsky (and, yes, there is a Sting version that's worth a listen).
5. The Sleeping Beauty
6. Rachmaninov's 3rd piano concerto
7. Pachelbel's Canon in D
8. Debussy's Clair de Lune
9. Bach's Inventions (especially the one they used for the Apple commercial whose number I forget)
10.Danse Macabre
11. The Peer Gynt Suites
12. Gershwin's American in Paris and Rhapsody in Blue (Not quite classical, but near enough).
13. Theme For The Common Man
14. The 1812 Overture
15. Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition
16. The Hungarian Rhapsody (lots of rhapsodies)!
And that is about it for a first list. Hours of good music there. I don't wonder that in lacking your own form of expression for so long, you find music stimulating. I imagine you find it relaxing and communicative as well--like a voice you want some day to possess. I see it in your enthusiasm for directing. The motion of your body conveys pent-up energy and expression.
I marvel at the fact that one trapped such as you has not reached this age trapped, closed in and/or bitter in some way about all those things you could never state clearly. My greatest hope in life us three-fold. First, that music has given you a means of expressing your true desires, statements, and feeling. Second, that none of your needs were unmet or stifled. And third, that God has worked it si that your temperament, development, and activities keep up with one another si that you have outlets for the desires of your heart.
Music (singing for me) seems to fill in many gaps in my soul and my life. It brings me closer to Gid when I praise Him. It keeps me humble when he speaks to me during worship and reminds me whose I am. And then there are so many groanings that are too deep for words. I have merely to show them to Him, share my music with Him and he repairs. He is Jehova Rapha--the God who heal by sewing us together one stitch at a time. That's more or less the exact translation. It implies a meticulous but very deliberate repair of all that is broken or bruised.
I believe your music will be able to do that for you. I will provide a unique avenue of communication--a proprietary language if sorts--through which the Lord will grow, heal, and protect you far beyond anything even Poppa or myself could offer. No matter what, we are just not that good. Far too human to be in charge of healing another human totally. But to have a God that does that, how absolutely good is that?
I follow the blog of a young couple who works for Youth With A Mission. They pray in advance for the places they wil go and are currently on an isolated island off the Ivory Coast that is a Muslim nation. With no advance team, prayer wa all the had. When they arrived, they were shocked to find out how many of the people they are meeting who have had and are continuing to have dreams in which a man, "Isa," reveals himself to them. ISA continues to speak to them and has revealed himself as Jesus Christ. No Bible, no pastor, no teachings, no TV, and no positive influence. In fact, just the opposite.
So, who am I to think He will not reveal Himself to you exactly as fits your needs? Pretty darn silly of me to even worry about it. I love you, little boy! How much more so your Creator, my Father in heaven? Same goes for your brother.
My Love to You, Beanstalk!
Love, Momma
Of classical music, though, I know a bit and only a bit and would offer to you here my favorites:
1. Rachmaninov's Rhapsodie Espagnole (Oh, do forgive the spelling. Especially if this is really Ravel. I shall have to dig through that file box of cassettes only a hoarder would keep just to find out).
2. Holst's The Planet's (Jupiter is my fave with Mars a close second).
3. Rimsky-korsakoff's The Firebird
4. Peter and the Wolf by Tchaichovsky (and, yes, there is a Sting version that's worth a listen).
5. The Sleeping Beauty
6. Rachmaninov's 3rd piano concerto
7. Pachelbel's Canon in D
8. Debussy's Clair de Lune
9. Bach's Inventions (especially the one they used for the Apple commercial whose number I forget)
10.Danse Macabre
11. The Peer Gynt Suites
12. Gershwin's American in Paris and Rhapsody in Blue (Not quite classical, but near enough).
13. Theme For The Common Man
14. The 1812 Overture
15. Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition
16. The Hungarian Rhapsody (lots of rhapsodies)!
And that is about it for a first list. Hours of good music there. I don't wonder that in lacking your own form of expression for so long, you find music stimulating. I imagine you find it relaxing and communicative as well--like a voice you want some day to possess. I see it in your enthusiasm for directing. The motion of your body conveys pent-up energy and expression.
I marvel at the fact that one trapped such as you has not reached this age trapped, closed in and/or bitter in some way about all those things you could never state clearly. My greatest hope in life us three-fold. First, that music has given you a means of expressing your true desires, statements, and feeling. Second, that none of your needs were unmet or stifled. And third, that God has worked it si that your temperament, development, and activities keep up with one another si that you have outlets for the desires of your heart.
Music (singing for me) seems to fill in many gaps in my soul and my life. It brings me closer to Gid when I praise Him. It keeps me humble when he speaks to me during worship and reminds me whose I am. And then there are so many groanings that are too deep for words. I have merely to show them to Him, share my music with Him and he repairs. He is Jehova Rapha--the God who heal by sewing us together one stitch at a time. That's more or less the exact translation. It implies a meticulous but very deliberate repair of all that is broken or bruised.
I believe your music will be able to do that for you. I will provide a unique avenue of communication--a proprietary language if sorts--through which the Lord will grow, heal, and protect you far beyond anything even Poppa or myself could offer. No matter what, we are just not that good. Far too human to be in charge of healing another human totally. But to have a God that does that, how absolutely good is that?
I follow the blog of a young couple who works for Youth With A Mission. They pray in advance for the places they wil go and are currently on an isolated island off the Ivory Coast that is a Muslim nation. With no advance team, prayer wa all the had. When they arrived, they were shocked to find out how many of the people they are meeting who have had and are continuing to have dreams in which a man, "Isa," reveals himself to them. ISA continues to speak to them and has revealed himself as Jesus Christ. No Bible, no pastor, no teachings, no TV, and no positive influence. In fact, just the opposite.
So, who am I to think He will not reveal Himself to you exactly as fits your needs? Pretty darn silly of me to even worry about it. I love you, little boy! How much more so your Creator, my Father in heaven? Same goes for your brother.
My Love to You, Beanstalk!
Love, Momma
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
How About Some Fountains?
The summer before you were born, I traveled to Japan with Gumby. We were in Tokyo and I walked all over the city exploring the entire town. When I wasn't walking, I took the subway--which you would also love. One day, though, Gumby took me to see some fountains. They are located just outside the Imperial Gardens and were built in 1961, I think, as a celebration of the marriage of the Emperor and Empress. More was added in 1995. They don't look the same all the time, the fountains change over time and they are all sequentially timed. I sat there for over an hour watching them change. If you go back at night, there are lights that come on as well. Here are some more pictures:
I think you'd love going there. And I've secretly been admiring this next one. I don't have any proof that it really exists, but I came across this photo in an add in the fall of 2008 and if it weren't so dangerous to travel in the middle east (and expensive) I'd like to go there. For now, we'll have to use our imaginations. Here is was is purported to be the world's largest fountain:
Friday, January 22, 2010
Wouln't You Know It?
You would. I know you would.
I could probably tell you all I have learned over the last two weeks and you, if you could understand as I have would, no doubt, look at me and say, "So what?"
Mom
Mom
Monday, January 4, 2010
All Is Well
No matter what, kiddo, All really is well.
Your dad and I used to refer to some people as "shiny happy people." The people who never had to beg for scrubs at TCH or mop up blood in the public restroom or drive you downtown wondering each moment if you were choking or not. I was so scared. You were so fragile and there was no protocol to follow for you. We wanted desperately to be one of the shiny happy people, but it was not to be.
You are unique and we actually have proof!
Every time I see you, I am amazed at how you keep trying and keep trying and seem to have no fear of what could happen to you. You abound with joy and love and want to share it with other people regardless of who they seem to be. You seem to know when they need it. If I hadn't given birth to you myself and wasn't familiar with every hair on your head, I would swear you were an angel. At least you are mine. I love the soft touch of your skin and your crazy hair and the way you grin. I am almost sad to see how that little grin might change with all the teeth you've been losing lately.
I took Squib to his Speech eval today. It was interesting and, just as I thought, he is behind pretty much globally. What an irony that I was discouraged over the results yet he can out talk you in two seconds flat. He is frustrated in a way that you used to be and I imagine can still be at school, but I worry, Beanstalk. Is he as resilient as you? He's so emotional, yet has no language to express it. It's funny, but I used to hope he would always look out for you, but now I find myself wishing you were around to look after him. To communicate to him as only you can that All is WELL.
It is hard to trust God with you, but He, of course, seems to be doing a wonderful job. I trust Him explicitly and so should you, but as always it is your decision in whom to place your trust.
I love and miss you, but will see you soon!
Happy Pizza-Eating,
Mommy
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