Ramble On

Dobby is on my lap. It's very hard to type. Okay, he jumped down.   

Angie is writing postcards to registered voters. Abbott Elementary is on in the background. I'm not much for background music/tv while I'm writing. It is, however, Angie's default. I'm giving it a shot. We'll see. 

So much to catch up on. Covid stuff though. We were lysoling groceries last time we chatted. Emma was still in high school...sorta. I can't remember when she went remote. THIS is why I blogged. I'd look back at past blog posts, but I haven't written for two years, so I've got nothin'. 

 Eli was born and we were still in the hospital and customers were calling me in the hospital trying to get equipment delivered because they were afraid our company was going to be shut down and they'd be stuck without treatment equipment until the pandemic ended. Little did they know we'd give up on the pandemic lonnnng before it ended. Our company never shut down. Portions of it did, but we were "essential" because we make water treatment equipment. 

 I don't love Abbott Elementary. It's amusing and mildly entertaining, but not truly funny. It's probably good I'm not focusing on it, but I'm also not truly able to focus on this either, because every minute or so a snippet of dialogue will hook me and I'll see what's happening and stop doing this. 

Anyway, we were in the hospital for three days I think. God it's hard to think with this show in the background. Now I'm bluetoothed to "Essential Metal" on spotify...this might be better. 

 Emma went remote. My timeline is all over the map. I had to text her to find out.  Emma says she went remote three days before her 18th birthday, which was a full week before we went to the hospital to have Eli. Remote was a joke. I mean, I think there were kids that were able to learn, but Emma sure as shit wasn't one of them. She did what she had to do to graduate there at the end, but I think she, like a lot of her classmates, was resentful of the 'necessity'. Resentful that she had to go remote while all around her people were going to work or school since there was no universal policy on how to handle it. 

One school district was remote, another was in person, and a third was hybrid, and it was local government calling the shots. Like...REALLY local. School board local. So people she knew were going to school or work and she wasn't, and if she was a bit resentful, I'm pretty sure she can be forgiven. 

Honestly, what a shit show. I remember trying to legislate our own house badly. We were trying to figure out whose guidance to even follow. I remember telling Emma we'd follow whatever the governor recommended, but then he started recommending stupid bullshit and I had to pivot from that to "CDC isn't recommending that we do what he's telling us we can do". And recognizing that the political position he was in was driving him to make decisions that were "less unpopular" than the ones he started out with didn't really help. We were contact tracing each other before family get togethers. Sending out emails requesting two week isolation before visits, and masks to see Elliott once he was born. Keeping Emma from her boyfriend. Keeping family from meeting Eli. So much guilt and fear. 

And I get too that a lot of people think COVID is a big nothing burger, and I'm so happy those people didn't have to lose a loved one or spouse or child or whatever in order to see what a position of priviledge just 'acting like nothing is happening' was for them. We just wanted our baby to be healthy. We wanted Emma to get her prom and her graduation and we wanted Lily to stay healthy and our parents and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles not to die. Okay...done with Covid talk for a bit. 

Eli is 2 and a half. He's talking sooooo much. Also, I think I understand what the terrible twos are now. He's honestly a super well behaved kiddo, but he TESTS. And timeouts must be something that doesn't work for every kid. Because I can tell you...he LOVES them. And don't even try to tell me we don't do them right. We literally downloaded CDC guidance on timeouts. I'm not even kidding. That's a thing that exists and we're using it. For whatever that's worth.

Angie is vacuuming the house.  I don't know if pandemic started that or having a baby did.  Every night.  Does everyone do that?  Am I such a slob that it wouldn't even occur to me to vacuum 365 days of the year?  Maybe.  But anyway, she's vacuuming, and that means it's time to go to bed.  Goodnight.

Groove

Feeling a little...fragile(?) this morning.  No real reason why, I suppose, except the things you might expect (I had to triple check that I didn't just write "except" twice.  Anagrams are fun!) with an autistic 12 year-old starting "sixth grade".  My need for literal truth in description requires me to put quotes around sixth grade.  And that's part of the fragility.

Things have evened out with Lily over the past two years.  What was perhaps a heightened emotional instability brought about by her blossoming womanhood has dampened from the wild sine wave peaks and valleys of rage/happiness to a more comfortable/tolerable gentle sloping pleasant cuteness punctuated much more rarely by a slap or screamed no when she's sleepy or hungry or feeling thwarted.  The amplitude has decreased.

And that's good. 

She's found a bit of a groove.  She's content with her ipad.  It has become her almost exclusive form of entertainment.  She can spend eight hours on it.  And while it's so great to have her able to mostly self-satisfy...it also means her interests have narrowed to an almost laser thin focus and loss of battery/wifi means a constant stream of encouragement/delay/diversion to keep her on an even keel.  It has freed me up to go outside and do yardwork, checking on her frequently as she plays..."How you doin' Lily?"  "Doin' good!"  "Be right back!"  Giggle.  Repeat.  But it has me constantly second-guessing myself...should I be working with her more, should I be redirecting her to other interests, should I ...

One man's groove is another man's rut, perhaps.

This morning Lily started "sixth grade" and I found myself prepared for but also overwhelmed by the change in routine.  Lost were the rote preparations of last year, and I found myself playing catch-up as the bus idled outside in the cul-de-sac and I hastily pulled her shoes on over her socks, backing down the hallway as she followed me so that I could snap the traditional "first day of school" picture.  I didn't even have a chance to see if it was a "good one" before hustling her out the door and onto the bus.

"Smile," I said to her as I backed up and brought up the iphone's camera app.
"Say cheeze, pweeze," she replied, smiling as she followed me to the door.
Click.
Grab backback
Open door, and hold hands down the driveway.
Talk to bus driver about drop off.
Wave goodbye.
Watch the bus driveway.
Breathe.

The morning went well, honestly.  And I didn't start feeling fragile until after the hustle and bustle had abruptly ended.  My house was quiet, with Emma sleeping peacefully upstairs (one more day of 'freedom' for her) and it was like the ironically deafening sound that wakes me from sleep when the power goes out and my ubiquitous white noise cuts off as the fan stops.  I thought about the post.  So strange to think about, but so common these days.  Making time to post a picture of Lily on Facebook for her first day back.  Like all the parents do.  Only when I post it will be to say that Lily is starting "sixth grade".

And yeah...I don't need to label it with quotes.  But I do it in my mind.  Whether I put it down in writing or not, it's in my head.  I'm thinking it.  People with kids in traditional schooling...which is most people, I suppose, see that label and draw comparisons to their own kids and their own experiences and they just aren't the Sixth Grade that people...without proper explanation...can relate to.

Sometimes I don't notice how much she's grown...it's hard not to see from this pic.  My big girl.

This is Lily's third year at Watson.  Her goals are shifting.  Abandoned are the "pre-writing" goals.  Abandoned are the sight words and preparations for reading.  Abandoned even are some self-help goals; the jacket flip, a goal for the past 7 years, is now something to be tried, but not measured against.  And that's part of the fragility.

I never had a problem accepting Lily's adapted goals.  Some might have lamented the limit-defining nature of those adaptations, but I never did, trusting that the people who crafted them saw in her the potential for success when viewed through their experienced eyes.  So I feel a bit like a hypocrite now that they've relaxed their aims and I feel let down, my hopes deflated.

I feel like a hypocrite talking about how I accept Lily for who she is, as she is, when I feel upset or disappointed that she's not been able to crack reading or writing, that she struggles with potty training at 12, or that it is almost inconceivable to me that she will ever tie her own shoes, let alone don a jacket using the "flip method".

I feel like traitor to myself and to her.  I know I still accept Lily as she is.  I know I still love Lily as she is.  But I fell into the same trap every parent of every child stumbles into at one time or another.  I let my hopes/expectations cloud reality.  The truth is I have no idea where Lily will end up.  Maybe she will tie her shoes and read books at some point.  And I am absolutely fine if she doesn't.  I think.

I let her BSC go this past week.  It wasn't as dramatic as that sounds.  She was quitting anyway.  But we were supposed to meet and I just didn't see the point.  The BSC wanted to use her ipad as a reinforcer.  And I started arguing it over and over in my mind.  I started getting angry and bitter.  She doesn't really have any other interests.  She doesn't like dolls, or games.  She doesn't like stuffed animals or playing dress up.  She doesn't like opening presents or going trick-or-treating.

She likes her ipad.  And the Wiggles.  And McDonald's.  That's it.

And holding the ipad as a reinforcer to do what?  Learn to interact better with her friends?  She doesn't like playing with friends.  Learn to take turns?  She doesn't like playing anything that would require turns.  Teach her to converse with others?  The vast majority of her speech is scripted and rote, memorized for politeness-sake.  And while it feels a bit like giving up, unless I have someone specifically in my home to do "therapy" with her, who is going to work on those sorts of things with her?  Me?  I don't have the fucking time.  Because I have to feed her and her sister.  I have to keep my house clean.  I need to stay healthy and get sleep.  And honestly?  I don't want the time she spends with me to be "therapy".  So fuck the BSC.  And fuck the TSS.  And fuck "goals".  She can play on her ipad, because honestly this is NOT going to be the year that the TSS would finally break the "flip method" goal by using the ipad as a reinforcer where the previous 7 years doing the same thing failed.

And that's part of the fragility.

God damn that sounds bitter and dark and angry and angsty and that is SOOOO not my life right now.  Because although maybe that sounds like a rut, we've all been in a bit of a groove.

Emma quit her second job.  She's going to be getting busy again with school starting.  We had a great conversation (from my perspective) talking about "the right way to quit".  It's one of those things everyone has to do, and I felt great being able to guide her about the way I think is the right way.

She made enough money that she feels she can buy a car, and she continues to get better at driving, my white knuckles less the result of erratic steering than my own uneasiness letting go of the reins.  She'll take her test in three weeks.   Once she has her license it will alleviate some of the stress of getting her to and from work, or to and from the mall, or to and from her friends' houses, and that will make us both happier.

Lily is happier and healthier.  Her last seizure was over a year ago, and as I said, she's been a lot less angry lately.  Back to herself a bit, though she still struggles to regain her disposition following a nap.  But who among us doesn't?

I'm still seeing Angie.  We probably spend three days a week together on average in some form or fashion.  She makes dating easy.  She is sooooo goddamn nice.  Even Dobby likes her.  I lost my last babysitter and I won't have a new one until September, so our time has been less about eating out and attending events and more about cooking together or enjoying a backyard fire (the patio and firepit are finished by the way!) which allows me to eschew the services of a babysitter which I like for lots of reasons (staying at home with kids, doesn't cost me money, not worried about issues while I should be out enjoying myself).

We made pasta together this past weekend with Emma.  It felt so good.  The day before we picked up food truck sandwiches and brought them back to the house for my parents.  We played Telestrations together.  My sister called from the airport and I told her to come over.  She joined in.  Emma got home from work and she joined it.  The six of us played Telestrations and it was so fun.  I didn't realize how much I missed that kind of stuff until we started doing it again.  Not having to choose spending time with someone to the exclusion of someone else the way you're sort of forced to do when you first start dating, because you don't know how it's going to go.  I'm pretty content at this point with "how it's going to go".

shhh...they don't know I'm taking pictures.

So, yeah, this morning I was feeling a little bit fragile.  But despite the last minute haste it was a good morning with Lily.  And despite the fragility, we've all been in a pretty good place.  I can weather a little fragility now and again.  I've got support.

Jinx

It's not you, it's me.  Two months since I posted last and lots to report. 

I had to go back and reread the last three blogs to see what I'd even said.  One was a walk notification.  One was about teaching Emma to drive.  And one was about the nurse quitting.  And...that's really it.  I've written other posts this year...but way back in January.  And all pretty general stuff. 

So...

In February, I visited the doctor for a checkup.  His patients are primarily the octogenarian-set, so I think maybe him seeing me once every four months is a bit overkill.  Still, he saw me and my blood pressure was..."high". 

I've always flirted with high blood pressure.  When I gain a few pounds it drifts up.  When I lose a few pounds it drifts back to normal range.  It's often been labeled "borderline high".  My dad takes medication for it (for his blood pressure.  Not mine.  Don't be weird).  It's not super surprising that I would have it too.  But...it was "high".  Not "borderline high".  He prescribed me a blood pressure med and told me to come back in 4 weeks.  I found this...jarring.

Nothing like being the sole surviving parent of two kids and confronting the possibility that your elevated blood pressure is increasing your risk of heart attack...

I decided I would make some "lifestyle changes".  I told the doc to give me 4 weeks and if I hadn't brought my blood pressure down I'd start taking the medicine.  The appointment books were full for six weeks, so it gave me an extra two week grace period.

I struggle with between-meal/before-bed snacking.  If there are salty, crispy snacks available, I will eat them.  I resolved to do better.  I googled, "foods that are good for hypertension."  I added these to my grocery list.  I re-downloaded the MyfitnessPal app on my phone to track calories.  I started getting on the treadmill regularly.

I had success.  But...I didn't want to jinx it by making a big deal about it.  I didn't want to publish the great news and then report again 2 months later that it was crap again.  And, if we're being honest, there's probably only one other topic that people care less about than your "personal weight-loss journey" and that's your fantasy football team. 

So I won't bog you down with all the deets, but from the end of February to the middle of April, I had lost 15 pounds.  When he checked my blood pressure then he pronounced me "fit" and not needing the medication. 

That was not the end of it.  Since then I lost another 10 pounds, and 4 inches on my waist and the only clothes that fit are those that I purchased between about the beginning of June and now.  It's a great problem to have.  But it's expensive.  Still...I'm not complaining.  I left my yearly physical this morning with a clean bill of health.  (and a scrip for a fucking colonoscopy and endoscopy...yay aging!)

I'm not done, but I'm in a much healthier place, and I waited until now to bring it up.  It's consumed a lot of my time.  Every night on the treadmill then lifting weights.  Walking at work, walking at the mall on my lunch break (with the other elderlies...what?  it's gets really hot outside!).  I sort of made the decision to sacrifice sleep because something had to give.  I can work out until 10:30 or 11, but then I end up in bed 11:30 or 12 and I have to get up at 5:30...and Lily still is waking up at least once per night.  So...my fitbit (oh...yeah...bought one of those again too) goals are all green.  Except my sleep goal.  And yes, I know sleep is super important.  I'll figure it out.
...

Emma and I continue to slog away at her driving.  She's getting better.  I'm getting better.  We have an end goal in sight.  Her test will be a week after she's eligible by law (in September).  We're still trying to log hours.  She drives back and forth to and from her jobs.  Plural.  Last time we 'spoke' she was applying for another job.  She got it.  She's saving for a car.  Raking in the cash.
...

Lily got an aide.  The short version is (and I'm not really going to go into the longer version) that I asked the pediatrician to remove the skilled nursing requirement from her letter of medical necessity in order to make the position easier to fill.  It's been a year since we started this process.  In that time, I think I've had 4 months of coverage.  I spoke to the insurance company frequently.  I don't know what the tipping point was...I'm sure there's a procedure or guideline somewhere, but according to the insurance company they..."offered a higher rate" for Lily and...whatya know?  Someone took it.  And I really like her.  Fingers crossed she sticks around for a while.

"Offered a higher rate."  I'm of two minds on this.  1)  Thank you so much for offering the higher rate.  I had no idea what I was going to do this summer.  It was too much for my parents.  It obviously fixed the staffing issue.  2)  Why the fuck didn't you offer a higher rate six months ago??

I'm just letting it go.  I'm going to assume that there's a procedure that says they're not authorized to offer higher rates unless X months of no service or something have gone by.  It's better for my mental health to assume that's the case anyway.
...

I started seeing someone last year at the end of September.  I'm pretty tight-lipped about that stuff on social media.  At least I have been previously.  I think it was part "don't jinx it" and part "keep your options open".  Committing to someone is really weird and hard when there is still so much to unpack after losing your spouse.  Kids to consider.  The whole shootin' match.  So I'd been dating.  But I was really quiet about it in this space. 

She's really great.  A weird perfect match sort of great.  Like in an almost spooky too-good-to-be-true sort of way.  I'd always thought it was the differences between people that drew them together.  I remember the priest telling Leslie and I that what I loved about Leslie were the things I saw in her that I wished I had myself.  Apart from attraction, her organization, her mental compass, her stability.  Those were all things that I was lacking myself and loved about her.  And she made me better at all of those things to varying degrees.  With Angie (her name is Angie, did I mention?) we are sooooo alike.  So either she's an exceptionally gifted con-woman trying to bilk me out of my wealth (jokes on YOU, Angie, I don't HAVE any wealth!  HAHA!) or we're just eerily similar people who get along so well that we have not had a single fight in the 10 months I've been dating her. 

That's weird, right?  And amazing?  What's the record?  10 months and we haven't even gotten CLOSE to being in a fight. 

We've covered all sorts of relationship milestones...met the parents, met my father-in-law (it wasn't as weird as you might think), went on a road trip to NYC, met my kids, met her sister, met her friends...and many many more. 

Anyway, you should probably know that.  It's "new".  I mean, it's not really NEW new, but it might be new to you, in a, "Hey Jim, what's new?" "Oh, I've been seeing this girl Angie" sort of new way.

Surprise visit to NYC.  Angie, Like Sasquatch, moves too fast to be photographed in focus

...

OH!  Sidebar...I'm down 25 pounds and hardly ever drink so three drinks and I'm FUCKED UP.  Related:  so many calories in drinks.  Can't someone DO something about that?
...

I'm redoing my bedroom.  I put up brick paneling and then german schmeared it.  No, that's not sex stuff.  Look it up.  I'm repainting and getting new bedding and had this big historic map of Pittsburgh made (thank you, Angie!) and it's getting framed, and and and.  It's fun. 

before

starting to schmear

paneling up

Also, I'm having my patio extended in the back and a firepit put in.  Then I'm going to get new patio furniture. 

I've been busy. 

That's it for now.  Things are going really well.  I hope I didn't just jinx them.

Blink

Emma is driving.  Supervised, but she's driving.  The state of PA requires 65 hours of supervised driving over the course of no less than six months after she receives her permit to take her test.  We've been whittling away at that in increments of one hour or so for the past couple months.

They're little bite-sized packets of tenuously-controlled terror, but if I'm being totally fair, it's my fault.  She's doing fine.  She's doing better than fine.  She's doing great.  But I'm still scared shitless at least once or twice per drive, and I THINK it comes down to MY inability to trust that she sees stuff and will react appropriately to it.

I suck at roller coasters.  I suck at airplanes.  Honestly, I suck at being a passenger in most people's cars.  I involuntarily hit brakes.  I white knuckle "oh shit" handles.  I just suck at not being terrified at trusting other people to be in control of my safety.  And I'm no expert driver, so it's not that I feel I'm sooooo much better at doing it than other people.  I just...am in control.

So for a couple hours every week, I give up control of the car and we barrel (carefully drive) over the road at break neck speed (typically at or below the speed limit) running errands or just getting into the practice of driving.

Have I lost my temper?  Yes.

But we're developing a system.  Reading through the driver's manual to get ideas how what/how to teach Emma how to drive (it's actually a "how to teach your teen to drive" manual) I found a gem about having her verbalize all the things she's doing in the car.  Apart from being a chicken about loss of control in general, I think particularly hard for me is just not knowing that she sees the things I see.  I am at war with myself...do I constantly teach (nag) her throughout her drive?  Do I give her credit and assume she's got it under control?

I think the answer is somewhere in the middle.  I harken back to a huge fight my girlfriend and I got in just after high school.  We were visiting her family in Denver.  She was driving.  I kept giving her directions.  In my head I think I thought it was my job in the passenger seat to be navigator.  She lectured me heatedly about it.  We fought and the car was silent.  I saw our turn coming up.  She was in the wrong lane.  I'd JUST gotten my ass handed to me for telling her to switch lanes.  JUST.  I didn't say anything until after the turnoff passed. 

"You just missed the turnoff," I said, helpfully.  Fight two was about recognizing the difference between nagging her about what to do behind the wheel and not helping her navigate to her family's house.  I my argument was that she'd just yelled at me for a half hour about not telling her how to drive so I was letting her show me how well she did it.  Passive aggressive...probably.  Yes.  Fine.  Definitely.  But really you had to be there.  I would NOT have won in that situation.  If I'd have told her the exit was coming up...but we can never know, can we?  Maybe she'd have been, "awww, thanks, Jim, I didn't see that!"  Plus I was like 19.  *side eye*  whatever.

ANYWAY...I won't NOT tell her about something that could potentially get us in an accident or going the wrong way like I did with my girlfriend all those years ago.  So we get into little spats, and honestly?  Honestly she's been handling THOSE really well too.

I got sidetracked.  The manual said to have Emma verbalize her observations and proposed actions:  "I see a yellow light up ahead, I'm going to slow down and stop at the red light", "I see the car stopped in the middle of the road with his turn signals on.  I'm slowing down in case he can't turn."  That kind of thing.

That stuff?  REALLY helps.  She doesn't brake the same way I do.  I want to hit the brakes now...and she's waiting...but if she at least tells me she sees the obstruction, and WILL hit the brakes, it lets me feel less like I'm waiting to die.

We're still not totally consistent at this approach, but it helps.  The other thing that I THINK helps her (I'll chat with her about it before our next drive, because I was just thinking about it a few days ago) but also helps me is providing her with the same narration in question form.  "There's a light up ahead, do you see it?  The car in front of you is signaling, so he's probably going to slow down to turn, are you ready to hit your brakes?"  That extra bit of communication is better than the...slow down, SLOW DOWN SLOWDOWN STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP that I'd PREVIOUSLY been using.

It's scary, but it's not scary because she's doing a bad job.  It's scary because she's driving a car for the first time and accidents happen...even to me...and it makes me nervous.

She applied for a second job.  She's decided she wants to save for a car which I honestly think is amazing.  So she applied for a second job and she has her second interview tonight.  She's got hustle.  I mean...everywhere but at home.  (I sat on this post for a day because I was going to add pictures and then I forgot, and in the mean time she got the second job.  Woohoo!)

I parked a trash can, HER trash can in front of the door to her room after taking out her garbage last Thursday.  By Saturday I was posting snapchat stories with "Day 3" to 'help her remember', but by Day 4 I finally got fed up and asked her to put it in her room.

Clothes on the floor, in some cases inches from the empty laundry basket.  Bed unmade unless I specifically tell her to go back upstairs and make it before school.  It feels like it's a constant battle against entropy.  And entropy always wins.  Never bet against entropy.

She's learning the discipline of completing her homework though.  That's almost entirely on autopilot.  She still slips into bad habits at the end of the quarter or school year, but her grades are better, and I rarely have to tell her to get school work completed.

And she's nervous.  All this shit is coming at her fast now.  She's at the end of her sophomore year and they're starting to pressure the kids to decide what they want to do for the rest of their lives.  Next year we'll start looking at colleges...maybe applying...touring.  It's a lot.  And it's scary.

And it's bittersweet.  At least for me.  I may never be a true empty nester.  Lily will almost certainly continue to live with me throughout adulthood.  But Emma is THIS CLOSE *holds thumb and finger imperceptibly close together* to being off on her own.

Driving, college, graduation, they're all just an eye blink away.  Just like everyone said 16 years ago when she was born.

Hoco

This is probably my longest hiatus.  I started and stopped writing a few times.  I haven't stopped writing permanently...just had a long break.  It happens to me sometimes.

In the meantime Emma went to homecoming. I was asked to speak at AC of PA's gala.  The local paper did a story about my tattoo (for Les).  Lily rocked Halloween (three houses worth).  My cousin got married.  Probably lots of stories I'm forgetting.

But first...homecoming (Hoco if you're hip.  Hip like I am).  How to write this respectfully of Emma's privacy...fuckit...she belongs to me until she's 18.  I'll try...but no guarantees.

Emma's a freshman now.  She really seems to have taken to high school.  Her grades could use some work, but in terms of fitting in and finding a happy place she seems to have insinuated herself into the ebb and flow of social circles like she always does.  Never the focus.  Never one person or one group.  Just sort of shifting from circle to circle.  She doesn't know this is supposed to be "hard".  Maybe it will be as school goes on, but right now it seems pretty effortless.

She was asked to go to homecoming.  They were going as friends.  She's known the boy for years.  They've been friends for years.  She was happy to be going.  He surprised her with a sign at the mall.

When did this become a thing?  It's a thing.  You can't just ask girls to go to dances anymore.  You have to be creative.  You have to have a flash mob or have confetti bombs that transform into doves that fly in formation to form the words, "will you go to homecoming with me" or something.  Kids are judging each other on these things.  Best step up your game, boys. 

We went to my sister's house to celebrate a birthday...my dad's, I think, or maybe it was my father-in-law's.  I can't remember.  Emma and Dawn went to my niece's closet to look at the ghosts of homecoming dresses past.  Emma did a little impromptu fashion show for us.  She looked so pretty in the dresses.  We decided we could alter one of them for homecoming that she really liked.

I won't bore you with the minutia of the fitting and altering.  The dress looked great.

Plans were in place.  The girls with dates would meet early to get pictures taken.  The girls going as a group without dates would join up with them later to get a group photo.  Homecoming was two days away.

And her friend backed out.  Which...honestly, I was like...okay...that's pretty sucky, but at least she's going with a bunch of her friends, and they were just buddies anyway, so this shouldn't be a big deal, right?  Wrong.

She had this image in her head, I think; this image of the quintessential dance experience.  And that image became extremely important to her, I learned when she came to me, crying.  I corralled her into a hug.

"Do you remember the day you and mama told me she was going to die," she started, breathing into my shoulder, her words muffled?

"Yes, baby." My eyes closed tightly at this.  I braced myself.

"You left the room so that we could talk alone together."

I nodded, a pressure building in my chest.

"Mama said she was going to watch me at homecoming.  She was going to look down at me at the dance and that she'd be with me and she'd be smiling"

Fuck.  Me.  It started as an ache around my eyes and then they were brimming with unshed tears and I sniffed and said, "Oh baby...and now you're afraid she won't see you having fun at the dance."

And she nodded then into my shirt, words impossible.

And I couldn't do anything to defuse the tension.  No joke to make her laugh out of her mood as I so often can, because I couldn't fix anything.

So we talked for a while.  About why he might have backed out.  About what she could do.  He had no way of knowing just how important this dance (THIS DANCE, goddammit!) was to her.   As we talked she calmed.  I am always amazed at her resilience.  She wanted to know what was up, but it was late so she had resigned herself to talking to him the next day.

They talked at school.  I won't air that piece.  He was going.  He had his own reasons for wanting to back out, but he told her he still wanted to go.  It wasn't about Emma.  There are pressures on young men in high school that I remember all too well.  I can speculate all day on any number of reasons he might have gotten cold feet, and all of them would be "good" reasons.  But I didn't care in end...my little girl had a dance to attend, her mother looking down at her and smiling I'm certain.

She looked beautiful.  The girls with dates got together early and had their pictures taken.  As planned.  The other girls joined them and had their pictures taken.  And then they all went to the dance together.  They were laughing, Emma hamming it up per usual.

I texted her that night a little after the dance started.  I knew she wouldn't see it then, but hoped she would later, and know I was thinking about her.

"I hope you are having a blast!"


A couple hours later she replied, "I had a great time"

"I'm so happy for you"

"Ah it was so great"


And I could hear her saying the words, sort of laughing the word "ah" out the way she does.  I looked at that last message on my screen for a while.  And I thought about Leslie.  And then I let out a long contented sigh and the pressure in my chest went away.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation 2016

We just got back from vacation.  It was a good one this year.  Less sad.  Last year...mere months after Leslie passed, I found myself more or less miserable, "trying to keep things the same" for the kids in a condo that was wayyyyyy too much the same as the one we'd spent our vacation in the previous summer with Leslie still alive (since it was exactly the same room and condo).  The price was right, and so we did it.  And I'm glad we did it.  But it sucked.  That probably doesn't make a lot of sense.  

We were pushing past firsts...or I was...wanting to get PAST the first vacation without Leslie, BEYOND our first Mother's Day and Anniversary and Christmas...get it to a place where people stopped asking how we were doing with our firsts.  Get to a place where I could compartmentalize better because the people who loved me weren't constantly reminding me to think about what we'd lost.

That's not to say I don't think about it.  But it's more manageable.

We went to Hatteras this year.  I think it's officially Waves, but the names of the communities down there blur together like the days do when you're there.  Rodanthe?  No...we were further south.  Chicomacomico?  no.  Waves?  is that even a place?  Hatteras Island?  Whatever.  It's about 30 minutes south of Nags Head...which is MY favorite vacation spot for the family.  And it was very similar to that experience.

I won't get bogged down in the minutia of our day to day, but one thing I did notice...have been noticing...is Lily's issue with her swimsuit.  She hates it.  And I don't mean the suit itself.  The concept of  Swimsuit...like Plato's Justice or Good or Right...the purest essence of the word/virtue.  Capital letter Swimsuit.  Any suit that fits that mold.  SHRIEKED no.  Bit.  Pawed.  Scratched.  Screamed.  And then it would be on...and she'd start to calm down, and have a good time.

My sister bought her a couple surf shirts in a flash of inspired brilliance, and she willingly put one on, not realizing that it too was a Swimsuit.  But as soon as the swim bottom came out...all bets were off.

Maybe it's that it's such an extreme transition.  I tried to be as quiet and calm...gentle and reassuring...slow and painless...as I could be.  Made no difference.  I tried timers (usually a great tool for Lily).  No good.

If I thought that the swimsuit hurt her, I wouldn't even have bothered.  But she could barely feel it.  The bottoms slide somewhat loosely over a swimmie that she wore without complaint.  I had bought two new suits before vacation just to make sure it wouldn't be too tight (wondering if, from previous experiences, that was the problem).  And I guess it wouldn't have been the end of the world to just let her swim in a swim diaper and a surf shirt.  She'd have been fine.  That's on me ultimately.  It was our pool.  It's not like I was worried about drawing stares.  I just felt she should have a suit on...

Anyway, I guess I feel like in her mind it's just a big giant scary transition.  When THIS goes on...I get wet.  I go in the pool.  I swim.  I feel a shock of cold before my body adjusts.  I don't know.  Still looking for easier/more agreeable ways to get her into her suit because...

She loved swimming in the pool, or standing in the ocean waves, letting the surf boil around her toes, feeling the swirling sand and the soft tickle of churning foam before the wave retreated.  And she was swimming.  It was great.  With a pool noodle under her arms, she bicycled around the pool wherever she liked.  It would take a half hour or so to get her in past her ankles...then her knees...then her hips...then up to her neck...but once she was in, she never got out.

Maybe it's just scary enough, just cold enough, just weightless enough, just wet enough...that she doesn't want to do it...until she's doing it.  Time will tell I suppose.  I'll keep trying.

Emma spent more time with her cousin than me, but that was okay, she liked having the independence.  They went to the beach or the local stores, or the ocean, and she hunted for pokemon or boogie boarded, or just played in the pool.

And we did get time together, playing in the pool, shopping for friends' presents, or walking the beach with her Aunt and me.

I wouldn't exactly call it a "relaxing" vacation, but it was a fun vacation.

The Summertime Girls

Lately I'm really struggling to start posts.  So...I don't.  I have a half-written tribute to Lily's school that I started on her last week, and she's already starting ESY at her new school.

Father's Day was Sunday.  I felt sad.  Maybe a bit sorry for myself.  It seemed to me that somehow I was sadder this year than I was last, and I feel like I probably just am not remembering correctly.  Last year we were at the beach.  Summer vacation.  It was...not what it once was.  But maybe just having vacation stuff to do pushed Father's Day stuff onto the back-burner and made that observance seem less sad than it might have.

It ends up being a weird circular celebration where my parents take Emma out to shop for me, and I give them a budget for Emma to buy a present to give me and then I pay them back.  It seems sort of sad.  It's ultimately no different from a balance sheet perspective.  When Leslie would take charge of Father's Day the debit came from the exact same account as this one did.  But she knew how to make it seem like a special occasion for me.  And too much of that now falls to Emma, who is as scattered and unfocused about those sorts of things as you might expect your average 14 year old girl might be.

So I was feeling a bit sorry for myself but we went to my parent's house and had a cookout and a good time and ultimately it was a very nice Father's Day, I just think I was moody and more fragile than I typically like to think myself.  We left that night and I got a great photo of the kids and I on my phone (Emma is a bit out of focus and looking slightly off 'camera' but it's probably one of the best pictures of the three of us ever)...but forgot to get one with MY dad.  Or my father-in-law.  I can be just as scattered as Emma, apparently.  Or perhaps we just know where she got it.

the best picture ever taken of the three of us.

ESY started for Lily on Monday.  ESY is "Extended School Year".  It's a school thing to help Lily keep some of the skills she picked up from last school year so that she doesn't regress over the long vacation.  Anyway, she has to ride a bus all the way to her new school, and I was a little edgy about the whole thing.  I got up a little extra early on Monday and had all her clothes laid out and supplements ready, and just tried to be extra organized so that the stress of this "first" wouldn't create problems.

Part of the stress of ESY is getting Lily on board, but she was fine getting on the bus (which arrived 20 minutes late.  I tried...so hard...not to call the bus company.  But I did.) and had what appeared to be a great first day.  Lily's teacher called me on my cell and just sort of gave me the verbal version of what she'd written in Lily's communication log.  Sounds like it went just about as well as I could have hoped.

Today before the bus arrived Lily said, "I can go to camp today?" and happy tears collected in the corners of my eyes as I furiously scribbled this into the communication log to send back to ESY this morning.

This kind of thing is exactly what Leslie would have stressed out about so much.  And I would compartmentalize it because, let's face it, Leslie had it covered, and I probably was not so understanding about how much stress she was under.  And now that stress falls to me and I can sort of get into my wife's head, absorbing that worry until it swells and I can physically feel the stress fill my chest like a helium balloon.  And then I remember to write lists...and it helps:

'call bus company

pack sun screen

pack lunch

arrange pickup'

So immediately after hearing about Lily's first day, I wanted to call Leslie and tell her.  Reassure her.  Lily's going to be okay.  Lily did great.  And so that was yet another happy/sad.  

Meanwhile Emma's summer is sort of just...going on.  In the background my teenager is experiencing her first "real" summer; the kind of summer I had when I was a kid.  She can stay at home by herself, go to the pool with friends, walk to her friend's house to hang out, go to movies...this is her first real taste of "freedom".  And although it feels like she's sort of the 'forgotten' kid in terms of making arrangements or whatever, it only feels that way to me.  To her I think the world is her oyster.  She is eager to be left alone.  Given space.  Allowed options. 

She started her volunteer work at Glade Run yesterday.  It's hard work and her feet were tired from pulling horses by lead ropes through the thick new sand of the coral.  She's not working full time this year the way she did last year.  I think it's more manageable this way, and more fun.

the best picture ever taken of a family member (glade run from last year)

This morning the bus was on time, and Lily was eager to go to "camp" and I noticed that instead of a seat by herself, or with a monitor...they put her next to "Lilly with two Els", who introduced herself to me as I was getting Lily up the steps of her bus yesterday.  She's a pretty, older girl, probably in her teens, and I don't think I knew how important it was for me to see Lily with other kids, because I almost started to cry.  I've never had an issue with Lily not really expressing any desire for social contact.  She's content solo, or seems to be, and I can honestly say that has given me no qualms.  But today when she was sitting down next to Lilly with two Els I got that heart swelling (non-medical) feeling and just felt really happy for her.  

And...honestly...If Lily is pissed she'll probably swat the girl next to her and they'll move her or whatever, but I'm going to preserve that image in my head and heart until I hear otherwise.  It was just very sweet.  

Nice way to start my day.

Parent/Teacher Conference

Another one of those strangely emotional nights for me.  Last quarter Emma had her worst quarter ever scholastically  Basically cratered.  I had decided at the beginning of this school year to approach this year with a "Your grade, your responsibility" philosophy with her.  Basically pulling back from helicoptering about and emailing teachers for missed assignments or requests for makeup work or retests or whatever in efforts to get Emma back to the grades that I...that WE (because Leslie and I both worked with her in the past) knew she could get.

Well...the fruits of that philosophy were...worst quarter ever.  EVER.  So of course I felt like a bit of a failure as a dad because this great experiment...this...take charge of your own work thing...which I really believe is ultimately the lesson she needs to learn...failed.  And it left Emma upset about her grades, and me pissed and frustrated about them too.

And the school called to arrange a conference...and I was like...well, fuck.  And I talked to Emma about it.  And as I talked, my voice did that thing that it sometimes does when I'm really angry or frustrated, and I heard my volume rising, and then Emma was crying and I was not letting my foot off the gas and...promises were made and hugs were given and...well...it ultimately ended on a bit of a good note despite my lack of self control.

And I watched as the first two weeks of this quarter went by and her grades came in.  Up.  Across the board.  And I felt like she was trying.  And I felt like...shit...maybe this come to Jesus is something that should have been done months ago.

I didn't know what the conference's tone would be like.  It was scheduled a week after her grades for the second quarter were turned in.  The worst grades any of those teachers have ever seen Emma get.  So I was nervous about it.  I imagined the worst.  New friends.  Lower grades.  Have you considered that these might be signs of something else?  Mr. Walter, have you talked to your daughter about drugs?  Really...no idea what I was walking into.

I had a prepared message.  Watch her.  She's already showing an upturn.  She wants this now.  It matters to her...now.

Instead I sat in a roomful of her teachers as they took turns telling me things about my daughter...

"She is lit from within"
"She gives so much to everyone"
"She advocates for herself"
"She understands how to talk to adults and explain when something is wrong"
"She is naturally talented"
"People are drawn to her and want to be with her."
"We can tell she's making a real effort"
"She's a hard worker"
"She's great.  We love Emma."

Those are things they said.  And more.  All the worries about whether she was taking her grades seriously...

"She asked to be moved to the front of the class so she could focus more."
"She emailed me an apology for not doing her best last nine weeks."
"When she falls she gets right back up"
"She's full speed ahead"

I always tell the people who care about me enough to listen that my worries about Emma are no less than my worries for Lily.  Just different.  And it is SUCH an irony to have to tell something like that to autism parents who adopt "different not less" as a battle cry.  Because many autism parents get...offended by neurotypical kids' parent's concerns about their kids.  "Oh wah...your daughter didn't get head cheerleader...MY kid can't eat without help!" As if having a special needs child means that our stress silences anyone else's stress or worry.  It's so stupid.  And I do get it at times...but man.  I've been worried about my little Emma.  And I get a free pass because I'm "in the club" but when I read the sentiment expressed...I cringe.  I can't relate.

And the teachers had concerns.  Of course they had concerns.  "When Emma turns in her homework, she shows that she understands the material.  But sometimes...she doesn't turn it in." And they shared that "almost there" frustration that I've been feeling.  That knowledge that she's got it.  She's smart.  She owns the material...but we can't grade her on it if she doesn't turn it in.

But I left feeling so...blessed.  So proud of her.  I make sure I tell her that especially after I've gotten done reaming her about something...that I'm proud of her.  That she makes me proud every day.  Certainly today was a noteworthy example of that.

I almost cried a dozen times during that half hour conference.  Tears of relief.  It's been so bottled up.  And when I walked out of the school into the parking lot to my car...I did cry a little.  Bittersweet tears.  Proud of Emma.  "You've done a great job with her," they said.  Leslie should have been here to take her bows too.  And that was the sad part.  The triumphs seem to cause me more grief than the stress does.  You did good, mommy.  She's going to be okay.

I told Emma when I got home.  She was relieved too.  I told her not to relax now that she knows the news is good.  She said she wouldn't.  I'm more engaged.  Still her grade her responsibility.  But I'm making myself more available for her.  Less treadmill...more study help.

Endings

Caring Place had its final night for us this evening.  It was a good experience.  I don't know if it was an experience tailor made for someone like me necessarily, but it definitely was a good experience for me and for Emma.  It generated some nice conversations.

Caring Place is a group support "service"? specifically for the benefit of children who have lost a loved one.

So every other week for the past...four months...Emma and I have spent our Mondays with other families also dealing with the loss of a loved one.

Emma asked me if it helped me.  I hedged.  "It didn't hurt me."

A second went by as I considered.

"That's not the same thing as helping."

"I know, baby, I just want to be honest, let me think about it for a second."  And I thought about it.

I told her that I felt that it was helpful.  I told her that if nothing else it gave me a 'scheduled time to grieve'; a time where I didn't have an excuse to compartmentalize.

What I told Emma then was that I don't like thinking about it.  That I'm pretty content 90% of the time because I'm not thinking about it.  On purpose.  That when I DO think about it, I'm sad.  And I don't want to be.  The Caring Place for me became a time where I had no escape from thinking about it.  And I told her that was good for me.  Because I think it's good for me to think about the sadness and about Leslie and about loss...and that sometimes I'm just not disciplined enough to do it myself.

And it was good for me too because it made me feel like I was "doing something" to help give Emma an outlet.  People to talk to who "get it".

Emma told me that one of the things she liked was being in a group where discussing losing her mom or her mom's life wasn't "a downer".  Not that it wasn't still a downer...but everyone in the room was in the same boat.  It didn't stop conversation...it started it.  It was nice not to have to censor herself and just talk to people without trying to protect their feelings.

Ironic, right?

Did I love it?  No.  It wasn't necessarily my kind of place.  We did touchy-feely things that make me feel uncomfortable.  They were quick to reiterate that anyone could "pass" on any activity without judgment.  And they meant it.  But I was committed to the program...it just wasn't necessarily my thing.

Would I recommend it to someone...anyone else?  Yes.  Everyone.  Maybe it's not your thing.  Maybe it IS your kid's thing.  Maybe you might even find out that although you thought it wasn't your thing...it really WAS your thing.  Whatever.  Highly recommend it.

We did a square of a quilt that will hang in the Caring Place when it's done (in a month or two, I think).  They took a picture of Emma and I.  It looks weird.  We're smiling because we're having our pictures taken, but we're holding a square of a quilt with Leslie's memorial on it.  Yay!

Emma saw it and said, "I look so tired."
I looked at it and said, "My beard is so long."

But I thought...man we sure look happy.  Brave faces maybe.  Appearances perhaps.  But we are happy for the most part.  Just looks weird.

It's a Hard Knock Life

Emma does CLO musical theater camp every year.  She loves performing.  She loves to dance.  She loves to sing.  She has a great presence on stage.  But if you follow this blog much, you know that her track record is not spectacular when it comes to "parts" or "callbacks" or whatever.  And while I love watching her on stage, I secretly also dread the chill winnowing wind of auditions and the uncertainty of her role and her mental state when those roles are selected.

There's almost this feeling that the kids who go to CLO's school get selected over the kids who just attend the camp.  I can't say that's a 'for sure' thing, but I get that feeling, and it feels wrong and twists my guts at the perceived injustice of it.  And when she get's Tree #3, I'm forced to do the dad thing, which is, "Be the best Tree #3 that you can be, Emma.  Don't be ashamed of who you are, and what you do.  Own Tree #3, BE Tree #3, make the audience remember Tree #3."  Instead of what I FEEL like doing, which is calling up the people in charge and making a big stink about it because Tree #3 is beneath my daughter, and she's got way more talent than the girl you picked as the lead and blah blah blah.


This year's musical is Annie Jr.  And Emma was very apprehensive about it.  Not because of the auditions and possible roles, although she really wanted to get a good part, but also because most of the kids she knew from previous years had selected Mary Poppins instead of Annie Jr., and she didn't think she'd know anyone.  And she didn't want to feel left out of the little cliques of kids that naturally form around those sorts of camps.  Anyway...apprehensive.  Stressed.  Sleeping like crap.

Yesterday she got her role.  She texted me:


Emma:  "Guess who I got"


In the back of my mind I'm thinking...it can't be Annie.  This isn't Dickens, where the good girl with the great heart overcomes adversity and not only comes out ahead, but wins it all.  This is real life.  Set your sights lower, Jim.  The only other female role I could remember from Annie was the lady who ran the orphanage...Mrs....whatsherass.  So I allowed myself to hope for Mrs. Whatsherass. 

Me:  "Who baby?"

Emma:  "LILY!"

I read the text and thought..."Who the fuck is Lily?"  Fucking musicals...why don't I know more about musicals.  I wanted to be supportive, but at the same time all I could think of was that it was someone I didn't know, so I'm thinking to myself, "Is this some orphan friend of Annie?" but I needed to congratulate her and so I googled it even as I replied.

Me:  "Awesome!  Are you happy??"

Emma:  "Ya!

And at that point two things happened.  The first was that Emma's picture of Lily from the old version of Annie came through via text.  And the second thing was I found a link that told me who Lily was.

And I knew who it was!  And I got genuinely excited for my little girl.  No, it wasn't Annie or Mrs. Whatsherass, but it was Lily, the con artist who pretends to be Annie's long lost mother for Warbucks' reward money.

Me:  "I'm super happy.  You can do a lot with that role!" (I actually spelled it roll, but nobody needs to know that)

And this is when I wanted SO MUCH to tell Leslie.  Leslie wouldn't have needed to google this shit.  Leslie would have known.  Leslie would have been just as anxious about the selection.  Leslie's heart would have been just exactly as invested in this.  Leslie would have carried along the exact same perceptions and baggage from past auditions that I would.  Leslie would have been so excited for Emma.  Leslie would get it.  Completely.  I wanted to share this with her and my heart just sort of sunk right then in my chest. 

I can't let happy things turn sad just because Leslie isn't here to share them with.  My happiness for Emma is unrelated to my inability to share it with Leslie.  It's no less happy.  It's no less awesome. 

I told Emma last night that I'm proud of her every day.  That getting a "good" part doesn't make me MORE proud of her.  But I did tell her that it made me happy for her.  That I was happy it was a part that made HER happy. 

Last night while Emma took out her contacts and got ready for bed, I walked in darkness through the grass of my back yard until I stood beneath the looming corkscrew willow I once bought Leslie for Mother's Day.  I stooped beneath the draped limbs and turned the light of my phone on so that I could see the ceramic butterfly Lily had helped make Leslie in school one year.  Beneath the butterfly we'd buried Leslie's memorial, a glass canister with playing cards and pictures, hand made cards and mementos that were special to us and special to Leslie, or special BECAUSE of Leslie. 

I hunkered down, using the phone light to direct my focus at the glazed butterfly and I talked to Leslie.  I told her about Emma's part.  I told her I was so happy for Emma and I knew she would have been too.  Because I needed to be able to tell her.  And when I finished telling her I told her to rest peacefully and that I loved her, and then I went back into the house and waited for Emma to finish getting ready for bed.

I didn't tell Emma I had talked to mommy.  And I didn't suggest to Emma that SHE talk to mommy.  Bringing it up seemed sad.  And she was very happy.  She had a good day yesterday, and I didn't want to mar it.  I don't want every triumph in her life to have an implied asterisk that says, "That's awesome*"  "* - if your mom was alive to see it, it would be better though".  I'll talk to her about it though.  I'll ask her if she still talks to mommy.  It's a nice segue to discussing "how we're doing". 

But certainly that will keep until tomorrow.  It's only a day away.

Going up

Emma's on day three of her grievous knee injury.  Not to make light of it...because she is injured, and a doctor with a medical degree and everything diagnosed her with "Maybe a knee sprain". 

This elicited a scoff of indignation from Emma who I think was holding out for something more serious, more 'interesting'..."*Maybe* a sprain.  What's that?"  Her "maybe" dripped with sarcasm so effortlessly thick I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride.  Suspicion of medical profession?  Check.

She'd been told she could ditch the crutches whenever she felt comfortable without them, but she decided that her first day back at school she needed them.  I suspect, however, that it was because she felt the presence of crutches would aid her plea to use ...the school elevator.

She got a key to the elevator yesterday.  She's allowed to take two friends with her for "safety reasons". 

This morning she came down without the crutches and told me she was going to try to do school today without them.  I argued that she should wait until this weekend.  We compromised.  She's took the crutches to school but will stash them in her locker unless she needs them. 

"They'll fit in your locker?" I asked skeptically.
"Stand up," she replied.
I stood. 
"You're my locker."
I stood stiffer and straighter.  She reached for the handle, imagining where it might be, then holding the crutches up in front of me.  She touched my forehead measuring it as the height of the locker. 
"Click."
She looked at me.  "What was that?"
"I'm a locker.  I clicked when you touched me.  I'm getting into my role."
She rolled her eyes at me.  "Yeah, they'll fit," she said.

I drove her to the bus stop.  She felt ready to ride the bus today too.  Yesterday she didn't think that would work.  Today things are looking up. 

For me too.  I'm more myself again.  Back to even keel.  Chipper.  Going up, feeling better.  My emotional elevator, Emma's leg, and the school's elevator...all heading to the top floor once more.

Blog Reboot

I used to write friends more emails.  I approached them wrong.  Social media has since replaced email and even texting as my preferred mode of communication, but I'm wondering if part of the issue with the infrequency of my blog writing of late is similar to where I went wrong with email. 

For the longest time, I wrote almost daily email exchanges with friends.  We'd ask and answer each other's questions as the day went by and the thread would grow until one or the other of us would start a new email chain.  What we did wrong was...we let the emails get bigger and bigger, answering more questions and telling more and more stories.  That sounds great, and it was, except...answering emails started turning into something I would dread.  I'd look at this giant email and think, "Okay, it's going to take me at least an hour to answer this."  I'd tell my story, ask my questions, and hit send.  When I got the next email back, it would be even longer.  Eventually I started doing the ol'..."I'll address it tomorrow" thing, and then I'd repeat that until guilt spurred me to make tomorrow today and write more. 

So I think that's what's been going on to an extent with the blog.  I have things to write, but it just seems like so much that I don't even want to start because it'll take forever to get to the end.

So I'm going to attempt to write more frequently, but just keep the length more reasonable.  If I can.  I'm...verbose.

Emma has signed up for a writing class with her English teacher for Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month).  I told her that maybe I'd do the same thing for...Nanoblowmo...or whatever the fuck they call the blog writing month challenge thingy.  I didn't call it Nanoblowmo to Emma.  Nor did I drop the f-bomb on her.

Anyway, on that topic (writing, not f-bombs)...Emma read something out loud for Leslie and I that she wrote.  It was really good.  It was such a departure from the stuff she's written in the past.  So much more of it was "her voice".  So much less of it was...Topic Sentence/5 Supporting Sentences/Closing Sentence...that drives me batshit crazy.  And she was clearly proud of it, which was great.  Typically we don't get to see her work unless we force her to let us review/correct it.  And maybe that's why...too much criticism.  I don't know.

I made sure to heap praise on her because I'd love for her to take an interest in writing.  The kid is funny as hell, bright, and tells a good story (when she collects her thoughts first)...why wouldn't that translate to good writing?

Nablopomo.  I just looked it up.  National Blog Posting Month.  So I'll maybe do that.

So much for keeping it short so that I post more frequently.   I have a post appearing on Glade Run's website in the next week or so, and I'll link here and let you know when it posts.

Divergent

Lots of stuff has been going on, and so I'm going to pretty much ignore it all and just post this.  It's weird.  My last post was about me driving to work, and the post prior to that was two months ago.  So there's officially so much crap that's happened since then that I'm just going to sweep it off the table like it never happened so I can move on. 

Oh...funny(ish) sidebar...

In college a fraternity brother of mine and I went to a party where we all sat around a table and played quarters.  My personality immediately drew "rules"...Jim talks, Jim drinks...that kind of thing.  Similarly, my friend Todd.  Todd "the Wad".  So the Wad was sitting directly across the table from me, and everyone had gotten up to refill the pitcher or make potty stops or whatever, and Todd looks up at me blearily, as if to speak, and throws up on the table. 

I recoiled, scooting back as far from the table as I could, and the Wad...well...he just swept it off the table like it never happened.  They came back with more beer, and the Wad just kept on playing.  He was a trooper, the Wad. 

Anyway...when I said I had all that crap that went on over the past two months and I was just sweeping it off the table?  I immediately thought of Todd the Wad.

Back on track...

I've always been an avid reader.  We've always read to the kids and I've done my level best to encourage Emma to find joy in books as well.  The Harry Potter series seemed to hit home with her.  We read it to her until she was about 11, then she finished the series off herself.  But after Harry Potter, she sort of hit a dead spot.  She just doesn't get as much out of reading as I did.  And to be fair, she's probably more active than I am. 

She's starting 7th grade.  This past weekend she came home very stressed out because she had learned that in addition to the assigned reading (in Reading class), she also needed to read three novels per 9 weeks.  She just didn't see how that was going to be possible.

We talked it out, trying to make her feel better, explaining how when she has time to read, instead of playing Words with Friends, or chatting with friends, or whatever the app du jour is...if she reads, she'll have no trouble finishing.  She seemed skeptical, but somewhat less stressed. 

The 7th graders have a choice this year, "pick one of the following:  Hunger Games, or Divergent."  I told her to just pick whichever book she doesn't want as her assigned reading.  The way I saw it, some of the kids were going to pick the other book, and if she used that as an extra novel, she'd at least be able to talk to kids who were also reading it.  The next day she came home with her first "In addition to the assigned reading" novel, "Divergent."

Okay...on the books.

I read Hunger Games.  While I don't have a problem with the book, I just wouldn't ever have picked it for my 12 year old.  It just seems too...grown up.  We shelter her from so much.  When the news is on, we turn it off.  Is she ready for this kind of book?  I would have recommended "The Borrowers" or "Chronicles of Narnia" or something...but Hunger Games?  I made my peace with it.  I decided that I would read Divergent with her, so at least I could see what she was reading.  I enjoyed it.  But she...

Loved it.  It's more grown up than the other books she's read, was that what she needed to really love a book?  Have I, all this time, been doing her a disservice by recommending books (that ARE good) that are just too...childish for her? 

She just started dance at a new studio.  She'd promised herself she'd work on her flexibility more and was stretching every night.  I know this sounds like I'm changing the subject, but...

She told me that she could really SEE the characters and what they were doing in a way that she didn't think any other book apart from Harry Potter could do.  She was sooooo into it.  I loved it.  The first night she started reading it, I told her the story of how I'd once read a book all night and went to bed only when I realized the sun had come up and I hadn't slept yet.  That night I told her she was free to read a little past bedtime, but at 11:30 to find a good spot to stop, and then go to sleep. 

I kissed her goodnight and went downstairs to finish cleaning some stuff up and walk on the treadmill.  At 12:30 I walked up the stairs to see her light still on.  I walked in to see Emma, unapologetically very wide awake and still reading. 


"Em, honey, it's after midnight.  I told you to find a good spot to stop an hour ago!"

"There wasn't a good place to stop!"

Fair enough.  She marked her place in the book and went to sleep.  I wondered if she'd have trouble sleeping because she was so excited about it.  She slept fine.  Finished the book the following day. 

One day into her assignment to read three additional novels per nine weeks, she was done with her first novel.  I think she feels a little less stressed about her class requirements now...and I am hopeful that she's discovering, in more grown up story-lines, a love of reading.

Break a Leg

I closed the refrigerator door too hard.  The magnet, part of a "package" from the photographer who shot the girls' dance pictures, slid off the door and broke.  Emma's leg was severed just above the knee.  Bad omen, that, just a week before her big dance recital.

When she came into my office and saw it lying on my desk she gave me a disappointed inquiring look, and I shook my head and said, "Sorry, Em, I knocked it off the fridge.  I have to find some glue and put it back together."

The following week her mother took her to the dress rehearsal.  Dress rehearsals always run long.  I honestly didn't expect them back for five hours, and in fact, I think they arrived just shy of that at four and a half hours.  Despite the time, though, both were animated.  

Leslie was gushing.  Apparently strides were made.  The performance was spectacular.  I would be SO impressed. Emma fell three times during acro...it didn't even matter because the rest was SO GOOD.  And so on.

I was dutifully intrigued.  And not even dutifully so much as genuinely.  I wanted to see the show.  Leslie's a tough sell.  If she thought the dances (Jazz/ballet/contemporary/acro) were good...certainly she was the "dance mom" of our family.

The next day was the recital.  I got home a little early.  They'd ordered pizza so we could eat and run.  The recital didn't start until 7, but Emma had to be there early, and I really only had about a half hour to eat before I needed to hop in the car and drive Lily to the performance.  Leslie took Emma within ten minutes of my arrival, and Leslie's parents soon followed to go save seats.  

Lily looked tired.  Lily looked more than tired, she looked drained.  She walked over to me and put her head down on my chest as I sat eating my pizza.  And...just stayed like that.  For her to initiate any sort of snuggle is rare.  For her to maintain it almost always means she's sick.  She broke away from me after about five minutes to sit down at the chair next to mine at the table.  She climbed into it and briefly put her head down on the table.

"Are you okay, Lil?"  No response.  A response is 50/50 anyway, so I didn't read too much into it.  I fired a text off to Leslie, who was already at the auditorium.

It was 6:21.  I was going to leave the house by 6:30 in order to get to the auditorium by 6:40.  The doors didn't even open until 6:30, but it gets pretty full in the parking lot, and although Lily is not a spectacular waiter...better not to have to walk/carry her from a half mile away than to suffer a little whining inside the auditorium, and the recital started at 7:00.

Lily loves the recitals.  We have the last two years recitals on DVD, and we watch them probably twice a day every day.  They are called Pink and Purple (for the color of the graphics on the outside of the DVD) and Lily knows all the dancers' names and sings along with the songs.  I knew once the show started she'd be fine, I just wanted to see if I could get her a little more comfortable.

I checked her back and she felt cool.  But sometimes she perks up if she has a little dose of Tylenol in her to...dampen...whatever it is that's making her feel "off".  We give her Tylenol with a syringe...just squirt it into her mouth and she swallows it pretty easily.  The trick though, is to get that first taste.  Once she does, she usually drinks it out of the syringe instead of making you put it in her cheek to swallow.  

She really fought me, ducking her head away, pushing the syringe.  "Lily, this is going to make you feel better, baby.  You just need to take the medicine."  She wasn't buying it.  I finally held her arms and made her take it.  One long squirt and she swallowed it and it was done.  Or was it?

Because the next moment she was throwing it up, throwing it all up and not just the Tylenol  but the Tylenol  the raspberry ice drink, and the pizza, all mixed together...on her shirt, on the carpet, on the couch, on me.  And it really was all my fault.

At 6:34 I texted Leslie to tell her that Lily threw up.  I was so crestfallen...I really really did not want to miss this recital, not any part of it.  I was dashing from sink to Lily.  Lily remained remarkably still while I sprinted back and forth trying to clean the couch, the carpet, and her.  I finally cleaned enough that I needed to get her in the bath.  I ran upstairs and started the water and ran back downstairs to get Lily.  We stripped off her clothes and I wadded them into a ball outside the bathroom.  

"I'm like The Wolf from Pulp Fiction, Lily.  We'll get you cleaned up right away."  

I think fast, I talk fast and I need you guys to act fast if you wanna get out of this. So, pretty please... with sugar on top. Clean the fucking car.

But unlike Winston Wolfe, my brain jammed on the topic of what to do with Lily once she was clean.  Was she sick?  She wasn't acting it now.  Put her jammies on her and wait for the sitter?  Take her to the recital?  It was six of one and a half dozen of the other...or as my wife used to say, "six half dozen of the other."  I was stuck in a loop.  I called Leslie.  

"What should I do?"

"Just get her here and we can figure it out later."

Fair enough.  That was all it took.  Whatever the loop was, she nudged me out of my ineffective orbit and all the pieces started falling into place:  Lily washed and clean, new clothes on, my clothes stripped off and me redressed, dirty clothes soaking in the washing machine, couch cleaned, carpet sprayed and wiped.

At 6:51, 17 minutes after "the mess" I texted Leslie to tell her I was "Just leaving".  Then I called and told her to have one of the grandparents meet me outside to take Lily so I could park the car.  I was sweating from stress and exertion, but on my way. 

At 7:00 Leslie told me that the lights were dark but they hadn't started the opening number yet...but I was pulling into the parking lot, my dad was out front waiting.  I slowed to a stop in front of him and got out of the car, walking around to Lily's side to unbuckle her and hand her over to Papa.  He took her in as I drove away to find a spot.

I caught a break and found a parking spot relatively close and hurried into the building, catching Lily and Papa in the hall after producing my ticket at the entry and hurrying to catch up.  We entered the auditorium.  It was still dark, and my eyes adjusted just quickly enough to dodge a couple chairs that had been placed to block two of the rows near the back that the camera crew was using to film the recital.

I was still sweating, but the auditorium was cool, and I was inside, and we weren't late.  The show hadn't started.

What a show!  She was great.  I'm sure the other kids were too, but I couldn't take my eyes off her.  She glowed...she emoted...she danced so well.  And I don't know shit about dancing, but Emma has something when she's on stage.  She's captivating.  Meh...I'm just her dad, but she seemed so ON that night.

I took Lily home to the sitter midway through the recital when there was a big break between Emma's dances.  She was back to normal, happy Lily.  I got back in plenty of time to watch the rest.  It was beautiful.  I was elated.  I hadn't missed it.   

Signs can be interpreted so many different ways.  I wrote a post about it once on Childswork.  The severed limb from the kitchen magnet likeness of Emma?  I guess that was just the universe telling her to "break a leg".