Dementia, Schementia

NOTE:
I find it hard sometimes to know what I should and should not write here. I think the main reason for my sporadic posting (other than a lack of time) is what I want to write about - I feel I shouldn't.

“God have mercy on the man who doubts what he’s sure of” – Bruce Springsteen

Last fall, The Nanny filed a lawsuit against The Grandma, accusing her of a lot of things. Things I know to be false. Money and a jilted lover are involved. When those two things meet, nothing good can come of it.

My emotions have gone to all extremes over this whole issue, and I have felt like a protector, advocate, victim and vigilante many times over the past several months. Through it all, I have constantly felt like I was in the middle.

I was driving Robby home from school one day and I was telling him that yes, Mamas do always come back and they do always love their kids no matter what. I felt like I was only telling him a partial truth. I will always come back, Robby. I will always love you, no matter what, Robby. As for every Mama? Well, I know that isn’t true for every Mama, Robby.

Sometimes Mamas don’t come back.
Sometimes Mamas don’t ever love their kids.

I know first hand it’s a hurtful thing when a Mama doesn’t come back. My Mama left and didn’t come back for two years. It’s a thing I don’t want Robby ever to feel. And while it’s a hurtful thing, it is yet a forgivable thing for me. Mama’s not ever loving their kids is where I struggle with forgiveness. This is strange, since I can look at the circumstances of the Mama and see where she was left behind, see her disease and see her pain when she did the leaving. I cannot see any of those things when I look at her Mama. She never loved her child. I can think of nothing that factors into why or how this could ever happen.

If a Mama never loves her child, is it possible for her to love her grandchildren? Sometimes I say yes, but I really think the answer is no. Maybe all the “love” a Mama gives her grandchild is just a way to get back at her own child; put another spike through that little broken heart.

Even if illness plays a part in recent history, it cannot explain 67 years of slowly killing a soul. Any Mama capable of that deserves no part in knowing the joys of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

This may sound harsh, cold and bitter. Maybe it is. I can tell you that mine is soul in pain. I have been left again. All the feelings, given and received, of love and the belief that this love shared was unconditional, all seem false to me now. I know I love her still. I know I loved her with all my heart then and my love was unconditional then. Today, the conditions have changed. I don’t have another forgiveness in me.

Facebook Manifesto

Facebook, in concept is a good idea. It lets you stay in touch with people in your life with quick one or two lines every day (or hour for some) or give someone a “super poke” just to let them know you are thinking about them. In today’s rush and hurry world, it is nice to get at least some connection with the people you care about. Even if you don’t always have time for a long email, phone call or lunch.

As with all other things in life, moderation for facebook is key. I hope this, my Facebook Manifesto, can offer some guidelines. You can slip every once in awhile, but if you have slid down that slippery facebook slope, hopefully you can recognize yourself here and get the help you so desperately need.

If you have over 100 friends on Facebook, you don’t look popular. You look pathetic.

If you update your status more than twice a day, you need to ask yourself two questions.
1. Is this really vital information I am sharing with friends?
2. What can I do in my life to get the connection I crave with people without being this annoying and alone?

If you troll other people’s status updates just for a chance to comment with your witty retort, you need another hobby, or outlet for this creativity.

If you are in a relationship and use facebook to “chat”, email, “hug”, “throw a banana at”, send a “kidnap request” and generally show others how charming you can be when sitting behind a keyboard, you need to assess your relationship and figure out what you are not getting there that is driving you to this behavior.

If you are not in a relationship and do all of these things, you need to know you will never find one of any sustenance on facebook. Move out of your parent’s basement for chrissakes already.

If you are in a relationship with someone who practices this unhealthy facebook behavior, you need to ask yourself two questions.

1. Am I treating them the way I want to be treated? If the answer is no, then you can’t go onto to question 2 until it is yes.

2. Why am I in a relationship with someone who would rather put all their energy into their facebook “friends”?

Socks

OK, what is the deal on socks? I cannot find a decent selection of socks to fit my kid. I finally found some today (at KMart of all places!) that fit him. They are white crew socks, package of seven pairs for $5.99. What if he needs another color besides white? I'd be satisfied with at least one pair of black socks. There are 15,000 choices if you are an infant. Why all the cutesy infant socks? They should be the ones stuck with plain white. It's rare an infant needs socks to match his dress pants for that school play. They don't even walk yet, so the white socks aren't even going to get dirty. Why do they get the black socks and the three year old boys who live to jump in mud get stuck with the white socks?

I saw racks and racks of Dora socks, Hannah Montana socks, sparkly pink, purple, red and green socks. Even socks with fur on the tops. I almost grabbed a pair of Dora socks out of desperation, but the thought of The Papa's head exploding stopped me.

I'm convinced it's a conspiracy. Look at they way they size socks:

Baby - Sock Size 3-4 1/2

Infant - Sock Size 4-5 1/2

Toddler - Sock Size 5-6 1/2

Kids - Sock Size 6-7 1/2

Boys - Sock Size 8 - 13

Today, I discovered Robby is a Kid. Not a toddler anymore, but not yet a boy. Since the sizes have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with shoe size, I had to discover this by sitting my son on a dirty KMart floor and removing his shoe and very small sock and trying them on his wriggling foot. I know I was not the first mom to do this because almost all of the packages had been opened.

I guess I have four choices. I can dress him only in white socks, no matter what color his pants are. I can learn to make socks. I can honor diversity, risk therapy, and dress him in sparkly socks. Or, I can put him in sandals.

Anyone out there know where I can find a pair of black Kids - Sock Size 6-7 1/2 for my son who wears a size 9 shoe?

Uncle Wiggly

When Robby was born, The Grandma brought some books for the nursery that used to belong to Uncle Mike. Tonight, I pulled an old favorite off the shelf for the first time.

Tonight I read the first chapter of Uncle Wiggly's Happy Days to Robby. When I got to the end of the first chapter, I could remember so vividly reading this story to another 3 year old, even
though that was 25 years ago. This was my little brother, Uncle Mike's, favorite book as a kid.
He must of heard it 1,000 times. He would literally beg to hear this story. I text ed Uncle Mike the last paragraph after Robby was asleep, thinking he'd get a kick out of it.

"Oh dear me! There is no room in this chapter to tell you what happened all of a sudden. But I will tell you in the next chapter if the egg beater will help the can opener to take the olives out of the gold fish bowl and make a chocolate cake for the canary bird."

All those readings, for nothing. He couldn't place it. Even though he used to laugh at this part. Laugh almost as hard as Robby laughed tonight. Oh well, so much for little minds being a sponge. At least he remembers someone was always there to read to him and give him a good night kiss. I guess that is what counts the most after all. Right?

Out Like a Lamb

The ornaments are packed away for another year. The Boy Scouts came and took the remains of the tree away. The Grandma is back in Arizona. I have gained 10 pounds. The holiday season is officially over at our house.

Top 5 things to remember about 2008:
1. Robby starting to poop in the toilet.
2. America electing its first non-white President
3. Discovering what in me is indestructible.
4. Paul Newman.
5. My little brother getting hitched.

Top 5 things NOT to remember about 2008:
1. Voters tell Gays they have no rights.
2. Hockey Moms.
3. Dementia.
4. Cardiologists.
5. Del Taco.

I am surprised at how much hope I have for 2009. Especially considering the number of black-eyed peas I consumed New Year's Day. The odds indicate a bleak fiscal year. My family is going through a nightmare, legally, and otherwise. Yet, I find myself happy every morning to be awakened by my adorable and healthy son; and always happy when I go to sleep and the last person I speak to is The Papa. 2008 was a year of rediscovering my core and realizing with that, all things are possible.

That's Why We Put Up a Star

Robby explains why we put the star on top of the Christmas tree.


Christmas Tree Star from dimplecheek on Vimeo.

Everything's Eventual

I won't watch a horror movie. I saw Nightmare on Elm Street in high school. I didn't sleep for a week. Five years ago, I caught Mel Gibson's face on HBO and watched Signs even though I was home alone. At night. Alone. My distaste for horror movies grew when I had Robby. My maternal hormones do not get along with all that adrenaline. Last year, my zombie loving brother conned me into watching 28 Weeks Later one afternoon. Although I never saw 28 Days Later I was hooked on this sequel's story line. I did have to forward through some scenes he deemed as "ultra gory". I've never even seen Scream and everyone tells me that is not really a scary movie. (I know for a fact Drew Barrymore gets offed in the opening scene. No thanks!)
Despite this, I still claim Stephen King as my favorite author.

I haven't read a Stephen King book since March of 2002. Up until then, I had read almost all of his books and couldn't wait for the next one to be released. My favorite has to be the introduction he wrote to Night Shift. (Oh Stevie, you had me at "Let's talk about fear, you and I.") When I read Pet Sematary in high school, the nightmares lasted more than a week. My AP English teacher even talked about her nightmares from that book. Lately, I've read several of his Pop of King contributions to Entertainment Weekly and enjoyed every single one. Even though I haven't read any, I've purchased new hardcover releases over the years. I've gotten a few as gifts, including the latest Just After Sunset.

In March of 2002, Everything's Eventual was released and I bought a copy right away. Like Night Shift and Just After Sunset it is a collection of short stories. I purchased my copy in Phoenix. I had been there to say goodbye to my dying father. Being a stubborn man, he refused to die the week I was in town. (I truly believe he waited for me to leave to die - out of love.) I purchased the book and planned to start reading it on the 2 1/2 hour flight home. I can see the book on the shelf from where I am sitting now. I know that on page 29, there is my boarding pass from March 25, 2002. While reading the first story Autopsy Room Four I was overcome with grief and put the book down. I knew I had just said goodbye to my dad for the last time. I could not read a story about a man who was alive, yet mistaken for dead undergoing his own autopsy. My dad died that night, when I was safe and at home.

King said: "What I did was take all the spades out of a deck of cards plus a joker.
Ace to King = 1-13. Joker = 14. I shuffled the cards and dealt them. The order in which they came out became the order of the stories, based on their position in the list my publisher sent me. And it actually created a very nice balance between the literary stories and the all-out screamers. Next collection: selected by Tarot."

I wonder if it would have changed things for me if Autopsy Room Four had drawn the Jack and not the Ace.

I've had serious thoughts about reading Just After Sunset. I even put it on top of the television in the bedroom. Maybe it's been enough time and the grief will be bearable and the memory of that flight a little faded. Maybe the Tarot cards will work in my favor.