Last week, the Bug came down with a virus of some sort. Between coughing, hacking, sniffling and generally feeling like crap, he wasn't feeling all that stellar. I mused that not only does he LOOK like me, but he certainly has other traits of mine, too.

What are those, you ask?

Missing your first school pictures because you are SICK!

Bug's school pictures were scheduled for last Thursday. And because he had a fever and felt like hell, I didn't drag him into school for the event. My first class pictures are noticeably absent from the scrapbook: I managed to get chicken pox about then.

(I also missed our first field trip because I had - seriously! - chicken pox AGAIN.)

I wonder what else my son will 'get' of me ... will he muse later in life he should live in a big bubble with padded walls because he runs into everything? I currently have a bruise on my leg that for the life of me I can't place how or when I get the damn thing ...

For now, I'm packing up a lunch, promising him all mornings will indeed suck this bad, but that soon he'll be with his buddies, talking over Danimals and PB&J.

Labels: memories, sick bug

What a week.

Bug had a great first week of Preschool. When I dropped him off the first day, he informed me, "It's okay, you go now". So I did. With no tears on either end. It was quite nice to know I was leaving him in a safe place. The only moment of upset came when he learned he didn't, after all, get to ride on the school bus.

I used to ride the school bus. I remember the day when my Bus Driver came to introduce himself at my house. I distinctly remember seeing this man on my front steps, my mom making polite conversation, and my little toddler brother (who had been in the bath) went streaking out the front door completely butt ass naked. My mom was horrified.

I remember being getting on the bus on the first day of Kindergarten, and sitting directly behind the Bus Driver's daughter. Her name was Judy. I remember thinking she had the most beautiful, long blonde hair of anyone I'd ever seen in my entire life (knocked those girls in the Breck commercial right off their pedestal). And man, she smelled SO GOOD! I wanted to be in high school right there and then.

Years later, my brother got to ride on the Bus (clothed). I remember him having a lot of trouble sitting down and staying put. On one occasion, I remember our Bus Driver yelling out, "Sit down, or I'll hit the brakes so hard you'll be wrapped around the gear shift!". I still think that's hysterical.

There's something to be said for riding a country school bus. You hit every single rut there is on a road. You bounce around. You get to know your neighbors. You tell stories about your day. You fight with your siblings, and on complete accident, kick them in the balls (really, total accident). The last day of school, you get FULL SIZE CANDY BARS and are free until September.

A complete and total right of passage.

I know eventually my son will ride a big yellow school bus somewhere. But, I admit, it kind of bums me out that he won't have the same experience I had of waiting outside in the driveway, back pack on, hearing the bus rumbling down the the county road.

Labels: memories, the bug and mommy

First of all, thanks tons for taking the time to read the last, really lonnnng post and for sharing your stories via comments and email. I was touched and still am by the support and kindness from all of you. So, thanks.

I went to a reunion over the weekend for my dad's mom's side of the family. It's always in this little town where I first lived, population still around 100, I think. To borrow a line from Tim McGraw, it's a "map dot ... a stop sign on the blacktop". It could easily describe this little town (and of course, the next verse is "and I caught the first bus that I could hop from there" - and I did, but I digress):



After the usual kick-ass buffet at the Church Hall, we busted tradition this time and took a drive south of town to see some 'important sites' in our family history.

Man, who knew??

Here's a shot of the one-room schoolhouse my grandmother (now in her mid-80's) taught at:



It sits up on a hill, on a piece of property that friend's own. I have memories of driving past the schoolhouse, but never being able to go inside. This time, we got to. Probably the highlight of the tour for me.

A picture of my grandmother on the steps of this schoolhouse:



My Great Uncle, now 90, came into the schoolhouse with us and told us about having gone to school there, how the desks were set up, memories of coming to school from their homestead a few miles away in bad weather, etc. For many years after they'd stopped using the school, it had been used to store silo. The interior is wrecked, but the blackboard (probably just slate) is still attached:



On Sunday, we went to a concert. And the story in and of itself about the concert is crazy. Just silly. But the end result out of a total waste of money and a day in the hot fucking sun (and numerous applications of sunscreen, by the way), was this:



I'm nursing that this week and staying inside like a good white girl. Or pink, depending.

Labels: family reunion, memories, pictures, sunburn

People often ask how HDH and I met. A very long story short, I knew of him while working at the hospital. One of my girlfriends thought he was pretty cute, mentioned this, and I happened to run across him at the salad bar once. Smiled, grabbed my extra croutons, and left.

Months went by, and I landed a temporary job in his office. Again, not really interested in him 'like that'. I had a boyfriend. He had a girlfriend (read: pyscho crazy woman). I didn't do much work at all for him, but occasionally became victim to some of his shit.

Examples:

HDH would just leave various 'samples' of blood clots in jar on your desk. You'd come back from lunch, and a clot would be staring back at you.

HDH had a thing for interesting world music, so he'd leave CD's here and there for me to listen to (I thought it was cool then, but after listening to Pakistani chant music non-stop during the last six years, it gets to a person).

HDH would tell you a story ... about ANYTHING ... and have to make reference to sports, war or a random movie you'd never seen (Dead Ringers, for instance). And he STILL does this .... only now, after six years together, I interject with "GET TO THE POINT!!".

This evening, we are driving to one of our favorite Mexican food places in town. As we pass a movie theater in that area, he makes mention of seeing Blair Witch Project there with Psycho ExGirlfriend (don't know about her? read about her right here)

And this prompts a memory from HDH I'd almost forgotten ...

When I worked in that office, there happened to be an escaped crazy man on the loose. He'd busted out of the officer's control and had decided to disappear in our building. The odds of him being around where I was was slim, but if you know me at all, you know my luck really fucking sucks.

The office manager called and asked HDH to PLEASE stay in the office with me, that she wanted doors locked and us to hang out until there was an all-clear.

Well, being the complete and total gentleman my husband (now) is(n't), he left to take a piss, probably. So, I'm sitting in the office, hearing nothing out in the halls because EVERYONE IS ON LOCKDOWN, thinking, "Crap, that guy is somewhere close and I have no one in here with me!"

More than a few minutes go by, and finally there is this eerie sounding 'thunk thunk' at the door. A pause. Followed by a man's voice saying, "Jooooooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssssssh!".

Fucking HDH.

He'd just seen Blair Witch and thought it'd be great to use that line while I pissed myself in the office. Had I known what I know now, I would have hauled my size 9's up and scissorkicked him in the balls.

But this is my husband. I married a smartass.

Eh.

I guess he did, too.

And for the record: A long, long time passed before HDH asked me to dinner. I hadn't been working in that office for a while. He had long since dumped Pyscho for not flushing the potty and being, generally, a nasty human being, and I'd been dumped by my boyfriend for not knowing enough important people in the city.

I should have introduced them ....

Labels: hdh-isms, memories

I love stumbling across old photos.

This photo is of me and my first college roommate in 1994, in a small town in middle of Kansas. We had a lot in common. We were both music majors, both adopted. We had a great quirky sense-of-humor together. I adored her.





And then, in typical 18-year-old catty female behavior, we had a falling out. I moved into another room down the hall, and she stayed in our old room. A few weeks later, my dad died. And she found out she was pregnant. I moved away from school. She stayed to finish out the year, I believe, then moved away.



Ending a friendship was painful, but the way THAT friendship ended really bothered me for a lot of years, but we were both going through our own trials, we didn't fix what was broken, we didn't know how yet to reach out to the other during those times. We both hurt, but for entirely different reasons. I will always regret not being there for her more during that time in her life. I can respect, though, that I didn't have the insight or maturity to help like I would or could now.



Almost five years later, I sat down to write her an apology letter. I told her how badly I felt for what I'd done to her. It was silly, I said, and completely childish. I told her I didn't expect a letter in return, but wanted her to know that I hadn't meant what I'd said, and truly was hoping she, her husband and son were doing alright.



Some time passed, and I had a letter from her in my mailbox with a photo of their son on Santa's lap. In her letter, she accepted my apology and gave her own. She said, "We were young and immature. Please don't worry about it anymore!". I remember feeling a weight lift off my shoulders and my heart. We've stayed in touch since, sending our respective families Christmas cards and an occasional email during the year.


Life throws curves, and although it might steady out for a bit, the hits don't stop. I've learned to deal with them better. I take better care of my friendships. I have learned humility and the act of forgiveness. I learned, too, that in each curve, there's almost a new hand reaching out to help you up. Had it not been for that falling out, sadly, I wouldn't have met my second roommate - one who has been a champion in my life and someone I love dearly. She was the friend I needed to lean on when my dad died a few weeks later. She could hold me up, offer a hand, and good words.


I see this picture, and I see many things (other than those god awful ugly pants - my lord!). Most importantly, though, I've learned a lot, but I know I have a lot more to learn as I go ...


"I gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which I must stop and look fear in the face .... I say to myself, 'I've lived through this and can take the next thing that comes along' ....We must do the thing we think we cannot do." - Eleanor Roosevelt, former First Lady

Labels: friendship, love thursday, memories

Picture this ...

Some time in the early to mid 1980's and I'm in Elementary School. I don't remember what I had on (probably my super cool Statue of Liberty costume, that would figure), but what I do remember thinking I looked pretty righteous walking around town, begging for the candy on Halloween night. My parents would drive us around, dump us off at one end of the block and pick us up at the other.

This night, though, my dad waited until the very last to take us to our teacher's house. There were three single guys who had taken over a house on Nebraska Ave. and had made it into their bachelor pad.

And God, they were always pulling pranks. Once, they'd taken my aunt's red VW bug and put it up on cylinder blocks in the car wash. And this Halloween night, I remember my dad pulling up in front and laughing. My little brother and I didn't get the joke. And oh, are the signs SO CLEAR to me now ....

We walk up to a dark house on Halloween night. The lights are not on. I vaguely remember getting to the front step, turning around to tell my parents that nobody was home about the time the coldest water on EARTH was unleashed on us. And from the rooftop, I saw my three teachers, armed with garden hoses, spraying the trick or treater's and laughing their asses off.

I remember my little brother getting supremely pissed at the entire situation. He hadn't busted ass all night to get drenched. I remember him insisting they give us candy, to 'come down here now!'. I watched him attempt to bust into their house and get the candy his own damn self, soaked Halloween costume or not. I remember one of the teachers coming down, laughing hysterically, and handing us a lot of candy for our troubles.

This story came up last night, because one of the teachers I mentioned is now a coach for a men's college basketball team that played two nights ago during March Madness. They didn't win, and were a big underdog, which was really a huge bummer. I would have loved to have seen the upset.

But really, how remarkable to start out as a small town high school basketball/baseball coach, a PE and math teacher on the side and end up winning Coach of the Year for your Division, and playing in March Madness?

Pretty freaking cool.

Edit: My elementary school BFF is Lizard, and while we were chatting about how cool this all was, she reminded me a few more stories about Coach involving a dodgeball, a brick wall, and a kid with head tic who moved his head into the wrong position at the wrong time. Still laughing my ass off about that. And yes, I'm securing my spot in Hell, I'm sure. I'll save you a seat.

Labels: basketball, Halloween, memories

I had potato soup for lunch.

While that alone really isn't THAT blog-worthy, it reminded me of something that happened to me as a little kid. I was probably three at the time? I remember sitting in the kitchen at the table with my dad, refusing to eat the potato soup in front of me. It had big ol' chunks of potato, I remember them being too big, and I couldn't eat the soup.


I could hear Lawrence Welk playing on the TV in the living room, and I desperately wanted to go in and watch the dancers. The Muppets would come on after, I believe, and as I was sitting there protesting the potato soup, I was made to then listen to the Muppets and couldn't enjoy that show either.


My mother has a picture somewhere of my father sternly looking at me and me refusing - no, actually full on BAWLING - because I didn't want to eat the potato soup. By then, it was really, really cold, and when I actually did choke that crap down, I was gagging. (I have a similar memory about a picnic and creamed corn that had gotten cold. Who the hell serves hot creamed corn for a picnic?? Right, my mom.)


Good times.

Last night before bed, my son had pirated these bad boys from the kitchen ....



... and he was wielding them around, snapping at whatever he could. We were laying in bed (Dad, Mom, The Bug who is almost 3 yrs, egad), when the following conversation transpired:


Me: What should we do with those tongs, Bug?

Bug: Get Daddy's nip-puls (nipples)!!!

(Cue Daddy jumping up and running away)

Speaking of The Bug, he has a raging ear infection and a wee bit of a temp. At the moment, he is a slug in the chair, watching 'toons and having cups of milk. When the Motrin kicks in, though, this kid will be wired for sound.

And if y'all hadn't heard by now, my buddy Howard has been interviewed over at Best Gay Blogs and did a pretty neat interview. And if you haven't read Howard by now, shame on you. Make like a bakery truck and get yer BUNS over there!!

Random Comment Of The Day: "You know, you really aren't that nice when you haven't slept." - HotDoctorHusband to HotDoctorWife after she got roughly three hours of sleep, for the second night in a row, and he got more then eight. Just sayin' is all.

Labels: around the house, memories

My mom - although by most definitions, she is just like the "no more wire hanger's" mom - was somewhat militant and organized about keeping folders of my schoolwork and other things from birth to college. Each folder is labeled with the year and stuffed with plenty of things I'd long forgotten about. Poems crumpled up into the trash were scooped out, smoothed out, and hidden away. Notes to friends, assignments I passed and failed, and brochures of places I visited during school. As nuts as my mom is (and she is), this is a cool thing.

And somewhere in-between a book report and a playbook with "I heart Theboyoftheweek" written all over it, was a note from my dad. It was about a track meet I had that day.

And you must know, I hated particpating in all things athletic. I was really, really good at cheering those on who could run, like my friend, Julie. She kicked ass at it and I was 100% cheering her on. But me? A big fat NO. I was really awful at it all. In basketball, I'd be too busy trying to remember how to run and dribble, and would forget how the play we were running. In volleyball, my elbows were double-jointed, so when I'd go to pass the ball, it would fly off my right arm into the crowd. And running? Oh HELL no. Unless someone was chasing me, it certainly wasn't for me.

The note that morning from my dad listed off five things at the track meet he thought I'd be good at, in order, with a bit of advice to the side for each one. The first one was the relay because "it's the most fun". The last was the high jump, and he added, "If you don't let the fear of the bar mess with your head". Um, yeah. That fear was certainly there.

He would leave these notes for me on the breakfast counter. If he had to leave for work early, it would be sitting by my cereal bowl. If it was something he wanted me to know during the day, it would be left in the same place in the afternoon when I came home from school. It was a rare occasion that he wasn't at a track meet, either (presumably to watch the other more althetic kids actually be, oh, athletic - ha!).

My dad was an incredible athlete growing up and into college. He ended up playing college football and starting his senior year. I know he wanted his kids to really be into sports, too. I remember countless nights practicing basketball with him in the Shop building behind our house. I tried, I really did. I'd go out and turn on New Kids On the Block (eeek!) and rock it OUT. Sadly for him, it just wasn't my thing. And the day I told him I didn't want to play basketball at school anymore just crushed him.

In a small town, there are only a few things you can do to be involved, and those are:

1. sports
2. sports
3. band

I think, in all honesty, my dad was afraid I'd be sulking the halls with no means of making friends in a club. I hadn't yet figured out I liked drama, so all I had was music.

My music teacher, I think, asked me to sing the National Anthem before one of the basketball games that year with a friend of mine. Now, this was something I was good at and confident doing. This was something that didn't freak me out; I could sing in front of 200 people, but I couldn't run down the court.

While rummaging through this same pile of old papers and such, I found the video recorded of my first time singing the National Anthem acapella at that basketball game. My dad had the video camera. And although in general his movie taking skills weren't too hot, this time he was really shaking the camera. He was a nervous dad!! And when we finished, he yelled out, "GOOD JOB, HDW!!" and let out a sigh of relief.

I'd found my niche and my daddy was proud.

I think these little reminders ... what, 15 plus years later! ... really help continue to remind me of who he was and what he was, and most importantly, really, who I was to him. It's not that I've forgotten, but it's nice to be reminded.

Like hearing his voice coming through the speakers in my living room. I closed my eyes and I could have sworn he was right ... here ...

Labels: daddy, memories