Say What?

Fish has a beautiful smile, but it can be quite elusive. When she was just a little Fish, she never smiled in photos.

Exhibit A: Kindergarten school photo

The photo arrived with this note:

Exhibit B: Club photos

Tuna (smiling), The Boy (smiling), and Fish

It's like she had some sort of vendetta with photographers. 

I had pretty much given up hope, but then...

I discovered the magic word. 

It's not cheese. 

This is cheese:

"Say cheese!"

Nope. Not cheese. It's...wait for it...

PUBERTY!

"Say puberty!"

It is, apparently, a hysterical word. Just the mention of it causes roaring laughter and awesome smiles. 

Who knew? Not I. With 5 kids between 8 and 18, I do not find puberty to be so hilarious. 

Maybe if we say it three times fast. Puberty, puberty, puberty. Nope. Still not funny. I guess it only works in the under 18 crowd.

How does that word affect you? 

  

All Rise

Court is in session.

Today, we went to court with Flooring Guy. We were fortunate enough to be first up on the docket. The judge required us to meet with a court-appointed mediator. That was a fairly short meeting. After a prolonged attempt to add up Flooring Guy's numbers, we were excused from the meeting. There were raised voices coming from the meeting room and then the mediator emerged to announce that we would need to go back in front of the judge because we were NEVER going to work this out.

Our hearing with the judge was long and painful. Let me summarize it for you:

Flooring Guy said (paraphrasing here, of course): I'm suing them for 5 green apples because we agreed on 6 red apples and I billed them for 8 oranges and 2 grapes. But, I shoulda subtracted 1 of them grapes and then it would all equal a kumquat.    

Whaaa?

And so on and so forth we danced around the court room for the next hour. Well...we stood still looking like he'd just fell of the kumquat cart and he danced around so much the judge had to ask him to stand in one place.

When the whole fiasco was winding down he looked desperately at the Big Guy and pleaded "you remember don't you? You remember Big Guy!?"

Um, no. We are not here to plead your case for you Mr. Flooring Guy.

We said (again, paraphrasing): Um...he installed only 2 bananas. We don't know why he's asking for additional fruit.

The whole thing felt like a fall down the rabbit hole and I'm still clawing my way back out. Bizarre-O.

The judge will mail his decision so I pray that today was the last time we will ever lay eyes on Flooring Guy.

Flooring Guy, don't let the carpet tack hit ya...um...on your way out.

Yes, we DO remember. Every single time we walk by that one un-carpeted stair. 

Here She Grows

This spring brought a new challenge for our family. (We're all about new challenges here, yo.) Our middle child, Fish, started taking injections of human growth hormone after she was diagnosed with growth hormone deficiency. Fish is terrified of needles and I was mortified by the thought of poking a needle into another person, but we got the hang of it. It wasn't long at all before Miss Fish was giving injections to herself.

Finally, we saw the results of our efforts. All of those shots have produced a 1 1/2 inch height gain. We haven't seen that kind of growth in a very long time. Fish is actually back on a growth curve instead of a downward dip. We have a short window between here and puberty to add some additional height, but we're getting there! 

I'm thrilled with the changes we're seeing. Her face has changed; she has more tone and definition. Her muscles are more toned, and she seems to be relying on her rescue inhaler much less. The endocrinologist says we're on track to see 4 to 5 inches of growth this year. So far, it seems her toes have grown right over the ends of her sandals. 

I guess somebody is getting a whole new back-to-school wardrobe. 

      

 

Say What?

So today...

Which is a MONDAY, of course...

We get the fabulous news (from our mortgage company, no less) that our insurance company has DOUBLED our rates. It seems we no longer qualify for their safe list since our beloved crock pot burned the house down.

I find that interesting because now the house has all new wiring and fire foam around the wiring- we're safer than we've ever been.

We did not receive this news from the insurance company. Because, you know...that would have been too much like right. No. We got this news from the mortgage company who rejected our payment when we didn't make the payment out to include the newly inflated escrow amount. Happy Monday. 

A friend recently said that our house fire is like a gift that keeps on giving. She was so right. It just keeps giving.

And giving.

And giving.

And giving.

 

Walk Away

This was an actual conversation in my house:

Myself- "Aw (bleep). I just stepped on your glasses!" Sigh. *Picks glasses up and attempts to bend back into shape. Coke bottle lens threatens to dislodge.* Sigh. "Wait...why were your glasses in the floor?!"

Rough Stuff- "I'm not wearing glasses with spit on them!"

Now, as a parent, you have a choice at a moment such as this. You can ask why and attempt to unravel the situation, or you can just walk away.

Walk. Away! Make the right choice, folks. Make the right choice!

You will never unravel this and it is not beneficial to your mental health. Just. Walk. Away.

I didn't walk away. No. I spent the next several minutes arguing over who owned which Barbie clothes and who spit on whom first.  That is why I have this deep crease in my forehead and dark circles under my eyes.

I never make the right choice in these situations.

So take a lesson from me- Walk away as fast as possible and never, ever ask why.

There I Am Again

I stood at our big, rustic pine armoire tonight unpacking scrapbooks and yearbooks. I packed them up this time last year after cleaning away what soot I could dislodge from them. I had wrapped them in archival tissue paper hoping it would absorb some of the smoke smell. I've been putting off this task for months.

I unwrapped a Winnie the Pooh baby album. It belongs to Fish. The cover is stained with soot and it won't come off. I gave it  a light swipe with a chemical sponge and set it on the shelf. I unwrapped my wedding album. Not in bad shape at all. Then I unwrapped some of our yearbooks and I could smell the smoke; the fire. And suddenly there I am again.

I see myself standing at that cabinet, a different cabinet, but similar, in a room dark with soot and no electricity. The house is not my home; I live in a hotel. The house is full of people, strangers packing and labeling my things. I am crying. Frantically unloading stacks of scrapbooks and photos; handing them to my kids to run next door to the neighbor's garage. I can't trust them to strangers. Strangers are packing my things to take to a big warehouse and I cannot let them take my wedding photos and the kids' baby books. I must save them. I have to hurry because I am coughing from the toxic smoke that lingers and because I feel as if I might crumble if I stay in this wretched place that is no longer my home.

There I am again. Back at the fire. And the tears come. And I feel weak. And angry. Because I want to be done with this; this recovery thing.

But there I am again.

I want to embrace the day that I have no more boxes to unpack. The day when there is no more smoke to smell. The day when the insurance company and the inventories and invoices are a memory. The day when the house is completely back together. I want to embrace the day when the memories don't trigger the raw tears.

In time, that will come. But tonight, there I am again.
 

Let's Do This Thing

Today, I woke up 39.

It didn't exactly slide up on me unnoticed. I mean, in case I didn't realize I was getting older, the year brought plenty of reminders.

To start the year off right, my gall bladder attacked me because I ate a cheeseburger and topped it off with frozen custard. It had to be removed in an emergency surgery so I began 38 missing an organ and unable to enjoy my own birthday cake. That'll remind you what age does to a body.

My little boy turned 18. And then he graduated. So there was that. That hurt. A lot.

Then my little freckle-faced girl turned 16- driving age. Ouch. We had our first driving lesson this week. As we rolled up over the curb and cruised along all lopsided, I was grateful to be approaching 39. The years have brought some patience and the ability to weather a potential catastrophe with at least a little grace.

Last week, my middle child turned 13. She officially became a teenager. May God have mercy on our souls.

Oh...and there is the long streak of gray hair that won't quite join any of my other curls. It greets me every morning when I look in the mirror. It sort of separates from my long curls and stands up on it's own as if to say "hey old woman! How yer doern?"

So, I knew it was coming, and it's okay. I have one more year to enjoy being in my thirties. I can live with that. 

C'mon 39. Let's do this thing.