Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Bull-headed little monkey... wonder where he gets that...

Oy. The Boy was truly amazingly stubborn today. He was sooooo cute in the doing of it though. He finally spilled his little dudely guts to Papa once Papa got home. It was all cool, though not as minor as I would have hoped...

So, this afternoon, I'm sitting on the couch after working on Mom's book for a while. Connor, who has been hanging in the dining room with some Johnny Test on Netflix, comes slinking through the living room, in monkey print footie jammies and his silky blue cape, looking much like Rilo does when she has pooped in a carpeted closet. Seriously. We have two carpeted areas in the house; Connor's room and my closet. Those are the only places in the house she ever poops, and damn, can you see it in her little doggie slink. Anyway...
Here comes Connor all slinky-ass. He says,
"I need to go to my room." This is completely out of the ordinary, other than when he is trying to avoid getting caught at something, for instance, cutting all his shoelaces up with my kitchen scissors, or having taken my Blackberry apart and put the battery, cover and base phone unit in three different places. Argh...
Me: "What happened, sweetie? Why don't you show me?"
Him: "Nope. You won't like it."
Me: "Ummm... well, why don't you show me anyway. I'm not going to get mad at you, but I need to see what happened. If you spilled something, or broke something, it needs to get cleaned up."
Him: "Well, you won't like it. I don't feel like telling you."
Me: (Internally) goddammit kid, what the fuck? really?! what the hell did you do?
       (To him): "Okay. I'm going to go in the dining room, and see what it looks like happened."

There is nothing obvious in the dining room. My computer is not wet, it is not sticky. Connor suggest I look near the drawers, in which are the electronic gizmos like chargers and cords, and various and sundry other things... not all electronic, but... lots of stuff. I look under. Can't see anything that would for even a moment cause the cageyness that he's demonstrating. I think. I check in the drawers. I check Papa's guitar, which is leaned against the pass-through. All fine. I check the bookshelves for damage or missing items. Nada. Holy hell! What has gotten him sooooo knowing that I will not like whatever it is that a) he's willing to go take himself to his room to be alone and b) I can't fucking find whatever it is? Like, this should be something major, and I'm just not seeing ANYTHING!!

Okay. So, Jim calls, we go pick him up at the bus stop downtown. We go pick up pizza, and I tell Jim about this most confusing behavior, and that after many attempts, we have decided that Connor will hang out upstairs until he is completely ready to tell Gramma what happened that he is so worried about, and to trust Gramma to not lose her marbles IF he provides the information, and Gramma doesn't have to have any, ahem, nasty surprises. We've traveled the 'nasty surprise' road. Blech. He played in his room for like 2 hours, coming down for a hug and another couple minutes of talking every 15 or so. He would come down, get real snuggly, tell me he was ready, he thought, to talk to me about his worries. I had to close my eyes and my mouth, and hold him, and he put his fingers IN my ears, and told some truly imaginative stories.
"I was drinking icicles." (Yeah, no. I knew for a fact he hadn't opened any doors, and besides, he can't reach the icicles yet. They aren't that long. Not to mention, who the hell d'ya think showed the kid that icicles are yummy? That's right... that would be Gramma.)
"I was climbing the highest tree. With all the ice." See above re: sliding door.


But really, it was kind of awesome! He played really happily, and very creatively, and I hung on the couch at the bottom of the stairs, waiting, and reading, and kinda vegging, which is pretty much my MO this winter. Really, if fear of getting in trouble is all it takes for him to take himself upstairs to his room and not even want TV, we should do this more often. No. Wait. Kidding...

So, we get home, having told the tale to Papa, and I swear, about 5 minutes after coming in the door, and finding absolutely nothing of concern in the dining room, Papa looked at Connor and said,
"Was it IN the dining room? Or where you downstairs?"
Holy shit. Duh!!!
"I was in the basement... Sorry Papa."
"Let's go take a look. It's okay."
*sigh* "Oooookaaaaayyyy...."
Resignedly, Connor follows Papa downstairs.

Turns out, the little mongrel, for whatever reason, decided he felt like he should climb up on the washing machine, and had used the door to the dryer as a step. It apparently made a noise that freaked him out, and he hightailed it upstairs and slunk through the living room on his way up to his bedroom, at which time he ran into me.

So, no yelling ensued, it appears the dryer still functions, although I won't know for sure until I run a load tomorrow. Hopefully, we don't have to add 'dryer' to the list of things in need of replacement when we leave...
And most importantly, hopefully Connor will be a little more willing to tell us what's up, and also develop an awareness that he cannot slink past Gramma without her noticing. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, as it were.

Ooooooo!!! Turnips!!! I should get some turnips...
God I'm easily distracted these days... someday, my brain will figure out a way to ooze back into my skull. Like, when Kindergarten starts next fall? At least maybe it can ride around on my shoulder then, rather than having to be hunted down every. damn. time. I need it?

Friday, December 3, 2010


I have a friend, a single mother, who experienced a journey through breast cancer a few years ago. She's actually still dealing with reconstructive surgeries. During this time, the father of her very young (then) son came back into her life to 'help' with their son. Daddy was an abuser. She's also still dealing with the fall-out of him breaking into their home and physically attacking my friend. In front of their boy. Dickweed.

Anyhoo... as I go through this treatment with interferon for the Hepatitis, I find myself thinking about her quite frequently. I am having a pretty hard time with this. I feel like crap. I am tired tired tired. Some days I am sitting on the couch, and I hit the wall and literally fall over, unable to stay awake, getting Connor to come climb up on the couch with me, sitting behind my folded knees to watch some Nick Jr. or a movie. If he's behind my knees, I'll wake up if he goes wandering about. At least to a point of consciousness that I'm aware of noises he's making, and his general whereabouts in the house. This is absolutely nothing in comparison. She was single, with a really small kid, not a big ol' boy who's going to kindergarten next fall. She was on chemo, recovering from a double mastectomy. With an abusive asshole to boot. I really have a deep admiration for her fortitude. I'm struggling, and I haven't needed surgery, and the hair I lost recently I paid someone to cut off.

I miss my friends. I know it's been years and years, but I miss my friends. I miss my shared life with Alana, and Lisa and Andy, and Bonnie, and Zanana, and Becky, and the passel of kids that were in that life... My own darlings, Jesse and Willow and Rhia and Tehya and Tatiana and Amber and Justin and Mariah and Jarrod and Olin...

I have some good friends here. They have assured me that I can call if I need anything. But I'm not likely to call. Truly. I have a super hard time with that. And the one thing I really really really need help with? The one thing my friends don't do: little kids. Connor is totally alone. We have no friends from the preschool after 2 plus years. All of my friends are my age, with grown kids. Barb has the youngest kid, at 13, almost 14. I miss the house full of kids, I miss the watching of each other's kids while various permutations of us did stuff, whether it was homework or cleaning the house before the parents came to visit. Or just going to the grocery store without kids. I still remember after one of my kids' birthday parties, Lisa said to Andy, I'm going to run to the co-op. I'm leaving the girls with you. Alana and I looked at each other, and both of us looked at Jim, a gleam of hope in our collective eye. "Go chicks. We've got it. The dads are on." Alana and I were absolutely giddy! Which sort of scared us, but we had a good laugh over how excited we got at the prospect of a grocery shopping trip sans littles. And the big big big upside? We had loved and trusted friends when we needed 'couple time'. Now, with our lack of social support, we have to find a sitter who will stay with Connor out of their love of us, and the goodness of their hearts. Mostly, our wonderful youngest kid. Primarily, though, we switch off, and do nothing together. One of the things we were most looking forward to when the kids got grown. Didn't expect do-overs.

And support in illness. Whether mine, or that of the kid, or Jim's, or worst, when both Jim and I are sick, and Connor isn't, we have no-one who has our backs. Connor has an immune system of steel. Jim and I can be totally out of it, and Connor is in the fullness of health and 4 year old energy. Holy crap. Seriously?! If there were justice in the world, adults would have the energy of 4 year olds! How the hell is a 40 or 50 year old supposed to even begin to keep up with that?

I miss my friends. I miss my community. I am hopeful I will be able to build community again in my life. I am super duper hoping that I manage to make it through the next 3 months of this treatment without losing my mind, without succumbing to the irritability or the depression. Without losing my patience too often with my sweetness and light.