Wednesday, December 2, 2009
"Hey kiddo..yeah, it's grandma...listen baby, I need you to listen to grandma. Yes, I'm here at the jail. Your daddy saw the judge today, and the judge told your daddy he needs to go to the Bad Boy Jail...Yes, he has to go to the Bad Boy Jail. He has to go to Bad Boy Jail for 2 1/2 years.
No, no, it's not the judge's fault, it's your daddy's fault. Every time he hits someone, he breaks their bones, so now he has to go to Bad Boy Jail so he can learn to be good. He needs to learn to be good, or he is going to keep going to Bad Boy Jail.
Well, baby, I know that - your daddy may not be big, but he's stronger than he knows, so when he hits someone, it hurts. He hit your mom and shattered her eye socket, and he hit Uncle Kiko and broke his jaw, and then he hit that police officers.
Now sweetie, you're just going to come live with grandma, and we are going to live together for however long it takes. First for 2 1/2 years, and then forever, if we have to. You know that grandma loves yuo very much, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you.
No honey, they won't let you see your mommy either, but maybe someday when she gets her things together, you can see her too. Now, I need you to not talk to your sister and brother until I get home, and I'll be home at 5:30, and we'll all go out for pizza like we talked about.
I know, kiddo, but we'll get through this. I love you very much, and we will be fine. I love you. See you at 5:30."
(Me, in head) Damn. That sucks. The violence, the incarcerated (now absent) father, dysfunctional mother - you wonder how much of that this kid witnessed.
I tried to imagine myself as that kid on the other end of the phone, being told concepts and words that no child should ever have to hear - jail, shattered eye socket, etc.
I don't know that kid on the other side of that phone call, and it's not yet a case for my Department, but I made a mental note of the family name in the event that the case does come down the line.
I know it doesn't sound "clinical" or anything, but - Fucking parents, man.
Friday, November 27, 2009
I went to Tennessee to visit my brother and his wife.
They are expecting their first child, and my whole family flew down for the Sunday baby shower.
But Saturday was all about family time in their new house.
It's Jenny, all pregnant and hanging in the backyard.
Its hard to convey how glorious that day was in just these few pictures (and more to follow). The weather, the family, the laughs - it all culminated with an early Thanksgiving dinner and a Mayor-inspired dance party that evening.
Even now, I chuckle when I think of the little dude "Nodding my head like Yeah/Moving my hips like Yeah" just as instructed by Miley Cyrus.
Funny though, how quickly things change.
Like in an instant.
Fast forward to Sunday morning - my phone jolting me out of a sleep. It was Cheese's number. I didn't want to wake everyone up, so I silenced it, and tried to scurry out of the bed and into the hallway to talk. The phone continued to ring - two more times.
When I answered, it was Cheese.
Telling me he just fell off a roof.
Because my husband travels out-of-state and climbs on roofs for a career, this was the call I always suspected I would get, but I always hoped would elude me.
I found out what it felt like to have your world stop in an instant.
Long story short, he took a dive off roof while getting off a ladder, falling onto his right shoulder as he hit a wooden deck below. Of course, not before he fell through a patio table.
Instead of flying home to Chicago that night, I flew right to Virginia. I found Cheese in his hotel bed, discharged from the hospital with a shoulder the size of a small child.
The diagnosis - his humerus (upper arm bone that is round at the top to fit in the shoulder socket), broke right off at the ball. Thus, the ball-part of the bone was still in the socket, while the rest of the humerus was just....hanging.
His arm was completely disconnected from the rest of his skeleton.
Long story short - we saw a surgeon the following day, who encouraged us to go back to Chicago for surgery. We flew back the following day, saw an ortho at Rush, and got ourselves a surgery day for Monday (why not Friday, I don't know. Neither of us thought to ask).
As for how he is - in excruciating pain. The bone keeps hitting the part it broke away from, the muscles are spasming, the swelling is cartoonish, and his body has finally brought the bruising to the surface, and has turned his arm black.
In my moments when I cry in frustration for not being able to minimize his pain, I reprimand myself - reminding myself that it could have been worse - a broken skull, a broken back - the mind can wander around all the ways it could have been much worse.
But it wasn't, and he's still here.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Five days ago, your arrival seemed near impossible.
But alas, through my perserverence, you are finally here!!
And because I try to be a woman of my word, I am again attempting a Foto Friday, an idea stolen like a college freshman's virginity during football season from Fool.
Top spot goes to baby brother Nolan and his wife, as I make my way down to Tennessee tomorrow for the baby shower!!
Sure is weird to see the little kid that once refused to wipe his butt after taking poop because he claimed that "the shower takes care of it," now prepping to be a dad to a baby boy himself. Circle of life, my friends.
And what kind of blogger would I be if I didn't give a shout out to all those racing IMAZ this weekend? Of course, this race holds a special place in my heart, and it's always nice to flashback to that unforgettable weekend in Arizona last April 2008:
Ah, it never gets old, or at least to me.
You, on the other hand, likely have one finger hovering on the mouse, ready to right-click outta here if this post doesn't get more entertaining.
Foreshadowing: It doesn't.
So this might be the best time to wrap it up, wish the racers best of luck - A, I'm looking at you - and say YAY! to the spectators, some of who have traveled long ways to get there!
Enjoy your weekend!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Have we met?
I don't believe so, so let me formally introduce myself - My name is Aiden.
And M is my auntie.
You know M, right?
From what I can tell, she likes to poke fun at everyone, she is always eating my mommy's food, always smells a little like she just rolled out of bed, and sometimes she gets really nervous when my mommy puts me in her arms.
And what's up with her hair?
Anyways, she seems nice and all, but...um...hey - can I tell you something? Between you and me?
So far, she hasn't been a super great auntie.
I mean, she comes in, she swings my big brother No No around, gives him lots of kisses and love, and he loves it and they play fire trucks together. She even brings him donuts that my mommy makes her take back home because she says it's not good from her "baby weight."
Whatever that means.
But then, with me, she mostly just comes over to me in the swing, leans in close, and says right in my face, "How come he always sleeps when I come over?"
It sort of bothers me, especially since I am just starting to get this whole vision thing down. I mean, she already looks sort of funny from a distance, so it's not hard to imagine that super-up-close version with a little vision-distortion can freak a little man out, right?
Sigh. I just don't think she likes me so much.
And people, how could you not like THIS face?
Maybe with time she will come to appreciate my finer qualities - my non-fussiness, my ability to sleep long stretches, the general containment of my poopies to my diaper (which, for a newborn, is not small feat, people). And besides she seems to talk a lot about running and some bike thing, so maybe once I can move on my own, master that whole "crawling" thing, wipe my own butt, and develop coordination, maybe then she might come play with me.
But I guess until then, I guess I still have my brother:
Yeah, this ol' boy isn't all that bad - I mean, once he got past the fact that I wasn't leaving, he seems to have stopped torturing me, poking my eyes, and slapping my head.
Although he has taken to peeing on the floor in his bedroom since my arrival. I wonder what that means...
Well, it's time for my mid-mid-morning milkies, and my mom gets cranky when I get off schedule. See ya later!
Friday, October 30, 2009
1. Celebrate Fool
2. Celebrate Halloween
3. Celebrate my sister, who is in one of the Carolinas running a half-marthon down there!
That Ellen sure does crack me up! *insert FB "thumbs up"sign*
Devin standing upright at the Bi-Run-Yak, looking sporty.
And Devin laying on the ground a few weeks ago. Man, it never gets old, you know?
Oh, and holy crap I forgot to mention this!!
I am running the Hot Chocolate 15k on Sunday. Not so much for the race, but for the:
1. Windbreaker and fleece hat
2. The candy-landy-ding-dong at the end.
Word on the Wonka street is that its like the pot-o'-chocolate at the end.
So without further ado, I need to hunt down the largest loot bag (read: Hefty garbage bag) I can find.
Have a wonderful Halloween weekend, score a crapload of candy, and post lotsa pictures on Facebook for me to stalk on Monday as I recover from my race and sugar coma.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
When you become an adult, you can drink legally.
But when you are an adult, it’s no longer socially acceptable to dress up in costume, wander through the neighborhood after dark, and beg neighbors for candy.
Or at least that’s what the cops told me last Halloween.
Halloween is a big fat tease for adults.
And I’m not referring to the Halloween parties that are like a get-out-of-jail-free-card for dressing like a porn star and letting the muffin-tops of the world five-five each other in their sexy nurse/firefighter/bumble bee/referee outfits.
Or the fact that it’s like the one time of the year that adults exert their right to take advantage of the otherwise-innocent costumes of little kids by putting a big old smutty twist on them (Or at least publicly – I can’t account for what your all do behind the closed doors of your bedrooms on any given Wednesday night.)
now wait just.one.stinking.minute. what kind of bumble bee has a machine gun?!?!
(Side note - you never really see a sexy Hobo. Can a hobo even be sexy? I don’t quite know. Discuss.)
No, the unfairness I’m referring to the fact that my increasing age is taking a toll on my metabolism, thus making it more and more difficult for me to smother myself in the sugary deliciousness that lines the aisles of my local Target without simultaneously committing myself to several hours on the treadmill or extra ass-kicking my personal trainer.
That, and that fact that my apartment is surrounded by other houses just giving the Good Stuff out for FREE.
And I think we can all agree that the only thing better than candy is FREE candy.
I guess I will just have to be okay with curling up on the couch with my bowl of salt-free and taste—free low fat microwave popcorn and a scary movie, while praying I don’t die in my race the following morning.
Or maybe I will pull the bumblebee outfit from the closet and force Cheese to wear it, while I yell, "Dance Bumble Bee, DANCE!"
Hey, a girl still needs to have fun even without free candy.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Hence, the dust bunnies on El Bloggo.
But since many of my recent communications with my family follow along the lines of, "Dude, are you dead, or did you just forget you have a blog?" I decided maybe it's time to check into my little space in the blogosphere.
So what follows is a mash up of some recent (okay, maybe kinda old) pictures that I have frankly been too spankin' lazy to post.
a. How small we humans are when compared to the massive world and ocean.
b. How lucky I am to be married to my man.
c. How on earth I plan to organize all those grill pans, fry pans, tupperware, dishes, flatware, and vases we received in out tiny apartment.
d. How to get my bowels to open up after a 9-hour flight.
Malasados. Known to us mortals as a big donut-like puff covered in sugar and served hotly fried. As my husband says, "They're stick-your-dick-in-it-good." I apparently preferred to just give myself a facial with them instead.
Guess the stress of leisure reading was simply too much for my mind to handle. Thus, I must rest. And tan.
Hands off ladies. He's a married man.
"How come I can't see any fish? What? Oh, my face has to go IN the water."
Me in my Donna Reed/Mad Men 60s-style dress at dinner.
Oh, and my husband was there, too.
I had to burn off my two plates of luau pork somehow, and what better way of doing it than dancing on stage in front of hundreds of people we don't know, and having the moment captured by forcing the strange, old British man who has the misfortune of being seated next to me during a buffet take our picture.
As any bride will tell you, I didn't eat and barely had a drink for the entire duration of the wedding. So when it came cake time, you know I knocked over the flower girl and lept over tables to get to my slice - white cake with THICK layers of fudge and Bailey's Irish Cream, then smothered in buttercream.
I know, right?!?!
I'll pause while you go take an insulin shot.
So imagine my horror when I stood to talk to Cheese's sister and friend for a split second (for a conversation the revolved soley around the shape and quantity of my boobies/cleavage), and my cake was stripped out from underneath my nose. Needless to say, this Cake Whore complained about all the way until we got home from the honeymoon the following Monday.
But leave it to my honey to welcome me home from work on Tuesday with a mini-wedding cake, and a card that read, "Every bride should have her cake and eat it too."
From Cake Binge to Fitness - About two weeks later, I went on the Pumpkin Ride with my sister Devin and friend Mark. Look closely and you can see the remenents of the Second Wedding Cake stuck right there to my hips. Yeah, right...over...there.... Sure was nice of Devin to help me hide the plump with her bike.
Heck, I'm laughing even now as I look at this.
It's okay to admit you just want to eat up his face.
Even when he gets caught red-handed making poopies.
And if her hair wasn't enough to give myself whiplash with my eye-rolling, we now have Ms. Suri in her heels.
Yeah, because that's what make sense in this world.
A 3-year-old in heels.
Nuthin' weird about that at aaaaaaall......