Liebster Blogger Award

Thanks, Coach Kathy, for nominating Gen BLT for the Liebster Blogger Award. I’m happy to know my words mean something to somebody. It’s especially nice coming from someone offers so many insights, both profound and practical, into the business of daily life. I appreciate her sharing of the lessons she’s learned on the nature of giving, saving, personal growth and more.

The Liebster Blogger Award

~A Writer to Watch~

The Liebster Blogger Award rules are:
1. Thank the one who nominated you by linking back.
2. Nominate five blogs with less than 200 followers.  (I’ll do my best, but I don’t know the number of followers on all of these blogs.)
3. Let your nominees know by leaving a comment on their sites.
4. Add the award image to your site.

I assume there’s no obligation to accept the nomination and come up with five of your own, but I’ve decided to.

Numbers 1 and 4 are done.  On to the nominations:

1. readncook. Amy is a teacher who has excellent taste in books and keeps up with her blog much better than I keep up with mine. All teachers should care about their students as much as she cares about hers. She also writes about a variety of eclectic interests, including food and Harry Truman. This blog is always interesting.

2. Early Onset Alzheimer’s L.S. Fisher knows what she’s talking about. She lost her husband to early-onset dementia. She’s one of those inspiring people who are able to use tragedy to spur them on to activism. A blog full of information and love.

3. Caring for Our Parents Another sandwich generation blog I just discovered. The full gamut of feelings can be found here – humor, frustration, love, acceptance, worry – you know, life.

4. Andrea’s Buzzing About – I started following this blog because of Andrea’s posts about auditory processing disorder, something she lives with. You may remember my son does, too. I’ve found her posts on the topic enlightening; her words help me understand a little more what my son’s life is like. But she writes about many other topics as well, including the insect world, which I find fascinating.

5. Mindful Poetry –  The title explains the blog. Susan puts a lot of energy into her poetry, and a lot of thought. I particularly enjoy her work with formal poetry.

Challenging Week

It’s been a challenging week. Events included having composed an entire 878 word blog post on Wednesday only to  delete the whole thing accidentally before publishing it. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! There’s a reason Munch’s “Scream” painting goes for so much money.

On Monday, our van went into the shop for an investigation of the “service engine soon” message on the dash. It could have been worse. Any time I think the words “engine” and “auto shop” in the same sentence, I brace myself for $1,000 or more on the next credit card bill. But we got away with $330 this time.

Tuesday, I took leave from work to accompany my mom to an appointment with an ophthalmologist. Her primary care physician comes to the nursing home, but this appointment required transportation. As I’ve written before, I can’t take my mom on my own without help. Fortunately enough, the nursing home provides van transport for doctor’s appointments, and allows a family member to ride along. Highlights of Tuesday included a nurse forgetting my mom was about to leave and putting a laxative in her morning juice, the van driver taking us to the wrong clinic and leaving us there, requiring frantic phone calls and resulting in us showing up late at the correct place, filling out an intake form that was the equivalent of writing a 400-page biography, and (harking back to the laxative) three different visits to the clinic bathroom – an approximately ten-minute ordeal each time. I arrived at the nursing home at 8:20 a.m., and by the time I got back home after everything, it was right around 1:00. Here’s the lesson I took away from it. If you’re accompanying an elderly relative to a doctor’s appointment, clear your calendar for the entire day.

On Wednesday I was informed I did not receive the adjustment in my work hours I had requested. I had misinterpreted something my supervisor said to mean that it was likely to happen, so this was a disappointment. It’s not a huge tragedy, but the change would have made my life a little easier. Still, I’m glad to have a job.

On Thursday, I discovered my son is on the verge of flunking one of his classes, after the teacher finally posted weeks’ worth of scores, including many assignments that were never handed in. Six of his seven teachers are pretty organized and communicate in a timely manner. This one? Not so much. My kid has an auditory processing disorder, which means he spends his days trying to figure out how much of the conversation he missed. He can learn all of the material, no problem. But he often misses instructions, so doesn’t know what the assignment was. He also can’t listen and do something else at the same time – e.g. take notes. Plus, the inability to filter sounds is highly distracting, the practical effect being that he’s interrupted in his work about 10 times as often as I would be. He learns quickly, but works slowly.  He has a 504 plan in place to address these issues, but I suspect this particular teacher is one who forgets to follow it. I check his grades on-line frequently, and in most classes I can pretty well help him catch up because I’ll know if he missed an assignment. But when nothing is posted forever, then suddenly 20 assignments, there’s no sorting it out.

Yesterday featured many emails and phone calls with the school, after I started out asking for a time he could meet with the teacher to make a plan for catching up. I offered to bring him in early, have him stay late, have him come to her class during his Study Hall time, whatever time would work for her. I know it’s dangerous to try to judge someone’s tone in email communication, but there was no mistaking the absolute anger in her response, which boiled down to her telling me he’s had all the time he needed and she didn’t have extra to spend on him. This is the part that’s hardest for me as a mom – seeing adults who become furious with my kid, convinced he’s being difficult on purpose, when he’s just really struggling. It strikes to the center of my heart and sends my mind to dark places of worry about his future. How will his bosses see him? Will his heart be broken by some girl who can’t understand? Yet, I have to do my best to maintain my composure and try to defuse the teacher bomb. In the end, I involved the counselor who is my son’s 504 case manager. Thank goodness for her. My kid’s going to stay late two days next week, making up work.

Meanwhile, I had the epiphany that this same teacher is the one he would have for the architecture class he requested next year, and maybe it wouldn’t be a good thing. He loves architecture, but…Today is the last day to change course requests for next school year. So add in a search through other course options and a long discussion with my son – who is now set to take “Introduction to Business” – and associated request change paperwork.

Six of his seven teachers this year have been okay, and that’s a good ratio. A couple I would even rate as stellar. One in particular seems to have a very good relationship with my son. I tell myself to remember this, it keeps my mind wide of the dark places.

And we have ants. But I’m dealing.

Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Tomorrow’s another day. I’ve met this week’s challenges. I can meet next week’s. Ohm.

When the Sandwiching is Helpful

Were my kids completely grown and gone, I don’t know how I would have managed things last Friday. Sometimes, being in the sandwich generation means juggling priorities and trying to do too many things for too many people at the same time. Other times, it means you have a helpful teen on hand when you need one.

My daughter is 16, almost 17. She’s homeschooling this year, so her schedule is flexible. Good thing for all of us, as this meant she could go with me when I took my mom to get her new non-driver’s state ID. She moved here from another state, thus the need for a new photo ID. I both emailed and called the Missouri Department of Motor Vehicles in advance, desperate to find someone who would tell me of a way I could get my mother’s non-driver’s license without having to bring her in. There is no way.

So off we went, my daughter and I, to fetch my mom and take her to the driver’s license office. It took two people to help Mom into and out of the car. Then one person had to walk with her and her walker to make sure she didn’t lose her balance or her way, while the other carried everything. I accompanied, my daughter filled the role of pack-horse. She also ran ahead to open doors for us, and parked the car in a legitimate space after my mom was out right next to the door (our disability hang tag is in the works, but not here yet.)

So, yeah, having the teens still at home can ease the workload on occasion. The kids are all right.

Unexpected Collection

Here’s an unexpected side effect of being the primary contact for someone in a nursing home – I now have a collection of vases.

People keep sending my mom flowers. Which is lovely. It makes her room more pleasant and she knows people care.

But once the flowers are wilted, I’m left to take away the vase. I’m not sure what to do with them. I only need so many vases at home. I’m thinking I might cut some peonies from my yard once they’re bloomed and take a vase of them to the nurse’s station for the folks who take care of Mom. And the others…can go in a garage sale. Or something.

The Watchprint on My Face Might Mean Something

It turns out I can’t indefinitely survive on 6 hours or fewer of sleep per night. My body told me so today. In my desire to be a good mother, a good daughter, a good wife, a good worker, a good writer, a responsible homeowner, and someone who takes time for a modicum of self-care, without dropping the ball, I hit on a plan to get an acceptable percentage of my to-do list accomplished. Give up sleep. Not completely, mind you. I just…cut back. These are all things I want to do. But on occasion I have moments when I feel the horses are getting away from me and I’m not sure if I can hold on. Now I discover lack of sleep does not help you get a grip.

I work a split shift on Mondays – mornings and evenings. This afternoon, after getting off work and picking up my son from school, I came home with the idea I’d hop on the internet and find the forms for getting one of those disabled hang tags, so I can use it when I need to take my mom somewhere. I was sitting on the sofa, feet up,  leaning my head on one arm, while I scrolled around on the trackpad with the other hand. Or so I thought, until I woke up 90 minutes later, drooling on the upholstery, with the imprint of my wristwatch embedded in my left cheek. By this time, I had to hurry to get ready for my second work shift. Nevertheless, I spent precious minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to figure out how the erase the wristwatch impression from my face, eventually deciding I’d have to hope it faded on its own before any library patrons saw me close up.

I had a busy evening, and only a few times found a chance to worry about whether my face looked partially hole-punched or fret over the lack of progress on the hang tag. On the up side, I remembered what it felt like not to be tired. I could focus. I could find a greeting smile for my face without much dredging. I felt good. Not merely functional, but actually good. Wow! Sleep. I might have to try it more often.

The Battle of the Grandmas

My kids’ two grandmothers aren’t competitive with each other. In fact, my husband and I each believe we have the greatest mother-in-law ever. But secretly, as much as I love my mother-in-law (and I really do, I adore her), I harbor some competitive notions of wanting my kids to see my mom as being just as cool as their other grandma. I want to believe my family is interesting, too.

Here’s the thing. My mom was on the older end of the giving birth spectrum when I was born. My mother-in-law was pretty young when my husband was born. Also, my mother has had lupus for several years. My mother-in-law is not yet retired and, get this, owns a bowling alley. A bowling alley with a game room – air hockey, video games, the works. How could a visit to grandma be any cooler? My kids even get to go behind the scenes and watch the pin-setters work if they want to.

I tell the children about when my mom used to bowl. Okay, she never owned her own alley. But she owned her own shoes and ball. She was even on TV once, on “Bowling for Dollars.” However, they never witnessed it. To them, it’s as if I’m talking about a different person all together. I worry that their main memories of my mom will be ones of boredom, sitting by reading their books while I help her clip her nails.

She does try to take an interest in what’s important to them. She asks about their hobbies and what books they’re reading. But, it’s not as if she’s been able to entertain in any real way.

So I was very happy today when my 16-year-old daughter wanted to accompany me to the nursing home to visit her grandma. She took along pictures of her new pet – a hedgehog, and they had a great discussion about it. Score one for Team Maternal Grandma.

Legitimate?

Today I saw my mother’s birth certificate for the first time. She was born in Arkansas in the 1920s. Birth certificates from that time and place contain a lot of information: parents ages and occupations, how many previous children the mother has birthed, whether this was a single birth or twins or triplets. Oh, and a box that asks “Legitimate?” It was a great relief to discover my mother is a real, legitimate person, and not a fabrication of some sort.

Wowza! I’m trying to imagine the feelings I would have going through life with a birth certificate marked “Legitimate? – No.” Imagine producing this over and over throughout your life. Or being the mother who has to show up for school enrollment with her child registered officially for life as “not legitimate.” Ouch.

I suppose this is one of those things that was not so good about the good old days.

The Big Adventure

My birthday is today, but I celebrated yesterday. I dragged my husband and kids, plus my daughter’s bff, out to see “The Hunger Games.” This was followed by an ambitious plan to spring my mother from the nursing home for a couple of hours to go eat at IHOP.

I was excited to get to spend my birthday with her. I can’t remember the last time that happened. She seemed excited to be able to go out with us. Yet, I had a lot of fear, too. Unhelpful thoughts presented themselves again and again:  “What if she falls? What if, while I’m responsible for her, I accidentally let her fall? What if she can’t get into our van? What if she can get in, but not out?” It’s like learning how to handle a baby. “What if I drop it?”

We took a step-stool, since it is a big step up into the van. This was useless. We eventually figured out the best way for Mom to get up into the seat was to turn around with her back to it, and kind of scooch up with my help. At one point, she did think she was going to fall, and called out. But I had her. It was a relief to realize I really had her and I was capable of making sure she didn’t fall in the process of getting seated. I kept a continual body check going during the entire process. For the second time, I found myself glad that I’ve put on a few pounds. (The first time was when I read that women who gain weight in their forties have lower rates of osteoporosis.) Even if my Mom had started to tilt out, she’d only fall against me, and she wouldn’t budge me. At this point, she weighs a slight 110 pounds or so. And I weigh…more than that.

So, it all worked. We got Mom into the van, out of the van, into the restaurant, and we had a birthday dinner – three generations of us. My kids came through, carrying my tote bag for me while I helped their grandma, stepping ahead to hold doors open, and other little helpful things.

By the time Mom was back to her room, I could tell she was pretty worn out. But she seemed very please, too, as was I. We did it! And she didn’t fall.

Chin hair, a snake and an oral surgeon

Random thoughts on the past few days with my mom and my kids:

1.  Chin hair:

I trimmed my mother’s chin hair for her a couple of days ago. Put this in the category of little things I hope someone will be willing to do for me some day. With the changes that come in your forties – or at least in my forties if not yours – I, too, have chin hair to deal with now. Oy! One more thing to take up my time. So far, it’s still a very small number of bristles. We’re talking single digits. I hope it stays that manageable, but I don’t know if I hope optimistically. One of my very best friends asked me to make a deal with her  – if either of us becomes incapable of dealing with our own facial hair, the other will help. But should she not be able to assist me in my old age, I hope *someone* will. I attack my goatee-lite daily with tweezers and a fervent desire to make the whiskers all gone. My mom prefers trimming as close to the skin as possible. She’s always tried to warn me away from plucking hair. She says when she was a child she knew of a young woman who pulled out a wild hair and it caused a sore which became infected and gave the girl blood poisoning. To Mom, tweezers are an instrument of death. I’ll continue to take my chances.

2. A snake and a teen who earned her keep:

I live in an old house. A really old house. Most of the walls are lath and plaster, and some of the plaster has cracks. I love our home, but it was a fixer-upper and a half when we bought it nearly nine years ago. We’ve done some up-fixing, but there’s always more. We’ve replaced walls in both the kitchen and the dining room, for instance. But our entry room still begs for attention. We have actual little holes where pieces of plaster have crumbled and fallen out around the light switch plate.

Monday night, my 16-year-old daughter and I were still up after the guys had gone to sleep for the night. I was about to head upstairs to bed, when I had a startling encounter that kept me awake for some time. I went to turn off the entry room light, but as I reached my hand toward the switch, I noticed something long and thin and…oh my gosh, it was a snake tail…protruding from the small hole near the bottom of the plate. “There’s a snake in the wall!” I added to the lifetime list of things I wished I had never had to hear myself say.

My daughter came running and pointed out the snake’s head visible in the hole at the top of the switch plate. Lovely. We’ve had one or two garter snakes per year show up in our basement. I don’t really freak too much about them. But a snake slithering out of the wall is just so wrong. Or, from my daughter’s point of view, cool. She lost no time donning some garden gloves and trying to grab it by the tail. It got away, the first time. Undeterred, she found a flashlight and shone it into the cracks in the wall, looking for signs of reptile. The snake poked its head back out. She went for it again. It got away again. She’s never been one to shriek over creepy crawlies. When she was three, we had a cicada infestation of Biblical proportions. The day I foolishly left a window down on the car, she jumped right in, grabbing cicadas by the handful and throwing them out the door. Her grade school gym teacher used to write me notes about how my girl wouldn’t participate in outdoor P.E. activities because she was too busy catching interesting looking bugs.

She and I both sat snake vigil for a bit, but I finally headed to bed, figuring one of two things would happen. Either the snake would find its way out of the house and we’d never see it again, or I’d wake up in the morning to discover snakes emerging from every light socket, as they’d obviously nested in our walls. I remembered a news story I’d read about a family this had happened to. It was not a restful night of sleep for me. But when I got up the next morning, I discovered my daughter had stayed with the project and caught the sneaky thing! She put it in a critter keeper and called it Sam. Later in the day, she took it to the farthest part of the back yard and let it go. We’ve seen no more snakes since then.

There are times I lose my patience with trying to get my kids to do simple chores around the house. But other times, they come through in the most amazing ways. The other night, my daughter reminded me why she’s worth keeping around.

3. Consultation with an oral surgeon

My mom has a primary care physician, but she also needs to become established with a couple of area specialists – an ophthalmologist and a rheumatologist. I’ve gotten names and numbers from the social worker at the nursing home, but have put off calling for appointments because my son had a consult looming with an oral surgeon, and I wanted to wait on making my mom’s appointments until after I found out what we needed to do about scheduling my son’s oral surgery.

He has an ankylosed front tooth – fused to the bone. It was injured in a playground accident several years ago, and has been high-riding ever since. When the orthodontist hooked the boy up in braces, everyone thought that tooth would move down and into place. Instead, all of the other teeth moved up. That was when I learned the term “ankylosed.” The orthodontist unbracketed this single tooth so the others could move back down. We hoped an oral surgeon could slice through the fused part and move the tooth into place. But as it turns out, the tooth is a total loss. The oral surgeon (who could totally play John Edwards in a movie) delivered the news. What didn’t show up on simple x-rays was visible on the amazing 3D CT scan he showed us. (Every time the dr. turned his back, my son pointed to the screen, smiled, and gave a double thumbs-up over the awesomeness of the technology. I’d nod, mouthing “I know!”) The root is dissolving and the tooth is not salvageable. It’s not a matter of if the kid will lose it, it’s a matter of when. So, no surgery to move it into place. What’s the point?

The various dental professionals who work on my son’s teeth will huddle and get back to us on a recommendation about whether/when to have the tooth extracted . My son seems okay with this information. Meanwhile, I’ll pick up the phone and start scheduling some appointments for my mom.

Monday, Monday

Any day I’m not able to visit my Mom, I feel guilty. Mondays are one of the hardest days for me to make it out to the nursing home. Today, I just didn’t get there. Here’s a rough breakdown of how my day went:

6:30 a.m. – out of bed, make coffee, fix breakfast for myself and my 13-year-old son. Breakfast is cereal for me, toaster waffles and vegetarian bacon for him. Pack son’s lunch. Nag kid out the door by 7:35.

Sit by myself with coffee for a few.

7:45 – shower, dress, realize there’s nothing I can do with my hair. Put it in a pony tail.

8:30 – leave for work. It’s only a short walk, and I don’t have to be there until 9:00, but leaving early is how I fit in my exercise. I add a few blocks to the walk, arriving at work sometime between 8:50 and 8:55.

9:00-Noon – work. Walk home. Prepare lunch for myself and my 16-year-old daughter, who homeschools. Usually, she’s on her own for getting herself fed at lunchtime, but on Monday afternoons, she works for two hours at a physically demanding volunteer job and I like to make sure she’s eaten something appropriate before she goes.

12:45 – Go vacuum shopping. Our *very* old vacuum is not doing the job any more. Meanwhile, we’re having an energy audit done on our home this coming Thursday, with people looking in all the nooks and crannies. Try to be socially responsible by going to vacuum dealer that sells made-in-Missouri vacuums; have a heart attack over prices. Compromise with my conscience by moving on to Home Depot and picking up a Hoover.

1:45 – Arrive back home with vacuum. No time to unpack it from the box. See daughter out the door to her volunteer gig.

2:00 – Leave for bank. My son, who has excellent self-discipline for a kid his age, has hardly spent any allowance or gift money over the past year. Yesterday, he and I counted the cash in his room & I declared it to be too much to have sitting around the house. Go to bank and deposit cash in son’s saving account. From there, head to the junior high, securing an excellent parking spot. 15 minutes reading time before school lets out! I always have a book with me.

3:00 – Arrive back home with son. Make various necessary phone calls.

3:45 – Daughter texts, asking if, instead of her walking home, would I come pick her up and take her to a downtown cafe for a carry out she wants to buy. I agree on condition that she drive. She’s soooo close to having enough practice hours to test for her license.

4:00 Meet daughter and drive downtown. Pick up her item, and come back home, arriving around 4:30.

4:40 – Sit down with son and go over what homework he has. He has auditory processing issues, which make organization a challenge for him, so I usually help him make a list of his homework each day, along with a plan for prioritizing and getting it done. Nag him into getting his homework actually started. By now it’s 5:00.

5:00 – Email husband to ask if he will please, please, please cook dinner tonight. Since he’s a sweetheart, he agrees to. Meanwhile, I make a sandwich for myself.

5:30 – Brush teeth, double-check clothing for anything I may have spilled in the course of the day, realize once again there’s not much I can do with my hair and settle for putting it back into a pony tail.

5:45 – Leave for work, for you see, I work a split shift on Monday.

6:00-9:00 – at work, arriving home around 9:10ish.

9:15 – Realize husband and daughter are gone. Turns out daughter and her dad were out getting in more driving time. Double check that son did his homework. Urge him to quite computer game and get ready for bed. He hears “Eat some apple slices, some cheese *and* some ice cream.” Urge him to eat quickly and Get. To. Bed. “Wait, is that the dryer beeping? Do you have laundry in? Okay, get your clothes from the dryer and then Get.To.Bed.”

9:35- Husband and daughter arrive home. Son is on his way up the stairs with clothes basket. I delay bedtime by launching into story from work involving an office supply tragedy (a delivery of literally thousands of unsharpened pencils that were supposed to have been pre-sharpened pencils.)

9:50 – Son finally on his way to bed. I turn on the computer to compose blog entry.

10:00 –  Go check on son, who is lying down in his room with the light off. Whisper “You asleep already?” He answers, “No.” “Do you have rubber bands on your braces?” “Yes.” “For real?” “No.” “Put in your rubber bands.” I stay to make sure they really go in. Hey, we’re paying nearly $5K for those braces. I want them to work.

10:05 – Come back downstairs, and compose blog entry.