The No Talk List: Got The Boogers Out

Sam is three. He is a mess. His face is always dirty and probably permanently stained. His fingernails have unknown matter under them. I will clean them and it will reappear immediately. He has strawberry blond hair that sticks straight up all over his head making it look much bigger than it really is. And, it's already big. See... 

I frequently quote So I Married an Axe Murderer right at him. "Look at your head, it's like an orange on a toothpick. Got its own weather system, it does." I hope he grows in to his head someday. For now, I love how fuzzy his hair is and how he still lets me kiss him all over it. I know those days are not going to last much longer.

The other day he snuck up behind me while I was working and said (with all the pride a 3 year old can muster) "Mom, I brushed my teef, and my hairs on my head, and got all my boogers out."

We're not allowed to talk about it in front of him anymore. It makes him scream like a girl and threaten to bite and pinch. For now it can go on the no talk list with the Fluffernutter sex sandwich.  You know what though? I'd totally buy tissues from a company that showed a kid getting the boogers out and putting them in to the tissue. My niece wipes them on the wall. I've witnessed it and it makes me gag. Gagging is never good for a girl on chemo. It is always followed by dry heaving or vomit. Ohhh that would scare the little shizzle right out of her. Could it get her to use a tissue though?

(The word gagging kind of makes me gag too.)

Speaking of gagging...

We have dinner at my parents house with all of my local siblings and their kids every Sunday. I love it. It's one of the best parts of the week. Except for one part. My grandma. My dad's mom is the most unhappy, unkind, unfriendly, old crab EVER.

Little kids have crappy grandma radar. There is an invisible forcefield that won't let them within five feet of her. We've tried to tell her that kids generally don't like to be told they are fat, mean, or ugly. But, she contests that, as the matriarch of the family, it's her right to tell them those things. All I can say to her is that karma is a bitch. And, she's been storing that bad karma away for a long time.

A couple of weeks ago at our weekly family dinner she got the payback of a lifetime when she stood up from the dinner table and let out a series of noises (gag now) with their own special brand (fragrance) that now have the kids calling her "Machine Gun Granny". They have to call eachother every few days to talk about the fart that put all other farts to shame. The fart that had the power to make the house shake as those kids erupted. This is a giggly bunch of monsters. But, these were belly laughs. And, the biggest laugh of all was my dad. He has selective hearing when it comes to her. There was no escaping the rat-a-tat-tat though.

Farts and boogers are gross, but anything that makes kids light up and laugh together like that is ok with me.

If you're a Candyass about saying FART (I know plenty of people who are, but are ok with the other 4 letter F word... go figure) you can say it with a British accent and it doesn't sound so bad.

And, I'm off. Peace out.

What do you bench?

Several years ago my sister wrote an essay for a university writing competition. It ended up being published multiple times. It is one of the only things that survived the destruction of all of the journals I kept while I was growing up. I had it carefully folded it in to the back of my favorite leather bound edition from high school. The one with the shape of a thistle pressed in to it's soft calfskin. It was my favorite journal. Filled with memories of my closest friends, boyfriends, and family vacations. It was the one I put my best experiences in. Someday when it's not so hard to openly admit why all of my journals were ruined (as if something could be worse than the admission from my last post) I'll share the story. I'm just grateful that the pages of the essay were still there when I found the surprise with my journals.

The essay was on charity. It talked about three different people my sister had met while working in Boston during her summers home from school. All three needed a hand in one way or another. The father begging for change to help feed his children. The man on the train who dropped his groceries and could not pick them up and carry the broken bags on his own. The woman from the local shelter that just needed someone to listen to her. My sister wrote about how those three people changed her position on giving to others. And, her words forever changed me.

She closed the essay with a simple challenge to lift others both proud and in need. I remember how simple the shift was. It was easy to reach in to my pocket and pull out any change I had and wish someone well. I don't always do it. I don't often have change or cash of any kind any more. (Thanks kids!) But, thanks to my sister, I am more aware.

I was at a stoplight the other day waiting to get on to the highway. There was a man with a sign. "Hungry. Homeless. But, Happy." It made my eyes well up. I had nothing to give him. But, my windows were down and The Grateful Dead's "Ripple" was playing with Sam, my 3yo, singing along in his seat. The guy started to laugh a little and sing along and Sam got quiet and then said "Hi, I'm Sam". Then Sam offered him a blue crayon. If you know my Sam, you know that he is never without a crayon and a notebook. He likely gave the blue away because he prefers green and was not diggin the blue so much. This man twitched just a little like he may have been fighting of a wave of emotion and said "thank you little Sam for making today the best day ever" with the kindest and most genuine tone in his voice. Then Sam handed him a red crayon and our light turned green.

I watched in my rear view mirror as car after car stopped and handed this man things from their windows. And felt this wave of pride for my son and his two perfect crayons, and the generous people that followed us through that intersection. I was lifted that day. I think a few others were too.

A couple of days later I got one of those dreaded thick envelopes from the hospital I spend so much time in these days. It's the kind of thing you want to hide somewhere deep in your closet, between your mattresses, at your mothers house... anywhere but where you have to deal with it. I waited a few hours to open it and then immediately regretted that act. The bill was not the worst one I've had, but it was plenty big. It was enough to make me crumble for a couple of days. I felt it all stacking up. Despair. Hopelessness. Helplessness. Anger. I was such a Candyass! I got sick last Fall. It just happened. It happens to people every day. I have to take pills that make me so sick that I curl up on my bathroom floor for hours. I have to go to radiation and have decided that it is absolutely the worst form of torture for me. I didn't choose this. But, I have to pay for it.

It occurred to me that my financial obligation is likely a fraction of the most severe cases. I've heard sad stories of the loss that others endure during these terrifying days. There are organizations that help. But, are they enough? I can handle my burden. I can carry this. I can bench this. I'm pretty frickin strong. But there are others who simply cannot. And, for the first time in my struggle I stopped thinking about me.

There are at least eleventy bazillion things I can do to make things just a little bit easier, better, happier, for other mothers (fathers and families) who feel the same way I did last weekend. Maybe I'll start with crayons. Sam might have been on to something.