Period? Period.

Well, it's been 53 days since my last period.  So I can safely conclude it's not coming this "month."

Another skip.  The first was was in August, the month of my 50th birthday.

How cruel is that?  A slap in the face, insult added to injury.  The heavens reiterating the message: "You're an old woman now, babe."

Never mind that I have 8 year-old twins at an age when many women are grandmothers.  Hey, some are even great grandmothers at my age, although that involves kids having kids, something I would not recommend to anyone.

But still, this gives me pause.  Meno-pause.  (It's OK, you can groan, I surely did.)

I think it's time I took the "peri-" out of the term when I talk about it.  Increasingly, it seems the real thing is here to stay.

I might get a period next month, I might not.  It feels maybe 50/50.

I can feel my body changing yet again, a subtle shifting of the gears.  Some things slowing down (my brain, my legs) and some things speeding up (acquiring of gray hairs, increasing waist girth, my insomniac nights).

None of this is for the better.  50 year-olds were not meant to run around after active 8 year-olds on a full time basis.  Whose idea was it to have kids in my 40's again?  Oh, yeah, mine.

They say you should look back down the women in your mother's line to determine the age you are likely to enter "the change."  But my mother had a hysterectomy at 48 so I have no way of knowing when she would have switched over.  She was still having periods at that point though, so I know for sure she wasn't on the early team.

I think the hardest part of this is accepting that the baby shop is now, really and truly, finally closed for good.  It was never in our plans to have more, we can hardly afford it time- or energy-wise.  But still, it's nice to feel like it's by my choice, not something chosen for me.  I used to think: if we win the lottery we can try for that girl.  A long shot fantasy, but still within the realm of vaguely possible.  Not any more.  I'll have to wait now until I'm grandma to little Venus to get my girl.

It's also a little hard for me to reconcile with all this because I hardly look my age, am always assumed to be a decade younger.

My mother, too has a much more youthful demeanor.  People are always remarking on how much younger than her 88 years she appears.  Her usual response is a sharp and funny retort: "Thank you. But my bones know how old I am"

Me and my Mom on her 87th birthday, 2009

Next time someone surprisedly gushes about how I don't look 50, I may borrow my mother's line but add my own particular twist:

"Thank you. But my ovaries know how old I am."


Looking for Comments? I still haven't fixed my "Intense Debate disappearing comment link on home page problem" yet, so if you are viewing this on my home page and want to read my comments or make one of your own, click on the post's title to bring you to the post's page view. Voila!

It's My Hopeful Parents Day: Value-Able

I'm over at Hopeful Parents again today.  I really really like this post: "Value-Able"  It's kind of intense.  Sad, but also?  Hopeful.

Come clink on the linky box and read me there:

It's the 10th of the month.

Yes it is. 

I know: barely.

Just squeaked in under the wire this month.

You want to know why?

Two nights ago, on the evening I had set aside to finish and polish my Hopeful Parents post?

We had the Great Kitchen Disaster of 2010.

A cabinet leaped off the wall and came crashing to the floor.

Not just any cabinet.  A high one.  The one filled with Jacob's many vitamins, medicines and supplements.  And also a significant portion of my green depression glass collection.  And some of my favorite mugs, too.

The front and sides just detached from the back.  That stayed connected to the wall.   Guess all that shit was just too heavy for a cheap-ass Ikea cabinet.  Who knew?

Thank goodness no one was hurt, as the kitchen was unoccupied at the time.

My husband was in our home office at the time, adjacent to the kitchen, and says it sounded like a hailstorm: a deep cascading rumble.

Did I ever mention we have a lovely ceramic tile floor in the kitchen?  Beautiful to look at.  But?  Very hard.  And so when breakable things fall on it?  Much shattering.

And also?  On the way down?  It took the honey jar with it.  Yes, the honey.

Picture it: the kitchen floor covered in bottles, pills from broken bottles (the glass ones), glass chunks and shards.  And honey, oozed all through it.

Wait, you don't have to picture it, because I took pictures:

Just what you want to come home to, right?

Where the cabinet came from: the back, still on the wall.

Ground Zero

So this is what we did for hours and hours and hours.  And hours and hours and hours.

I loved that glass.  I cried over it.

I cleaned up the kitchen.  Instead of working on my post.  Which is why it posted so late today.

At least I got it done, and I'm happy with it.

Damn cheap-ass Ikea cabinets.


Looking for Comments? I still haven't fixed my "Intense Debate disappearing comment link on home page view problem" yet, so if you are viewing this on my home page and want to read my comments or make one of your own, click on the post's title to bring you to the post page view. Voila!

The Special Needs Blog Hop Strikes Again

Well, it's Thursday again, time for the Special Needs Blog Hop!

This week's prompt is.... Random Thoughts.

Random Thoughts?  Really?

Really?

Do these people know what a world of mess and chaos they are inviting into their brains by asking me to unleash my random thoughts?  The ones I usually have to keep on a tight choke-leash so they don't go cavorting all over creation?  Or?  Possibly dull as dishwater.  ADD-rific brain, remember?

Really?

OK, they asked for it:

How is it possible that Jacob will not wear long sleeves this winter?  Last spring we had to stop him from trying to pull down his short sleeves to make them long.  I understand it was the transition form one habit to another, but still, the transition period? Lasted 2 days, maybe 3.

We're going on two months now of the daily battle "I don't LIKE long sleeves! I want SHORT SLEEVES mommy!"  And then when I put long sleeves on him, they get pushed up above his elbows.

I wouldn't mind if it weren't full on winter weather right now, and he with that long bus ride in the bitter cold early darkness. Damn.

Jake makes progress, is more assetive, and for me?  Royal pain in my ass.  Goes hand in hand these days.  Big sigh.

I spent the day searching for doll size clothes for blue bear who now has to sit at the table with Jacob and should be dressed accordingly.  Jake has noticed his bear is naked and is not pleased.

Also?  He told me blue bear is a girl.  I quizzed him about this mightily, afraid I will come home with girl doll clothes that will then be rejected.  We'll have to wait til tonight to see.

Wow, peppermint crusted chocolate covered pretzels are amazing.   I will eat this whole tub if someone doesn't take them away from me soon.  Good thing Ethan loves them, too.

Can't believe how much is left over from the Chanukkah party. What's wrong with people?  Don't they eat?  Or did I buy enough food to feed a whole army?  Don't answer that.

Oh, this kitty feels so nice purring in my lap.

What's going to happen when my Mom's elderly cat, Willie dies?  She is going to go from sad to  despondent.  He's 17, how much longer can he last?  Damn!

Peppermint crusted chocolate covered pretzels.... mmmm....

Oh, my is that really the time?

Gotta go.

Running downstairs now to meet Jake's school bus.

My baby, he rides the short bus...

(Don't say you weren't warned)



Looking for Comments? I still haven't fixed my "Intense Debate disappearing comment link on home page view problem" yet, so if you are viewing this on my home page and want to read my comments or make one of your own, click on the post's title to bring you to the post page view. Voila!

Wordless Wednesday: Happy Chanukkah

For once I am going to let the pictures mostly speak for themselves on Wordless Wednesday.

On Sunday we had a small gathering of kids and their parents in our apartment for a little Chanukkah party.  Latkes and jelly donuts were noshed upon, menorah lit and dreidels spun.  Much chocolate Channukah gelt was consumed by children (large and small).

Me and my mom

The perfect combo: boys, computers and chocolate Chanukkah gelt

Jacob and Grandma Syl on Chanukkah

Ethan and Grandma Syl on Chanukkah

Tonight is the 8th and last night of Chanukkah.  It is the festival of lights, and I wish each and every one of you a full menorah; a bright, warm, and happy holiday season.  L'Chaim.


I’m linking up to Wordless Wednesday at Angry Julie Monday.
I'm also linked to Special Exposure Wednesday at 5 Minutes for Special Needs.

Looking for  Comments?  I still haven't fixed my "Intense Debate disappearing comment link on home page view problem" yet, so if you are viewing this on my home page and want to read my comments or make one of your own, click on the post's title to bring you to the post page view. Voila!

Sad Anniversaries

I am feeling down today.  Blue.  Under-slept and over-tired.  Getting absolutely nothing done.  Reading, eating cookies.  Not answering the phone, just not feeling social enough.

And that shower I was going to take this morning?  Not yet, my friends (be very glad computers aren't equipped with smell-o-vision).

And it wasn't even classic peri-menopausal insomnia keeping me up last night; I just didn't let myself go to bed.  Because, don't you know, if you don't go to sleep, then tomorrow never comes.  Convenient little trick, isn't it?

What?  That doesn't work?  Yeah, I kind of figured that out myself.

I was wondering why I was such a hot mess right now, and then realized, of course, it's an anniversary. And not a happy one.

On this day, December 7th, last year, Dad went into the hospital for back to back check-ups with his cardiac and vascular doctors.  I had cleared the whole morning.  I didn't get home until nearly midnight.

When the vascular doctor could find absolutely no blood flow to his left leg, and his cardiologist looked at his echo-cardiogram, it was clearly all going south.  Fast.

There was an operation. There were events and procedures.

When they sent him home a few days later, it was to die.

We were told to expect him to last a few days, a few weeks at the absolute outside.

It was not an easy or happy holiday season last year and all the festiveness circling round me this year is leaving me likewise cold.

In some ways it’s even harder.

Last year there was my father's constant needs to be met, his acute care to engage in; my brother and sister charging in to spend final, precious time with Dad; my devastated mother to comfort; a swirl of practical activity as we prepared for his last few final days.

And then?  He lived three more months. The whole winter.

My father spent last winter, the whole fucking winter, dying. Very slowly.  (Sometimes being strong can work against you.)

And now, to me, winter = death. And I don't want to have anything to do with it.  I want to stay inside and hide.

But I have children.  They need to come and go, and can’t do it alone.

This cold blustery weather brings me back to all those freezing late night trips across town to buy the adult diapers that my mother informs me they are out of at 11 pm.

Those 2 a.m. trips to pick him up off the floor when he had fallen, getting out of bed and walking to the kitchen, which his doctors had assured us was an utter impossibility for one so frail and infirm.

They had no idea what a stubborn, willful man my father was.  If he wanted to go to the kitchen, he was walking into the kitchen, damn it, dying body or no.

And then he was no longer capable of even that.  And then there needed to be round the clock care.

And then, finally, for his final three days, he was in the caring shelter of a hospice in the nether regions of the Bronx.  I hated the long ride out there on traffic choked streets through those blasted, blighted neighborhoods more than anything in my life to that point.

In the gray March chill of a clinging winter that would not loose hold, I said farewell to my father.  To the ragged, skin-stretched skeleton that was what was left of him.

I am not looking forward to these next three months, re-living those days.  I wish for an end to this awful year of bereft firsts.

I am wishing I could just fly south, like birds and butterflies. Flee; fly free of winter; skip out on all this.

But I have children, here.  A husband.  An elderly, sad, increasingly lost mother.

And these ties that bind also offer what solace there is. They are my warmth, my light; my summer-in-winter.

And if I hold them a little too tightly tonight, with my eyes shining a little too brightly, I hope they will understand.

Looking for  Comments?  I still haven't fixed my "Intense Debate disappearing comment link on home page view problem" yet, so if you are viewing this on my home page and want to read my comments or make one of your own, click on the post's title to bring you to the post page view. Voila!

I Fear I Make a Terrible Guest

Today I'm not here.

Well, I am here, but only for long enough to tell you to go there, to Nichole's blog In These Small Moments, where I am her guest blogger of the day for her regular series of guest posts: "Small Moment Mondays."

Click on this button and go read me there:

And than stay and read deep into Nichole, because she is both a refreshing cup of cool water and a warming wonderful hot caramel mochaccino on a blustery day.

A wonderful writer, a supportive friend, a thoughtful and loving mother.  A generous and gracious supporter of others writing.  Someone who has experienced more loss, seen more sorrow in her life than anyone this lovely should.

All of her writing is terrific, but you might want to take her suggestions and get to know her through her favorite "Featured Posts" list, conveniently found in her left hand column. 

Nichole is not someone anyone should ever torture.  But I must admit, my dear readers, that is exactly what I have done this week.

I didn't set out to be mean, I started this journey with the best of intentions.  I truly thought a post I was working on had Small Moment Mondays written all over it, so I inquired if she would ever consider me for a guest post slot.  Nichole answered graciously (as she does everything) saying she'd already been planning to ask me if I would be her guest soon.  Synchronicity!  We're off to a great start!

A date was set for the following month, way off in the future.  (If, like me, you also have ADD, right now you are hearing a voice in your head going: "Warning, Will Robinson, danger, danger!")

I was excited, I was all hot to guest, I was raring to go.  And then?

And then it all froze up.  I was in Siberia.  Every post I wrote, including the one that had inspired my inquiry, turned into something else.  Lovely posts for MY blog, but for Nichole?  Bupkis.

I kept thinking I should write to her to let her know I was not there yet, not even close.  But instead I kept starting more posts thinking *THIS* would be the one, only to watch them drive off the cliff once again into long rambling tangles messes full of "big ideas" or cranky, humorously complaining rants (otherwise known as my usual posting styles).

Then I got really busy.  Distracted.

Thanksgiving.  Chanukkah, blasted early this year.   Dinners and parties.   Presents to buy and wrap.  Latkes to purchase.  (You didn't think I was going to say "fry" did you?  Maybe I have not thoroughly explained the nature of my un-domestic-goddessness at this point in my life.)

And then on Saturday, as I was heading off to our Synagogue's Chanukkah party, I received this DM on Twitter from Nichole, an ever so gentle and gracious check-in:

Oh, Holy Crap!

So I sent her a stream of DMs back - about 10 in a row - because seriously, people, 140 characters is not nearly enough space to back pedal and hem and haw and wheel and deal and promise but not promise and, um, I'dbeentryingandhadamillionunfinishedposts and wasstillworkinghardtofinishone and IthoughtI'dhaveitdone yesIwillbutmaybeIwon't and...

I am not copying and pasting them in here, way too embarrassing.  Let's just say that they were a cut above "the dog ate my homework, I promise I'll bring it in tomorrow."  It was all true, but really, did Nichole need my anxiety about finishing this piece splayed out for her (in 140 character mini-blasts, no less)?

Um, I don't think so.

She replied.  Graciously.  Let me know she understood how the holidays can be a stressful time and maybe I had too much on my plate, she would write something herself for this Monday.  She would take my post whenever I was ready and re-schedule me for January.

There was not a hint of reproach in her "voice" but I knew I had disappointed her.  And that just did not sit right by me.  I had made a commitment, damn it.

So?

Oh, Holy Crap, I have a post to write for Monday.

But unlike my own blog where I can, if need be, finish a post at 11:59 p.m. and have that count for the day, I have to send this to someone else.  Nichole has to get it BEFORE Monday at 6 a.m.  Significantly before.

So even though I said I wouldn't and couldn't, I stayed up til 4 a.m. Saturday, the night before our little Chanukkah party (because sleep is only for the sane).

Got it done.

Chucked everything else I had written (and some of those are turning out to be damn fine posts for my blog, you'll be seeing them soon) and wrote a fresh post that ended up being a lot about the process of figuring out how to write my small moments post.

But don't worry, me being me, there's death, autism and ADD in there.  Also a little humor.

Nichole: I publicly apologize for any and all agony I caused you while waiting for my post.  You are a very nice person, and no one should ever torture you.  When, someday, I meet you in real life, I will buy you the beverage of your choice as a token of my gratitude for your kind patience.

So now I figure I should come with a warning label:  If you ask me to write a guest post for you, you have to give me a deadline, or it will never get done.  But then, you should expect me to torture you and make you think it might not get done, but then in the end I will pull through and get it done, because I just can't stand to disappoint my friends.

Um, think I'm going to get any more guest post offers?

Well, you never know, bloggers being a generally neurotic lot, I might.  They just might understand.

And also?  If they're smart?  Have another post waiting in the wings just in case I truly crash and burn next time without pulling something useful from the wreckage.

So, now, if you haven't done it already, click on that button up at the top.  Or this one, conveniently placed just below (because I'm all about convenience, don't you know):

See you back here tomorrow!


Looking for  Comments?  I still haven't fixed my "Intense Debate disappearing comment link on home page view problem" yet, so if you are viewing this on my home page and want to read my comments or make one of your own, click on the post's title to bring you to the post page view. Voila!

Here Comes the Rain Again

If you want to see my son Jacob completely lose his shit, if you want to see him totally fall apart, weeping and wailing like his puppy just died (no we don't have a puppy)?

Get him wet.

Splash him from a water fountain.  Or better yet?  Spill an entire glass of water right down his front, completely soaking him to the skin through his shirt, pants, and underwear.

To make it even better?  Have it be the last clean short sleeve school uniform shirt in the house that he was wearing.  And have the school bus coming in five minutes.

We might have done that the other morning.  Yes, we did.   And I'm amazed the upstairs neighbors didn't call the police.  (Glad they're friends of ours and very understanding).

And the funny thing?  Jacob LOVES water.  When he's naked or in a bathing suit.

Jake takes long baths and has the time of his life playing in the tub.   He swims like a fish, will spend all day in the pool, laughing.

But get two drops of water on his street clothing?

Screams like a banshee. Will not be consoled. Must be immediately stripped of said wet clothing and changed into dry.

Even in the summer when its 102 and is cooling him off nicely, will dry in 5 minutes.  That's 5 minutes of screaming bloody murder, folks.  Now you know why if you ever see me out on the street with Jacob, you will see one of us carrying a rather full backpack.

Because, Jacob, while being more flexible, embracing of new experiences, less rigid than 99% of his brethren on the autism spectrum? Still has a few specific things that will send him over the edge. Like getting his clothes wet, even the teensy, tiniest bit.  Like becoming thirsty or hungry, even the teensy, tiniest bit.

So with our boys at age 8 we are not yet the light-hearted, light-packing folks, the parents of older kids who can step out of our apartments with nothing but our bodies and a few dollars in our pockets, tripping along the sidewalk, confident that anything suddenly needed can be purchased along the way.

No, we still travel heavy, like the parents of infants and toddlers who must anticipate and pack for a multitude of possible scenarios.

It always comes as a surprise when something freaks Jake out because it is so out of keeping to his regular M.O.  Jake's particular variety of SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder) is mostly hypo-sensitive, that is his brain under interprets the information from his senses, needing MORE rather than less input/information to make sense of his environment.

Thus Jake is a "sensory seeker" and excited by the new, by the big and bold.  He is happy in a noisy crowd that would cower his hyper- or over-sensitive counterparts on the continuum.  So we go out a lot.  Feed his hungry brain.

It appears there is one sensory sensation he is not seeking: wet clothes.  But I think the root of the problem is not sensory, it's emotional / developmental.  And it connects to his language processing differences, to boot (as seemingly nearly everything about Jake does).

The big issue is that when he gets water on himself accidentally, it's because of some sort of accident or mistake.  He will often say "This is bad" in a quavering voice before he totally loses it.

And at the core?  Jacob still doesn't understand the difference between something feeling bad to him and himself BEING bad.  And because this is all such and abstract concept, the difference between feeling and being, Jake feels like he IS bad when he is wet.

And it just breaks my heart over and over again as I hold him while he sobs and I try to get him to calm down, to understand that it is really no big deal.

I can say "It's just water, we all get wet, you'll be dry in a minute..." until I'm blue in the face.  I have even splashed myself on purpose to show him how casually I regard getting wet.  But it does no good.

He will get over this when he is ready to get over it, when some new understanding dawns.

And until then?

I hold my boy and get a bit wet myself as his tears cascade over me.   I fetch him clean dry clothes and make all it right with the universe again.

Until next time the rains come down.