Sibling chats - In the RED

* I still need to respond to all the comments on my survival abilities following the crashing dead tree branch. The plan is to remove the tree later today. I've been a tad busy. There's lots to share:  adoption papers were signed on Friday. Maybe a court date in 4-6 weeks. I think next week will be 'Tank week'. You've heard of shark week. You've heard of Shark Tank. It's a combo deal. Get excited. 

*****

The 'you said your
kids were handling'
 with the red circle from a
screen shot of my text:  Marie. 

Sibling group chat:  I'd offered to have Mini sit with Nana while I had Dad at his procedure. She gets confused when he leaves for very long. 

* Nana gets confused, not Mini - I mean, unless we are talking about a culinary situation, then Mini is almost always confused. She called me the other day, upset. Unable to open a can of carrots. The can opener was not in the drawer. Um, I got home and the can opener WAS in the drawer. I like shopping and hanging out with Mini, so I've opted NOT to share the can opener story with her brothers. 

After I offered for Mini to Nana-sit, two or three other siblings texted that one of their kids could sit with Nana. Mini planned to brush up on her excel before starting her internship and we weren't sure she could accomplish that while hanging at Nana's. WiFi? Password? 

After waiting for Dad to stop laughing, I handed him one of his 8 billion glasses to drink and texted in the fam group chat to confirm who was sitting with Nana the next morning. Some nieces and nephews don't have summer jobs, and Mini had something she hoped to accomplish. 

Marie texted back. (not Ann. For reference this is my second oldest sis. They're Drisella and Anastasia, both unpleasant, but the difference is Ann is just unpleasant and Marie tries to pretend that she's not unpleasant when really she almost always is, and they both are ultra controlling). A screen shot. Of my text. Offering Mini's services. In red, she circled my offer. Um. OK, like what the hell just happened? 

Delilah came over one night last week and we enjoyed chatting on my deck and a sipping a cold, adult beverage. We don't see one another often even though she lives five minutes away. Sometimes we talk while she's stuck in traffic driving home from the city. Right now she's sharing a car with her husband, and they're commuting together. That's no fun- mainly because it's interfering with our girl-time talks. 

Delilah:  Wait, I read on your blog that Ann used to be so mean to you when you were younger. What's with that? Like she's just never been very nice to you. 

I expanded on some of my childhood stories and a few mind blowing ordeal that happened when we were adults, and then - I about hopped out of my chair. WAIT, I HAVE TO TELL YOU THE RED CIRCLED TEXT FROM MARIE.

Delilah (after I told her. I know you don't know her, but picture her - face scrunched, shaking her head -OK, you've got the visual):  I don't understand. Like who does that? I don't even know how to circle something in red in a text? You were asking if Mini was still on duty or if someone else was planning to be there? 

When I shared the red circled text with Mini, she felt bad, saying she didn't mean to cause any trouble. She was like 'But I thought other people, some of whom don't have employment or internships to get ready for, were also available.' True. 

My brother, Mike's son sat with Nana. And when Dad told Nana that her grandson was coming, Nana said, "Why can't everyone just leave me be. I don't need anyone to sit here with me. I'll be fine." It's heart breaking, because she doesn't remember that she forgets where Dad is when he's not home. I sat with her on Friday for a few hours. Dad was having another blood transfusion. She opened the door a few times, looking for him. 

*****

Ever gotten a text back in a screenshot CIRCLED IN RED? Anyone understand my Drisella and Anastasia reference? 

breaking news: the unexpected, falling, broken tree branch variety that I lived to tell about, Barely?

I interrupt the post that I planned to share with you today (and it is a funny one, but I'll push that back till Monday), to let you know that yesterday afternoon while I was sitting on a chair on my deck minding my own business, a branch broke off of a dead tree that's next to our deck and fell on me. 

See how the branch is almost
 sticking up, like it decided
 not to hit me.

I'm fine. My elbow is banged up. I'll probably have nightmares tonight, because it scared the crap out of me. 

But if you look at the photo that I took after I got out of the chair - the branch fell and sort of got wedged on the bottom of the chair. It was sticking up from the base of the chair and this saved me. 

I don't think it would've killed me, but I do think if it fell from as high up as it was and landed directly on my head or on my arm, that I would've been knocked out - or maybe ended up with a broken arm? The way it sort of caught the bottom of the chair caused it to stay sort of upright. Somehow I was shielded from this thing  hitting me. It was not a lightweight branch. 

I was on the phone with a woman from our church who is driving Rae to a retreat this weekend. I was only gonna sit outside for about 30 minutes and read some blogs after I got off the phone finalizing details with her. I was alone, and I was trying to enjoy my empty house. That almost never happens. A friend of Kay's invited her to go to her pool, so she wasn't home (she's usually the one home with me during the day).  

I heard a terribly loud sound, almost like someone was ripping Heavy Duty  packaging (?) like right behind me. The branch breaking sound was followed so closely by the branch falling that I didn't have time to react. I think I started to sit up, but then - BOOM.

You would totally scream
 if this fell on you, right? 

I think the small piece that was in my lap is the piece that banged off of my elbow. The best part - it knocked my phone out of my hand, or the fright caused me to drop my phone.

Um, I SCREAMED . . . A HIGH PITCH SQUEAL OF A SCREAM THAT I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW I WAS CAPABLE OF. 

It was like the kind of scream you hear in movies, and I sat for a split second and was dazed. Then, I picked up my phone (here's the best part, I lied before) . . . the woman was still talking into the phone like nothing had happened. We finished our conversation, and as we said good-bye (I was still sitting there covered in bark and tree bits and feeling like I was being punked), I asked her:  SO DID YOU HEAR ME SCREAM A MINUTE AGO?

She was like, I did hear a scream. I thought it was kids in the background. (I explained why I screamed and she was like WHOA!).

It wasn't until a few hours later, after I'd sent the photo in the fam group chat, that Lad called and told me he thought I'd faked the photo because the branch was propped up on the bottom of my chair. I was driving, during our phone call, to pick up Dipsy Doodle Mini who missed her train and took the next express train to the next town over. I picked her up and drove her back to her car. Anyway, I wasn't able to look at the photo while I was driving - but later (after I was annoyed at Lad for saying I staged this photo shoot) I looked closer and I was like, HECK, IT WAS STUCK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE CHAIR! AND THAT'S WHY IT WAS SORT OF STAYING UPRIGHT. 

This happened on Lad's 27th birthday.

Me to Coach:  It would've been horrible if I'd died on Lad's birthday.

Coach:  It would be horrible if you died on any day.

We'll if that isn't the sweetest sentiment. 

*****

Do you scream like a ninny when frightened? Yes, I'd like Coach to get this tree taken down asap, why do you ask? Oh, in other news:  my Dad's cat-scan showed that the cancer hasn't spread. Surgery July 10th. I'll send Curly to Louisville with teammates on the 9th for her tournament, so I can hang back and be on poop patrol the day before surgery (same as colonoscopy prep). Then I'll head to Louisville the 10th or 11th. Dad called me seconds after the doc gave him the date, to see if I could help with the prep. I mean, we all have our special talents.

laughs during my recent poop patrol

Flashing back to poop patrol, when I helped my dad with colonoscopy prep. Join me, in the spacious hall bathroom at my folks' house where my humor tickled his funny bone while the Miralax worked its magic.

Dad asked how many glasses he had to drink. I'd measured out an 8 ounce cup, and I was like HMM, I GUESS 8 OF THEM, SINCE 64 DIVIDED BY 8 IS 8. 

Well, he drank 8 glasses and there was still MORE. Like another 3 glasses. Hmm. I'd brought over the jug from my Vitamix blender, so I knew the 64 oz was accurate.

Me:  Dad, if you wanted someone who was good at math to help with this prep, then you probably should've called Pat. 

More background:  Pat is my less-than-a-year-younger-than-me brother who most people, particularly my parents, consider a genius. Honestly Marie gets the same rating. Did my rating improve after my jokes were landing so well? One would hope. This fun fam dynamic used to drive me batty, and if I think about how it impacted my childhood, It still can - but on this night. Sitting in the bathroom together, we shared a good hearty laugh at my ability to self deprecate. (insert me bowing) 

We were baffled by the extra, but onward. 

*******

Once I handed him a glass, he grumbled:  OH SHIT.

Me:  Yep, that's the idea. (insert Dad laughing so hard he had to wait to compose himself to be able to drink). 

                                                                                *******

At one point:  Dad asked me what I was typing on my laptop across the room while he was flushing out his system. I told him writing about my life. He laughed and covered his face with his hands. 

"Oh brother. I don't think I wanna know."

I shared the storyline for a chapter my group thinks I should try to get published, and again feared he'd fall off his chair chuckling.

It was circa 1987-ish. We didn't have a VCR. We hadn't joined the 20th century. We also didn't own a microwave, until I bought one with my Burger King income. The only reason we owned a garage door opener was because we moved into a house that already had one installed. My parents Would never buy one of those contraptions. When we pulled up to our house sans opener, whomever was sitting next to a door was fair game for my parents to call out, "Ernie, open the door." That door was never locked. How were we never robbed? 

I digress:  On Christmas morning, Dad made a big show of presenting a gift to all 5 kids. I was 15 or 16. My sisters were too cool to move from their positions curled up in afghans to rip the paper, but when my younger brothers and I opened a VCR - they hopped up faster than you could say, Teenagers are moody to verify that we weren't pulling their legs. We all celebrated like our personal sentence in the Stone Age was ending. Then Dad whistled to get our attention.

Dad:  This machine will only be used to record programs on PBS. (public TV, like educational programming). 

Womp, womp. We plopped down in our pajamas, deflated. A week later, when my folks went to watch my bros play bball. Ann rented a movie at Osco on the sly. Our local drug store rented movies, briefly - before Blockbuster. My college-age sisters and I were watching it under the cover of darkness. For the life of me, I cannot recall what movie it was. The garage door went up. We panicked, struggling to eject. Once out, we tossed it around like a hot potato before hiding it under the couch. Mom, the sleuth, waved Dad over. His Irish temper erupted. He ripped the VHS tape from Ann, flew open the sliding glass door in the kitchen and launched it like it was a Frisbee. It landed in a snowdrift, because Chicago. Ann ran out in her socks and rescued it.

Ann:  Dad, if this is ruined - we have to pay for it!

Dad:  I don't have to pay for a God damned thing. I told you not to rent movies. This is MY house. 

If memory serves, he changed his tune when Star Wars came out on VHS. 

Dad roared at this memory. He didn't remember the story, but he knows it to be true. 

                                                                        ****

Me:  That VCR 'gift' that we couldn't use was almost as exciting as the Lionel Trains cars you'd wrap up for us even while in high school. You'd record the moment on home movie thing. Your secret agenda was clear:  gift us train cars to justify investing money in YOUR collection. (again, no memory of that, but he didn't dispute it. He just died laughing).

                                                                        ****

Where's Waldo Great White?

Meanwhile - fun on the home front:  Mini called me at my folks' house. She was
leaving the swim meet where she'd covered half of my bull pen shift. She had to hang up because Coach, who relieved her, didn't tell her where he'd parked GW. (Great White. Our big ass van)

A minute later, she forwarded me the photo that he sent her to help her find GW. Our pool is alongside the grade school, where they park buses in a row. There's also oodles of non-bus parking. Note where Coach parked, and grasp Mini's confusion. I shared the photo with my folks, and we all died laughing.  

****

Anyone else grow up 'denied' the good-life of VCRs and garage door openers? Ever get 'gifts' that were basically for your folks? Anyone interested in my Poop Patrol services? Cuz, apparently my stand up routine kills in the john. Why did Mini and Coach have to juggle the car? Story to follow. (it's me - I'm the reason!)

Blue bird, blue bird . . . Maybe he's a Blue Jay? & Maybe Dave needs to jump in the lake

While waiting for a b-ball spot, we gave Creighton a deposit, offering to eat the deposit if he goes elsewhere. He could probably be a b-ball manager at Creighton (the Blue Jays, thus my title). That sounds great to me, but Reg wants to play. And I get that. Coach has been frustrated with him for not agreeing to play D3, but I pointed out that IN HIGH SCHOOL, THOSE COACHES, WHO MESSED WITH HIM, TOLD HIM HE WAS NOTHING. He has something to prove. I don't blame him. 

I'd like to prove something to them too, and THEN give them a knuckle sandwich. 

Last week it was time to attend Creighton's orientation. Time and hotel room $ if he wasn't going there? Then Tank appeared in my peripheral vision. My wheels spun. What if Tank took him? Crashed with buddies? Showed Reg around? Etc. 

Tank agreed, then rethought it. I felt guilty for not going. Then Tank said SURE, WHY NOT, and I said HOT DIGGITY. Lots of waffling, is what I'm saying. 

Tank missed three days of caddying, but I told him to use my card to grab some merch for he and Reg. I also agreed to pay for the medical bill for Tank's most recent 'oops', which I'm realizing I never shared. It's a doozie, folks. (remind me to 'splain)

Tank organized dinner Wednesday in Omaha when they arrived with buddies who were in town. One of them, a team manager, described the role to Reg. 

Well played, Tank.

Tank sent updates throughout. He was given a nametag with my name. He attended a few parent sessions. In the campus ministry talk, the lady couldn't work the slideshow, so he figured it out. Then he described his mission trip, and they applauded him for being a recent grad. Basically he was being Tank and doing Tank things. 

Reg randomly landed in the same small group as one of Tank's friend's younger brothers, which was clutch. *(I left out the word 'friend's' in that sentence initially. Would bringing more brothers into the fray have confused you?). 

Reg liked Creighton. Met kids. Created his schedule. Has a group chat. On the way home, he told Tank:  YEAH. I'LL PROBABLY GO TO CREIGHTON. EVERYONE'S SO NICE. 

Coach and I:  GREAT . . . AND ALSO, DANG - I HATE TO SEE HIM  GIVE UP HIS DREAM. We feel like if he goes to Creighton, we'll mourn what could've been if he'd played ball. Go somewhere else, we'll mourn the loss of a great education/great friends at Creighton (there can be great friends at another b-ball school too).

Way in the back of my mind - Could Coach McDermott get to know him and then see him shoot around AND THEN LET HIM BE A WALKON? (they take D1 level players as walkons, and Reg isn't quite THAT level, ya know?) I think that would check all the boxes. Plus, then I think we could get a Rudy-esque movie made about him. Right? 

Before Reg and Tank drove off, I drafted a letter to Creighton's Coach McDermott, explaining the situation. Coach thought it made sense to have Tank deliver that, but at the last minute he was not on board. It's fine. Pouring over the computer, choosing words so carefully so as not to paint him like a mama's boy - total waste of time, but it was a good exercise in . . . letter writing? *sigh* 

I snapped this pic when
we stopped by Creighton
 in 2012? On our way home
 from Estes Park, CO.
 Lad:  Dad do you think
 we'll see Doug? (That's
 Coach McDermott's
son who played for
 Creighton.) Coach: no
chance, sorry, Lad.
THEN - Bam - we walk into the
 student center and
 run right into him. Reg is in the
 dark gray football shirt.
Coach is 6'4" and look how Doug
 McDermott towers over him. Yes, I was
 prepared to send this pic in the
 letter to the head coach at Creighton. 

In the meantime, I'd like to meet this Dave fellow in a dark alley. Dave texted Reg Thursday at 9 am. 

Dave:  The Truman State coach is coming to an open gym at 11 am. Be here at 11. He needs a great defender, and he wants to see you play. 

In case you are confused:  Dave game him a two hour window to show up and play for a college coach from a decent school. We live an hour away from the gym, so even if Reg wasn't IN OMAHA - 8 hours in the wrong direction, that would've been a scramble, as he doesn't always have a car and sometimes he's already on the course caddying. C'mon.  

That upset Reg, and he was gonna say SORRY I'M CADDYING. I think he was worried about admitting that he was considering not playing ball. But I told him to be honest and say - Hey I'm at orientation at Creighton, but b-ball is still my #1 priority. Can I send him tape, etc. 

Nothing else has been said about Truman since he got home. See what I mean? Oh, and Dave also texted him to say he still had a chance with Purdue Northwest. Huh? 

On Monday, Dave texted Reg:  What's your timeline? Reg was at the gym working out, and he asked me how to respond. I suggested:  My folks will eat the deposit at Creighton if I get a spot somewhere, but it'd have to be a good school

 

Um. Instead, Reg unleashed some frustration:  I've pushed my timeline past my original June 1st date, because despite being the hardest worker on the team, I still have no offers.

Dave shot back:  We had lots of hard workers on the team, so don't tell me you were the hardest worker. And your 3 point percentage is terrible and that's a problem. 

Reg went down state for the 3 point contest in high school, but stress has impacted his game. He shouldn't have sent Dave a snarky text, but Dave told him last week that he played like shit when a coach came to visit. Reg doesn't stick up for himself so I think that was his way of letting Dave have it, and really, what was Reg gonna say when he told him he played like shit?

If I hadn't already done a killer workout class, I would've sprinted around the block or punched a wall on Monday after Dave behaved like a 3rd grader instead of an encouraging coach. Grrr. 

*****

This is a link to the Creighton commencement speech, if you want to listen to it. I thought she was awesome. Her message was so relatable. She is introduced around the 58 minute mark, and her talk starts around 1:00 or a minute after. It's about 20 min long. 

Did you know that Tank got stitches twice this year by like mid February? One set needed to be redone, so really 3x, if you count that. Would you have sent the letter with Reg's background to the head coach? Asking for a friend.

Can Reg catch a break . . . getting close to decision time

If you know, you know:  SKIP TO 'CURRENT TIMES' IF YOU DON'T NEED A REFRESHER ON REG'S MEMORY LOSS, LAWSUIT, ETC.  *I feel like most of this might be review, but I ended up writing the background, because to me the early stuff impacts the present stuff. 

Reg dreams of playing college basketball. He's good enough. No doubt. Maybe low level D1, but definitely a D2 program. We've supported his dream. We want him to be happy. 

Recently we've said:  Basketball is one aspect of college. There are others to consider. I don't want you to choose a college because of basketball and then get there and realize, OH CRAP. THIS PLACE SUCKS. 

But, we also want him to realize his dream. Have no regrets. Etc. *sigh*

Reg.

Background:  He's epileptic. A few miserable adults in high school failed him, and crossed a line. We sued the school. One was fired and one wasn't. Long ass story. As a result of the nonsense, that should NEVER have happened - Reg encountered mini-seizures that meds weren't able to control. He was in several AP classes and honors courses, and complained that he couldn't memorize stuff, couldn't study. 

Huh?

We learned, in March '24 after a neuropsych eval, that he was operating off of 5% of his verbal memory. The mini seizures, that he calls deja vu, damaged his verbal memory. 

He took a gap year, and worked with a speech therapist, specializing in cognitive
issues. He thinks his memory has improved, but is unsure till he's in academic classes. We paid hard-earned money for him to play with a post-grad basketball program in Indiana, believing that he'd be connected to a college team. 

CURRENT TIMES:  Dave, the head guy, concentrating on finding a D1 offer for the one strong D1 prospect 'Hank' on the post-grad team. Big 10 schools, who weren't interested in Reg or most of his teammates, came to scout Hank. The others? Most went D3, or accepted walk on spots. Dave expected Reg to jump at the chance to play D3. 

Reg told Dave:  I could've played D3 without paying for your help. You agreed to find me a spot at the next level. (It's hard to be seen outside the portal. Dave didn't do much to attract schools at Reg's level). 

A 6'7" player from Croatia, who was one of Reg's roomies and his good buddy, did get an offer to play at a D1 Catholic school in Corpus Christi, Texas. Recently Dave asked Reg if he wanted to walk-on there. Reg said no. He'd rather go to a great school like Creighton vs paying more to attend that lesser known/further from home school. (We're thrilled with the $$ he's gotten from Creighton.) 

Coach and I are disappointed. We feel we had the wool pulled over our eyes. Dave made every effort to get Hank a deal, which is good marketing for his program. He left the other kids scrambling, waiting till the last minute. Other parents are also frustrated. 

Several months ago, I asked Dave for Reg's highlight reel, so we could share it with a coach. Dave sent me a few 10 second clips. Hardly a highlight film. Reg and I pieced together what we could by recording bits of the team's YouTube videos on his phone, because we couldn't edit YouTube content. 

It's been stressful and  frustrating. A few weeks ago, Dave told him to come to an open gym with Purdue Northwest, D2. Reg caddied first and then drove to Indiana (an hour away). 

Reg texted:  I MISSED EVERY SHOT. I PLAYED TERRIBLE. THE COACH DIDN'T EVEN TALK TO ME. HE JUST LEFT. 

Mini suggested he not caddy before an open gym, and he said that had nothing to do with it. I'm guessing he was exhausted, and that the pressure killed him. 

In mid May, Coach and I met with a recruiter, Chad. He agreed to help Reg, if we hired him to help Curly. Overwhelmed by Curly's options, we agreed. Plus he lowered his price for Curly.  

Dave texted Reg. A school in Florida was interested. Reg let Chad know, because Dave doesn't have great follow-thru. Dave caught wind that Chad was reaching out to the school too, and I heard him blast Reg thru his phone. 

Dave:  Too many guys calling is a mistake. I have a relationship with this coach. Let me follow up with it. And hey, if I set up an open gym, you need to perform. You can't play like shit like you did for Purdue Northwest. You missed every shot. You gotta put shots up every day. 

Someone better hope I don't find a way to give a Google review. Reg never misses a day of putting shots up. He spends hours in the gym. And he really didn't need to be reminded that he screwed up that tryout. What the hell? 

Silly me, I thought I was gonna squeeze in all the info into one post. Reg attended Creighton's orientation last week. I'll update you on how that played out in my next post, and where everything stands.

*****

Everything will work out. What is stressing you out in your world? 

Oh, for a laugh:  Tank works on our landscaping, enlisting Kay and Rae to help. On Father's Day we played family volleyball. 100% attendance. We should've set up a camera, because hilarity ensued. Tank found some dead grass that the girls missed in their yard clean up. Tank: Farm hands! Farm hands, you need to pick this up. (don't worry, the girls get Tank, and they laughed).

When an Ef follows an apostrophe

Living room:  dumping ground. Does
this scream, "Hey, let's host family!"?

Family fun:  Coach's sister and family (4 flown and grown, + a serious boyfriend) flew in town Friday from KC for the weekend. Older kids have jobs and stuff, and they've not all made it to town for our last few gatherings.  

She'd texted us while we were in Italy, which reminds me - I still have Italy details to share, unless you're no longer interested, having fallen off the edge of your proverbial seat, to say they'd be in town June 7th. We offered to host Saturday. Coach's brother, the one with 9 kids, flew in town sans kids. Everyone else is local. 

Let's reorganize bins of toys. Whoa boy, if
 I hang on to all of this stuff until
I'm a grandma I'm gonna be all set. 

Days before hosting the Shenanigan side (16 people plus our 10) and helping with the prep for Dad's colonoscopy - you may remember he got confused and called it an apostrophe, meant crunch time. Our home is up for grabs:  no exaggeration. There's been an uptick in college kid dumping:  furniture, pots & pans, mattresses, and Stuff, never mind the tot/baby crap I'm cleaning and storing. A picture's worth a thousand words.  

Storage room. Hope no
one needs anything
 in there until after I've removed
 all the baby gear in the fall. 

I exited the chaos of my own abode (wishing I could return to total order) and stayed the night at my folks' house, starting prep at 6 pm Thursday, which by the way is barbaric. Why not start at noon and get it done in a day? I've done about 5 or 6 of these and never started prepping so late. We woke at 4:30 am to finish the prep before his 10:40 test. 

All went fine, uneventful unless you count the times Dad laughed so hard at my running commentary that I told him to hand me his glass of Gatorade laced with Miralax for fear he'd spill it. 

Background:  Dad was grouchy for the first 70-ish years of his life. He's 85 now and everything is funny, sometimes downright hilarious. It's mind blowing. 

*****

Let the fun begin:  Thursday after I prepared the food for our Saturday party and stuck it in the fridge (finishing at 5:25), I breezed into my folks' house at 5:30 pm, calling, "I'M HERE FOR POOP PATROL!" Let the laughter commence. 

Dad and I sat in their hall bathroom on chairs. It's spacious and has a separate door for the toilet/shower/tub area. I brought my shake mixer jug, so I could measure 64 ounces of Gatorade. Then I added half a bottle of Miralax. *Don't try this at home, I mean - unless you want to spend all evening in the loo.

*I'm omitting the jokes Dad found hilarious and I'll stick them in my next post, because this got long faster than you could say, The Miracles of Miralax. 

It's nerve wracking to have an elderly parent go under anesthesia. I texted Coach:  They just took him back. Say a prayer that he wakes up.

I've only ever been the one in the bed, groaning and groggy, so I was shocked at how fast it went. They'd also done an endoscopy. The doc came in while Dad was still snoozing. The endoscopy was clear. Unfortunately they found a tumor the size of a golf ball in his colon. The doc believes it's malignant. He took some biopsies. 

So, that sucked. But I wasn't surprised based on info I've heard at his last few doc appointments. I hadn't thought far enough ahead to wonder what I would do if there was bad news. I shared it with my sibs. Pat asked if I was OK. I was fine. I'm interested in next steps, etc. 

When Dad woke up, he was like SO? He was bummed when I told him. Asked a few times if maybe it was benign and they were wrong. I told him we won't know till the tests are back, but that the doc probably knew what he was looking at. He wondered if they took it out. I said we'd have to see what the next doc says, whether or not that's an option.  

On the drive home:  

Dad:  Well, I'm glad I did that. 

I agreed. Now we know stuff. Then he had me call Nana and ask her to prep two hot dogs for him. I pointed out that it wasn't Saturday. Dad has a specific lunch plan that he follows each week. Saturdays are hot dog days. I tried to say maybe hot dogs wouldn't be the food to jump back in with. 

Dad:  Why? They're meat.

Me:  Wellllll, really . . . the meat part is questionable. 

Dad (when I mentioned Saturday is hot dog day):  I don't give a damn. I'm starving and I want two hot dogs. 

I asked him if he'd ever had a colonoscopy and he said yeah. Years and years ago. Ugh. 

PSA:  Get your pipes checked. If you need someone to hand you your 80 billion glasses of Gatorade with Miralax, I can check my calendar for availability, but judging from Dad's reaction to my stand up (or in this case sit down) routine, I might be taking my act on the road some time soon. 

*****

Quiz:  what do you think I served at the family party on Saturday? C'mon. You know this one, if you've spent any time here. Do you know anyone who relaxed and enjoyed everything AFTER they were aged?

'fear of wrath' not alone, shroud shopping, & writing group doubling as support group

I'm not alone:  Fun With My Sister, Ann

When my siblings and I gathered a few weeks ago to discuss our folks' health, I relayed the story of Nana's haircut. But when I mentioned walking to said haircut:

Ann:  WHAT? (imagine the sharpest, accusatory tone) I THOUGHT YOU TOOK HER? 

Me:  I TOOK HER, BUT WE WALKED.

She was relieved. I'm capable of doing things, Bossy Flossy. 

High chair photos
relate to part of this post,
but I have a plethora
of them, so I'm sharing.

Monday, Ann texted about Dad's upcoming apostrophe aka colonoscopy in the sib group chat. I was busy deco-pudging the high chair seat cushions and then I had to run Kay to the pediatrician for acne meds, get home and eat and then race to writing group. 

My text:  I think I can do this (spend Thursday night at folks', help Dad with the prep, take him to the hospital), but I'm sealing high chair seats and then have to get Kay to the doc. I'll text soon.

I didn't want anyone taking days off of work unnecessarily. Life was hectic, and I needed a minute.

Later, after looking over the info Ann sent, I texted:  Sorry if I'm missing something- Do we know what time Friday? I'm pretty sure I can stay Thurs. night, etc. My big kids can help watch Nana Friday if needed. 

Ann:  I already replied to this .  . . He finds out the time on Thursday. (blah, blah)

See how the seat was
peeling at the edge
in front of the belt?

*I'm in two writing groups. Big group meets two Mondays a month and a small 6 person subset meets the opposite Mondays. My small secret-society group = committed to getting published. Most go to both groups, but the big group is harder to move forward ie:  'big'. Lovely people, but small group = instrumental with feedback and input. 

I got Ann's text just as I arrived at small group. It was my turn to read and I huffed:  My sister sucks. Because who texts "I've already replied to this"? I'd read all of her texts, even the pages of doc instructions. (she hadn't replied to any such question, BTW) I'm racing between places/appointments, etc. Unlike her, I'm not an empty nester. Plus - I prefaced my text with Sorry if I missed something . . .

Jon in my small group responded to "MY SISTER SUCKS":  Yeah, we know. 

I laughed. Out loud. I've been sharing stories of my life with these people for years, and they 'get it.'  Then I read my chapter about my first kiss slobber fest. They laughed their heads off. Relatable, very few critiques. I wanted to respond to Ann's bitchy text, but thanks to my 'high' after my group, I refrained. 

On Wednesday, Dad called. I was in Costco after a particularly draining shopping-for-clothes experience with Kay and Rae. Rae had an attitude the.entire.time. I bought her nothing. Coach will take her shroud-shopping sometime this week, as my time was unappreciated. 

Seat with deco pudge,
waiting to dry. That's the
 actual product name, in case
 you're wondering.

We haven't shared that new dad-will-buy-you-clothes situation with her yet. Regrets? Someone's about to have them.  

Anyway, my dad:  Are you taking me? What time are you getting here? I don't know how to do this prep.

I'm a frequent flyer colonoscopy recipient. 

Me:  Dad, this is my area of expertise. I've got this. I'll swing by after dinner and review. 

Mini hopped in the car for the two minute ride, where I debriefed her on the Macy's dressing room drama. I told her that she or another sib was gonna have to manage my bullpen duty Thursday night at the swim meet, so I could be on Poop Patrol with Da. Mini was underwhelmed to line up unfamiliar, small, wet children and tell them what lane they were in, etc. 

While I reviewed the doctor's instructions in my folks' kitchen, Mini chatted with them. Then I whispered to her:  Do you wanna be here handing my dad Gatorade laced with Miralax every 15 minutes while I do bull pen at the swim meet and then I'll come and switch with you and spend the night here?

Ann bought the stuff
needed and labeled it.
 Note:  only in my dreams does
 my kitchen look this organized. 

Mini:  Hell no! I'll do the meet. I don't wanna risk screwing up his prep and dealing with Aunt Ann's wrath. 

Dad, who heard us giggling:  What's so funny? How is drinking all this stuff funny?

Me:  We're not laughing at that, Dad. Mini's just saying she'd rather fill in for me at the swim meet vs. manage your prep, because she doesn't want to mess up and have Ann scream at her.

Dad:  Same here!

And we all enjoyed a good laugh over our shared fear. These things are easier when you realize you're not alone. Am I right? 

*******

Who's proud of me for taking the high road and not responding to her text? Who else's first kiss equated to a slobber fest?  Anyone recently have a 'we're in the same boat' experience? Have you ever handed off a teen to a clueless parent for clothes shopping? Do you have an 'Ann' in your life? Mini is in Cleveland this week for internship training and I already feel like I've lost my right arm. I'm a lefty, but still.

Stay tuned next time for how the prep went, what they found, and possible new wardrobe updates for Rae. Fingers crossed. Never dull over here, how bout your neck of the woods?

If it Ain't broken, oh - wait, it IS broken, Everything is broken

My laptop on my lap
was I write this post. 

Laptop:  I bought my laptop new in Feb. 2020, because I was taking a writing class and I needed to be able to turn in my assignments when I was in Dublin with Curly for World Championships of Irish Dancing. Then a pandemic cancelled World's. I do not remember life before I had a laptop, but I do remember life before my laptop hinge broke or something and the screen stopped staying open. Boo hiss. 

Fix:  I McGyver'd my laptop by affixing one of those sticky strips used with a Command hook. Then I attached a piece of fabric (from when I put new sleeves on an old dress - I don't think I ever shared that fun sewing project, but if you play your cards right, maybe?) to a safety pin and I jammed the pin into the sticky strip. Bingo. It ain't pretty, but it usually works. I have to adjust the sticky strip sometimes, and it is annoying when the fabric gets too stretched out. But, it gives my kids endless opportunity to wonder at my nonsense.  

Food processor:  I've had my food processor for maybe 7 years. Recently it wouldn't turn on. I was like HUH? Then I realized, it's missing the little piece on the back of the container, basket-thing. Without that piece, the Danger-This-Isn't-Safe mechanism is on high alert, or something? 

Fix:  I shove a knife in the spot where the missing part is supposed to click in place. That's my way of tricking the thing into thinking the basket is in place. Don't be alarmed, I don't use it that often. 

Anyone else have a large safety
 pin or two on your window sill? 

Video of how I get the food processor to work. 

The dishwasher:  Our Bosch dishwasher is amazing. I love it. It was new when we did the addition in 2017. A few months ago, the start button got pressed in and it didn't pop back up. Haven't we all had days like that? I couldn't believe it. I knew it would start working, if only we could just turn it on. 

Fix:  I pulled out a giant safety pin and stuck it into the crack alongside the depressed button and tried to hoist it up. This, I'm proud to say, is a talent that for several weeks was a talent that only I could manage. Since then, Coach has mastered it - which is really great, because no one should be the sole dishwasher starter. There really is noting better than coaxing a disgruntled dishwasher into starting, is there? 

Improved, me thinks. 

Gross close up of the high chair
cushion - this is the edge by
the armrest (I cleaned off the
 food before I sealed it with
 the deco pudge).

High chair seats:  I am wild about Joovy Nook high chairs. They fold and have a snap off tray. I've bought four of them. All used. Actually one was from someone who was giving it away, so I've bought three of them. Anyway, over time the cushioned seats started peeling. Little gray bits fall off, and they no longer sell replacement seats. 

Fix:  I bought Deco Pudge. I guess it's a cousin to decoupage. I stood out on my deck the other night and I painted the seat cushions where they were crumbling to sort of seal them. I think it worked. 

*****

Have you had any funky fixes at your house? Or do you have something that's broken that you wish you could fix? 

The Haircut Quest: a mission to make Mom feel like herself

 The Haircut Quest

*I drafted this a few weeks ago, and promised to share it later . . . here it is.

Aunt Moe whispered:  Your mother's hair is so long. She needs a haircut. 

Me:  Yep, I scheduled her  . . . tomorrow. Not sure how I'm gonna make it happen yet, but fingers crossed. (Nana has always kept her hair VERY short. She hates when it gets the slightest bit overgrown, but lately she'd been refusing a cut).

Fast forward to Thursday:  A lovely woman in the next neighborhood cuts hair in her basement, and she's cut Nana's hair a few times. I texted Neighbor, warning her that Nana might balk and we'd have to cancel her 12:15 appt. 

Neighbor:  I have friends with parents with Alzheimer's. Not to worry. 

Mini got a ride to ND Wednesday night to meet up with her friends for a few days (this post was drafted preceding the memorable ND visit when Mini got Hot Foot Syndrome). Most of the abroad kids were gathering. Timing wise that foiled my plan of utilizing Mini to watch the tots while I jumped thru haircut hoops. 

Thursday morning, I called Becky, my partner in crime, 'also runs a daycare' friend. We chat most mornings, or text to organize possible playdates at the park, etc. I explained my mission. She said she'd come and man the troops:  hers and mine combined = 10 children. 

A golfer requested Reg. Thurs. at 12:30. @$&*#$%! Why universe? I'd been hoping he could help. He made $320, so glad he didn't skip it. 

That morning, I decided I'd invite Nana for a walk. Then I'd steer her to Neighbor's. Coach said he could swing by on his lunch break to drive Nana home after the haircut, so I could get back to my daycare peeps. 

I called my dad at 11:30:  Is Nana awake? Thoughts on my walk plan?

She was awake, and he felt the walk was the best idea.

This video is the day before the haircut. It was my dad's 85th birthday. Some of you said you wanted to see a picture of him. 

Reg dropped me at Nana's house before his loop (caddy term for a bag to carry) and waited around the corner in case the plan failed. 

Landscapers were at Nana's house. Nana has always been generous, but Holy Cow - she cannot give her money away fast enough lately. She was in the yard (*miracle #1) tipping the landscapers. Probably not small bills either. 

I ran up the driveway. Nana was surprised to see me. I put my arm around her and told her we were going for a walk. She tried to walk back inside, telling me they were watching Pope coverage (another clue at the date this post was drafted). I told her we had the TV on at my house, and we'd go check it out. "I only had a few minutes before I had to get back to babysitting." She started walking. (*miracle number 2)

I texted Reg:  Call my dad. Tell him I've got her.  We're walking.

When we got to my street, Nana turned towards my house. I'd been chatting endlessly the entire walk. Those who know me in real life know that this is is my default mode, and those who don't - well, you probably could've guessed. Plus I'd been repeating news to Nana (Curly plays in town this weekend, Tank about to graduate, etc), because Ground Hog Day mode. When we got to Neighbor's, I turned up the driveway and said, "We're gonna go say hi to my friend." 

I stepped in the side door, and led Nana down the stairs to the basement salon. I told her, "You've been here before Mom. Neighbor is gonna cut your hair." Then I quickly pointed out the toys in the basement, "Remember that basketball hoop, Mom? Oh my gosh, I had a version of that in my basement for years." Distraction worked like a charm. 

She sort of groaned when she realized what was happening, but didn't ask to leave. She climbed into the chair. I assured her she'd feel great after a haircut, and she did.

Neighbor and I chatted. I took photos of Nana in the chair. Maybe next time, I show her the photos, so she knows it's doable? Or I align all of my people and we go for a walk. 

I later told my dad I was gonna invest in a green jumpsuit and start wandering around his yard picking up leaves, because I might make a bundle in tips. My dad, who was essentially grumpy for decades, couldn't catch his breath from laughing.