Monthly Archives: November 2012

This was not the first time she’d done it to me.  We’d been down this road before.  Sometimes she would call, and beg me, sometimes I would catch it without her telling me.  But always it would end the same way:  I would have to make a special trip.

She’d forgotten her lunch box AGAIN.

This morning, I’d put together the most delicious, nutritious, fantastic lunch, complete with fancy-schmancy mixed fruit carbonated beverage, and gingerbread-shaped peeps for desert (did I say nutritious?), and actually brought it with me as we got into my car to leave for school.

She even asked me “Do you have my lunch?”   To which I replied by heaving it to her in the back seat.

We drove to school, Mother and daughter, alone and enjoying each other’s company in the quiet morning.   We arrived, she got out, dutifully kissed me goodbye, and headed into the school.

I drove home loving my sweet Varmint.  So old and wise for her age.  So competent, reliable, and consistent.

I arrived at our little cottage, turned off the car, and prepared to get out, when I saw this:

I DID say consistent, didn’t I?

I’m telling you, a person has to work at being this forgetful.  Nobody comes so poorly by it honestly.  She must be practicing some kind of 12 step plan to get this scatterbrained.   Maybe she has a life-coach teaching her or something.  It’s like I gave birth to the Absent-Minded Professor.  I keep waiting for her to break into Jerry Lewis impersonations.

“HEY LAAAAAADYYY!”

Of course I know she could just buy lunch at the school.  But now, NOW I was on a mission to get her to remember her own needs.  I knew what I had to do.

So I wrote her this note:

And I made sure I was at school when her lunch period started.

I positioned myself at the front of the hallway before the Cafeteria, and laid in wait.  She saw me.  Looked simultaneously chagrined and grateful, and came in for a very cutsie hug.

And that’s when I handed her the note.

She giggled.  Her friends gathered round on their way to lunch.  Varmint smirked at me with a challenge in her eyes as if to say, “You wouldn’t DARE.”

Oh, Sweet Varmint, I thought you knew me better than that.

And friends, I Gangnam –Style Danced all the way out the door.

In front of 100 6^th graders.

All glorious 220 pounds of me.

Wearing my nasty Crocs.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO YOUR DAUGHTER???”  You cry?

Because sometimes nothing gets a point across like a 220-pound, middle-aged woman, Gangnam-Style Dancing out the door in nasty ol’ Crocs.

It started on Friday afternoon.  Quiet at first; so much so that I wouldn’t have noticed at all if I hadn’t stepped in it.

It got worse overnight, more frequently and loud enough to wake me from a sound sleep.

Nothing will get your attention faster than a cat retching into your clean laundry basket at 2:00 in the morning.

Why do they always heave 4 times before they actually produce a chunk of vomit? Why is that?

I called the vet at Noon.  We talked over options and decided to wait and see if he was still sick on Monday.  By that night he was so tired and dehydrated that after he retched he would just lay down right there in the puke.

He’d stopped cleaning himself entirely.  Saturday night I bathed him with a warm washcloth.

By Sunday he had stopped retching, and started eating and drinking again.  I thought maybe we were over the hump.

So I didn’t take him in on Monday.

Tuesday morning at 6:00am, Varmint called up the stairs, “MOM!  Gracie puked in my closet!”

I knew we would be at the vet that day.

Dr. Simmons is a nice lady, and seemed a competent veterinarian.  We talked about the possibilities.  Considered our options.  Discussed finances.

We did the x-ray.  We did the bloodwork.

And then she sent us on our way.

Getting a professional to confirm that your cat is fine…..$200.00.

The look of gratitude on your daughter’s face for spending her Christmas Gift Money on her cat….PRICELESS.

If you are just now tuning in, you need to know I have arthritis in my right knee, brought on by sports injuries from Collegiate TaeKwonDo, carrying extra weight from my gestations, and treating my body like a pool hall, in general.

Oh, I’m 44 and have the mileage of an 80-year-old.

We’re talking City Miles.

And you should probably know I’m a whiner.  So if you keep reading my  drivel  blog, you’ll hear plenty about the Godforsaken Knee.

This Thanksgiving our little community had a 5K run/walk.  We do it often because one of our townsfolk, Gail Lee, of The Biggest Loser fame, is determined to help the rest of us share in her health success.

I like Gail.  She’s got the energy of a decent-sized star, only brighter.  I like to support her endeavors, and join in her sense of community.  And we do have a wonderful Mayberry-esque community here in Poolesville, Maryland.

The first thing this nippy, but sunny, Thanksgiving morning, My Captain and I put on our comfy clothes and met a none-too-shabby group of stalwart souls in the parking lot where the 5K would start.

Understand this:  My knee cannot handle 5K.  It can barely handle the walk from my easy-chair to the cupboard where I keep the Easy Cheese.  But I hate feeling that I’m missing something.

My Captain kept begging me “Don’t Do This!  You’ll be laid up for days.”

I stubbornly held my ground, determined to walk at least 1 mile.  One. Measly. Little. Mile.

My Captain, well-knowing my current physiological challenges, didn’t even put his tennis shoes on, or his coffee down.

OUCH.

There I am in my yoga pants, my super-spiffy athletic fleece from LL Bean, and my polypropylene underwear, and he’s in his clunky work boots, Carhartt canvas jacket, and carrying an extra-large McDonald’s coffee.  And he’s walking faster than me.

I used to be athletic!  I whitewater kayaked!  I earned a black belt and fought large women, some of whom had hair on their backs!  I biked hundreds of miles around large portions of states.  I WAS A CONTENDER!!!!

***sigh***

And now I limp around whining about the passing of my youth.

But I did my one measly mile, dagnabbit.  Even if I did hobble like a penguin, I’m glad I did it.  I may not be what I once was, but I’m alive.  And it felt good to be out moving in the sunshine with the love of my life.

And I’ll be blogging from my family room for the next several days with an ice-pack on my knee.

Someone go get me the Easy Cheese for gosh sake.

It will never matter what his age is.  Chronology has absolutely nothing to do with it.  It wouldn’t matter if the Earth made 50 revolutions around the sun.

Oh, sure, with time there must be growth.  But the essence of who he is, and his relation to me….

Will.  Never.  Change.

The only question that remains is….

How long will he be able to maintain his secret identity?

He did NOT want to go.

He was PEEVED that his father and I were forcing him to try it.

All he wanted to do was stay at home and design new paper airplanes.

His sister even joined in and said she would do it to support him.

His response was an evil stink-eye, and a chin stuck out so mutinously, he would have fit right in on Bligh’s HMS Bounty.

But we got him there.  It took his father, his sister, and I to shove him in….literally…  but we got him in.

The only problem after that?

……

…..Getting him to leave.

Turns out that the Hip Hop class at Hope Garden Dance Studio in Poolesville, Maryland is where all the cool boys hang out.  There were so many boys there of various ages, and all of them acrobatic as all get out….it was astounding.  Seriously, so many kids were participating, there was hardly enough room for them all.

Never having been “cool” a moment of my life, I had no idea Hip Hop was so popular.  I also didn’t realize that it is virtually a sport.  How would I describe it? It’s as if the left brain is dancing with the right brain to music with such energy and pulse, it makes the walls shake!

My knees hurt just watching.

Hip Hop.

Cooler than you think.