MUD Shopping

My daughter is in 8^th grade, and Wednesday is her Moving Up Day (MUD). As of this past Friday, we hadn't even started looking for a dress. My daughter isn't a shopper; she's an order online kinda girl, like her mother. However, with time this short, we couldn't order online.

I made up my mind that we were going shopping Saturday. We wouldn't return home until we had a dress, and if we were lucky, shoes to go with it. Before we left the house, I told my daughter that I was not choosing her dress for her. It was for her MUD, not mine. I already had my MUD many many years ago. I would give her my opinion if the dress didn't fit right, or I felt it was inappropriate. Other than that, the style, the color, the print, any of it would be her choice. She was quite happy about that.

My daughter had no idea what kind of dress she wanted. Sometimes, that works to your advantage, and sometimes it's harder to find something. In our case, it worked in our favor. My daughter took about 8 dresses in the fitting room, all of them were completely different from each other. She chose one that she looks spectacular in. It's by my favorite designer; On Sale.* We both love the dress!

Our quest began at a local mall, the one I've written about before.

I usually try to park near the store we want to go in so I can minimize my walking. On Saturday, I had no such luxury because I had no idea what store(s) we'd be going to. I parked near a department store where we started the dress shopping. Lo and behold, we found the dress at the first store!! We looked at that store for shoes, but we didn't find any.

We started walking through the mall. We looked in stores along the way, and before I knew it, we were all the way at the other end! The shoe store I had in mind was there, and we found shoes!! Now, as I said, I parked by a department store at the other end, so we had to walk back to the car. I am SO proud of myself because I DID IT!

Let me tell you a little about the mall. It's about a half mile long. Yes, about a half mile long. Two floors of retail Nirvana, for those of you who like to shop. I figure I walked over a mile, by the time we went in and out of stores and walked around the stores. I figured I'd be shot for the next few days, but I don't feel too bad.

There was a concert yesterday where one of my daughter's favorite singers was performing. The other night, I agreed to take my daughter and her friend to this 6-act, 5-hour outdoor concert. Remember what I've said about thinking I'm “normal”? Talk about a delusional moment.

Yesterday morning, my husband and I were talking and Looking at the weather forecast. After hearing the projected high temperature, he volunteered to take my daughter and her friend to this concert! He didn't want me in the heat and sun all day. I wasn't hinting or anything, he just said he would do it!

I'm betting yesterday would have sent me over the edge if my husband hadn't stepped in. My daughter and her friend had an amazing time, thanks to my extraordinary husband.

I am so fortunate in so many ways.

*One of my favorite Rita Rudner jokes.

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father's Day!

Today is a day to celebrate fathers, the mostly unsung heroes of the household. Dads are usually relegated to the background, yet they don't seem to mind. I bet some dads actually prefer it.

When you start to look at commercial greeting cards for dads, the cards seem to have a few recurring themes. Napping on the couch, hoarding the remote, golfing, making bad jokes, and maybe some sort of tool. Sure, those things might be true, but Dads are so much more, at least in our house.

Quite frankly, my husband is a gift from above.

Before we had kids, my husband used to worry about being a father, and what kind of father he would be. He is an amazing father to our kids, and sometimes he was a father figure to some of my kids' friends.

He works hard to provide for us, he takes care of the outside year round including snow removal (and if you remember that we live in Buffalo, that's no small feat some winters), he takes the time to show our kids how to do things, he does any maintenance that needs to be done, and he picks up my slack when I have my bad days; he has no problem doing the dishes or vacuuming. At the first sign of heat, he's right there, putting in the air conditioners for us. He does the literal crappy jobs; he picks up the dog stuff in the yard and unclogs toilets. I honestly could go on for a long time, but you get the idea.

A couple of years ago, our front porch succumbed to dry rot, which meant that we had to replace it. Two years ago, my son was 8 and my daughter was 10. We had to demolish the crumbling concrete before we could begin to replace the wood. My husband taught our kids how to use our small jackhammer (with ear protection), showed our kids how to use the drill, and how to measure the boards. All four of us worked on replacing the porch.

His head is constantly full of concern for me, the kids, our future.

We have a tendency to poke fun at dads, but maybe that's because they are so good-natured.

Despite all the pressure my husband must feel, he does everything mostly cheerfully. Mostly cheerfully because he's not a saint. He's human. But he's our human, and I wouldn't trade him for anything.

The picture that I used today was taken on our Florida trip in 2009. It's one of my favorite photos ever because to me, it just screams “I'm a Dad”. To me, that picture is fatherhood.

Soul, Man

The 12^th of June marked six months that my mother left our earthly world. My world. My life. Technically, it's now the better part of a year that she's been gone. Some days I feel okay as if I'm finally accepting it. Some days are harder, and there are days that are really hard. The weekend had two consecutive really hard days.

Even tonight, as I'm starting the post, my eyes are welling up. Sometimes the sadness is overwhelming and suffocating.

It's usually a fun and happy weekend, the weekend of my daughter's dance recital. Her recital is always entertaining, with “wows” sprinkled in for good measure. This was her 9^th recital. Wait-that doesn't seem possible, or right. Let me go check that. Yes, that is right. She started dancing in 2007, and her first recital was in 2008. Wow. Anyway, recital weekend is always happy, festive, triumphant and fun. Sort of like Mardi Gras, without the booze and flashing. Or beads. I'm getting hung up on details to avoid writing what this post is really about.

My mom was so proud of my daughter, and in all those years, she only missed 2 recitals prior to this one. One was because she had just gotten out of the hospital, and the other was because she couldn't walk that well. Even if I let her out at the door, it was a longish walk to the auditorium once inside. Oh my, the years both my kids danced, I think we had to buy her new blouses. She was just bustin' her buttons with pride. My mom liked the show and she liked to watch all the dances.

Last year, my daughter had a duet in addition to her five other dances. My mom was determined that she was going to see my daughter dance, even if she only stayed for her duet (which thankfully was in the first act). My mom did it, too. She got to see my daughter dance, and then my husband took my mom home. I know that took a lot out of her, but my mom was adamant that she was going to be there to see my daughter.

So sitting in the auditorium, watching my daughter's class perform so beautifully, I turned into a blubbery mess. The same thing happened at competition last month. One specific song just made me sob.

Lest I give you the impression that it was some gut-wrenching, emotional, tug-at-your-heartstrings kind of song, the dance was jazz, and the song was “Soul Man”, the Blues Brothers version.

Yes, go ahead and say it...because I know. It's not the kind of song that would make anyone emotional. Normally. Believe me, I felt ridiculous. It hit me like I was catapulted into a solid wall when I was at competition. I was fine, then I was sobbing.

However, there was a reason I felt that way, I think. This is my theory. As I mentioned, my mom loved to watch my daughter dance. My mom also loved the Blues Brothers. She loved the original Blues Brothers movie, Blues Brothers 2000, and she even had 2 Blues Brothers CDs. My daughter's dance took snippets from Dan Akroyd and John Belushi's moves and incorporated them into the dance.

 I think the whole experience was just too much to process. In an older post called Music Is My TARDIS, I wrote how music can instantly transport me to a different time and place. I believe that's precisely what happened.

I was remembering happier times, walking into my mom's house, and she would have the Blues Brothers blaring from her speakers. And I'll never have that again. Ever. It's all the little things about my mom that I miss SO MUCH. Hearing her sing. Hugging her. Listening to her stories, or crack jokes.

I never told my daughter what happened because I didn't want her being distracted during competition or recital. Now that dance season is over, I can finally tell my story.

My daughter in her "Soul Man" costume.

Happy Anniversary

It's a year ago that I decided to publish my first blog entry, and lots has happened in the past year. That always happens though, doesn't it? If you actually take time to look back at any 365 days, you'll notice changes. The difference is that there's an actual record that I can look back on.

Over the past year, I learned so much from all of you.

Before I started this blog, I didn't realize how similar autoimmune diseases are, and it's nearly 12 years since my MS diagnosis. The exact symptoms vary with each disease, but there are many similarities.

I know my blog has helped people in different ways, and that's a great feeling. Knowing that I made a small positive impact is so rewarding. For some of you, the blog has been informational. For others, it's inspired you to start writing again, and there are those of you who have said that you enjoy reading my blog. I thank each and every one of you for indulging me.

While it's the one year anniversary of my blog, I don't want this post to turn into a recap of the whole last year. If you really want to look back, it's all still there. I wanted to express my gratitude, though.

My daughter came home Sunday night after being on her 8th-grade class trip. She left early Thursday morning, and it seemed like a really long time that she was gone. Maybe it's because she was in Canada over 250 miles away without a phone. The last time she went on an overnight school trip she went to Cleveland and had her phone with her. When she goes to summer camp for 9 days, she's not allowed to bring electronics, but I know she's only 30 miles away.

Anyway, the trip was to Camp Pathfinder in Algonquin Park in Ontario. It's actually an island in the park. You can read about the camp here. 

My daughter said she had a great time.

This weekend made me realize that in four short years, she will be starting college. My little pink bundle is becoming a young woman. When the time comes for her to really spread her wings and fly, I hope to be as strong as my mom was when I was considering the move to Chicago.

As much as I wanted to take the job in Chicago, I was just as apprehensive. My dad was in declining health, and my mom didn't have her driver's license. Someone even offered to pay for driving lessons for my mom so she wouldn't have to rely on anyone. I was concerned about my parents being in Buffalo alone. Oh, they had family (their brothers and sisters) and friends, but my brother, sister and I all lived (or were going to live) hundreds or thousands of miles from Buffalo.

Ultimately, it was my mother who pushed me to move. As we loaded up the last of the stuff, got in the moving truck, and drove away from my family home. I cried. I cried all the way to Ohio (about 200 miles or so).

My mother was strong, smart and wise in so many ways. She could say so much with such few words. The words that finally let me choose Chicago were, “Lou Ann, just GO. There's nothing here for you”. I knew the implied ending was “You can always come home if you really don't like it”.

Come home we did, after ten years. Coming home didn't just start a new chapter in our lives, it was more like a sequel. Spring of 2002 we moved back, fall of 2003 had our daughter, fall of 2004 bought our house and I was diagnosed with MS, spring of 2006 had our son. It seems life exploded once we moved back.

Killing Your Darlings

I made some time to sit down to write today. I wanted to work on a post for tomorrow, and it came out exceptionally long. It's nearly the length of two entries, so I figured I'd better do some editing. Except when I tried, I couldn't find any parts to cut and have the entry still make sense. Well, as much sense as any of my posts make.

Why is it that we can (almost) ruthlessly edit someone else's writing, but we can't edit our own? I suppose that while we may even be friends with the writer, the writing is still impersonal. When you write something yourself, it's your blood (ink) on the paper.

I can go back to rearrange words, change words, even reconstruct a paragraph but slashing entire sentences, or gasp, paragraphs?? The horror!!! Yet I feel I must. I don't know if you've ever noticed, but I usually keep my posts within 100 words of 500, give or take. I didn't try for that, it just seems to be where I usually end.

When I'm finished, just before I publish, I tap the little word count button, and I'm usually close to 500. Today when I tapped the little button, it read over 800. I was horrified. Well, nearly. Certainly shocked.

I'm always surprised after I've written something and it's as long as it is. And then there's that little voice inside telling me that no one is going to take the time to read all some hundred-odd words that you wrote. I'm even more amazed when more than 25 people read my blog on any given day (which has been all of them, truthfully, surprisingly). I still have that voice inside telling me that I can't do it; I'm not a good writer; no one will read my writing.

Yet, I tap tap tap away on the keyboard because even if I'm not the best writer, writing give me pleasure. It's my release. It's my recreational drug of choice. It's liberating. Even if no one was reading my blog, I'm pretty sure I'd still be writing because it's my catharsis.

I may not tell anyone in person how I'm really feeling, but I almost always post it in my blog. For example, today I'm rather like a tuning fork again, I'm really fatigued, and I'm battling a headache on top of my usual pain. But if I run into you at Target or Wegmans, I'm fine.

Oh, speaking of fine, my legs are officially the same length again, thanks to physical therapy!! I'm really glad I'm pushing through it because it's really helping, though the MS is really rearing its ugly head big time. I'm hoping that the MS symptoms will subside a bit when I stop pushing myself. But- I don't know that it will. It just might, but even if these symptoms are here to stay, my back will be stronger.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to attempt to kill my darlings.