Compromising the Crown

The second the blood ballooned from my daughter's nose I realized we had a problem. She, of course, did not, which was a good thing. The adults in the room flew into activity, me cupping my hands around her nose, others running for Kleenex, paper towels, etc. to mop up the sudden flow. My brother's face, was guilt ridden, and I think he was mumbling something about "breaking his niece" but in moments the blood was stopped, and Isabelle was more mad at being forced to sit still than upset at any injury.

It was the kind of strange, odd and peculiar "thing" that is becoming rather characteristic of my family. We were just arrived at the cabin we rented for our yearly family weekend, and all the kids had their new fishing poles from Grandma in the living room and were practice casting with the rubber/plastic "fish" on the ends of their lines. (Well, except the girls' poles which had pink crowns instead of fish because they were princess fishing poles. Of course.) My brother was helping his daughter and lobbed a cast across the room and somehow managed to plunk it perfectly off the end of Isabelle's nose, and while it left no mark on the outside whatsoever it somehow hit perfectly and caused it to bleed. Strange! Shortly afterward, we realized the crown on Isabelle's line had cracked slightly, or as my brother, Kurt said, "the crown has been compromised." However, after tying the line a little differently she was back to casting with it in no time, and it worked just as well.

The weekend followed with a continuation of a sort of comedy of errors including my sister-in- law, Chrissy, somehow locking herself in our bedroom (Let me be clear. No one else was in it at the time.), which quickly dissolved into three kids repeatedly calling through the door to her asking her if she was alright while my father and brother tried various implements on the lock to free her. Ultimately my brother went around and crawled through the window (Tiny window, tall man ... should have gotten a picture) and they started taking hinges off the door, but I believe it was my father with the butter knife that saved the day. (That sentence sounded like the game "Clue." It was Professor Plum with the candlestick. Sorry. I digress.) Then there was the incident later in the day when Clay and my brother went fishing out in the boat, and we all went off to the craft show in town only to get a phone call informing us that the pontoon boat had died and they were stuck at the opposite end of one very large lake and could we come back and rescue them? Some good Samaritans in a neighboring boat ended up towing them back to the cabin where it was later determined a bad battery was the culprit. Finally, there was the mystery of the oven which seemed to bake the ham rather quickly the first evening we arrived, but failed to roast the potatoes, or bake the squash after more than ample time had passed for Sunday evening's meal. And yes, some of us were a little sick and yes, the kids all had their moments when they whined or cried or fussed.

Yes, the weekend was not perfect, but then again I think it was. I have all these little snapshots of memories stored away already...... Isabelle and Anya huddled on a chair together with their princess fishing poles, Kurt standing on the end of the dock, fishing pole in hand (which, by the way, is the most natural pose in the world for him), Mom and Dad paddling the canoe together, Clay walking to his bow target with Isabelle and Anya dancing ahead of him, Mom getting tipsy off Clay's Bocce iced teas, Chrissy and Gideon exchanging kisses on the pontoon boat, sitting around the campfire, laughing hysterically over the game "Apples to Apples" (which you have never played until you have played with my family, TRUST me), Chrissy and I putting our children to bed at night in the cabin, all of the kids pretending to be pirates around the dinner table, Papa making a huge fort out of the kitchen table for them, the girls pushing their baby dolls in the swing, Isabelle looking at her cousin and saying "I wuv you, Anya," and Anya, replying, "I love you Isabelle." and me thinking I could die right then and be happy, watching Gideon eat four pancakes and two sausages and three hours later a full lunch, reading books to all three kids for bedtime, and just the luxury of having all of us sit around a table together which only happens maybe once or twice a year if we are lucky.

Anyways, I guess my point is the weekend wasn't perfect, but neither is my family and wouldn't that be so damn boring if we were? Give me the compromised crown any day! It is all the quirks and eccentricities and yes, even flaws that we all have that makes us who we are and guess what? Our families love us anyway. At least mine does, and I always walk away from our weekends feeling like I am really blessed. We are a crazy, kind of weird crew, but it is one I am proud to call my own.

Run Away, Run Away!

It is evenings like this when I would just about kill for a book, any book. The television is driving me insane with its endless coverage of hurricane Gustaf, which while I have been interested in keeping apprised of, I do not feel the need to be continually inundated with non-stop information over and over and over. Information, which I might add is the same information just being repeated. The weather is only interrupted with the liberal media going practically orgasmic over the fact that Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin's 17 year old daughter is pregnant while at the same time repeatedly saying it should not be something that is brought into the political debate (yet simultaneously interjecting comments about Palin's leanings toward an abstinence-only policy in schools...... but lets not bring candidates' children into the political arenas.) One Far left blog was even trying to pass off the idea today that Palin's youngest son, born just six months ago with Downs Syndrome, is actually her 17 year old's as well! Does it never end!?! Essentially it is enough to make me want to blow up the television, and the thought that potentially more hurricanes are on the way and I have months more of political shenanigans to watch is depressing to say the least. I have already completed my crossword, doodled and doodled and doodled, downed an entire bowl of popcorn (sigh, guilt, more bad body image issues, gulp), read an article on-line from one so-called expert about how he thinks Farve will really do as a Jet (and do not even get me going on that subject, that could be a blog by itself!), and all I want is a book!

Combine that with Clay's less than stellar mood today, and I am contemplating running away and joining a convent or something. I want a quiet place in the north woods obviously with many, many books (preferably a place where amazon can still deliver, although quicker delivery would be nice since I am currently waiting for three different books hence my lack of reading material tonight) perhaps a cozy fireplace, some throw blankets, a hefty supply of hot cocoa and my cats, of course, to occupy my lap. Okay, maybe I would need a computer or some paper and pencil so I could write too. Alas, it appears running away is not a true option so I will sign off for tonight and go to sleep instead, hoping my books will come in the mail tomorrow and that the media might get a clue. At least the books might come.

A Sensitive Soul

I should not have been surprised, and yet somehow I was. It seems that most of Isabelle's absolutely abysmal behavior (and yes, it can only be described as abysmal) was in large part due to Clay's absence from the home. I mean I knew she missed him. I knew it played a part. But clearly I had no idea how big a part.

Score one for the Daddy's of the world, right? I did not really need proof that fathers played a significant role in their children's lives, but this little experiment did, nonetheless, serve to add weight to their importance. While Clay would be the first to tell you that he is no Mr. Mom, he is a present figure in his daughter's life, home for daily dinners, and around in the evening for some one-on-one time, whether it is a family walk in the neighborhood, some time at the park, or just hanging out in the living room. He does his time reading books, playing trains (or yes, tea party.... a real man can fold himself into those tiny chairs) and come the weekends he always carves out some time with Isabelle. The thing is she doesn't care what they do.... it doesn't matter if they are golfing, washing the car, mowing the lawn, or "monkeying" with something in the garage so long as she is with Daddy. Clay lets her tag along and help, making her feel special and important, a true Daddy's little girl.

So, I guess you could say when Daddy went away the last two weeks Miss Isabelle decided to punish everyone involved. She punished Clay by refusing to talk to him on the phone for probably the first week he was gone, and obviously I turned into her designated punching bag of abuse, the one to take all her frustrations and sadness out on. When I think about it she started acting up as soon as we mentioned Clay was going to be taking a trip, and she knew her precious routine would be shook up.

The contrast this week in her behavior is nothing short of astonishing... a shrink would probably have a field day with it. The tantrums just vanished as well as the yelling and talking back, and the one time when I did put her in time out this week, she calmed down within five minutes, apologized for her behavior, and we went on with our day. Juxtapose that with a week ago when she screamed and kicked for over an hour in time out, resulting in her ultimately making herself vomit and then still refusing to say sorry for her transgression. The last two weeks she has gone around mumbling that she is sad and tired all of the time, and this week she is back to her bouncy self and is once more proclaiming to the general public that she is "so happy." This schizophrenic behavior is a little too much too take and reminds me once more of her back when she was an infant and Clay and I had dubbed her as Good Isabelle and Evil Isabelle, depending on which mood/face she was presenting to us at the time. Is it possible for a three year old to have multiple personalities? Ha, ha!

All joking aside I think it is more indicative of a very sensitive soul, and Isabelle comes by that honestly. I have often been accused of too easily "taking things to heart." Naturally, I would argue that being more sensitive to our surroundings and other people is not necessarily a bad quality or a shortcoming. Some people have always felt the need to tell me to "buck up" and not understand why I react to things so strongly. I happen to think it fantastic that a dog food commercial can bring me to tears, a sunny, windswept day can cause me to laugh out loud, a U.S. Olympian can make me burst with patriotic pride, and one grin from my daughter can make my heart fit to burst. Shouldn't everyone feel so strongly? Doesn't everyone? And if you don't then, I can only say I am sorry. When I was young and in school it was hard to be "overly-sensitive," as I was so often described, because being quick to tear-up was embarrassing at that age. Of course, I will hope to teach Isabelle how to better manage and understand her strong emotions but not to suppress or quell them because they are what gives us our zest for life. They are what makes us human and her sensitivity helps define who she is as a person. She will come to learn that her tears do not compromise her strength, and that having a sensitive soul only opens her heart to even more love. And who wouldn't want that?

Too Many Thoughts, Not Enough Time

Somehow time has flown away from me once more, and I open my blog up and discover too much time has gone past, and I have not written, and now there are so many items I would like to write and how to choose?????? I suppose it is a common problem among people who constantly have their minds full of words; everything I witness, experience and think of is routinely being turned into a mini story in my head. So, in keeping with the fact that I have a bazillion little anecdotes/ideas/newsie thingies in my noggin (How is that for some good English? My former professors are all cringing and wringing their hands in shame.) I am just going to lay it all out for you guys.

Clay has been away for the last two weeks on a very long trip for work. This has meant that yours truly is at home alone with Miss Isabelle 24/7 who at present has decided to revisit a time of truly evil behavior. I refer to a period of time when she was under six months old and basically screamed all day. Lately she has been throwing tantrums to the same effect except now she is not 3 months she is 3 years old, so you get the idea. UGH! It has been a very large exercise in patience, and one I am sorry to say I do not always excel at. It all boils down to the simple fact that she is a very strong-willed child who is trying very hard to establish her boundaries and feels the need to frequently and repeatedly test said boundaries. Suffice it to say it has made for some very long days compounded by the fact that she truly misses her Daddy. We are OH SO HAPPY he is coming home tonight.

We have managed to have some laughs while Daddy has been away one of which included me mowing the lawn for the first time in my life. Yes, I am thirty-two and had never mowed a lawn before. I know kind of pathetic, but please understand I grew up with a father who felt daughters just did not mow lawns, plus I had an older brother who did. Anyways, Clay gave me a tiny crash course on the finer points of running his self-propelled walk behind mower, and a week after he was gone Isabelle and I broke the bad boy out for my virgin mow. Now Clay and I were both a little concerned on whether or not I would be strong enough to be able to start it as it had a pull start. When I had started it before it was after it had been running a while, but we both figured if I had to I could run next door to the neighbors and have Mike help me start it and then I could be on my way. After reassuring Isabelle repeatedly that yes, Daddy had told me I could use his lawn mower and her reminding me to make sure there was enough gas I tried to start it. Repeatedly. No luck. Despite all best efforts and tugging with all my might, I just could not get it to go. I was just about to call it quits and swallow my pride and go knock on my neighbor's door to prevail upon the "stronger sex" (gag me) when my 3 year old comes up and says "No, Mommy, you have to hold this bar and then pull the cord." DUH! Turns out I was so focused on trying to start it with enough strength that I completely forgot to pull back the bar to the handle and then yank the damn cord! Can you all say dumb blond moment!! So, I kindly thanked my brilliant daughter for reminding me of the obvious, started the mower and off I went. She proceeded to be wonderful that day, telling me how well I was doing, later showing me how to remove the bag for the grass clippings, and informing me that while my cutting job was "not as good as Daddy's" it "looked fine." What an experience.

I am also gearing up to send my daughter off to preschool for the first time in just a couple short weeks. I am excited and nervous and, of course new to this whole scene. I ordered her a back pack of her very own, and I think I might get her some slippers to just keep at preschool, so she can wear her boots there during the bad weather and then have her slippers to run around in there rather then having to mess around with different shoes everyday. I still need to come up with a good way of labeling her things. Dear sister-in-law of mine what do you do with my lovely niece and nephew's things? I have seen one clothes' labeler out there but I read mixed reviews on it and wondered how well it worked. Yes, a new chapter for us, although it is just some baby steps as it is a class that meets two days a week for two hours at a time in the morning. I am planning to do my errands and shopping while she is in school, which will be SO NICE, and I am hoping some new activities and challenges might help improve some of our current behaviour issues as well.

On a personal note the headache monster has largely been slumbering this month, and I feel great. With the exception of one fairly yuck headache at my brother's earlier in the month I have been pain free. Plus, upon examining that headache further I realize I brought that one on myself through my activities and food intake (or lack thereof). There has been a bit of a learning curve with this medication and discovering what my body can and cannot do while I am on it, especially in regards to exercise. In general it just seems to make me weaker and while I am frustrated by that it seems a small price to pay to not be in constant pain.

There are so many other topics I would like to touch on, but I find I need to do a few productive things with my day (while I find this productive for my mind it does not keep my house clean or pay the bills.... oh, I wish!) so, off I go for now as Miss Isabelle will be up from her nap shortly. The other stories floating around my brain matter will have to wait!

Migraines, Milligrams, and Monsters, Oh My!

I suppose it would have been way too simple for my headaches to have proven to be so weak as to "give up the ghost" as easily as it appeared they did when I first began taking Topomax, right? I mean, it would hardly of made them worthy of their Jaws-like status in the headache world. So true to form they made a solid reemergence last week around the dreaded menstrual cycle (any of you squeamish men out there who can't handle talk of a woman's period just go away). And while some people say taking an over the counter medication on top of the Topomax can sufficiently quell their pain, no such luck was found for me. After being blessed with a beautiful (fantastic, wonderful, gorgeous, great, blissful, near idyllic) brain time this past month, I confess I was rather disheartened to find myself this past Thursday clutching my head in the kitchen while tears streamed down my face, trying to hold it together yet again. Damn.

However, we are making progress, I remind myself. After putting in a call to my doctor we have decided to up the milligrams of the Topomax and see if a higher dose can better attack the significantly more evil and diabolical headaches that like to plague me around that time of the month. And, of course now that I am beyond my monthly cycle I find I am once again pain free and feeling grand so all in all it is good. I mean, even if I have to suck it up and have some bad head pain every week and a half to two weeks out of a month it is way better then having it virtually every day like I was before. Of course, upping the milligrams means I am feeling all the side effects again and more strongly, some of which can be annoying, the tiredness, the tingling and numbness in the extremities, the way you can over heat more easily, but frankly all of it is nothing if it means my head does not hurt.

No, mostly, last week as I was dealing with my monster headaches again after having a blessed hiatus from them, I was thinking how awful it was that anyone has to ever suffer from chronic pain. That and of the stupid commercials for Imitrex they had out on television maybe two years ago which featured some little cartoon monster which was supposed to be your migraine, cavorting around the screen with a little devilish grin on his face and jumping on the "migraine sufferer's" head, while she grimaced and held her hand to her temple. I remember thinking then that the person who made that commercial had never personally had a migraine because I got news for ya....... my headaches are not some cutesy, cartooney character that could double as an illustration in a Mercer Mayer kids book like "There's a Nightmare in my Closet." No, mine are more like something out of the mind of Stephen King like the slouchy, creepy thing in "Lisey's Story" perhaps. Something that most likely would have an NC 17 rating attached to it and would not be allowed into a commercial. Anyways...... I suppose it helps me to occupy my mind with useless thoughts such as this to help keep the pain at bay. Laughter is the best medicine, right? Well, that and Topomax, just in more milligrams!

Ironing Woes

I do not know whose brilliant idea it was, but some yahoo in motel world decided it was a good idea to bungee cord the iron to the ironing board at the hotel we stayed at last weekend. (Apparently, there must be a high propensity for people absconding with cheap irons from hotel rooms or something). So, there I was doing my best to iron my daughter's little dress on this board with an incredibly slippery silver ironing pad , which the dress kept slipping off of, stretching this too short plastic cord that closely resembled the old twisty phone cords we all once had back when we were tied to walls when talking on the phone. The board was also rather flimsy and poorly balanced causing it to have a tendency to tip, usually when Isabelle decided to streak by every two milliseconds or so to go use the potty with the "loud flush." The iron also was a sad model with a narrow base which also liked to fall over. Somehow I managed to get Isabelle's dress and one blouse of mine ironed, walking away with minimal swearing and one rather bad looking burn on my right forearm. Naively, I thought that would be the end of it. (One would think I would know better after the Christmas tree episode, but read on).

In an attempt to ward off any potential flare ups I did warn Clay of the rather inept design of the ironing situation, but in the span of five minutes it became clear I was to be powerless to control the moment. Because Clay does prefer steam when ironing he took a cup from the bathroom and filled the iron with water and plugged it in. All was peaceful while the iron heated up, but it was not too last. He placed his white dress shirt on the board and, of course, it immediately slipped off, and no matter how he positioned it he quickly discovered that it would not remain in place without keeping one hand on it at all times. Then when trying to maneuver the iron down towards the end of the board, Clay likewise, discovered how short the bungee cord was that was attached to the iron. After attempting to "make it work" for a (I will be generous and say a few minutes) he then moved on to trying to remove the iron from the cord. This mostly involved a lot of brute strength, swearing and bashing of any and all persons involved in the design of the tethered iron. Of course, that did not work. When that failed Clay moved on to stretching out the bungee cord by trying to pull on it and straighten the spirals out of it and hence give him more length to work with. There I was watching my college educated husband hang a heated iron, dangling down between his feet, pulling on the cord with his hands straightening the bungee. I kept envisioning severe burns on feet and runs to emergency rooms. (In case you are wondering, at this time my dear parents had taken my daughter down for the continental breakfast in the hotel lobby. Bless them!) When the swearing began in earnest and the metal base that sat on the ironing board which held the iron when not in use began to get bent from Clay pulling so hard, I decided I would retreat to the bathroom and dry and style my hair. Keep in mind by this time the water Clay had put in the iron was mostly spilled out now in various places all over the hotel room from him flinging the thing about in various ways trying to straighten the cord, and please continue to envision the whole time that this cord is, in fact, attached at the other end to the damn ironing board and you begin to get the picture.

When I finally came out of the bathroom it was with a fair amount of trepidation, so I was somewhat surprised to find the iron still intact and not in little pieces and to hear Clay quite civilly request an iron from the front desk over the phone. He then sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. You can imagine how my dear husband's mood "improved" when more and more time passed and the new iron (which hopefully would be delivered minus the tether) was not delivered. All too soon I ran out of things to do in the bathroom, so I finally suggested that he perhaps should take a shower (tentatively and carefully, like a police officer talking to a person threatening to jump off a roof top) and I would go down to the front desk and ask. I did so and, soon returned with an untethered (hallelujah) iron and a much nicer model, I might add. Leaving Clay with the new iron I went down to breakfast sure now that all would be well.

It was only later that I was informed that even that iron suffered some indignities also. Although the new iron was not tethered to the board, Clay was still not happy with the choices of where we had to plug it in within the hotel room, so he decided to find a new outlet that better suited his needs for, shall we say, greater maneuverability while ironing. He found one, plugged it in and ................... the iron would not heat up. After struggling with the evil tethered iron for the better part of an hour this was, I guess, the proverbial "last straw" and Clay launched the untethered iron across the hotel room, where it landed rather roughly in the general vicinity of the air conditioning unit. However, as I said I only learned of the iron's unauthorized "flight" later on, for when I returned from breakfast Clay was sedately finishing up his suit pants with the untethered iron. (Yes, it seems the iron worked fine, and, in fact, the outlet, Clay had plugged it into just happened to not be working). More impressive is, perhaps, the fact that the iron still worked after being so abused my husband.

It seems we were not the only ones with ironing woes, however, as my mother reports a tale of my parents' iron spewing water out at them when it was plugged in. It seems the last guest of the room had left water in the iron and poor unsuspecting Mom and Dad plugged it in only to start getting spat at. This would not be so bad except, once again, for the DAMN tether, for in order to pour the water out my father ended up dragging the iron and the board into the bathroom to dump the excess water down the drain. (Had to be quite the sight.)

Regardless, the running joke the rest of the weekend revolved around the tethered irons, and we all rotated the untethered iron Clay and I had gotten from the front desk between our room, my parents, and my brother and his wife's. Never did so tedious a chore garner so much attention. And although frustrating for poor Clay and perhaps scarring for my right arm, it provided some laughter during what was mostly a hard, and over wrought weekend, proving that laughter can always be found, and there are always moments to be enjoyed. (Although Clay might not think so!)

Take Good Care of Her God

Somewhere along the way hugging her began to feel like embracing a piece of origami in your palm.... wrap your fingers too tightly around it and all the delicate parts that create the whole will crumble into nothing. I remember holding her hand this past Easter, tracing my fingers back and forth over the satin-like skin stretched over the bones and trying not to admit to myself that time was short. I look at my hands now typing on the keyboard. They are my Grandmother's hands, only the younger version with the same long-tapered fingers and nail beds. I think Isabelle has them too, although at only three years old I suppose it may be wishful thinking.


Now I mourn the loss of the only person who called me "darling." I know that sounds silly, but in a way she was the final symbol of my childhood, as if the last remnant of that era of my life has left with her. I have vivid memories of her basement at Christmas with long tables lined with chairs, trying to cram all the family in. Her little house would be ninety degrees because of all the cousins and aunts and uncles and family smashed together within, all of us dressed up in our holiday finery because Grandma loved that. And of course, there are all of the countless things I associate with her..... the chip dip recipe, perfect African violets on a kitchen windowsill, tiny shoes, parakeets, the diamond -shaped clock in her living room, the old fridge in the basement, her willingness to laugh at herself, Saunders hot fudge, the Christmas village set up on her window seat, the famous candy jar, Hallmark cards, her frustrating stubbornness, immaculately kept houses, her unique way with words, and anything and everything involving family. For me she seemed the quintessential grandmother with more grandchildren, step-grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and step great-grandchildren then you could begin to comprehend. Yet, despite the huge numbers if she had her favorites I will be damned if I had any idea who they were; she made us all feel like her "darlings."


She wasn't perfect. In fact, she could be so down right bull-headed it could make you crazy, and I certainly did not agree with her views on everything. No, her passing has not made me see her with rose-colored glasses. But, God I loved her, and her funeral this past weekend was heart-wrenching. I am trying hard to grasp onto the positive aspects (and there are so many). I am so thankful for being her granddaughter, for getting to have thirty-two years with her, for having all of those amazing memories of perfect holidays at her house on Sunnybrook, for all of those dinners at our house in Oxford, for all of those card games of Skipbo and shared bowls of chip dip, for the endless hugs, kisses, and glowing praise that only grandmothers bestow. I am so thankful that she was blessed with such a long, beautiful, full, loving, and rich life and one in which she could leave with both peace and dignity. Mostly I cherish the memories of watching her gaze at her great granddaughter, Isabelle Elaine (her namesake) and with tears in her eyes utter "bless her heart."


The day of my grandmother's funeral I went to her grave site, and I placed a pink rose on her casket as it was lowered into the ground. At that moment the pain of her loss felt very great, almost overwhelming. Then I looked at the marker next to hers. It was her first Love's. My grandfather, a man I never was lucky enough to know. It occurred to me then that there are many kinds of loss, and who is to say which is the greater? Is it more painful to have known and loved my grandma so well and then lose her or to never of had the chance or opportunity to know my grandfather at all? I know what I believe. Yes, there will be many more tears, but I will do so mostly while smiling at the same time. I look forward to the day when I will see her again for it will be a joyful reunion, and perhaps my grandmother will introduce me to the man at her side for that is a meeting that is long overdue.