No, of course that title doesn’t make sense. And it probably won’t when you’re finished reading this. But let’s try anyway, and maybe my mother or LaLa will chime in and remember the stuff I’ve forgotten that might clarify the concept.
I do not observe New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. No resolutions, no black eyed peas. The one exception to this non-observance… i was around 11 and my mother orchestrated a bizarrely creative celebration for my sister, the two daughters of our mother’s best friend, and myself. My mother was a travel agent and so it might not have seemed bizarrely creative to HER. But… we were allowed to stay up until 10 pm on New Year’s Eve and pretend as if we were on a cruise ship… somewhere… that detail is fuzzy… and also there was some reference to our imagined proximity to the International Date Line and we had a long discussion between my mother and four giddy, nightgowned girls under the age of 14 about Greenwich Mean Time and the correct spelling and pronunciation thereof, WOW, WE WERE DORKS. The entire imagined cruise ship scenario was thought up purely to help along the idea of not actually staying up until midnight.
Imaginary cruises aside, there was nothing nautical about our celebration. Actually, the only festive thing to our celebration was the VERY rare treat of ginger ale in clear plastic cups that read “happy new year’s!” in blue letters surrounded by pink and yellow confetti. The extra cups hung around our kitchen for years. The four girls were allowed to toast one another with ginger ale at 10 pm and then we were supposed to fall asleep and DEFINITELY not stay up until midnight, as my mother tended toward early bedtimes herself, particularly in the winter. But of COURSE we stayed awake. I slept on the floor outside my sister’s bedroom, first staring at the orange-y glow of her childhood clock and waiting for it to be 12, and then falling asleep almost immediately after, only to awake because of an awareness of the uncomfortable imprint of grayish berber carpet on my cheek whenever I slipped away from my pillow.
I think this is a fantastically odd and wonderful glimpse of my childhood and it cracks me up to remember it every year. Actually, i don’t really remember it. As is evidenced above. But that’s because whenever people go on and on about imaginary cruises or international date lines or greenwich mean time, i tune out and then cannot retain the information in order to accurately report it 20+ years later.
I do not apologize for that. I think it’s a sound policy.
I have no idea why mom didn’t just say, ‘hush, girls, i’m going to bed.’ but i’m glad she didn’t.
Happy New Year’s, however YOU choose to observe the day, and please remember your life jackets.
From Geekwif, about the possible shoe needs to be a successful Christmas Fairy:
“Were you wearing boots? Because fairies wear boots. You gotta believe me.”
How utterly intriguing, this little comment!! (please tell us more, GW!)
And the answer is… Yes. And no. And sorta, I WAS and I also was NOT wearing boots, and that might completely confirm the boot needs of a Christmas Fairy all on its own because I was and was not successful and it’s blurry to me if that was in direct correlation to my booted/bootless state.
I was wearing my favorite boots when I became The Christmas Fairy.
It happened in a therapy session.
Are we surprised? Oh no. Like EVERYTHING good that goes on in my head these days often has its beginning in a therapy session. She’s good, this lovely therapist lady. And thanks to Life In General, I’ve had LOTS of interactions with various therapy types and this is the only time I’ve ever repeatedly called anyone a Lovely Therapist Lady or anything like that. Thanks to my Life in General, there has been a LOT of therapy with various people, mostly assigned to us through programs and we couldn’t pick them OR their spiritual beliefs and sometimes there was definite conflict.
Although at one point, I was oddly fond of a Weird Therapist Type from New Mexico who, IN TOTAL SERIOUSNESS, had Mike look into my eyes and tell me that he loved me even though I was “OBVIOUSLY HIGH MAINTENANCE.”
Mike smiled and obeyed her request.
I looked back into his eyes with wide eyed wonder that I had just been thoroughly unfairly called out and criticized in the middle of what was supposed to be a loving and affirming load of garbage exercise. I was trying HARD not to laugh in Mike’s face as he ‘affirmed his love’ for me, Train Wreck of a High Maintenance Woman that I supposedly was. In my defense, I was a bit unhappy because someone was trying to kill me. BUT EXCUSE ME, I THINK THAT’S DIFFERENT. And?? Weird Therapist Type?! I am NOT high maintenance. I’m a woman from Texas, and that is ALSO DIFFERENT. There are high maintenance Texan women, of course. A lot of them, to be honest. But I am not one of them. I am like the lowest of the low maintenance women, and the cute shoes and mascara and my interest in staying alive to mother my children totally fooled her. She was not a Texan. She clearly did not understand me at all and my wearing of lip gloss too easily confounded her.
So this post was supposed to be about something else. And it will be. We’ll get back to boots and fairies. BUT. It’s a few years too late for getting annoyed, but WHATEVER it just happened, so let’s go with it.
WEIRD THERAPIST TYPE from New Mexico:
I am NOT high maintenance. I wasn’t then, and I am not now. I was just too polite to say so at the time, which TOTALLY KINDA PROVES MY POINT EVEN MORE. Ha! But I’m not that polite now.
Proof I am not high maintenance:
no hair styling products of ANY kind even though i AM from Texas and am thus entitled to a LOT of them;
no manicures, massages, hair coloring sessions, etc.;
I do get pedicures now, but not often at all because they tickle and I scream and the pedicure people haaaate me I’m so bad at them;
seriously not ENOUGH haircuts, mainly because I can’t be bothered;
i don’t really like to shop and i can be very cheap;
i do not go on and on about feelings and drama and emotions to anyone except the internet;
i don’t expect other people to take on any of my emotional ‘stuff’;
i hate to inconvenience people and i look out for myself – it’s no one else’s job, ever.
BOOTS AND FAIRIES. Getting back to them now.
I was wearing my favorite boots to a counseling appointment. It was December 21, 2011. I remember the date because when I morphed into a fairy, I realized how much fairy-ing I had to cram into 4 days, and it was a bit overwhelming. So of course I prayed while driving STRAIGHT to Target, because, well, obviously. I only had 15 minutes before I needed to be at a Christmas party for Ethan-11yr and I had Fairy Supplies to first conceive, then purchase.
But back to the Moment of Transition. The human grinch to yuletide fairy transition. It was INSTANT. There wasn’t a poof of smoke or anything. But it was so dramatic that no poof of smoke was needed.
The Lovely Therapist Lady said, “So who is the engaged, emotionally present parent who creates all the Christmas magic for the boys?”
I thought of Mike, who was in Albuquerque that day and therefore not eligible for consideration. Even if he were… I don’t know if either of us was actually ready to say that we were reaching the parental success in her description. The only thing that mattered was MY answer for ME would have to be clearly I’m not doing any of that Christmas Magic Crap for anyone. And… how sad. I must have had a deer in headlights, frozen face going on as she continued, “They need that. They can’t create all of that for themselves.”
And… a fairy in boots was born.
We talked about all the options for what that could look like. And the options are endless. And fun, and meaningful, and spiritual, and silly, and absolutely endless. I thought of y’all. And ALL the wonderful things you do and say and share about your families and friends and food at Christmastime. I remembered things you’ve said HERE, but also things you’ve blogged about this year and even in past years. Y’all are already Christmas fairies. I just never wanted to be like you in that particular way until right at that moment.
I left, in my boots, and went to Target, praying the whole way there about Christmas Fairies for Dummies, God-style, and then I bought all the junky cereals I hate and never ever buy and then I went to a Christmas party and smiled. I SMILED. A LOT. And the smiles were genuine.
Then I took the boys over to my mom’s and we went out for fish tacos and I took the Sweet Christmas Fairy thing too far and let the boys have Dr. Pepper and OH MY GOSH, don’t do that, ever. Caden-7yr was highly amused by a small blob of guacamole on his nose that looked just… like…. a …. yeah, you get it. He insisted it stay there. They were hyper and caffeinated and I was oddly patient and amused mostly, but still smart enough to regret the Dr. Pepper decision.
Then I took the boys home and sat them down. I said we were having a meeting. Caden-7yr complained about the number of family meetings I call. “WHO KNEW THAT BEING IN A FAMILY MEANT ALL THESE MEETINGS? IT”S TOO MUCH, MOM.” He had wiped his nose by this point. Seth-6yr panicked. “WHO IS RUNNING THIS MEETING ANYWAY? OH! MY! GOSH! AM I RUNNING THIS MEETING?! AM I?”
“uh… no. Seth-6yr. Do you even know what this meeting is about?”
“NO! THAT’S WHY I NEED TO KNOW IF I’M RUNNING IT!”
Never AGAIN, Dr. Pepper.
I apologized to them about my past attitude and actions about Christmas. I asked them to forgive me and was about to start talking to them about what I wanted to do NEXT that would be different, when I realized that all 3 of them were hiding their faces. They were covering their mouths with blankets or hands. Three little HORRIFIED faces. It was as if I’d just told them I’d been taking on part time shifts for Satan himself.
it had not ONCE occurred to me that they had never noticed that their mother is the grinch.
I rushed on to describe my transformation. I told them I wanted to make a list of things that we could do together that would be fun or meaningful or spiritually relevant or silly or whatever.
Caden-7yr suggested we dine at Dairy Queen.
So I explained a little more, since I wasn’t making myself clear. I told them about all the nasty cereal I’d bought and explained that I hoped they would make edible garlands for the tree with me while we watched Christmas movies. And then we did that. And it was WONDERFUL. (except Trix smell REVOLTING. And I let them use gummy worms, too, and so they’re pretty gross looking.)
We made Star Wars snowflakes, Chex mix (who KNEW it took so long?!), and I had the kids act out the parts of the animals that were possibly present at Jesus’ birth while I read the Christmas story to them by the tree. We watched Christmas movies and made peppermint brownies (that got delegated to Mike as I was at Mom’s chopping veggies) and had a great time with visiting relatives and generally had a much more Christmas-y Christmas than ever. For us.
That was how most of my first few fairy days went. And then there was the multiple hour long disagreement in the bathroom incident on Christmas Eve which was distinctly UNChristmas-y but highly necessary. And then someone had broken into my truck and stolen stuff while it was parked in the driveway. And then there was the giant, GIANT dead rat in the driveway. And there were lesser disagreements. And greater ones. And stuff that made it just really difficult to get my fairy on. And sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t. I don’t think I was wearing cute boots during any of the incidences listed above. Hmm.
But I see the whole season in a brand new way. And that hasn’t changed, even with the theft and the rat and everything else. And THAT will be there next year, long before December 21.
Because those three boys need it. And so do I.
I can do this.
“Please stop hypnotizing the dog. It’s upsetting your brother. He thinks she’s going to do embarrassing things if you succeed, so could you please just stop?”
Filed under “Things you don’t think you’ll ever say, and then you DO, and then it seems perfectly reasonable and so you wonder why you never thought you’d have to say it in the first place.”*
Also. I don’t know what sorts of embarrassing things the dog might be feared to do. To my credit, I did not ask.
I’m working on the “How I Became a Christmas Fairy” post. I’ll get that going later. Spoiler alert: I started strong and wilted by Christmas Eve due to a long, uh, disagreement between the Mr. Fairy and I.
I did NOT mean that how it sounded. The Mr. is not a fairy and any implication otherwise will lead to a SERIOUSLY big, uh, disagreement that will make the Christmas Eve Disagreement look minor in comparison. He’s no fairy. Unfortunately, I wasn’t much of one either. I probably didn’t have the right shoes. But i will blog it anyway.
*I’ve never been very good at filing.
Y’all are the kindest, most wonderful people. And I’d LOVE to tell you in detail exactly how you contributed to a Wildly Unexpected Christmas Epiphany that has transformed me from the Grinch to the Christmas Fairy (and YALL. THAT TOTALLY HAPPENED, I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING.)
BUT! i had the unfortunate ill timing of morphing into a Christmas Fairy on Dec 21, and I’ve been BUSY because I am waaaaay behind. Yesterday I spent hours stringing cereal and candy into edible garlands for the Christmas tree while watching the Polar Express with the kids. (have y’all seen that movie? I find it VERY weird) And then today there is a marathon of Christmas-y festivities planned.
I look forward to telling you what happened. In the meantime, Merry Christmas. You’re so, so precious to me.
*I know I’m new to this gig, but doesn’t it make sense that Christmas Fairies should totally be exempt from all symptoms possibly related to PMS? I really think that needs to be part of the deal.
*** Ooooh Y’ALL. I am SORRY. But this is the post in which my good intentions fail and you witness my pre-Christmas anxiety unfold in real time. Feel no obligation to read further.
I just tucked Seth-6yr in for a nap, leaning over and whispering that I love him and reminding him that God has amazing and wonderful things planned especially for him.
“Yeah, I know that,” he said.
“So… what do you think some of those things might be?” I asked. I like to ask the boys specifically what they think God has going on in their lives right now, and also in the future. (And then I bite my tongue when they tell me something that I really hope God does not have planned for my little guys.)
But Seth-6yr was not having it today.
“MOM. I need my nap. I have basketball practice later. We can talk after I wake up. GoodNIGHT.” He yawned, just in case I needed more of a hint.
When the boys are older, they will not look back on these years and remember my amazing cooking and reminisce about their favorite ‘mom’ recipes. But I hope they’ll remember those moments and conversations and prayers. Those are such precious, sweet times. I wonder if they’ll remember.
I wonder if they’ll remember that I’m always up for an impromptu adventure. We’ll go chase dirt devils. Or u-turn for unique, inflatable Yeti Christmas yard art. Or for the unfortunate “Santa holding a baby Jesus” yard art in my mother’s otherwise nice neighborhood. Or to go chase tumbleweeds.
The other day Ethan-11yr wanted to go on a driving tour past all the local businesses that force their employees to dress up in weird costumes and stand on the sidewalk to advertise. So we started with waving at the giant hot dog guy at Wienerschnitzel and then going past the car wash with the pink gorilla. There’s not a lot to do in this town. Chasing dirt devils or tumbleweeds and waving at the hot dog guy counts as entertainment for the under-11 crowd.
Or maybe they’ll remember all the times I got us lost. It’s not a big town, but I’m always getting turned around. (yesterday I sent a text to a friend saying, ‘i’m late. i got lust.’ And THAT was fun. She knew what i meant. She’s driven with me.) Or maybe they’ll remember that I completely forgot to show up at a Christmas party. (yesterday. seth-6yr’s. ugh.) Or that I’ll put up the tree and tolerate the Christmas music for that one day only, and that really if you look closely, you can totally tell how much I can’t stand it.
And I hope they don’t look back and remember that stuff. But they probably will. My mother is often amazed at how I an quote something she said from more than 25 years prior, verbatim, when she didn’t think i was even listening and we’ve never discussed it in the interim. I inherited my dad’s highly accurate ‘playback’ feature.
The other night Mom was over and Seth-6yr got out of bed for the umpteenth time and said he needed a tissue. The child did NOT need a tissue. I’d given in to various requests already, and it was time to say ‘nooooo and don’t get out of bed again.’ But instead I told him to come closer and i inspected his nose VERY closely and declared that there was no tissue-requiring issue on either side and all was clear. He giggled and went back to bed.
Mom pointed out that years later he might remember that I was the tissue police and did a nostril check instead of letting him have a tissue.
And he probably will. He’ll probably remember that I’m the nostril-checking, grinch-y mom who hates Christmas and who can’t cook or drive directly from point a to point b or remember what day his Christmas party is. And all of that’s true.
I just hope he remembers the good stuff, too.
I just hope there’s more good than bad. Maybe there isn’t. And maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I already had one kid out of four and I did everything I could think of to do RIGHT for her, and it didn’t matter AT ALL and it all went so terribly wrong anyway and certainly there’s no happy mom memories for THAT kid. And there’s three more. And maybe I’m kidding myself that they’ll have a different version of the story. And I know I wasn’t supposed to blog through all my Christmas style anxiety, but you know? I”M SORRY. That’s kinda what I do. I’m panicking. I think it’s the stockings and the tree.
Mike usually does the silver bead garlands on the tree and i did it this year and they don’t reach all the way to the top because I ran out and then was all WHATEVER, IT’S FINE instead of rearranging them so they look right and now the tree is particularly well stamped with my personal brand of apathy and it’s right there in front of me looking all… bottom heavy.
This is ridiculous. I have one kid happily reading in his room. Two kids napping who are shhhh, don’t tell them, but technically too old to need naps, and three animals asleep in front of the fire under the stockings and next to the Christmas tree and I am blogging and crying over…? I don’t know. What 3 of my 4 kids MIGHT think of me one day 25 years from now. Sounds like a control issue.
OH MY GOSH, pass the egg nog and spike it with something first please.
I need a tissue. (There is NO doubt this time.)
Sometimes y’all really outdo yourselves. The comments on the last post are an excellent example. I laughed, snorted, and gladly bought the t-shirt Sherylin designed. AWESOME.
Last night we decorated the tree. And you might THINK this is late. But for us, it’s early. And it’s a good thing we did it last night because last Monday Maria was here and she looked at where the Christmas tree should be – with a smidge of judgment in her voice – and said, “I put my tree up the day after Thanksgiving each year.” And then she went back to dusting. It was as if she couldn’t hold in that sentence any longer. I found this particular ‘conversation’ to be completely endearing.
Mom came over last night and the boys got out our Fisher Price-like nativity set. They were showing Mom and discussing the various people. Mom was horrified at the Fisher Price-like Jesus.
“He looks like Howdy Doodie!”
There were several of these exclamations before I inspected Him.
And… his ears were surprisingly large. And, um, so were Joseph’s, my mother pointed out.
And… HEY… that’s not…. how it went.
An hour later, Mom said, “I KNOW! He looks exactly like the boy who won American Idol.”
I shook my head. I can never remember who wins those things.
“You know who I mean. Steve McQueer.”
And apparently my mother can’t remember these things either. But I remembered quickly and corrected her because no one needs to be likening a Fisher Price-like Jesus to someone named Steve McQueer, ever.
I think my good intentions for purchasing a nativity set that I would never tell the kids to ‘be careful’ about and ‘don’t touch’ have somehow gotten lost in the odd design choices made by the Fisher Price-like company.
Then we decorated the tree, ate cookies, and I stayed up late painting the dining room orange. It’s not finished yet. But it’s getting there. It was a really nice sage green with a faux marble finish. An artist painted it right before we moved in… 8ish years ago. And it was pretty. In a 1990s sort of way. In a 1990s mausoleum sort of way, it was pretty. I don’t know what i was thinking. And so now it’s orange. In a 2011 Home Depot Orange sort of way.
Not quite, but it’s bright.
Then I went to bed and kept waking up because my left hand is still messed up and painting makes it worse and if I NEEDED to punch someone with it…? I couldn’t. And that gives me bad dreams and then I wake up in a panic and then have to think through all the punching and kicking sequences that can be accomplished without the use of a left fist and then I feel relaxed enough to sleep again.
I suppose that is not normal. I blame sections of my odd adulthood for this. But I’ve got a t-shirt in the mail that says it doesn’t matter, so I won’t worry.
In a huge showing of self restraint and effort towards my sincere desire not to bring y’all down, I am not complaining about the weather or other various aspects of life and although this post might not seem all that Christmas-cheery (because it’s not), you have NO idea how much negativity was deleted before posting, except maybe you do, just a little bit, because I gave myself one big run-on sentence to explain it. Amen.
And now I’m putting on my pink rain boots and going to the grocery store. And I love y’all.
Hello. I’d love to be able to say, “I am SO done with the aluminum diet coke thing that was journeying through me like a Magic School Bus episode on human anatomy and YEA we’re finished discussing it and let’s forget it now.”
Instead, let’s say that I still feel ‘metallic’ and I think I’m retaining aluminum. Which totally means that I will never again have any sympathy for women saying they are retaining water. OH PLEASE.
Anyway. No pain. Just weird metallic-y-ness and I’m so over the whole thing. I started having weird dreams. The other night I fell asleep thinking about how I needed to get a few more gifts and what could they possibly be, and how I ALSO needed to really poo this thing out and what did my subconscious do with that? Marked TWO things off my to-do list, dream style.
I dreamed that I pooed the most beautiful sterling silver jewelry collection that had a unique ‘diet coke ring pull’ design in every piece. There were keychains and cuff links and bracelets and something for EVERYONE on my list and I became a world famous poo artist and the people on my gift list had priceless one of a kind, sought-after, never to be replicated miraculous famous artsy poo jewelry. (Don’t be jealous, now!) And there was NO shame or embarrassment in this. For anyone. it was quite a dream.
And that’s when I realized this intense level of monitoring must stop, even if the ring pull thing is still hanging out somewhere inside, awaiting its future and fame and forming itself into earrings. I have to just move on. Stop wondering. Stop caring. Trust the system to take care of it and forget the whole thing.
It’s like when LaLa had a mouse and she wanted advice. I told her to trust the food chain. She has cats. You need no advice. It’s a built in system of life. So it’s the same with me. I’ll just trust in the system. The excretory system. (ew! ha! oh my gosh, that cracked me up.)
Yesterday I was at my mom’s. As I am every Wednesday with the kids for a weekly Grandmother Time. We were sitting on her window seat when she shows me plastic grapes that she’d gotten for a wreath. I got excited, grabbed them, and before she could stop me, i had plucked the grapes off, squished them, and then suctioned them onto my tongue. as you do.
There was a reason.
Raise your hand if you have ever done that. Right?! LaLa and I used to do that with our grandparents’ fake grapes when no one was around. Until yesterday I had probably never dared attach grapes to my tongue in the presence of an adult. It makes talking really hard, and drooling and laughing REALLY easy. And my mother was all big eyed (as if it had somehow not occurred to her at all that I might do that), and in her most serious”mom voice” saying, ”DON’T SWALLOW THAT! DON’T!!! SWALLOW! THAT!!! GRAPE!!!”
Which, come ON, just made me laugh harder, which is difficult with your tongue hanging out, and thus makes you MUCH more likely to accidentally ingest a plastic grape. But i did NOT. Yea, me. I think this is progress.
Mom managed to video the whole thing and i sent it to LaLa so she could enjoy the flashback to her childhood as well. I’m sure it was appreciated.
Before the grapes-on-the-tongue thing, I was at my weekly counselor appointment and she was telling me that I should consider writing a book about my darker experiences, fictionalized, and with humor. I was surprised. Why would she think I could make that stuff funny…? She’s never read anything i’ve written, and there’s usually nothing humorous about those therapy sessions. She knows more about my life and the dark things that have gone on in various relationships than any other human.
My confusion showed, and then she said – very seriously – “When you first started coming, you would be discussing something very painful and then throw in humor and keep going and I had to stop and do a ‘check.’ Like, ‘is she mentally sound?’ that she just did that–? And then I would conclude that yes, you are.”
And that’s when I fell over laughing and she had to wait for me to get it together. But I’M SORRY, it was FUNNY. I suppose I do have that effect on people, but no one has ever owned up to it that directly. And not a mental health professional.
She continued to explain that most people don’t discuss dark stuff and throw in humor and also be able to process the dark stuff on a deep level – that usually the humor is a distraction or a way of NOT dealing with it, and that she’d decided for me it’s a way of actually better accessing the ability to process it and it’s a gift and should be great if I can translate that gift onto paper and….. I was just beyond amused.
And also proud. Not that she thinks I’m funny.
She said I was mentally sound.
I’d like that in writing. Framed. Or, like a blog ‘button’ thing. “My therapist says I’m mentally sound.” Or a laminated little card in my purse. Or a few, because one would get lost in my purse. Or engraved on a sterling bracelet. Ha! Maybe I need it on a t-shirt.
The next time I suck down part of a diet coke can or a plastic grape I can just be like, WHATEVER! DON’T EVEN BE THINKING I’M WEIRD. MY THERAPIST SAYS I’M MENTALLY SOUND! SEEEEEEE? And point to my t-shirt. I could ask my counselor to sign it.
I’m not a Christmas person. Faith and Jesus and all of that, YES. But not Santa and reindeer and trees and especially not songs ABOUT those things.
Christmas = dying of some good people in my family. So this time of year I don’t blog much. I try not to bring y’all down.
And not only am I a bit crankypants about Tis The Season, but also…? HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO POO A RING TOP, ANYWAY, AND WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY EXCRETORY SYSTEM THAT IT CAN’T MORE EFFICIENTLY PROCESS ALUMINUM?!
I was ‘due’ on Friday, given the internet parameters for such things. It’s Monday night.
All my babies were late, too.
I got mad at them, too.
But they were cute and I forgave them.
I don’t think that’ll happen this time.
I try to tell the kids why I say yes or no or whatever it is I’m saying to them. I’m not a ‘because I said so’ sort. After all, who am I?
You may say that – the ‘because I said so’ thing. And that may feel perfectly right in your house. But it doesn’t really fit with me.
I’ve been working something out with God and I knew I had His answer. But I didn’t have the ‘why.’ I had His style of peace (it’s unmistakable) and the clarity. But not the why.
I got the ‘why’ today. The ‘why’ this is His answer to this particular question. I wanted it. And had asked for it. And definitely did NOT expect to get it. (after all, if anyone can say, “because I said so” then it would be the Great “I Am…”)
The why was surprising. Simple. And it makes so much sense that everything looks different now.
The why can be so very important. Not always. But today, it… was.
I’d sit and explain it all if I could. And maybe one day I will. But right now, this is as much as i want to say. For now, I’m letting it sink in, filter down, go into the dark places and make changes.
No, um…. changes in status on the aluminum exporting front to report. God, if you’re interested in effecting even MORE change in me, then by all means have at it in this department, too, please. And… thanks.
This is all terribly weird. I hope y’all aren’t all awaiting Significant Poo News. Because I’m actually absurdly modest and if I’ve interrupted everyone’s pre-holiday rush in order for us to collectively wonder about my next poo, then truly you have NO IDEA how sorry I am. I’M CRINGING OUTSIDE AND DYING INSIDE AT THE THOUGHT. There are emails and texts and sweet mothers of my friends asking about the progress of my aluminum’s journey. I appreciate it all. Really. But if I could just say, “Um… let’s pretend I never mentioned this and we all could just forget it….?” and that WORK…? Then I would. But since I can’t unblog this, I did a little more research.
Even though google scared me the first time.
And this is what I learned:
1. it’s VERY rare for an adult to ingest a foreign object that is not a fish bone or a partial bit of denture
that person is incarcerated, mentally unstable, drunk or otherwise under the influence of a substance.
Which explains why NONE OF YOU have chimed in and said, “eh, i did that once or a few times,” or “no biggie – my relative did that,” or “hey, me too! I just did that myself! what a coincidence.”
I SORTA THOUGHT THAT Y’ALL WOULD DO THAT. And you didn’t. And now I know why. (You’re all just too sane and sober and normal.)
2. Also, I learned that aluminum is radiolucent. (transparent on x-rays)
3. AND? Most importantly — I’m perfectly on schedule as it should take 4-6 days once it reaches the stomach. And this happened on Friday. And so I’m okay.
Yeah, I still feel it. Nothing awful. Just “oh, yes. And that’s my metal tourist I feel moving around in there.” Don’t worry. I’m good. And if you could go even further and forget all about it, then no one would stop you. That’d be cool too. I love y’all.
(I cannot BELIEVE y’all are sticking around for this. So weird. And sweet. But mainly weird.)