For Adyson

I can see that you're growing up before my very eyes
I can try my best to teach you the good
But like me, you'll still see the bad sides.
Not everyone is your friend, but don't keep too much distance
You'll have to learn how to trust before you learn resistance.
Every moment you might endure, is going to seem like the worst
But the brushing off, and climbing up- eases all of that hurt.

The friends you meet along the way will come and go so freely
You'll understand who to keep near
And who to let go
One day, you'll believe me.

Reach even past the highest ceiling
Search for what you love...
Don't stop your search
Until you find that feeling.


Make a life that you have a passion for-
Strive everyday for more.
Live each day like it's your last...
Don't ever ask "What for".
Losing the fight and the battle in yourself
Just means, you've given up the war.

If I had it my way, I'd keep you small
Innocent and sweet.
I'd keep you home, free from harm and worry
I'd slow down the clock and live today-
Without the rush and hurry.


You're growing up now
And I look back at all of the days gone by
I think that I've rushed you through
I must stop to remember
My little girl, is only two.

These days are filled with cartoons
And silly laughs with you
"No night night" times and tantrums
But the bad days are truly far and few.

Snuggling up on the couch, both in our pajamas,
Avoiding the streets that make you scream "Wanna go to Pama's!"
Laughing about your new words you learn, And how you count to twelve.
With your blue eyes and bouncing curls, I see more and more of myself.

I remember every day you're learning from how I teach
I have to slow down sometimes
And never forget
To practice all I preach.

Country songs and Rainy days

I've been seeing a lot of people who have died recently, in my dreams. The kind of dreams that wake you up and snap you back into reality....so hard you swear you'd have whiplash, if you weren't laying flat on the pillow. 

My great grandma I barely remember. Isn't that sad? I don't even remember how she sounded, or smelled. I don't even remember the last time I gave her a hug or said I love you.

My Grandpa Murphy died in a hospital bed and I didn't even know that he was doing badly. He'd been transferred to a rehab unit, and something went wrong where he didn't make it. The details we didn't even get. There was no funeral. No clipping in the paper.

My best childhood friend, passed away when he was only 21 years old. The last time I'd seen or spoke with him was with his mom, at my high school graduation party... A conversation that was so awkward as a result of too many years apart, that I'd hurried through the talk to move on to the next table. That was the last time I would see Tyler. And the last time I'd see his mom, was at his funeral...She passed away recently too.

Russ Jacobs, my daughter's grandpa, passed away when she was only 6 or so months old. His memory seems to be all over the place. I get caught up in our conversation we'd had a week before he died, surrounded by his family in the quiet of his home. It was the first time in my life, I'd ever been able to say goodbye to someone, before they passed away. To have the talk that meant it would be the last time you got advice, or told them how much they meant to you. It was the first goodbye talk I'd ever had.

I'd say my Uncle Ed was the hardest for me though, and the most recent that really hit home. I still drive by his house....Because even though it's been sold- it'll always be his house. His street. His driveway. He was the first family member that was really put in my care, under my observation- as a nurse, and niece. That time he was going downhill, was probably the hardest time of my professional career as a nurse. It's unlike any hard day I've ever had, being a nurse- and family member at the same time. It's two full time jobs, at once..

I wonder though, all of the time, if I could have been better. Nicer. More patient. Even though he was a heck of a guy to get along with at the end. His mood swings were quite exhausting. I can remember practically running out of the building glad to get some fresh air, and time to free my mind from what was going on at work- and with him.  I remember seeing him get sicker too. Weaker. Losing the fight and the battle of trying to go home. At one point, he took a turn for the worse- and everyone came in for their chats and goodbye talks. I see a lot of those talks, all of the time at work...but having one, at the side of a hospital bed, in a nursing home...with someone you love- is another story. One you can't prepare for. For some reason, that talk for me though--came easily. I'd had plenty of time to think about it, and most of my words came flying out because I wanted to make sure he stayed in a tolerable mood to even allow  all of my questions. He went a few more weeks, before he died, which surprised a lot of people because by then he wouldn't even eat his ice cream, orange soda or little debbie cakes. That was probably when we all realized it wouldn't be much longer.

I remember driving to work for the couple of months after that- and the fact that every morning, driving up to that building- knowing that he was gone, and that's where he passed away...was just too much.

When I was younger, after my great-grandma passed away, I remember driving with my mom. We were on the highway and a country song came on. She had her sunglasses on, and it was a beautiful day out......

"One day shy, of 8 years old, my grandma passed away. 

I was a broken hearted little boy- blowing out that birthday cake.

How I cried, when the sky let go-

with a cold, and lonesome rain,

Mama cried, said don't be sad child, 

Grandma's watchin' you today. 

Cause there's holes in the floor of heaven

And her tears are pouring down

That's how you know she's watchin'

Wishin' she could be here now..."

I remember looking over at her, out of the corner of my eye...Just enough that I could see her, but she couldn't see me watching her get upset. I remember feeling sad for her, but not hurting the way she was. I didn't feel so close to my grandma Gerke, not the way she did. 

But to this day, that song plays- and I cry. Every time. 

Thinking about it now even brings tears to my eyes. I guess it's a song you understand more when you're older...when you've lost more...when death gets to be reality- but never easier. When the weight of it all comes crashing down on you in the most random of moments- even if in the confines of a verse in an old country song...just when you think you've overcome it.

A Beautiful Mind

Today I was assigned a case about an hour away from home.

I had time to drive to the job, so I was already quite introspective, listening to my favorite Pandora station, ready to take on the day.

I'll be the first to admit I didn't really know what I was driving into, or to what extent "taking a few blood pressures, and giving injections" really meant.

I shadowed a few nurses to see how everything was done to get "my feet wet".

On the way to one of the clients houses I was given the run down that I was going to probably see some "bad stuff".

I smiled, and nodded because I think after 4 years of experience in this field- I've seen my share.

Wrong again.

Patient one:

We drove into a what seemed to be, deserted bottom of the barrel trailer park. I say it this way, because frankly, not all trailer parks are necessarily bottom of the barrel...this one was though. We circled a few blocks, looking for the right number plastered on the side of the aluminum siding, or whatever they make them with.

We pulled to the curb, and I got a bit of a nervous feeling because I wasn't sure what to expect with the first "client". I adjusted my polo shirt and straightened my dress pants to look as professional as I could in this situation, as we walked up the unsteady, uneven weathered and rotted wooden steps at the side of the house. The nurse I was with knocked loudly, 3 times as practiced. The door flew open.

I hadn't expected someone young.

The mentally ill and unstable drug abusers are generally, in my mind in their mid 50's- unshaven, unwashed, waiting on the corner for someone to toss a dollar or two at them. Now, I know this is a pretty politically incorrect way of thinking, but come on... I'm not the only one thinking this way. Not to say it's right.

He had a shaved head, shaved face, a tattooed tear drop at the bottom lid of his right eye and tattoos scattered haphazardly on both of his arms. He had a white cut off shirt on, and black jeans- sagging of coarse to his knees, but he was thoughtful enough to pull them up after we walked in the door.

He stood close. He was one of those close talkers. He shifted a few times uncomfortably, not quite sure how to act socially. He chuckled to himself a few times, of which reminded me of a few stoners I have known in my day, laughing at an inside joke...inside his own head.

We asked if he'd had some food, and enough money to get him by until the next pay day, he said yes.

And when we asked if he had been hearing voices, questioning his odd behavior- he said no. . . but the answer seemed rehearsed.

He didn't make eye contact except for when he heard one of us talking, but couldn't pin in his brain, which one of us actually said the words. He looked uneasily at me, knowing he was taking a gamble on who had asked him the question. I eased his nerve by glancing sideways at the other nurse I was with, as to hint to what direction he should be responding in, he followed the trail well.

We set up the injection, an antipsychotic mixture that most of the clients were on either monthly, weekly or twice weekly- he moved his arm so to prepare for the poke, scrunched up his nose as the needle went in- rubbed his shoulder after the damage was done- and readjusted his feet as to show he was tough enough to handle a little needle. I smiled a little.

This tough guy- straight out of jail- still nervous and anxious at the needle topic.

We left, and climbed back into the van. I asked, as I'd been wondering, "What's his story?".

The nurse explained to me that he was in and out of jail, schizophrenic and a habitual offender for alcohol and marijuana use. The nurse sighed a bit, said he'll probably end up back in jail.

I stared out the window, sad for him, knowing that he won't ever know any better than his situation right now.

Patient Two

More prepared for the next client, I walked in, confidently to the house with the other nurse. It was one of those old victorian style houses, that they'd split up to make a bunch of little mini-apartments out of that was now doubling as an adult foster care (AFC) home. We poked our head in the front door, as no one answered the first few hard knocks, we walked into the entry way where there appeared to be no one home, though there were four doors to choose from in the entry way...so it was questionable about who was actually there.

The nurse I was with walked more confident than me, she walked forward, opened one of the doors- searching for our client. The home helper looked to be some form of alternatively dressed, punk-rocker, hippie girl with gauged ears and a bandana tying back her dread locks...

These are the the people we hold responsible for these people who are "incompetent"? 

She hastily said she'd go find him, since his roommate might wonder why we were there.

Down clamored a mid-forty something man with baggy khaki pants, and wiry curly blonde, receding hair. He seemed harmless enough. I smiled politely and introduced myself. He responded appropriately, so I breathed a little sigh of relief.

Too soon.

As the nurse knelt down to prepare the injection (another anti-psychotic drug), he started talking to me so I listed quietly. He had a manic rush in his voice, urgently getting out his words as fast as they came into his brain. Racing through sentences faster than I could keep up. Talking about aliens, and his abusive father, portals or vortexes that could be opened up for more help, talking of viruses that exist in the universe that we do not know what to do with, children that he did not have (but believed that he did), and of his anger for his roommate that he was trying desperately to control.

This was too much for me. Not in the "I can't handle this" sense, but in the "if he doesn't stop talking nonsense, acting like I know what the hell he's talking about- I'm going to LOSE it, and laugh in his face types of losing it".

We left there relatively quickly. The nurse didn't seem to be bothered much by his behavior. I looked back at the house wondering what was going on in his head, and what a burden it must be to have that much flying around at once.

The Final Patient

In an end to my day, we went to one more house. This was yet another surprise to me as the door slowly opened. There stood a short, fit black girl with her hair tightly pulled back- capri shorts and a tank top on. She was the most put together one yet.

We sat down at the table and got right to it. She talked openly about going to Detox this week for five days. My eyes widened a bit, but I kept my confusion to a minimum, so not to be noticed. The male nurse I was with talked comfortably with her, asking him his assessment questions.

When did you last use? 
Last night, she said. 
What was it that you used, Heroin?
Yes, she said. 

As we got up to leave, I felt like I was leaving someone I'd known before. She was easy to talk to, down to earth and comfortable in a social situation. She was picking up her pack of cigarettes to start smoking as we left, and said thank you to us for coming to check on her meds and give her, her injection.

I climbed into the car, and looked at the nurse and asked him how old she was.

25. My age.

He said, she's been a long term heroin user, has lost her two young kids to CPS and will likely relapse from her treatment after Detox as it usually takes at least a few times to kick into the "long termers".

She mentioned she wanted to start college in the Fall. Hopefully she makes it there.

I drove away feeling a bit defeated with that patient. Another instance of a wasted life. Someone caught in a situation of bad timing, bad people, and bad choices. I found myself feeling bad for her too...though, I don't think she'd appreciate the sympathy.

She seemed to be very well aware of her circumstances that led her to where she was today.

Probably worse to be aware of the bad, then be content in your own delusions...

Choices

A clean house can make all of the difference for me. There's something about organizing the space around you, that makes you feel more in control...more sane. This morning I had my daughter home with me, on a day off that I hadn't planned on.

I found myself thinking, I could never be a stay at home mom- all day, every day.
I know I couldn't do it.
I know I'd probably ring her neck- daily. (in the lightest- happiest way possible)

2 year old chaos is like none other i've experienced thus far in my life.
There's a constant need for attention, wants and demands.
All of those needs and daily necessities are up to me.

We spend the first year making sure they stay alive. Checking up on them, in the middle of the night to hear their little breaths- so you can sleep a little easier for the next couple of hours, or until the next time you have to get up  after hearing them from the other room, whimper or cry. They're easy when they're babies. Their needs are met by milk, food, changing, napping, and when all else fails-  assuming they're teething or sick- and giving some gas drops and or Benadryl usually solves that mystery.

Then all of a sudden between 12 and 15 months- they start wanting more (as if we aren't already stretched to our limits). They start learning more, yearning for more knowledge about their surroundings. They start getting more daring and adventurous, entertaining and adorable...naughty and sometimes irritating. They're almost 2. They are becoming a little person right before your very eyes. They surprise you, and scare you. They make you laugh, and cry. They are the reason you wake up early in the morning (even on your day off).

And so, I find myself cherishing the moments I get to myself, even if it is just late at night, once she finally decides she's tired enough to stop watching "Pee-vee" (TV) with momma, stop wrestling the kitties, or munching on her "chee-choos" (any cereal or snack)- or even if it's for a couple of hours I'm squeezing out of daycare time.

Don't get me wrong, I cherish the moments I'm with her- but I think it's easier to love your kids, after you've been apart for any period of time. Any hard day at work usually fizzles out by the time I've picked her up from her daycare. It's hard not to wipe it all away when you see a little curly blonde hair, blue-eyed mini-you, running at you with open arms excited to tell you she went on the "side and wiing" (slide and swing) today with her little friends.

Not every moment is easy. But I can be proud that I know my kid is doing alright. I think it's natural to compare kids around your kid, to see how they're doing- or keeping up.

I'm excited to say she seems completely normal to me!
I've been blessed with a mild-mannered, easy-going almost-2 year old.



They say God will only give you what you can handle, and I know he's given me just that...even if it seems he's testing my limits some days. But- this is the route I chose, this is the road I decided was best for me, even if it wasn't the easiest or bump-free. Life is about choices, and I've lived long enough to know that taking the easy way out- never grants much satisfaction, and in fact, usually leaves a little void in the end.


I know that I'll look back in 5, 10, 15 years or so on- and realize my choices made me who I am today (the future-me). It's a bit scary because I know who I was 5 years ago- and I know I would have laughed at anyone telling me where I'd be today (the present-me).

It's exciting to look forward into the unknown, and wonder where exactly I'll be next.

Restless Life Syndrome

I can feel it coming on, every so often, like a bad case of heartburn- only tums don't help the burn. I get content in a situation, and BOOM I'm ready for more. It's a constant feeling that I can trace back as early as the mid-teen years, when my first job wasn't as exciting or offering me exactly what I'd hoped for- aside from the paycheck every week. Then came the next job, and the one after that. Then came nursing school- that was ok- that got me to a few good opportunities. Then some ups and downs in dating world, then before you know it- there I was ready to be a mom. 

Now- two years later, here I am at 25 with a house, 2 year old, decent job, and going to school to get some More out of life. 

That's the part I'm not terribly great at. The waiting game. 


It's an anxiety-feeling that overtakes me most days, waiting for something BIG to happen. Something new. Something out of the ordinary. But it never comes. It's like waiting for your instant-pick lottery numbers to finally hit, so you can finally win the lottery that you " just know" you're destined to win. 

Now, I'm not saying  that progress in my life hasn't been made- because that would sound ungrateful and untrue.  I've been blessed, I'd say, with the intuition and motivation to follow my gut instinct and go with each great opportunity as it has come along the way- and most of the time, that instinct has taken me to bigger and better things. 

When does the big break happen though. When does that "ah ha" moment really come, when I'll look back in 20 years and say, now THAT was the moment when everything changed. 

Am I rushing the future to figure out what moves I made right, or wrong to get me to that place, in the future? Probably. Does everyone have this feeling though? I feel like I look around, and all I see are polar opposites. People who are living their life, completely content in their situation- not really searching- or yearning for more. 

It's a depressing thing though, because it makes me feel like I do everything differently. How I raise my daughter, how I keep my home, how I don't let go of standards for the people I hold close to me- or those who I keep at a distance. I don't feel that I'm better than any one person or the next- but I definitely feel like some of those people have a few screws loose in their own priorities or standards. 

It's making a list of "to-do's" or things to check off throughout the day to feel accomplishment, but it's the feeling like the list is never ending. We spend our whole lives making new lists, just to finish the first list- and start another- and this continues until the day we die. 

We rush through our lives, and through the stages, to get to the next. It's figuring out how to take today for what it is- and cherish the moment knowing that tomorrow is a new day- with new opportunities, but being content in the truth that some of that is mostly out of our control. Or is it. Who makes our destiny? Ourselves, or something Bigger? 

Don't be afraid of the dark....

"One Two, Freddy's Comin' for you .Three-four, better lock your door. Five-Six, grab your crucifix. Seven-Eight, better stay awake. Nine-Ten, never sleep again." 

Most of my childhood (you can ask anyone) was spent idolizing(yeas, messed up as it may be) Freddy Kreuger, Chucky, Jason Vorhees, and Michael Meyers movies. The favorite of course being Nightmare on Elm street and Child's Play. 

In the early 90's there were these toys called "My Buddy" dolls. I'm convinced that, either they were made as a result of Chucky dolls, or Chucky movies were made as a result of the My Buddy dolls....with the likelihood that in some world, some where- some kid said his doll was talking to him, and making him do crazy things. I remember I'd scare my sister, by pretending the doll we had at home, was indeed Chucky, and in fact out to get her. 

   


Although I probably missed most of the Freddy-buzz when the Nightmare on Elm Street movies first came out, I was a huge fan by the time I was 4. 

I, my sisters and my cousin can attest to our infamous weekend nights at grandma and grandpa's house sitting on the couch with popcorn watching this beyond-scary-striped red and green sweater wearing-cellar-lurking psychopath on the USA network, curled up feeling as though we were getting away with murder (No pun intended), getting to watch this movie as Grandma sat in the background shaking her head at Grandpa's bad influence. 

I remember my grandpa used to remind me of Freddy Kreuger, in his basement with his wood burning stove. I remember being scared to death sometimes at night, to even look down those stairs at my grandparent's house...for fear that indeed, freddy kreuger would be standing there waiting for me in the "cellar". 

Little did I know that Freddy would essentially haunt my scariest of dreams, for the remainder of childhood and early adulthood. I to this day, still find Freddy in the background of my worst nightmares...






Movies out there today aren't the same. They're scarier. They're more frightening, and more realistic...and more intending to screw with your mind to the point of sleeping with the light on for a month after watching the movie, or-  until you forget about it enough to fall asleep without the paralyzing fear of whatever horror character is haunting your thoughts that day.

I scare myself so much sometimes I can't stand to walk into a room that's dark, without turning on the light first.

I don't even like the 6-7 o'clock hours of October, because I literally feel like I'm stuck in a Halloween movie, wondering when a hockey-mask-wearing killer is going to follow me into my house without me even feeling the breeze as he snuck past me! 



And so, movies continue to get scarier and as I get older, Halloween continues to get creepier and i find myself just waiting for Christmas because at least then....There's no scary times to dread! 

Big Sippy Cup

Last night Adyson, in all of her 13 month old "big baby" self, sat in front of my counter in the kitchen, as i washed the dishes- and as she howled with hurt as I denied her, her bottle. The bottle sat on the counter, waiting to be washed- as she held a miniature sippy cup, that could only hold about 5 or 6 ounces of milk. She held the green cup with little excitement, continued her tantrum- and threw it across the floor.

I turned my head as I watched the cup roll and hit the refrigerator. I looked to Adyson with alligator tears streaming down her face- her mute cries breaking through every so often through the sobbing, and I,  shortly later deciding that today- would not be the day I take away her bottle. It would not be the day that I make her "Act her age".
Today would be the day, as all of the other days before- that I give in to her being a baby.
I would hold her with her bottle full of warm milk , because she refuses to drink it cold, I would rock her gently back and forth as we watch TV before bedtime and settle into our normal nighttime routine.

Today, being a new day, I sat down with the yellow pad of paper and pen, to write out the grocery list. I went down the lines crossing off all of the food and other household supplies needed for the week, as I arrived to the last line.... I half-heartedly scribbled down three words...

Big . Sippy . Cup. 

I found myself writing these words with hesitation and a little bit of sideways smirk on my face. Only half-believing in these words anyway. Knowing in the back of my mind that this cup, like others- would end up on the shelf for several more weeks until I worked up the courage to do the unthinkable.

Could I possibly take all of the bottles- box them up into a bin to put away on a shelf or store downstairs with all of the other baby things that have been put away, never to be seen again? Could I really just go cold-turkey and get rid of one of the last traces of baby-life for Adyson?

I should also note that , at daycare -- she does not get a bottle. She does not get a pacifier. All methods that Miss Beth implemented when I said, let's start trying to do the big cup instead of a bottle. And so, one day- I stopped bringing her to daycare with a pacifier, and Beth stopped offering a bottle.

Little does Miss Beth know,  Adyson still gets that bottle and Paci at night with Ma-Ma. :-) 
I think I find myself grasping for the little moments still of baby-life with her but find myself at the same time, trying to find the line between making her into a "big girl" and keeping her little. We're really just working on their timeline anyway. Change happens when they're ready for it to happen, and permanent changes happen when we're ready to let them!