Sunday, October 8, 2017

We don't want all your guns, just the ones that kill people.

Still buzzing from the U2 show, it wasn't all about the words sung but also words spoken reminding us of our responsibility as basic humans to be decent and kind and to help your other humans. 

Don't buy into the rantings of an unchecked mad man, do not let his words define who you are and what you represent. I needed to hear that and I needed to remember that. It's been so easy to get caught up in the day to day, the highs and lows and mostly lows of our current politics. That night of the show 4 weeks ago, none of us could know that 3 weeks later a seemingly un-mad mad man would kill 50+ and injure over 500 people in a matter of minutes at another concert. 1 man. 10 minutes. 550 physically impacted. How did we get here?

Get back in my uterus!
Watching it all unfold on TV for the next week took me back to a time just over a year ago, sitting in the NICU and holding a once tiny Frederick tight as his monitors and sensors beeped and sometimes alarmed... Watching as the tragedy of an Orlando nightclub shooting unfolded. 50 people dead. It made me want to shove him back up inside my uterus and take his sister along with him. The visual flew through my brain quickly, yet, vividly, and in that instant I was totally cool with it. It could work. All safe and snug up in there far from the dangers of this world. 

But here we are. We're back to this place of wondering how we got here. Why did we let this happen again and how do we keep forging ahead, allowing it to happen? Why do people think we are going to take all of their precious guns? We don't want all your guns although I'd gladly take them. Y'all just need to not have the ones that can kill so many in so short of time. Why do yo need those? They are called 'assault' for a reason. 

Why do people still get to buy them online and at shows with no background checks? Why should anyone care they have to wait a few days? I don't care about offending someone with mental illness or a felony conviction by not letting them obtain a device that can take the lives of dozens of others in a matter of seconds. Why is this so hard to understand and how can it not be common sense to everyone? Why do we let this keep happening and who. is. next?


Love Rescue Me

4 weeks ago I was rescued, allbeit briefly, from the today. The now. This fucking mess we have found ourselves in as a nation... I was able to block it out for a handful of hours and I didn't realize how much I needed it until days later. How much I'd needed to put the chaos out of my mind, the day to day life of working/traveling/momming/wifing and all the rest of it.

I attended the Joshua Tree concert with a very good neighbor friend of my era, who did not judge and or pretended not to notice as I sang every. damn. song at the top of my lungs, along with 50,000 other people. I screamed and sang so loud and long my throat was sore for days  but it was all worth it. And so help me I cried. Like a lot. The lights were still up and everyone was still hustling to refill beer post-Beck and pre-Bono. Out of nowhere the first few cords of Sunday Bloody Sunday started and suddenly he was there, in front of me yet 50 yards away. I shot up out of my seat along with anyone else with a pulse and started screaming and yelling, much like the photos of the girls at Beatles concerts who I used to make fun of.
It was the kind of gutteral and emotional response that can only be triggered by friends who have been with you at your highest and lowest points, spanning 3 decades, just ask my 1988 diary. They've changed and evoloved and made some really horrible choices right along with you and they've just always been there. 3 songs in it was Bad and it practically brought me to my knees. My anthem song these past years that hugged me and lifted me from the bathroom floor through multiple miscarriages and allowed me to scream along at the top of my lungs in the confines of my car on my lowest days to and from months spent in the NICU. It was there in front of me, live, enveloping me and 50,000 of my now closest friends and then something released in me in those minutes, it escaped. 

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

When your 94 Grandma proclaims that your 2-year old is no lady and you die a little inside.

Here we are, deep in the heart of Dallas, Texas. Home of one million of my relatives, sunshine in late winter, and my 94 year old grandma - Bubba. She has lived nine lives and then some and will continue to live many more we are fairly certain. Her Will-to-Live recipe consists of a few cups of love, a few more of laughs, some handfuls of spite, and gallons of Budweiser. She continues to live out her days in an assisted living place where she is surrounded by friends and life, much to her dismay.

When I showed up for lunch on Sunday, 2 littles in tow, she was sipping coffee with her 2 friends Billy (who is a young and spry 70 and blind as a bat - literally), and Eleanor. Billy proclaimed proudly that she had kidnapped Bubba and wheeled her down to the dining room. Billy steered Bubba's wheel chair while Bubba shouted directions. According to Billy, they only took out 3 by-standers and hit 2 poles. I'm inclined to believe that story. The whole time Billy talked, Bubba rolled her eyes and mouthed 'whoopee' with a twirly hand. For the record, she would have done that even if Billy had been able to see.

Prior to Billy's tale of adventure, Bubba was surprised to see us. So surprised that she pretended not to know us.

Me: Hey Bubba! It's so good to see you!
Bubba, looking up, clearly confused: Well Who. Are. You? 
Me, crushed and panicked thinking: Oh god. She's lost her memory.
Bubba: Ha! Just kidding. I know who you are but why are you here?
Me: thinking Whew, there she is. 

Fast forward the arrival of three loud brothers, two parents and one hard-to-warm-up toddler and Bubba was starting to twitch. Finally my sweet Adelaide climbed into the chair next to her Bubba. Swoon. Being the painfully awkward introvert that she is (bless her heart), Adelaide indeed sat next to her Bubba but she did so in a slumped fashion with her hat just over her eyes. Knees up. Skirt up. Dear lord make it stop.

Bubba: Well what's wrong with her??
Me: (dying) She's just a little shy, Bubba.
Bubba: (staring mouth agape at Adelaide's form) You know, real ladies don't let their skirts up above their knees. Bring your skirt down, girl!
Adelaide, side-eyeing Bubba just below the rim of her hat, slowly starts to lower her skirt past her propped up knees. Bubba nods in satisfaction as Adelaide reaches the below the knee destination and without pause or breaking side-eye, then begins to start the journey back again of the skirt coming back above and over her knees until her skirt was all. The way. Over. Her. Head. And I died.

The end.  

Monday, February 27, 2017

The answer is 'None of the above.'

I'm skipping past the last 7,8, 9? months because they've been a blur. I've written some posts since my last one but none to completion, or satisfaction. I've written even more in my head and while they never made it past my fingertips, even those have been therapeutic because too damn much has happened. It's like I blinked last February and it's suddenly a year later and I've woken up in a some punked version of reality. Can you guess which one of the following statements is false?

A) I am 40.
B) My son spent 70 days in the NICU last year. 70.
C) I am a stay at home mom now.
D) Donald Trump is President. Of like the United States of America. Thanks to Russia. Russia.
E) Mike Pence is no longer Governor of Indiana! Because he's Vice President of like, the United States of America.
F) U2 is touring The Joshua Tree.
G) I've figured out how to fly with an infant and toddler and still score a glass of wine in-flight.
H) The new Secretary of Education stated that guns should be allowed in schools due to grizzly bears. And she was elected after that statement was made, of course she was.
I) I've participated in 3 protests and rallies in 2017 and it's only February 26th.
J) I wore a pussy hat on my head in a sea of other pussy hats and it was totally normal.
K) We have a president, of like, the United States of America, who uses Twitter as a bully pulpit and regularly creates his own versions of the truth to suit his needs and ego - and it's considered normal.

So which one of these is not true? The answer is NONE OF THEM. THEY ARE ALL FUCKING TRUE WHAT THE HELL??

Like I said, punked reality. Alternate universe. Life's been busy and just when I thought I was getting my energy back up to embrace life again last fall, November 8 happened and my world was thrown on its axis once again as Donald Fucking Trump was elected, despite losing the popular vote by several million. Months later I'm still waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out at a White House Daily Briefing and yell PUNKED! Goddammit Ashton, where are you.

In the mean time, I do what I know. I continue to raise my little people to not be assholes (that's my bar). I join rallies and protests and shout from the rooftops - and troll Twitter like a mad woman - as I am indignant on a daily basis of the policies being spewed forth from the new Oval. The oval which is now full of CEO's, billionaires, and oh yeah, white supremacists. No big deal. Totally normal. Did I mention I'm a stay at home mom now?

In the meantime, I prepare for another trek back to my Texas in four days with lofty mom goals of scoring my in-flight wine and maintaining the semblance of sanity while traveling with 2 tiny humans, sans Special K. My soul prepares for blue skies and sun which I need to drown out the cold - and not cold - but always gray days of the past 4 months.

In the meantime, I continue to struggle with the reality of my stay at home momness. And while I have no regrets I'd be lying if I said this new gig was easy - because it's not. It's the hardest fucking thing I've ever done in my life. Every day is hard but there's beauty in it. Every day there are tears, smiles, poop - so much poop, so many highs and lows. But this is my gig right now. They are my job and they make the HR profession look easy. When I look at them I want to vomit with love because even in their worst moods and most maniacal moments, they are beautiful and they are mine. Ours.

So yeah, I'm looking forward to sky blue skies very soon as I take advantage of my unlimited 'days off' with my monsters. I will enjoy them while I have them.


Friday, May 13, 2016

29 and 1

So it happened. He happened. Frederick Rogers Schoville was born at 11:50 p.m. on May 1, 2016 I was able to cook him for 3 1/2 days until I just couldn't cook him anymore. I got him to 29 weeks and 1 day exactly. 3 days straight of icky magnesium drips and on the fourth day they cut me off. It was a good day actually, the best day I'd had since I'd been there. The doc on duty encouraged me to get up and walk around a little without the sensors. Take a shower - and I did indeed. My work spouse came to visit and brought me my yummy comfort coffee drink and a Wonder Woman Build a Bear which he and his partner had spent their Sunday morning building... It was the best day,
But inevitably, the back pains - aka contractions - ramped up and before I knew it it was show time. Scared to death is the only way to describe my state of mind. Like on some level I seriously thought I could just stop it all from happening. Willing it not to be happening was all I could do but my body - and Frederick - felt otherwise. After much much pushing,  some F bombs (many F Bombs) and 2 failed attempts at epidural, teeny tiny Frederick was finally pushed and pulled from my body. You'd think that a 3 lb. 13 oz. baby would fly right out but no. Not. At. All. In those moments I swore to never ever do that again. I really did and my doc laughed as it came out something like me grabbing Special K by the shirt and yelling 'WE ARE NEVER FUCKING DOING THIS AGAIN!'

And poor Frederick. It took forever for him to make a noise as the NICU team put him in a plastic bag and hauled him over to the table to work on him. I kept my eyes on Special K as my doc worked on me and the Neonatology team worked on my new little person. I've never seen Special K look scared but he looked downright terrified in those minutes that crawled by. He paced back and forth between me and the little. Then we both heard it. The tiniest little scratch of a voice I will never forget as long as I live. The look of relief that swept over Special K and the sob that emerged from me before I realized it was me. But then they brought him to me and I was in shock. I wasn't quite sure what to expect but I wasn't expecting that. Him. My baby in a bag was black. 

Or I thought he was. I asked if he was black and they assured me that no, he was not black, just badly bruised. Like his entire head was a giant blue berry. My vagina did that to him and I was horrified. I didn't get to see him again for another couple hours and it felt like an eternity. And then there we were, back in the NICU with a little person. Only this little was way littler then our fist little. This little was way earlier. Scarier.

On Day 2 I held him. Scared. to. death.

He was under the blue light special for almost 2 weeks until the bruising went down. 

The bruising was especially significant due to my baby crushing vagina. One of the nurses said it was actually a pretty impressive bruising and that it also wasn't actually my vagina that gets to take credit for the blue berry state of my child, but my pelvic floor. Anyway... The blue light special did not last forever. Eventually the goggles and hat came off and we were able to see his sweet face. Kind of. But we were lucky.

We are lucky. And he's OK. Cooking in the NICU womb instead of my own, He's finally off the blue lights and was only intubated for a short time. 2 weeks old and he's finally almost at his birth weight. In the meantime this is our second home. 7 days a week. Special K and I tag team then both come up in the evenings. Every time I leave him I can't breathe. It's like leaving one of my lungs behind and I can't fully breathe until we return and even then my breaths are short as I feel like I am breathing for him and me. Returning in the evening, racked with guilt leaving our first sweet little, I cry in anticipation of what I might find when I return to his side. But he's always OK.

I have to allow myself to take comfort in the fact that he really is OK. It's just going to take a long time for him to be good. In the meantime, we have his monitors that bring us comfort as they also bring us fear. Tracking his heart rate, his respiratory rate and his blood oxygen levels all at once. So many moving pieces that set off alarms at the slightest dips. It feels like the alarms will never stop. But they do. His breath finally returns - usually with help - and then he is OK today. I'm getting there. Slowly.

The tiniest baby steps ever.
30 and 6