Archive for the ‘family’ category

In Which Kid1 Is 16 And I Tell Kid1’s Story

September 8th, 2011

Today, as if this moment (1205 PM PDT), Kid1 is 16. Last week at GeekMom, I wrote about what turning 16 means. Today, I thought it would be neat to share the story of his birth, like I did when Kid2 turned 12. This story is published in my first book. For privacy reasons, I edited out the names. If you want names, you’ll have to purchase the book.

Kid1’s Story

Kid1, you and your brother have always been very unique individuals. You two are like day and night, and I am grateful for that. I always knew before I had children that they would be different and unique. Just how different and unique, I was very much unaware. You each reflect a part of me. Where as Kid2 has always reflected my joker, artistic, dreamer, lighthearted side, you reflected my serious, scientific, thinking, pragmatic side. I am so very thankful for this.

Unlike your brother, you have not been curious to hear stories about you as you grew up. They did not interest you. Of course, there are a few exceptions such as the story of when you were 7-months-old and scared the crap out of me when you decided to climb my bookshelf. Or the time you were two, had climbed up to the top of the fridge, waited for me to come into the kitchen and called out, “Mum! Catch me!” as you flew off the fridge, having faith I would catch you, and then proceeded to break the wrist I had broken when I was 10.

One of my favourite memories of you was when you told me you had finally decided what you wanted to be when you grew up, a psychologist. I was and continue to be so very proud. I still laugh when I told you how cool I thought that was, as that is what my degree was in and you responded with, “You have your degree in psychology?” I asked you what did you think I was taking when I was in university and you said, “I don’t know. Stuff. Well that’s… that’s interesting.” No matter what others may tell you, no matter what your barriers are because of your ADHD and learning disabilities, this is something you can do. Do not give up on your dreams and remember there is nothing you are not capable of. You are one of the smartest and wisest people I know.

On your 2nd birthday, I wrote you the following letter:

I hope your days are full of happiness and life. Never let your beautiful smile leave your lovely face. You are my little man. Your possibilities for the future are endless. Never let your dreams die. Follow them to the very end. And if you need help, I’ll always be here for you.

Love you always, Mum.

You will receive this letter one day.

I think however, my favourite memory of you happened on your 11th birthday. You had already been going through the “wonderful” period that is puberty for over half a year. You had grown half a foot and your voice had dropped. I figured it was time to have another one of those talks about the joys of growing up. I had asked you if you knew what nocturnal emissions aka wet dreams were. You said no. So I explained to you what they were and what to do if they happened, told you different ways of hiding your erections while at school and gave you a few other tips that I thought would be helpful. And that is when it happened. After I was done, you asked me to tell you the story of your birth. It was the first and the last time you asked. My heart soared. I got to share Kid2’s story with him a bunch of times but you were never curious. Finally you were and in my opinion, it was the best way we could ever celebrate your birthday; going from talking about puberty to the story of your birth. Without this story, there would be no other stories to share. I will now tell it again.

On December 10, 1994, I found out I was pregnant. The way I found out was unusual. I had to go into the emergency room because I was having huge pain in my abdomen. We had to leave a birthday celebration because I could no longer stand up due to the pain. The doctor asked the normal routine question, “Could you be pregnant?” I responded with, “Well, of course I could. But I do not think I am. We have been trying to have a baby for months but we have not yet been successful.” He asked me when my last period was and I replied with, “I think sometime in November.” He did a pregnancy test, and sure enough I was pregnant.

He then did a pelvic exam. That is when he found some type of mass near my ovary. The doctor thought that maybe I had a tubal pregnancy. This scared me. My mum had a tubal pregnancy, which ended up rupturing and she almost died as a result. This was not the news I needed right before Christmas. I would require an ultrasound to see what was going on.

I had to wait through Christmas for the scan. A couple days after Christmas, I went in for the scan. The ultrasound technician looked at it puzzled and said, “Are you sure you are pregnant? Because there is nothing on the scan. Not even a dot. It most certainly is not a tubal pregnancy.” Relieved it was not a tubal pregnancy but concerned there was no sign of a baby on the scan, I replied that yes I was sure, it was the hospital that tested me. So she sent me off for another pregnancy test and sure enough I was pregnant.

Because I was unsure of the dates for my last period and the “rules” regarding how hormones work and how pregnant you have to be to test positive, I was given an initial due date of August 20, 1995. For the next 9 months, I had a very uneventful pregnancy. Well, it was uneventful right up until 2 weeks before Kid1 was born.

A couple weeks before he was born, I experienced a TIA. That was very scary. Nothing to freak you more than all of a sudden not being able to see or speak, understand speech or read and have the left side of your body go dead right before you are about to pop. I went to the emergency room where they treated me and talked about doing an emergency c-section. They decided since the episode resolved itself, I would try to carry to term. Other than that episode, I was happy and healthy. I did not experience any of the negative things associated with pregnancy. The summer seemed hotter than normal but overall I had nothing to complain about. Well nothing to complain about until August 26 when there was still no baby.

I went to the doctor and said the baby is a week overdue, shouldn’t we be inducing or something. So my doctor sent me across the street to the OB/GYN to see about being induced. Back then it was the OB/GYN who induced and not your family doctor. He told me that he would look over my chart, and if there were no issues, he would be happy to induce. I would hear from him within the next 24 hours to find out what steps would be taken next. Later on that night, he gave me a phone call. He said, “I am sorry but we cannot induce yet.” I asked him why and he said, “Because you are not even due yet. I do not know how this was overlooked but you are not due until September 1.” I asked him how that was possible as I tested positive for being pregnant on December 10, so at that point I would have had to be at least a month pregnant. He did not know the answer for that, however judging by the ultrasounds taken from the first moments where nothing was detected and the two routine ultrasounds, I was not due until September 1. However he felt sorry for me and told me that since I had a true 9 month pregnancy (meaning I knew I was pregnant for the full 9 months) that if the baby was not born by September 4, he would induce on the 8th.

September 4 came and went and no baby. So I went back to the OB/GYN where he booked my appointment to be induced. The way it was done then was very different from when I had Kid2. I had to be admitted into the hospital the night before. They would put the gel on my cervix the night before, monitor me overnight and then if needed, do a second dose in the morning. What was similar was that I was not allowed to eat after the gel was applied in the event they would have to do a c-section. The night of the 7th, I was admitted into the maternity ward. They applied the gel and within an hour it started to work its magic.

I had the worst sleep of my life. The cramping was unbearable. Because I was having such a hard time with it, they decided to move me into the delivery room so that I was free to toss and turn or roam and not disturb the ladies that needed their sleep who just had their babies. A lot of babies were born that night. When I was not being kept awake because of the cramping, I was being kept awake listening to women scream and curse as they were delivering their babies. I needed to sleep damn it! I had my own baby to deliver soon.

Morning came around. I maybe managed to get 1 hour sleep and I was starving. I had not eaten anything since dinner the previous night. The OB/GYN came into the delivery room to check my progress. Over night I had managed to dilate 2 cms and become 50% effaced. There was no need for a second application of the gel. It was time to break my water and get this show on the road. Kid1’s dad showed up at 7:55 am and at 8:00 am, the doctor broke my water. I immediately went into labour. And it was not the nice little “ooo I think that was a contraction” type of labour that happens for 30 seconds and you have 10 – 15 minutes until the next contraction. It was the “OMG THIS IS NOT WHAT I SIGNED UP FOR” transitional period of labour.

20 minutes later I was at 6 cms. Kid1’s dad decided he was then going to lose his mind. The months of labour and delivery classes we took flew out of his brain. He rushed to the phone to phone his family and my family and say, “She’s at 6 cms. Gotta go. Bye.” Would rush back into the delivery room for other update and then rush out once again to make phone calls. I was left there alone, freaking out as this was my first pregnancy that was carried to term and I needed support.

10 minutes later I was at 7 cms. Not only was I at 7 cms, but Kid1 was impatient and wanted to come out. Now! His head went down the birth canal and he started to crown. The nurses had to push him back up. That is when I was informed that I would have to have an epidural because my labour was progressing so fast and my contractions were so strong, that they were pushing out the baby before it was time. I did not want the epidural; I wanted and had signed up for a natural birth. I wanted to feel the contractions even so they were not happening in the way they told us they did in the books and prenatal class. The nurses told me they didn’t have time to give me a full epidural anyway because of how quickly I was progressing. What they were going to do what give me a walking epidural. I would still feel the contractions, I would still know when to push, and the contractions would not be as strong. That is when once again, Kid1’s dad lost his head and went rushing for the nearest phone.

When he returned a minute later, I was frantic and ordered him out of the room. He was stressing me out. I did not need to be stressed out while I was trying to squeeze my legs shut to keep this baby, who was impatiently trying to get out, in until the anesthesiologist could make his way up stairs. He told me he did not have to leave that it was his right to be there. That is when the nurse stepped in and said, “At this moment, you do not have any rights. We need to think about the mother and the baby first and what her wishes are. You are clearly stressing her out. You are stressing us out and causing a disturbance. If you do not leave now, we will have security escort you out of here and you will miss the entire birth. However, if you leave quietly on your own now, we will call you back in when it is time to deliver the baby.” With that, he left.

When the anesthesiologist arrived 10 minutes later, I was at 8 cms and fully effaced. They had just pushed Kid1 back up the birth canal for the 6th time. He gave me the epidural. It was the most wonderful thing that could happen. My contractions slowed right down. I had time to finally relax before it was time to push. In the first 40 minutes of labour I went from 2 cms to 8 cms dilated. For the next 3 hours, things progressed nice and slowly.

When they checked me at 11:30 am, I was 10 cms dilated and fully effaced. They called my doctor and told him it was time for me to deliver the baby. He arrived 20 minutes later, checked my progress and told me it was time to have a baby. We called Kid1’s dad back into the room. On the next contraction, I was told to push. Being as I was a little numbed up, the first push was not effective. The nurse had to show me how to push. Another contraction came, which meant it was time for another push. I pushed again and this time progress was made. The contraction ended and I took a few cleansing breaths waiting for the next one. The next contraction came, I pushed, the baby began to crown and that is when I heard my doctor say, “Uh. Oh.”

I sat bolt upright and said, “Uh OH?!?!? What do you mean UH OH?! I am about to push a baby out of me. This is not the time for you to be saying UH OH!” My doctor then said, “Well since you only gained 22 lbs., we were expecting a small baby. He is not small. His head is very big. I am going to have to use forceps.” I then informed him, ”No. You will not be using metal forceps on my baby’s head. Use the vacuum extraction if you have to, to help him out, but no forceps are going to touch his head!” My doctor replied, “His head is too big for vacuum extraction. If we were to use it, it would just end up ripping off a piece of his scalp. I have to use the forceps otherwise you may tear.” I then told him I did not care if he had to cut me from ass to teakettle, he was not going to put forceps anywhere near my baby’s head. My doctor told me, “Okay, I will make a very small incision and we will try it your way. But if after the next push, his head is not delivered, we are doing it my way.” An agreement was reached and it was time for me to push again.

The next push and his head was successfully delivered. One more push and his shoulders were delivered without incident. As I was delivering his shoulders, I noticed the lunch cart being wheeled past the delivery room doors. On September 8, 1995 at 12:05 PM, weighing 8lbs on the nose and measuring 22 inches, with dark brown hair and blue eyes, Kid1 was born. They took Kid1 to do the Apgar tests while my doctor delivered my placenta and gave me the 3 stitches necessary because of the episiotomy. After he was done, he shook my hand and congratulated me on such an effortless labour and delivery. He told me despite outward appearances, I was built to have babies. One of his easiest deliveries ever, which is surprising since this was my first time.

After, they handed me Kid1. He did not look like a newborn at all. He was not wrinkly and ugly and pink and covered with gross afterbirth. His head looked as if he was a c-section baby, which was odd especially given the fact he had a large head at 36 cms. He looked like a little old man trapped in the body of a 1 month old. He was already wise beyond his years. He took to the breast immediately. Then it was time for him to go get cleaned up at which point I demanded I get something to eat. I was starving!

My mum and my sister arrived about 30 minutes later. My mum was surprised to find me sitting up and eating and she did not believe she missed the whole thing. When she got the phone call earlier that day, she thought I would be in labour for days as she was in labour with me for close to 72 hours. She could not believe that I was eating, I should have been exhausted. I told her how easy it was and that I had not eaten for close to 24 hours. Food was all I could think of at that point.

Food, laying down with my brand new baby and sleep.

The day Kid1 was born, I finally had the job I always knew I would have since the time I was at least 5 and that was being a mum. I had never been so happy in my life. I had my baby. I had my purpose. It took a long time to get pregnant with him but it happened and he was here and he was real.

He was my first reason.


My Dad

June 18th, 2011

Tomorrow is Father’s Day. Both Mother’s Day and Father’s Day tend to come and go without mention in my house. But this year, I’m really missing my dad. I miss him often, but for some reason, he’s on my mind with greater frequency as of late. So, I thought I’d share the story of My Dad from my book. Just seems like the thing to do.

(Kid1 and Kid2’s names have been edited.)


Growing up, I was different; not just different than my peers, but different than the family I was raised with. In fact, I was so different, my sister and I had many theories surrouding this. Our top three theories were: I was adopted and mum decided not to tell us but this did not make sense as my mum was adopted, she knew all of her life that she was adopted and she was proud that she was adopted, as she was picked and that made her special; I was switched at birth in some crazy hospital mix up; but the most popular and the one that made the most sense was that I was the milkman’s daughter.

The reasons why this made the most sense were: I did not physically resemble any one on my mum’s side of the family; I had nothing in common with them when it came to values;—appearances did not matter to me, money did not matter to me, differences between individuals did not matter to me, power and recognition did not matter to me, I was against anything superficial and much more—I was a geek; I was introverted; I placed others before myself; I would not sit by if I saw an injustice being done and the list goes on. I was the complete opposite of everyone I grew up around, except my grandma. On top of these differences, my mother was not exactly the most faithful of people. Growing up, she had more affairs with more men than I can count. Even so it was fun to theorise, we knew that was not the reality. Growing up, the reality was, at times, hard to admit. The reality was that I was my father’s  daughter.

My sister was my mother’s favourite because she was a carbon copy of my mother. I was not and I was repeatedly reminded of this fact. When I was two, my mother took my sister and I away from our dad.  She repeatedly moved us around, eventually moving us half way across the country, and kept our phone number unlisted so that he could not find us. She spent our entire lives trying to vilify our dad. Whenever I would do anything that would remind her of my dad, which was often, she would venomously say, “You’re just like your father!” This was not a good thing as it was no secret that she hated him.  So it is no wonder that it was difficult for me to acknowledge the truth; that I was my father’s daughter. On the other hand, I relished the thought because I did not want to be my mother’s daughter, in any way, shape or form. Growing up, I was ashamed of that side of my family.

I was very fortunate to have two things in my life that kept me proud, even when it was difficult and I was crying inside, to be my father’s daughter. They were my grandma and the odd picture of my dad and I that managed to survive the various moves. My grandma made damn sure I knew how much he loved me. She would tell me stories of how my dad and I were inseparable. How I was always on his lap. How we were always cuddling. How he would take me with him wherever he went. How I was his little princess. I also had the pictures that showed examples of how happy he was when he held me. Pictures of how much love was in his eyes when we would cuddle on the couch. Pictures of how peaceful we were sleeping together. I held on to these stories and images during the periods where I was treated as an outsider and reminded of just how different I was.

I longed for my dad. Often, I would dream of a time when we would be reunited. I would dream of a time where I finally felt I belonged in some type of family. I dreamed of a time where it made sense that I was the person that I was. Over time, those dreams began to fade as the messages I received growing up started to grow into a cancer of despair and self-loathing. When I was 16, those dreams were given a new life.

I was in foster care. It was Thanksgiving and I wanted my dad. I told this to my foster mum who told me that I should call him. The idea terrified me. What if he rejected me? What if some of the stories my mum told me about my dad not wanting me were true? What if the stories of him now having three sons and that he always wanted boys, not girls, were true? What if the stories that he has never given my sister and I second thought were true? What if all the stories my grandma told me, the pictures and what I felt in my heart to be true were just an elaborate fantasy designed to protect myself from the truth? After further urging from my foster mum and she got my dad’s phone number from information, I made the phone call. What happened next gave me a new life.

I dialed the number. A little boy answered. I asked, “Is Richard there?” He replied that he was down at the fire pit and asked who was calling. I answered, “Julia.” The four words to come out of his mouth were magic, “Are you my sister?” Tears came to my eyes as I replied, “Yes, I am.” For the first time in my life, I felt as if I belonged to a family. A real family. He fetched my dad and we proceeded to talk for hours.  It would be many years before we would talk again. We talked briefly when I got married. We talked briefly when Kid1 was born. We talked briefly when Kid2 was born. After Kid2 was born, our brief talks turned into longer talks.

A few years after Kid2 was born, the oldest of my younger brothers decided to come out to B.C. and pay my sister and I a visit. Before he came out, he decided to give my sister and I a phone call. That was even more magical. We had so much in common. In fact, it was as if we grew up in the same household. He was in the military and I had been in the military.  We had a lot of the same hobbies.  We enjoyed the same things. At one point in the conversation I had said something to which he replied, “Wow, you sound just like a Sherred.” I said, “Duh! That is because I am a Sherred.” He clarified, “No. When I talked to our sister it was like talking to a stranger. Talking to you is like talking to the family I grew up with.” I do not think I could ever truly express how wonderful that made me feel.

In 2007, I decided to make another trip back East to Ontario. That is where my dad grew up and lives. I had made previous trips but was always too afraid to meet him because there was always that stupid voice of my mother’s in the back of my head telling me he did not want me. I knew that stupid little voice was wrong and lying but sometimes all it takes is a stupid little voice to tear you down. On this trip, I had not planned to meet my dad or step-mum. I did plan on meeting my other two brothers. Meeting them was just as amazing as meeting the oldest. It was great to find out that they were each a part of me. That they were exactly the same as I am in some way.

Where as the oldest of the three and I share our military experience and love for the outdoors, weapons and a few other things, the middle of the three and myself share a love for the arts and the theatre, insects, as well as studying different forms of spirituality and the occult; and the youngest of the three and I are both uber geeks heavily into Star Trek, computers, science fiction, fantasy, science and technology, among other things. It was like meeting three mini-mes.  Even cooler is that Kid2 and the middle brother are spitting images of each other and the youngest brother and I are almost twins. He is also the twin of our dad. Finally, not only did I have things in common with family but also, I looked like family. This was finally confirmed in person, not just by pictures and being told by the family members I grew up with.

They asked if I was going to meet dad. I told them I did not think I was. They told me that he would love to see me and that I should go there. I said, “What am I suppose to do? Just knock on the door and say, ‘Hi! I’m here! You haven’t seen me in 29 years and you didn’t know I was coming but here I am?’” The response I got was a resounding yes! They would drive me out to Blythe from London to see him. And I was not to worry, because they would walk through the door first and would be with me the entire time. They assured me that I was more than welcomed and he would be quite upset if he found out I was so close, had met the remainder of my brothers and did not pay him a visit. So, on November 25, 2007, we drove from London, Ontario to Blythe, Ontario to meet my dad. Magic does not even begin to describe what was about to occur.

It is amazing the things you remember from as far back as when you were two. We walked through the door and my dad and I hugged. After 29 long years, I still remembered his smell. I still remembered his touch. I was once again his little princess. The evening was beyond words. My step-mum tried to cram the entire family history into one night. We poured over family album after family album. We cried as we talked about what my mother had done to separate my dad, my sister and I. We cried as we talked about how hard my dad tried to get us back but he could not as it was the 70s and dads had no rights. We cried over the lost years.

We laughed over stories about my brothers when they were younger. We laughed whenever they would tell a story of games they would play, such as war games in the back acreage, and how I would play the exact same games with my friends in the exact same fashion. We marveled over just how much I was them, even so I grew up over half a country away and with no contact. We took pictures and video. All the while, my dad happily rocked in his chair.

I got to see first hand how much I was my father’s daughter, both in character, interests and in appearance. And it was awesome. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing ever. I was home for the first time in my life and I did not want to leave. When it came time for the actual goodbye, my dad and I hugged each other very tightly and for a very long time. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and we told each other we love each other. And then he gave me a kiss on the lips just like a dad would kiss his little girl. I remembered that feeling as well from when I was two.

A few weeks later, I had the best birthday ever. It was not because of anything that I did or anything tangible that was given to me. Earlier in the day, I received a phone call from my step-mum wishing me a happy birthday from her and dad. As she had called, I thought that would be it for phone calls. Later on that day, my dad phoned to wish me a happy birthday. It was the first happy birthday I received from him in 30 years and was the best birthday present ever. Since being reunited with my dad, we keep in contact often. Having him back in my life makes me feel whole.

I am my father’s daughter. It is no longer a source of shame and self-loathing. Aside from being a mother and having two wonderful boys, I have never been more proud of anything in my life.

Because Some Stories Are A Wee Bit Too Long For Twitter

June 3rd, 2011

For approximately seven days, Kid2 has been trying to get the Spice Girl’s song ‘Wannabe’ stuck in my head. First, don’t ask me how he knows that song. I have no bloody clue. Second, he picks up too many of my evil tricks. Example: Kid2: “Do you know what I don’t get?” Me: “Quantum Physics?” Kid2: “Well, yeah… but… Damn it! You made me forget! Damn you, vile woman!”

As I recently announced on Twitter, Kid2 is terribly sunburned. He has the misunderstanding that this gives him extra room to be cheeky. He may be correct on that assumption, but we will never tell him that. I went into the kitchen to make some tea. After seeing me, he started to sing ‘Wannabe’. That is when I began to sing, “I spank your ass til it’s red. I spank your ass til it’s red. I spank your ass til it’s red”, to the tune of Willow Smith’s”Whip My Hair”.

Before I continue, let me assure you, I would never spank his ass til it’s red. I would never spank it, period. He knows this. I was giving him back some of the cheek that he was dishing out at me and I thought I’d do it at the expense of his cheeks. Let’s not turn a cute story into a discussion on spanking, joking about it, parenting styles, etc. Thank you. Now back to the story.

He looked at me, stunned, for a few moments, not sure how to respond in an equally annoying and quippy fashion. After a brief pause and moments hesitation, he said, as he was bending over, “Go for it. May as well have my ass be the same colour as the rest of my body.”

I think he gets the point for this round.

Surviving the Fear and Frustration

March 31st, 2011

I’m driving myself mental at the moment. I’m too ill to do anything of great significance. Even typing up this blog is going to be an all day event. There is a very heavy feeling in the air at the moment and it is rather distracting. Currently there is no distraction from that which is distracting those around me and me.

I can’t play games as that requires too much physical activity. Yes, that is how ill I am right now. Mashing buttons is just too much work. I can’t read because my brain is too busy spinning to focus, never mind too fatigued after both a physically and emotionally draining 24 hours. I want to be distracted from the fact that I was hit with a large dose of reality yesterday but that is hard to accomplish when those closest to you are all suffering from the same thing: fear, frustration, helplessness and worry. And nobody wants to admit to it for a variety of reasons.

Things that are normally okay to poke fun at or joke about are currently off the table. I can understand this phenomena when it comes to my relationship. Before going to the hospital yesterday, I made an attempt to tease about something before getting to the seriousness of “Okay, I’m off to the hospital now.” This was not met in a way that would be normal. I was basically told that it wasn’t the time for such things and all he cared to know about was how I was doing. And that is where my inner conflict comes in: on one hand, I am so very grateful that he doesn’t want to make jokes for once; on the other hand, I feel terrible that he has to go through the worry, fear, frustration, emotional garbage one goes through when they make the choice to walk this path with someone. Yes, I do it for him as well but it is really difficult for me to not feel guilty when it is returned.

My children are not good with this right now. They are putting on the best brave front that they are capable. My youngest wouldn’t go to school today. Thankfully his school understands. He keeps asking me, with such fear in his voice at what the response might be, if I’m going to be okay. I really do not like that he is adding the words “are you sure?” to his questions because he knows damn fine that we can never be sure. We can just hope for the best that we caught this latest set of infections in time. And despite the chances being overwhelmingly in favour of the best outcome, things can change in a heartbeat. The rapid way in which this infection spread and took me completely out of the game is proof of this. All I can do is give him lots of hugs, reassure him that I should be fine within the week and tell him I love him. My oldest isn’t talking about it. That is not a good thing.

My friends are sitting there not sure how to react and being very careful to not say something to create more guilt within me. They are being loving and supportive and trying to figure out ways in which they can be of physical help despite the miles that separate a lot of us.

Yet despite all the outpouring of love and support, you can hear a pin drop. The life has been sucked out of the room while every one waits for me to get better and win yet another battle with lupus. The thing I hate the most about this disease is that with this flare, there is a lot of collateral damage. More than I would like. It is taking all of my emotional energy to not erect the wall and push people away because I really hate that people are having to deal with this as well. I HATE IT! And then comes more internal struggles as I am so very appreciative of it at the same time. I really do not want people to go away. I just feel terrible that my disease is the source of a lot of pain and worry at the moment. But I am so very thankful that people are pushing for me to push through, all the while being afraid and frustrated, feeling helpless and full of worry.

All day today I’ve been fighting the urge to say “If lupus doesn’t kill me, my current boredom currently will.” We all know that I find humour in the most inappropriate of places. But even I’m not sure how I feel about that joke right now. It is a little too close to home at the moment. I don’t know why but this latest health crisis has me as worried, if not more worried, that I was after my stroke. It was a very hard reminder about how terrible and sudden lupus can strike. Unlike other onsets of infection, I had no warning. There wasn’t even a little bit of a warming up period. Yes, I’ve had a cold for what seems to be forever. Yes, I’ve been extremely fatigued and stressed lately. But I’ve been no more sick that what is considered “normal” for me. Normally when I get infection, I have a couple days where I think, “Okay… I think something is building up here… I feel just a little bit more off than normal” before the big BLAMO hit. Yesterday, I awoke to “BLAMO! Be prepared for 10 days of high dose antibiotics and at least 2 weeks on an inhaler to keep your lungs open. And if the inhaler doesn’t work, be prepared for oxygen and a nebuliser.”

I’m afraid. I hate to admit that because then other people will become more afraid than they already aware because if I’m not being my normal “I’m fine” self and reassuring every one, something big must be up. But this is what I am thinking. Maybe we are too busy trying to hide from the fact that there is a lot of fear, frustration, guilt, helplessness, anger, worry, heavy feelings going around at the moment.

So how about we make a deal. I will try my best to not want to pull away when you admit that you are afraid and stuff, in an attempt to let me know you care and in return, you try to not protect me from how you are feeling because I know damn fine. I think we are all a little bit sick with worry right now and it may help if we all just admit to it. I know I’ll feel better about things. Maybe perhaps people are watching what they say because they know that I do have a few triggers about these things and things like telling me to rest (because I’m not a child and can take care of myself [stubborn Jules is stubborn]) and people know things like “feel better soon” can cause me to not talk about what is going on because the look on people’s faces when I am unable to tell them I am better soon is heartbreaking.

All of this is just so bloody heartbreaking and terrible and emotional. Screw the physical garbage. That is a cakewalk compared to the rest. The next few days, where I have to sit idly and wait to get better, giving me plenty of time to focus on the emotional junk, is where the real surviving comes in. And just maybe if we all were to admit to the fact this is difficult on many of us emotionally, we will all survive it together and come through it stronger.

Just an idea.

In Which I Survive My First ER Trip of 2011

March 30th, 2011

I wish I could say today began like any other day. But it didn’t. I woke up this morning with what felt like a sinus infection. Within an hour of waking up, my breathing was very laboured and I was unable to catch my breath. Then, within the next hour or so,  I found I had blood in my urine. In less than a 4 hour period, I went from being more normal level of sick to not having enough air to talk and wanting to die because the pain of breathing was so unbearable.

Initiate emergency plan to get my behind to the hospital. Thank goodness I have an amazing landlady to take care of the kids and take me to the hospital in such instances. Unfortunately, today our timing was off and I had to wait a couple hours longer than normal. But what is a couple more hours, right? Well when you have lupus to the severity that I do, a couple hours means that much more time for the infection to spread through my body like wildfire.

I’m going to try and make the rest of this long story short. I arrived at the ER. My blood pressure was much higher than normal. My oxygen levels were starting to take a nose dive. My heart rate was elevated. Taking a deep breath was impossible. Even so they marked me as urgent, I was still coherent so they had to treat the more urgent patients first.

Finally, it was my turn to see the doctor. And that is when the first event took place which makes me hate ERs. ER doctors are great trauma doctors and overall doctors. They kinda suck when it comes to treating patients with diseases like mine.

After she listened to my chest, lungs, felt my glands and tapped my sinuses, she asked, “Why did you wait so long to see a doctor?” I looked at her with a look which probably was not too nice and said, “I only got sick today. I had to wait for transportation and someone to watch my kids. I’m a single mum with no vehicle.” She looked at me as if I slapped her (or maybe she just felt bad) and replied, “Fair enough.” I wanted to call her something not entirely nice. But then I realised she probably doesn’t fully understand that I can be fine (for me) one day and wake up on deaths door with respiratory distress the next day.

And that is when they hooked me up to the oxygen and gave me a nebuliser filled with steroids in an attempt to get my breathing back under control. Once I was done with that, they doses me up with a high dose of antibiotics. Then I had to wait for another hour after treatment for them to recheck my vitals and make sure it was safe to send me home.

That hour was the worst hour ever, because that dude was there. You know that dude. He’s the dude who’s in the ER for something stupid he did and asks every one, “So… what are you in here for?” I hate that dude. That dude was also complaining about how long he had to wait. He wasn’t dying or sick. He was just stupid and either broke or sprained his ankle.

Finally, after giving me a prescription for 10 days of high dose antibiotics and a steroid inhaler to keep my lungs open, they sent me home. Final diagnosis: sinus, throat, lung and kidney infection.

Today’s events were the toughest on kid2. He was terrified that I would not come home. He asked me those tough questions, such as, “Are you having another stroke? Are you going to be all right? Are you sure you’re going to get better?” When I returned home, he was in bed, wide awake, waiting for me. He asked in a very quiet and scared voice if he could stay at home tomorrow to make sure I’m okay. He’s afraid that he’ll go to school tomorrow and come back home with me in the hospital. I can deal with all that lupus does to me. What it does to my children causes my heart to break. He will not be “okay” with this until I’m back to my normal sick self instead of my can’t breathe sick self.

And that is just another small snapshot into the life of someone with lupus. You can be your normal sick one day and then within hours and without warning, needing to be hooked up to oxygen because an infection spread throughout your entire body within hours, putting you into respiratory distress.

And before any one says anything, yes I am taking some time off. I don’t think I have much of a choice. Even if I wanted to work, a certain someone would kick my behind. I’m under orders from a certain man in my life. Geeky Pleasures will not be updated tomorrow except for Stephanie’s weekly review. I may update Geeky Pleasures on Friday. It all depends on how I’m feeling. I will not be doing any work for the station until at least Monday. This means, my Friday night shows will be cancelled. Well, there is a small chance that someone will broadcast for a bit in my place for reasons they can explain if they do.

And if you see me make stupid jokes over the next few days, it is just my way of trying to cope with yet another health crisis.

My Grandmother: November 27, 1919 – February 14, 1993

February 14th, 2011

In the early hours of February 14, 1993, my grandma peacefully passed away in her sleep. The events surrounding her death still deeply bother me to this day. I miss her terribly. As of this year, she has been gone for more years than I had her in my life. You’d think this day would get easier for me after all these years, but it just gets more difficult.

I used to recall every thing about her with the greatest of ease. Now, I have trouble recalling her voice or the way she smells. And when I do recall her voice, it isn’t the happy memories but the memories of her gasping for breath when she walked and saying, “Oh bother.”

Today, I managed to successfully bury myself in a mountain of work and stave off the tears… until two minutes ago when I watched the following video of Makeshift Innocence‘s latest single:

My grandma was the one who taught me how to love and be a giving person. She is largely responsible for my moral compass. My grandma is the one who taught me that I was loved. She showed me that I mattered, regardless of how others treated me. She taught me how to be a proper lady and live with dignity. (Yes, I can be a lady). My grandma was the matriarch of the family and when she passed on, what was left of the family completely splintered apart.

I really miss having toast with marmalade with her in the morning, afternoon tea with her, warmed apple juice with her in the evening, crafting with her for hours and crawling into her adjustable bed and listening to stories. I miss wearing her gawdy jewelry. I miss going to  the washroom in the middle of the night and seeing her dentures soaking in a cup of water and Polident, by the sink.

I miss being unconditionally loved by a mum.

I just miss her.

My grandma was the epitome of a proper lady. However, she was not without a sense of humour and the ability to “let her hair down” when in private company. The following poem was my grandma’s favourite poem and read at her Celebration of Life. The poem characterises part of my grandma quite well.

Warning – When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple
By Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

In Which Kid2 and I Spend 3 Hours Bonding in the Emergency Room

January 29th, 2011

(Blogs published at this time are riddled with loads of toaster errors and mistakes. They will be mostly corrected when brain is more functional)

I’ve been wanting to write this blog every since the “incident”, which occurred last Sunday night. However, my week has been beyond crazy. Hopefully, enough of these events are still fresh enough in my mind where I can retell the magic of these events.

Last Sunday, as I was preparing to hand off the autodj at the radio station to the next personality, it had dawned on me that Kid2 was a few minutes late arriving home from playing at a friend’s house. I did my best to remain calm and not worry that some horrible thing had happened to him, causing him to be late.

15 minutes before I was to hand over the stream, I heard the door open and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that he had arrived home safely and in one piece. I continued on with my work, now relieved, freeing my brain from the distraction of wondering where the child was. That is when it happened. I heard what sounded like a child tumbling down the stairs, followed by the type of yell one would expect if someone, violently, fell down the stairs.

Without saying a word to the person I was currently in conversation with, I leaped out of my chair and ran to the door and opened it, expecting to see a twisted and mangled mess of a child. Upon opening the door, I discovered a child sitting on one of the bottom stairs, clutching one foot, nearly in tears and declaring, “I think it’s broken. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! (insert with the passion of “KHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN here).”

Trying my best to appear outwardly calm, I asked, “OMG! Are you okay?!?! How did you fall?!?! What happened???!!!? SPEAK TO ME!” I’m pretty sure I failed at the whole trying to convey that I am calm, in order to keep the child calm in an attempt to keep him from spiraling into further emotional distress. He looked at me like I was a wee bit daft and responded, “Yeah… I’m fine… I DROPPED MY LAPTOP DOWN THE STAIRS AND I THINK IT IS BROKEN!! THIS IS THE WORST!” Suddenly, I became rather confused and ask him, “So you didn’t fall? Then why the screams as if you were dying?” He regarded me as if I had two heads and replied, “Didn’t you hear me?!? I DROPPED MY LAPTOP DOWN THE STAIRS AND I THINK I MAY HAVE BROKEN IT!!!!”, which was followed by the “jeez, you’re slow” sigh that teenagers give us.

Still not convinced that he was okay and not broken, as it sounded like a body fell down the stairs and not a laptop plus he was clutching his foot, I said, “Forget the laptop. Are YOU okay?” That was THE wrong thing to say. After having a meltdown as  a result the end of the world being nigh if he broke his laptop, he said, “I’m okay. I just hurt my foot at my friend’s house and limping down the stairs made me drop my laptop and I THINK I BROKE IT!”

Trying my best to get him to forget the laptop without actually making the mistake of saying those words again, I said, “Take off your shoe and sock and let me take a look.” He tried to tell me that it was fine, it was just a bit sore and swollen, that it was no big deal. Remembering that I had someone waiting for me, I told him, “Stop arguing with me and let me take a look at your damned foot!”

That is when I saw it: the swollen and already bruised mess of a foot. This foot once was a sweet, Flinstone type, baby foot. However, in the last year, it has begun transforming into a man foot, currently made more manly, as it was swelling and turning black. He kept trying to reassure me that all was okay with him, that the real victim was his laptop. That is, until I pressed on one of his joints, which caused him to exclaim, through a yelp, “Okay! Maybe my foot isn’t fine. BUT I THINK I BROKE MY LAPTOP!”

Trying my best to remain patient over his obvious misguided priorities, I informed him that we would be having to make a trip to the emergency room. I quickly ran back to my computer, got the next personality settled, arranged for someone to deal with the autodj in the event I was not back within 4 hours, arranged for a ride to the ER, told him to put his sock and shoe back on his foot and told him NOT TO MOVE!

I was hoping that it would be empty in the ER, for two reasons: 1) Nobody wants to spend their Sunday evening in the ER, especially if they are having to worry that their child is broken; and 2) Lupus + sick people with their germs in the ER = the potential for a lot of bad things. My hopes were quickly smashed to trillions of shards, the moment we arrived. The line to see the Triage nurse began at her desk and ended at the entrance to the ER and that is how it remained for hours. At one point, people were having to wait in line, outside of the doors. Instantly, I prepared myself for a very long night, as I knew he was not critical and there were people with rashes, fevers and coughs (making them automatically more emergent) in line with us.

Finally, it was our turn to see the triage nurse. It was during this time my brain nearly exploded, yet again, when I learned that his foot had been like that for THREE HOURS, before he decided to come home. When he had said, “I just hurt my foot at my friend’s house”, I thought he actually meant he just did it, not that he meant in the “it’s no big deal, it is only a hurt foot” new fangled way kids talk, sense. I think my head may have pivoted, or something, and I found myself asking him three times, “You did this 3 hours ago and you didn’t come home?!?” because I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

The nurse proceeded to ask me about his allergies, medical conditions, etc. It tried my best to answer them, without looking back at kid2 and asking him the same question over and over. The entire time, my brain was overloading and doing it’s circular thinking thing, trying to assimilate that my child waited 3 hours before coming home, with his only concern being for his laptop.

The nurse finally cleared us from triage and waved us down to the registration desk, where I proceeded to instill into Kid2 that if any thing like this were to happen again, he is to immediately come back home. I must have told him, “If ANY THING like this happens again, you are to immediately come home” more times than I realised, as I was met with an exacerbated sigh and, “ALRIGHT MUM! I get it! Next time, I’ll come home, right away! SHEESH!”

Finally, we were able to take our seats in the waiting area and 30 minutes of failing to remain calm upon the realisation that my child has odd priorities, turned into magic.

He brought his iPod with him to keep him occupied during the wait. It was the first time I was ever happy that his dad had purchased it for him. He showed me all of his different apps and we discussed them whilst he played. It was a wonderful distraction from his hurting foot, the fact we were in the ER with what he was hoping was his first broken bone (something about battle wounds) and it allowed my brain to slightly distract itself from those who had fever, coughs and weird rashes.

After waiting for about 30 minutes, we were finally called in the treatment area. And that is when the real magic began.

We geeked out over so many different things. I also ended up learning a lot about the way his brain works during the process. We were discussing what he thought was better: Marvel or DC. This taught me that his brain works even more similarly to mine than previously thought.  Where I see the world as either “loud” or “muted”, he describes those things in “bold” and “flat”. An example of this is when he told me about his preferences and why. He told me he prefers DC over Marvel, not only because he thinks DC is more mature that Marvel but because DC is “bold” in his brain and Marvel is “flat.” He then told me that he sees most of the world as either “bold” or “flat” and he has a hard time describing things to other people, as those are the only words he can think of to illustrate it in any fashion. Immediately, I knew exactly what he meant when he said that and it was all I could do to not squee.

I have a hard time communicating the world to people, as I don’t really see my environment as “normals” do. It made me extremely happy that I actually got what he was saying. It made me even happier that he had someone he could describe the world to in such a fashion, who would just get it and nod, knowingly.

I considering him for a moment and I considered the situation. This prompted me to ask, “What would you do if you didn’t have a geeky mum? What would you do if you couldn’t share all of these things with me?” He replied, “I’d probably never speak because I’d have nobody who understood what I am talking about, especially when I have to use words like “bold” and “flat”. It is hard to talk with people sometimes.” Immediately, I understood exactly how he felt.

He went into his quiet place for a few moments. I considered him some more and asked, “Do you think you will have geeky kids?” He replied, “Well IF I have kids, I’m don’t really know. I would like them to be geeky so I can share with them like we do. But what if they’re not geeky, mum? How would I be able to talk with them?” I smiled and responded, “Well, I’m not sure if I’d worry about that, too much. I mean, look at you and your brother. You are both very individual people. However, you and your brother are my personality, split right down the middle. Your brother is my nerdy, scientific, overly rational side. You are my geeky, artistic, creative side. Yes, there are a few overlaps, but overall, you and your brother are me but split in half. Look at Auntie Catherine and your cousin. They are very similar as well. And I think you’ll marry an intelligent woman and end up having intelligent children.” That is when things went sideways, but in a wonderful direction. Well, wonderful to me but I’m not sure what those, who were listening to our conversation, thought about it.

He looked at me and asked, “What if I don’t get married. Then I won’t have any kids.” I chuckled and replied, “You don’t NEED to get married. Okay, then. Let me rephrase. I think you’ll enter a long-term, committed relationship with an intelligent woman and end up having intelligent children.” Mistakenly, I thought it was time to move on to the next topic of conversation.

Without pause, he asked, “Well what if I have sex with a girl who is delayed, mentally, the condom breaks and I end up getting her pregnant?” I responded, “I don’t think you’ll have sex with someone who has special needs. You are not going to be an asshat and take advantage of someone in such a fashion.” To which he replied, “But what if I get drunk, have sex with a girl who is delayed, the condom breaks and she gets pregnant?” With a mix of amusement and shock, I responded, “Well that is a asshat move and I didn’t raise an asshat who disrespects women in such a fashion. And if for some reason, that were to happen, then you’ll figure it out then. Regardless, the child will still be wonderful because it is yours and you are wonderful. Are you finished asking me the less likely scenarios?” He told me he was and he was ready to move to the next topic. (I think I taught him way too well to look at all sides of an equation and plan for all possibilities).

We continued discussing many other topics of nerd and geek nature, much the amusement of those around us. And then it was time for his x-ray and something else happened that I found to be so very wonderful and amusing.

As the x-ray tech was manipulating his foot and taking the films, she kept asking him questions about school and the sorts of things he is in to. He’d respond and then she’d turn to me and say, “Wow. He is so mature for 11.” Or she would try to repress a big laugh, smile to me and say, “Your child is such a doll. He is so well spoken and polite, especially for 11. I think he is great.”  The x-ray tech was taking the final film, when she asked him, “When I’m done here, would you like a sticker?” To my great pleasure and to her pleasure and amusement, he replied, “Nah. That’s okay. I’m not really partial to stickers. It is best if you keep it for the next kid.” She tried her best to repress her “awwwwh” as she gave me another “wow” and said to him, “Are you sure? They are glow in the dark!” To which he said, “Nah. Really. I’m okay.” She decided to tear one off of the strip anyway, walked over to him and said, “Look. They aren’t “kid” stickers. I think you’ll like this one.” He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Okay. I suppose I’ll take it. I can bring it to school and brag to all my friends about how I had my first x-ray and here is the proof.” She tried her best to repress her laugh, but didn’t quite succeed.

We went back to the treatment area, where kid2 began to bombard me with questions about why I had to stand behind the wall with the x-ray tech. I told him that it was because it protects me from the radiation. A little bit horrified, he asked, “So it is okay for ME to be bombarded with radiation.. .me… a kid… but not you??” I repressed another laugh as I responded, “In normal circumstances, it is not okay. But these are not normal circumstances. Exposing you to radiation was necessary to take the x-ray. Had the situation been reversed and I needed the x-ray, you’d have been behind the wall during the process, in order to limit the exposure as best as possible.” With that, he breathed a sigh of relief and we were able to move on.

A little more time went on. We learned his foot was not broken, it was only badly bruised and sprained, much to his displeasure. (He was really wanting it to be broken). And just under 3 hours after arrival, we were able to go home, passing the still revolving door of walk-in patients.

I know I’m missing a lot of pieces from this story. However, despite the horrible circumstances surrounding the bonding time, it was one of the best times we’ve had in a while. Sure, we are always talking and sharing. Our days are spent exchanging geek banter. But that night we shared things on a level that we hadn’t shared in quite a while, allowing me to see him in a whole new light and gaining better understanding of who he is, how he thinks and just how amazing he is.

And I am glad for it.

More Mind Exploding Talent From Kid2

September 24th, 2010

I’m going to keep this short and sweet. Kid2 finished writing this yesterday. And remember folks, he is 11. I can’t wait for this to finally have some music behind it. If you haven’t heard his other partial song, check out this post.

So Crazy


When the dragon squeals the secret is revealed
And tells me the story on why every body heals
And why every body gets a second chance
Except me and shuts me in the dark
In a closet of skeletons that scared me

Verse 1:

When I was just a boy
When I would just play with my toys
When I go to sleep my closet
Would make so much noise
And you think it is cool to trap me here
Face to face with all my sins
That are cased up in a ton of bins


My life’s so crazy
But I can’t seem to shake the fact that
I’m just so crazy
And I won’t live to see the world end
My life is over
And I can’t take any more of this torture
That you have brought upon me
Why oh why

Verse 2:

This is how I do it this is how I survive
The torture of you and many I have hidden
And taken away so that no one will ever face
The devil that I am and that I make people believe in
I am evil I am a vicious crazy lunatic
I am psychopathic I am more or less about it
That’s all about it I’m crazy


My life’s so crazy
But I can’t seem to shake the fact that
I’m just so crazy
And I won’t live to see the world end
My life is over
And I can’t take any more of this torture
That you have brought upon me
Why oh why

Verse 3:

That is my story this is the end
I say it once I don’t want to say it agian
I’m crazy but I stand in front of you all
Powerful after the danger I went through
It’s terrible I admit it now
I’m never going to again
I am a terrible man
With a terrible brain


My life’s so crazy
But I can’t seem to shake the fact that
I’m just so crazy
And I won’t live to see the world end
My life is over
And I can’t take any more of this torture
That you have brought upon me
Why oh why

In Which Kid2 BLOWS MY FRACKING MIND With Amazing Talent

September 22nd, 2010

I just came home from a short walk with kid2. I am not well and thought the walk, even so it really hurt, would be good for the both of us. We have some of the most amazing conversations while we are walking.

On this walk there were many hilarious moments, leading me to ask him, “Do you mind if I tweet this when we get home?” He responded, “Nope. I don’t mind at all. Then you can show the entire world how your brain fails in both hilarious and awesome ways.” One such moment of fail occurred when he was painting for me a picture, with very vivid details, of a book his class is currently reading. And then this moment:

Kid2: […] You know how there are islands off the coast of California? The island was inspired by one of those islands.

Me: Yes, I do know. Azkaban being one of those islands.

Kid2: Really? She named the prison in Harry Potter after one of those islands?

Me (bewildered): Wait. No. I meant to say Alcatraz .

Kid2: Didn’t that use to be a prison for the worst criminals?

Me: Yes.

Kid2: Well then I guess I can understand how you mixed the two up.

Throughout the walk, he kept making me laugh and telling me the most amazing stories. And the way he was telling the stories was actually a work of art and so very entertaining. In case you don’t know, when kid2 grows up, one of the many things he wants to be is a writer. He has been using his writing voice more and more while he speaks. It really is art in motion. I had told him that I need to start bringing my digital audio recorder with me when we go for walks because these conversations are just so fantabulous.

Kid2: No!

Me: Why not?

Kid2: Because you’ll post our convos on the internets and you do not have my permission for that.

Me: *sigh* Fine.

We continued our walk and that is when he blew me away even more! Aside from writing prose, he has been writing a number of songs recently. He was talking with me about his creative process and how he finds he gets his best ideas while he is alone in the morning, walking to school. How it is frustrating when noises from the outside world disrupt him when he is busy thinking and creating (this is when I said, “Now you know how I feel when you interrupt me while I’m writing and creating). And that is when it happened. He shared with me one of his unfinished raps.

This is not mother’s pride speaking when I say it is brilliant! And keep in mind, he is only 11. If he is coming up with this type of lyric at 11, he has a very amazing future ahead of him (he just finished telling me that one day I’ll be interviewing him). With a little bit of “AWWWWW PLEASE! Don’t make me beg.. PLEASE”, I was able to convince him to record this piece of awesome and let me share it with you all.

The Boy – By Kid2

Hey I’m not Dre
I’m not Slim Shady
I’m a boy who can rap
Rap stuff you can’t
Rap stuff that can run you over
As fast as you can puff

Puff the stuff your mom does
The stuff that gets you high
The stuff that lies
You know the stuff that dies
When you smoke it
It goes to your heart and strokes it
Pokes it then you’ll die

Die like how Freddy Krueger died
By Eminem, 50 cent, Dr Dre
And now I
I bye liddidy diddy die
If you don’t shut up
I might cry
Then beat your head with an extra 5

By 5 I mean an extra fist
That will come and strike your dick
Oops did I say that in a song
No no don’t take me to jail
I know I failed
Failed like Luke Skywalker ’cause
He turned to the dark side
And Leia killed him
Took him and shot him with his own gun
What a bum

Saturday Simplicity

September 18th, 2010

I’m ill. I’m ill to the status of turning into a “sucky baby”. I don’t complain unless it is really bad. My Lupus is really trying to kick my ass, showing me no mercy. I haven’t had a flare last for this long in a very long time. Even so I always live with a good amount of pain, I had forgotten just how bad bad can be. I’ve been running a fever since I awoke yesterday. Today, I woke up with mouth ulcers. I’m grumpy. I’m irritable. I’m liable to lash out at any poor unsuspecting soul. But thank Bob for my children. At least they can keep me laughing through all of this.

It started this morning. I got up feeling like shit and as if someone beat the crap out of me in my sleep, yet again. I put on my glasses and hobbled down to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. I sat down in front of my computer to check my email and Twitter while I waited for the blessed coffee to brew. Because I’m ill, my vision is also being affected and every thing was blurry and as if it had a white film across it. That is when the following conversation took place:

Me: Where are my glasses?

Kid2: What?

Me: I can’t find my glass. Help me find them. (Starts searching). Wait. Never mind. They are on my face.

Kid2: BWAHAHAHA! OMG! I thought that only happens in movies! Too funny. Mom, that was pro. You are so fail today! Way too funny, mom.

Shortly afterward, his dad picked him up to do some clothes shopping. Upon his return, I hear the following:

Kid2: Mom, look at this! I picked it out all on my own. You want it, don’t you? You’re jealous aren’t you? You’d wear this to your next convention, wouldn’t you?

Me: OMG! DUDE! That is so awesome! YES! I do want it! Man, you’re awesome!

Kid2: *giggles* I knew it!

And just now, the following conversation occurred while I was outside getting some fresh air as I’m burning up.

(After Kid2 and his friend rounded the corner into the backyard)

Kid2’s friend: I hear that you can walk on your hands.

Me: Yes, I can.

Kid2: She can also lick her elbows! I don’t know how she does it. It is freaky but still cool. Mom, show her!

Me: Honey, I’m not feeling well. My body really hurts right now. Otherwise, I’d love to show my freaky skills.

(Kid2 and Kid2’s friend try to lick their elbows while conversing over how they don’t understand how it is possible.)

Me: Fine! I’ll do it! (licks elbow).

Kid2’s friend: WOW!

Kid2: SEE! Told you! They say it isn’t possible to lick your elbows, but my mom can!

Me: Well, what “they” say is false. It isn’t impossible, it is just rare.

Kid2 to his friend: She makes a good point. My mom is a rare breed of person. It is one of the things that makes her so awesome. She’s rare and weird but in a really good way. (To Me) She also doesn’t believe that you squee’d when I showed you my Mario shirt.

Me: Yes, I did squee.

Kid2’s friend: Then you’d squee over my brother’s shirt as he has the same one.

Me: I probably would.

Kid2: Okay, mom. I have to go into the back forest now. I left my winter coat back there.

Me: Why is your winter coat back there?

Kid2: Because I needed it to sing The Mountain Climber song while climbing trees.

Despite feeling like death waiting to happen, at least I can look forward to a day filled with laughter.