My Blah-Blah-Blog

I was watching a television show the other day and a woman was in the midst of childbirth: there was much panting, wailing, gnashing of teeth and I’m sure some cursing, not to mention blood sweat and tears, not necessarily in that order. I rolled my eyes a little as I recounted my own childbirth experience 11 years ago at 3:20 this morning.

See, I pretty much slept through the entire birth of my first child, not by choice mind you,  and not because I have super hero powers residing in my loins that cause child birth to be a painless breeze. No, no, not at all. Let me tell you how it all went down.

May 16, 1999. I was about 38 weeks preggers with my daughter. I was working full time and barely had a nursery ready when at around 3 that afternoon – my day off – I got a phone call from my OBGYN (for you who don’t know, that’s a baby doctor/vagina doctor all rolled into one). Well, not my real OB, but the one on call. MY doctor happened to be out of town on vacation (and oddly enough returned from vacation three years later the day before my son was born). She wanted me to know that I’d have to come to the hospital as soon as possible to be induced as my protein levels were out-of-control and too high for the health of the baby.

I was super annoyed because 1) I had to work the next day and 2) I wasn’t ready for the baby yet (I still had two weeks!) and 3) I hadn’t had lunch yet, much less dinner.

I was NOT ready for this kid. But, like any other mom-to-be who suddenly goes into labor, I found myself realizing that the end was indeed in sight and I needed to get my butt in gear and get to the hospital. No time to do anything other than grab an overnight bag for me and the baby and a carseat and off I went to the hospital. I debated on grabbing some food to go on my way in but I remembered that it’s recommended you don’t eat just before going into labor. Tell that to all the women who have a wonderful meal just before the first labor pangs… they don’t seem to complain much.

Well anyway, off to the hospital I go since it was SO urgent to get there. I got checked in, wheeled in to a nice little room, and was told to wait for the doctor.

That’s when I realized how hungry I was since it was about 6:00. Nope, nothing to eat said the nurse.

Then I got a case of heartburn so bad I thought I could spit fire. I BEGGED for some relief and the nurse reluctantly brought me a small dixie cup of what tasted like Sprite syrup with battery acid mixed in (it burned going down!). Hungry, heartburn-ridden and developing a headache, I realized in my misery that I was definitely not looking forward to having a giant baby head squeezed out of my nether-regions.

Not to worry. Apparently the doctor didn’t want me to deliver the baby until the next morning anyway, (see how urgent my case was?). She had mercy on my nerves and authorized a horse-sized hospital-strength (read: coma inducing) sleeping pill. I took it with some nice water (which unfortunately did not cure the fire that roared in my esophagus). It must have been around 12:30 or so. I was looking forward to a nice rest.

She also authorized another medication: a little, erm, insert pill thingie that would induce labor. Not to worry she said, again. It would take all night to kick in so that I’d have a slow, easy start to labor in the morning after a nice night’s sleep from the sleeping pill.

Tucked in, lights turned down, I turned on the TV. A League of Their Own was on. The last thing I remember was Tom Hanks speaking one of my favorite movie lines “There’s no crying in baseball!” before I drifted off to sleep.

Only to awake about 30 seconds later to find that holy ^%($ I am not feeling so good in my girl areas and what the hell my water broke. Zzzzz. Wait, what is happening? Holy hell I’m in FREAKING zzzzzzzzzzzzz. I’m in FREAKING labor y’all! ZZzzzzz

Have you ever tried to complete a task while dozing off? You know, nodding off at work while typing? Stuff like that? Well can you imagine the same sort of dozing off while getting ready to have a baby!?!??!?!

I don’t remember much from that night except everyone being incredibly amazed that I went into labor and popped out my firstborn in a record 45 minutes start-to-finish. My then-husband kept drinking cup after cup of coffee to stay awake but was struggling too (only to find out that the hospital was 7th day Adventist and didn’t serve caffeinated drinks).

I vaguely remember seeing that little round baby face with teeny tiny red lips and thinking “she looks like my grandfather” and hoping that maybe she was really a he if she was going to look like a boy.

And I remember the new nurse on duty turning up my oxygen and asking me to repeat my name and birthday and other information because she didn’t realize my narcoleptic behavior was caused by a sleeping pill but thought I was drifting in and out of consciousness from the strain of labor.

Not.

I may have mumbled out my daughters name before completely passing out. It wasn’t until early the next morning that I was awoken by a new nurse drawing blood – as if I had any left.

When they brought me my little bundle of joy, I was ecstatic to discover she did not look at all like a man, and I called my parents who lived so far away so they could hear their first grandchild cry.

And now, 11-years later, I find I am still sleep-deprived, narcoleptic and trying to accomplish tasks feeling as such. I still get heartburn and headaches and will never leave the house hungry.

And, 11-years later, I look at my daughter and see how beautiful and lovely she is, looking like a little miniature version of me and my mom all mixed into one, with a little bit of my grandfather in there somewhere, too.

It may not have been a tale worthy of A Baby Story, more like Birth: FAILS instead. But for that little package of joy that I received that day, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Not even a nap.

“You’re not like other women I know” he said. “You’re different. You’re smart, you’re beautiful. I find myself very attracted to you. You’re the only one I’ve ever thought about this way.” He said this while flipping that damned holster button. And then he walked away.

I was speechless. Never had I been so attracted to a man in my LIFE and had him reciprocate like that. I was certain he was out of my league. Even the most clever and witty phrase I could come up with was junk compared to his. My most brilliant IQ score would pale in comparison to his if he took the test blindfolded.

He’d call me on our days off and we’d chat and laugh and talk about everything and anything. He’d flirt, but just enough to let me know he had an attraction, but never crossed a line to make me feel uncomfortable.

One day, he brought me a Dove ice-cream bar while I was working. It was a treat, a surprise, and it made me feel like he was okay with other people know we talked.

But other people were *not* okay that we talked. One Richard to be exact. He’d become one of my really good friends that I trusted, enough to where he had a key to my apartment. He took advantage of this and one day he went into my house and read all of the emails that Curtis and I had exchanged.

He approached me, yelling at me for not telling him I had a boyfriend (say what?!). He said he thought HE was my boyfriend. He said he was going to go to the Captain to let him know I was in a relationship with Curtis and that we shouldn’t be on the same shifts.

To my surprise, he even confronted Curtis outside of the PD one day. They had a pretty intense discussion according to Curtis who told me what had happened. He said this to me: “[Richard] said he was going to tell the Captain that we’ve been seeing each other. He also said he would be willing to fight with me for you. I told him I would fight just as hard.”

Doesn’t this sound like it’s from a book?

Then Curtis asked me to meet him to chat for a few minutes. I did. He told me that he’d been contemplating ending his relationship with his current girlfriend, and that he wanted to be with me. But there was a problem: Richard had told him that we’d been seeing each other for months, that we were very serious and that we were going to move in together. I was incensed, angry, mad. He said we should make an effort to not speak to each other for a few days to see what Richard was going to do, to see how the department would respond.

The next day Richard and I both worked together. We were in a hallway and I was so angry that he was saying things to the Captain, lying to Curtis about our relationship. We stepped into a small side-room so nobody could overhear our conversation but at some point a Sergeant did, and he called us out saying we were stupid for having this discussion at work and that he’d have to let the Captain know.

It was such a mess. My heart hurt so bad every night, knowing I could have been with Curtis, knowing I should never have trusted Richard as much as I did, that maybe if I’d realized he wanted more of our relationship or thought more of our relationship than I did. I was so, so mad at him. I’d had enough drama at the PD and I did NOT need this to top it all off.

Sure enough, the rumor mill started up and the politicking began. I was told I was not permitted to work shifts with or speak to either Curtis OR Richard, that my permanent file would have a note on it about the situation and about my stirring up the situation with Richard at work and pulling him into what could have been a domestic at work. I was even strongly encouraged NOT to speak to either off duty as well. I was so mad. I didn’t even get to tell my side of the story.

I didn’t see or talk to Curtis much after that. One day he was on a call and a lady went crazy after he arrested her and was putting her into his vehicle. From what I remember, she started kicking at him and broke a few ribs. I was so upset when I heard he was hurt. I just wanted to be sure he was okay and tell him that I’d quit the PD if I had to, just so we could be together.

I made him some brownies and brought them in to the PD (which everyone else ate, I don’t remember if he ever got any!) I hoped things would soon blow over and maybe we could revisit our relationship, but it never happened.

I had to quit my job a few weeks later. Curtis called me once to ask if I was okay. He said he was going to quit soon as well because what of what happened and how it was handled.

Years later I heard Curtis was in a coma. I cried and prayed for days and days and days that he’d come out of it. If anyone deserved it, it was Curtis.

He did come out of it. He married his long-time girlfriend and made a life together. I moved on in my own life, but never did I find a guy who made me feel like Curtis did. Every now and then I’d dream about him, that we were together. The feelings that would stick with me the whole next day and my heart would hurt and I’d wish things were different.

My heart hurts just as much today, only more so. Curtis died a week ago. He’s gone. All that was brilliant and wonderful is gone from this world. He impacted many people.

I hear his funeral was perfect for someone of his caliber. I wish I could have been there. However, I can barely look at the photos from his memorial page on the web. It hurts an awful lot. Knowing I could have been with him, maybe his life would have been different, or maybe it would have had the same awful outcome.

Either way, I hope he is at peace and resting well.

URTOO: U R the only one.

His radio number was 334. He was one of the most handsome men I’d ever met. Smart, intelligent and quiet. He was one of the Corporals at the police department where I’d started a new job as a 911 dispatcher. I was married at the time but in the beginning stages of moving out and filing for restraining orders and a divorce. A few months in to working at the PD and I was friends with pretty much everyone, and another officer had made an extra effort to befriend me. He helped me out with my then 2-year old daughter if I had an emergency, checked in on us after we’d moved into our own place since I had lots of worries about my ex. He liked me a lot and I liked him too, but not as much as he’d have liked. We’ll call him Richard, because I always thought he looked like the shoe bomber Richard Reid.

Back to 334. I don’t remember how it all started really, but I was working in dispatch and 334 came in to the dispatch room to pick up some paperwork for a call he’d been on.  I handed it over to him and asked my own question. I think I was asking him if he’d ever read an obscure book before because I was trying to remember a detail in it that was bothering me. To my surprise, he rattled off the entire name, the author and gave me a brief summary. All while standing next to me, his arm draped over the partition and his other hand resting on his gun holster, flicking on the button tab that secures the weapon in. At first glance I thought he was flipping part of his gun and would likely shoot off his foot but when I realized it was just the button, well, I decided it was definitely sexy.

But shame shame on a married girl and no doubt this handsome and super-smart guy would neeehheeever be interested in the likes of me. So I decided I should instead just pay attention to this Corporal who was a wealth of knowledge and information, both professionally and personally (cause good Lord he knew a LOT!).  And so I did! I looked forward to every shift we worked together. At some point, we’d eventually bump into each other in the hall or in dispatch and we’d trade pleasantries and talk about the books we were reading. I found out he was from Rhode Island and liked to cook. He liked the Crocodile Hunter and had read enough of the “How To Survive…” book to know how to survive in any situation. He had a particular way of speaking, sort of a slow, deliberate way.  I loved, loved working with and getting to know this man.  He talked about his girlfriend and listened to me talk a little about my situation.

One day I wanted to go on a ride-along. I was going to go with another officer when the sergeant on duty switched me to ride with Curtis. I knew it would be an interesting night because he’d likely tell me every single historic detail about the city, call history for streets and houses that we’d pass, and he’d likely quiz me on policy and procedure for calls he’d make up.

Our first call was boring, the second was a traffic stop. As he got out of the car he leaned in the open window and said, hand resting on holster, “I’ll be right back.”  It was pretty hot.

He took me to dinner and we had a few more calls but nothing too terribly exciting. We went back to the department and he did paperwork while I hung out in dispatch. Then we got a call for a domestic in progress. It was a good one! I was so excited to go to a good call like this, so I hightailed it out to jump back into our car. Well don’t you know, Curtis left me behind!?!?!? I was super annoyed but realized he didn’t have time to wait around for me so we could leave for a domestic, so it was all good. It would have been my last call anyway since the shift was almost over.

I got an email from him the next day about that last call for the night. “I didn’t want you to have to see that.” Is what it said. Sweet ole Curtis was being sensitive to my own domestic experience and didn’t want to expose me to anything that could have been traumatic or dangerous. What a nice guy.

I bought a fake snake and put it by his vehicle one day before a shift started. He of course picked it up and called in service with “one reptilian rider” on board. That snake later became involved in a story that involves beer as evidence and what I thought was for SURE the end of my career as a dispatcher (I’ll post this soon. It’s pretty funny!).

Things were wonderful, great. I was looking forward to getting my divorce and my career was looking up.

One day Curtis and I were talking about im-speak – shortening words to fit better into instant messages and texts. You know, stuff like LOL or OMG.

I got an instant message from Curtis one day. It said URTOO. I didn’t know what it meant. I had to ask him.

And that is the day Curtis turned my world upside-down.

This world is swallowing me whole. It seems it’s stolen my very soul.

Something just ticked me off (surprise).

My 10-year old daughter called her dad to say hey. This after she went through an elaborate sneaky plan to buy me a surprise gift at Target for Mother’s day with her own money that she was SUPPOSED to spend on herself.

Not two minutes into the conversation he says to her “So, did you get so-and-so (his wife) something for Mother’s  Day?”

SCRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETCH.

WHAT?  Hold the freaking phone. Number one, she ain’t her momma. Number two, he knows Little Miss doesn’t have money coming out of her ears and he also knows I’ve just been laid off and we’re tightening our belts. Number three, new wife has been nasty enough to Little Miss to make her not want to visit very often.

“Uhm, oh uh wow I feel SO BAD. I totally forgot. I need to go get her something.” she said. They talked for a few more minutes and hung up. Then I said – with best intentions I SWEAR “Well honey, she’s not your mom. Don’t feel bad about it!”

Well that hurt her feelings too and she said “Well, I think of her as my mom too” and walked away.

Sure. That hurt my feelings. A LOT. Especially since I know what my daughter has been through with this woman (and for sake of keeping this blog post short I won’t go into the whole story).  Not to mention they’ve only visited with each other for maybe a total of 1 summer and 2 Christmases, hardly enough time to bond as mother/daughter.

I have no problems with step-parents sharing in this holiday. MANY step-parents love their step-children as much as their own biological kids and should be celebrated. But this woman has done NOTHING to nurture either of my two kids. Short of manipulating them and being a sugar-momma for their dad, she’s really done nothing for them. Seriously.

I don’t think it was right for their dad to say that to Little Miss. She doesn’t need to feel bad about that. The wife shouldn’t EXPECT the kids to send/give her anything even if they did  have a great relationship. Heck, *I* don’t even expect anything from my kids. I’m lucky if another adult reminds them it’s my birthday or Mother’s day and then I get a hand-made card that was made 2 minutes before it was presented to me.

It’s the gifts that my children WANT to give me that mean the most, not one that I drop hints to get so I feel special or good about myself. Seriously, if this woman hadn’t treated my kids harshly enough to cause one to need a few sessions of counseling (you think I’m kidding) then I’d have probably suggested a card and a gift my own self.

For my daughter’s sake I’ll encourage both kids to make a little card to send in the mail, but that’s about all I plan on doing right now.

Am I being unreasonable? Unforgiving? Immature? Or do you feel my pain????

The other day the kids and I were watching Star Trek The Throwback Edition. As in not the most recent movie, but The Wrath of Khan and The Search for Spock. The same two movies which elicited “Were these made in the 1700′s” by my apparent movie guru 10-year old daughter when she saw the special effects. I suppose movie magic from the 80′s for her is akin to the movie magic from the 60′s as in stop-action  by Ray Harryhausen of Jason and the Argonauts, Clash of the Titans and Sinbad (if you haven’t seen any of those, you really should just for pop culture sake!)

But I’m not here to talk about movies. I’m here to talk about something I have to do but don’t want to do.

In Star Trek (Spoilers – don’t read on if you haven’t seen the movies)

… Spock sacrifices his life to save the crew of the Enterprise. He says that doing so embodies the design of self-sacrifice for the greater good: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few” or something like that. Google it. Anyhoo, Jim Kirk comes to realize that once in a while, the need of the one outweighs the need of the many and blah blah good karma happy thoughts to all.

Today I’m signing a paper. It’s a paper I don’t want to sign. I don’t want to sign it because I feel I’m selling out – myself and my friends. Of whom I feel all have in some way or another have been wronged – by gossip, negativity, all those toxic things that are hurtful and damaging. I’m the one who will say – Hey I’m going to stick up for everyone regardless of the consequences. Someone has to!

The problem here – I have kids. Two of em to be exact. So doing this thing I don’t want to do will be better for them. It pretty much means an extra paycheck which will cover our rent for the month. That’s pretty important. I suppose feeding and sheltering my kids always trumps doing the ‘right’ thing or standing up for myself or others.

So I gotta do what I gotta do. The needs of my kids outweigh the needs of me or anyone else.

But, not all is lost and I’m sure there will be a time when sticking up and speaking up will be appropriate. And believe you me, I’m going to have a lot of satisfaction in doing it.

I’ve noticed recently that a lot of people say they are working on a book.  There’s no mention of what kind of book, if it’s a biography or fiction or sci-fi fantasy or smut-tastic novella. I wonder how many of these people just think they have the next smashing success a’la Harry Potter or if they have that inner drive to write – if you’re a writer then you know what I’m talking about: the craving to write down something, anything.

I’ve loved to write since I was a little girl. I wrote “books” by the dozens starting off in the first grade. I still have a few somewhere that have been saved. My favorite is a Christmas story about Timmy the Mouse who gets caught up in a Christmas tree because of his disobedience to his parents. It wasn’t but 10 or 15 years ago that I wanted to write a book about a little girl whose parents were missionaries and she got to experience cultures and languages and people groups from all over the great big world, learning simple phrases in their languages as she went from place to place and of course this knowledge was passed on to the reader. (Dora beat me to it. Swiper!)

Recently I’ve been told numerous times that I should write a book, and if not a book then I should write SOMETHING, anything. I’ve experienced so much, been through so much, learned so much that surely sharing my life with the world could help at least one person!

Every now and then I think to do it. I even have a title picked out. I know what I’d share, maybe not how just yet. As in, would I write a self-help book? What to do if?? Would it be written third person or first person and read like a novel, but be pure non-fiction, the story of me?

One thing I do know is keeping me from writing a book.

I don’t yet have a happy ending.

I was at work today when my boss came in to my office to ask me a question about Easter dresses for little girls (I have a 10-year old daughter).

First of all let me say that my daughter thinks my boss is the bees knees. She met her about two years ago and they instantly hit it off as my boss graciously listened to the precocious chatter of a young girl and shared similar likes (books, reading, etc) and even came up with a nickname for my son – Booger – although I should probably let her know that Farter is now more appropriate.

Anyway, said boss has the cool office with knick-knacks and bobble heads and trinkets galore, enough to entertain even the most easily bored person on the planet. Top off her super cool office with her genuine chuckle that makes me smile when I hear it (she also whistles now and again which is a happy sound to me).  She’s just a really funny person.

She is also a very generous person. She’s given Little Miss cool books to read for her birthday, and for the past two Christmases has given some sort of food-providing program donation in honor of the company/coworkers. Christmas is usually the time I start thinking about being generous to others.

So what do dresses, little girls and my boss have in common?

Hang on I’m getting there.

Miss Boss came into my office today asking me about Easter dresses. You see, her church has a program akin to the Christmas tree where you pick up info on a youngster and provide an Easter outfit or other need for them. She’s getting a 10-year old girl a dress. And maybe some shoes. I wouldn’t put it past her to get a purse and a hat and gloves and a real-live bunny if she thought the little girl would enjoy it.

I thought it was so sweet and thoughtful of her. I remember when I was a little girl, even a young teenager, and going on the crazy, headache-inducing shopping trip that was “Find an Easter dress” with my mom. All the angst of shopping couldn’t douse my excitement Easter morning when I carefully pulled on my brand-new white tights, zipped up my new pretty dress, buckled up my white and unscuffed Mary Jane shoes (they always had black scuffs by the end of the day!) and put on my new hat and Easter gloves, topped off with a new Easter purse. The super girly ruffly-bottomed bloomers I never got, however. =)

I haven’t always been able to provide brand new Easter outfits for my own 10-year old, and I think her last 5 or 6 get-ups have been too-big hand-me-downs or just her best yes-I-know-you-wore-that-last-year-but-hush-and-put-it-on blouse and skirt. We always made do and my kids have never whined or complained about it in the end.

To know some little gal out there is going to be blessed with such a fine dress for a special day makes me feel positively good inside.

I shared this information with my daughter when I got home from work today. She’s inspired too, so much so that she wants to purchase a purse and earrings to give to Miss Boss to donate with her dress.

In reading this I’m aiming for a few things: I hope to inspire you to remember the fun of gussying up for Easter Sunday, whether you are off to church or to share a special family meal. This lovely Spring weather brings with it a reminder that life renews after a long season of gloomy cold, bringing brightness and joy along with colors of Easter flowers and colored-eggs.

New life brings hope to troubled seasons in life.

I see that newness reflected in my own family, particularly my daughter who had her own troubled season last year but is blossoming into a kind, empathetic and generous young lady. I hope her enthusiasm for Miss Boss’ generosity continues to grow as she seeks opportunities to give to others.

I hope you are all encouraged to look around your own church, synagogue, place of worship or community to see the current needs there: clothing, shoes, food, a new backpack, heck – even a hug. Be generous this Spring season and breathe new life into those around you with a positive and caring attitude.

Perhaps a (preapproved) trip with goodies to the children’s ward at the hospital, or woman’s shelter, orphanage or other helpful organization will give YOU the lift you need right now in addition to blessing someone else.

=)