Snowmageddon 2015

We've been slammed with snow this month, and by slammed I mean that I could open my living room window and touch snow.  While the kids are enjoying the days off of school and the endless opportunities for snow fights:

Coffeeguy and I are completely "snowed out."  We have spent our days shoveling

And shoveling....

Aaaand shoveling

Until finally all the shoveling and cold has me dressing like this:

I am ready for Mother Nature to show us a little kindness! There's really nowhere else for the snow to go!

The one thing that has made the shoveling a little easier is this little investment!!

It's called a snow-thrower.  It says online that it's good for 10" of snow, but we've had 27" in the past day and a half alone and it's worked GREAT.  For less than $200 we are now able to cut through the snow in a timely fashion, and then do our neighbor's walk too.  Which is good, because we are due for another snowstorm on Thursday.  

Oh, well!  At least Rose is enjoying herself!

(This was before another 2 feet ended up on top of the tunnel.  You can't even see it now.)

Hope you're staying warm and dry wherever you are!

The Blues

  After my brother passed away, the whole family except for yours truly got the flu.  Take a moment to digest that.  The whole family got the flu. They all started to look like this on Monday afternoon:

   In the scheme of things that might not seem like a big deal, except when you consider the fact that I'm the midst of cooking, cleaning, serving, and caring there is little time left over for grieving.  Add to that the fact that all I wanted all week was for someone to hug me while I cried a river, and I couldn't get a hug from anyone unless I, too, wanted to succumb to this horrible plague.  It's making me a pretty sad elf.  

                 Rose is a sad elf too.

   It's lasted for a week, so far.  So instead of lying in Coffeeguy's arms for comfort, he's on the couch with all his germs and I'm here...in this sea of alone-ness that is my bed.  I can't even call Mom, because she has it worse than any of us, and she's grieving the loss of a son for the second time.  My feeling of alone-ness is only trumped by my feeling of helplessness--there is absolutely nothing I can do to help my mother that my remaining brother isn't already doing..I wanted to end this with the moral to the story, but somehow I'm missing it.  

The Wild Child

For the second time in my life, I lost a brother.  He died on January 6th, 2015.  I wanted to write a new post about him, but my heart is so numb that I can't.  The best I can do is share my eulogy with you, in the hopes that you will find the Wild Child in your life and be a little less exasperated with his/her wild side.  

My big brother C wasn't perfect, but he was perfectly C.  From the moment he could walk, he delighted in turning my mother's hair gray.  He was one of those little kids who would tell any stranger his whole life's story, and who knew everything about them within minutes.  He had a curiosity about the world that was just not contained by the fact that he was a kid.  There was the time when he was three, when he escaped the confines of the house just to go walking down the beach...at 3 am... in his underwear.  He was picked up by the police and returned safely home.  Then there was the time when he was six, when he took his 4 year old brother B "thumbing" on the expressway.  Again, his luck kicked in and he was picked up by a very nice truck driver who delivered him to the police, who figured out that C and B V***** were not their real names and again delivered him to his frazzled parents safely.  There was the crane incident, where he climbed up and fell off, giving himself a concussion and my mother heart palpitations.  It got so bad that when she called the Malden police and said "It's Mrs. B******" they only asked "Does he have the dog with him this time?" Then there were the motorcycle rides.  Lord, the motorcycle rides.  Sometimes he'd give me rides to work, and I'd get there all disheveled and wind-blown because he would pop a wheelie just to make me scream.  He was the "cool" brother back then, the guy who would never grow up.

When we moved away from Dorchester and he came to live with us, there was this room in the basement.  He immediately claimed it.  "The basement?" we all asked.  "Why would you want to live down there?" In about a week, we saw why, as his room was completely set up for his friends to come over and play Dungeons and Dragons on a nightly basis.  

While you could never say C's wild side was tamed--he would hate that--his life changed drastically with the birth of his first baby, his C******* J**.   He was so proud of that baby, and he couldn't wait to show her picture off with every chance he got.  He became a Dad, and something changes in you when you become a Dad.  When we lost my brother J in 2001 and were all so devastated by the loss that we couldn't function, it was somewhat surprisingly C who stepped up to make all the arrangements, doing what the eldest son and a Dad would do.

  

We all changed a little then.  B and C became closer.   Over the years, B has become kind of the caretaker--driving C's girls home, having a place where C could go.  I know that in his grief B thinks he could have done better.  But you have to know, B, you did more than enough, and you were always a rock that C could and we all could anchor to.  

C soon had two little girls to think about, because along came S******* M******.  His little peanut, his S****. 

His girls became the most important thing in his life.  Every time we talked, it was about the girls or the kids.  Any person in this room, if asked, would tell you that they were his whole world.  Our kids have grown up together, so I've gotten to see more of him in the past 14 years than in probably my whole life--I count that as a blessing, even though sometimes it meant having an extra kid along--like the time I had 5 kids at the beach, and they were totally fine, and then he popped by after work and had them jumping in the high waves and giving me a heart attack. He made up for it by insisting on taking all the kids for ice cream... at the other end of the beach...in 98 degree weather.  Or there was the time he took the kids for a walk in my neighborhood and somehow came back soaking wet because he fell in the river--not the kids, C.  Or the time he let them all jump off the dock at the lake, just trying to give me some gray hairs, and telling me they needed a little freedom.

He was a Dad, but he was still the wild child, after all.  

This past November he got diagnosed with colon cancer. They wanted to do surgery early, and he kept telling my mom that all he wanted was to be able to work so that he could afford Christmas gifts for his girls.  She told him that the girls would rather have him for Christmas.  We postponed Thanksgiving so he could have his surgery that Friday, and we got to spend Thanksgiving together when he got out of the hospital on Sunday.  Despite not being able to keep a lick of that food in his stomach, he didn't want to miss it and even mustered up some energy to play with Rose.

When the doctor said he would need to start chemo, he was surprised.  He made sure that he could start the day after Christmas, so that he could have Christmas Day with his beautiful girls.  It was a good day.

The night before he died, he wanted to go to the girls' house in Hull. He often took the train and bus there just so he could see them--no easy task.  He was a little tired from the chemo meds, and he asked if I could drive him to Quincy so he could catch the bus on time.  If you saw the stretch of road he would've had to walk when the bus came late, you would know how much he loved those girls.   I told him I'd just drive him to Hull after I got Punkgirl from dance.  On the way there, we chatted.  He told me the best place to get a car when I need one was not that guy in Brockton --he had good prices because he got a lot of his cars from car wrecks, and that I shouldn't get a car there ever.  He knew because he talked to the guy every time he went there for gas back when he was driving, and he knew this guy's whole life story, just the way he often did as a kid.  

He joked about how he was sure Rose was really one of his kids because she's a wild child, too.  And as usual, he talked about his girls.  I remember him telling me how S**** had over 1000 Instagram followers, and how when she got her 1000th follower you would have thought they hit the lottery.  He was so animated talking about her.  We talked about how C*** was planning for college, how smart she is, and how glad he was his girls were so smart, smarter than him.  We got to talking about how mom is turning 70 this year, and I mentioned that B and I had been checking out halls for a party.  He said "70 that's right...yeah, we should do that.  We should definitely do that, Ma should have a party to celebrate that.  I'll give you some money, too, because I'm going to work on the weeks that I don't have chemo."  Like everyone in our family, I told him that he was crazy, he should rest instead. 

When he got out of the car he did this double tap thing on the top of the car.  You know that cool double tap thing.  Looking back, from the beginning of that car ride, he was just the cool big brother, the wild child, so perfectly C. I know now, he's with my Dad, and J, and everyone else who has gone on.  But when the kids want to jump off the dock, or go into the big waves, or Rose escapes the house one day to go on an adventure, I'll know the wild child is still here cheering them on every step of the way.

Cancer and stuff

It's been a busy couple of months.  

My brother has colon cancer.  He's my oldest brother, and the one who gets in the most trouble, so it should be no surprise that he found out about the cancer by falling down the stairs and breaking his arm, collarbone, and two ribs.  I know, none of these have anything to do with the colon.  I'm assuming they were checking for internal injuries, but with Eldest Brother, who knows?  He doesn't like to ask the doctor questions.

He had surgery to remove the cancer in his colon, but got a call last week saying they were going to do chemotherapy as well.  He'll meet with the doc today.  I sent him a list of questions that I'm certain he won't ask, but it made me feel better to send them.

If your loved one is diagnosed with cancer, ASK questions--when I was diagnosed with a cancerous molar pregnancy (gestational trophoblastic neoplasia that was invading the uterine wal, to be exact--and yes, that definitely conjures up pictures of little grumpy dwarves pick-axing my uterus)-- 

image credit: spongebobandfriendsadventures.wikia.com

I didn't ask enough questions, and later wished I had.

What kind of cancer is it? (Do you know there are many forms of colon cancer? And each one requires slightly different treatment.) What stage is it? (Staging also helps decide course of action.) If I require chemotherapy, will it be intravenous, intramuscular, or pill form? (Mine was intramuscular--a shot in the ass.  I combined that with a leukovorin pill, which kept my hair from falling out and my puke from ending up on the floor.)  Is it hereditary? (I still don't know.) If it's hereditary colon cancer, which kind is it? (There are two.) Should my children be monitored for this?  When will my chemo start, and how many "rounds" will I have to go through (there may be no answer for this, but don't you feel better knowing you asked?) And last, but certainly not least, what experience do you have with this disease?  (Because doctors aren't infallible, and you want one who knows his sh*t.)

So.  Ask your questions.  Get your answers.  Get a second opinion, if so desired.  

Then get treatment, ASAP.  Don't ask the doctor if you can postpone until after Christmas, because the kids would rather have you here for five more Christmases. (Yeah, I'm talking to you, Eldest Brother.). And pray. I'm not a religious person, but it can't hurt.

Good luck, and positive thoughts!

And just to cheer you up after this mostly depressing post, here's a hug:

The "Me Do It" Stage

The "Me Do It" years of a toddler's life can be your salvation or the bane of your existence.  Nine times out of ten, it'll be both.

Rose has hit the "Rose do it" and there are days where it's adorable:

Rose put her rainbow hat and green Froggie boots on all by herself.

And then there are times where it's not so cute.  For instance, today Rose wanted to change her diaper.  "Rose need do it a' by ha-sef!!"  Unfortunately, there was poop in her diaper.  And on her hands.  And on the potty.  Sigh.

I've decided to come up with a plan for Rose so that she can do as much "ha-self" as she possibly can--without getting crap all over my bathroom.

I put out some big shoes:

And lots of hats:

...in the hopes that the more she can do herself the less she will be...toddlerific when I have to help her.  I even bought some pull-ups, in the hopes that letting her pull up her diaper like underwear will give her the feeling that she is doing everything herself.

On the (very) bright side of the "me do it", she loves to help put silverware in the dishwasher, or clean up her toys.

Now if I could just convince her that a cup is much more exciting than breastmilk, I'd be in business!

What's In A Mom?

There are just those days...

There are days where I rail at being home.  The days where I am worried that this is what my kids will see, the laundry lady, the cleaner, and the cook.  Where I fear they won't see me, but rather this temporary version of myself I have become.  The one who can't always get in to take a shower until night-time, because Rose refuses to take a nap that day.  Who doesn't have the energy to bother with makeup and contacts. They won't realize that there's a writer in there, an educated woman, someone who loves deeply and takes chances by trusting people that don't always deserve it, by believing in people who are destined to fail, by giving my heart not in hopes that it won't be crushed but in the certainty that it will be fulfilled.

They won't see the optimist, only the suck-at-home mom.  They won't remember the woman who got up every day and worked hard at her job as a childcare administrator, but only the one who they come home to, who worked equally hard but doesn't have the pen and fingerpaint stains and folded up latex gloves with tissues from the playground in it (because I don't use gloves to wipe Rose's nose, and most times we don't even get to the playground) to prove it.

Then there are days like today, when I think about my childhood.  Before my parents divorced, my mother didn't work--my father never wanted her to.  (No it wasn't Macchiavellian...it was that old fashioned mentality that a man is a man because he provides.) So my mom stayed home.  Some of my greatest memories are going to Woolworth's with Ma.  Visiting Grandma and Grampa with her.  Sitting under the table at her feet while she played cards on Sundays.  The pretty dresses she loved to put me in (though they were damned itchy, back then, with those puffy, scratchy petticoats.)  My mother was the cook, the cleaner, the laundry-woman.  She was the nurse and the teacher.  I never thought of her as any of those things, but only as my mom.  When my parents divorced, she worked long hard hours, and I missed her, but I was still closer to no one.  

I think about those days, and I think I have it pretty great--I have the chance to make my kids look at me the way I always looked at my mom.  And I can live with that.

Tv and Writing Blocks

     I am experiencing an awful writing block, and it's making it difficult to fulfill my promise to myself to write every few days on the blog.  I'm struggling with the direction of the blog, too--after all, I am the Suck At Home Mom, but I am also a complete comic book/comic characters/Cosplay/Doctor Who geek who writes both non-fiction and speculative fiction.  Where does that put Suck At Home Mom's Cranky Blog? Do I use it for these general rants, or use it solely to show you just how sucky I can be at this mom thing?

     Well, just ranting about that is bringing me a few ideas for writing, so that's partially an answer in itself.  

     This week I'm having a hard time avoiding tv.  I used to keep it off all day, and Rose and I would play games, read books, go outside.  But lately she's been hooked on Sully and Mike (Monsters, Inc., Lalo (Lilo and Stitch), and Doc Masuff (Doc McStuffins.)  One part of my brain is yelling at me to shut that stuff off, to engage Rose in a myriad of fun and engaging activities...and the other half is ripping off pieces of duck tape to quiet the more conscientious side, by force if necessary.  

     Don't get me wrong, I don't want her to be like this all day:  

....but is it so wrong to want a little bit of time to write? To have a cup of tea? To pee alone?  

     I chose to have a baby 10 years after the birth of my second child.  I chose to stay home with her.  I brought her into this world with the hope that I would be enough to keep her learning at an appropriate pace, enough to teach her how to be caring, polite, smart, and charming.  I'm doing all of those things, and yet I still feel guilty for the hour of Disney Jr. she just watched.  

     Time to assuage my guilt with a little snuggle time.  What's your guilty mama pleasure?