My story “Hot Enough For Ya?” is up at Lipstick. It has nothing to do with the temperature. The tagline describes my situation well: Life isn’t all a bed of roses when you marry a stud muffin.
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Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Exhausted Mom Seeks Validation
Urine sprinkles on the floor. Smelly cleats. Towels strewn about the bathroom. Boys looking for “lost” items, like the copy of Diary of a Wimpy Kid
The endless runs to Publix. The five gallons of milk per week. The chopping, peeling, sauteeing, baking and stirring, followed by, “What are these little green things in here?”
The pants that fit a month ago that now come to the top of the ankles, and then only if they are pulled precariously low on the waist. The shirts stained with blood, bleach, paint, grass and mysterious substances.
The reminders. “Did you brush your teeth? Is your retainer in? Did you feed the bird? Are the dirty clothes in the laundry hamper? When that dog dies of starvation, you’ll be the one crying, not me.”
The threats. “If you don’t eat that sliver of Brussels sprout you won’t see a scoop of ice cream until 2012. When I say put the clothes in the dryer, I don’t mean next week, I mean NOW. Do I look like a zookeeper? You feed the animals, not me. If I hear anymore arguing about computers, I’m going to slap all of you upside the head and lock you outside!”
It sounds like misery. Sometimes it is.
But then, when you’re about to run away from the lack of gratitude, you paw through a pile of school papers and find a gem that somehow makes it all worthwhile.
Hey Porter– you rock, too.
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Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: The Other Mrs. Glamore
The other day Porter came home from school crying.
“Drew and Jay are always making fun of me and I can’t take it anymore,” he said.
Although they’re in the same grade, Drew and Porter have always been in separate classes, and pretty much maintain distinct groups of friends. Drew has been spending lots of time with Jay lately. He’s a nice enough kid, but it’s clear he wants Drew all to himself.
So in the clumsy way that nine-year-old males behave, Jay has been making mean comments to Porter, and Porter behaves just as desired– he gets upset and runs away, leaving Jay and Drew alone to play.
Drew is miserable, too. Although he’s enjoying the novelty of his new friend, deep inside he knows it’s uncool to diss your brother. And Drew and Porter aren’t regular brothers. Although their personalities could not be more different, as twins, they’ve spent more time together than with anyone else, and they know each other’s strengths and weaknesses.
When the problem first came up, Drew and I had a talk in which I told him that friends come and go, but brothers are forever. Glamores have to stick together. If you can’t count on your family, who can you rely on?
Drew nodded his understanding, but I could tell he was intimidated by Jay and worried about his ability to withstand the peer pressure to make fun of Porter and his friends.
Over the next week, Jay continued his taunting, and Drew didn’t join in, which I counted as a victory. Porter remained pissed off, however, as he felt that Drew had an affirmative duty to tell Jay to go jump in a lake and leave his brother alone.
This led to a second pow-wow I held with both twins. I stressed to Porter that he has to stand up for himself; Drew is not his personal bodyguard. Then Drew and I discussed Jay’s failure to get the message that he wasn’t to mess with Porter. I suggested to Drew that perhaps it was time for him to say something like, “Dude, lay off my brother. He’s not bothering you. Let’s go play on the field.”
The whole incident has left me unsure of myself. My first instinct when something comes up is to teach the boys how to resolve it themselves. I can’t protect them from hurt feelings, and time has already shown that they will never agree on their choice of friends. Maybe I should have handled it differently.
Here’s hoping future therapy bills don’t prove me wrong.
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One year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: The Penis Project And More
My mom died suddenly two and a half years ago . She’d just been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Her cancer was quite advanced by the time it was detected, which is too often the case.
I guess people who haven’t lost a parent think I should “be over it,” but the truth is that I think about her every single day. I don’t guess I’ll ever get over it.
About the only thing I can do is to try and make some good come out of this horrific event. And so, here’s some information about ovarian cancer so that you can help prevent it and throw some money at it if you’re so inclined. It would be fantastic if a cure, or at least a decent method of detection for this deadly cancer could be found.
They call ovarian cancer the disease that whispers. Ovarian cancer is difficult to detect because its symptoms are easily confused with other diseases, such as irritable bowel syndrome. There is no reliable, easy to administer screening tool that can be administered to all women. The blood test that detects a protein in some women with ovarian cancer, the CA-125, often is not positive until the disease is in its later stages. The CA-125 is elevated in only 25-50% of Stage 1 cancers, making it ineffective as a screening tool. Ultrasound can identify masses in the ovaries, but cannot tell if the masses are cancerous or not.
The five year survival rate for women diagnosed when their cancer is in Stage 1 is 90%. The overall five year survival rate for ovarian cancer is 50%. At Stage 3 the five year survival rate is 35-40%.
By the time my mom’s cancer was diagnosed, she was suffering symptoms such as shortness of breath, bloating, and lack of energy. Her doctor drained over a liter of fluid from her abdomen the same day, and she was scheduled for surgery three days later.
I’m sure each of you know someone who’s been touched by ovarian cancer. If you can’t think of anyone offhand, perhaps some of these names are familiar to you: Gilda Radner, Madeline Kahn, Liz Tilberis, Jessica Tandy, and Shari Lewis. All died of ovarian cancer.
There are a number of actions you can take to help find a cure for this deadly disease.
There is a deadline for signing up to get your car tag to support ovarian cancer research in Alabama. Click here to download a form for the tag. You can do it BY MAIL instead of schlepping to the DMV! The deadline is RAPIDLY approaching so go ahead and click over and register now. I’ll wait. (The page also contains information about getting an ovarian cancer tag in Kentucky, and for starting the process to get a tag approved in your state.)
You can read about Brittany Waldrep, whose illness inspired the tag here in Alabama. She passed away in 2006 at the age of 25.
Additionally, we’ll be holding a MOTHERWALK to raise funds for ovarian cancer research on May 10 here in Birmingham. Last year my sisters and I formed a team to walk in memory of my mom and we plan to do the same this year. If you’re nearby, come join us!
Here is the first column I wrote about losing my mom, and here is one I wrote a couple of weeks later.
My mom was always up for an adventure. When she was visiting Israel and she had the chance to ride a camel, she didn’t hesitate. She climbed right up on that camel and showed him who was boss.
Thanks for your support. Please pass this along to anyone else who might be interested in helping with this important cause.
You would think that everyone would have STOPPED the sports-related snack madness, but they haven’t. My third graders’ soccer team is STILL having after-game snacks. Nothing like Oreos at 10 am.
At least I’m not on my friend’s 4k T-ball team. They practice TWICE A WEEK from 4:30 to 5:30 pm and the team mom has commanded “healthy” snacks for each practice. Not games, PRACTICES. Who needs that kind of extra work, or food?
I don’t care if they’re shooting wheat grass
and chomping alfalfa sprouts;
I don’t want my kids doing it right before dinner twice a week. Nor do I want to have to provide it.
Don’t EVEN get me started on the ridiculousness of kindergarteners practicing twice a week and having a game on Saturday. It’s nuts.
It occurred to me that’s part of the reason everyone’s so over scheduled. When we were growing up, ballet was once a week. Now an activity is two or three times a week. That’s fine for a sixth-grader like Finn, who’s deep into the “learning to manage your time” lesson, but it’s ridiculous for six-year-olds.
We need to take it down a notch!
That will never happen in the Tiny Kingdom, at least with sports.
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One year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: How An Eight-Year-Old Views The World
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