Author: dailyparrscription

It’s report card day. And I actually remembered to send them home with my first grade babes on the correct day this quarter. (If I need to spell it out for you who probably didn’t love getting a report card, I didn’t send them last nine weeks on the day that they were supposed to…and I’m thankfully still employed!) Passing out those vanilla wafer colored envelopes to the children, I remembered something else.

It’s report card day.

My Daddy has been living with Jesus for two weeks and 1 day. We missed our first Christmas with him, our first ringing in of a New Year with him, our first Georgia football game “Go Dawgs!” text, and our first report card day now.

It’s funny how simple traditions start. They start rather simply, as it were. Growing up, showing off report cards was a big deal to my brother and me and it was not only because we had a sense of pride in our hard work, but because it was a little money maker, too. Each of our grandfathers would give us $1 for a peek at our respective report card, so we were $2 richer every time a 6 weeks would roll around. Little peacocks who were rolling in the quarters. Couldn’t tell us nuttin’ in the Drugs 4 Less candy aisle.

One report card afternoon, my Daddy drove us up to Palmyra Park hospital in my mom’s new Caribbean Sea Green Ford Taurus clutching our manila envelopes with visions of George Washingtons dancing in our heads. We were there to see my Daddy’s Daddy, Big Jack, who was in the hospital courtesy of ALS. Passing the large fish tank and heading up the elevator to his room, I’m sure I was talking the whole way and he could hear us me coming. We showed him our paper records that mostly consisted of the first letter of the alphabet on my brother’s and the #1 and #2 letters of the alphabet on mine. Big Jack had Mema pay us our keep, and we told him to look out the window and see Mama’s new car. We also told him if he looked close enough, he could see a praying mantis-y looking insect that had hitched a ride on it from our home. He pretended like he could, but that ALS had him cemented in place. While he couldn’t move, he could convince us and he did and did it well. If there was an Oscar for a performance from a hospital bed, he won it that afternoon. And I know that you, reader, are probably thinking ‘What an odd memory for her to recall’- but this was report card day and it was a BIG thing and I remember that part. And I also remember that we got home that evening and after dinner my Daddy got a phone call that his Daddy had taken a turn. In that short of a time. That was our last report card day with our Big Jack, and he never got to see Mama’s new car nor the bug that perched on it camoflauged, although fifth grade me believed he had. Adult me knows he did, from a bird’s eye view. I bet that Caribbean Sea green looked more lapis lazuli from heaven.

Tonight, while my husband was whipping up supper and I was watching like a good wife should, I heard him say to our children, “I’m so proud of you guys and your report cards. I can tell you worked hard!” And my son, who you can tell is coming just like his mama, says in his first grade voice, “O’B’s not here to give us our $5…” and he sort of let it trail off and I knew what his thoughts were because I had already had them this morning. He always had 3 $5 bills crisp waiting (inflation is a real thing, y’all) on his grandchildren who would snap pictures of their cards and text him if we didn’t get to show him in person that day they were issued because he loved a simple tradition. They were important, are important. It really is the simple things. I’m thankful he left that with my kids: a memory to hang a hat on, written on their hearts in indelible ink, remembered every nine weeks when the report cards come home…

Like a hug for our hearts that still feels warm even two weeks and a day since he left us. Little things that will last a lifetime until eternity.

So this is Christmas: shopping and celebrations and trees and lights and presents. Presents. The game at Christmas. Finding THE perfect gift for each person on your list. It’s tough.

Know what’s tougher? Thinking up a gift to give to your father.

Your dying father. My Daddy.

What can I give him that would even amount to anything? That would bring him joy as the receiver? That would bring me joy as the giver? The best I know to do is give him words- words of what he’s given to me. So I’ve strung a few together for him to unwrap and I certainly hope they are the right size and color and fit and make him as happy as a six pack and a Mexican meal and my Mama do.

My dad gave me his bladder that is somewhere between the size of a squirrel’s and hummingbird’s. It’s in our genes, y’all. As a little big-banged, big-front toothed-girl, I had begged my Daddy to take me to work with him one day. It was the summer and he liked a riding buddy (I think) as he went to appraise houses. I liked the promise of a YooHoo and some cellophane pack of colored sugar and the ride with just me and my dad in his pickup. Countryside on either side, we rode to his destination, singing Annie Lennox’s “Sweet Dreams,” Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy,” and sipping our drinks. When we got where we were going, Dad got out and I got out and we used his long tape measure to wind around outside of the house. Once completed, he told me to go back and wait in the truck while he finished up with the homeowner. While waiting, I discovered that the YooHoo I consumed was saying YooNeedALoo to my bladder. I couldn’t get out because Dad was inside and there was no tree that looked welcoming and I was obedient (heh heh-my brother just choked reading that) to his command to stay in the truck. I waited, shaking my legs back and forth so hard that the Ford Ranger was swaying and I was sweating and praying that the feeling would pass. It didn’t. So, being the precocious child I was, I scooted over to my dad’s seat and well, threw a YooHoo coup. It was about that time that he showed up, notebook in hand, pen in pocket, ready to head back home. So I grinned my big front teeth and peered under my homemade haircut and played dumb as he proceeded to sit in his seat. It was more of a squish than a sit. Bless his soul, he didn’t even yell. He got up, tried his best to absorb what he could with some Krystals napkins or something that we could scrounge, and he sat back down and rode home just like that. Wet britches for the whole ride on his side, wet britches for the whole ride for me. He didn’t even fuss at me, and I don’t know how for the life of Adult Parent Me he didn’t. But my Dad gave me a lesson that day. He could have made me feel bad, but he chose not to. He showed me that love is gas station snacks, long drives, and time together-even when your khakis are sopping up someone else’s pee. That’s love-and it smells like teetee sometimes.

Dad gave me a sense of humor and a quick wit. He taught me to never judge a man by the type of beer he offers, but the temperature of it. He taught me how to interact with strangers- hold the door, offer a pleasantry, help when I could–except that one time at Disney World. We were waiting in line for some attraction and we had to get 3D glasses to enhance that experience from this great big bin. Somehow my dad and I got separated from the rest of our group, but we remained in line like good Disney folks do. Except for one man with a Nikon around his neck who didn’t speak English and was half the size of Dad jumped in front of us and took the last two 3D glasses that would have been rightly ours. Now, if you know my Dad, you know he doesn’t mince words nor censor them for any age or gender. He looked right at the fella and said, “Well just take it, bastard!”and the man grinned at him like he understood English but only the “just take it” part. I knew from Dad’s tone that the other fella misunderstood with his grin he was giving us, but I wasn’t really sure what a bastard was at that age. As soon as we ran back into our group, I proceeded to repeat what my Dad said to my Mom because that is what I do and asked her what a bastard was. Let’s just say that for the rest of the Disney trip, the crew we were with used the phrase, “Take it, bastard” or “T.I.B.” liberally, except that we kids weren’t allowed to repeat it. This was the one and only time we went and were going to go with that man and he made no bones about it to us kids. Disney World may be the happiest place on earth, but not to my Daddy. It was a form of torture to him. Not only did he scoff at the price of the food, but also at the souvenirs. He told us he’d give me and my brother $20 cash to spend at the gas station on the way home instead of on some piece of junk in the gift shop. We took him up on it. Pulling out of the Mickey Mouse Lot, Dad announced, “Kids, that’s the last time we will go to Disney World. I’m good. ” To which my mom replied, “But what about when we have grandkids?!?!” He promptly responded, “I’m not going.” And he meant it. When Dad says something, the man means it.

Every year at Christmas there were a few traditions held at the O’Brien family household. One of which included multiple plays of the Robert Earl Keen ballad, “Merry Christmas from the Family,” loud and with vocal accompaniment by John Earl O’Brien, off key but sounding like angels in labor. The night of Christmas Eve would always begin with dinner at Mema and Big Jack’s of Stouffer’s Lasagna (I acquiesced her cooking skills), followed by presents, and then a party at Aunt Amy’s, where every adult there would ask, “are you ready for Santa?” and some of those would ask in cursive that would need a Boozetta Stone to decipher. (It was a fun party–even more fun when I was of age.) Of course Santa would come that night because, duh, have you even met me or my brother?-and we would be bright eyed and bushytailed and prepared to awaken the rooster on Christmas morning. This was not my parents’ favorite thing and I get it now that I’m one. Kids are fannies. Lovable, but true nonetheless. After we begged no less than 20 times for 15 minute intervals (that was the answer we’d get–“give us 15 more minutes!!!”), the parentals decided we could get up to see the loot, but we had to wait. While Mom would go to the kitchen to put film in the camera, Dad would make the bed, clip his toenails, reorganize his dresser, plunge the toilet, grab a couple of chapters of War and Peace and then decide he was ready to darken his bedroom doorway. When he did, he would notice his two offspring weren’t wearing socks. Y’all, if you’ve ever experienced a South Georgia Christmas, you know that it’s rarely cold enough for pants, let alone socks. But, socks were a requirement to get to see what Santa left for us good little girl and boy. So we would go grab up socks and put them on faster than an ice cube melts in hell and I swear he would smirk like the Grinch at the beginning of the story. After we had enjoyed unwrapping our presents and scratching off Lottery Tickets (yep-we had THE BEST Christmases) from our stockings and just happy happy happy, he looked more like the Grinch at the end of the story, but with socks on. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a prettier picture.

This year will look different. I won’t hear him singing our beloved ballad, because stupid cancer has robbed his voice. He won’t have the lottery tickets paper clipped together for us too old for stockings, with a pocket with just enough coins for us to use as scratchers. I won’t see him sitting in his chair, taking his sweet time opening every single gift. And even though there will be just as much love as there always has been, it just won’t be the same…

but I will be wearing my socks, and I bet my brother will too. And I might just make my own kids do it, while I’m singing,

“Hallelujah everybody say ‘cheese,’ Merry Christmas from the fam-uuuu-leeeee! Feliz Navidad!”

Whew. Just put my fork down a couple of hours ago. I rounded out (literally) the last couple of days with my “Very Hungry Caterpillar” meal and for those who know, you know, and for those who don’t, a quick primer a la the childhood storybook by Eric Carle:

I ate through one piece of turkey and was still hungry. I ate through one cinnamon roll but was still hungry. I ate through one green bean helping, but was STILL hungry. So, I ate through a plate of dressing, another cinnamon roll, a piece of chocolate chip pecan pie, and some rum cake too. I was full. So full. So tonight, I ate through some lettuce leaves and pea tendrils. And I’m going to sleep.

But before the slumber seduces the roly poly caterpillar me and my snuggly cocoon beckons me in, I’ve got something on my mind that has to come off before I turn into my chrysalis this evening.

Thanksgiving and Christmas should absolutely be a melded together celebration.

Hear me out.

There’s been so much this year. SO much. 2020 outstayed it’s welcome early on back in March and we’ve been putting up with it since. My hope, my feeble little weensy hope, was that we’ve not used this disparaging time as one to roll over and be fetal positioned for the remainder. But you know what? Perhaps my hope, my feeble little weensy hope, is that we should have actually done just that thing. Because what do we do in the literal fetal position?

WE GROW. And change. And grow some more. (I’m gonna big a big girl!) And change again. BIG changes in dark, solitary (ok twins and triplets and quints, doesn’t have to be solitary), tightly confined spaces. For a loooooong time. (Believe me- it’s long-ask any lady who has been with child). Looong long. Long time.

But before way too long, out of the dark, confined space we come to see the light! And for us to see and know and appreciate the light, we have to have had gratitude while we waited in the dark. Like Ann Voskamp has pointed out so beautifully, thanksgiving (eucharisteo) always precedes the miracle. So what I’m saying is, we’ve got to have Thanksgiving all the way through up to that miracle of Christmas. So these two separate “holidays” most assuredly SHOULD be together. Like salt and pepper, Mutt and Jeff, Pilgrims and Native Americans AND baby Jesus. All together. So, I’m not judging any of you who decorated early – before you social distanced your turkey table. I’m not. I get it. Showing thanks, giving thanks, living thanks, for the expected miracle about to come. In the dark, but in gratitude. Eucharisteo. Giving thanks before the miracle. It’s active. Not just a that one’s over, on to the next one. But celebrated together.

So, wobbling down off of that box, I’ll add to this platform of mine: I’ve decided to strip it way down this year. Purging the pooch of stuff and commitments and excess. At least I’m trying. But as I have realized during this roller coaster of a year- what I’m thankful for, what brings me most joy, is just the simplest of things. What’s really important.

I put up my late grandmother, Mimi’s, nativity set for the first time since she’s been gone today. This nativity had sat in the solitary dark, wrapped tightly in a box for long enough. It was the one thing I wanted from her and I told her that very fact years before she even thought of entering heaven. There’s nothing spectacular about it to the naive onlooker. No Fontanini painted on the bottom, no Willow Demdaco collectible. The paint is flaked off, most of it sanded down by countless hands that manipulated it. If so inclined, a dusting for finger prints would find ones from generations of family- aunts, uncles, grandkids alike – that would by chance cover more of the surface than what paint is left. The stable looks like an authentic one- rickety, nails sticking out, wood split. The camel that was’s hump has concaved now, perhaps because it soaked up any remaining water that made it even look camel-ish. There are two Joseph figurines and I’m not really sure which Dad figure to place where, but I chuckle because neither one are the father and we don’t need Maury to figure that out for us. The baby Jesus lay in a broken down manger-looking more and more realistic to the bed that were that night oh so many years ago. The angel who perches atop the shanty has some sort of wax on her underside that I’m sure back when my mom’s own dimpled fingers played with her was there. The smell of it – (yes-shocker to my people that I smell it) – aged wood, rotten barbie doll rubber, and a million memories- is like I sort of imagine a stable should smell; not the like the fresh balsam and ’tis the season wallflowers from Bath and Body Works I have plugged in around it. THIS smell, in fact, is Christmas.

Placing the figures out in a methodical order: a humpless camel next to her handler, the dirty sheep next to the shepherd, adoring Mary, the two not the baby daddies (spaced out so as not to incite any argument or hay throwing), the smudge-butted angel atop the shanty, and finally, finally, the little baby Jesus. I plugged in the old light that went with it, and the glow, oh the glow.

Overwhelmed with thanks and gratitude and light out of the darkness, I had Christmas on Thanksgiving.

And I’m not even sorry about it.

2020, maybe you are starting to redeem yourself…

if not, let’s all roll over to the other side, knees all tucked, in the dark, hearts full of thankfulness as we await the miracles.

“I can see clearly now, the sane is gone…”

And this is 20/20. In my best Barbara Walters.

Supposedly, according to Professor Google, the meaning of 2020 is “vision of normal sharpness.”

I beg to differ.

Ain’t nothing sharp about it, y’all. Ain’t nothing normal, either. 2020 that is.

WHAT HAS EVEN HAPPENED HERE? Right before our very eyes?

<Allow me to interject here that I’m only tackling one concept of the year in this here blog, because the other things I’m leaving for my book– a bit more time will be necessary to process this alternate universe we are all currently attempting to navigate, so hear me clear: this little essay isn’t glossing over reality nor ignoring other enormous issues that are current.>

My girlfriends and I had a little pow wow the other evening. We were missing each other’s company (that a text thread just doesn’t fill) and each other’s faces too. We needed to see each other. Breathe the same air, you know. (Stifle your gasp. I heard it.) We needed our people. Heart beating, respirating, smiling people.

We talked. A lot. Mostly about the “Big C,” which needs no explanation if you are living in 2020. Abnormal, insensible 2020.

Most of the discussion centered around what life is looking like and what it might and what it doesn’t. The predictability of most of what is life really isn’t anymore. Man, did I take that for granted. The shallowness, smallness of myself…What a shift. From: What’s middle school going to be like? How are y’all handling girl drama? Did you hear so and so was moving? Can the kids wear such and such to school? to What will school even look like? How are y’all handling the mask drama? Did you hear so and so has the Rona? Can the kids wear masks that color coordinate with their new back to school clothes? (Heh-I’m still me, y’all.)

Of course motherhood has its unique challenges, especially in today’s world. One of the mamas currently has a sick child (not that kind of sick, because she was tested–so don’t worry that her mama was out with us). However, prior to the child’s testing, this mama was being super vigilant, taking all precautions– thermometer in one hand, Lysol in the other, keeping that baby away from others. As she was awoken from her slumber one night to check on her daughter, she grabbed her thermometer and slapped on a mask before entering the child’s room and risk being exposed. It didn’t dawn on her ’til she’d gotten a few good huffs under the cloth cover before the terror of the thought that said daughter had been wearing that exact same mask earlier that day. THIS SHOULDN’T BE A THING, Y’ALL. But dang, we got a good laugh out of the absurdity of this new abnormal way we are living. And that she didn’t have the “Big C.”

We talked about the way Corona was running rampant through our community, especially our young kids, and I kid you not, cell phones were ding ding dinging alerts of another and another and still another testing positive for COVID interrupting our chatting and providing more fodder. One of the gals said, “It’s like Corona is the modern day Scarlet Letter!” and boy, that’s an accurate statement if I’ve ever heard one! We all howled but it’s so true: wagging tongues all over town and in some instances shade being thrown from people about other people who have had it or have it and have been in the vicinity of others… and it sort of makes this whole thing even sadder. Whether or not you or your child or whomever is wearing a mask or not, washing hands appropriately or not, being social or not, distancing or not, quarantining or not, is not really any body’s business but your own (and I think Tabitha Brown would agree with me about it being “your business” and if you don’t know her yet, start googling. She’s been an amazing quarantine distraction!). I think the most of us are trying our best to not get others sick or get sick ourselves, but you can think I’m naive. That won’t be the first or last time, either. I do believe most people are trying, and I also believe that you must do what’s best for yourself and your people. And surprise, surprise, those scenarios are all going to look different because we are, well, DIFFERENT. (And then also, we all have opinions and you know what “they” say about those…)

Please don’t read this as insensitivity to this virus nor the loss of life. (I shudder to think if anyone sees this that way.) I know it is is horrible. I know it has taken lives. I know there is no cure. I know the anxiousness and uncertainty and all those yucky emotions are there and real as I’m a carrier myself (of those feelings–not the rona!).

I also know we don’t know the whole truth. This thing is unfolding before our very eyes and we are bombarded with this official that and that official this and I’ll be darned if our heads aren’t left spinning. Gleaning the whole truth and nothing but the truth is like finding a pearl in an oyster. Gotta crack a whole lotta shells and mow through a mess of mucus before we can find a little worthwhile nugget. So, in the meanwhile, I’m going to do the very best I can with what little I have, and I think most people are trying to, too.

Let’s be kind to each other. Give grace like we undeservingly receive it. Even if we think the ideas of others are ridiculous and their face masks don’t match their outfits …

Anybody want to start a yard sign rental company that places big, red C’s in yards for 14 days? No?

Oh, 2020. We’ve got to work on that definition…

6 months, y’all. 6 months since our world was shooketh when our communities shut down on a Friday the 13th. UGH. Coronavirus.

So I thought I’d give myself (and you) a little six month checkup.

First up, a health questionnaire:

How are your eating habits? Mine too. We’ll just leave that one blank.

How are you sleeping? With one eye open, when I can. Otherwise, it’s often sleep filled with nightmares about a pandemic and an election year and unrest in our country ALL AT ONE TIME. Wait…

Naps? Killing them. I’m the CEO of snoozing.

Developmentally, would you say you are doing things on target? You mean, like wearing a face mask correctly? And sneezing into my elbow? And washing my hands after every time I touch something? Yep. Also, I’m sitting up instead of just lying around on my back more than I was before, and rolling over is a cinch what with my more rounded out figure. Don’t place me at the top of a hill, that’s all I’m saying. And I smile at things now, but you wouldn’t know it because facemask.

Are you teething? Clenching and gritting, is all. And at this rate, going to wear them down to nubs if the next six months are anything like the previous six.

How about language skills? I’ve created new strings of curse words, and now use words like “Zoom,” “social distancing,” and “wash your darn hands” on a daily basis. I also grunt randomly and make lots of sighing noises under my mask.

How are you interacting with the world around you? Are we even allowed? I’m trying to be around people. I need people. It’s hard to read faces behind these masks, so my interactions are looking different. But I’m trying.

Now, a physical checkup:

Step on the scale please. Um, hard pass.

Let’s measure you. Your tape measure isn’t long enough.

Well, let’s just do a visual check for health… I ain’t got the ‘rona! And I’m just fine under my new uniform of masks and mumus!

Ok, how about your ears? They are currently bleeding because of all of the political ads. And the bee-hinds of them are raw from mask straps. Otherwise, check out my earrings. I’ve gotten some good online shopping in over these past few months and these puppies are cute!

Well, that about wraps up our visit. At the six months checkup, you are due for the following vaccinations: Coronavirus Unfortunately, we don’t even have that yet, so we can wait until your 12 month checkup. HOPEFULLY, we will have one then.

HOPEFULLY.

But the good news is, even if we don’t have a vaccination by that point, I’ll have some more new earrings to show you because I’m sitting up like a big guhl and shopping and grinning (behind my face mask), and I’ll teach you even more new word strings I’ve learned like “the election is over” and “Praise the LORD!” all while rolling down a hill screaming even more new curse word combinations muffled by my face mask.

Looking forward to it. I’ve missed y’all.

That Friday the 13th we left the building. Little souls filed out with nap towels to be washed and a heavy packet of quickly assembled papers weighing their little book bags down that already almost weighed what they did. Byes, I love yous, I’ll see you soons shakily rolled off of the tongues of big souls while those minds were reeling, spinning even.

We got the notice that morning via email that we would be closed for the next few weeks, the end of which we felt sure would encompass our spring break. Surely, we thought. That’s it. Then we will be back.

Surely.

I took down my Kindergarten March calendar stuff and switched it to April. I hastily got my April journal materials together to take home to work on while we were out. This classroom was going to be prepared for our re-entry. It’s an endearing annoying quality of mine that I get things done, son. Carpe diem! (Pumping the breaks is daily occurrence to me, which may imply impatience…but I’m not on the couch getting shrunk right now so I’ll save that rabbit to chase another blog.)

Teacher bag weighing heavily on my shoulder with things to do, mind weighing heavy with uncertainty, I flipped the light switch off in my classroom. Glancing at the windows with blinds purposely pulled high because we had recently “planted” seeds in the window (you know, ziploc baggie with a wet paper towel and a lima bean floating in the middle of it all and a sharpie name written across the top of it to indicate the planter), I closed the door to my classroom. The “Boom Boom Room,” for those of you who know…

Little did I know it was closing the door for the year, the book ending with no “The End,”an amazingly Irish Exit, as it were, and completely unplanned unlike most of my attempts at avoiding goodbyes.

I wasn’t ready. We weren’t ready.

The other day, I got to thinking about those seeds. How some were starting to sprout in that plexiglass double-pane window. Little shoots appearing like magic and though we don’t know when it’s going to actually happen, still doing all the preparing for it to do so. I mourned the process: Giving it water, sun, and some encouraging words. Yes, my friends. That’s called fertilizer. Sprinkling a little more water on the ones looking dried up and a little tired; those that hadn’t quite gotten there. All in the hopes of them to grow, grow, grow.

And then one beautiful, fine day, we usually see the fruits of our labor. Green! Stems! Even leaves! LIFE! That beautiful, fine day, is different for every seed, though. Which is what makes is so fun, so rewarding! Our hard work paid off! Those seeds that take more time take more time, more effort, new strategies, all in an effort to get them to produce what was hidden inside of them. Because it’s there. Tucked away, only to be coaxed out of the dark, the little shell enveloping it, by only a formula that works best for it. A little of this, a little more of that: it’s a formula that the Master Gardener gives those who tend when they seek His help. Sigh. I didn’t get to share that lesson with my kids this year.

I’m still thinking about those seeds. Those planted in my Kinder”garden” this year; those I was blessed enough to plant right there in room 205, even after they were uprooted about six weeks in to the school year and transplanted to my room because the other gardens were overcrowded. Room had to be made for them ALL to grow. I, along with my precious para, fertilized those seeds, watered them, and sometimes had to get rid of the bugs that threatened to disrupt our crop! We were seeing some green!, stems!, and even leaves! We were growing more every day. And those who needed a little more, we willfully gave it, all in the name of growth. I had to ask the Master Gardener daily for guidance in what these little seeds entrusted to us needed. He whispered it to us, and though I made lots of mistakes, we were reassured daily that we were still doing mostly the right things with hugs, I love yous, and invented spelling laden love letters. You know, like green on the vine.

It’s just what you do when you garden.

Maybe it was just me who wasn’t ready.

‘Cause despite the crazy ending to this year that didn’t include the end of the year harvest that I in my human nature long to see, as they leave our kinder”garden,” these little seeds of ours–ALL of ours–

they’re going to grow. And they’re going to be great!

I’ll be watching those little seeds through the window and know without a doubt that someOne much much bigger and all knowing than me has a plan for each one.

Maybe I wasn’t ready, but they are.

Oh my heart.

I said we were all going to be okay.

I lied.

I mean, we’re ok, not okay. Still living, breathing, on occasion getting chub rub from walks on the nearby golf course, and not sick, praise the Lord, but we ain’t all right. We’re alright.

Let’s call it a ‘Vid Life Crisis. As in Co-vid.

Similar to a mid life crisis in the fact that we are rethinking every single part of our lives: suffer constant boredom, find ourselves in a few dark moments with a dismal view of the future, inexplainable (ha ha ha ha ha) weight gain, frequent thoughts that we might be losing our minds…but dissimilar in that I’M NOT OLD ENOUGH FOR THESE TYPES OF SHENANIGANS (no, I’m NOT, Mom) and there’s no “might be” for losing our minds.

Mostly my husband. Heh heh. This man that claims to be my husband lying in my bed at night doesn’t look a thing like him. Not only has he garnered new wardrobe staples like fantastic fishing waders he piddles around our dry backyard in (see last post, Quarantina) while whipping around some neonish rubbery string off a stick, he’s amassed quite a mound of hair on his upper lip. It’s a cross between Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck, Pablo Escobar and Borat. Except that this joker ain’t famous. Or really infamous, yet. I’m not kidding. When I awake in the morning to his face, I sort of jump a little–not like a scared jump — more like a take my (morning) breath away sort of sense. Like this is not a nightmare dream that just aroused you from your slumber…this man for real has a skunk’s toupee on his lip. Corona Claus (again, see last post) even delivered mustache wax complete with a plastic guitar pick for application so that he can mold this Sasquatch’s eyebrow perched on his lip into something…attractive. I can’t. I am asking Corona Claus for razors.

His wardrobe now also consists of a few new popover Hawaiian print performance shirts that coordinate with his new hammock he purchased for his birthday. And custom made bumper stickers that say “ALAN EXOTIC.” For you Tiger King fans: I will NOT pierce his eyebrow for him. He’ll have to do that himself.

Now, my Vid Life crisis isn’t composed of new wardrobe pieces, though I wish it were. Instead, it consists of me digging through scores of old pictures, reminiscing about the good old days, thinking how skinny I looked back then when I was 11 months pregnant, how I wish that maternity shirt still fit. (Might be a little tight, just saying.) I’ve also been applying self tanner like it’s my job and when this is all over, one might think I’ve gotten a leg transplant. Irish on the top, Jamaican on the bottom. Like a parfait.

I’ve found the end of Facebook, twice.

I’m also still stalking semi-celebs and STILL have no restraining order, despite all the DM’ing and commenting. (I’m waiting, Leslie Jordan!)

The other day both Sasq and I had to go be around people in a socially distanced way–in two different places. This wasn’t a grocery store kind of thing, but not a party either for all you Judgy McJudgersons. I have to tell y’all. We were acting like we were going on a darn first date! My hubs was all, “Does this match? Does it make me look fat? Do I need more mustache wax?” And I was all rubbing self tanner and putting on makeup and even deodorant for that matter. Asking him things like, “Does this make me look fat don’t answer truthfully? Do my legs look like a chunk of streaky Hershey’s Special Dark? I forgot how to zip up pants, can you help?” Driving to said place I was having even more first-dateish thoughts. Do I have a booger? How’s my breath? (Good thing we have to be six feet away with a mask on.) Think of something funny to say. Where do my hands go? I hope they let me use their bathroom. I hope my self tanner doesn’t transfer on anything nice. Do they have hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes?

UGH!

We are Vid Life Crisising.

We are not okay.

We are just ok.

How about y’all?

P.S. As I’m jusssst about to hit the “publish” button on this, Ol Sasq informed me that he has just ordered a Benton’s aged whole hickory smoked ham leg like David Chang and Sean Brock use. You know, semi-celeb chefs. Guess I got some more stalking to do…

and eating, too.

So I’m married to an introvert who was created for this mess. Handcrafted, Lonerville loving, all by myself (like the song) man: he has been given a new lease on life. I, on the other hand: DYING. I’m an extrovert who NEEDS PEOPLE to give me energy to live. Lonely…I’m so lonely…I mean not really because four other jokers and a dog and a couple of fish (because the other 2 died of corona virus) are with me but I’m bored. Let me tell you a story.

‘Tina made me do it.

That’s the thought that rolls through my head no less than 19 times a day. Any one else been finding yourself doing shocking things that you wouldn’t normally do? If you said no, you’re lying. It’s ok. This is a safe space and I’m going to go first and tell you all (well not all, because I still want friends and my kids to claim me one day -even after their inevitable extensive therapy) the shocking things I’ve been doing.

The top of my refrigerator is now spic and span. You could eat off the top of it. (Not that you would, but, hey, we’re in a pandemic. You may.) My sweet (not anymore ’cause shelter in place, y’all) husband was preparing dinner the other night and he was using our pepper grinder that had lost the adjustable screw top off of it months ago. Said hubby was adamant that it was under the fridge but we just didn’t have the time to look there. Before now. Well, well. I pushed that fridge out with a little coaxing from him and promptly dry heaved. THE DUST. I’m here to tell you, the backside of your fridge is nasty and it hides lots of sins beneath it, too. JUST NASTY. Don’t google dust composition. And don’t push your fridge out unless you are prepared with a gag bag and a Dyson. We’re pretty clean people, seriously. I was offended. I cleaned all that nonsense up and that led me to the top of the fridge, where I found a few old pictures, a coupon to Ruby Tuesday, and a brand new orange crayon that was surely nabbed from a toddler once as punishment. Wish I could remember that one…anyhow, the fridge is spotless now. At least the top part. I’ll save the rest for another day, ’cause we’ve got time. (But I did find the screw top to that pepper grinder.)

‘Tina made me do it.

I looked under one of my kid’s beds in pursuit of a missing sock. While I didn’t find the sock– at least that sock’s match–I found lots of other items that have been missing since before she was out of diapers. Jewelry, hangers, hair thingys, tags off of new clothes… I’ve failed as a parent because obvi this child thinks that “under the bed” is the same as “trashcan.” I also discovered where all my candy stash had disappeared. I think that this may indicate a problem. With her — not me, of course. BUT why??? (Adding this to list of the things that will need to be discussed with the therapist.) Why did I even get down on my knees to look for the match to a pair of two dollar socks?

‘Tina made me do it.

My youngest fella whom I told you before was starting to make a run for Cousin It’s doppelganger was in a bad way. Bad way. Little homie needed a trim in the worst kind of way. We participate in social distancing over here because we are rule followers mostly and so an appointment with someone certified in scissors just wasn’t feasible for the foreseeable future–at least what he could see through the fence of hair that protected his baby blue eyeballs. So, I did what most good moms would do and I googled “haircuts for boys,” and wouldn’t you know I used that tutorial on my little offspring. And wouldn’t you also know that I’m not going for any hairstylist’s job after this is over because a bald blind man with a broken mirror wouldn’t hire me. But the boy can see now…maybe through jagged pieces of hair…but he’s at least got something to work with.

‘Tina made me do it.

I may or may not have googled “local divorce attorney” a few times, ’cause ‘Tina is a homewrecker. She’s our irreconcilable difference. She’s constantly around, and my husband is spending money on her like she’s some young, fun thing. Not to worry, U.S. economy…we’re doing our level best to keep you afloat. My husband likes to joke that the “Corona Claus” is coming. Every.single.day. And you know what? Corona Claus has been coming. Every dadgum quarantined day on our front porch. It’s always a surprise as to what he will bring…one day it was $150 worth of sidewalk chalk. Yes. You read that right. The other day it was coffee beans (a welcome gift). And today? He delivered fly fishing gear. FLY FISHING. What in the ever-loving world? We’ve been binge-watching “Tiger King” and he buys fishing gear. FISHING GEAR. What’s Carole Baskin’s number? (I’m just kidding mother-in-law and Dateline.)

‘Tina made me do it.

I’ve been direct messaging and commenting on famous people’s posts on Instagram and Facebook– sort of like it’s my job. I’m either a few posts away from a restraining order or a meet up with somebody fantastic (other than these folks that are breathing the same air as me). If these celebs would quit making themselves so normalized and approachable, I’d leave them alone. But dangit, I’m an extrovert and I like people and if Leslie Jordan or Jenna Bush Hager or Joanna Gaines or Dylan Dreyer or Cardi B are reading this I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. REAL BAD. ‘CAUSE QUARANTINE!

(I’m fun and not too crazy! I promise!)

Well, I gotta run. There are a few giveaways to enter that I’ve got to share posts for and like all the accounts they are following and tag some friends like Leslie and Jenna and Joanna and Dylan and Cardi for a chance to win a pair of leg warmers and some hand sanitizer. It’s hard being so busy.

But ‘Tina made me do it.

P.S. Y’all tell me what kind of crazy you find yourself doing!

Hey all you cool cats and kittens!

How’s life treating you in Quarantina?

I just finished up the last bit of laundry left from January. Whew. Glad my kids finally have some clean underbritches. That’s not all I’ve finished, mind you. I finished cleaning a closet that had everythang in it, a package of Reester bunnies, the unquestionably-soon-to-be-Emmy-nominated series Tiger King, a party sized bag of plain Lays, bottle(s) of wine, and Instagram. Finished all those things, all by myself. <Insert a grinning chubby faced Emoji here>

Up next on my list of things to finish: parenting and a roll of raw cookie dough. (And maybe another bottle of wine. As I’ve said before, I’m no quitter.) Any bets on what I’ll finish first?

When we finally get back to reality, my youngest may look like Cousin It. His hairdresser better start sharpening her shears now, because when I glance over at him, I have to do a second take sometimes to make sure it’s not a little goat (especially considering the way he eats! MY LANDS!) sitting beside me. She may even need to employ some hedge clippers.

In all seriousness, this COVID-19ness is a mess. People are getting sick, so sick and not just in the world, which is huge, but in my little hometown– our little hometown– which in some ways feels huger. I’m supposing so because it’s thisclose to home; close enough that we can reach six feet out from around us and know someone (if not us, ourselves) who has been affected by this nasty, soulless virus. It’s bad y’all.

And to be frank (y’all who know me know: Frank’s my middle name) I’m tired of all the selfishness. There is proof before our very eyes about what egomaniacal people we are; evidence of “the rules don’t apply to me,” everywhere. I get it, it’s not fun being “put out,” so to speak — like not being able to be around our loved ones, our friends and families, or church families, go shopping or out to eat, and all the things that involve groups of peoples! (Listen, I’m preaching to the extrovert choir right here! I NEED PEOPLE. They give me energy! Even the selfish ones!) Our culture has a very I’ll-do-what-I-want-when-I-want-and-if-that-doesn’t-work-out,-Amazon-will-deliver-it-in-30-minutes mentality. Impatient and a little bit lazy and a lot bit self-absorbed. Maybe that’s too harsh on us (us because ME. I told you I was preaching to the choir). But we who aren’t practicing social distancing, sheltering as we need to, and not using the very brain our Good God gave us are just thinking about one thing when it’s boiled on down and hashed on out: self. Full on ate up with it. This virus knows no boundaries and uses no brakes so WE have to take it upon ourselves to lay the tack strips out and flatten the wheels on this proliferating virus and in turn flatten the curve. Distance yourselves y’all.

All y’all!

Just the other day, I saw a post on social media (because duh, quarantine) that said churches will be empty on Easter Sunday, just like the tomb was on that miraculous day. It got me to thinking (because duh, quarantine).

Some people may say that’s sad. And sort of, I get that. But a thought woke me up in my sleep last night and just stuck with me:

Things have to be emptied for other things to be filled.

Humph. Not some revelatory thought, I know, but bear with me: Just like a full coffee pot pours into a coffee cup, only to empty itself in that process. Or like a tank brimming with gas that propels our cars, emptying itself as it gets us to and fro. Like a plate of food loads a hungry belly, left clean as the tummy is filled up. (At least my plates, y’all.) Unloading washing machines with jobs finished to dryers awaiting to do theirs. Empty to fill up.

And as of late, oxygen tanks emptying into drowning lungs struggling to do their life’s calling: breathe. School rooms once filled with little communities, learning to get along together and learn some too, now empty: BUT houses full of babies, devices illuminating faces around the clock for a sort of connection, filling up hearts to make it another day without touch.

Things have to be emptied for other things to be filled.

And so, although there are many empty places around because we have to (and should genuinely want to) for the love of others, let’s all remember that when something, somewhere, someone empties itself out,

something, somewhere, someone has the opportunity to be filled up.

Are you full? Hmmmm.

Empty doesn’t sound so sad after all.

Fill ‘er up!

It’s Day 19 of quarantine. I think. At least it feels that way.

I’m not complaining. Just venting. Into my elbow. I’m not blowing any hot air on anyone. They aren’t even close anyway; just a mere 12 feet away. Safe practices.

Except when they need something. Like snacks snacks snacks. Or the WIFI password. Or toilet paper. Or when they need an assignment graded: Y’all don’t do this at school. You stay on your bottom and wait for the teacher to answer your raised hand. So sit down! I’ll recognize you when your hand is raised for at least 20 minutes. Mama is reading the CDC website and/or funny homeschool memes. Probably mostly the latter.

We’re doing our part to flatten the curve. We are avoiding people, washing hands, and eating. You know, to keep our energy up for homeschooling and sanitizing. Quarantine snacks fight germs. Especially the white colored ones. Chips, ramen noodles, crackers, milk (and cookies)…Funny thing is, my curves ain’t really flattening. In fact; opposite: quarantine cushion, if you will. Ugh. It’s for the greater good, though. Where one curve flattens, another one fattens. It’s science, and I understand that. Because I am a homeschooling teacher and I.can.teach! We’re going to find a cure for cancer under this roof! (Jokes, jokes. We can’t even find the password to our WIFI.)

The homeschooling is going pretty well. I mean, I am a teacher by trade. But I don’t live with those people. I can teach, and I’m not the worst at it, but these kids under my roof are something else. They are a unique class, for sure, and I’m having to write IEP*’s for each of them. (Side note for you not familiar with edu-lingo–IEP stands for Individualized Education Plan but in this case here it stands for I Ein’t Playin’ *with yo’ little bad selves no mo’ <and that’s all the way improper English I know but this is my school and I’m doing what I want ’cause ain’t nobody paying me ‘cept myself.>) I’ve taken a sort of sickening pleasure in using my red pen on my own children’s work. My middle child is ticked at me and implored me to put the pen down. I just can’t, darling. That one’s wrong. So is this one. And while this virtual learning thing is pretty cool, the recorder practice is sort of not cool. Yes. The assigned recorder practice. (You guys know the instrument: long, black, plastic, holey-thing that kids blow their hot breath into. When played correctly it produces about seven semi-melodious notes, and incorrectly it sounds like a whale in labor. How do you type that noise in English? Waaaahhhh? Whurrrrrr? RIIIIIIIIIII?) I love you music teacher–love, love you — but the recorder? Are you trying to kill us? Quarantine is supposed to keep us alive and human population well. Got a full blown Quarantine Quartet over here playing “Hot Cross Buns.” One on the recorder, one crinkling a bag of chips to the beat, one audibly sighing at everything I ask, and me with the solo of corks uncorking. My ears are bleeding (quickly googles signs of Coronavirus). Social Distancing children! Get away! Go play your music for the squirrels or the bears awakening from hibernation. They’ll enjoy it! Or die! I don’t know…POP.

And then the oldest with the eye rolls. She needs a strike, Mrs. McLendon (her teacher). I’m keeping a tally for you for when and if y’all ever return to school. She needs punishment from you, too. I don’t think you’d approve. She’s not rolling her eyes at you and the virtual teaching, it’s at me when I get out my red pen and tell her she is wrong. She’s so… sensitive. Sheesh. I don’t deserve this! They don’t pay me enough.

My husband’s profession is stock market what nots. He’s F.U.N. right now. A whole bag and a half of it! He got a ticket for a roller coaster that seems to only go down right now. Can we exchange it? I know it will all be alright in the long run, but this stopped being fun a minute or two ago. Kind of like a colonoscopy prep. Gracious. Rushing down is fun on things like slides and sleds and ski slopes because those eventually come to a halt. HALT! We’re waiting, y’all. But STOP. We’re ready to get off. (At least I am).

In all seriousness…this is all uncharted waters. It’s weird. It’s not “normal.” It’s scary. But it’s life.

We’re going to be ok, y’all. And while I complain so much of the time about so many of the things, I see that so many of the things I complain about are actually so beneficial right now. Life is good. It’s good. It’s good.

(I’ve typed this after a glass of wine. Or two. “Pop Goes the Weasel” a la recorder has some measures in the music that require more than a few cork-popping noises– a few staccatos that just make the song. Not about to let my Quarantine Quartet down…)

My youngest has taken the stock pile of toilet paper and started to roll the house next door, all to the musical score (played by our little Beethoven of the recorder) of “The Wheels on the Bus” and with the words “The paper on the roll, goes bye bye bye, bye bye bye, bye bye bye. The paper on the roll goes bye bye bye, all on the ground” and I don’t know how I feel about all of this. It’s like he’s just throwing money around-and while he’s not asking for snacks at the moment – his little hiney is about to learn a lesson in upcycling.

(We’re not allllll the way heathens, yet, y’all.)

We are going to be alright.

(Maybe not my ears or liver, but, we are all going to be alright.)

And I think this middle child of mine might be performing on Broadway one day. With a recorder. I’ll save y’all some tickets.

Alright, alright, alriiiiiiiiight.

P.S. The extrovert in me is dying a slow death. I’m sending virtual hugs to all y’all. I MISS MY PEOPLE.