Little Girl Big Decisions

If you've been a follower of this blog in the past, you'll know that our twins got off to a rocky start in life, thirteen years ago. And if you start off on a rocky road, you become better than most at navigating rocks, zigzags, and all kinds of obstacles.

They've had eleven surgeries between them: six involving life-or-death imperatives, and five involving significant quality of life decisions (one for hearing, four for vision). Quality-of-life surgeries are often difficult to choose because every surgery carries risk. And though we do not classify being able to hear and see as strictly elective, they are also not life-or-death situations. Therefore, much research and soul-searching goes into such a decision.

Recently, two separate surgeries have weighed on one daughter's mind.

When she was four years old, we made the decision for her to receive a cochlear implant in order for her to hear in one ear whose hearing had regressed to the point of being negligible. For those of you who are aware of the controversy of cochlear implants among the Deaf community, you'll know that not everyone views the cochlear implant as a positive medical intervention. (Note the big "D" in Deaf, which gives it an entirely different meaning from little-"d" deaf. I'll let you Google that on your own if you want to learn more.) But for our daughter, it was absolutely, 100%, the right decision. We know this and she knows this. Since being able to hear speech is crucial in developing the ability to produce speech, and since she was at such a young developmental age when her language should have been exponentially increasing, giving her every opportunity to hear was a no-brainer for us. She continued to use a high-powered hearing aid in the other ear, as her hearing loss was not quite as significant in that ear, allowing her to "preserve" that ear for any future treatments that would benefit her later in life.

Lately, we've seen some evidence of regression in the hearing aid ear, so we've discussed the possibility of a second cochlear implant. However, our daughter is no longer a toddler whose parents must make unilateral decisions for her. She's thirteen, and very much needs to be and wants to be involved in her own medical and lifestyle choices. Although my husband and I were completely in agreement about her first implant, we have differing opinions about a second implant. So when the subject comes up with our daughter, we're able to provide logical arguments for and against a second device. But she's the one who must make the decision. And for her, there's more than just the logical arguments.

There are also the emotional and social considerations. Surgery is risky and scary, even when you've been through it before, and SHE'S the one who must go through it. SHE'S the one who would have to cope with temporary hair loss in the surgical area, not to mention a giant bandage on her head for a few days. (That's a big deal when you're a teenager!) And a big headache for a few days. And having to miss school and make up her homework. And the adjustment to a new kind of hearing once the device is activated a month after surgery. These are real and important considerations for her, and she must weigh the potential benefits with the potential risks and side effects.

She goes back and forth. As with any major life decision, she'll know if or when the time is right. Either way, we're here to support her decision and love her.

The other surgery that's been on her mind lately - maybe even more so than the implant - is for her feet. Both girls have severe bunions. I know, it sounds like an old-lady/ugly feet issue. But in reality, young kids can develop bunions. And it's more than just a cosmetic issue; they're also painful. 

We tease the girls that they've inherited the worst foot genes from both Mom and Dad. Fortunately, they're both cute as a button everywhere else.

This is NOT a foot belonging to one of
my daughters! They would be mortified
if I ever took a picture of their feet
and posted it on online. So I found a
stranger's photo online instead :)

As you can see from this stranger's
x-ray, a bunion is more than a bump
on the side of the foot. The appearance
of a bump actually is caused by a
deformation in the growth of the
foot/toe bones.

Both girls hate their bunions. And now that they're getting older and are attracted to cute, strappy, heeled shoes, the bunions are a cause of both cosmetic frustration and also pain for them. One of the twins doesn't really discuss her bunions too much. The other, however, has been thinking seriously of the bunion surgery that the podiatrist told them about. He was not necessarily advocating the surgery for them at this age - but as an option for the future. And he pointed out that it's very painful, with a slow recovery, so he does not recommend it for anyone except those pulling at their last straw. But she can't seem to get it off her mind these days. So I do see bunion surgery in her future. But she's in charge of that future, and she'll have to let us know when she's serious enough to go through with it.

Again, we can't make this decision for her. Our job is simply to support her decision and love her.  

I'm proud of our daughters and the way they navigate their rocky road with maturity. But there are days when I do wish that their most difficult decision, at age thirteen, is what to wear today. Maybe something cute and strappy...

Fill. Dump. Repeat.

Great Wolf Lodge has this giant bucket that fills up rapidly with water, then just dumps it all at once. Fill. Dump. Repeat. It's crazy fun if you're at a water park.

Perhaps it's the curse of the introvert. I process everything internally.
Sometimes my brain gets full.

But just plain crazy if that bucket is your brain.

Like receiving a call from the school nurse during which she makes social pleasantries when what you really want to know is, Why are you calling me? Is my kid okay?!?!, rest assured that nothing bad has happened: no lightning strikes, no major illnesses, no tragedies. Just "life" stuff, but plenty of them at once so that I barely had time to process one before moving on to the next.

The physical labor of planting the landscape beds was therapeutic in allowing my mind to process whatever it needed to, while my body did something productive and tangible. However, it's hard to write and shovel at the same time, so I scribbled mere phrases here and there. No complete thoughts, or even complete sentences. Yet even if my hands had NOT been busy with tools and plants, sometimes emotions are too strong, too raw, that it's impossible to put a coherent thought together anyway.

So over a period of about four weeks, my mind-bucket kept filling. Inside, I churned through a variety of emotions, plans, and thoughts until I was done. Or full, to continue the bucket metaphor. 

Then it dumped. Once all the thoughts were evicted from my brain, they dissipated and now they're gone. I didn't write enough down, so I look at my cryptic words, dissociated from context, and they have less strength.

So here's the shorthand: I'm at peace with thoughts that were not peaceful, say, a month ago. And now I move on. The thoughts in my mind have resumed their normal ebb and flow, rather than rapid accumulation and dispersal. It's all good.

The Queen's Labors

Most days, I like to be the planner. The orchestrator. The manager. The thinker.

Though I'm also the executor of most of these plans, my favorite part is figuring out how to make a schedule work among many movable parts (people), or puzzling together a challenge, or creatively solving a problem.

Kind of like the queen bee.

But some days, I don't want to be the planner. I want someone else to figure it all out and just tell me what to do.

Kind of like the worker bee.

Case in point: After we moved into our house this past summer, we looked at our outdoor surroundings (aka dirt) and realized we needed to define our outdoor living space (aka needed to not be surrounded by dirt). We hired a landscaper to create beds, put up some retaining walls, and install some stepping stones. Things looked better: we now had an "outline" of our outdoor space. But the lines needed to be filled in.

I got all cheap about it, though, and said "no thanks" to the landscaper doing much more than the basics. Now that the dirt moving and rock placing had been done, I said I could plant shrubs all by myself, thank you very much.

But I'd forgotten that I know nothing about plants. You can't just plop in any shrub in any place and expect it to thrive or look good. We have deer, so I needed plants that wouldn't provide a veritable buffet for them at our expense. We have a pool, so I needed plants with minimal leaf shedding. In the front, we have morning light and afternoon shade; in the back, we have some morning shade but mostly full sun all afternoon. I know a little about cluster planting, but I have no idea when different plants bloom, and how tall they'll get down the road. Then you throw in leaf shape, size, and color; and flower shape, size, and color. And, oh yeah, this is important: It All Must Be Easy for Me to Maintain!!!!

It didn't take long after I sat down with my pictures and my books and my websites to realize I was completely in over my head. Even though I had all these resources at my disposal, my mind was a blank. This wasn't going to work.

Lots of blankness: in the dirt, in my mind

 












Like Virginia, I don't really want to be the queen!

So I called a local nursery. They sent a landscape designer out to do a free landscape plan for my two big beds and two small ones. In exchange for the free plan, I verbally agreed to purchase the plants from them. One week later, I had labeled drawings in my hands! The designer took into consideration all the important factors for me (deer, pool, sun/shade, maintenance), so all I had to do was drive the pick-up truck to the nursery and fill 'er up.

Like a good worker bee, I got busy.

78 plants and 1-1/2 weeks later, I now have fully implemented landscape beds around my house. I was happy to put lots of sweat and muscle into the project, without the stress of planning it on my own.

Most of these pictures were taken on an overcast day.
And, since it's fall, the plants don't have much color right now.
But just wait till next spring!

Sometimes the queen's greatest luxury is to remove her tiara and get a little dirty.

Squishy Ball Parenting

This parenting thing is hard.

And time-consuming.

I could slack off and get selfish. On occasion, I admit, I've taken a parenting vacation. I think, They're old enough now to study for tests on their own. Or, They know that every single weekend they have to wash their laundry - they don't need me to remind them this time. I think, I'm just going to sit here and read this book. Or start a business. Well, those little parenting vacations come back and bite me in the butt. The kids' grades slip and they wonder why they don't have any clean clothes to wear to school. So I get back on the job, nagging guiding the kids so they can get through their childhood with grades somewhat intact and wearing clothes that don't smell.

And now I have three teenagers. They're so awesome at this age - no diapers, no naptimes. Great travelers. Talented in ways I'm not. Really hilarious at times, too. And they have interesting takes on life. That is, when they're around and when they feel  like talking.

Have I mentioned that they're three teenagers? Yeah. So I can't predict when they feel like talking. When that kite sails past me, I just grab on to the tails and see where the wind takes us.

So a couple of months ago, I experienced a rare moment when my teenage son spontaneously spewed forth a soliloquy, and I was his captive audience. Outside, I tried to act all cool about it. Inside, I was jumping up and down, giddy and shouting, He's talking to me! He's talking to me! He'd been away for a week. (Well, technically he had been home all along, but he'd had such a busy social life that he might as well have been in another country.) And when he returned, he had much to say. For an hour, I sat and listened to his stream-of-consciousness philosophies.

Among his spewings were his thoughts on children who make the wrong choices or disobey their parents. I was shocked to hear him say that kids should be punished when they act up or do something stupid. "Like, throw a squishy ball at them," he said.

M'kay. 
 

 











Since then, if he acts like an obnoxious teenager, my husband and I joke that we're going to go find a squishy ball.

We've had lots of squishy ball moments around here lately. (The squishy ball philosophy has caught on around our household, but too bad we don't actually own any. We just invoke the squishy ball name, and the kids get the point...)

There was the time my son refused to take the food I offered him to his cross-country meet across town, and instead left that morning with very little money and no food. Then he called home, whiny and hungry, several hours later, asking me to come get him. What did he spend his money on? Coke and Skittles. Uh-huh. Of course I wanted to hop in the car and save him from his hunger pains. But what lesson did he need to learn: That Mommy will come to his rescue after he stubbornly refuses what I've offered? Or that he should be prepared next time? I told him I was throwing a squishy ball through the phone. (He survived. And yes, he took lunch to the next meet.)

There were the multiple days last week when I wanted to throw a squishy ball at my daughter's teacher, for penalizing my daughter for an issue that's documented on her IEP! (Young teacher. Very sweet and nice, loved by all the students. But she doesn't quite "get" my daughter's learning disabilities and memory/organization deficits.) Yes, I know she requires a little more from her teachers than typical students require. I do as much as I can from home. But c'mon. She didn't choose to have these problems, and she's not trying to make your life difficult. Let's help her, not penalize her. Squishy ball!

 



















There were the multiple tantrums that aforementioned daughter threw when I was being the best advocate she's got, spending hours and hours helping her to actually understand the novel she's reading for school. Yes dear, I know you have eyes. Yes dear, I know you can read beautifully. I just want to help you remember and understand what you're reading, that's all. Sometimes I feel like Rodney Dangerfield: I don't get no respect! Where's that squishy ball?!

Amid all these challenging moments, I often take solace that one of my kids can reliably run on auto-pilot, at least academically. She loves school. She's organized. If she needs help, she asks. She hates being unprepared for class, so she simply is always prepared. But sometimes even the most reliable ones can slip through the cracks. She slipped this weekend, and needed me to catch her, but I didn't notice until it was too late. So what did I do? I gave her a lecture, when what she needed was help and a hug.

Someone throw a squishy ball at ME.

Past Present Future

Stepping out of the shower, I thought carefully about what clothes I'd wear. After all, this was my first day at school and I wanted to make the right impression: for me, that means casual, yet put-together.

But I wasn't the student this time. I am the parent of a ninth-grader, and this was my first parent night at the high school. There will be many more school visits in the coming years, but the first anything is always a more acute experience.

(Of course, I got to drive this time. My last "first time" at high school, I was just fourteen and had to ride the bus...)

I was a little excited to be going to high school, this time as always: as a little girl, even as a teenager, and especially when I took that college course a couple of years ago. It's that anticipation of "what could be" and "what I'll be" along with, in my case, geeky love of learning stuff and taking notes.

So there I was, a parent among a sea of them, searching for my son's classrooms, navigating the crowded halls, balancing a look of confident indifference with eagerness to share a class with friends. (Aside: who thought it was logical to place room 115 not in between 114 and 116, but rather around the corner and 50 feet down the hall?! I really did look like a lost freshman...)

And as I completed abbreviated versions of all my son's classes, I realized that memories and hopes, of myself and for him, had been commingling all evening. Not only was I there, in my son's high school, thinking of how he will grow and change during the next four years and how daunting this building must have seemed on his first day. But I was also thinking back to my own high school days, which many of my classmates will be celebrating this weekend at our 25th reunion.

I thought back to my own high school years. Those awkward, exciting, hormonal, future-defining years. Personally, they weren't the highlight of my life. Eh, I was shy, lacked confidence, lacked curves (yeah, for some of us, those come later...). I just didn't know my style yet, didn't know I had something to say, didn't know it's okay to be smart and interesting but a little bit ditsy all rolled into one, didn't know I was interesting, didn't know my passions, didn't know how to laugh at myself, didn't know there was the real me hidden inside my own good-girl shell, didn't know how to embrace the body I had, didn't know to pluck my eyebrows.

So, part of me would like to go to the reunion. See old classmates and friends through the eyes of an older, wiser, more relaxed, self-confident woman. 

But this older, wiser, relaxed, confident woman is also the mother of three teens. They have busy lives and lots of weekend plans, so I'm skipping the drive to Columbus. I can wait five years till the next.

And in five years, I'll have a college sophomore and two high school seniors. Five years may seem like forever to the kids, but I know better.

When Lightning Strikes

Remember how I mentioned the lightning strike that decided to play a little prank on us just six weeks after we moved in to our new house? In one instant, lightning struck the house, caused a fire and a water leak, and zapped most everything that runs on electricity. {No people or pets were hurt in the fire, thankfully. It's just stuff. Still, it's our stuff...}

Six weeks later, we're still trying to get the house put back together. You know, with everything working. No holes in the walls. No charred parts.

Nevermind the new-house decorating! It's not even on my radar right now. For us, now, progress means simply having things working and looking they way they did on the day we moved in.

So, imagine my delight when my husband came across this little gem last weekend. It's a bottle of Coup de Foudre.

Know what coup de foudre means? I didn't either.

It means "when lightning strikes." Oh yeah, we had to drink this.

  

Yep. Says it right there on the label.

So, we invited our usual accomplices over to help us enjoy a bottle or six.

<clink clink> Here's to hoping lightning
never strikes again!

For those who are interested in an update, we really are on the road to recovery. The casualty list was ridiculously long. But most of the damaged pipes, cables, fixtures, and appliances have been repaired or replaced by now. We were fortunate to have had access to all the professionals who originally built this house just a few short months ago, so we immediately knew whom to call, and they already knew all the intimate details of what's hidden in the walls.

We have just a few things left to repair...

Our range, whose electronic parts now twitch like a nervous cat. Not to mention the persistent click it makes to remind us it's still there and still not working. I'm down to two working burners, from six. That's not horrific, but it is insufficient for most meals. And there are NO working ovens. This is hardest on the girls, who enjoy and miss their baked goodies!

It's difficult to capture the twitch and impossible to capture the
click in a still photo. But trust me, this range is fully personified.
Very creepy.

The vent cover, through which the flames emerged in their hunger for more oxygen and fuel. Instead, they were met by my husband and a bucket of water, thus extinguishing the flames before they could do much further damage. (My daughter and I walked in the door just in time to see flames and my husband approaching them with his bucket. That's when I realized that the smoke detector alarms were not a malfunction - this was a real situation.)

Thankfully, my husband was home at the time of
the lightning strike and was prepared to strike back.

The basement walls and ceilings that now indelicately reveal the the intimate details of our home. At least the firemen and, subsequently, the plumbers and electricians, made the best of the holes and cut out neat rectangles. They could have just hacked away indiscriminately, so we thank them for their tidiness.

This is just a sampling of our basement cut-outs.
Despite how this looks, there is good news here.
Yes, we had a wet basement. But upon examination,
the gas line had a hole in it from the lightning.
Turns out, the only thing that prevented the house
from bursting into flames once it punctured the
gas line was the fact that it first punctured the
copper plumbing pipe next to it, causing water to
shoot into the gas line (and elsewhere), and thus
diluting the gas. At the time, we didn't realize
the potential danger from within the walls.

There are yet a few other problems, which all seem minor compared with the past and outstanding damage.

And as we raise our coup de foudre to toast our good health, at least we have a funny story to tell about the summer we moved into a new house... Cheers! <clink clink>

{Gulp!}

I'm taking a big step today: Yes, I'm posting my blog on my Facebook timeline!

My blog has always been public. But there's a difference between quietly putting it out there and Telling Everyone
About It.

This is a big step for me because, although I like writing and do it best when visualizing an audience (rather than keeping it to myself, as in a journal), knowing that others actually read it kind of makes me nervous: Will I offend someone? {My foot often makes its way into my mouth - never intentionally offensive - I just forget to think before I speak...} Will I spot a typo after I click "Publish"? Could I have phrased that sentence better? Am I revealing too much about myself? Too little? Will people think my musings on life and my little stories are trivial? {Some days, yes, my posts may be about mundane events in my midwestern suburban life. I'll try to make them humorous, at least. But other days, I promise I'll dig deeper!}

I've mentioned that I like to visualize you, my audience. Not in a stalker/creepy kind of way. In a greeting-an-old-friend kind of way. Don't worry - you're always clothed. And taking a break from your own mundane tasks. And paying rapt attention to every word I've written! So for those of you who also like to visualize, here's a picture of my spot.

I'm a little camera-shy, so there's no "me" in this
picture. You'll have to use your imagination.
Oh, and while you're imagining stuff, feel free
to offer decorating suggestions. The walls and
windows of my new office are still bare!

Or I might write from here. Turns out, my favorite
comfy chair is also Bentley's favorite comfy chair.
(And the only one he's allowed on anyway.)
So I usually have to fight him for it...

OK, I'm stalling.

Gulp! Here goes...