Reality Check

In my opinion, there's nothing quite like a visit to the county nursing home to give me a swift "reality check" kick in the butt.

I've been feeling frumpy, grumpy and dumpy over the fact that I am surrounded by 20-somethings who swear and whine incessantly. The hot topics of conversation are "Jersey Girls," binge drinking and pregnancy tests. I hate how they dress. I find them lazy and lacking in moral fiber.

I text my husband from the store, "It's a circus here." and "I wish I worked with people my own age."

I have no one at work to talk to. At least about anything interesting (to me).

On Tuesday I visited my grandmother at the county nursing home. Reading her journal, which we keep to help her memory, I learn that she has just been moved to a double room without a view from a private room with a lovely view. She has very little space for her personal belongings. Quite frankly, she has very little personal space at all.

She wheels herself out into the hallway where she sits in the common area by the nurses' station. Another resident sits behind her in the hall, babbling on and on in nonsensical phrases.

My grandmother says, "At first I thought a radio was on somewhere and I was hoping it would be turned down." In case I missed the reference, she smiles and tilts her head toward the babbler.

During my visit we see another resident pacing. Down the hallway. Turn around. Repeat. She doesn't know why he does that.

Some of the residents don't speak at all. For some that do, she's not really sure if they recognize her. But then, she thinks, maybe they do because it seems as if they've saved up questions overnight to ask her the next day.

My great uncle, Grandma's brother-in-law, is in the same nursing home. He spends the day walking laps around the entire building. This time, I've sat in his favorite hallway chair and I try to time my move to another seat by the minutes it might take him to make the return lap.

I don't time it quite right. He sees me in the chair and I call him over, offering to move. He shakes his head and moves on. He suffers from Parkinson's. Every day my great aunt visits her husband and her sister here.

"Do you know," Grandma says," that some people don't get any visitors at all? It's very sad."

Proud Mamas

I took the picture on the left last Thursday at 5:00 a.m. Prior, around 3:30 a.m., Mr. WestBerryMom had discovered a lamb born out in the pasture. It was a cold, wet morning so we carefully scooped up baby and herded mama across our property to the barn and birthing stall.

We raise a rare breed of sheep, Tunis, sometimes called "The Red Heads." I adore them.

I had to sit with mama and baby for a few hours because the ewe pawed at the lamb in an effort to coerce her to nurse. I was afraid she would injure the baby (sheep aren't very smart, I imagine you've heard).

It was a very sweet time. I cuddled with the lamb and put my hand into the deep pile of mama ewe's wool (perhaps it's strange but I love the smell and feel of lanolin).

We exchanged stories about our children.

I have many reasons to be proud of my own "flock" of boys -their relationship with the Lord, their musicianship, their kind hearts and their drive.

I'm grateful that they are strong and healthy, both in body and mind.

Today (and every day) I'm counting my many blessings (look what God has done!)

Feverish (Cabin Fever/Spring Fever)

For 10 out of 12 months last year I was an independent contractor. Now it's tax time and I have extra work to do to find receipts that might provide expenses to offset some of my income. The "dump everything in a drawer" method of accounting that I employed has not proven very effective.

I'm doing the taxes myself, using TurboTax. In addition to the screen time I'm putting in for the taxes, I have a mountain of grading to complete, all on-line. There are study guide questions, drafts of oral presentations, discussion board postings, e-mails, graduate school recommendations for students and more.

Enter little boys. It's still quite cold outside and it's very muddy. The perfect recipe for the 10 minute "go outside clean and dry and return quickly cold and wet" scenario. Mud all over the back room floor, kitchen floor and the TV stand. The TV stand?

Of course, because there is a direct line from outside to the TV (forget passing by the bathroom to wash up). It seems that I have no idea what to do with these boys except drive them outside or let them watch TV. Too much TV.

Enter big boys. We're arguing about cell phone usage after 9:30 p.m. The oldest is playing in the pit band for the Spring musical and this week they will practice until 8 p.m. every night. Extra trips to town. Food to provide for the band. Performances this weekend (if I can fly from work to the Sat. night performance I might catch one).

I'm desperate to finish the taxes and grading.

It seem that I'm too tired to think of craft projects, reading stories or fun outings. Their room is a disaster. This morning I slept right through waking up to get the older boys on the bus. In fact, it would seem that I'm too tired to even plan meals.

It's a fever. A sickness.

I wish for the cure of a kind neighbor with children who would invite the boys over to play. Or an aunt or uncle, or grandparent who would have them over for lunch or an overnight. Quite frankly, I'd probably even leave them with a stranger at this point if he/she could provide an alternative to my "too much screen time mother guilt."

God give me strength.

Soda Pop and Screen Time

At least once a week, if not twice, someone in the family has been going to visit a doctor. I've been sick and I missed N's performances of "Cinderella" and J's 15th birthday while I shivered and slept for two days. Children with infected toes and bronchitis. Could it have anything to do with this long, long, cold winter? (The last day of March and it's still snowing!)

On Tuesday J & W, ages 4 and 6, went to the pediatrician's office for their annual well child visits.

We weren't able to schedule with Dr. Murphy, who has been caring for the boys for 15 years now. Instead, we saw a different doctor, Dr. Bauer, who was new to us.

Keep in mind that W is a very good story-teller. He has a wonderful imagination and he often role plays Super Heroes and other characters. Our own doctor, Dr. Murphy, knows this. She knows that WestBerry Dad is very tall. She understands that accidents happen, often, in a house full of boys.

It seemed impolite to warn the new doctor about W's stories. In fact, I didn't get a chance to speak with her much at all. The office is going to electronic record keeping and for a good 30 minutes we waited in the tiny rom while she typed and reviewed records.

W filled the new doctor's ears with some pretty tall tales.

"I watch TV for AT LEAST six hours every day." I watch the Wii and play the Ipod, Playstation 3 and my DS." (2 out of three of those items are currently lost in his room)

"We eat candy for breakfast."

"I don't like milk. I drink a lot of soda."(He gets soda a few times each YEAR thank you!)

(At least he didn't throw in any good child abuse stories. for that I should be grateful.)

And she bit. Hook, line and sinker.

We had to stay an extra hour for "eat five vegetables of every color in the rainbow" practice because their BMI had increased by 3%. We discussed alternatives to screen time.

I smiled and nodded.

Spectacles

Glasses are not merely an accessory for me. They are a necessary evil. After wearing my contacts for the first 16 hours of the day, I put them on, sit or lay on the couch or my bed, and very soon, a child (or the poodle) comes over to cuddle and pushes them back into the bridge of my nose or deep into my temples.

It's a ritual I savor. I read two or three pages of a magazine and then wake myself back up by my loud snoring, throw the magazine on the floor and turn off the light.

It's been many, many years since the purchase of new glasses. Please don't ask me how long. I don't remember.

I went to the optometrist/optician yesterday and they asked me over and over, "how OLD are these glasses?" The experience stirred up a wide range of childhood fears (and grown up frustrations, like trying to keep my 4-year old entertained for two hours in a small dark room).

"You really do need to have your eyes dilated."("I'm sorry, I can't. I don't have anyone to drive me home." 10x)

"You need such a strong prescription that they don't even make contacts in that power!"

"Your face is such an unusual size and shape." "And your eyes, they are set very close together."

Unless you choose the super expensive, high tech lenses with anti-glare coating, your glasses will be very thick and heavy" (and you will look like a...)

"Well ok, if you like those frames. I was taught that people with a head shaped like yours would look better in sharp angles."

$350 later (after my insurance benefit) my 4-year old was finally free to go back to swinging from vines. We treated ourselves to filled cupcakes at the bakery and I drove the hour home, without dilated pupils.

Resident Evil

Today is my oldest son's 15th Birthday. I'm so impressed by the young man he has become. I could go on an on about his accomplishments and his character. That's not a picture of my son, by the way.

Along with certificates and victories, this school year has been characterized by several tragic events. His friend Katy was murdered by her brother-in-law. Yesterday, another friend took her own life by hanging herself at the local park. Who found her? Why?

I asked the children about her last night. Erin was kind. She had a boyfriend. She was a great student. And she colored her hair almost every day ("ahhh, an artist," I thought)

Evil seems to be swirling closer and closer. I'm haunted by a recent news report about a man, David Wampler, who drugged and raped teenagers in his home. He supplied them every kind of drug from cocaine to oxycontin to nitrous oxide.

David was my student for two semesters. He was the kind of person who made the hair on my arms stand up when he walked by. I dreaded facing him in the hallway or in my office. He often visited me to ask for favors or to talk about his "wild" trips to Ibiza and Mallorca.

I'm not saying I knew he was a criminal. Really, I don't know what conclusion to draw or what lesson to take away except the piercing reality that I need to be all the more vigilant.

Reoccurring Nightmares

This morning my oldest son got his first pair of contacts as part of a 3-month "fitting" process. For $120 he can try as many different brands of contact lenses as he likes until he finds the most comfortable fit.

A technician tried to explain the process of rinsing and inserting the lenses as well as the "pinching" involved in removing them each day.

J had a hard time putting the lenses in. His eyes watered; the contacts folded themselves over and dried out. After two hours we drove home and I could see that he was uncomfortable; he complained that his vision was worse instead of improved.

I've been wearing contacts for over 30 years. I no longer think about the steps involved to hold open the upper eyelid while pulling down the lower. I look at oncoming lenses straight on. But every once in awhile I have the re-occurring contact lens nightmare where a contact floats behind my eyeball or stings like a plank in the eye.

Another reoccurring nightmare is more like a flashback. My mother is running after me screaming that I'm going to miss the school bus. It's the first day of class and I can't find my classrooms. Towards the end, my high school won't let me graduate (this almost happened because I spent my junior year abroad and my senior year attending a nearby college).

Since starting my new job with Cellular Sales I've dreamt about helping people with their phone problems. All night long. Every night. I swear to you I haven't dreamt about any other subject despite my attempt at "creative imagery" from 8 p.m. on.

Most of my waking hours are spent helping people fix their phone problems. There's Monica who's husband bought her an "Ally" phone ("this isn't a real Droid"). Dawn was overcharged for data on a suspended line for six months. Lost chargers, broken LCD's, depleted batteries. Every day the same issues and maybe a few new ones.

And every night my own reoccurring cell phone nightmares.