Fiddledeedee

We’ve spent the last couple of days at Walt Disney World.

I know.  Life is hard.

We figured this is our last hurrah, before summer.  We have Florida resident season passes, and this is the last non-busy week before the craziness of May crowds. And then we’re barred from going June through August.  (Block out dates.)

Which is fine by us.  Because the summer crowds are, well, crowded.  And this is Florida.  Which is synonymous with hell in the summer.

No offense to hell.

In fact, I prefer to spend the entire summer season indoors, if that’s at all possible.  And really, if I sprint between the air-conditioned car and our front door, I need never be overtaken by heat stroke.  And bingo, I’ve gotten in a little exercise as well.

With each subsequent trip to the happiest place on earth, I’m more and more convinced that I need to write a how-to book about navigating Disney World.

Particularly the bathrooms.

I have been storing up tidbits of information in my sieve-like mind with each visit.  Useful information which I have yet to find in any previously published Disney World Manual.

For example, when you ride Splash Mountain, you will end up with a soggy bottom.  Soaked right down to your under drawers.  No matter where you sit on the ride.  And any attempt to shield yourself using an article of your own clothing or, say, one of your own children is in vain.

After riding Splash Mountain, you may feel the urge to visit the nearby Ladies Room.  You know, because of THE SOUND OF ALL THE RUSHING  WATER, and all.

And here is where you must pay close attention.

If you must visit the Ladies Room after riding Splash Mountain, never, I repeat NEVER, use the paper seat cover provided to feather your nest.  It will morph into paper mache and become a permanent attachment to your backside.  In the shape of a toilet seat.

And another thing, while I’m on the subject:  I take issue with those automatic flushing toilets that Disney World so thoughtfully provides.  Toilets that flush willy nilly with no provocation whatsoever.  What’s up with that?

It annoys to to no end to finally detach an entire seat cover (as they normally are dispensed in tiny pieces), and then to carefully place the cover over the offending seat, only to have the toilet mysteriously flush for no good reason.  Thusly taking your precious seat cover away before it could be put to good use.

Today that scenario played out for me SEVEN times in the bathroom nearest The Tower of Terror.  I outsmarted the toilet by a move that could only be recreated during a high spirited game of Twister.

I actually broke a sweat.  Which is so uncool.

It is a mystery to me why Disney isn’t busting a femur trying to get me to be like an official reviewer.

I’ve been working through a few titles for my novel.  The best I’ve been able to come up with is “Experiencing Disney World, One Flush at a Time.”

Clearly, more research may be in order.

Just recently I was able to rid myself of the old changing table in Jensen’s room.  It really was the last vestiges of his babyhood.  The highchair was trashed a year ago, and I burned the diaper genie in effigy on the front lawn a while back.

Prompting yet another letter from the intrepid homeowners association.

Which I then burned.

I still hold on to the stroller, because if I use enough duct tape on him, he will actually stay in it.

Oh, I kid.  Sort of.

I miss none of the baby stuff.  That chapter of my life has come to an end.  Good riddance.

And yet, on Saturday night I found myself wandering down the baby aisle at Publix, grumbling about the high cost of diapers.  And searching for the largest size available.   It seems that the Pampers Cruisers stop at size 6.  Thirty five pounds and up.  Well.  We’ve got the “and up” part well established.

I’ve been putting Jensen into “night pull-ups” for the last year, and they no longer even come close to holding their own.  As it were.

Before you hit “contact” and send me all sorts of advice, I need to explain a couple of things to you.  Yes, he’s 4.  Yes, he’s potty trained.  But at night time, all rules fly out the window.

First of all, I put a gate up on Jensen’s door.  Because I don’t want him wandering around the house at night.  Remember.  This is Jensen I’m talking about.  And as you well know, I cannot yet trust him to be alone in the bathroom.

He still likes to flush his own head.  For sport.

Also, because of his severe atopic dermatitis, we have to really slather on his pressed palm oil (Lard, to those of you who know me well) on his hands and feet before bed.  Then he gets gloved and besocked in wet socks on both hands and feet.  And then covered with another pair of dry socks.

So, a small 4 year old boy attempting to go to the bathroom alone can be problematic at dark thirty.

And yes, we do take him to the bathroom if he wakes up and realizes he has to go.

However, usually he wakes up too late.

And yes, we limit his water intake late in the afternoon.  But unfortunately, his medicine makes him thirsty.

So.

Out of desperation I went shopping for diapers on Saturday night.

I eyed the size 6 offering, scoffed at the price, glanced at the cheaper and more inferior diapers, and threw the premium box into my basket.

Right beside the two bottles of wine.

Which is medicinal.  Just sayin’.

I did pause at the box of Depends, but opted to move on.

When I was checking out, an elderly lady was bagging my groceries.  I call anyone older than I am elderly, btw.  She placed the box of diapers back into my basket and asked the inevitable question, “Aww, how old is the baby?”

“He’s FOUR,” I replied, not blinking.

And the ladylike part of me squashed the really rebellious side who wanted to spout instead, “OH, THOSE ARE FOR ME.”

But then I considered the “35 pounds and up” clause printed clearly on the box and just knew that was a stretch.

The nice elderly bag lady gingerly placed the two bottles of wine into my canvas bag.

She may have wisely concluded that those were a precious commodity in my household.

And she would be correct.

“It’s only a season.  It’s only a season,”  I muttered all the way out to my car.

I read a news story this morning about an 11 year old boy who hanged himself, presumably because of the bullying he was subjected to at school.

His mother tried to get help for him, but no one at his school would acknowledge that a problem existed.

Until it was too late.

This story has haunted me all day.  And has strengthened my resolve to homeschool my children.

The subject of bullying has been a hot topic over at the Mom’s Homeroom Message Boards for the last couple of weeks.  (I’m the online moderator, and for that saga of surprise employment go here.)  I’ve been following a number of stories in that thread on bullying, and it breaks my heart when I can sense the anguish in a parent’s words as they describe the treatment their child is subjected to.  And yet they cannot get the school authorities to help, or even see that there is a problem.

I know that bullying has been around as long as children have been picking their noses.  I myself was on the receiving end of bullying in the 8th grade.  I was fresh out of parochial school, after having moved to a new state.  The class mean girl had it in for me, and threatened to beat me up every single day on the school bus.

Is it wrong to secretly hope that she grew up to have a hairy wart on her face?

I was too frightened to say a word to anyone.  It was a well known fact that she packed a pocket knife.  While I was armed only with groovy white go-go boots and baby blue eye shadow.  I didn’t have a prayer.

It wasn’t until I befriended a MUCH BIGGER girl, that the bullying ceased.  I never told my parents.  Why?  I don’t have an answer.

Have you all dealt with issues of bullying involving your kids, and how do you handle it?

Whenever I feel stretched so thin that I’m see-thru, I start making lists.  I had a few things I wanted to catch you all up on, so I’m accessing my bullet points. (Which is “option” 8.)  Thrilled me to no end when Fiddledaddy let me in on that little technological secret.

•  Well.  You all have blown Gretchen away with your support, suggestions, and general bloggy encouragement in the Naming of the Blog extravaganza.  She was also a little shell shocked by the photos of our 80’s hair.

I told her that the thing that has really hooked me on blogging, after these nearly 3 years, is the sense of community that bloggers have.  And I am deeply blessed to have such amazing and supportive readers and commenters.

You’ve given Gretchen a lot to mull over.  I’ll let you know what she decides.  Or if it’s a few titles, we’ll just post a poll and let y’all decide.

In any case, thank you for making her feel so welcome to this little community!

•  So I’ve been waiting patiently for all the results of the tests I’ve been taking lately.  While I’ve not gotten the biopsy results, I did get the results of the blood work.

I was tested for a variety of things, but most importantly, my doctor was looking into my Thyroid and Hormones.

The conversation went like this:

Doctor’s Office:  “You’re blood work came back just fine.  You’re Thyroid and Hormones are normal.”

Me:  “What?  Have you met me?  Are you sure?”

D.O.:  “Yes.  Normal.”

I relay the information to Fiddledaddy.

Fiddledaddy:  “WHAT?  You’re hormones are NORMAL?  Are they SURE?”

Evidently my issues run much deeper, it would seem.

I fully expect that my biopsy will be normal as well.  And my body is just getting even with me for giving birth to 3 children late in life.  Like strained muscles and STRESS aren’t enough.

But, I’ll let you know.

•  This is so off subject, but you know me.  My television viewing has taken quite a hit lately.  I haven’t watched “Survivor” in a season and a half.  “DWTS” has failed to capture my attention since Marie fainted.  “American Idol” isn’t even a contender for my affections.

And get this.  You know how I LOVE “24” and all things Jack Bauer related?  I’ve only been able to catch, gulp, something like 3 episodes this season.  I will admit that on Monday night, I turned it on after vowing not to watch until I was all caught up.  And let me just say, I am VERY disappointed in Tony Almeda.

The only show I haven’t missed a nanosecond of is “Lost.”  Which is why I don’t sleep on Wednesday nights.  OH THE ANGST.  I love that show.  LOVE IT.

•  I know I’ve promised pictures of the new flooring and beds in the kid’s rooms.  That’s on my list of things to do this weekend.  Pinky swear.

•  And lastly, a while back I told you I was in the midst of a curriculum change decision and was looking into Virtual Schooling.  The V.S. situation in our fair state has reached critical mass because of budget cuts, so the waiting list is 4 miles long.  Or something like that.

I’m leaning towards going with Lighthouse Christian Academy which uses Accelerated Christian Education materials.  (Frankly, I’m can’t put my faith in our state regarding what they would chose to educate my children with.)

My friend Diana uses this curriculum, and she has perfectly lovely and intelligent children.

And now, I’m counting the minutes until the Homeschool Convention next month.  You know, for educational purposes and all.  Yeah, that’s it. Educational purposes.

•• UPDATED TO ADD:   The biopsy results just came in and they are benign.  WOOT!

Have an awesome Thursday!!!!

I need your help.  I have this friend.  Let’s call her Gretchen.  Because that’s really her name.  Gretchen is one of the best story tellers I’ve ever known, and I’ve been trying to get her to start a blog since, well, since I figured out what a blog was.

And now she’s finally come to her senses and is ready to start a blog, but alas, has no idea what to call it.  The right name is crucial to blogging success, don’t you know.  Frankly, I’m stumped myself.  But, whenever I’m stumped, I know just where to go.

That’s where you all come in.  Will you help us find the perfect name for Gretchen’s blog?

Let me tell you a little about her.  I’ve known Gretchen for right at 20 years now.  We met when we both lived in Dallas, and then both subsequently moved to Los Angeles.  She was instrumental in my survival in the City of Angels.  We ended up both living on the street that looks like it is going to run into the Hollywood sign.

It didn’t.  But just looked like it did.

Gretchen was the brain child behind “Ladies Night.”  Ladies Night formed as a bunch of us girls, mostly from Texas, who desired to gather together every Sunday night, and talk, laugh, and eat really stupid stuff together.

And there may or may not have been a blender and some Margarita mix involved.  But I’m not sayin’.

(Gretchen baked my 30th birthday cake, circa 1990.)

(From L to R: Kate, Kathy, Robin, Gloria, Julie, me (in back), and Gretchen)

(Ladies Night took a field trip to Las Vegas)

We kept up with this ritual for years.  It wasn’t until we started marrying off, and life pulled us in a hundred directions that our Sunday night tradition ceased.

I miss those women fiercely.  We knew intimate details of one another’s lives, and those conversations were bound in secrecy, never to leave the room.  Life long friendships were forged.

All while bonding over a plate of sausage balls.

Gretchen and I didn’t always see eye to eye on everything.  We still don’t.  But that’s okay, because we love and respect each other enough to leave room for differing opinions.  And she was the kind of friend that would be at my side in an instant if I needed her.

Like the night she held my hair as I yaked all over an innocent Maple tree in front of my apartment.  After only consuming a pomegranate for dinner.  Followed by perhaps a shot of Tequila, when I had forgotten that I really don’t drink.

Anyhoo.

All the Ladies Night gals have grown up, married, and birthed a bunch of babies.  One such boy baby was allowed to attend Ladies Night meetings, only because he could not repeat what was said.  And men were never allowed into the inner-sanctum of those gatherings.

That boy child is in college now.  Sob.  Sob.

Gretchen, who is still an actress in Los Angeles, married an Italian boy from New York named Jimmy.  And they have a beautiful little boy named Jude.

Gretchen was concerned that her life wasn’t interesting enough to blog about.

Let’s review.  Gretchen is from Texas.  She’s an actress living in Los Angeles.  Married to a New York Italian.  Who is also an actor.  She’s raising a son in Los Angeles.  And she’s Catholic.

That’s the stuff that blog fodder dreams are made of, my friends.

Gretchen wrote a little something for you all, that will kind of give you a glimpse into her journey to motherhood.  And hopefully aid in the blog naming, and all.

Jude

“One thing I’ve always known for certain, is that I was going to be a mother. I didn’t have a “need” to be a mother, or a “desire” to be a mother. I had what I felt was an actual knowledge that this would be part of my life. So when I woke up one day and realized that I was 40 years old and had still produced no offspring, I decided that I couldn’t just wait around “knowing” it would happen, but that I had to actually get off my butt and make it happen. So my husband, Jimmy, and I started actively trying. And trying. And trying. Which is difficult when you have a husband who only wants to “try” when it’s wild and spontaneous (something which thrilled me in our earlier days together). I was forced to hide the basal thermometer and feign “spontaneous” enthusiasm for “trying”. My husband never caught on as to why I was oh so very frisky at the exact same time every month. He did, however, enjoy it tremendously.

But alas…no pregnancy.  At 41, I faced the fact that I should probably get some professional help, and went to a fertility doctor. And being the aging Catholic that I am, I started lighting a candle to St. Jude every Sunday. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes (and fittingly, actors, which  Jimmy and I both are), and I thought he would certainly be my go-to guy.

We got pregnant! And lost it. Hmmm. Okay, let’s try again. Only this time, I realized it was time to marshal the forces. Our health insurance would only pay for one more go with the fertility treatments. This was my Waterloo. My Alamo (we Texans LOVE Alamo analogies!). I needed to bring out the big guns. So…I sent out a plea to all my spiritual-minded friends, and they came through for me in a big way. Catholic friends had novenas going across the country, Christian friends added me to their prayer chains, Buddhist friends had their meditation groups chanting for me, a friend on a trip to Europe lit a candle in every cathedral in France, Japanese friends performed Jorai healing over my womb to get it prepared to welcome the child. And then I decided to play my trump card. I went back to St. Jude, and this time, I promised him that if he’d help us have a baby…I’d name the kid after him. Big, right?

And it worked. It worked! We were blessed with a healthy, thriving pregnancy. My fertility doctor loved me because I was a 41 year old woman who got pregnant TWICE, thus skewing his success rate nicely. And my Italian-American in-laws were overjoyed to learn that it was a masculine child.

Now…how to tell Jimmy that I’d already named the kid by making a vow to a saint. Oh no. Jimmy does not like being told what to do. Oh no. He does not like having decisions made for him. Oh no. And even though he is now a pseudo-Hindu, he is still enough of an old Italian Catholic to know that you don’t screw around with a vow to a saint. Oh no, no, no. A vow to a saint is very serious stuff.

We bounced around a few names. Jimmy wanted Vito (I know. But Jimmy’s an Italian actor and has a Godfather thing, and anyway, Vito means “life”, so…). I suggested Levon, for Levon Helm of The Band, a mutual favorite of ours. All the while, I was getting up the guts to make my confession about the wacky vow-to-a-saint thing.

So one night, when I was about 6 months into my pregnancy, we decided to meet for dinner at a local Italian restaurant. I got there first and was waiting. When Jimmy got there, he was very wound up and excited (people who know him know that he is usually this way, but this time he was particularly so), and as soon as he sat down he announced “I know what we have to name our son!” Oh NO!! It was now or never. I had to make my confession. “I was driving in the car” Jimmy continued, “And ‘Hey Jude’ came on the radio. How many millions of times have I heard this song? But today, I felt like I was hearing it for the first time. And it hit me like a ton of bricks that that’s what we have to name the baby. Jude.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Armed with all of this information (and this may be my longest blog post I’ve ever published), please submit your ideas for a name for Gretchen’s blog in the comments.  Gretchen knows that I have the best and most witty commenters in the whole blogosphere.

Unfortunately, there are no prizes.

Just the satisfaction that you’ve helped a new blogger begin an obsession a journey that may very well change her life.  Forever.

I thank you.  Gretchen thanks you.  Jimmy, on the other hand, may never forgive me.