nursing: the next generation

We sit together, her thoughtfully nibbling on a plate of Oreo cookies and sipping chocolate milk from one of my favorite mugs.

Is this your cup, Mima?

Yes, it is.

What’s that? :::points at the stethoscope:::

It’s a stethoscope. I use it when I am at work taking care of tiny, sick babies.

That’s cuz you’re a nurse!

Well at least she gets that.

That’s right! Perhaps someday, when you grow up, you can be a nurse too and I will give you my stethoscope.

Hmmm… :::takes another sip of chocolate milk::: Nah!

No?

:::shakes her head no:::

Well, okay then. Perhaps there won’t be another nurse in the next generation of this circus.

At least not yet.

I remain ever hopeful.

You’re going to be there when a lot of people are born, and when a lot of people die. In most every culture, such moments are regarded as sacred and private, made special by a divine presence. No one on Earth would be welcomed, but you’re personally invited. What an honor that is. -Thom Dick

motherhood changes you.

No kidding, says every mother ever. I could state the obvious changes…your body, your sleep, your privacy. Instead let me share with you one way that motherhood changes you that one never really considers before motherhood.

It’s the middle of the night and you are startled by a blood curdling scream. You’re not asleep yet, of course; still you’re not expecting to hear screaming in the middle of the night. Your 22 year old, 20 year old and 14 year old children are thankfully beyond the middle of the night crying and screaming phase in their lives…at least you thought so…until you heard screaming coming from your daughter’s room. And while your darling husband softly snores in his slumber because of course he doesn’t hear your child screaming in the night, you quickly get up to see what is the matter.

There she is, your darling daughter in the kitchen pointing in the direction of her bedroom.

Oh my god! A giant bug jumped out at me!

You might have rolled your eyes. Still, you’re mom, so you step into her bedroom and…

OH MY GOD!!!

Literally.

On her nightstand was a giant bug, slightly bigger than my thumbnail. Don’t ask me what kind of bug. It was BIG and had lots of legs and antennae and brown and BIG. OMG, it was big. I was not about to get any closer to investigate.

Can you get rid of it, Mom? Please.

Standing outside her bedroom she pleads with me.

Rolling my eyes again, thinking to myself, Are you kidding me??!!

But I am a mom and my darling husband continues to snuffle deep in his slumber. Neither Abby or I will be getting any sleep as long as that giant bug is in her room. But how because grabbing it with a tissue is not going to work.

It might touch me!

Mom that I am, I deal with it.

And there the bug remained until my darling husband came home from work at the end of the day because rescue my daughter from the scary, big, ugly bug I will do but I wasn’t about to get any closer. In the light of day, Bill could dispose of that bug…far, far, far away from The Big Top.

 

 

because we’re like that

I’m thinking of getting a new tattoo.

Of what?

The family coat of arms.

The WHOLE thing?

No. Just the lion with the spear…

With the impaled severed head.

Yeah. I think it will be cool.

A mural crown gules a demo-lion supporting a spear erect, on the point a Saracen’s head, all proper, the head wreathed silver and azure” because Scarboroughs are like that.

Thank you Steve at One Sixteen Tattoo for making my darling husband’s Father’s Day wish come true.

 

the adventure of moving

Walking through The Big Top this afternoon, passing the boxes in the sitting room and the kitchen that have yet to be unpacked, Hazel declared that it looks like we are all done with moving…and in her nearly eight year old wisdom and mercy, she pronounced it all to be good. It was then that I pointed out that regardless of all of the unpacked boxes and the big to-do list on the refrigerator and the pantry from IKEA that still needs to be delivered (and assembled), Papa STILL needs to get the garage organized because Mima needs to park her Dory car in the garage. So no, we are not all done moving.

Oh. …You’re right, Mima. You’re not done yet.

Such is the almost never-ending adventure that is moving and setting up the new Big Top. There is always something that needs to be done, to be hung, to be put away, to be fixed, to be tossed, to be ordered, to be installed. At least I have begun pounding holes in the walls a lot sooner than last time. Perhaps because this feels more like a place to stay, a place to live and place that doesn’t remind me of the dream that we lost in a short sale. 

It felt that way when we first saw this place and walked through it and tried to imagine all of our stuff most of our stuff in it…even the laundry room, because I do still live for laundry.

Hmmm…looks like there is no gas hook-up for our dryer, honey. That is going to be a problem…

Our dryer is electric.

I’m pretty sure it’s a gas dryer…

No. I installed it. I should know. We have an electric dryer.

Okay:::moving on to the next room and imagining, planning:::

Then, moving day, the end of the day as the last load is being loaded off of the truck and brought into the new Big Top:

So honey, guess what?

Hmmm?…

About the dryer…

What about the dryer?

Well, our dryer is a gas dryer.

Like I told you that it was.

Yeah.

That’s a problem.

Yeah.

It’s a good thing I budgeted a little extra for this move. :::mentally erasing the plans I had for that little extra:::

Yeah.

And that, boys and girls, is how I had a new dryer delivered today. No, not cherry red, like it’s older partner. Shinier, newer, very white but promises to work just as hard and as efficient and green. And today I find myself to be super excited about doing laundry because it has been two weeks since I was last able to do laundry. Two weeks makes for a lot of laundry here under the new Big Top.

I don’t mind.

I was right…

as I often am.

And I have a shiny new electric dryer.

On to the next adventure that is making this new Big Top home.

We shape our dwellings, and afterwards, our dwellings shape us.

Winston Churchill

mortifying since 1999

There are some things a fifty-something mom should never, ever do…according to her fourteen year old son.

:::spoken with literally no rhythm just like a middle aged mom:::

How does a bastard orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence impoverished, in squalor grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

Really Mom?

The ten-dollar founding father without a father got a lot smarter  by being a self=starter…

Mom! Oh gawd, Mom! No! Stop!

What, son? Hamilton’s my jam.

:::eyeroll…heavy sigh:::

No?

No, Mom. No.

Perhaps he’s right. Still, it’s nice to know that I can still mortify my teenaged child just by being me…as any good parent of a teen does.

While we can not agree if his 54 year old mom is able to spin a verse or two from Hamilton, we both can agree that rap is the language of the Revolution  and the debates that helped to shape our nation…and yes, makes The Federalist Papers something cool that a teenaged student would want to study.

It’s even better on stage at the Richard Rogers Theater. Perhaps I will let Leslie Odom Jr. and the cast of Hamilton tell the story. But right now it is still my jam.

Yes, Daniel rolled his eyes as I said that.