(Original post date: November 16, 2009)
I nearly did her in a week ago! Last Saturday I put my wig on in the morning and wore it all day. With fewer cactus needles, it’s much more comfortable and it keeps heat in -- although I prefer not wearing it in the house. Anyway, Liam and I started preparing the rice. He is all about cooking right now. Loves it! I put the rice on the stove, washed the asparagus—basically the normal supper time groove. Then it happened: I took the lid off the rice and my glasses fogged up. I sprung back away from the stove. The tenderness of the situation hitting me full force. I may very well have singed my $400 wig on the very first day I wore it for any length of time. I zipped to the bathroom. My bangs were intact. Whew!
My college friend and her daughter were here last week while Bill was working in China. The first night they arrived I put a casserole in the oven for dinner. I opened the oven door and it happened again. Whoosh! Hot steamy air heading straight for my hair! I leaned back to let the steam escape in front of me. Closing the door, I zipped to the bathroom again. My bangs were still intact. I went downstairs where our guests were unpacking. “Guys, I need to take my wig off to cook, and I want you to know that so you aren’t shocked to come upstairs and see me bald in the kitchen. OK?” So I did a private reveal and they were both OK with it.
A few nights ago I thought I should do a “check” with Will. We’ve started playing a game of “you ask me any two questions and I ask you any two questions.” They are usually questions of favorites, but I make it clear that any topic is fair game. The question I needed answered, “Will, do you like my wig or my bald head better?” His immediate reply, “Hmm, I like them both,” sounding a bit disappointed at the lack of complexity of the question. Whew! I know where Liam stands. Often when I have the wig on, he’ll point to it and say, “I want spiky hair!” We’ve talked about the fact that when it’s on my head it’s mine and only I can take it off. Finally after many checks with Bill, he says he doesn’t mind one way or another. I love him.
I had cupboards installed in the basement and it took a day to install them, so I went down in the morning and had a chat with the two guys, then said, “By the way I’m on chemo and I don’t always wear my wig in the house. So you will probably see me bald.” “No problem!”
A good friend stopped by one day and I answered the door wigless. She didn’t faint and seemed to feel comfortable. So... I have established my home as wig-free territory, at least until the snow flies. If you stop by, don’t be surprised if I answer the door as Baldy. I’m OK with it. But if you really aren’t, I understand completely. I would rather dress for your visit than not have your visit. :)
If you’re curious…
The wig is washable. If I wear it daily, I need to wash it once a month in cool water, then hang it on a wig stand to dry. As it dries, it bounces back into style. An easy shake and quick comb should bring it back to its original look.
I know where to place it because the front of the wig should be set the width of four fingers, laid horizontally, above my eyebrows. It’s amazing how accurate that is. By the way, if you are a true friend, you will tell me if something is a little askew. I would tell you if you had a bugger. That’s normal conversation in our house.
Most of the dark hair on my head is gone, but I still see and feel a lot of hair. What’s left is blonde – or gray from the week of expereementing. If I’m really this gray, I’m putting Katie, my hair dresser, on alert now to restore my “true” color in the spring the minute I’m released from chemo life and have put the wig in long-term storage. I’ve heard I may have to wait a while before going back to my color. The hair now is softer than the original full-head-of-hair crew cut of Halloween. A friend of mine said it feels like chick fuzz. And that’s what it feels like when I walk: The relative wind I create moves it. It reminds me of walking through of a roomful of cobwebs gently brushing my scalp. I get the same sensation on my legs, but that’s a different story.
Staying strong and not quite hairless,
Linda
Thursday, April 7, 2011
3 down 5 to go!
(Original post date: November 13, 2009)
Home and snuggled in bed with my cherubs! All went well today; I had a view of the Charles River. Bill's in China, so a college friend and her daughter, who is my god-daughter, came out from Chicago for the week. They dropped me off at MGH and then came back to pick Will and Liam from school. Then my neighbor brought me home. All worked like clock work! (Thanks, guys!)
My port finally worked with my head between my knees. I'm looking for a mounted camera next time and perhaps taking a game of Twister.
Bill returns at midnight tomorrow. So Sunday will be a "Mommy, Daddy, Will & Liam" day!
Have a great weekend!
Staying strong,
Linda
Home and snuggled in bed with my cherubs! All went well today; I had a view of the Charles River. Bill's in China, so a college friend and her daughter, who is my god-daughter, came out from Chicago for the week. They dropped me off at MGH and then came back to pick Will and Liam from school. Then my neighbor brought me home. All worked like clock work! (Thanks, guys!)
My port finally worked with my head between my knees. I'm looking for a mounted camera next time and perhaps taking a game of Twister.
Bill returns at midnight tomorrow. So Sunday will be a "Mommy, Daddy, Will & Liam" day!
Have a great weekend!
Staying strong,
Linda
Thursday, December 2, 2010
My wicker life boat
Original post date: November 13, 2009
My wicker life boat is floating nearby again. I’m a day away from another round of chemo. Now I pull my life boat out only in the morning and at bedtime to brush and floss my teeth and take two little pills. Since early October I have kept my toothbrush, floss, toothpaste and towel quarantined from the other Tinkler germ havens. Although we try to contain everyone’s toothbrush in a separate glass, on occasion there has been an obvious game of musical toothbrushes held in the bathroom. I don’t want my toothbrush involved in that.
Tonight I’ll review the inventory of the whole boat, making sure every anti-nausea med is in place and reviewing the specific anti-nausea directions through Day 5. Next I consider the side effects of the anti-nausea meds and make sure their antidote is in place. And if the first concoction doesn’t work, there’s another level to resort to.
Tomorrow night I’ll take the basket from its cupboard in the bedroom, and after rifling through it at bedtime, I’ll move it to the kitchen counter. That way when I wake up at 3 a.m. I won’t be pawing through a cupboard to find it and jiggling pill bottles upstairs. I can turn a light on in the kitchen, evaluate and diagnose and treat without interrupting my sleeping beauties upstairs.
I keep it tethered close by the first week as I watch the clock and take meds as directed. I don’t wait for the feeling to drift by. I’m determined to avoid it if I possibly can. By Day 4, my gratitude for my wicker boat grows thin. While I appreciate it, I’m tired of having it so close. Finally, around Day 7, I release the line and tow it at length behind me, thankful I only need it for normal tooth maintenance and two little pills, once again.
Staying strong and afloat,
Linda
My wicker life boat is floating nearby again. I’m a day away from another round of chemo. Now I pull my life boat out only in the morning and at bedtime to brush and floss my teeth and take two little pills. Since early October I have kept my toothbrush, floss, toothpaste and towel quarantined from the other Tinkler germ havens. Although we try to contain everyone’s toothbrush in a separate glass, on occasion there has been an obvious game of musical toothbrushes held in the bathroom. I don’t want my toothbrush involved in that.
Tonight I’ll review the inventory of the whole boat, making sure every anti-nausea med is in place and reviewing the specific anti-nausea directions through Day 5. Next I consider the side effects of the anti-nausea meds and make sure their antidote is in place. And if the first concoction doesn’t work, there’s another level to resort to.
Tomorrow night I’ll take the basket from its cupboard in the bedroom, and after rifling through it at bedtime, I’ll move it to the kitchen counter. That way when I wake up at 3 a.m. I won’t be pawing through a cupboard to find it and jiggling pill bottles upstairs. I can turn a light on in the kitchen, evaluate and diagnose and treat without interrupting my sleeping beauties upstairs.
I keep it tethered close by the first week as I watch the clock and take meds as directed. I don’t wait for the feeling to drift by. I’m determined to avoid it if I possibly can. By Day 4, my gratitude for my wicker boat grows thin. While I appreciate it, I’m tired of having it so close. Finally, around Day 7, I release the line and tow it at length behind me, thankful I only need it for normal tooth maintenance and two little pills, once again.
Staying strong and afloat,
Linda
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Grace
Up early, with much to be thankful for -- family and friends -- and no wig to be singed by the blast of hot air from the oven while checking on the turkey! :)
Happy Thanksgiving...
(Original post date: November 25, 2009)
I keep needing and wanting a definition for grace. Is it a quiet blanket that provides calm? Thrown over a situation it melts away the impurities, the untruths, the frenzy and leaves only goodness. Grace is a peacemaker. It slows a building of energy. It appreciates every one as a creature of God. It balances Godliness with freedom of choice. When freedom abounds, fast and furious, grace, like a warm fleece blanket, douses the flame a bit, protects the Godliness. Reminds us what we truly are.
Grace is quiet. Grace is confident. I think of Mom when Grandma Murphy died. I was frenzied. Mom wasn’t cooking! How had the system broken down? Mom always cooks! Then the food began to arrive. Neighbors, friends and family appeared at our door with plates and bowls of food. Not necessarily a call beforehand, no scramble to vacuum a floor or clean the table off. Quietly, calmly Mom accepted help. The thing is Mom knew before the knocks came to the door. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been talking with Mom about, “What are you up to today?” And she is making food for someone. The guys are in the field and need sandwiches. A neighbor is ill. A farm friend has died. A young mother has a very sick little boy. Mom has worked it out. Grace through caring for others. At least while eating, those families have a half hour of warmth from someone who cares, the pain is momentarily eased. Mom’s cooking is her gift. Mom’s appearance at a friend’s house with a meal is grace, a fleece blanket to help the situation seem more bearable. Mom has shown me the power of grace not only in giving it but, perhaps more importantly, in accepting it.
But what do I do with it? I pray for God’s grace that I in turn may be graceful, gracious, full of grace. It’s a beautiful word and I sometimes recognize grace when I see it, but I have a hard time conjuring it up. Perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps grace is a slow simmering pot of delicious stew, melding all the flavors together. And after stewing for a couple hours, the bubbles pop emitting not the smell of ingredients, but the smell of stew. It’s a culmination of events that produce grace, but yet, it’s not produced. Grace just happens.
But how to deal with it? Emitting grace is more imaginable, easier perhaps, than accepting grace. In our lives, busy and full, grace seems more elusive. However, in every day, there are tiny but great moments of grace. Sadly, our society misses many of these because we’re self-absorbed in the to-dos, should-dos and really need-to-dos. As a parent, some moments, thankfully, hit me in the face. A scream from the living room, “Mom!!” A frenzied return from the kitchen, “What?” A reply, “I love you!” “…Oh.” Like being tapped by the wing of an angel. A gift of grace. And if I dry my hands in the kitchen and go to the living room and hug my cherub, that’s accepting grace.
This brings me back to my biggest quandary: recognizing and accepting that more subtle grace as it moves about daily. How? First the world needs to spin a bit slower so that I can “see” grace when it happens. If only grace traveled as a recognizable fleece blanket, neatly folded, I could keep my eye on it. Then when I see it expand and cover something, that would be my “aha” moment. Assuming it’s spotted, and, oh dear God, it’s going to land on me. Do I want to be covered? Shall I run? Why? What will I do when it lands? Frenzy. I close my eyes. I plant my feet. I am quiet. I feel the tap of an angel wing. It’s beautiful, heavenly. And all I can return is a whisper. “Thank you.”
Happy Thanksgiving...
(Original post date: November 25, 2009)
I keep needing and wanting a definition for grace. Is it a quiet blanket that provides calm? Thrown over a situation it melts away the impurities, the untruths, the frenzy and leaves only goodness. Grace is a peacemaker. It slows a building of energy. It appreciates every one as a creature of God. It balances Godliness with freedom of choice. When freedom abounds, fast and furious, grace, like a warm fleece blanket, douses the flame a bit, protects the Godliness. Reminds us what we truly are.
Grace is quiet. Grace is confident. I think of Mom when Grandma Murphy died. I was frenzied. Mom wasn’t cooking! How had the system broken down? Mom always cooks! Then the food began to arrive. Neighbors, friends and family appeared at our door with plates and bowls of food. Not necessarily a call beforehand, no scramble to vacuum a floor or clean the table off. Quietly, calmly Mom accepted help. The thing is Mom knew before the knocks came to the door. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been talking with Mom about, “What are you up to today?” And she is making food for someone. The guys are in the field and need sandwiches. A neighbor is ill. A farm friend has died. A young mother has a very sick little boy. Mom has worked it out. Grace through caring for others. At least while eating, those families have a half hour of warmth from someone who cares, the pain is momentarily eased. Mom’s cooking is her gift. Mom’s appearance at a friend’s house with a meal is grace, a fleece blanket to help the situation seem more bearable. Mom has shown me the power of grace not only in giving it but, perhaps more importantly, in accepting it.
But what do I do with it? I pray for God’s grace that I in turn may be graceful, gracious, full of grace. It’s a beautiful word and I sometimes recognize grace when I see it, but I have a hard time conjuring it up. Perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps grace is a slow simmering pot of delicious stew, melding all the flavors together. And after stewing for a couple hours, the bubbles pop emitting not the smell of ingredients, but the smell of stew. It’s a culmination of events that produce grace, but yet, it’s not produced. Grace just happens.
But how to deal with it? Emitting grace is more imaginable, easier perhaps, than accepting grace. In our lives, busy and full, grace seems more elusive. However, in every day, there are tiny but great moments of grace. Sadly, our society misses many of these because we’re self-absorbed in the to-dos, should-dos and really need-to-dos. As a parent, some moments, thankfully, hit me in the face. A scream from the living room, “Mom!!” A frenzied return from the kitchen, “What?” A reply, “I love you!” “…Oh.” Like being tapped by the wing of an angel. A gift of grace. And if I dry my hands in the kitchen and go to the living room and hug my cherub, that’s accepting grace.
This brings me back to my biggest quandary: recognizing and accepting that more subtle grace as it moves about daily. How? First the world needs to spin a bit slower so that I can “see” grace when it happens. If only grace traveled as a recognizable fleece blanket, neatly folded, I could keep my eye on it. Then when I see it expand and cover something, that would be my “aha” moment. Assuming it’s spotted, and, oh dear God, it’s going to land on me. Do I want to be covered? Shall I run? Why? What will I do when it lands? Frenzy. I close my eyes. I plant my feet. I am quiet. I feel the tap of an angel wing. It’s beautiful, heavenly. And all I can return is a whisper. “Thank you.”
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Power and Prayer
(Original post date: 11/10/09)
Power. For me, being treated for cancer, especially going through chemo, means losing power and control. No choice. Every person facing this comes to the table from a different life journey. I've always felt that I'm the protector of my children. Previously invincible, now, I've become the protector of myself, and as that, I’m going to maintain as much control as I can. I own it and I have to do what’s right for me and my family. In a way this is a new position of power. This is a full-time job. Along the way, in June and July, I had more fear and anger than feelings of power. But, Bill and I made sure then that we had complete confidence in the doctors to whom I had to turn the physical power over to.
Fortunately, people told me to take care of me, and do what I needed to do for myself and my family. I learned how to accept help from friends and strangers.
Fortunately, every person I reached out to who had experienced cancer has grasped a hold of me. Each has cast a rope around my waist, destined not to let me sink. They are pillars standing on the shore of a rocky sea they’ve already sailed. From family members to women who were mere acquaintances or absolute strangers, I have strong and formidable women who hold the ropes that are stabilizing me. They talk with me at 11 p.m. from Iowa. They told me what day to expect my hair to fall out. They warned me that my bald head would be cold sleeping. They laughed at me when I thought perhaps I should go to the ER after cleaning a toilet and getting light-headed. “You goofball! Open a window and take some deep breaths!” I am in a fit of laughter writing and thinking about that phone call!
Fortunately my pastor, in addition to his compassionate listening, said, “I really feel you will come out on the other side of this,” plus words to the effect that God can take anything I can dish out. I have had words with God. I have prayed and I have prayed aggressively. I have explained exactly where I stand with this. In my mind and through my writing, I have stood in the middle of a corn field in Iowa screaming at God. Then I thought perhaps He couldn’t hear me through the 8-foot high stalks of corn. So we took it to a hayfield. And I really screamed at Him.
I’m lifting from a journal the following that I wrote the last day of July. It’s actually written to you but back then I was too close to it to share with you. It’s raw footage of a different place than where I am today.
July 31, 2009
I think faith is a very individual personal decision, and I tend to keep it that way. However if you are someone who prays and are stumped, as I’ve been, about what to pray for us, I’ll share with you what I pray for. While I’m thankful for much, there are days when I pray pretty aggressively and angrily, which I have never done before. I’m sure that we, He and I, have an understanding that whatever comes out is indeed a raw passion for life and the commitment I have made as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a cousin, an aunt, a niece, a god-parent, a guardian, a friend…. So when that passionate fire burns raw in my conversations with Him, I remind Him to be prepared for me to live life with a zest and a fierceness I seldom if ever have experienced in my life. With that said, this is my prayer.
“God, I thank you for all the gifts in my life.
I pray for daily blessings, including those small and special or large and complicated. For those that appear blemished.
I pray for your grace and that I in turn am graceful.
I pray that I feel the power of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit move through me every day.
I pray for strength and courage in all that I do.
I pray for wisdom in all decisions I make.
I pray that the cancer is contained, controlled and cured.
I pray for the doctors who are helping me. I pray especially for my surgeon’s expertise and thank you for her compassion.
I pray for those special women in my life who have had cancer and for those who are fighting it now. Thank you for putting these strong, formidable women in my path.
I pray for all of the people who will help me on this journey.
I pray for others who are ill or suffering.
I pray for my parents, brothers, sister and family. Please give them comfort as I know they are worried about me. Remind them daily that I am from strong stock: Murphys, Mills, and Iowans.
I pray that I live in each moment and truly see the beauty that surrounds me.
I pray for “Mommy, Daddy, Will & Liam.” We are a family of four with long full lives to lead together.
I pray all this in your name… Our father who art in heaven…”
And this is what I carry with me in my pocket on a prayer bracelet every day. And I pray this prayer not normally in tears but with great hope and tremendous faith.
And there are days when I so wish for an Iowa corn field to scream in – so, if you have one and feel the urge, go pray aggressively in it for me!
This must be the angry stage. :)
End of journal entry.
August 1, 2009, was a new day with a new sense of peace.
Staying strong with a pocket full of prayer,
Linda
Power. For me, being treated for cancer, especially going through chemo, means losing power and control. No choice. Every person facing this comes to the table from a different life journey. I've always felt that I'm the protector of my children. Previously invincible, now, I've become the protector of myself, and as that, I’m going to maintain as much control as I can. I own it and I have to do what’s right for me and my family. In a way this is a new position of power. This is a full-time job. Along the way, in June and July, I had more fear and anger than feelings of power. But, Bill and I made sure then that we had complete confidence in the doctors to whom I had to turn the physical power over to.
Fortunately, people told me to take care of me, and do what I needed to do for myself and my family. I learned how to accept help from friends and strangers.
Fortunately, every person I reached out to who had experienced cancer has grasped a hold of me. Each has cast a rope around my waist, destined not to let me sink. They are pillars standing on the shore of a rocky sea they’ve already sailed. From family members to women who were mere acquaintances or absolute strangers, I have strong and formidable women who hold the ropes that are stabilizing me. They talk with me at 11 p.m. from Iowa. They told me what day to expect my hair to fall out. They warned me that my bald head would be cold sleeping. They laughed at me when I thought perhaps I should go to the ER after cleaning a toilet and getting light-headed. “You goofball! Open a window and take some deep breaths!” I am in a fit of laughter writing and thinking about that phone call!
Fortunately my pastor, in addition to his compassionate listening, said, “I really feel you will come out on the other side of this,” plus words to the effect that God can take anything I can dish out. I have had words with God. I have prayed and I have prayed aggressively. I have explained exactly where I stand with this. In my mind and through my writing, I have stood in the middle of a corn field in Iowa screaming at God. Then I thought perhaps He couldn’t hear me through the 8-foot high stalks of corn. So we took it to a hayfield. And I really screamed at Him.
I’m lifting from a journal the following that I wrote the last day of July. It’s actually written to you but back then I was too close to it to share with you. It’s raw footage of a different place than where I am today.
July 31, 2009
I think faith is a very individual personal decision, and I tend to keep it that way. However if you are someone who prays and are stumped, as I’ve been, about what to pray for us, I’ll share with you what I pray for. While I’m thankful for much, there are days when I pray pretty aggressively and angrily, which I have never done before. I’m sure that we, He and I, have an understanding that whatever comes out is indeed a raw passion for life and the commitment I have made as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a cousin, an aunt, a niece, a god-parent, a guardian, a friend…. So when that passionate fire burns raw in my conversations with Him, I remind Him to be prepared for me to live life with a zest and a fierceness I seldom if ever have experienced in my life. With that said, this is my prayer.
“God, I thank you for all the gifts in my life.
I pray for daily blessings, including those small and special or large and complicated. For those that appear blemished.
I pray for your grace and that I in turn am graceful.
I pray that I feel the power of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit move through me every day.
I pray for strength and courage in all that I do.
I pray for wisdom in all decisions I make.
I pray that the cancer is contained, controlled and cured.
I pray for the doctors who are helping me. I pray especially for my surgeon’s expertise and thank you for her compassion.
I pray for those special women in my life who have had cancer and for those who are fighting it now. Thank you for putting these strong, formidable women in my path.
I pray for all of the people who will help me on this journey.
I pray for others who are ill or suffering.
I pray for my parents, brothers, sister and family. Please give them comfort as I know they are worried about me. Remind them daily that I am from strong stock: Murphys, Mills, and Iowans.
I pray that I live in each moment and truly see the beauty that surrounds me.
I pray for “Mommy, Daddy, Will & Liam.” We are a family of four with long full lives to lead together.
I pray all this in your name… Our father who art in heaven…”
And this is what I carry with me in my pocket on a prayer bracelet every day. And I pray this prayer not normally in tears but with great hope and tremendous faith.
And there are days when I so wish for an Iowa corn field to scream in – so, if you have one and feel the urge, go pray aggressively in it for me!
This must be the angry stage. :)
End of journal entry.
August 1, 2009, was a new day with a new sense of peace.
Staying strong with a pocket full of prayer,
Linda
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
PJ Clash
(Original post date: 11/9/09)
This morning when the sun came up, I looked down to see a dark turquoise blue PJ top and purple and lavender plaid PJ bottoms. It’s been worse. Today I looked in the mirror thinking, “Why am I not matching? How does this happen?” I do laundry. I put matching shirts and bottoms together in the closet. At 7 a.m. I’m wearing a brown and white diagonally-striped top and green and white flowered bottoms. The boys rarely match, but I I’ve decided I would rather say, “Hey guys, why don’t you go get your pajamas on!” than dress them. Their pajama choice is potluck and I’m OK with that. They are 3 ½ and 6 years old.
I’m 43, waking up with worse top/bottom combinations than my children. But I’ve worked it out. It’s my middle of the night wake-ups. I get up and fumble around for my PJ bottoms. Creature of comfort trait: I never put them in the same place when I take them off to go to bed. If I can’t feel them lying on the exercise bike or over the end of the bed, I make my way to the closet and get a clean pair out, normally without turning on the light. I’m balding and my pajamas look like they’ve been in a train wreck. What a morning sight. Perhaps I could stick to solids and leave the patterns out of my PJ wardrobe. It would help a little. But that would mean getting rid of these lovely comfy broken-in PJs.
Speaking of morning sights, I got my Fed Ex delivery last Thursday. I opened the door, fully dressed – in case you were wondering – and smiled at the delivery guy, not my normal guy. He returned my smile, kind of. Then it hit me. “Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot to put my wig on!” “Thaaat’s OK!” he said cheerfully, sounding a little like Norm from Cheers. Then I looked again at his slightly embarrassed blue eyes and said, “Actually, we look a lot alike!” He was bald. We could’ve been brother and sister. I’d love to know how he is telling the story.
Staying strong,
Linda
This morning when the sun came up, I looked down to see a dark turquoise blue PJ top and purple and lavender plaid PJ bottoms. It’s been worse. Today I looked in the mirror thinking, “Why am I not matching? How does this happen?” I do laundry. I put matching shirts and bottoms together in the closet. At 7 a.m. I’m wearing a brown and white diagonally-striped top and green and white flowered bottoms. The boys rarely match, but I I’ve decided I would rather say, “Hey guys, why don’t you go get your pajamas on!” than dress them. Their pajama choice is potluck and I’m OK with that. They are 3 ½ and 6 years old.
I’m 43, waking up with worse top/bottom combinations than my children. But I’ve worked it out. It’s my middle of the night wake-ups. I get up and fumble around for my PJ bottoms. Creature of comfort trait: I never put them in the same place when I take them off to go to bed. If I can’t feel them lying on the exercise bike or over the end of the bed, I make my way to the closet and get a clean pair out, normally without turning on the light. I’m balding and my pajamas look like they’ve been in a train wreck. What a morning sight. Perhaps I could stick to solids and leave the patterns out of my PJ wardrobe. It would help a little. But that would mean getting rid of these lovely comfy broken-in PJs.
Speaking of morning sights, I got my Fed Ex delivery last Thursday. I opened the door, fully dressed – in case you were wondering – and smiled at the delivery guy, not my normal guy. He returned my smile, kind of. Then it hit me. “Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot to put my wig on!” “Thaaat’s OK!” he said cheerfully, sounding a little like Norm from Cheers. Then I looked again at his slightly embarrassed blue eyes and said, “Actually, we look a lot alike!” He was bald. We could’ve been brother and sister. I’d love to know how he is telling the story.
Staying strong,
Linda
Warm Peas in a Pod
(Original post date: 11/8/09)
After the hour-long struggle of getting the boys to sleep in their own beds, both were in my bed asleep at 9:30 last night. Will cannot stand the sound of the heating going on. The bang, crash, wallop as the water creaks through the baseboard. He was in tears over the clanking. Every time I went into his room it stopped. “It doesn’t do it when you come in.” Finally, at 9:18, I heard another wail, pure misery. I called out to Will, “Come talk to me.” With that I heard two sets of feet scramble down the wood floor hallway. Will came to my side in tears, “I really can’t take it, Mom.” “Get in,” I said. Will scrambled in from the other side and tucked up next to me. “Yeah, Mom. Ahhh, I’m scared too.” My thought, “Liam Malcolm you are not scared. You are riding on your brother’s coattails. My voice, “Get in.” Liam bolted for the other side and lay down next to his brother. Instant calm. Both of them went to sleep in five minutes, side by side, no poking, no fighting – making me rethink bunk beds and putting the boys in one room to keep each other company. I asked Will about that idea this morning, wondering out loud if it would work. “Of course it would, Mom. We’re brothers; we love each other.” Do they get lessons in pulling heart strings before they become our blessings?
:)
Linda
After the hour-long struggle of getting the boys to sleep in their own beds, both were in my bed asleep at 9:30 last night. Will cannot stand the sound of the heating going on. The bang, crash, wallop as the water creaks through the baseboard. He was in tears over the clanking. Every time I went into his room it stopped. “It doesn’t do it when you come in.” Finally, at 9:18, I heard another wail, pure misery. I called out to Will, “Come talk to me.” With that I heard two sets of feet scramble down the wood floor hallway. Will came to my side in tears, “I really can’t take it, Mom.” “Get in,” I said. Will scrambled in from the other side and tucked up next to me. “Yeah, Mom. Ahhh, I’m scared too.” My thought, “Liam Malcolm you are not scared. You are riding on your brother’s coattails. My voice, “Get in.” Liam bolted for the other side and lay down next to his brother. Instant calm. Both of them went to sleep in five minutes, side by side, no poking, no fighting – making me rethink bunk beds and putting the boys in one room to keep each other company. I asked Will about that idea this morning, wondering out loud if it would work. “Of course it would, Mom. We’re brothers; we love each other.” Do they get lessons in pulling heart strings before they become our blessings?
:)
Linda
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