March for Science 2017

IMG_1345I missed the January Women’s March in Austin, but I net stalked marches around the nation, feelings of pride mixed with a little envy.  They inspired me and I wanted to be there.  The recent election has spurred me to activism.  I had been lulled into complacency by the previous 8 years.  As a single mom working in construction, women’s issues of equal pay, protection against violence, fair treatment are paramount.  The previous administration was better than most about women’s issues.  Even when I didn’t agree, I didn’t complain.  I reasoned that good results mitigated questionable actions: the end justified the means.

Since January, I have called my members of Congress and the White House so often that I put their phone numbers on speed dial.  Dammit, they are my representatives whether I voted for them or not.  I believe in communicating with my elected representatives.  My son Jack laughed when he listened to a call to the Bush White House.  (Mom!  I’m going to come home to Secret Service agents in our driveway.) (I don’t threaten violence.  I just want them to know I don’t agree.)  (Oh, I am sure they know YOU don’t agree with him. But saying you don’t think he’s stupid, you just think he’s  having bad luck thinking is kind of mean.)  (But not unconstitutional.)

IMG_1340Bob and I have different political opinions so it’s been a revelation to me that I can disagree with someone and still love them.  And vice versa.  I considered not telling him that I was going to attend the March for Science here in Corpus  Christi.  I didn’t want him to challenge my opinions and say something silly like, “I don’t think you should go.”  It wouldn’t have stopped me, but it would have been contentious.

I underestimated him as usual.  When I asked him to trim down the 36″ survey lathe I’d brought from the shop, he asked why.  I said, a little louder than I intended, “I am going to carry a sign at the March for Science on the bayfront.”  He only asked how long I wanted it.  He didn’t want to cut off the pointed end since he thought I’d need it to fight my way out.  I told him it wasn’t that kind of march.

IMG_1406I expected that there would be fewer than 50 people at the March for Science.  I generally believe everyone believes what I believe; I am often disappointed and underwhelmed by public response.  The march started at 10 so I left early just in case I had a hard time finding parking.  I was excited when I saw a crowd gathered at the Selena Memorial where the march was scheduled to start and had to drive 3 blocks down Ocean Drive to find parking.

I proudly carried my sign and walked to the starting point with 15-20 people like me, lofting their signs high.  The crowd accumulated over the next 30 minutes, a mixture of kids and IMG_1388adults.  There was a fair share of college students and retirees.  By the time we took off, walking toward the C. C. Museum of Science and History, I would guess we had 300 folks walking.  People waved, cars honked, and tourists along the seawall fell in with us.  By the time we rounded the water garden and made it to the shade trees behind the museum, we’d picked up another 100 walkers.

We had several speakers, leaders in the community and students who were promoting STEM (Science-Technology-Engineering-Math) programs, encouraging young people at the march to consider science careers.  It was as far removed from 1970’s anti-war marches as the Catholic Church of my youth was from snake wielding Pentecostal religions.  It was a toned down rally, not much jeering, no alt-right assailants, no police called.  Like many of the adults there, I could have brought grandchildren.

IMG_1404I walked back to my car feeling energized, chatting with a group of college kids who walked in the same direction.  A few were Bernie fans, a few had voted for Trump.  I asked one Trump voter why he’d supported Trump but participated in the March for Science.  Secretly, I suspected he was there for extra credit.  His reply: “I don’t have to be 100% for him.  I want to have kids and have a clean earth, but I thought he’d bring good changes.  And maybe he will.”  The most vocal Bernie supporter growled, rolled his eyes, and quickened his step to catch up with walkers ahead of us.  My Trump friend muttered an expletive and glared at his friend’s departing back.

Oh well.  Being friends with Bob, whose politics are 150 degrees away from mine, could be hard.  Being married to one of them could be even harder.  What I’ve learned is that there is truth to both sides.  There’s also plenty deception to spread around.  Loving Bob makes me research some of the claims he states as truth;  loving him permits me to share what I’ve learned to extent he wants to hear it.  As GE told me when she was a high school CX debater, “Not everyone is a bleeding heart liberal like you.  Everyone doesn’t HAVE to agree with you.”

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Yucca baskets

I got on the email list for Earth Native Wilderness because they offer classes in flint napping and knife building which Bob is particularly interested in learning.  The idea was that I’d register him for one of their classes as a gift.  I also have this hypocritical desire to go back to the old and simple ways of my ancestors.

That’s not two-faced; it’s more like three or four faced.  I would be sad to lose the easy communication tools of a smart phone and the internet.  I have a refrigerator that, despite my efforts at clean eating, is more than 40% stocked with processed foods.  My 4-year-old car has more than 100,000 miles on the odometer.  I want a simpler life as long as I have grocery stores, sewer treatment, internet, gas-powered vehicles, wifi.  Oh, heck.  The list goes on and on.  If the revolution ever comes, I’ll be stuffing snack bags with peanut filled pretzels and chips as I post to Facebook.

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Your standard yucca baskets–not available in most stores

ENW sent an email offering a class in making coiled yucca baskets.  Since I have a crafty family, I sent out  email invitations to my daughter, sisters, and nieces to join me in the class.  Nobody else could go.  When I told Bob that I was going to the class alone, he offered to go with me.

This is one of the things I like about Bob.  He wants me to sit in a deer blind with him at 5 AM and join him kayaking across the Aransas Pass ship channel.  And his excitement is endearing and inspires me to go even when I hesitate.  On the flip side, he’s made baby sock rosebuds and cut out pineapple hearts and watermelon stars to help me get ready for showers. We are a team.  A weird team, but a team nonetheless.

The class was in the country outside of Bastrop, down a red dirt road.  Because we’d had rain the night before, the road was slickery.  It was easy going for Bob’s big truck, but it would have been more exciting in my little Cruze.

Our instructor was a young man, energetic and enthusiastic.  Of the fourteen folks who were in the class with us, most were women.  I was saved from being the oldest in the class by a retired elementary school teacher.  That’s a guess.  I often describe people as older and find out they are years younger than me.  I still see a 45-year-old woman when I look in the mirror.

More than half the class had been to a class with Chris before since he teaches clay pot and bow making as well as brain tanning of hides.  That is as gross as it sounds.

baskets3As instructed, we brought knives, chairs, and snacks along with notebooks and pencils.  Chris handed out awls while conveying a safety lesson about the tools.  I mentally scoffed at the warnings until Bob reminded me that I’ve sliced my thumb when I was cutting glass while texting.  Mindfulness is elusive.

Chris gave us a brief history of the baskets which originated with the Anasazi tribe and described the challenges of maintaining the tradition.  He passed yucca leaves to us, warning us that we were entering the frustrating phase of basket construction.

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Bob starting Phase 1 of basket construction.

As we endeavored to make the center basket ring without a tantrum, Chris checked on our progress, helping where needed, complimenting when appropriate.

Historically, yucca baskets were fashioned with needles made of bone.  We used the awl to stab into the yucca and push the pointed yucca end through the hole to bind together rows.  The puncture sealed quickly so I had to be focused.  I also found that calmly guiding the end through the hole worked better than jamming or forcing the end.  That could be a guiding motto for my life.

While we worked on our baskets, a norther blew in with rain.  Chris hauled over logs and impressed us by starting a roaring fire without matches.  In peaceful companionship we built our baskets around the campfire.

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My basket could be a hummingbird nest.  Bob’s would make a fine cat hat.

Bob was one of the star students since he got it right away and proceeded to help those of us around him.  There were a couple of students who completed rock star baskets.  I managed to hold back the eye rolls when one of them held up her perfect basket and said, “Does this look ok?”

 

Our baskets were less than adequate but the class was such fun that we left with the desire to build another.  Bob’s already planning to gather yucca leaves on our next trip to Montell.   And if we need to carry water in a survival situation, we can make a yucca basket.  After we learn how to make a bone needle.

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Cat in a yucca hat after she looks in the mirror.

 

 

 

 

 

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Stay. Really. STAY. STAY!!

Bob and I have an extended family of 3 dogs and 1 cat. I am not counting the 3 cats who are 5/8’s feral and live in the front yard since they think we run a bed and breakfast and flinch when I try to pet them.  The dogs and cat who live under our roof qualify as extended family since the definition states, “An extended family is a family that extends beyond the nuclear family, consisting of parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, all living nearby or in the same household.”

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Murphey with his nephew

If I had to give them familial titles, Murphey would be a brother-in-law while Papa’s Kitty would be an adopted daughter whose wealthy family died in a plane crash.  She has the attitude of one who has lived through better times and is just settling.  Halo and Scooter are cousins, not from the same parents.  Scooter is paraplegic as a result of a skiing accident.   Halo fell on hard times after getting drunk and sleeping with one of the judges at the Miss Canine Texas pageant.

We usually have a happy family of mammals, the three dogs lying in close proximity with the cat anywhere she wants to be.  Murphey never gets ruffled, but there are  times when Scooter and Halo get cross with one another, growling their displeasure.  Last week, the growling got nuclear.  It was after dark and I shrieked for Bob to help me separate them.  Between the two of us, we got the animals separated into opposite corners of the house.  Scooter inflicted the most damage and was largely unscathed.  Halo looked like she’d lost a knife fight.  The kitchen looked like a MASH surgery.

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Horrified…by these dumb reindeer horns

I was horrified.  Bob, who had a nip wound on his left arm, was furious with both canines.  Neither one was seriously hurt, but it was a mess.  I kept Scooter and Halo separated for the night, shuffling them outside in shifts.  The next morning, after Bob had gone to work, I brought the dogs together.  When they snarled and lunged at one another, I grabbed the sink sprayer and doused them with water.  That gave them pause and I parted the dogs, putting one in the backyard and the other in the back bedroom.

I drove to work in silence, worrying about our civil war.  What had happened to our happy home?  What were we going to do?  I Googled “multi dog families,” “when dogs fight,” “what causes dogs who haven’t fought to fight one another.”  I didn’t get a solution, but one of the sites encouraged dog training.  I called a local franchise called Sit Means Sit.  They offer free consultations and were able to come to our house within 24 hours.  After another night of shuffling dogs between bedrooms and the backyard, I was ready for help.

Wes, the dog trainer, was at our house when I got home.  Bob had introduced him to the creatures.  Wes took time to get to know Halo; after 10-15 minutes of talking to us, he let Scooter approach.  The dogs were a little tense but settled down quickly.  In time, we were talking about the dog routine and looking at the 3 dogs who were happily sitting together.  Just like old times.

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I was just minding my own business when Scooter’s ear was in my mouth.

“What happened?  Why are they getting along now?  What did you do?”  (There’s nothing wrong with your dogs.  They don’t really need training.  To be honest with you, it’s  you.  If you don’t mind my saying, you are a little co-dependent with your dogs.)

We spent the next 30 minutes going over some suggestions.

  1.  Dogs are animals.  They don’t have human emotions.  Subscribing human emotions and motivations to dogs confuses everybody.
  2.  Dogs don’t fight unless they are under stress.  Some dogs are more sensitive than others.  Loud voices and inconsistent treatment can cause anxiety and anxiety can cause fighting.  Routine changes can throw dogs off.
  3. When the dogs do fight, which is a possibility in multi-dog families, it doesn’t help to scream, “THE DOGS ARE KILLING ONE ANOTHER.   DO SOMETHING. DO SOMETHING, BOB!”
  4. Don’t grab fighting dogs by the collar.  If there are 2 people, each can grab a dog, pulling them apart.  He suggests seizing them from their hindquarters.  No teeth at that end.
  5. Once separated, the dogs need to have some time to lose the adrenalin rush and have time to calm down in one another’s presence.  Separating them while they are still agitated can result in another fight.
  6. Dogs love logical behavior and don’t appreciate hypocrisy.

When Wes left, he gave me some homework:  Be an effective communicator.  Be aware what you are communicating.  Self discipline, self-awareness, and self-control comes from you.  

The dogs got off with an ear scratch.

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What are you looking at?  I’m not the one who lacks self-control

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The longest election season ever

And look how it’s turned out.

I have been listening to folks campaigning for president since 2013.  The angry talk, mean discourse, finger-pointing, accusations have intensified over the past few months.

I love politics.  I was raised by parents who loved history so political discussion was served at the dinner table.  As a child, we watched both the Democratic and Republican conventions as a family with our parents commentating about the promises and platforms.  I could guess which candidate got their vote, but they were pretty private about their leanings.   I suspect my inability to keep a secret contributed to their silence.

The first time I voted was in a local springtime election.  I did my voter registration with our dad and rode with our parents to the polling station.  Incredibly exciting stuff for this nerd woman.

When GE started high school, she joined the debate group.  The coach was passionate about debate and politics, introducing my daughter to conservatism.  I was wounded in the ego when she interrupted my monologue on Ronald Reagan and stated that she “would NEVER be a bleeding heart liberal like me.”  (Really?  Eyebrow raised.) (Really.  You have to accept that not everyone thinks like you do.)

Because I didn’t.  I don’t.

I don’t like it when the end of the story doesn’t match my expectations, when the character I’ve grown to love dies at the end of the story or is left alone, abandoned.  That’s the way I felt early, early this morning when I realized that Donald Trump had been elected our next president.

Throughout the past few months, I’ve listened to this vulgar, rude, crude man espousing hatred and fear mongering.  What was his platform?  Muslims are bad.  Mexicans are taking our jobs.  Women are playthings who want men of power.  I am smart.  I have a big brain.  I have good ideas, the best ideas.  What were they?  Never said.  He derided everything good and noble.  And people listened to him, followed him, voted for him.

It never feels good when your candidate loses.  I will never forget JD in 2008 after Obama was elected.  He waited for the newspaper and came bounding into my bedroom at 5 AM, waving the front page:  “We won!!!  We won!!!”

I went into mourning when Nixon won a second term.  I was saddened at the election of Reagan, HW Bush, and GW Bush.  I wasn’t thrilled with any of them, but I didn’t feel the sense of dread that I feel this morning.  I can’t look at the people who voted for him in the same way.  This man is your savior?  I am wondering what part of the Jesus story you read.  Do unto others NOW and do it fast and mean?  Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers is OK by me? They are the least, after all.  Probably deserve what they get.

I need to take a break, hang out with God, and sort things out. I am deactivating my Facebook and Twitter accounts.  I am not sure that social media is good for me right now.   I know that whatever side you are on, you are not my enemy, but I’ve lost my perspective. 

 

 

 

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Birthday grace

I spent last Saturday with my sisters, participating in the Travis County Walk to End Alzheimer’s and celebrating my birthday at an Austin restaurant.  While we waited for our food order, GJ, the oldest of we three sisters, handed gallon Ziploc bags full of photos to MA and me.  “These are just your personal pictures and things,” she explained.  “They were in the photo boxes from Mother’s.”

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Planning my escape at an early age.

MA acted like she’d been handed a bag of Skittles, ripping open the seal and gleefully dumping pictures on the table.  (Thank you!  THANK YOU! Look at me with my best friend!  This is just wonderful.  Thank you!)

I reacted like I’d been handed a bag of spiders, shoving the sack deep into recesses of my purse.  (How…nice.  Thank you.)

What the hell was the matter with me?  I ask that question often, but this time it was on a different level.  In the back part of my mind lurks The Critic.  She doesn’t get to surface often in my sobriety, but she leapt out of the closet and started shouting answers to that question:  Let me tell you what’s the matter with you.  Childhood, adolescent, single mom, married mom, widow woman, married woman, alcoholic inadequacies became grey noise to the conversations around me until I woman-handled them back into my subconscious.

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The whole family with G’ma.  If I could talk to 12 year old me, I’d tell her. “It gets better.”

On the way back to GE’s house, I pulled out one and then another of the pictures.  Bob gave me a what’s up glance and I explained what had been roiling under my skull.  When we got home,  I looked at the pictures slowly, playing a hidden object game with the facial expressions and glances.

There’s a saying: As far as anyone knows, we are a normal family.  Scanning the pictures, we look like ordinary every day people.   I recognize the ism’s that were rooted in us and the white knuckle effort employed to keep the secrets. There’s a shadow for every ray of light

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Really.  It does get better.

We had older parents.  WW2 delayed starting a family so they were well into their 30’s and 40’s when we came along.  Older parents offered economic security and maturity.  We had the original issue parents; divorce wasn’t on the table. I never doubted that they wanted us.  They were articulate and talked to us like we were adults.  They instilled a curiosity about the world, a sense of service to others, and a love of God.

I read somewhere that no two children in a family have the same set of parents.  Parents grow and change, have learning experiences, health issues which impact the way they raise their children. There were three of us with me in the middle.  I don’t know which parents my sisters had, but my take-away was that I was loved in direct proportion to my good works and achievements.   That wasn’t true, but that was my childhood perception.

adult-women-sistersLooking at those photos gave me renewed love for the people who share my DNA and my secrets so intimately.  I know how hard it is to raise children, how many mistakes I made and make still.  How did Dorothy and David do it, coming from the Depression era to the Age of Aquarius?  Pretty clumsily sometimes, like a rock star sometimes.

There was also sadness when I looked at young Margaret who spent so much time critical of herself.  I wasted so much time wanting to be something I couldn’t ever be, looking for a mold that I could fit only to find that I didn’t need a mold at all. I am the mold. You don’t like me?  Oh, well.

That’s not true, either.  I still worry.  But less.  Much less.

Posted in Aging, Family, God, Gratitude, kids, Middle child, nostalgia, Relationships, Sisters, Sober Life, Uncategorized, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Facts are optional

My perception is my reality. Facts are optional.

Somebody said that at a meeting a few months ago and it got a laugh.  Of course it did.  He said it at an AA meeting and the only thing this alcoholic woman is addicted to more than alcohol is escape from reality.

Jeez.  Any port in storm as long as that port lets me pretend like there is no storm.

5a20016d951d5ed02e99bba80a0b4789Our dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease when he was 75.  He’d shown signs of dementia for a few years before that, but this was in the early 80’s when there wasn’t much known or written about Alzheimer’s.  The prognosis hasn’t changed since then nor has the method of diagnosis.  In 1982 as today there was no effective diagnosis or treatment for Alzheimer’s disease.  No one survives and a correct diagnosis can’t be made without an autopsy.

We were young, my sisters and I, and had to make choices that our mother wasn’t able to make.  Our parents weren’t kids when they started their family; Daddy was nearly 50 when my younger sister came along.  My way of coping was oblivion.  I muscled it through during the day and drowned the pain at night.

In the end, our dad sporadically recognized us.  He knew we were people he should know, but he didn’t generally know why he knew us.  The exceptions were his grand-daughters.  With them there was a spark that remained throughout the visit.  Maybe he thought they were his little girls.  I don’t know.  I feared that he thought we’d abandoned him, that we didn’t care.  We never knew what he understood and what he believed.  Theories that he was aware but trapped in an uncooperative mind devastated us.

Our dad died in 1986.  For over 10 years I smoked 3 packs of cigarettes a day.  Why didn’t I quit?  Well, hell.  Might as well die from lung cancer instead of Alzheimer’s.  I drank quarts of vodka, boxes of wine, and 12 packs of beer.  Why didn’t I quit?  For heaven’s sake!  Might as well die from liver failure as Alzheimer’s.

Nutty thinking?  Yes.  But it was the flag that flew over my life.

In the mid-90’s, the company I worked for did construction work at a local senior center where a medical group visited periodically to do genetic testing, screening for Alzheimer’s disease.  I wondered whether I would subject myself to such testing.  The thought was immediately followed with an “ABSOLUTELY NOT!  If I found out I was going to get Alzheimer’s, I’d commit suicide.”

That was 20 years ago and it’s lucky I didn’t dare to get tested.  The genetic markers they were aware of then were misleading and only showed a tiny slice of the picture.  Today, scientists are aware of more than 20 gene variants that affect the chances of a person developing late onset Alzheimer’s disease which is what our dad had.

The effects of these genes are subtle. Different variants act to slightly increase or decrease the risk of a person developing Alzheimer’s disease but do not directly cause it. These ‘risk genes’ interact with each other and with other factors, such as age and lifestyle, to influence someone’s overall risk of getting the disease.

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Volunteering for genetic testing helps.  Think about participating.

I’ve become more knowledgeable about these genetic markers because my friend Chris in Kansas shared information about the Alzheimer’s Prevention Registry (endalznow.org) which encourages genetic testing.   According to their website:  “Volunteers are critical to Alzheimer’s disease genetics research. The more genetic information that researchers can gather and analyze from individuals and families—both healthy volunteers and those who may be at risk—the more clues they will have for finding additional risk-factor genes.”

I signed up to be part of their research program a few weeks ago; the test kit made it to my house last week.  It has sat on the pantry shelves, right next to honey roasted nuts, for the past 5 days.  I’m not sure why the hesitation to spit on the stick and send in the kit.  They won’t tell me one way or the other what they find although the results might generate medication trial requests.  Or I may never hear from them.

The days of turning up the volume on Sirius to drown out the weird engine noises have passed for me.  I suspect adding my saliva to the National Institute for Aging’s genetic research programs work more for my kids and grand-kids than for me.  And that makes it important for me to participate.

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Team Dave’s Girls at the 2015 Travis County Walk to End Alzheimer’s

If you don’t want to participate in genetic research, please support your local Walk to End Alzheimer’s.  My sisters and I participate in the Travis County Walk.  The money raised goes to research on the disease and treatment as well as assisting persons with Alzheimer’s.  To donate to our team, go to https://p2p.charityengine.net/txalztraviscowalk/Fundraising/team/Daves-Girls and make a donation!

 

 

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Driving Miss Baby

GE and Melissa 2

It was easy to get GE to Frances’ house for daycare. Her first best friend was Frances’ granddaughter

In the 70’s when I started working, single career moms weren’t common in my part of south Texas.  I was lucky to find Frances who provided affordable care for several children and who was willing to keep GE. There was a revolving door at her house with her grown up kids and grand-kids coming for soap operas, for gossip, or for the daily lunch special.  The family welcomed GE like she was one of the tribe.

Getting GE to Frances’ house was a problem.  That was in the days when my reason for being in a 12 step program was developing.  I believe I was born an alcoholic but, like pregnancy, it took awhile for it to show.  Natally speaking, I was in my first trimester of alcoholism.  I could still party long and hard but waking up wasn’t easy.  I raced out of the house many mornings, pulling GE along, fixing her hair at stop lights and tying her shoe laces in Frances’ driveway.

When  JD came along, I wasn’t less chaotic, but I had plenty of help getting off to work.  John had a flexible schedule at his work since he was the boss and did the morning go to work duties.  GE was always ready to fill in the gaps.  As a result, he was probably less traumatized by early mornings than GE was.

Today, I am a relatively organized morning person, putting our lunches together each night, coffee pot ready to go off 5 minutes before the alarm, clothes set out.  A few weeks ago, I got a reminder of the working parent routine when Ashlynn, our favorite 3 year old, spent a couple of nights with us.  Delivery to day care was complicated because I’d forgotten a 7:30 a.m. project meeting and her day care doesn’t open until 7:30.

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Happy on the way to the job site before we had to face daycare reality.

Ashlynn wakes up pretty happy, but we normally have time for cartoons, breakfast, and cuddles before she has to get dressed.  We didn’t have that luxury and I rushed her out the door with a smoothie and cereal cup to eat on the road.  She happily sang “Wiggledy Woggledy Waby” all the way to the job.  I stopped at the project and, since it was an undisturbed site, she was able to walk along with me, comparing plans with site conditions and talking to the general contractor.

Before I could take her to day care, I had to make a side trip.  Our port project was dangerous with an excavation 14′ deep and heavy equipment rolling in all directions.  She patiently waited in the car, coloring on a set of construction plans and talking to her doll.  Before we got back on the road, I sent Bob a text and mentioned that I hadn’t dropped Ashlynn off yet.  (You better hurry.  She’s got to be there by 9:30 or they won’t take her.  No big deal.  It’s 8:45 now.  We’ve got plenty time.)

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She patiently waited in the car while I talked to my boss.

Two minutes after we left the job, Ashlynn called out, Gaga, GaGA, GAGA! You forgot to let me go potty.  And I HAVE TO GO. NOW!!!!  (Can you hold it?)  NO.  I. HAVE. TO. GO. NOOOWWW.

We were on Joe Fulton Corridor which is deserted.  No Stripes.  I won’t use the job site portable toilet and I certainly wouldn’t let her use it.  There was no place to stop.  (Do you think you can go on the ground?)   YES.  I HAVE TO GO.  I REALLYREALLYREALLY  HAVE TO GO.

We pulled over to the shoulder and I made her a partition with the car doors.  It was when we got to the squanting and going that we had a problem.  I didn’t account for urine projectory and she ended up getting both of us wet.  There was nothing to do but go home and change clothes.  After a shower.  I called Chelsea and asked if daycare was serious about the deadline.   Yes, they are.  But I can see if they’ll make an exception.  They granted me a 15 minute dispensation.

I suspect Chelsea and Ashlynn had encountered the 9:30 deadline because Ashlynn said in a mournful voice:  I might have to stay with you, Gaga.  I can’t go to school if we get there late.   (No, sweetie.  We’ve got time.)   I don’t think so, Gaga.  If we’re late, we’ll have to go home.  Or I could stay at your office.

The reality of day care and Ashlynn’s hopes for a day off collided when we pulled into the parking lot with 4 minutes to spare.  The wails from the back seat started low and increased in intensity as I moved around the car to help her out of the car seat.  She immediately clung to my leg, trying to drag me away from the day care.  I murmured reassurances as I crab walked in a crouch with a crying 3 year old conjoined to my leg.  We made it to the sign in desk with 30 seconds to spare.

The front desk attendant admonished me about timeliness as Ashlynn started walked toward her class with the speed of a death row inmate walking to her final destination.  I watched her go with a sense of epic grandparent fail.  It dissipated when Ashlynn turned and called out in a joyful voice, You’re picking me up after school and we’re going swimming today.  Right, Gaga?  Right?

Faker.

 

 

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