the WingDangDoo

Non-staged, messy reality. Although I did move the muddy boots from this afternoon’s walk out of the picture.

Alpha kitty on the couch. Doodle on the floor (odd) next to her dad (everyone say HI, Paul!). Beta kitty off-camera to the right. Children elsewhere, playing a new video game. Snow man ignoring me since I’ve cruelly placed him so close to the fire. Dirty wool sock in the foreground. Christmas detritus everywhere. Curtains? Yeah. New. After 10 years of naked windows, I’ve been on a tear.

This downtime stuff? It’s kind of nice.

I’m off to eat a slice of pizza and find a bottle of wine that pairs perfectly with contentment.

I am a little overly-pleased with my Christmas Eve badassery.

But now I have a problem. I resent my $12 IKEA curtains.

When we first moved into this house 10 years ago, our kitchen was a minor disaster. Formica and particleboard cabinets. Dull off-white paint on the walls. A flickering fluorescent light fixture. Stairs covered in drab gray paint. No countertops to speak of. A refrigerator in the middle of the frickin’ room. Oh, and the dirt. 70 years worth of dirt, everywhere.

We soon learned I was pregnant, resulting in the famous declaration “No pregnant wife – and no child – of mine will be eating in this kitchen.”

And thus we began the 5 year 7 year 10 year renovation.

I’d be hard pressed to say if the low point was the month we went without a working stove and microwave, or the Christmas Eve when Saint Paul tried so worked himself into full body cabinet-hanging, floor-sanding exhaustion… followed by a bad case of the flu… followed by me hauling 125 lbs of This End Up tables down flights of stairs to set up for the holiday dinner while simultaneously cooking for 18 people and taking care of two toddlers.

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Texting while my husband was running errands earlier:

teh crazeez is here.

One curtain done. Badass.

No, ME. Just got your last present.

But I’m so done with presents, I’m MAKING

CURTAINS on Xmas eve. Total badass.

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The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. Parts of Christmas dinner are burbling on the stove. And I’m waiting for my husband to come to help me hang my badass curtains.

Merry Christmas, dear friends. Love to you all.

The same floor. The same chair. Shift change.

I know the rhythms of this ICU. Twenty minutes until the nurses will let me in. Twenty minutes. Until.

It’s just a building. Just a building, a floor, a unit where my mother drew her last labored breath.

This time, I am here with joy in my heart.

My sister’s tumor is gone. History. Dead tissue in a lab somewhere, long gone from her body. Divorced from her brain.

She’s talking. Asking for the dog that’s brought new life to our home since the two of them arrived Saturday night. Moving her arms, legs, fingers, toes.

Healing.

Rumor has it her neurosurgeon is going to write a case study about her. Because my sisters and I, we are strong like you read about in medical journals.

And it ain’t rocket science. But it sure was brain surgery.

january 23, 1996 – october 23, 2009

Healthy children.

Healthy, happy children.

The means to care for an ailing dog.

A job. With benefits. Interesting work.

A computer.

A wam cat next to me, hunkering close and losing his shit (like the rest of the pack) because their canine leader is hospitalized.

New underwear!

A sport I love. An obsession (weight lifting) that’s actually healthy.

Swimming. At all. Regardless of speed.

Perspective. Hard earned.

A stolen 3 day weekend on the beach.

Love. Deeper now than I ever thought it could be when I met him 17 years and 1 day ago.

Steak. Nom, nom.

Sometimes it takes something extraordinary to make a friend who lives just a few miles away.

In my case, it was starting a blog.

The WingDangDoo is one of about a hundred blogs featuring this post today. Yes, a hundred. My friend Kevin of Always Home and Uncool wrote this post to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his lovely wife’s birthday.

Having met the entire Uncool family, I have to tell you, it’s quite the misnomer. They are lovely, welcoming, and exceptionally cool people.

Several years on, it’s impossible to look at Thing 1 and imagine she was diagnosed with this debilitating disease. She is a beautiful child, full of energy and blessed with intelligent,  beautiful eyes that (sorry, Kevin) will be leveling boys’ hearts none too long from now.

I’d like to wish Kevin’s lovely bride the happiest of birthdays. I am sure is a bittersweet day for her. I’m keeping the Uncools (especially Rhonda and Megan) close to my heart today.

~~~

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter’s cheeks, joints and legs was something he’d never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn’t admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions — none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner — then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

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Come. they implore us. Put aside your dirty dishes, your iPhones, your ideas. Come. Come on already.
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The first time the sun roof’s motor broke, it was Easter Sunday. As if it were a log splitter, four cousins used the force of the sliding glass to pulverize sticks. Punishments were harsh and swift. But I couldn’t help smiling every time I imagined the four of them experimenting with their father’s / uncle’s almost new car to see what havoc it could wreak on a stick.

This time, a Thule soft-pack luggage carrier rested on top of the car, balancing precipitously in front of the Four Bicycles of the Apocalypse. Just a few days into our vacation, we were leaving our temporary digs and headed for Chappy as we waited for the next week’s vacation house to become available to us. We’d heard the seas were rough from Hurricane Bill, and we wanted to see it first-hand. Parked in a precious and rare spot in the parking lot of Espresso Love in Edgartown, I noticed the sunroof was open, so I tried to close it.

Click. Click. Click click click click.

Nothing.

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