Christmas 2013

Goodbye 2013, hello 2014

Goodbye 2013.  Hello 2014.

I typically prefer the even-numbered years.  Is that weird?  I guess just the word "odd" attached to a number puts it at a disadvantage.  But, come on, 13.  That's the universally worst number of all numbers.  Ok, maybe 666 is worse.

So I will be glad to say hello to 2014 in just two days.  No worries about forgetting to write the new year on checks because nobody uses checks anymore.  Unless it's the stereotypical older woman holding up the grocery line writing one.  Annoying because it reflects on all us older women. 

Truthfully, I love a new year, odd or even numbered.  New years hold promise.  Celebrating their arrival gives us pause to look forward and forward is a good direction to be heading...

....especially if you are a young couple expecting child in the spring - Jenny and Michael.

... especially if you are a young couple raising daughters ages 2 and 4 - Andrea and Jack.

... especially if you are a young lawyer at the beginning of a career in public service - John.

I especially look forward to sharing the promise of another new year with my beloved Paulie.  

I will be a burden on my kids and they will like it!

At the end of my life, for the record, I want to be a burden on my children.  Just so it's clear.  Burden.  I want that.

Recently I have been working more and more with older adults and their families. There's a theme or pattern emerging: these folks don't want to be a burden on their children, and in some instances, the children are not so crazy about being burdened.  That's the word they use: burden. 

Well.  The children of the Baby Boomers are in for a whopper of burdening as we continue to age, the oldest among us is about to hit 70.  Dementia is just around the corner for many, heart disease already has come calling, and knees and backs gave up years ago... this is not the direction I thought I was going with this blog.

Back to being a burden.  Ok.  The burden part I could understand IF the parent was a monster.  In some cases, children do have a pass on being caregivers to older relatives.  But for most of us, we did our best and now we need, or will be needing, a little extra help.  I don't call that being a burden.  I call that knowing your limits and being able to set aside pride and ask for help.  From your children.

I fully intend to rely on my children AND their spouses AND my grandchildren AND, God willing, my grandchildren's spouses.  Case in point: I will have to stop driving at some point and fully expect them to come get me for my weekly trip to Braums.  I won't be demanding, I hope.  They will be given advance notice.  I promise to be grateful and buy whatever treat they want.  I will be getting the vanilla yogurt in a cone.  Small. 

Burden.  It's such a harsh word to hang on our children; or for them to hang on us.   Consider what Thomas a Kempis, 15th Century religious man wrote:

           Love feels no burden, thinks nothing of trouble...

Oh, what a wonderful sentiment.  I sure hope that's the way my kids feel in about 10-15 years.

Where'd July go??

I missed posting in July, so here are pictures from the month: Jenny and Michael's dogs Daze and Lucy; Andrea being interviewed for Fourth of July Parade coverage. And the July 1st rally in Austin! 

Jenny saving Luna from an attacking Blue Jay.  Headshots of two head-strong females: Finley Scott and Ann Richards.  One a former governor; the other a future governor??

Revealing directions

You know when someone is giving you directions (yes, that still happens), they use landmarks that typically have some local importance.  At least to them.   The landmarks people choose to guide you to a location can tell a lot about that person.

Example.  I was picking up my oldest daughter, the athlete and coach, after she dropped her car off at a tire place.  The street and location I was familiar with; but I asked her what stores or buildings were close by. 

It's across the street from 24 Hour Fitness.  That doesn't help me.

Next to the Whole Vitamins and Foods store.  Nope.  Still not getting anything.

Down the street from Crispy Crème.  Now you're talkin' my language.  I know just where that is.

I still remember when we first moved to Arlington 23 years ago, and we were signing up Andrea for soccer.  Where are the fields, we naively asked?  Just behind the Hypermart.   What's a Hypermart, I wondered but dare not ask because the person said it in such a way that only a fool would not know the location of Hypermart.  Hypermart, it turned out, used to be what Walmart called its superstores.  Now it just sounds like a mental disorder.    

I visit people in their homes and always get funny kinds of directions.  Even though no one needs it anymore what with GPS, it still is important that people, generally older adults, give directions to their home.  It usually starts with something like this: You know where the Exxon station is on the corner across from the fire house? 

How do you answer that?  I lie.  I say I know or I think I know.  It's about building their trust and certainly to some people, not knowing the location of the Exxon station across from the fire house could be cause for suspicion.  It's also is about gaining immediate insight into a client.  The reliance on landmarks may reveal a person who has spent most of their lives in a relatively small area.  Their universe is what's around them.  And in this example, it was an Exxon station across from the fire house.

Anyway ... I better wrap up this post, I gotta get going to see my first client for today.  The one that you take a left at the strip club and a right at the liquor store....

Taking the plunge

End of the school year always feels special.  I guess because my two daughters are teachers, I still get to share in that feeling.  Thursday is Jenny's last day with her kindergarten class.  She says it will be tough to say goodbye.  Andrea is helping with high school graduation on Saturday, then she should be done. 

Parents can kick back and relax a little.  No homework.  No projects due.  Laundry is not as important (or was that just me?) 

In the south the heat slows things down, too.

This summer I have made a special promise to myself to go to my city's spectacular water park - in a swimsuit!  Vanity be damned. 

That place holds some of my best memories of the kids when they were little.  Also of Paul and me having fun.  There's this funnel slide that took my breath away.  Literally.  Paul and I shared a tube and all the terrifying way down, I could not stop laughing and I couldn't catch my breath.  I can close my eyes and feel what I felt that day some 20 years ago.  It was exhilarating!

I don't necessarily want to repeat that experience, but I do want to play in the water park.  I miss it and it's about time I get over myself and embrace my expanded body.  It's my stupid false pride and the delusion that I would lose the weight that has kept me away. 

Not this summer! 

Dallas Arboretum: A pictorial

Paulie took me to the Dallas Arboretum.  My favorite pic of the day.

Paulie and his newest best friend, who looks a lot like me, hanging buttocks and all.

Several 15 year olds were taking their quinceanera pics.  Even among the flowers, their colorful dresses stood out!

 

I wish you could feel this plant.  Think velvet!

One of the many great hallways. 

Mom

My mom is going to be 86 on her next birthday in June.  She is fragile and frail and .... wait.  That's me.

My mom can text on her cell phone.  My mom is taking yoga.  My mom runs a library for the residents in her living community.  My mom is my father's caregiver - he has Alzheimer's.  "Shirley takes good care of me," he recently told a visitor.  My mom occasionally cares for her great granddaughters who are a handful for anyone of any age.  I don't think there's anything my mom can't do. 

My mom is amazing!

My mom with her great grandsons and son and husband.

 

 

She's all boy!

I cringe every time I hear someone pronounce: “He’s all boy.”  Same as I hold my tongue when people use the word tomboy to describe a female child or adult.  These sentiments are way outdated.  Children are children.  Some boys and girls like to climb trees and play rough.  Some boys and girls like to sing and dance and play house.

I’ve had this aversion to these unnecessary adjectives since my son and two daughters were little.  My kids know how I feel and I believe they share my feeling.  Problem is, I am now a grandmother and don't really feel like holding my tongue anymore.  

I pledge, on this Mother’s Day, May 12, 2013, that I will no longer be silent.  It will be my cause to eradicate these over-used and inaccurate labels from the face of the earth.  To do so, I must bring out the big guns: humor and teasing - and, if called for, a touch of shaming. 

From now on: My son was a tomboy growing up.  He liked sports and messing around in the neighborhood creek and getting dirty and all that stuff.  My daughters were all boy, they liked sports and messing around in the neighborhood creek and getting dirty and all that stuff.

Here’s some recent pictures of my youngest granddaughter Finley, 18 months old.
  By the way, she LOVES bugs and mud and food and play and ... well, you get the idea.  She's all boy!

Finley with her wonderful mother, who, as a child, was all boy!

 

Birth order

The psychology of birth order has been around for decades.  It goes something like this: oldest child is the boss, middle child is neglected, and the youngest child is adored.

Generally speaking, birth order is spot on.  At least in our household.  We reared three children, loved them all equally, but for sure Andrea, oldest child, was the self-appointed leader; Jenny, middle, was neglected – at least during her early years; and, to this day, our youngest, John, can do no wrong.

This morning it occurred to me that the psychology of birth order was still alive and raging in our household.  It hit me after looking at recently taken pictures.  They all were of the newest member of our family: Sammie, our 6-month-old border collie.  Mika, the middle dog at 9 years, was visible in some of the frames, but only because of her proximity to the puppy.  Baxter, the oldest, is there, too.  In one photo she can be seen “leading” from her perch atop an outdoor cushioned chair. 

We haven’t always had three dogs.  It was about seven years ago that we first upped the number of canines in our home from two to three, just about the same time we were coincidentally empty nesting.  Were we replacing our children with dogs??  At least one neighbor thought so.  While walking all three dogs, he hollers, “Which one is Andrea?”

Have our dogs taken the children’s place?  In our hearts, no.  In our home, yes.  Ok, sorta in our hearts, too.

Below are some of my recent pics.

How adorable is she??

Bax: Perched and ready to lead, if necessary and/or awake.

Mika herding Addison.  Always.

   

GOOOOAALLLLLL!!!

 

Move over Mika, you're blocking Sammie.

Grandpa's helpers.

 

Dog house with a view.

 

Crushed in a good way

This week my family was crushed under the weight of good news.   

Yesterday we got the news that my son-in-law Jack was accepted into nursing school.  The process for application is grueling.  We stopped counting the number of hoops he jumped through.  Then there was the wait, all the while knowing he had just a 1 in 5 chance of making it in.  For the last couple of weeks he obsessively checked his email for THEE answer.  It finally came Thursday. He starts classes in August. 

A year ago our son John graduated from law school.  In July he took the bar exam and waited until November – FOUR months – to get the results.  He didn’t pass.  So, he took the bar exam a second time in February and waited THREE agonizing months for the results.  His job was on the line.  No pass, no job.  He found out on Monday he gets to keep his job.  He passed bar. 

It’s what they wanted, so we wanted it, too.  For them.  And for that reason, we all share in the glow of this good news.   I can tell you the crush of good news feels good. 

 

 John, left, and Jack.  We are so proud of you!!

Connected in a flash (of headlights)

Flashing headlights jolted me out of my driver's haze.  The one you fall into when covering the same ground day after day.   When you reach your destination, you wonder how you even got there because your mind was not behind the wheel, even though your body was.

First thought: Wow.  Is that a message?   For me?   You talkin' to me?

Second thought: I wonder if it's a speed trap warning?   Reflexively I ease my foot off the gas pedal.

Third thought (after spotting Mr. Police Officer aiming a radar gun at ME!):  It WAS a message.  For me.  Someone was trying to warn me to slow me down and it worked.  Without words.  Just the simplicity of flashing headlights.

Who was this masked crusuader?  This urban Robin Hood?  This male or female who thought enought about his or her fellow man or woman (gender nonspecific writing is exhausting) to send up a warning.

Whoever it was, we were connected for a nanosecond, which is one-billionth of a regular second so that is really a short and almost immeasurable amount of time.  But still, a connection that produced two important and measurable results: I was prevented from getting a ticket for speeding and I felt something.  I felt special.  I felt gratitude.  I felt connected.

It was a beautiful and greatly appreciated reminder of the magic of human connection.   And maybe even a reminder to pay attenion - body AND mind - to my driving.

My gateway drug

My addiction started early in life.  Around the age of 10. 

I had a flashback the other night while making a mini-smore.  I was placing chocolate chips on a wheat cracker when suddenly I was transported to my childhood kitchen.  I saw my younger self hoisting my younger self onto the kitchen counter.  I was in search of the bag of chocolate chips. 

In the back of the top shelf of the cupboard I could see the bag.  I knew it already had been opened, so taking a handful would not alert my mother.  And that is just what I did.  Stole chocolate chips. 

Did it stop there?  Oh no.  I became expert at getting in and out of that cupboard without notice.  They were so deliciously tiny, and it's not like my mom was counting them.... until she could actually count them.  My greed had been my undoing.

Who ate the chocolate chips?  My mom demanded to know the identity of the selfish, lowdown thief.  I had to confess.  Or was I outed by one of my brothers?  That detail I don't recall.  I swore I would never do it again (I did).  I now craved the chocolaty goodness.  Withdrawal was too painful.

The other night as I placed chocolate chips on my crackers and then mini-marshmallows on top of the chips, it occurred to me that these chips were my gateway drug.  I have tried all kinds of sweets over the years, but continue to come back to my gateway sugar: that beautiful and perfectly sweet chocolate chip.   Of course I no longer have to hoist myself onto the kitchen counter to reach my drug of choice.  I also have discovered other ways to ingest them, such as on salty wheat crackers with mini-marshmallows, then ever so slightly melted in the microwave.

And it all began on nice streets of Aberdeen, South Dakota.

Child Protective Services: Big Mother is better than no mother

I got a phone call this morning from a person whose home and life I recently assessed for the State of Texas.  This person and the person's home were being considered as a placement for children who were, and apparently still are, wards of the state.

I can't of course get into specifics of any kind.  That would be unethical.

But the phone call and this person's deep and profound attachment to the children got my emotional engines going - again - regarding the issue of child welfare and, specifically, Child Protective Services.

As I was not allowed to get personal with this morning's caller, in this venue I can.  I should qualify what I am about to write by disclosing that I was employed by CPS in 2005 as a caseworker in a Family Based Safety Services (FBSS) unit.  This is the type of unit that works with families so their children won't be removed.   I had just gotten my master's in social work and felt called to CPS.  In my academy class I was voted the person most likely to still be working at CPS in 20 years.  I was gone in less than a year. 

Our child welfare system is not so much broken as it is permanently flawed.  There really is no fix for it.  What you see is what you get.  While criticism of the system is often valid, real suggestions for improvements are few and far between.

Bottom line: It's the only system we have for this moment in time and we definitely need to have a child welfare system in this moment in time.

Historical context is critical to understanding how child welfare in the United States has evolved into our current system:

1800s:

           - Early in the century, the first orphanages were organized by churches and charitable groups.

           - Later in the century, private agencies began finding homes for orphans out of a belief that it   was preferred to growing up in an orphanage. 

1900s:

           - Early in this century, states began passing laws protecting children from abuse and neglect.

           - Social Security Act of 1935 authorized the first federal money for child welfare agencies in the states.  This was the first real push for states to build their own welfare policy.  This is also           the action that began financial assistance to families with dependent children which was                changed in 1996 to be temporary assistance for families with dependent children. 

            - Amendments to the Social Security Act are so numerous, you must be a wonk to keep up. Two key changes worth mentioning occurred in the 1960s.  First, the courts got involved in child abuse cases and, in 1967, Congress mandated foster care in all states.  

             - CPS may have its deepest roots in the 1974 Congressional act that told states to come up with a child abuse/neglect reporting and investigation system or no dough, as in federal dollars.

When I was a child, there wasn't a CPS to say whether my aunt and uncles or grandparents were appropriate "placements" for me and my 5 brothers had we been removed from our home.  CPS is a contemporary phenomena.

For some, the foster care boom that began in the late 70s and really took off in the 80s and 90s may seem like ancient history.  For CPS it's been a nano second.  And in that nano second, states, including Texas, went from handling a trickle down of reports of child abuse and neglect to a virtual tsunami of reports. 

Get this: in 2011, the most recent year for stats, CPS in Texas got a whopping 255,514 reports of child abuse or neglect!!  This according to a state report. (link below).  I still am looking for a comparison number, but this is just a blog and likely no one is still reading at this point.

Mind you, reports of abuse are not the same as actual abuse.  Non-the-less, they have to be processed.  And by now, processed by a gigantic and policy-laden bureaucracy.   Big Mother making decisions about our most vulnerable citizens.  Who thinks that's a good idea?

I would love to hate CPS and at times I have been critical.  I've made many reports to CPS over the years in my capacity as a social worker, and more than once I have been disappointed in the outcome of a case.  But I can't completely despise Big Mother because I have witnessed good outcomes too.  I've had the privilege of working with or meeting impressive, even heroic, individuals who work for CPS.  They don't quit after less than a year.  Without their dedication, our children would suffer.

So to the person who called me this morning I say this: CPS is an enormous and complicated machine.  Imperfect and flawed.   But it's the only system we've got to protect children.  And I understand this means nothing to you because all you care about are the lives of the children in your small world.

You know what?  If I were in your shoes, I'd feel the same damn way.


http://www.dfps.state.tx.us/documents/about/Data_Books_and_Annual_Reports/2011/DataBook11.pdf

Homicidal Anger

Dr. Deidra Louis Blackmon, a local veterinarian 33 years young, was killed last month in Saginaw, a town near Fort Worth.  A man presumably fueled by Anger shot her dead. 

Dr. Blackmon was driving home from a night of celebration with friends at the Stockyards in Fort Worth.  They stopped at a convenience store.  Dr. Blackmon, the driver, went inside.  This is all according to news reports.

When she came outside, she found one of her friends had gotten out of the car.  Her friend had too much to drink and was feeling ill.  While helping her friend, as friends do, the women were blocking the door to the car parked next to them.  This angered the couple whose car they were blocking. 

According to reports, Dr. Blackmon apologized to the couple.  The passenger apparently wasn't having it and had some choice words for the women.  She was controlled by Anger.

What could possibly make someone angry about having to wait a minute to get in or out of their car? 

Unchecked Anger.  Self-righteous Anger.  Drug or alcohol fueled Anger. 

The women got into the doctor's car, a Lexus that I assume she worked hard to earn.  An impressive young woman, I am sure.  I wish I had known her.

Back on the road, the women were hunted down by Anger.  Dr. Blackmon was the one hit and killed.  The shooter was identified and is in jail thanks to surveillance videos and the angry passenger has been charged with not reporting.

Here's from the WFAA report:

Blackmon grew up in Keller and graduated from Haltom City High School. She was employed as a veterinarian at the Animal Emergency Hospital of North Texas in Grapevine.

Bruce Nixon, the chief of staff at the clinic, called Blackmon a "shining star" and talented veterinarian. Nixon said she usually works at the clinic on Saturday evenings, but was off on Saturday night celebrating a friend's wedding.

Now, what to do with my Anger about this tragic loss of a promising life? 

DIY

DIY.  You know the acronym for do it yourself?  It sends shivers down my back.

I leave for Leander and Austin on a sunny March Monday morning in the company of my beloved daughter Andrea and granddaughters Addison and Finley.  We are off to visit our beloved Jenny and Michael.

No signs of trouble on the home front before we leave.  Nothing to be concerned about.  I kiss my husband goodbye and tell him I will miss him. 

When we return on Wednesday, the pool is turning an appropriate color for Sunday's St. Patrick's Day. 

What happened, my husband?

I'm fixing the pump.  I think a pipe is clogged. 

That would explain why the backyard is full of holes, exposed PVC pipe and miscellaneous shovels and other digging apparatus.  And hack saw.  The dreaded hack saw.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  No luck.  No solution to the non-pumping pump.  Now the pool water is definitely green.  Dark green. 

Paul, god bless him, still is optimistic.  Optimistic!  He will find the clog, destroy it, and regain supremacy over his backyard. 

Sunday afternoon.  Paul comes to me and says he cut into a copper pipe and it is gushing water, filling up the hole rapidly.  I wonder if we have flood insurance.

Turns out the copper piping was hidden under a PVC pipe Paul was sawing.  No one could have seen this pipe, for real.  It was hugging the PVC pipe, undetectable.  Until Paul hacksawed through it.

After multiple attempts to figure out how and why this was happening, including shutting off our house water supply, nothing would stop the gush from the mystery copper pipe.

We call the plumber (Sunday afternoon, ouch).  He has the same luck as we did.  None.  He checked the neighbor's water meter and concluded we had not sabotaged their supply.  He said we had to call the city. 

A very nice man from the city water department shows up later Sunday afternoon and concludes this is some kind of rogue copper pipe.  Why is it gushing water?  No idea.  So the plan is to drain the pool below the level of this copper pipe and see what happens.

It worked!!!  No more gushing!!!  Whew.  That was a load off.  But wait.  Now we have a partially drained pool, the water is now looking more purple than green, and the pump still is not fixed.

Is Paul dissuaded?  Heck no.  He is KING of the DIY's. 

To his credit he figures out that the water-gushing copper pipe carried electrical wiring to the pool light, which hasn't worked in 15 years - because the wiring is soaking wet! 

Paul's got an idea.  He will clamp and cut and paste and ... whatever.  He gives it his DIY best.  He also starts a FIRE.  A fire that he has to dump dirt on, which luckily was in great supply from previously dugup yard.

No one can say Paul didn't give this one his all.  He fought to the bitter end.  This Friday we have a company coming to give us an estimate on pool repair.

Please be kind to Paul this week.

 

Git ur tin foil hats ready!

Did you hear what's happening this month?  On the 23rd to be exact.

That's the day Obamacare begins implanting microchips into our fingers/hands.  The information will contain all our medical and banking information.  We will be at the mercy of this government.  One tiny step outside the line and BAM!  Our identity is wiped clean.  Or something similarly awful and scary.

Surprised?  Don't be.  This has been in the works for years.  Well, since 2009 to be exact.  That's about the time Congress started debating health care legislation.

You see, there was a provision in it to track implants, such as pacemakers and hip replacements.  It was proposed that by gathering said information, we could track good and bad outcomes and thereby provide implant consumers with better information.  This part of the legislation was NOT included in Obamacare.

Somehow though, an email in 2009 was sent and resent to many, many people - several assumed to be wearing tin foil hats - warning that Obama and his army of ghastly and horrible people were conspiring to begin microchip implants.  Mandatory. 

Now, in defense of the tin foilees, a scientist HAS actually implanted a chip in his hand before.  In the UK in 1998.  He used his chip to open doors and such.  I totally want one.  Paul just found my lost car keys after looking for a month!

And there's a company in the US that will chip your kid as a means of protection, as in GPS to locate should they go missing.

It was just a couple of weeks ago that I first heard about the March 23rd date that we start getting our Obama chips.  I became concerned the person earnestly delivering this information was suffering some mental collapse, so I googled "microchip implant."  Turns out this person is not card-carrying delusional.  Just card-carrying gullible.  And this person has a lot of company.

My advice: if you're low on foil, better get some now cuz there's going to be a run on it round about the 23rd.

Here we go again...

Did you see the Oscars last Sunday?

Argo was OK, but Best Pic?  I don't think so.  Bernie got robbed.  I mean Jack Black and Shirley MacLaine together in a movie?  That is brilliant, as was the movie.

That's not what I wanted to write about, I digress. 

What pissed me off was a comment made about Bradley Cooper's mom.  One of the Red Carpet presenters called her "cute."  Cute because she is so short.  Awwwww.  Look at her next to her son.  She's so cute.

This falls on the heels of a similar comment made on the Today Show by another TV person.  A couple standing outside with a sign about their anniversary and this perky TV person asks how long they have been married.  They say 30 something years.  As she walks away she says "they are so cute."

Again with the cute.  To describe us oldies.  It could be a term of endearment if it were so damn  patronizing. 

We aren't cute.  We are aged.  Believe you me, there's not that much cuteness associated with aging.  (Today UPS delivered some new product that is supposed to fill in my thinning hair - how not cute is that?).

We deserve to be treated with some dignity.  Even respect.  NOT to be called cute.  Here's what they  should have said:

Red Carpet: There's Bradley Cooper with his mother.  What an exciting night for them.  She must be very proud.  

Today Show: You have been married a long time.  Congratulations. 

Now I have to go see about covering up some thinning areas on my head.

Medical bills are making me sick

Time Magazine's cover story about medical bills is making me sick.  The writer calls it a seller's market.  A gold rush.  And we, the consumers, are on the losing side.  With no end in sight. 

ObamaCare will help a little by widening the access to insurance so a trip to the hospital shouldn't wipe out a family's savings and worse. But it doesn't really address The Medical Bill.  $18 charges for a blood sugar test that really costs 55 cents.  $2 for a Tylenol, which would cost more like 2 cents.  These are but 2 examples in a hospital bill that can run more than 300 pages long!!!

How about $21,000 to be told you have heartburn?  That's what one man got billed after his trip to the emergency room.

Where is the shame? 


http://healthland.time.com/2013/02/20/bitter-pill-why-medical-bills-are-killing-us/

Backyard is Sammie's playground

Sammie, here at 3 months, loves her backyard.  She has discovered digging and burying stuff.  We play soccer EVERY day.

One day she came flying into the house through the doggie door - completely soaked.  Apparently she discovered swimming in the pool that day!