I’m so Fried-day

Crazy week this week. Today was the culmination. Here’s the rundown:

Up at 7 am to preside over a new, improved morning routine (we used to stumble out of bed at 7:30 and wonder why we couldn’t get out of the house by 8:00 am). The routine thing (I’ve posted about my difficulties with routines before) was an assignment from Big Sis’ counselor, so it’s like a prescription I’ve had to fill. It’s working well so far though.We started on Tuesday and are still going strong. The key is showering at night (I know, duh…but Big Sis, who hates showering seems to hate it a little less in the morning) and letting the kids have screen time if they complete their morning routines in a timely manner. We’ve been ready to go at about 7:40 am almost every morning.

If only I had the time and energy to pull together after-school and bedtime routines. Maybe next week.

We left the house to go to the bus stop only to be greeted by the sight and smell of hazy white smoke. None of the neighbors seemed to know where it was coming from, so since danger was not imminent, we moved on with our day.

Back in the house to wash Little Sis’ wet sheets. Of course, the washer and dryer were full, so I had to clear them out first. Then, I promised myself I’d exercise at least 15 minutes, but I was already running late to pick up Mom for her doctor’s appointment. I worked out anyway, considering it a deposit toward not having my kids drive ME to the kidney doctor when I’m Mom’s age.

By the time I’m showered, it’s 10 am. I call Mom to tell her I’m on my way. She reports that the smoke I smelled earlier was from a fire in a nearby apartment building; she saw a news report. Apparently some guy on the third floor was making eggs, and some grease caught fire. He threw water on it. Two hundred firefighters and 15 road construction crew-turned-rescuers later, the building was lost, but everyone got out safely. Also, I’ll have to wash my coat to get the smell of smoke out of it.

I picked up Mom. The intention was to go out to eat before her 11:30 am appointment (because Lord knows I have plenty to do without taking Mom out to eat afterward), but we didn’t have enough time for a sit-down restaurant. Activate Plan B: I ran into Panera and picked up bagels and coffee (organic chocolate milk for Little Sis) to hold us over until afterward. Twelve dollars later (!!), we were off.

We made it to the kidney clinic 20 minutes early. Fortunately, there’s a TV in the waiting room that Little Sis usually watches. Unfortunately, the volume no longer works (and hasn’t for two months).

It was a long wait.

Forty minutes later, we went next door to the kidney doc’s office. Mom was called back. I read 5 Disney princess books and played more rounds than I care to remember of “Can You Find A Picture of THIS in the Waiting Room Magazines?” Plus, the kidney doc complimented Little Sis’ boots.

Finally, Mom was done. A good visit; Mom was expecting the doc to start prepping her for dialysis, but her labs have looked good lately, so not yet. Whew! But now I have 3 new appointments to run Mom to: More dialysis clinic, another kidney doctor appointment, and a new rheumatologist (even though I REALLY like Mom’s old one. Don’t ask. I don’t get it either).

We let Little Sis pick the restaurant for lunch (she wanted the one with “the big chicken“). She ate spaghetti and Mom & I split a salad. By now it was 2:00 pm. I still had to stop at 2 stores, drive mom 20 minutes home, and get to the bus stop by 3:45 pm. Panic starts to set in.

Boom. Off to the pet store. Cat food, cat litter, and dog food (did I mention that we were so low on dog food this morning that the dog ate cat food for breakfast?).

Boom. Off to Sam’s Club. I had a LONG list of things WE needed from the store, but all I had time to get was Mom’s stuff. Grrrrr.

Boom. Back in the minivan to fight rush hour traffic (at 3 pm already?!?) back to Mom’s.

“You know,” said Mom, “I think YOU were the reason we’re running late today. You didn’t take a shower until after nine o’clock.”

I turned to stare at her.

“You mean after spending the entire day doing things for everybody else, I made an error in judgment spending 15 minutes on my elliptical machine this morning?!?”

I huffed, “Feel free to look for another ride next time. I guess you get what you pay for.”

I tried not to let it bug me, but obviously, it did.

Didn’t bug Mom, though. She’s hopped up on so much Lexapro that she’ll giggle like a schoolgirl at almost anything.

I dropkicked dropped Mom off, cramming the basket of her walker full of her purchases. She has a history of calling me and insisting she’s out of something and NEEDSITRIGHTNOW. Hopefully it’ll save me an emergency trip within 48 hours.

Back across town, fighting school bus traffic now. We made it and picked up Big Sis.

Now for the fun. Big Sis has her regular daily homework (which usually manages to fill up two hours on a good night), her science project (optional, been working on it for three weeks, and due Friday morning), an optional homework assignment (something about inventing a musical instrument out of household materials; she’s been harassing us to borrow pieces of my $2000 trombone and Mr. Hoagie’s flute and recorder), AND a Girl Scout Brownie meeting.

Somehow, she managed to pull it all off.

But it was a hell of a day. Capping off a hell of a week.

In comparison, tomorrow’s gonna be easy. Drop off Big Sis’ science fair project, volunteer at her school, pick up Little Sis, take my midterm exam for my online class, bake brownies for the science fair, pull a homemade meatless dinner out of my @ss, go to the science fair, and spend the rest of the night consoling Big Sis and rocking her to sleep when she doesn’t win (she has issues with competition).

Piece of cake.

I’m so fried.

Busy Saturday

Today’s to-do list:

1. Grocery shopping, even though I did it yesterday (because I need to…)
2. Go to Mom’s (and…)
3. Begin making Fried Ice Cream Balls for Big Sis’ Girl Scout Thinking Day (which I didn’t buy the ingredients for yesterday because I thought it was NEXT Sunday, not THIS Sunday. Oops!)
4. Do homework for online course; due at 6pm (haven’t started yet)
5. Wash blanket and sleeping bag that Little Sis peed on last night
6. Wash blanket and sleeping bag that Little Sis peed on last week
7. Send Evite for event next Saturday (oops again.)
8. Make snacks for Oscar party tomorrow night
9. The usual feeding of the troops
10. Finish everything in time for a family movie night (Mr. Hoagie wants to watch The Addams Family on TiVo. His pick , NOT mine.)

For those of you playing along at home, here’s the recipe I’ll be using today, courtesy of Big Sis’ troop leader.

Fried Ice Cream Balls

To make this fake fried ice cream recipe, use an ice cream scoop to quickly form as many firm ice cream balls as you need. Use your favorite flavor of homemade ice cream. After the balls are formed, you might need to place them in an airtight freezer container and set them in the freezer for a while to harden. You need them to be rock hard!

Just before serving, take the frozen balls and roll them in a bowl of crushed corn flakes, pressing them firmly into the corn flakes until they are completely coated with the cereal. Frosted flakes work well too, and they are especially good.

Some cooks prefer adding a tablespoon or two of corn syrup or liquid honey to the cereal first, claiming it makes the flakes stick to the ice cream better and helps to simulate the deep fried taste.

As with traditional fried ice cream recipes, add the customary garnish of whipped cream, a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, and a red maraschino cherry on top. Serve immediately.

The One-Year Mark: Part 5

Let’s recap, shall we? My sister arranges to move out of town, leaving my 68-year-old aging mom stranded in Chicago area.

Dutiful daughter that I am, my family and I decide to move Mom closer to us. We go to Chicago for a visit for Thanksgiving 2007, and on the drive home to Pittsburgh, we prop my diabetic, obese, cardiac-patient Mom (aka Chiquita or Grandma Chiquita) in the front seat of the minivan. Here goes nothin’.

Cue the chest pains. There’s a stop in the ER in Sandusky, Ohio; some vomiting by my 6-year-old; and then we arrive home. Where we wait nearly three weeks for her moving truck to arrive. My walker-and-wheelchair-using mom now has to climb 2 flights of stairs each day to her bedroom.

Here’s what a typical day looked like over those few weeks:

7:00 am: Kids and I wake up, get dressed and ready for school. Look in on Mom (or just check to make sure I can hear her snore)

7:30 am: Breakfast for kids & Chiquita. Kids eat at kitchen table, Mom gets a tray in her room. She’s so weak and diabetic, I don’t want her attempting the stairs before breakfast.

8:15 am: Leave for bus stop; stop in to let Mom know we’re going. Chances are, she’s still asleep.

8:30 am: Breakfast for me; make coffee for Mom and me. Park Little Sis in front of the TV so I can…

8:45 am to ?: Head upstairs to give Mom a shower and “treatment.” Of course, she’s still asleep. Once she wakes, I’ll help her with breakfast (not that she really needs the help so much as she’s so co-dependent she’ll take any help anyone’s dumb enough to give her…that’d be me). She takes her pills (13 at the time). Then a shower, and her “treatment.” I’ll spare you the details except to say that it involves washing & powdering her delicate skin condition.

Late morning: Help Chiquita down the stairs and get her settled in front of Fox News (*gag*), where she’ll repeat the day’s headlines to me almost incessantly.

Sometime before lunch (hopefully): Cleanup duty begins; head back up to her room, strip the bed and wash the sheets (wet from incontinence), her towels (one from shower plus 2-3 more for her treatment), her pajamas and the previous day’s clothes (she only packed enough for a few days). Bring down her breakfast tray and do kitchen cleanup. Start lunch; must be healthy because I’m feeding a diabetic cardiac patient.

After lunch: take care of my 3 year old (hey, remember her?), alternating with fielding “What are you DOING?” from Mom and losing my mind because I SO did not sign up for this howamIsupposedtocookandcleananddolaundryand groceryshopand handlemykidsandmyhusbandandnowmymomtoo!

3:45 pm: Pick up Big Sis from school bus. Great, now I have three people to take care of!

4:30 pm Start dinner; must be healthy because I’m feeding a diabetic cardiac patient. Must also be something that picky Big Sis will eat unless we want a battle at the dinner table. Allow extra time for incessant interruptions. As 6 pm nears and am interrupted for the 34th time, shout “DO YOU PEOPLE WANT TO EAT DINNER TONIGHT OR NOT?!?”

6:15 pm Mr. Hoagie gets home from work. Inwardly rejoice because the cavalry has arrived.

6:16 pm Heart sinks as he trudges upstairs for a “quick nap” before dinner. Inwardly seethe, slamming pots and pans, until I…

6:20 pm …remember that he’s epileptic so his neurologist has given him carte blanche on sleep. Say a quick prayer of thanks that he didn’t have a seizure driving home from work and kill himself and six other people and commence to feeling guilty that I inwardly seethed at all.

6:45 pm Start dinner for five. Repeatedly get up to get stuff for people. Listen to regurgitated Fox News headlines. Mediate kids’ arguments. Count bites for whiny, perpetually hunger-striking Big Sis. Eat cold food and start clearing table.

7:30 pm Encourage everyone to head up to bed, knowing that that’s the only way I’ll get any peace. Chiquita needs to go up before she’s too tired; we had several instances of wobbliness and near-falls over those weeks.

7:31 pm Chiquita turns Fox News back on.

8:15 pm Kids head upstairs; Mr. Hoagie puts them to bed.

8:20 pm Chiquita (reluctantly) heads upstairs, supported by me.

8:26 pm Arrive at top of stairs. Assist Chiquita in getting ready for bed, including (whoo hoo) another treatment.

9:15 pm Chiquita is tucked in and watching prime time TV in the dark. She invites me to stay and watch with her, but I weasel out of it (feeling guilty) because I. AM. BEYOND.DONE.

9:20 pm Curl up on the couch with Mr. Hoagie to watch The Daily Show.

9:30 pm Fall asleep on the couch.

10:15 pm Mr. Hoagie wakes me up so I can drag my sorry butt to bed. I get to do it all over again tomorrow.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6

The One-Year Mark: Part 4

The rest of the drive from Sandusky to Pittsburgh passed uneventfully. Chiquita had no further chest pains, and Big Sis was extra tired that day, but had no more episodes of vomiting.

The next part of the story lasted nearly three weeks. We thought that Mom’s moving truck would arrive by the end of the week.

It didn’t.

It didn’t arrive the following week, either.

To make a ridiculously long story short (okay, I know it’s WAY too late for that), my sister’s friend’s dad ran a moving company. We went with them because they were family friends, yadda yadda. Mom’s stuff was now on a truck with other people’s stuff, and they were all due to be delivered first. Now, granted, Mom’s stuff was by far the smallest shipment on that truck (it was just a one-bedroom apartment), but by week two, we were tearing our hair out (mostly me).

Where was Mom staying, you ask? Oh, right. With us. In a guest bedroom on the second floor.

Did I mention there’s two flights of stairs between the garage and the second floor? Or that she’s not so good with stairs?

And at that time, we began to notice Mom’s fatigue increase. Understandable under all the stress, sure, but mostly because her anemia returned. She was due for a Procrit shot.

And did I mention that she didn’t yet have a new doctor? (Though the old one was good enough to tell us that Chiquita was in bad enough shape that the trip alone might kill her.)

So let’s recap: two flights of stairs a day (for an undetermined amount of time) for a weak, anemic, stressed cardiac diabetic who was not, at that moment, under a doctor’s care?

This was gonna be rough. I didn’t want her to kick the bucket the first week on my watch!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6

The Telephone Game

3:00 pm

So I’m getting ready to get Firstborn off the school bus, and I decide to call over to my mom’s to confirm that I’m bringing the girls over for a visit.

No answer. I leave a message. Make a mental note to call one more time before I leave the house.

3:30 pm

I call Mom again. Still no answer. Wonder what’s keeping her from the phone.

Maybe she’s napping. Or the phone’s too far away to reach.

Bathroom?

I hope she hasn’t fallen again….

3:35 pm

Past time to leave the house. I holler at Baby that it’s time to go, crate the dog, and grab the phone again. Hit speed dial.

No answer.

Where could she be?

I’m sure she’s fine.

But what if she’s not?Must be on the floor….or worse.

I’m probably overreacting.

I leave what I hope is a reassuring message on her answering machine, in case she can hear it, but can’t get to the phone.

“Mom, we’re on our way. Be there as soon as I can.”

3:45 pm

Firstborn bounds off the school bus and hops into the minivan. I’m a nervous wreck, but trying not to show it. On the drive over, I make the girls promise not to burst into Grandma’s apartment ahead of me, like they usually do.

God, please don’t let them find her DEAD….

“Are you listening, girls? What did I say?” I demand, a little too earnestly.

“Let Mommy go in first,” they drone.

3:55 pm

We pull into the parking lot at her building. It’s a very nice, newly constructed facility with nearly 100 senior independent living apartments and separate wings for assisted living and Alzheimer’s care. The girls bounce out of the car, and I open the trunk to grab some of the groceries I’ve brought for Mom.

“Won’t need any of this stuff if she’s DEAD,” the voice in my head growls.

I cram the voice back where it came from and turn to the girls.

“Who wants to carry the orange juice?”

We go up to the entrance. There’s a keypad there so you can get buzzed in. Visitors can dial an apartment directly, or call the front desk. Residents can use a swipeable key card or dial in a code on the keypad. Mom gave me her code when she moved in and told me to use it instead of calling up to have her buzz us in. She said all the residents do that with their kids.

Today, though, I want one more chance to prove to myself she’s okay. I’m sure she’ll answer this time. She has to.

“I wanna do it!” “No, me!” The girls are elbowing each other aside, jockeying to be the one who Mommy lets dial in the code today.

“I’m doing it,” I snarl at them. Don’t they know my mom might be DEAD up there?

I punch in the code to call her apartment.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Oh God.

Answering machine.

“Mom, we’re downstairs. I’m coming up.”

I let us in with her code. As we’re walking down the hall toward the elevator, I think, “Gee, this is a nice place. Too bad Mom didn’t get to live here that long. If she’s dead, I think we’ll have until the 15th to get her stuff out. Maybe I’ll just move it into storage. Or maybe just donate it all….”

We pass the dining room, where the servers are preparing for the dinner rush. I spot one of the servers, who’s been really sweet to my kids when we come by to eat. “I wonder what she’ll say when she finds out Mom’s DEAD,” growls the voice.

We arrive at the elevator, and Baby pounces on the call button.

“No fair,” cries Firstborn. The doors slide open, and Baby punches 2 before her big sister does. “Moooommmmm!” Firstborn wails. As the elevator begins its slow ascent, we negotiate that Firstborn will get to hit the call button AND the 1 on our way back down.

Of course, we might have to yield the elevator to the paramedics. Or mortician.

The elevator stops and the doors slide open. Sitting directly across from the elevator is none other than Grandma Chiquita herself!

I don’t know whether to hug her or scream.

“Where were you? I’ve been calling and calling….” How many times has she used that line on me?

“I was here, waiting for the dryer to finish! I didn’t want to walk all the way back down that hall,” she explained. She smiled at the girls.

“I was worried sick!” I tell her, exasperated and relieved, all at the same time.

“Come on, Grandma Chiquita!” holler the kids.

“Girls, use your inside voices!” I gather Mom’s laundry from the dryer, pile the groceries into her laundry cart, and we head down the hall for a lovely visit.

So that’s why my therapist diagnosed me with anxiety.

Nobody’s Perfect.

So this morning, before I’m even out of bed, my Firstborn arrives in my room, wailing pitifully about how she doesn’t want to go to school. The Baby doesn’t help when she announces, with a big smile and at the top of her lungs, that today is Pajama Day at her preschool.

Cue a fresh flow of tears from Firstborn. “Why can’t I have a pajama day?” she sobs. She seems truly miserable. I’ve seen my fair share of these mornings. If we don’t get this mood turned around soon, her whole day (and possibly the rest of the week) will go like this. Moody little bugger. God help me when she’s a teenager!

So I decide to break one of my cardinal rules. “Okay, guys, here’s the deal,” I announce. All eyes, teary and otherwise, are on mine. If they get themselves completely ready for school (clothes, hair, shoes) in time, I tell them, they may watch “one short show” on TiVo.

Ten minutes later, both children are perched on the sofa, glued to “The Suite Life of Zack & Cody.” This is the fastest I’ve ever seen them move in the morning. Granted, the Baby is still wearing her pajamas, but she did swap out her Pull-Up for underwear, and she did allow her big sister to assist her with her shoes (after one report that one of her socks was unacceptable “becomes it bodders me.”). Remarkable!

Within seconds of the show ending comes another whine. “I don’t want to go to school,” wails Firstborn.

“Why, honey? Did something happen?”

“I don’t want to go to art class,” she pouts.

“Why not?” I ask. I wonder if she had a run-in with her teacher.

“I’m not telling you.”

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t help,” I explain, wolfing down a bowl of Fiber One cereal and checking the laundry in the dryer.

“I didn’t use enough water!” she cries. Aha. I’m starting to get it.

“On your art project?” I ask, looking up. They must be doing a watercolor or something. She nods. “You’d like to start over because you didn’t get it right, but you can’t.”

She nods again, bottom lip quivering. Ahh. My little perfectionist. She’s the firstborn of two firstborns, and three out of her four grandparents are first or only-borns. Doomed from birth, poor kid.

Therapy’s gonna be expensive.

As we drive to school, she moans again about going to school. “You know that Hannah Montana song?” I ask. “Nobody’s Perfect?”

Of course she does. What self-respecting six-and-a-half year-old doesn’t? We sing it together.

Everybody makes mistakes… Everybody has those days… Everybody knows what what I’m talkin’ ’bout… Everybody gets that way…

Sometimes I’m in a jam
I’ve gotta make a plan
It might be crazy
I do it anyway

Nobody’s Perfect!
I gotta work it!
Again and again ’til I get it right
Nobody’s Perfect!
You live and you learn it!
And if I mess it up sometimes…
Nobody’s perfect

“Hannah’s pretty smart, isn’t she?”

“Yeah.” She starts to smile a bit.

“I’ll bet she’s a perfectionist, too,” I muse.

“I have two more words for you. When you start to get upset that it’s not just right, I want you to say these two words, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, well.”

We practice a few times together, and by the time her bus pulls up, she’s calmed down.

Fast-forward about an hour later. I’m at my weekly therapy appointment for anxiety and depression. She’s spent weeks listening to me talk about how I beat myself up when things aren’t just right. I relay the story about Firstborn’s art project.

“You handled that really well!” she tells me. “Now if you could only take your own advice.”

“Yeah…if only,” I think.