THE END OF YOUR TWENTIES IS ONE YEAR CLOSER TODAY

 I have been re-sharing the (mostly) same blog post on this day for about 16 years now.

I KNOW.
Most of you have memorized this story already, but if you're new, here's the what in a nutshell:
Twins born 3 and a half months early, at 24 weeks, weighing in at just over a pound each.
Ears folded down like little weird bats; scrawny red with wizened little monkey faces, undeveloped lungs and ventilators which scarred those tiny lungs, head bleeds (Grade I and Grade IV), 6 months in NICU, first 2 or 3 Christmases and Thanksgiving in the hospital with RSV, multiple & severe disabilities including CP, MR, developmental delays; COPD, ROP, Cor Pulmonale; eye surgeries for crossed eyes and retinopathy of prematurity, hernia surgeries, central lines, perc lines, keloid scars from all the poking and pricking and blood drawing and transfusions; heart holes and murmurs and seizure disorders; failure to thrive and lots of other things with letters and also thrush and a tiny arm broken simply by changing a shirt.

I am convinced I have PTSD and probably so do the kids. It's been a long and challenging road for all of us - and for about 23 of the 27 years I've been doing this solo. I have not been a great mom, or even mediocre if truth be told. After all these years I still have not a single clue what I'm doing.
DESPITE THAT and doing things like convincing my daughter to take a bite of dog biscuit which was funny AF I don't care what you say, THESE KIDS ARE PRETTY FUCKING AWESOME.

I mean sure, Joshua is still like a baby because he can't talk or walk or crawl or sit up alone, has to be diapered and hand fed. He does communicate pretty well when he's unhappy though! But when he's warbling to the teevee and making himself giggle...well, there's not a more delightful, happier, sweeter sound in the entire world.

And Rebecca...sometimes we're far more adversarial than mother/daughter. But I could never have asked for a better daughter. Her brother and I couldn't make it through the day- or life, really - without her help. She provides for her family without complaint. Without her help in caring for Josh, I wouldn't have made it through - she is the reason I can get a day off now and then, especially since some recent health concerns of my own. She handles her shit. She handles MY shit. (No, I do not make her handle Joshua's shit because lort knows that even turns MY stomach sometimes).
She reminds me to take my meds, she helps take my BP on the daily, she goes with me to the doctor when possible to take notes because lately I find myself easily overwhelmed. I could not be prouder or love her any more, and I can't even take credit for how she's turned out. She is caring and thoughtful and affectionate (I am none of those), she is a hard worker with an excellent work ethic, and she always knows right when I need a hug.
(although she still doesn't have a driver's license and OMG SHE IS SO LIKE MY MOTHER IN SO MANY WAYS)

At the end of the day, I recognize the struggle that both of them have made to cling to life, how they've helped raise me as a mother as much as I ever helped raise them, and I fall to my knees and thank God for their existence on this earth and in my life. I am proud to be their mother, I am grateful for the lessons they've taught me, and I love them bigger than the universe. If you know them, you're the lucky one.

This jackass is NOT HAVING IT today. He's all NO PAPARAZZI like Brad Garrett or Kanye.

But then he had a piece of birthday cake (FIRST TIME EVER! Because I finally undumbed myself enough to think of finding a dairy free cake recipe) and I got a ... decent pic.

Happy 27!!! Mommy is old AF. THANKS. 

Some stuff and things and so then that happened.

Here's how I know your inspirational cliches don't work - specifically "If you dream it, you can achieve it" because last night I dreamed that I was driving a rainbow van off a cliff but at the same time I was across the canyon watching it happen, and then I walked into a fountain and tried to punch some dude but strangely my arms weren't working and THEN THERE WAS A DRONE OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW and it woke me up and wasn't there and also I dreamed I was awake but I wasn't and didn't know for sure until I was trying to talk and say HEY AM I EVEN AWAKE.

Okay "life coach," you tell me how to achieve that.
Also tell me WHY WOULD I EVEN WANT TO. 

I've been writing #FakeInspirationalCrap for years, *I* should be YOUR life coach because mine can actually be applied to real life.

---

I've posted about the ghost that lives here (with photographic evidence!) a couple times over the years, but things have been pretty quiet and ghost-free for quite some time. 

So for our eBay business, I keep the inventory in sealed tubs with handle-lock lids.

A few days ago we were looking for a dress in a tub that resides in my "dining" room - a tub that either Becca or I have been through numerous times in the past few months.

Only this time, there was a bottlecap right near the top of the pile.

A bent bottlecap.

A bent beer bottlecap.

A bent Tecate "No Retornable" beer bottlecap.

Like this, only bent a little across the top.

Okay, maybe not weird for many of you, but here's what:

I have been through that dress tub and everything in it, down to the bottom, at least 50 times whenever I am looking for a dress listed at a certain time.
Anything that's been listed has been checked thoroughly, pockets and all, at least 2-3 times.

Also, I do not drink beer.

Also ALSO, I do not buy beer.

Also also ALSO, if I did buy beer, I doubt I would buy Tecate. 

Also also also ALSO, I don't even have a bottle opener.

WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?

How did it get in that sealed tub of clothes?

How did it even get in my house?

Who opened it?

Did someone come in my house and drink a beer and unstack 3 tubs of clothes

just to put their bottlecap in the bottom sealed tub and then restack everything again?

I mean nobody here takes ambien or any sleeping pills that might make us do weird sleep things.

And where is the bottle? There is no bottle. There hasn't been a bottle.

I don't ever have visitors, so no one has come over and brought their own beer.

If it was the ghost, who bought the beer for them? Or can he or she make themselves corporeal long enough to drink a beer? Or are they starting a bottlecap collection?

(HEY WHO ELSE DID THIS WHEN THEY WERE A KID AND NAILED BOTTLECAPS TO A BOARD?)

I tried to get an EVP recorded while asking any ghosts that might've been hanging around but all I got was the standard old "run, get out, I'm going to kill you,"** etc etc blahblahblah so I don't even count that. I mean bitchghost please, I've been in this house over 20 years, you've had your chance.

So that happened.

**#fakenews, no EVP captured at all but I did try.

---

I was very recently reminded how lovely and refreshing and wonderful it is to be thought of, to be included, to be remembered, to be invited, even when the inviter knows full well you'll most likely have to decline.

So I want to remind YOU to please not forget your introverts. Don't forget your caregivers. Don't forget about those of us who really do hate to have to say NO all the time because there's just no way to make it happen.
Please keep inviting us. Please let us know you think of us once in awhile. Please be prepared to be okay with us saying no.
We hate having to say it sometimes as much as you hate having to hear it.
But at least we know you care.
And even if we forget to say it, we adore you for the thought.

This has been an Introvert and/or Chronic CareGiver Service Announcement.

'Tis the season to be...something.

The holidays are hard for some of us.
Some suffer SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). For some their regular depression is intensified. Some introverts are already having anxiety attacks at the thought of peopling, whether with co-workers or family.
Some just can't stand to be around their eggnog-sotted relatives and/or be criticized/ignored/mocked.
SO MANY REASONS.

I usually start feeling some depression and stress around the holidays mainly because
1. So very poor moneywise
B. Cannot buy gifts
III. Buying gifts is the only time I truly enjoy shopping of any kind, and it truly makes me happy

Besides all that, my last grandparent, my last grandma, passed away right around this time last year. Just barely before Christmas, in fact.
And I'm sure missing her hard right now.

She was in the hospital and managed care the last year or so of her life when she needed 24 hour care and the Alzheimer's got pretty bad.  I feel guilty for not spending more time with her - my only excuse is that I have a little boy (well, I know he's almost 24 but still my little boy) who also requires 24 hour care, and now that I'm old and he's heavier I can't manage him in & out of the van the way I used to.

Still. That doesn't make it easier.
ANYWAY I have drifted entirely away from what this whole post was supposed to be about, which was basically a HI GRANDMA, I'M THINKING OF YOU AND I MISS YOU A REALLY LOT.

I've told a few little stories about my Grandma Pat...like she would tell me (I am the oldest grandchild) how when I was a baby and my mom & I lived with her & my granddad while my dad was overseas, she would rush home from work to sit and rock me, and she didn't care if anyone else had dinner or clean laundry because WELL I AM ME, AFTER ALL.

When my kids were babies, she did not trust me to do their laundry and would not let me use some 'cheap bargain basement detergent' on those PRESHUS BABIES, so she would send my granddad over twice a week to pick up the dirty laundry & blankets so SHE could wash them in Dreft detergent.
Hey, I had twins, both on oxygen and heart/apnea monitors so I was not going to argue.

In my family, mocking and sarcasm is how we show we care...and we care A LOT.
Like the year at Christmas we told grandma that we had numbered all her stories because she told them SO MANY TIMES at EVERY FAMILY EVENT ... so when she started to tell a story, one of us would shout out something like "ELEVEN!" or "THIRTY-THREE!" and we would all laugh hysterically while grandma said "I DO NOT LIKE YOU CHILDREN. BRATS."

Or the time we were looking at dresses (she was one of those kind of Baptists where they don't dance and the women don't wear pants, only dresses or skirts) and I pointed one out and she said
"But that's an old lady dress."
I said, "Well by definition, ALL your dresses are old lady dresses."
"I hate you. Brat."

Actually grandma wasn't one to dish out sarcasm, but she did love to laugh, even (and sometimes especially) if the joke was on her. She had no ego, and would laugh at the most ridiculous, nonsensical things.
Like her favorite joke, which wasn't even a joke, but one of us would always say it because we knew she would laugh and of COURSE then we would laugh.
"What did the bee say to the flower? I'm GONNA STING YOU."

Not even a joke, right? But always a guaranteed laugh from grandma.
And my uncle, king of sarcasm (and sort of mean, and often an asshole, but hey family) would say,
"Hey mom, come stand over here and let me take a group picture of you,"
which was TOTALLY dickish and rude but grandma laughed and laughed, because let's be honest, she was the closest thing to Mrs. Claus you'd ever see. Very short and VERY round and cute as a fuckin' button.
She loved telling that story too, and laughed every time.

If you're of A Certain Age, you've seen all the Brady Bunch episodes a fafillion times and you remember Jan & Aunt Jenny...wherein Jan finds an old photo of 'herself' that turns out is actually Imogene Coca in disguise as Aunt Jenny and OF COURSE Jan is a shallow little spoiled beyotch and doesn't want to be 'ugly' like Aunt Jenny even though Jenny is like super cool and popular.





So (TRUE STORY) when I was a teenager I found an old picture of 'myself' at around 5 years old that I later found out was actually MY GRANDMA, so naturally (me being me) at the next available opportunity I showed the photo to grandma and said SAY, HOW OLD WAS I IN THIS PICTURE? and of course she said it wasn't ME, it was HER...and I figure you can guess what happened next.
I pretended to cry and wailed DOES THIS MEAN I HAVE TO LOOK LIKE YOU WHEN I GET OLD??
"I hate you. Brat."
She said that to me a lot.
I have no idea why. Probably she loved me the best but didn't want anyone else to know and be jealous.


Her funeral was particularly hard for me, because it's one of the first funerals I've ever attended that I actually (sort of) wanted to get up and say something - but I was frozen in place and couldn't. Also I cannot possibly be trusted not to say something completely inappropriate because that's what I do.
I did manage to do the one thing I usually avoid at all costs because I feel it's a horrible, traumatic tradition...walking past the open casket at the end of the service.

But I wanted to say goodbye to my last little grandma, with her blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick and Estee Lauder Youth Dew scent.

I stopped to look, and remember, and when I whispered, "Hey grandma, remember that time you ruined Christmas when you died?" it was no surprise that I heard her laughter in my ear.
I'm pretty sure it was followed up with "I hate you. Brat."

May all your wishbone wishes come true

November is really the busiest month of the year, full of all the things - Movember, NaNoWriMo, Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and that one thing... what is it...with the food and family and such. TurkeyEatin' Day. Also known as yesterday.

And everyone saying the things they're thankful for.

Those people stopped asking me to post what I was thankful for when I wrote
"Today I'm thankful that I wasn't forced to stab anyone" and "I'm thankful Mr/Ms X lives over a thousand miles away so I don't have to actually visit but I can totally yet insincerely say GEE WHIZ I WISH I COULD BE THERE by text or email" and "I'm thankful my kid is old enough to go into the liquor store so I don't have to get out of the car."
#KeepinItReal

I wrote this several years ago but during these troubled, divisive, frightening times, I thought I would repost so that *I* can remember to keep this in my heart and mind.

---

On being full of thankful.

A few days ago someone posted, "What are you thankful for this week?"
and my first thought was...nothing special.

WHAT?! NOTHING SPECIAL?!

What I mean is, there was nothing different about my level of thankfulness.
Every single morning that I open my eyes, I am thankful.
For the sunshine or the rain.
For my kids.
For coffee.
For family and friends, and the love and support they give so generously.
For love and forgiveness.
For the kindness of strangers.
For the food in our bellies.
For the roof over our heads.
For having a vehicle to drive.
For central heat and air.
For the ability to still be able to take care of my son, despite the back pain and arthritis.
For my daughter's job.
For the ability to work for myself, on my own schedule, and mostly at home to be with my boy.
For an income that, while tiny, is still enough to cover the bills.
In short, every day I am thankful for all that I have, all I've been given, all I am blessed with.
EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

So yeah, I'm glad everyone is thinking of things they're thankful for on this special day...but for me I'm thankful for nothing special...just everything.

Happy 22nd birthday! The age of no particular significance.

Every year before I revise and repost, I remember. I relive. And even if it's just for one shining day, these memories make everything else fall away: all the petty irritations and frustrations, the dislikes and grudgy feelings...all of the things that, in the long run of life, aren't worth the importance we place on them. 

It's been a long tough journey that has passed in the blink of an eye.

---

DUN DUN DUNNNNN! THE ANNUAL BIRTHDAY POST IS HERE. YOU WILL READ IT.

Seriously, 22? How is that even possible? Just yesterday they were like...13 -- and some days they still act like they are.

My teeny-weenie micro-preemie 1 lb babies. ONE. POUND. I know, right??

---

---

THE DUE DATE: June 4th

THE BIRTH DATE: February 13th. Preemies for pre-valentine's day.

These children clearly get their lack of patience from me.  They were born at 24 weeks, or about 3 and 1/2 months early. They weighed just over 1 lb. each, and were about a foot long. I'm talkin' teeeeeny tiny. Micro-preemie, I think is what they are called now.

Anyway, this is my boy, at about a month old:

I woke up the morning of February 12th, headed for the bathroom, and after about 5 minutes I called out to the baby daddy, "Either I've lost all control of my body functions or my water broke".

I'll give you a hint - my functions were still under my control.

So natch we rushed to the hospital, where the stupid ass snot face condescending nurse (actually I love nurses in general, but this one? NOT SO MUCH) had me lay on a gurney for an hour and then said that I was fine, no fluid was "leaking" (I know, gross), and the pains in my back and belly were just muscles stretching, NOT CONTRACTIONS...and then she tried to send us home. 

Me being me, I caused a scene.

Hey, guess who ended up being right about me being in labor?

Here is my little girl, at about a month old:

The doctors tried to stop my labor for 24 hours, but apparently my kids were having none of that. On the 13th of February, my boy arrived in the usual way - of course, I was knocked out for the entire thing. My daughter was still safe and secure in her bedwomb -- the idea was to let her 'cook' a little longer (which would have been weird to have twins with different birthdays, right?).  So they were wheeling me into recovery when Miss Contrary's heart rate dropped to zero, and they did a SUPERFAST emergency C-Section to get her out. Evidently she didn't like being alone.
So it was like Twins Two Ways, with extra Mommy Staples.
This is also where I discovered my love of morphine. MMMMMMORPHINE.

Their ears were still folded down (WEIRD! I didn't even know ears did that until my kids were born. It was like puppy ears or something), and their lungs were not completely developed, and their little hearts were working overtime/doubletime.

They struggled for every single breath. They fought to live.

And so they did. And so they have.

Thank you, God.

Thank you for this little miracle....(my girl at about 2 months)

and this little miracle...(my boy at about 3 1/2 months)

The doctors gave them less than a 50% chance of survival.

Fortunately they got my stubborn genes as well as my temperamental ones, because my kids wouldn't listen to percentages; they went all HAN SOLO and were like NEVER TELL ME THE ODDS!

Their hearts were overworked, their lungs were and are covered in scar tissue, they are cursed with keloid scars as well as scars from perc lines and picc lines and a million little junkie scars on arms and feet from being pricked with lancets every hour. They have scarred veins, they had damaging bleeding in their brains, preventing brain growth. And yet...    

Becca's first day home from the hospital! Nearly 4 months old and not even 5 lbs. I still have this amazingly tiny dress - I swear it's barely bigger than Barbie size. Those booties she has on? The foot part is less than 2 inches long. Each twin came home attached to oxygen and an apnea monitor - whenever we all went anywhere together it looked as though we were leaving home for a month, so laden were we with electronic equipment, oxygen tanks, diaper bags, strollers...which is partly why I became the hermit I am today. #Lazy

Here they're about 7 or 8 months old, I think (did I ever mention that I am TERRIBLE about labeling pictures? Because I am). Clearly Becca was already trying to wear some sort of tiara:

One morning I discovered that my daughter knew how to climb into her brother's crib.

When Becca was about two, this is what "Go get ready for bed" meant:



Josh had the softest, wispiest hair so I let it grow and grow... until that time I gave him a buzz-cut and he's been sporting a Greg Brady WhiteBoy 'Fro ever since. Unless I cut it myself, in which case he looks sort of like he's got the mange. #TrueStory

There were middle-of-the-night phone calls with doctors on the other end of the line telling me that they didn't think THIS twin or THAT twin would make it through the night- so we'd rush to the hospital to sit and put our hands in the "baby terrarium", as I thought of them, and listen to the beeps and the whooshing of the ventilator and wait for the inevitable. There were six months in the NICU and 3 or 4 Thanksgivings and Christmases spent in the hospital. For awhile I thought they were going to name a wing of the children's ward after us, or at least keep "our" room in reserve.

There was RSV and BPD and ROP and a bunch of other things with initials that I barely understood.
There was double hernia surgery and laser eye surgery and surgery to correct crossed eyes. 

There were staph infections and even a broken arm that was caused by changing my son's shirt whilst in the NICU - he of the tiny little brittle bones. There were breathing treatments and nebulizers and oxygen tanks and albuteral and lasix and digoxin and tegretol and synthroid and constantly changing medications and frequent seizures and paralyzing fear (well, that last thing was *me*).

I remember a tiny Becca setting her pacifier down in something that had spilled...she picked it up, took a suck, and said, "What the hell is all over this?!" It made me laugh so much that I couldn't even correct her.

I remember one single sentence of absolutely clear speech from Joshua in 21 years...he was sick and angry and yelled, "I WANT MY BOTTLE!"  It was astounding and amazing and thank goodness my mother witnessed it or I would have thought my ears were playing tricks on me.

TWENTY ONE. 

(or The One Where Joshua Gives Duckface)

This milestone is especially important for Joshua, as he has already outlived all early predictions of life-span. Though it's a little like living under the Sword of Damocles, we do not give in or give up. And despite the fact that they were and are so fragile health-wise, for the last 10-12 years I can count on one hand the number of times they've had to go to the doctor or hospital. 

And now HAPPY 22nd BIRTHDAY!
(YES, Winnie The Pooh is still on the walls. Joshua loves Pooh bear)

How could I not believe in miracles? When I look upon those miracles every day of my life.

I love you, my babies. I have been and will always be thankful for every breath that you take, every blink of your eyes, every morning that you wake. I love you with everything inside me.

You still make me laugh, you still make me cry, you still make me want to smack you upside your silly little heads.

If all the world was a beach, I would love you more than all the grains of sand added together. Times infinity.