ImPerceptibility

Archive for July, 2007

Yeah, I haven’t written anything for a while. I meant to, but I didn’t. I think it’s because my house is a freakin’ disaster. We are still waiting for the hardwood for the bedrooms. Everything that is supposed to be in the bedrooms is in my living room, dining room, and downstairs. I’m not a neat freak but it’s starting to drive me crazy. They say the hardwood will be in on Tuesday for us to pick up. We’ll see. It was supposed to be in last month.

However, I don’t want you to worry. I have been thinking of you. Here are a few of the things I was going to post.

I was going to put up a video of the first flush of my new toilet (Yes, it finally in!) but I can’t find the cable to connect the camera to the computer.

I was going to post my Whit MeMe but no one has tagged me.

I was going to graciously accept my Awesome Dude Blogger award but the ‘effer didn’t pick me. I cried instead.

It was also my blogiversary. I was going to make a really cool post and give you a chance to stop by and tell me how much you love me but I blew that – NO, not in a good way. You can still tell me you love me because I’m feeling needy right now and need to snuggle.

So basically I am saying you were better off this week without my posts. I know it’s hard to believe but it is true.

I will try harder next week. Unless I don’t. :)

We spent most of Saturday celebrating my father-in-laws 77^th birthday. He was in high spirits when we arrived. There was a certain happiness about him that I hadn’t seen in over four years; maybe closer to seven, that’s when my mother-in-law found out she had cancer.

He was very much like the man I met for the first time so many years ago. Sparkling blue eyes, slightly off-color but never inappropriate jokes, and a good deal of charm. It made me feel good to see him so happy.

I quickly found out he had called it quits the woman he had been dating for about year. I was thrilled. No matter how hard I tried, and I tried hard, I just couldn’t seem to like her. It took me a little while longer to find out he was seeing someone new. He showed me the roses she had sent him and the package of thoughtful gifts she had mailed. Then he showed me her picture.

“She looks very nice,” I said. Maybe not the most eloquent response, but he agreed wholeheartedly.

I couldn’t help but laugh when we left for dinner. He told everyone I was riding up front because he was growing accustomed to going to dinner with a beautiful woman. I sat next to him in the car and he sang a love song about not putting my cheek too close to his. He wasn’t singing to me…

After a good dinner and some birthday cake we drove home. I mentioned to my husband that he really seemed to like this new “lady friend”

My husband was quiet for a few minutes before he agreed.

“That’s OK?” I asked. It was just as much a statement as a question.

“Yeah, it is OK. He seems happy. This time, I don’t feel like he’s trying to find a replacement for mom.”

We held hands in silence as we drove through the part of Virginia locals call horse country and back to our side of the river. There was a slight smile on our face; it was mocking the small tears forming in the corner of our eyes. It seems no matter how complicated the circumstance, when you spend the day looking into a face of a man falling in love, you can’t help but smile. That gives me great deal of comfort.

“I’m dressed in black. Yo. I got on a baseball cap. Yo. It’s not about rocking it for the Hollywood, Baby. Yo.”

That’s what my daughter said as she was leaving the house to play dodgeball. I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

I said, “Well, you get on with your bad self girlfriend.” I am 5% sure they were laughing with me, not at me.

Gangsta Rappa isn’t a career I’d considered for her. It might work out. She looked really cute in her black gouchos that are about two inches too short, a navy blue dog wars shirt, and her pink Tinkerbell hat we got at Disney Land. 

 My new gangsta name is ‘John Cougar Dung Beatle’.  It seem somewhat appropriate.  What’s yours?

A short while ago I told you about an incident at the Olive Garden. It involved my daughter, a seven-year-old sense of humor, and the cocked leg of a stuffed dog toy. I also told you about the tendency of parents and children to embarrass each other. I haven’t told you about last night, yet.

The kids went to a sleepover with friends and we decided to grab a quick bite to eat without our lovely children. We knew it wouldn’t be the same without them but we decided to try and enjoy ourselves. (No, I didn’t write that with a straight face) The Olive Garden seemed like a good choice. A quick dinner and the opportunity to carbo-load for the activities we had planned for later. We were enjoying pretending to be a couple instead of a couple of parents when my husband told me about a trip he was taking in August.

For the record, I’m cute, not sexy. When you are cute you really have to work to even approach sexy. I decided to work it.

“Maybe Mom can watch the kids for a few days.” I said somewhat suggestively.

Then I leaned back with my best porn star pose appropriate for a family restaurant and as sexily as possible whispered, “We can have wild crazy hotel sex.”

My husbands eyes looked more amused than interested. That’s when I realized the waiter was standing directly behind me. When I leaned back he thought I was going to tell him something and he leaned forward. Unlike my husband, he looked more interested than amused.

The moral of the story? No matter how bad our children embarrass us, we can do a better job all by ourselves.

Do you remember me with the same love I remember you?  Do you ever sit in your studio late at night and recall the time we laughed and loved and wanted nothing more than to find that damned indigo blue pencil?  The sounds of blue coming from your speakers, the color of blue on your canvas. 

You mixed a palette of colors in my hands.  My hands held innocence.  Your hands held mine.  You held them softly.  Thank you.  You are the reason I smile when someone mentions the blues.  

Blue is the color of happiness when viewed with the eyes of a woman remembering a girl.  I don’t want to see you, yet I wish you the happiest of birthdays.  These words are written lovingly in indigo blue.  It wouldn’t be right any other way.

I should have put my arm around his shoulder and walked home with him. It wouldn’t have hurt me to sit with him for fifteen minutes until his wife came home to be with him. I wish I had hugged his sweet little girls. Just one more hug before their innocence was trampled by the harsh reality of death and loss.

But I didn’t. I watched as he walked with drooping shoulders down the road. His head down so no one would see his tears. His daughters, oblivious to the news, running in circles around him telling him in excited voices about their day.  I stood there with my mouth slightly agape.

He had spoken in barely a whisper. I hadn’t heard what he had said but he pointed his index finger under his chin. Then he walked off. Just trying to keep it together.

When he couldn’t hear me I asked my husband, “Did he really say his brother shot himself in the head?”

“Yes, that’s what he said. It’s going to be really hard on his girls. They’re too young to understand that.”

“I think I’m too young as well.” I said.

I considered running down the road after him but I didn’t know what to say. My husband turned to finish putting the siding on the house. A good distraction so he could keep it together. I went inside and cried.

The girls showed up the next morning. The little one started crying before she made it completely through the door.

I sat there on my knees hugging her tightly wishing I could suck all the pain and fear and anger right out of her tiny little body. Then we played games and rode scooters. We went out to lunch and had fun.

Their dad called later that evening to let me know he was back home. I watched as his girls walked down the road back towards their house. Their shoulders were drooping and their heads were down. My daughters’ arms were around their shoulders. That’s exactly how it should be. It was a silent expression of love and friendship. I don’t know why growing older makes things like that so hard to figure out.

What happens when get together with family, friends, and neighbors and you sit and talk while a pack of kids run around barefoot with chocolate stained faces and wide eyes. They are excited about the upcoming fireworks and the fact that they get to stay up really late, outside in the dark, with all the grownups.

Once it gets dark the sounds of the season echo off every house. Pops and booms. Crackles and whistles. Ohhs and ahhs and applause. The smell of gunpowder and smoke drift through the air. Sparkling colors light the sky and reflect off eager faces. Little hands tentatively hold sparklers while parents hover to make sure they don’t burn themselves. Talk of the grand finale circulates.

Just as everyone is becoming tired, five people walk to the center of the cul-de-sac. Lighters light in unison. Sparks fly. The silhouettes of men running like hell. Five loud booms, then a sky full of colors. There is laughter and applause as the smoke starts to clear.

You finish off with plenty of hugs and good-byes. Promises to do it again next year. Then you tuck two sleepy little girls into bed. Smiling at their dirty feet and the icing in their hair. There is a faint smell of independence in the air. It’s a good smell.

When you have all this, and you are me, you have a fabulous 4^th. I can’t wait to do it again next year.

Growing up we had fireworks. We had firecrackers and bottle rockets, fountains and mortars. Someone I won’t name once set the woods beside his house on fire with illegal military weaponry. He was a bit weird. No one got seriously hurt except the time my brother burned himself with a sparkler. I understand it was different times but I can’t help but wonder how many people are actually injured each year by fireworks?

According to the CDC

• In 2005, four persons died and an estimated 10,800 were treated in emergency departments for fireworks-related injuries in the United States (Greene & Joholske 2006).
• About 45% (4,860) of persons injured from fireworks were children ages 14 years and younger;
• 5% of the hospital visits required hospitalization.

Any injuries are too many.  Children should not play with fireworks.  However,  I recently looked into other forms or injury in children.

• Each year in the United States, emergency departments treat more than 200,000 children ages 14 and younger for playground-related injuries (Tinsworth 2001).
• About 45% of playground-related injuries are severe—fractures, internal injuries, concussions, dislocations, and amputations (Tinsworth 2001).
• Between 1990 and 2000, 147 children ages 14 and younger died from playground-related injuries
• In 2004, there were 3,308 unintentional fatal drownings and 676 boating related deaths in the United States.
• In 2005, 48 children age 14 years and younger who were killed as pedestrians or pedalcyclists were struck by impaired drivers
• 414 child passengers ages 14 and younger died in alcohol-related crashes during 2005
• In 2000, 160 children ages 14 years or younger died from an obstruction of the respiratory tract due to inhaled or ingested foreign bodies
• 12.5%  of choking incidents (20 incidents) were related to chocolate candy, gummy bears, gum, etc

Now I’m sitting here questioning my judgment the year I took my kids to the playground by the river to watch the legal firework display. We laughed at the drunken people while we ate gummy bears.

Worse yet, we left grandma at home. She wanted to take a bath!

• In 2004, 14,900 people 65 and older died from injuries related to unintentional falls; about 1.8 million people 65 and older were treated in emergency departments for nonfatal injuries from falls, and more than 433,000 of these patients were hospitalized

Have a happy and safe holiday.