Just quit reading this post now, it's disgusting. Who writes about this stuff, anyway? But this is my life, and what my life is revolving around right now is feces. And that is not metaphorical. Actually, I think I prefer real feces life complications to metaphorical feces. If you catch my drift. Or maybe not. Toss-up.

I've had R2 home from school all week, because of his increasingly frequent violent tantrums, and I feel like I've aged 5 years. Yesterday was the worst. He woke up before 6, screaming like he was dying and then repeated that, plus beating himself up, again, in a literal sense, every 15-20 minutes for the rest of the day. We just spent the day in the ER Monday, and nobody saw anything that should be causing him pain. His pedi thought it was constipation, so I'd been treating that, but things were just getting worse. I called the pediatrician yesterday, panicking like a n00b mom, and when I explained that very little was happening, despite my efforts, she sent us back to the ER.

Now, look. I'm a preemie mom. I'm a micropreemie mom, and I am unmoved by fevers and vomiting and giant goose-eggs on foreheads and sickness in general. I don't take my kids in for easy stuff, and I'm almost never wrong when I think there is something that has to be treated. So taking a child to the emergency room for poop seemed... embarrassing. And of course, once I get there, he sits very still and quiet, like maybe no one will notice him and poke him with needles, so the report probably says, "Mom claims he's screaming, but he's not, so maybe mom is nuts. See: Munchausen." And I always get the once-over, anyway, because he looks like he's been thrown down a flight of stairs, after these fits.

But eventually, many, many hours later, they show me the X-ray from earlier, and basically, he is just full of it. In a literal sense. Like, I didn't even know poop could go that high. They said he's probably in severe pain, which makes sense, with the screaming that only I can hear. So they move us to a different freezing room and many years later, when I am old, they come and do a thing with the liquid and the tubes and they get things moving, eventually. He is fascinated. MALE.


Finally, they send us home with instructions on how to finish the job. It will take 3 days. I'm not looking forward to it, but he slept till 7:30 and has only had one two screaming fit(s) today, so I'm hopeful that maybe we'll get happy R2 back. But first, I need a hazmat suit. And a vacation.

I spent yesterday in the emergency room with R2. I can think of no better way to spend an afternoon, except maybe slamming my hand in the car door, over and over again. I'm not going to write a whole post about it, because I tire of being angsty. It was 7 hours of scans and tests, with R2 alternating between perfect calm and total panic. In the end, we left with no answers. The good news, there's nothing wrong with his shunt.

So that puts me in a spot, saying, okay, then, if there's no way to "fix" him, then I have to figure out how to live with the new behaviors. Today, I suggested that he scream it out before we got out of the van to go in the store. He took me up on it, and alarmed a number of construction workers getting in their trucks. Why were there a large number of construction workers at the Dollar Tree at 9:30 in the morning? I can't answer that. It would not surprise me to find that there are useful construction-related items at TDT, because they have everything. Anyway, he screamed and then he was fine, inside the store. In fact, he was giddy in the store, because it's November 8th and so naturally, every inch of the place was covered in tinsel and stockings. He's all about Christmas, this one. I don't know what to make of this, the "tantrum-on-demand" option, but it worked one time. I guess.

So I'm fairly stressed and emotional and overwhelmed, so I decided to make a craft project. You can tell I was fairly near the breaking point by how involved I got. I'll tell you: I found the hot glue gun, that's how stressed. I scraped most of the Cheerios* off the tablecloth and hot glued $4 worth of orangey fall related items to a wreath. My posse stood around, keeping the conversation hopping, as to why there is hot glue, and how it works, and what if they touched it NOW, and what if they touched it NOW, and if pine cones are nuts and what do I think drawings of cat-men who look like musclebound vampires. That last part was not really related to the wreath.

It worked, to some degree. I now have a happy little wreath on my door that looks like I hot glued items from the dollar store on to a dollar store wreath, but whatever. It makes me happy. Also, it makes me want some ham and sweet potatoes. Come at me Thanksgiving, I dare you.

It's raining now and I'm in my warm house with all my babies, even the screamy one. I'm blessed, and it's a good day.

*Honey Nut Scooters

They called from the school a few days ago. "Richy's not feeling great," they said, as he screeched uncontrollably in the background. "He's had a few... episodes." So I went up and got him from school, and have kept him home for 3 days because it's obvious he's a little sick. We all have a little cold, but for R2, it sets off this signal in his brain to outscream the sickness, or whatever. He's nonverbal, so it's all silence until it's earsplitting screaming and self-injury. And it's unpredictable, what sets it off, so I decided to just stay home, and not risk the whole lugging-4-kids-out-of-McDonald's-while-people-stare-in-horror, and just let him vent at home.

Today, though, I decided to risk it and we went to Sonic (safe choice) and the library (risky), and he did great, and I was pretty hover-parenty, peering in his face and asking cheerfully if he was happy and good. Then we went to gymnastics and I put chairs by the door, just in case, but he was okay. So we went grocery shopping. Maybe I got cocky, I don't know.

We don't move quickly, the herd. Especially because Toby smuggled a book in and sat down every time I stopped the cart. Still, we were all right, with me being all "Yummy food, Richy! Isn't it great?" And we made it. At the register, a lady said "You've got your hands full!" which is what people say to me every time I go anywhere, ever. And I said, "It's great to have my hands full." and then I was bragging on how good they are. As we finished ringing up, a tiny alarm started ringing on a nearby register, and something snapped. R2 started his whole routine, and I collected kids and groceries and hightailed it for the doors while the entire population of Lee's Summit stopped, like I was in a music video, and stared. It's a horrible, isolating feeling when you know people don't understand.

I drove on, groceries falling off the top and sides while he screamed and pummeled his head with his fist. Toby followed 10 feet behind, engrossed in his Batman book. We sat on the bench in the sunshine while he finished his fit, and people brought us our forsaken bags, and the lady I had been bragging to came out and asked if she could help. It meant something, those kindnesses. It meant a lot.

I'm wiped out, from what was overall a good, peaceful day, overshadowed by the chaos of 3 minutes.

When I write a post like yesterday's, I'm usually in the middle of regretting it as I click publish. Because I know it's lightweight, and I know the topic deserves so much more attention. On the other hand, I hesitate to be über serious, because who wants to read Bummer Blog? Not me.

So now, I feel the need to say more. I don't think marriage is easy. Falling in love is easy. Even having a wedding is easy, compared to actually having a marriage, and staying married. I was practically a child bride, and still, the decentralization of self process was painful, and surprising. Every day, you are choosing to defer, or to "fight for your right" (stop singing).

The MOG and I have been through a lot, considering we are still in our low 30's. Nowhere near mid-30's, we. And we are best friends, and we often thank God that He put us together and didn't make us marry somebody totally lame. But still, it's hard, sometimes. We are very different people, and we have different goals for the hour, or the day, although they're similar for the long run.

I'm independent. I was raised to believe I could accomplish anything, and I still believe that, except maybe Olympic sports, or any sports of any kind, ever. I could accomplish almost anything. So even as a 17 year old, adding a husband to the mix was a luxury, not a need. And I fought for that independence for years, while Richy was trying to figure out how to be a man and a husband. Poor guy, married to a teenage feminist. So we battled for control, and simultaneously had a blast being lovey and making money working for a big corporation. Then we had R2 and life exploded into pain, real, deep pain and we grew up a lot.

7/2004, 3 weeks after the twins

A few years later I had the twins, and they died, and I was at the end of myself and learned how to lean on my husband, to let him be a man and a protector, and everything changed for the better, even in the valley of the shadow of death. Over the years, we've faced obstacle after obstacle, death, sick babies, my battles with feelings of depression, his emotional journeys through ministry and friendship and we've learned how to fight on the same side. We're in this together.

I guess I say all that to say what I tried to say somewhat flippantly yesterday. If you get married, expect bliss. But also, expect to fight for it. Nothing easy is worth it. Who do you want to be married to? Be the other half of that.

One thing I've learned from being a wife for half my life is how to rhyme, right on time. That's not actually where I was going, but I was totally sidetracked by that wife/life juxtaposition. Unavoidable.

When I think about giving generic marriage advice, I feel all sketchy, because I know that I still have a heck of a lot to learn, like I need to hide the cookies, because then I will avoid exploding in a very minor and short-lived rage upon finding that the one my soul loves has inhaled $3 worth of Oreos in a day. (exaggerations) Hide your snacks, ladies.

But there are some things we've learned and improved, over time. One of the keys to a happy marriage, in our opinion, is to accept the fact that you married a member of the opposite gender, and as such, they will be opposite to you, in many regards. Say what you want, but men and women are different.

So sometime, when your husband is totally not getting the point, and saying things like, "But that's not what I said," take a step back, and remind yourself, he is a man, and his brain is different, and he will very likely never understand that when he said maybe you should go for a jog sometime, he was not saying that you are in fact, disgusting. Even as I type it, it sounds like bull. What else could he be trying to say? Bad example, and not from my real life, exactly.

Or men, when your wife is being totally illogical and not making any sense at all, back up and remember that she is not (stereotypically) wired to operate in a linear fashion. Thank God for her emotions, because if she didn't have them, she never would have been emotionally compromised enough to fall in love with you.

And another thing: there are some things that you will never change. My husband eats cereal in bed. He eats it there because he loves cereal and he loves me, and here we are, all together at last. The fact that I have explained cereal-sounds make me want to puncture my eardrums with a spoon is insignificant to him, so I have learned to put my earbuds in and rock out while he slurps away. Compromise. He has learned that there will be massive teetering piles of books all over our room at all times, and when it gets to him, he makes neater piles, in what he has designated to be book-worthy regions of the room. Whatever.

There are days you won't like each other very much. They will pass. Find a way around the little stuff, and talk through the big stuff. Marriage is worth the work.

There's like a million more things to say, but this is just a blog, not a book, and besides, I'm not really a candidate for Wife of the Year, even though I like my husband a whole lot. Questions? Want some specific advice? Comment, yo.

I've been in a rut, writing-wise. Try saying that 3 times fast. How'd you like them seashells, Sally? Anyhoo. It's just been hard to think of what to write, although funny things happen to me all day long.

One problem is, the MOG has been home for weeks, and anytime that happens he starts getting crazy ideas about cleaning the bathrooms and covering the house in Windex. So he'll walk through, sighing loudly and interrupting my Facebook flow, and eventually he will convince me to join him in his quest for the sanctification of our home, and so I will leave you and take up my broom, and I'll sweep for a while, but then somebody texts me and I forget I was sweeping. Post-text, I'll wash a few dishes, but maybe something diverting occurs and I take to the web to share my joy in being shocked by a wire under the sink or what have you, and then Pinterest happens. 

Moments later, he tromps in from raking or some other manly cleaning activity, with his official work boots and paint-covered jeans, all decked out like a cowgirl's dream, and he is unsettled by my level of activity. So I get up and fold a few towels, but then he catches Tristan eating Cheerios out of my forsaken sweeping pile, and sometimes he has to take a cup of coffee on the porch, where it is clean, to recuperate. 

Chastened, I decide to clean, really clean. So I do some good work, sweeping and straightening and vacuuming. I even clean the kitchen floor, and I take a step back to enjoy one clean room. "MOM!" comes the victory cry. "LOOK AT OUR LEAF FORT IN THE SUNROOM! ON THE RUG! AND LOOK AT THIS ART WE MADE WITH PLAYDOH AND GLUE! ISN'T IT BEAUTIFUL?" 

I don't doubt that someday, I will have a clean house. I have a few plans for how that might happen. 1) Become wealthy and hire a staff. 2) that's really my only plan. 

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Chime in! What are some topics you'd like me to blog about? The brain, she are tired. 

• I have a lazy eye, which means my right eye is really dominant, and I basically don't use my left eye. To sum up, I am not bifocal. This makes 3D movies an exercise in frustration, where things are still slightly blurry and I leave with a headache. Last night I watched Three Musketeers in 3D, which is like... 9? Multiplicationwise. Went to bed with a headache, had weird dreams. (movie review? sure. weak writing around what was a strong book, lots of logic leaps. pretty actors, lots of people getting "sworded" as Toby would describe it. It was still fun)
Also, the lazy eye crosses very slightly when I am exhausted. For celebrity examples of slightly crossed eyes, see Liv Tyler and Reba McEntire. I'm in good company. Or at least pretty company, I don't know them personally and cannot vouch for their character, so quit pressuring me about that.

• Today, in an attempt to glue a pumpkin stem on with Super Glue, (note to 4 and 5 year olds: pumpkins are not bowling balls) I inadvertently got Super Glue all over my hands. Now I am like a mannequin, like a mannequin that's been out in the sun and is kind of crackly and peeling, but definitely not human. In fact, I am typing with creepy mannequin hands as we speak, or as you read, rather. The only speaking I'm doing is "mmm-hmm, sure, yeah, okay." I may have just authorized something truly terrible, only time will tell.

• Tristan is a little bit sick. I took him to the doctor, because he told me he was dying, in baby language in the middle of the night, and she said he is getting some teeth, but nothing serious, and that it's "probably a virus". Y'all, I think I've told you about medical professionals saying "probably". I'd rather they just make something up. "Oh yeah," they'd say, looking at their medical book, "this is definitely an virus, called Poculathenesis. Seen it a million times. Just give him Tylenol every 6 hours." I'd eat that UP.

I CAN'T FEEL MY FINGERS.

I'm a friendly cat, born in the South, you know, apt to strike up conversations at Walmart or the doctor's office or whatever. And I can usually always find common ground with somebody, if I try. Every now and then, though, I (probably all of us) strike out. You try one ball, something easy, like a popular movie or whatever, and they're all awkward and they haven't seen it and their friend died while watching that movie, or something awful, or you refer to kids or a husband or a house or whatever, and you just keep striking out.

Today I met a new mom at gymnastics, and she asked me about Halloween, and I said we basically ignore it, and she was all like, can I ask why? And then I'm all awkward because I try to explain in a non-judgmental way, that it's all the death and gore and plastic corpses hanging from my neighbors tree and neighborhoods full of sex offenders. And children dressed like prostitutes or serial killers, with no shame or horror at murder. And the weirdness of panhandling at stranger's doors. I said that really nicely, but it was still kind of awkward. And then she was like, we're being a princess... and a scarecrow and a pirate... and I was awkward in return. And I tried to say, we like costumes, and candy, all year round, but that point I was already the Judgmental Lady, all in her house and judging.

Then somehow she brought up going back to school and working out of the home, and I was trying to be all supportive and stuff, but somehow it sounded like I was saying she worked for fun, like she wanted to get out of the house, and she was all like, I work for money. I don't know. It was just not smooth at all, and I hate that kind of thing, because I can make friends with anybody, usually. I'm surprised she didn't try talking some politics.

And if you trick-or-treat, don't get all offended because seriously, I am a nice person, unless you have animatronic witches in your yard and dress your 4 year old in a Pretty Woman costume. Stop that.

One of my favorite things about blogging is the community of it. I love to say something random, like "There is nothing grosser than wet cardboard", and someone responds and says, "Yes! Yes, that is the grossest thing! I validate your opinion!" On second thought, maybe that's not a totally healthy reason to love blogging. Nonetheless, I love that. I've come to realize that most of what I feel is shared, not normal, per se, but there are more people than just me who would rather have a root canal than talk on the phone for 20 minutes.

It's a fundamental human need, to be understood. I was such a lonely kid, because I was weird, and there were only 60 kids, maybe, in the whole school, and none of them were like me. Eventually I figured out how to find things in common with people, and it got easier after that, although there were strange corners of my brain that only got to be explored when I met random other kids, usually who had been homeschooled by hippies or something, or when I talked to their hippy parents, or my own hippy parents. 

There are those moments, as an adult, that I feel alone in the world, usually because of R2, and his disabilities. There are tons of people that love him, but I carry a special burden, because I'm his mom and surely I should be able to fix him, or at least know what to do. I don't, though. I feel like I'm improvising half the time and phoning it in the rest of the time. Once a month, I get to go to a support group for moms of special kids, and it is always a relief, just to say, this is how I feel, this is how it is, and they say, yeah, that's how it is. And none of us really have an answer, but sometimes, having somebody say, yeah, that's how it is, is enough. 

I'm not saying you can only be friends with people who have similar problems, or that people without significant problems are lame. I'm just saying it's nice to be understood, and that you and I are not alone in our human experience. And that's good. 

In the morning, I have such good intentions. Not every day, mind you. Some days I wake up and think, I'm not going to do a darn thing today. I am going to lay here (or lie here, if I'm feeling all grammatically correct of a morning), and I am not going to get up, even if Toby launches a rocketship made of common household materials, right off my roof. Those days, not such great intentions. And they never work out, anyway, because if Mohammed doesn't go to the mountain, the mountain comes and gets in Mohammed's bed with birthday cake remnants in their hair, complaining about Flash errors, or app update passwords, or reporting unauthorized defecation.