The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
~ Robert Burns
I should have been out and about and attending a meeting I’d been looking forward to right about… now.
But.
(You know there’s always a but with a lead-in like that.)
Young William’s health issues reared their horrible heads.
And just like that, my plans changes.
Seizure. Meds. Sleep. Gentle tending. Night night.
My ears are wired. My eyes are single focused. I don’t engage the recliner part of the sofa since I need to be able to get up and quickly at a moment’s notice.
Tonight, my parental concern is coupled with some disappointment. I was really looking forward to the meeting I had on the schedule. The subject matter was something that interests me – and I was hoping to plug in with the sponsoring non-profit so I can use some of my overly extensive training and skills.
Not to be. My version of motherhood took priority.
And I’d be lying if I said this didn’t irk me. Please understand that I’m not irked with Will – it’s the circumstances that make me mad.
It’s frustrating. I want to reach out and expand my scope – to do things that I have some passion about and to share myself with the community. But my first priority – now, then and always – is to my child. His needs supersede everything.
And tonight, he needed me. So my plans were rearranged. As they needed to be.
True confession: I had a little, very brief pity party for myself. But it didn’t last long. Not at all. When one starts reflecting on one’s blessings, even in the face of a trying situation, the pity party gets busted up pretty damn quickly.
I’m blessed to have faith that sustains and a God who doesn’t leave me, even when I get overwhelmed and forgetful.
I’m blessed to have true friends new and longtime who listen when I ask, who don’t pity when I vent, who don’t abandon when I’m not perfect. Who take me just as I am, flaws and weird life and all.
Most of all, I’m blessed to have an amazing, resilient child who bounces back after crises, who is the strongest person I know.
Who is my hero.
Priorities.
I know God never gives you more than you can handle. I just wish He didn’t trust me so much.
~ Mother Teresa
It’s become a Saturday standard around here.
Will had a seizure just now. This one was particularly bad. Tonic-clonic (the type of seizure formerly known as grand mal. Prince isn’t the only one that can change his name…) And while it lasted probably around three minutes, it seemed like an eternity.
Can I just tell you how much I effing HATE that he has to go through this… you cannot even fathom the depth of my hate for this.
I seriously think I know what hell looks like – it’s watching your baby going through such a horrible episode, his body in unprovoked angst, while you stand by, helpless to stop or control it.
I would not wish this on my worst enemy.
And mixed in with the pain and drained emotions is anger. Yeah. Not at myself, for once. Novel.
I just don’t understand why this has to happen to MY boy. Who never ever did anything to deserve this. Whose entire existence, since the very moment he came into this world, has been plagued with issues of the health variety. C’mon – he nearly died at only two weeks old because of his precarious health. I know that this sort of thing is all he knows. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. Big fucking time.
I found myself, just moments ago, with tears running down my face and catches in my throat. Bargaining with God. Give me the seizures and the pain – take them from Will and give them to me. When one’s heart walks around outside one’s body, one does and says whatever she can to protect that heart.
I know that’s not God’s style – not His thing. He loves Will. He loves me. And we love Him. There is no question about any of that. But a mother in pain for her child says many things in the heat of the moment trying to make sense of what is to her a senseless situation.
A very wise friend (who is also a pastor) told me that it’s OK to be mad at God – if anyone can take it, He can. But (and you know there’s always a “but” with this sort of thing…) you just can’t let it consume you. Much like Ari Gold always says, you eventually gotta hug it out. In a manner of speaking.
Will’s sleeping it off now, sawing logs like he’s in the finals of the Lumberjack Games. (He inherited the Johnson sinus issues. As well as the Johnson wide feet. Lucky us.) And after some TLC from some dear friends who made me giggle, some counsel from a loving pal and some quiet time with God, I think I’ve regained some equilibrium.
Not sure why this episode affected me so deeply.
Maybe it’s because it hit Will so hard.
Maybe it’s because my feelings of helplessness simply reached their tolerance point.
Maybe it’s just because.
If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on, believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would livin' do me
God only knows what I'd be without you
Don’t call me stupid.
~ Kevin Kline as Otto, A Fish Called Wanda
Don’t call me shallow. Often.
~ Janey
Fact: I am a chick.
Fact: I like sports.
Fact: I have been known, on occasion, to appreciate the physical attributes of boy-types who play sports. In a very shallow and slightly lascivious way.
What?
At least I’m honest.
It ain’t always easy being a female sports fan. Not in my world, anyway. Most of my galpals don’t get my intense affection for all things ESPN-esque. Sure, they may have cursory interest in their college teams or our local sports franchises, but nothing resembling what I would call passion. And when I try to talk games or stats or drafts with the fellas, I get mixed reactions – from a condescending pat on the head to being ignored to some genuine give-and-take.
It’s just the way it is.
I grew up in a household that was filled with sports. My dad loves them; my mom could be considered a fan. My brother played ‘em – primarily baseball. Many spring and summer nights were spent with my fanny riding the splintery pine of Little League bleachers, drinking slightly flat soda (because there was something wrong with the dispenser in the concession stand) and learning to watch and call balls versus strikes. (And given the current state of umpiring and questionable calls in MLB, I might want to think about pursuing this a bit further. Although the ump outfit is not the most attractive thing I've ever seen...)
Oh – and I also took serious note of the players on any of those teams – who appealed to me in a hormonal sort of way. Hormones. The Achilles Heel of any adolescent. But it was a win-win all the way around, the way I looked at it.
Cute boys and sports. A match made in Janey heaven. Been that way ever since.
And ever since, I’ve tried to reconcile my genuine interest in sports with my genuine appreciation of the male specimen. Tried like hell to make sure I’m not looked at like a “camp follower” or a “groupie” or that most loathed of all labels – a “bimbo.”
Sure, I developed a rabid interest in the LA Dodgers of the early/mid ‘80s because of the chiseled boyish good looks of their ballyhooed second baseman, Steve Sax (that's him, over <<<<<). But I also became attached for life to the Boston Celtics around that same time – and trust me, that was not a team made up of pinup boys. Bless Larry Bird’s heart. Good thing he’s one hell of an athlete. It really is the “sport” itself I am interested in – that I follow and study and watch and obsess over and enjoy. And if there’s a player I find that I fancy (John Lynch – call me! How you doin’, Andre Agassi? Buy me a drink, Dario Franchiti?) then that’s just a bonus. I think. Note: there is one exception to my “I am not a bimbo” declaration. Swimming. While I do like the sport – even though I really only pay attention during Olympic years – have you seen those boys in their “uniforms?” Mother Nature – thank you thank you thank you.
I've been threatening for a while now to start a blog/site about sports from a chick's perspective. I think this summer may afford me the time and mood to make good on my threat. And I now have a partner-in-crime for this project! I want whatever we come up with to be a place for thinking women who are sports fans. To be an outlet for perspectives on something that, let’s face it, has traditionally been a man’s world. And this here chick’s perspective could be clinical (I am a Fantasy Football commissioner/team owner); observational (got an opinion on everything -- but I also respect the opinions of others); retrospecitcal (Hey now -- that is so a word. I just made it up. Hush.); and, yes, sometimes hormonal and a little saucy. Hubba hubba.
But never ever bimbo-esque. Promise. You can take it to the bank.
We could always opt for the more temporal gratification
Of sheer physical attraction
That wouldn't make you a shallow person
Would it?
“Here I Am” ~ Lyle Lovett
Prompt:
Long before I was an English major or had tried to analyze Thomas Pynchon or even wrote my high school senior honors’ paper about James Baldwin, I was a more than slightly precocious little girl who discovered her love of literature and pop culture at a very early age. So when I received a very adorable dachshund for my fifth birthday, no one blinked an eye when I named him Hamlet.
Now, lest you think I was reading a pop up version of the sad tale of the Prince of Denmark and his comrades, let me mention that one of my favorite shows on the telly was Gilligan’s Island. And my favorite episode (aside from the radioactive vegetables one) is the one featuring that rapscallion Harold Hecuba and the all-singing, all-dancing musical version of Hamlet. From epic pop culture nodding to classic literature a doggie was named.
Thus began my relationship with Shakespeare – one that’s only gotten stronger with time. Given that, it’s no surprise that my favorite poem is a Shakespearean sonnet. One that I have loved since I was about 15 years old. I was a slightly-awkward, drama-loving, secretly-shy girl who, unbeknownst to family, friends and even herself, felt most at home on stage. And was asked to participate, with mostly upperclassmen, in a school-wide Shakespeare festival. Even now, a thousand years later, I still get a little farklempt when I think about it. To me, it was a Big Deal. I played a small supporting role in a scene from Henry IV, Part 1 (Mistress Quickly – sharing a scene with the characters of Falstaff and Prince Hall was no small feat – scenery chewers both) and recited a dramatic interpretation of a sonnet. Sonnet 116 to be exact.
And in that moment in the program when it came for me to do my thing, presenting words older than I could ever imagine at my tender age, standing alone on a stage in front of peers and parents, I, for perhaps the first time during my emersion as a young woman, felt like my true authentic self. I owned that moment. Those words, their sentiment, though much more mature than my limited life experience could grasp, their rhythm – they became part of my essence that day. They have never left me.
So I give you my favorite poem. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. Typed from memory.
~ Paula Poundstone
As a wee lass, there were two things I wanted to be when I grew up. One was a weather girl. Yes, in those days, there was such a “job” as being a weather girl. I figured I could stand, point, wear fabulous clothes and tell people to either head to the beach or take an umbrella with them. I did give some thought to the science of the weather – I could tell a cumulous from a nimbus. And always was able to see the bunny rabbits and Santa Claus in the cloud formations when I was sunbathing in the back yard.
And then Janey went off to college and in her very first spring, met Intro to Meteorology. Not a match made in heaven. More like in the horridly hot exosphere.
One semester, several blown-off classes and many pre-test all-nighters later, the dream of being a weather girl was dead. That’s D for dead, if you catch my drift.
The other childhood dream job – and one I still fancy periodically – is to be a talk show host. In the mold of Merv Griffin or Mike Douglas. Along with game shows (God bless the Game Show Network for giving me my fix of Match Game, Tic Tac Dough and the various financial incarnations of Dick Clark’s Pyramid), talk shows were part of my regular telly viewing, especially in the summer time. Both urbane and unpretentious, the classic talk show was a venue for witty repartee, knowing banter, some unguarded goofiness and glamour glamour glamour. And I wanted to be a part of it. To ask the questions. Laugh. Be a little provocative. Host one hell of a lively – and live – on cameral cocktail party.
Times changed, though – and so did the talk show. Things are slicker now, more scripted and less free-wheeling. But I still hope that somehow fate will see fit to point me in a direction where I can be a raconteur with Regis (does he even need a last name?), share a chuckle with Richard Simmons and perhaps sing a little with Nathan Lane.
Check your local listings for dates and times.
When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing.
~ Tom Robbins
