Wednesday, August 26, 2009

5 months

I didn't miss it. I know it was yesterday, but I didn't miss it. I spent 20 minutes of it curled up on the floor crying about it.

I've been allowing my emotions to take more control lately. For so long I've just put the emotion of losing my best friend, lover, and most trusted ally in a box. I've rationalized that since I already knew she was dying, there was no sense being upset about it after the fact. But then my mind started wandering back to the ICU waiting room, when they were extubating her, and how desperate I was to get back to her side.

And every time my mind goes there, my heart just shatters. I miss her so much.

Every day I face challenges, be they insignificant or gargantuan, that would be so much easier to deal with if she were still here.

And more and more I find myself stewing in grief.

But the crying feels really good. It feels pure and cleansing and horribly wonderful. It feels like the first thing I've done to heal me.

And since I've started letting myself cry again, Alastair and I have been getting on better. We've been doing more whimsical fun stuff, like going out for ice cream or buying random new toys or just having 30-minute pillow-fights. And every time we undertake some flight-of-fancy, it's because Amanda has popped into my head and almost told me that it's something we should do.

I feel her presence far more these days than I have in a long while.

Monday, August 24, 2009


Today I drove an armored truck through a nursing home. Then I hunted praying mantis babies, nuked Bolivia, and harpooned exotic whales. And that was all before lunch.

After lunch, I assaulted a group of school-children with a mace. 'Cause nothing's funnier than the screams of the innocent!

I is a bad.

Somewhere along the way, though, I managed to find time to move Alastair's absolute favorite toy--his train table--from the hottest room of the house to the coolest room of the house, fixed the broken pieces, re-arranged his favorite toys to be more accessible, and helped him set up some pillows so that he can be a wild daredevil without fear of smashing his head. Next up will be getting rid of the big shelf in his room and replacing it with a table that he can sit at and color.

You know, because I so evidently hate him.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

We're Poopin!

After just over a month of regression, we're back on track. Alastair and I have been working hard, as have his grandparents and sitters, on getting back to July.

Cajoling, bribery, offerings at the deity of poop, you name it, we've tried it. Friday morning we had a moment that stuck. I told him that he needed to work on telling us when he needed to poop--that if he managed to get through that one day without pooping in his pants, we would go to a birthday party at a bouncy-castle place. 3 minutes later, he pooped in his pants. Not the recent smears, but real honest poop. I cleaned him up, made him poop on the potty, and left for work. But I didn't wave goodbye to him. Oversight or anger--didn't matter.

Last night when I got home, he'd been really good about pooping a little bit throughout the day, and he pooped really well twice for me before bed, each time telling me that he wants me to always wave when I'm leaving.

Today we had no fewer than 3 poop adventures, and we kept the same diaper clean and dry all day long.

And he's been quite proud of himself all day for it. He's been showering me with affection, and while the day wasn't perfect (he was trying to push a little girl this morning with his belly--believing that it wasn't pushing since he wasn't using his hands), our potty times have been flawlessly executed, without acrimony.

There's been no evidence of desire to avoid the potty, no time-wasting once there, and he's just been in a great mood about it.

And this is actually where we were a month ago, before we both got sick and went on vacation. While I loved our vacation, I think the timing of it and our shared illness threw him off. He started hoarding and holding it again, and before long we were back to full-on constipation, in spite of the Miralax.

There's been little further discussion of the Special School, though he did ask me the other day where it is. I told him West Virginia. He said he thought it was in Alaska.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Here's the deal

I have a lot on my mind. But I ain't sharing, because every time I do, people get pissed off. Mad props to the last commenter on the previous post--personally I won't even bother to reply when people don't like what they see. Don't like it? Don't read it.

I'm not in a good place, these days. I'm way too easily distracted, and way too many things are coming together at the same time.

I'm going to be at the track for 4 days in 2 weeks, and I've done nothing to prepare. That makes me testy. I'm also "going native" (shifting employment from contractor to contractee) at almost the same time, going through a major overhaul of our work systems, and still floundering as a single man with a toddler. Summer is coming to an end, and with it my lock on stable overnight child-care. My son and I are still getting over this bizarre summer cold crap.

I've been having fits and struggles with depression. It's like I'm pushing through some unseen envelope of grief right now. Why now? Why not, I suppose. I'm finding grief to be like that one person you should stop being friends with. The one that shows up unannounced, sometimes with friends, drinks all your beer, and simply expects to be allowed to spend the night. But you can't get rid of them, because they've been your friend since forever, and tie you to your happier memories of yesterday. Well, that and they just won't take a damned hint.

Worry No More - or at least less

My friend has gotten good results from her blood test. Turns out she's just crazy. I can handle crazy.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

Oh, well.

I've had it my head to undertake two epic masterpieces of blogging today:

1. A Complete History of Chicks I've Made Out With


2. Axial and Sheer Load Output-Shaft Testing: A History with Testing Conditions, Desired v. Achieved Results, and Future Plans

Frankly, though, I think both would be so patently offensive that I've decided to just leave you with the following:

Whee, its raining!

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

I am SO gonna burn in Hell for this

I am now officially a hypocrite. Just brand an H on my hand and be done with it.

Amanda and I decided before Alastair's birth that we would not lie to him. We would not fall victim to the conventional trappings of child-rearing and get our kid's hopes up over imaginary crap. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Great Pumpkin. None of that crap. Because do you remember how you felt when you realized it was all a bunch of BS? Yeah: like your parents were a bunch of liars. Nobody likes a liar.

So we eschewed it. We explained that there is no Santa Claus, but he's kind of a joke that some people tell.

But then came Mr. I-Will-Only-Poop-In-My-Pants and his thereby alluded-to problem. We tried patience. We tried non-patience (a lot). Then we realized he was constipated, so I gave him an enema and he takes Miralax daily.

For a while, things improved. For almost two weeks we had no poop in the pants.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, we had a full reversal. He poops and pees his diapers every single night now. And not after bed, either: we're talking the time between dinner and bed, which is only about 45 minutes.

So Amanda made up a story to scare him. She told him we might have to send him to a SPECIAL SCHOOL if he didn't start pooping in the potty, and only in the potty.

Last week, in frustration, I revived that story. And I elaborated until he sat there in tears, begging not to be sent away.

You see, THE SPECIAL SCHOOL is terribly ominous to a child with an overactive imagination (all the more so because it comes from a daddy with an overactive imagination):

  1. It's always cold.
  2. There are no toys, no stuffed animals, no friends.
  3. All you do--all day long--is sit on the potty.
  4. There are no movies and no TV.
  5. The teachers are all mean.
  6. The food is bad.
  7. You will probably be there thru Christmas, so no presents.
  8. No family can come to visit.
  9. The bus is coming Friday. If he hasn't pooped in his pants by Friday, I won't send him.

Last night, after sobbing over THE SPECIAL SCHOOL for 15 minutes, my son looked at me and said, "I think I need to poop on the potty." And he did.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

I am very worried

for a good friend. And she knows it, but I've shied away from even whispering why. But I'm sure she knows exactly why, so I'm done mincing words.

I'm afraid my dear friend may have leukemia. Please please please be wrong. I can't do this again.

But her symptoms are almost exactly the same as Amanda's: heart palpitations, lethargy, dizziness (including a fall). She will be undergoing stress tests, and she is convinced that nothing is wrong--just like Amanda.

I haven't asked about pallor or vision problems, but I will.

She is waiting for the results of blood work. Please pray.

God please just let me be overly sensitive to these symptoms...