Archive for the ‘Jedi’ Tag
February 03 2012
Walking to the bus stop one morning with Jedi tagging along beside me yammering on about something or other, as is his usual way, when he turns to me in mid-run-on-sentence with a request.
“Hey, Mom, can you teach me how to whistle?”
“I don’t know how to whistle”, I tell him. It’s true, I don’t know how to whistle. I’ve attempted, others have tried to impart their wisdom, but they all say I’m just blowing air out of mouth. Hot air, no surprise. To further blow his mind, I also offer this extra piece of information towards my inadequacies. “I don’t know how to swim, either.”
“You don’t know how to swim?”, he asks, shocked. It was as if I could have told him I was born with a tail. Though he doesn’t know how to swim, either.
That’s right, kid. Your mom has no idea what she’s doing on many fronts. So please don’t fall into a large body of water, because not only can I not swim, but I also can’t whistle for help.
A list of other select things I can’t do:
- understand a large part of his 2nd grade math
- crafts
- drive in Chicago, or any large city, without incurring an anxiety attack
- fall asleep without the television on
- properly accessorize
- roller skate
- read or write or talk about s.e.x. without blushing
So tell me, as that I may feel better about myself and everything that escapes my ability, what are some things that you can’t do?
January 26 2012
His number was 85.
Before bed, when I checked Jedi’s blood sugar last. His number was 85. I wasn’t too concerned at the time, because I know by now how it goes. I adjusted his insulin dose a notch lower, then dispensed a cup of apple juice and a cheesestick for a snack. Afterward, he headed to bed where we said our goodnight. If you need me, I reminded, you know where I am.
Passing by his door a short while later, I stopped to listen. His snores said he was asleep.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t sleep. That 85 that was of little concern at first continued to fester with what ifs. There I laid awake after midnight with that number like a neon sign bright on the ceiling above me. It’s always so hard to know for sure, even with a pattern of history to rely on. I had to check, to be certain. But I didn’t want to wake him. Especially so late.
I didn’t want to wake him.
Procuring a hand from where he had it placed under his pillow, I hesitated while it instinctively clenched then relaxed again. Fumbling through the dark with his diabetes supplies, while he was sleeping and oblivious, I poked the tip of his finger with a lancet. I drew what I needed. And the boy, so used to it by now. He didn’t even flinch.
The meter beeped and I tiptoed out of his room to the light, my little secret kept safe.
His number was 144. I returned to bed and was finally able to sleep.
January 24 2012
Jedi had just finished showing off his newest feat of awesomeness when he looked at me for recognition. Not offering it fast enough or with the required amount of enthusiasm, he took the matter into his own hands.
“Why didn’t you say anything about what I just did? Did you even pay attention?”, he interrogated, already perfecting his irritation and angst.
“Oh, sorry. It was awesome”, I praised half-heartedly, snapping out of whatever daydream I was finding myself in.
Clearly noticing my indolent disregard, a problem that he will most likely delve into during therapy sessions later in life along with the overwhelming confusion that can come with an ounce of fake praise, Jedi sulked before continuing. I swear I could see him kick his feet, “You didn’t mean that. You’re not supposed to say that, anyway.”
Pretending to be annoyed, I defended, “Yes, I did mean it. It was awesome. Wait, what am I not supposed to say?”.
“Awesome. You can’t say that word. You’re not allowed.”
“Why am I not allowed to say ‘awesome’?”
“Because it’s not a word for girls”, he said. And then, “Only boys can say awesome.”
That’s not awesome. Awesome is a descriptive word for so many occasions. I would be lost without awesome. Like Jedi, he’s awesome. And you know I’ve been saying awesome as much as possible, even more than usual. Because I’m a girl and girls are awesome. Awesome does not discriminate.
January 05 2012
We were led back to the radiology department, but first Jedi needed to change his shirt. You can’t wear buttons for an x-ray and the doctor wanted to make sure the wheezing in his chest wasn’t any more serious than the need for an asthma inhaler. As such, he first had to disrobe into a gown. The sight of which flashed back to when he spent a week in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.
I helped him remove his button-collar shirt and went about sifting through the stack of familiar hospital gowns for one in blue. For a boy who is growing ever more concerned with his appearance, this still bordered on disastrous. I at least wanted him to have his favorite color, though nothing would have been enough to make it fashionable.
“Oh this is embarrassing”, Jedi whispered as I tied the strings in back.
“It’s fine. Look, it’s blue!”, I tried to reassure.
With a sigh, we went to sit to wait his turn. An attempt was made to take his mind off the necessary style catastrophe, but he wasn’t about to be swayed. A marked difference from when he was at the hospital in August 2010 and didn’t even notice what he was wearing, or really where he was.
“This shirt is terrible”, my 8 going on 16 year old sulked. “It doesn’t match my pants. It doesn’t match my socks. It doesn’t match my shoes. It doesn’t match my face. It doesn’t match my personality.”
Later, Jedi admitted, “You know, this shirt is kind of comfortable”, as we’re getting ready to go home. “But it’s still terrible.” And it was, but garments are easily changed and forgotten. It’s the memories that catch you.
December 13 2011
I’ve been doing most of my Christmas shopping online this year, which means there have been your standard, non-descript shipping boxes coming through here with secret toys inside. My dilemma is how to hide those boxes since I have nowhere else to store them. Luckily, I have an open area above my kitchen cabinets that is just enough space to house a big brown box.
A really big box.
The great thing is that the kids can’t get to it. They can see it, however. And it was the first thing Jedi noticed.
“What’s that box for?”, he asked.
“Um, it’s just stuff. Nothing important”, I replied.
“Is it clothes?”, he continued.
“No.”
“Kitchen stuff?”, he still wouldn’t let it go.
Realizing that this would probably result in a game of a thousand questions, I gave in. “Sure, fine, it’s kitchen stuff.”
But that wasn’t good enough. “Is it a box of knives?”
“Yes, Jedi. It’s a giant box of knives. Sharp knives. Dangling precariously above our heads. So you should probably stay away from here, huh?” With that, he slowly backed up out of the kitchen. There’s hasn’t been a word said about it since. And that is one way to make sure your kids don’t find their Christmas presents.
