Running from my Birthday

Ah, birthdays. Those peculiar annual rituals where we’re expected to celebrate the inexorable march towards our own mortality with cake and forced merriment. For most, it’s a day of joyous reflection and an excuse to indulge in socially acceptable gluttony. For me, it’s become a rather more complicated affair, thanks to a mischievous little cerebrovascular event that decided to gatecrash my party just as I was about to hit the big 3-9.

Picture, if you will, a scene of impending festivity. Balloons at the ready, candles poised for their fiery demise, and a cake so laden with sugar it could send a hummingbird into diabetic shock. But instead of blowing out candles, I found myself blowing bubbles in a hospital bed, my brain having decided to take an impromptu vacation without so much as a postcard.

The next few days passed in a haze of confusion and medical jargon, as if I’d suddenly been dropped into an episode of ER, but with significantly less George Clooney and a lot more bewildered mumbling. By the time I resurfaced, I felt compelled to inform my long-suffering husband that “something was definitely wrong.” I imagine his response was along the lines of, “You don’t say, dear. I thought lying comatose in a hospital was your new hobby.”

Now, birthdays and I have a relationship that’s about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus in a snowstorm. The stroke merely added an extra layer of complexity to our already strained association. It’s as if my birthday has become a sort of morbid anniversary, a day when I’m supposed to simultaneously celebrate my continued existence and mourn the person I used to be. It’s like trying to have a party in a funhouse mirror maze – disorienting, slightly nauseating, and with an unsettling sense that you’re not quite who you thought you were.

I’m well aware that my attitude towards this annual milestone is about as cheerful as a wet weekend in Miami. But when you’ve spent over a year cataloging your deficits like some sort of neurological accountant, it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for party hats and noisemakers.

And let’s not forget the baby – my third little bundle of joy, who had the misfortune of being born just 6 weeks before his mother decided to audition for a medical drama. I missed out on all those precious newborn moments – the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, the spit-up on every clean shirt. It’s enough to make a person weep, or at least wish for a time machine and a neurologist on speed dial.

So here I am, forever 39, stuck in a perpetual loop of birthday ambivalence. It’s a day that serves as a stark reminder of what was lost, what was gained, and the peculiar journey of rediscovering oneself post-stroke. But who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll embrace the occasion with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. Until then, I’ll be here, blowing out candles and silently thanking my stubborn brain for sticking around for another year of this bizarre adventure we call life.

Running from my Superpowers

In the curious realm of parental entertainment, my 6-year-old has developed a penchant for a game called “This or That,” a sort of pint-sized Sophie’s Choice, if you will. The rules are simple: choose between two options, each more absurd than the last. Would you rather consume earthworms for superhuman abilities or possess ocular laser beams? The latter, naturally, unless one harbors a particular fondness for soil-dwelling invertebrates.

During a recent expedition to the Ohio State Fair – a veritable cornucopia of deep-fried delights and livestock beauty pageants – we found ourselves embroiled in this peculiar pastime for what felt like several geological epochs. As we navigated the labyrinth of exhibits, dodging the occasional overzealous turkey leg enthusiast, the topic of superpowers inevitably arose. Flight versus strength, the age-old conundrum that has puzzled philosophers and comic book aficionados alike.

By some cosmic coincidence, we soon stumbled upon a children’s exhibit where young visitors could declare their superpower of choice. My offspring, clearly well-versed in the art of snap decisions, were ready to stake their claims in the pantheon of imaginary abilities.

Oz, ever the speed demon, declared himself the Usain Bolt of the prepubescent set. Wynn, apparently fancying himself a pint-sized Hercules, opted for strength. But it was Cub, our resident boy wonder, who threw us a curveball worthy of a major league pitcher. With the solemnity of a Supreme Court Justice, he proclaimed his superpower to be “brains.”

Now, Cub’s intellectual prowess is no secret. The lad’s cranium practically hums with cognitive activity. But in the cruel world of childhood social dynamics, being the smartest kid in the room is about as popular as a ferret in a sack race. It’s a predicament I know all too well, having spent my formative years as the class brainiac, a role that’s about as comfortable as a corset made of cacti.

Since my unfortunate tango with a stroke, my own cerebral circuitry has been performing a rather unorthodox cha-cha. The thoughts in my head and the words from my mouth seem to be engaged in an endless game of telephone, with predictably garbled results. However, this neurological rewiring has bestowed upon me an unexpected gift: a finely-tuned hogwash detector that would make even the most seasoned carnival barker quake in his boots.

It’s taken some time to adjust to this new superpower, but I must say, it’s far more useful than any gadget you might find in the pages of a Sharper Image catalog. Though I do sometimes miss the days when I could string together a sentence without feeling like I was solving a particularly vexing crossword puzzle, there’s something to be said for being able to spot nonsense at fifty paces. In the grand game of “This or That,” I’ll take my newfound bullshit radar over laser eyes any day of the week.

As I pondered the peculiar phenomenon of superpowers, it occurred to me that we’re all walking around with our own unique brand of extraordinary ability, like a vast collection of human Swiss Army knives, each with a different set of improbable gadgets. The real trick, of course, is figuring out what your particular superpower might be. Is it the ability to fall asleep instantly on long-haul flights? Perhaps you’re blessed with the uncanny knack of always choosing the fastest-moving queue at the supermarket. Or maybe you possess the otherworldly talent of being able to predict rain by the throbbing of your left knee.

Whatever it may be, there’s something truly magical about witnessing someone else’s superpower in action. It’s like stumbling upon a secret garden or finding a trap door in your living room that leads to Narnia. These hidden talents are rarely on display for the general public, tucked away like family heirlooms or embarrassing childhood photographs. But when you do get a glimpse, it’s as though you’ve been granted access to a sliver of that person’s very essence, a fleeting peek behind the curtain of their soul. These moments of witnessing raw talent in action are to be cherished, like finding a four-leaf clover or spotting a double rainbow.

As for my own brood of pint-sized superheroes, I count myself fortunate that they’ve already identified their unique talents at such a tender age. While I’m still grappling with the intricacies of my newfound bullshit detector, they’re out there embracing their powers with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most extraordinary abilities are found in the most ordinary of places – even in a household where the primary superpower seems to be the ability to generate laundry at an alarming rate.

In the end, perhaps the real superpower is recognizing and appreciating the extraordinary in others. And if that’s the case, well, I might just be ready to don a cape and tights myself. Though on second thought, perhaps I’ll stick to admiring from afar. Lycra, after all, is not particularly forgiving on a middle-aged frame.

Running from the Phoenecians

Ah, dear reader, strap yourself in for a journey through time and space, or at least through the peculiar realm of Disney’s imagination, as we explore the marvel that is Spaceship Earth. This gargantuan golf ball, this colossal cue ball, this spherical spectacle that looms over Epcot like a geometric tumor, has been boggling minds and confusing pigeons since October 1, 1982.

Picture, if you will, a structure so audaciously futuristic that it makes the average UFO look positively pedestrian. This 18-story geodesic dome, wrapped in a dizzying array of 11,324 triangular panels, stands as a testament to human ingenuity, or perhaps to our species’ collective madness. One can’t help but wonder if the designers were inspired by a particularly vigorous game of connect-the-dots.

Now, imagine my wide-eyed wonder as a young lady in 1996, stumbling upon this behemoth for the first time. “Good heavens,” I thought, “has a colossal alien egg landed in Florida?” Little did I know that this extraterrestrial-looking orb housed a ride that would take me on a whirlwind tour of human communication, from prehistoric grunts to the information superhighway, all without the need for a single textbook or a stern librarian’s glare.

Inside this titanium-clad time machine, we’re treated to a parade of narrators that reads like a Who’s Who of distinguished voices. From Walter Cronkite’s reassuring tones to Jeremy Irons’ silky British purr, and now Dame Judi Dench’s regal intonations, it’s as if the history of communication is being whispered to us by a rotating cast of celebrities who’ve somehow found themselves trapped inside a giant ball.

The current iteration, narrated by the inimitable Dame Judi, is a sensory smorgasbord. As we glide through time in our “omnimover” chariots, we’re assaulted by the scent of burning Rome (a curious choice for a family attraction), while interactive screens invite us to ponder our future. It’s all set to a soundtrack so catchy that I often find myself humming it in the shower, much to the confusion of my neighbors.

But here’s the kicker, dear reader: without this plastic fantastic voyage through human achievement, I might not be here, tapping away at my keyboard like a caffeinated chimpanzee. The very existence of this blog, nay, the entire online Disney community, owes a debt to those intrepid Phoenicians and their newfangled “alphabet.”

So when I inevitably collect my “Most Spectacular Epcot Blogger in the Known Universe” award (a category I’m still lobbying to have recognized), I’ll raise my glass not to some deity or Hollywood star, but to those ancient scribes who set us on the path to today’s digital wonderland.

Here’s to you, Phoenicians! May your legacy live on in every tweet, blog post, and wildly inaccurate online review. Without you, we might all still be communicating through a series of elaborate grunts and interpretive dances. And let’s face it, some of us struggle enough with emojis as it is.

Running from Myself

So, it’s been a while.

A lot has happened since October, 2020. To say the world has fallen apart is an understatement. Since the last time i’ve posted, the world has gone to shit, i’ve gotten a new job, twice, i’ve had a baby, and most importantly, I had a stroke. Yes, I said that right. I had a stroke.

It’s hard to explain what has happened, and not just because my short-term memory is virtually non-existent. I’m gonna try to go through the timeline, if for no one else but myself.

May 2021

I started a new position at my workplace, Labette Community College, as a Workforce Coordinator. I immediately knew that it was a stepping stone. I was just nothing that I was interested in, but I was good at it, because I am organized, meticulous, and trust-worthy.

June 2021

I started the month by finding out that I was pregnant, so surprise, with my 3rd boy.

July 2021

I was asked by my husband’s boss to apply for a position within his school district. The position was for a Marketing and Communications Coordinator, and it was everything I dreamed of. The position was the first of its kind in the school district, so you were basically creating your own position. I had free reign, and a solid marketing base. It was a dream to be asked to apply, and even more exciting when they called with an offer.

October 2021

At 22 weeks pregnant, I started having concerning contraction. We went in for the first time on October 22, and the contraction didn’t stop until February 9, 2022. I started working half days then, as it was almost too much to sit at my desk for 8 hours a day.

February 2022

My baby boy is born. It was a tumulus delivery, and there was no doctor present. I was induced, but even with warning that the baby would come fast, I delivered at 8 cm. I never made it all the way to 10.

March 2022

On March 22, I had my 6 week follow up appointment with my doctor. My exam went fine, the baby was great, and we went on about our business.

March 24th was like any other day. I was attending a conference in Pittsburg, about 30 mins away. I got home that evening, went to the grocery for a pick up, took hot chocolate to the tennis coach at the court across the street from our house and fed the baby like normal. I was still breastfeeding, and sat on the couch while my husband is at wrestling practice and my mom was in the kitchen with my 4 year old. Once he was done, I went to get up and felt like my eye was on fire! My left eye was watering so bad, I went to the kitchen to tell my mom, when all the sudden I got so dizzy I couldn’t hold the baby anymore. The rest is just faint memories until the next afternoon, my 39th birthday, and my mom Facetimed my dad. He said, “Go to the hospital.”

They sent me home…

But are you bleeding?

Let’s be honest: How many times have you yelled this up the stairs to your kids? If you immediately said daily, you can be my friend. Unfortunately, about 40% of the time the answer at my house is, “YES!” That doesn’t mean they are actually bleeding. I think they just know that that will actually get me to put down what I am doing and go upstairs to find out what is going on.

After yelling this ump-teen million times over the past few quarantined months (and my boys are only 5 and 2, so we have YEARS of this left), I started thinking about this exclamation in a difference light.

I tend to overthink, overanalyze, worry myself sick over things that will probably never happen. And through all my anxiety I end up wasting time and energy that isn’t necessary. Recently I decided to start using “But are you bleeding?” to my classify my worries. It is a good barometer for how bad things actually are. I will give you an example:

Yesterday, my husband (who is now a grade school physical education teacher, a story for a different day) text me to tell me that my son’s teacher is in quarantine because her husband tested positive for COVID-19. My initial thought was this:

Then the questions start up in my head-

-How much time has Cub spent with her since she has been exposed?
-Her son is also in Cub’s class, so how much time has Cub been around him since he was exposed?
-Cub sits next to her son in class, so how many things have they both touched that could potentially expose us?
-Has Chas been in contact with either of them?
-What if we have to quarantine?
-I don’t have enough groceries to feed these kids for 2 weeks!
-Does this mean I could sleep in?

The questions go on and on… You can get consumed in them. So here is where you apply my logic: But are you bleeding? In this situation, is it a matter of life or death? Well, it is COVID, so that leaves a few more questions. Fortuantely, none of us have pre-existing conditions that would warrant complete panic. Assuming we act responsibly, it probably is not a matter of death.

So, I don’t think we are bleeding. And even if we are, maybe just a trickle.

I can order online and pick up groceries at Wal-Mart, or my mother-in-law could pick them up for me and drop them off on our front porch. Another way to stop any bleeding.

Yes, everyone has probably been exposed. Fortunately everyone was wearing masks. We have not been contacted by the health department to quarantine. Winning!

Everyone is feeling fine. No symptoms to report. Winning again!

And if you did have to quarantine, yes, you might be able to sleep in. Well that would be major winning if we had to quarantine, but we don’t so its losing.

Anyway, that is how you stop the bleeding in about 27 steps. Any questions? Wait, what was I saying? Is confusion a symptom of COVID? And here we are, back to the beginning. No one died! Yay! But Lord, am I tired!

Life position reclassification

I’ve decided that I am redefining my position in life as of yesterday. To be honest, I listened to a podcast that gave me sort of a brilliant thought. How the fuck am I supposed to know how to do, well, anything?

Sure we have role models and specialties in our fields of study, but am I truly supposed to know what it takes to be the perfect wife to my husband, or the perfect mom to my kids? No two marriages or births/babies are alike. So how can anyone in their right mind do it right?

Reclassifying things in my brain helps me think about them in a less overwhelming fashion, and the thought that I “shouldn’t” automatically know how to do everything has lead me to reclassify my position in the world. I am now officially an undergrad student in LIFE. Once my kids graduate from high school, I will move onto the Master’s degree in Life, to be completed when I kick the bucket.

Maybe it’s good to die young. Maybe people like Kobe Bryant have completely mastered what they needed to and that’s why they leave us so suddenly and at such a young age.

We all know those people that live forever too, made of grit and grizzle. Often times they have the worst habits, drinking, smoking, and maybe living as long as they do is the universe telling them that they didn’t learn quickly enough, so just stay there till you do.

Of course this is not a suggestion to go find a way to die. This is just a thought on the fact that if we are not students for life, we will never continue to grow. Our experiences will change our knowledge, but maybe that isn’t enough. Maybe we should all be more conscious about trying to be life’s students. Maybe that would make this world a better place, and potentially keep people from posting so many stupid videos on TikTok… probably not, but it would be worth a try.

The Story of Two Wolves

Funny, this is my first post in over a year. Funnier still, I started this post about 3 weeks ago, and am just now finishing it off. But I think that tells you a lot about my life right now: NEVER “stable”, “safe” or “predictable”.

I have been dealing with depression over the past few months, some of it created from reasons I am not going to get into here, and some of it from past trauma that I am still trying to overcome. I am not a naturally depressed person. My normal state is happy and interested, but this time I have really been hit hard with overwhelming feelings of being caught in a whirlpool with no entrance and no exit. Thinking I just needed some rest, I have spent the last month really trying hard to organize my life. I know I feel better when I feel like I have control, so that is what I have been trying to regain.

The good news is that I think its working. By making sure that every bobby pin I own is attached to the magnetic strip in my bathroom drawer, I have actually started to feel better. Well, I don’t know that that did it, but by controlling what I can and accepting what I can’t control, I feel like I have REGAINED control… Wow, that’s a weird sentence. But it’s true.

In general, I think its really dumb to say you have control of toddlers. The truth is that they have control of you. You are on their schedule, cleaning up after their spills, making sure they are fed and clean. This is not something you think about or envision when you think about the joy of parenthood, but none-the-less it becomes the reality.

Marriage is the same thing, sort of. At least for me it is. His emotions, his schedule, all that controls my schedule because of the piece of paper that was signed by the Hamilton County clerk and our minister.

I am not going to lie to you and tell you that my life is perfect or that I love every minute of it. The last 2 months have proven to me just the opposite. I can feel like I have everything a person would want, but yet I can feel empty, alone and like I want to escape it all.

Whether or not this is my new year’s challenge post is up for debate. I think one of my main challenges for myself this year is to try to find happy again. I am working on it. But knowing that the end to finding happy is your eventual death makes it an exhausting task, because it will be a constant cycle of finding a new happy as you move through the stages of life. I am still trying to find it right now, but I think I am on my way.

Entering a new year with appropriate expectations

Oz had me up just after 4 this morning, which ended up being fine by me. December 28th is traditionally one of my favorite days of the year, and the reason is this post. I love looking back at what I wanted for myself over the past year, what I accomplished, and dreaming of what is to come. This year is going to be a bit different though, because I have realized something over the past few month. My own expectations ruin experiences for me.

I usually write out what I call challenges, not resolutions. People break resolutions, but as a competitive person, I find that if I feel challenged or someone challenges me I tend to have more drive to follow through. I developed this way of thinking with my friend, Greg Hunn, who doesn’t even know it but is a modern day philosopher. He always has the wisest words to say, and it seems like we tend to think of and contact each other at the right moments, when we need each other. He said something very profound to me the other day via text, ” Probably all of our conflicts in life come from our idealistic perspectives being disillusioned. We superimpose our beliefs on reality.”

Once I had time to digest those words, which happened during a time period when I felt like I was mourning the loss of what my reality should have been, it changed my whole perspective on my life. There are things that I would like to accomplish this year, sort of a 2019 To-Do List, but I have decided not to set any expectations on how I get to those goals. I hate feeling like I have disappointed myself. This is not to say that I will set my expectations low. I want to maintain high expectations for myself, my family and my life. I just want those expectations to maybe be a little less formal so that how I accomplish them is not a frustrating process that makes me forget what I am working toward.

I feel like a lot of moms probably feel what I am feeling, but the truth of the matter is that I have a LOT going on. The mom brain is not like any other. It is constantly running thinking about everyone that needs taken care of in her life. This is definitely true for me.

Moral of the story is that after 2 extremely challenging years for me, I am ready to live my best life in 2019. I have an extremely wonderful situation, and I will strive to make it even better for my family every day.

Give me a break

How come night after night your kids can be perfect angels, but the one night you have to be up at 5am, they are up forty times making your life completely miserable? Just my kids? Well, crap.

We had so much trouble getting them to sleep last night. I had to drive them around Hays for at least 20 mins to knock Cub out, but Oz was still screaming relentlessly when we returned home. He was up until at least 9:30, when Chas finally put his foot down and just let him cry in his crib for a bit. Fortunately he was pretty worn out by then and fell asleep without too much of a fight.

It didn’t last for long. By 1am Oz was back at it again, not hungry, not even wet. Just awake. We were up until 2:20am when I decided to give the crib another try. He yelled for a little bit, but after about 10 minutes settled down. While I finally went back to bed, not even that lasted long. I looked up to Cub standing next to my bed at 2:37am. I took him to the bathroom, tried to get him back to his bed, but he refused and climbed in with Chas, who hadn’t moved by the way!

The alarm went off at 5:00am, and I was definitely not ready to get up. Lucy was whining wanting more water, and when the snooze went off, I finally got up. I usually go into the shop about 5:40am to get the books done before the boys get up, but while putting in my contacts, Oz started crying again. This time I just yelled at Chas to handle him so that I could go get my work done.

Needless to say the 3 hours I got from 10pm-1am was apparently all I was going to get last night. I wish my kids weren’t so dang cute so that I could be more mad about this! I love them anyway I guess!

The harsh realities of parenthood

Screenshot 2018-08-26 18.52.54I think one of my biggest fears in life is being the person that people dread walking in a room. And that’s not to say I want to be liked by everyone. That is impossible. Plus I hate most people, so I don’t expect them all to like me. But in this sense I mean walking into a room with my kid and someone whispering to the person next to them, “Oh no. Not them.”

Now, to clarify, when my boys start wrestling, and they walk into the gym I want everyone and their dog to say, “Oh No. Not the Thompson boys!” I just don’t want people saying that when we walk into pre-school, which happens to be the exact situation I currently find myself in. We are starting week 3 of pre-school with Cub. Let me just throw a few items out there so people know the situation:

  1. Cub turned 3 on June 28th.
  2. We don’t necessarily expect to send him to kindergarten when he is 5. We think 6 is probably going to be better for him maturity wise (and athletically).
  3. He has been potty trained for 4 weeks, but took to it like a champ and has only had 2 accidents in his 8 days. One of those accidents was during nap time, and the other was because the teacher didn’t get his pants off of him quick enough in the bathroom (yes, he still needs some help with the clothing stuff). I am not blaming the teacher…
  4. Last Sunday he had what I would consider a significant head injury. He was ankle tackled by a friend at a birthday party and smacked his head on a chair, I mean HARD, right across the bridge of his nose and left eye.
  5. He had just started talking around the first of May. He is hard to understand, but he is repeating everything you say and has a pretty good vocabulary if you listen to him. His annunciation is not great yet, but the difference from 6 months ago to now is REMARKABLE.
  6. Cub does have tantrums. He likes to get his way, but I in no way think that these are any different from most kids.

The first week of pre-school was challenging for Cub. It was the first time he went anywhere all day, all week. He was still sort of potty training so the whole situation was new for him. I got multiple calls from the teacher, checking in, talking about a tantrum or two he had thrown, but everything was pretty normal from my perspective.

Screenshot 2018-08-26 18.53.00Week two started out terrible. I was having a very rough day at work, went to pick Cub up at 5 and was bombarded with a swift, “We think Cub should go home from 11-2 for lunch and nap. He can be here from 8-11 and 2-5, but let’s have him go home for lunch and nap.” By the end of the week the conversation turned to sending him to a special ed. pre-school from 12-3 everyday. I mean, can someone help me connect the dots? Cub doesn’t nap easily, but he had been in the new environment for just over a week, they have already jumped to the conclusion that they don’t want him in a traditional pre-school classroom. The reports I have gotten have been nothing but good in terms of his cooperation, his involvement in activities, and interacting with his peers. But apparently because he won’t nap and can’t enunciate the same way other kids do he is now special ed.

I mean honestly. How is that fair?!? The kid has barely had a chance in the class. It makes me very upset. If you don’t want my son in your class, if you are the person who in your head is saying, “Oh no. Cub is here,” then just let me know, and I will take my dollars elsewhere.

Just a little rant on a Sunday night, but man am I stressed at the moment. If these people had met Cub in March, they would never believe the amount of progress he has made in 6 months. I tell you, this kid is going to be something. He is a special kid. He is smart, physically gifted, and doesn’t miss a beat. Someday these teachers are going to say, “Hey! That’s the kid that I kicked out of my pre-school class.” I can’t wait for that day.