The Dirtiest Phone Conversation Ever

From earlier today. He wonders why I hate talking on the phone so much:

"Hey. How are you?"

"I'm grouchy."

"Why is that? Did you sleep poorly?"

"No. I slept like the dead. The pitter patter of the rain against the window lulls me asleep."

"Ah. So what's today's problem?"

"The pitter patter of the rain against the window. I don't mind a little rain. It was needed. I can just about hear the leaves unfurling on the trees."

"And this is a problem?"

"No. That's not the problem. Stay with me here. The problem is the fact it won't stop raining. I'm going to need Noah to build me a darn ark soon."

"Rain is good for the soul. And it washes away the dog poop on the lawn. That's important."

"Look at you, ever the optimist. You are forgetting one thing though."

"What's that?"

"Someone dug a hole to China to build a monster man cave and it is now my very own personal lake. Not to mention since my driveway has been destroyed my yard is half mud pit, half ocean."

"Oh. Well. That monster man cave will surely be worth a little mud."

"A little mud?"

"I think you just burst my eardrum with that screech. It's mud. It's not the end of the world."

"It is not a little mud. It's two dogs, four cats, two teens and a wheelchair worth of mud. ALL OVER MY FLOOR. All I'm doing is mopping. Mopping, mopping, mopping. I hate mopping."

"That sounds like a lot of mud."

I'm like Sisyphus. Only less giant boulder up a mountain and more mopping a never ending series of muddy tracks off the floor.

"It's so much mud. I think it would be easier to just live outside, in a card board box. Less mud."

"Why a cardboard box? Why not a tent? Or in one of the sheds?"

"Are you seriously trying to pick a fight right now? The mud is making me mad."

"I'm sorry about the mud. Soon it will stop raining, the mud will dry, the hole will be filled, the man cave will be finished and your life will be better."

"Whatever."

"Is there something else that is bothering you?"

"Yes. My internet connection is acting up. It took me 25 minutes to upload a picture to my blog and my email won't load, none of the blogs I like can be read and I can't believe I pay this much money for such a crappy connection. It's a travesty."

"Sounds dirty."

"Almost as dirty as the mud."

"Well there is a bright side you know."

"Really? And what would that be? Because from where I sit, I can't see one."

"With all that extra time you have waiting around for your internet connection to load you have plenty of time to mop the floors."

"If you were here right now, I'd totally toss you out into the mud."

"Ya, but you'd let me back in. And then you'd just have to spend more time mopping up after my muddy foot prints. It's a vicious circle really."

"I hate when you are right."

"It's a nice change of pace really."

"Whatever. I've gotta go. Those floors won't wipe themselves clean."

"That's my girl."

"I'm going to blow up your man cave one day."

"No you won't. It would make a mess. I'm not sure but it would likely involve mud."

"I really hate you."

"Have a good day sweetie."

They say the definition of insanity is doing the exact same thing over and over again while expecting a different result. Like expecting a dog to go outside in the rain and not have muddy paws on his way back in. If he could roll his eyes at me he would.

Getting To First Base

The note said the assembly started at 8:50 am. Past experience dictated I had a few extra minutes to spare because as hard as those elementary teachers try, getting five grades of children to neatly file into the gym in an orderly fashion makes herding a group of blind cats look easy.

I stopped off at the local gas station and refilled my coffee cup with what should be terrible coffee but isn't, (Van Houtte for the win!) and stopped to chat with the owner for a second.

"My son is receiving an award at the school assembly today!" I chirped brightly.

"Oh Frac? Good for him! What did he do?" the owner asked.

"Oh, not for Frac, for my other son, my youngest, Jumbster."

I could see the gears in his head spin as he tried hard to pull up the memory file of my youngest son. And there it was. I could see the exact moment he remembered who my youngest son was. That dark haired Native kid in the wheelchair who is always slumped over and drooling.

The look on his face transformed for a nanosecond but in that fraction of time I saw pity wash across his face, followed by shame for feeling it and then finally embarrassment for realizing I could see what he was thinking.

"Oh good good!" he smiled as he rang in my purchase. "What is he getting the award for?"

"Good question! I have no idea! I guess I'll find out when I get there!"

I walked out of the gas station sipping my coffee and feeling a little bit deflated. Sometimes it sucks that the world doesn't see how awesome Jumbster is as easily as they recognize it in others. I wish I could magically make everyone see what I see when I look at him.

Inside the gym, hundreds of children fidgeted about, several of them belonging to my family tree, each spotting me and waving "Auntie Auntie Auntie!" in the excited way a child does. My rock star moment happens whenever I walk into the elementary school and a niece or a nephew spots me. I grew ten inches that morning as I took my seat in the corner of the gym.

Soon the awards where parsed out, one for creativity, one for friendliness, another for improved penmanship. The girls won the coveted Cleanest Bathroom trophy and the boys booed hard at their loss. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the boys. Having lived with the testicled for years I know how hard it is for them to not pee all over the toilet seats. The contest seemed designed to ensure their failure.

I was only half paying attention, playing on my phone as the assembly went on. Part of me mourns the son that was robbed of his elementary experience whenever I am in that school and another part of me whispers that it is not too late to have another child. Look how cute they all are! You could be part of this for years to come!

My broken uterus is a total bitch whenever she's surrounded by other people's off spring.

And then it was the Jumbster's turn. His name was called and I watched as his aide undid his brakes. A tall boy in his class puffed up with pride as he pushed Jumby through the crowd and toward the front of the gym. The vice principal smiled down and read aloud the note his teacher had written. He handed Knox's award to his helper friend, gave my son a high five, shook his friend's hand and then both boys headed back to their spot in the gym beside their teacher.

Jumby grinned the entire time. His friend grinned bigger.

His award?

Was for being the best button pusher.

The best weather man.

The best carpet sitter.

The best jump rope turner.

It didn't really matter what it said on the award; as I watched the kids surround Jumby to give him high fives and ask if they could be the one to push him back to class I knew he had already won the best award.

He's included. By kids who see him and not the things he can't do.

Sure, to some adults who don't know my son he's just some Native kid who slumps in his wheelchair and foams at the mouth. But for those kids growing up alongside him, in his class, in his school, he's Foxy Knoxy, the kid who laughs the loudest and the hardest and makes them feel like a million dollars.

It won't always be like this, I know, but for these sweet short moments in time, I'll take it. I'll suck up this magic and enjoy the innocent acceptance these children offer my son and I'll pray like hell they will grow into adults who remember Jumby's sweet laugh and can see past a person's disabilities to see them for the people they are.

I leaned over and kissed my son as the kids in his class started putting their jackets on for recess and divvy into teams for a ball game. For a second I wondered if they would remember to include my son.

I shouldn't have wondered.

As I walked away I heard one of the kids tell Jumbster's aide that he can be the first base. Because that way he'll get to be on everyone's team and high five every player.

I left that morning hoping every kid in that school would get a chance to get to first base with my kid.

Parenting Jumby has made me the loosest mom on the block.

You totally want to get to first base don't you?

 

I Want a Mulligan

It's been one of those days. You know the ones. They typically start with you moaning first thing in the morning about something or other and end with you begging for mercy and a mulligan by nightfall.

My dad is still in the hospital. (He's partially bionic now and grumpier than ever but he'll likely outlive us all.) My pit to Hell mocks me every time I look out the window, and my daughter woke up infected with what is surely bound to be the virus that starts the zombie out break.

Best of all, she keeps breathing on me.

I have to keep reminding myself that while it's totally legal and acceptable to beat actual zombies when they come near you, my daughter hasn't quite made the entire transition to soul sucking brain muncher. At this point in the game she's merely a snot monster who is intent on breathing her sick germs all over me and that I should just stick with spraying her down with Lysol every time she breaks the three foot invisible perimeter I've installed around myself.

Which reminds me, I'm running out of Lysol, tissue paper and while we are at it, I'm currently looking for someone who can back fill my pit to Hell. I have no idea which aisle I would find that in my local grocery store.

So here I am, feeling a little paranoid about getting sick, a little anxious about my husband's stupid garage project and more than a bit worried about my father and I'm wondering if maybe I need one of those little stress balls to squeeze so that the top of my head doesn't pop off anytime soon when the phone rings so loudly I almost crap my pants.

(Side note: I bought new phones last week and still haven't bothered to figure out how to turn the ringer down. Frac promised to help me but apparently he's either hard of hearing or sadistic because the ringer is still set at DEAFENING LOUD.)

It was the school. The last time the school called was when someone was bleeding. Thanks to my child.

As it turns out, someone was bleeding. Only this time it was my child. Specifically, the Jumbster.

There was an accident. It involved my kid in his wheelchair, sloped ground and a pothole.

Jumby stopped himself. With his face. After the wheelchair toppled.

He'll live. Kids are meant to be bumped and bruised, even kids who have wheels instead of working legs and my Jumbster is one tough little nut.

I'm gonna need a bigger stress ball.