This is just an update. As soon as I finish writing this I am getting to work on the Cranberry blog; I’ll even throw in some photos for good measure.
The original title of this post was going to be Ovary (and Out) but I am one lucky chica and am only down a tube (think fallopian) after a little surgical procedure yesterday. Maybe I should have entitled it My Tube. Too much information? Then stop reading. But some of my readers know I’ve had the Sword of Damocles swaying over my abdomen, swinging like a metronome, tick tock, tick tock, all summer. Back in February, around the time that the Crumbling Castle had collapsed and I was enthroning myself in the Jewel Box , I told my kids in no uncertain terms that they had to go to camp and that they had to go for the extended session – Mommy needed a break. Summer camps were not really invented for children, they were designed for parents in distress, even if they don’t know it. Camptime, as luck would have it, turned out to be a perfect time for internal inspection and reflection.
So, the ten days of camptime leisure I had envisioned for myself, ten days of shopping with my mother, drinking beer with my sisters at Safeco Field as we watched the Mariners lose yet another game, sitting on my deck and starting Thing 3’s needlepoint Christmas stocking, went POOF! BUT I AM NOT COMPLAINING, OH NO. Mr. Understanding arrived last weekend to comfort and pamper me, a behavior he has learned over the years, the Olympics are pre-recorded for the non-Vicodan hours, and I have read oodles. I merely feel a little pummeled in the midsection. The Radish cooks comfort food and Poppy the Grandbear and I spar over word pronounciations, politics, and the Olympics. It has been quite pleasant. The Lord has been good to me. And so has everyone else! Thanks to those who sent up a good word.
Speaking of castles, I just finished reading The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls, a book passed on to me by Boston Bean this summer. Consider this a “must read”. My crumbling castle had nothing on hers, a fact of which I am only too aware. I told the Radish the book reminded me of a hippie family in the neighborhood in which I grew up, except that the parents were stoners not alcoholics, and none were geniuses. Smart maybe, but not smart enough to bootstrap themselves out of a terrible situation. The house was downright creepy and inside myself I knew that the stepdad taking nude photos, artistic though they may be, of the eldest adolescent daughter could not be a good thing. One summer the middle sister, my friend, and I took the youngest daughter, a toddler, up to our house and gave her a bath. Instead of discussing how her beautiful blonde hair was matted and her face dirt encrusted, we just pretended it would be fun to give her a bath. Hair brushed out and dressed in one of MCV’s dresses we took the toddler home where the site of a clean child went unremarked; at age 10 even the sister and I knew bathing the baby was a bandage trying to staunch a steady stream of despair. Ms. Walls, to her eternal credit, does not end her book on that note.
P.S. This was written under the aforementioned, and prescribed, Vicodan so if it is a little loosey-goosey, please forgive. Something’s better than nothing, right?