Some friend I am

And so I've returned to the world of work outside the home.  That world where you have to respond to the time clock of others. The world where you wear an ID badge.  The world where you can't wear a modified version of your pajamas for the first six hours of your day.

Hospitals are perhaps the most complicated and entangled bureaucracies of all bureaucracies...but maybe I'm naive.  School districts and universities probably give hospitals a run for their money but I think accidental death always being a possible outcome at hospitals makes for slightly higher stakes than say, flunking.  As health care employees, we are charged with efficiently processing large amounts of very personal and private information while managing and serving a customer group that is mostly anxious, in pain and facing life and death decisions. It's a service industry with layers of standards, protocols, procedures, updates, changes, improvements, responses to government and regulating bodies that drop in without notice... and in the end, patient survival, healing and as a cherry on the pie, satisfaction lead the charge of every day.  Anybody who crunches numbers in health care can attest to the importance of customer satisfaction as an overall major maker or breaker of hospitals.  It isn't acceptable anymore to just be competent at care.  Cost overruns do not sit well with CEOs but neither do patient complaints. The result of trying to make sense of how all the jigsaw pieces fit together amounts to a very long and arduous employee orientation.

I really could benefit from some proper therapy

How does this all affect me initially?  Not well, I'll tell you.  While the school district was its own madness, it didn't feel nearly as badass as the hospital did to me this week.  Maybe I'm just a bit rusty being with my own kind again and I'm taking it all too seriously while at the same time grinding the gears of my mind that aren't as greased as they used to be.  I came home agitated and in such a fog the first day and promptly spanked two dear neighbors who dared to cross my path to be kind to me.  I didn't exactly yell, GET AWAY FROM ME but I pretty much communicated as much.  I was o-ver-loaded by rules and regs.

You brought me dinner without permission? I might have to kill you.

Now most normal people would greet a neighbor delivering a fully cooked Tex-Mex surprise dinner with a "Gee, what a fantastic place this is to live and I really value you as my friend."  But I'm not normal people...or am I?   I greeted her at the door instead with humorless surprise, wearing a look that probably said "great, one more g.d. thing"  Eyes like saucers at that point, I muttered a feeble thanks and took the bag ungraciously.  The nerve of her really, right?  How dare she take care of me without expressed permission?  She called the next day and all I could say after my apology was,

"Did I look murderous?  Because I felt like I could have killed anyone to satisfy my blood thirst at that moment in time.  Could you see it in my eyes?  Who knew that a 90 minute benefits presentation could put me so close to the edge."

She's a good friend, thankfully, and said she could see the blood vessels breaking in the whites of my eyes and ran out the door for her life, confirming my suspicion that I had the look of a postal worker whose route had been changed.  This is a problem you see, surprising thankless hyper-controlling people.  They can become rageful.

What'd I ever do to have a friend like her?

Thank God I build up a lot of goodwill with friends like her in-between freak outs, thereby allowing for some slippage occasionally.  

A working stiff once more

The wind is gusting today near 50 mph, apropos of my own thoughts swirling around my head.

I'm rejoining the ranks of the working stiffs after 18 long months that felt like 18 years and that is big news for those who know me personally.  Even after four days, I wake up each morning forgetting I now have a job.  I will spare the details because it's a new position at the UW hospital and I myself don't really know what's involved yet beyond being in a support position in advanced nursing practice for the pediatric clinics and that the position is non-patient care (otherwise known as the "pumps and pearls" track).  Taking a step away from patient care is maybe a risky thing at this point in my career but Chip assures me after listening to me for the last three years that maybe giving kids and their parents a break from Nurse Ratched is a kind turn for mankind.  I do love kids.  really.  I do.  It's the parents that give me the agita.

There's not even a chair with my name on it yet let alone an office as this is a new nursing position, so beyond my urinalysis drug test this afternoon (no poppyseed bagels this weekend...but what about the metabolites of the contact high from the Jimmy Buffet concert in July?) and a mountain of paperwork to complete, I'm still a little bit hazy about my own position.  More on this as I embark on the journey.  All I know for sure is, honey, Chip gave me a clothing allowance.

WIAA sports prohibited running so the girls were delighted to gossip and walk

The Labor Day weekend was spent like most Labor Day weekends of the past with one exception.  A benefit called Suzy's Walk to assist and honor children with cancer and their families, something we all wish didn't need to exist.  Suzy Favor Hamilton, formerly Suzy Favor the Olympic runner, hosted the event and really could not have been nicer.  As we registered, she greeted our family warming with a smiley "Thanks for coming!" to which Ally gave the international teen facial expression "Who's the wacko?" She was pleasantly surprised to learn that the smiley lady in the tiara was in fact, the host of the walk.  She's a good doobie, that Suzy, and we were happy to throw a little coin her way.

We walked for the parents of three families in our world whose kids have walked through the fire of leukemia treatment over the past five years and Ally and her friends walked for their softball buddy. Madi.

We played golf on Sunday to avoid a block party.  There, I admit it.  I can't live under the weight of my lies any longer.  I didn't want to make a covered dish and I didn't want to face the old bitch who hates my cats.  There.  I said it.  Don't judge.

We played 18 holes with a cart, my new favorite golf accessory.  We played with one other guy who had intimate knowledge of the course and helped Chip, aka Skip, unlock many secrets of this course that Chip/Skip had yet to discover.  Meanwhile I hacked away like Elmer Fudd off the tee with my now much despised old fashioned tiny- headed woods but putted very well, even draining a 25-foot putt for par on a par 5 hole.  What an incredibly stupid stupid game.

And so Labor Day for me this year meant the end of a labor free era.  I'm happy for the time off that I've had on this job search but very ready to get back to the frantic pace and balance of work and family paired together.  Lately I had felt myself slipping down that slope of helicopter parenting....and I was weakening by the day.  No more waiting at the kitchen counter for the children to come home.  No more me, wine in hand, and the dog looking at each other at 6pm wondering where everyone is.  No more Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, Dr. Drew or Dr. Oprah.
Organization, procedure, routine....the NEW REGIME.
Oh, who am I kidding?

Democracy makes me weepy

While Madison starts school again and at-risk kids are finally back in a safe environment for the next nine months, organizations that care for these same children 24/7/365 (something schools wish they could promise but can't really provide) are fighting for their lives.  I'm a daytime person and I prefer to hunker down at home at night with a brandy and a cigar, but on Monday I got the distinct feeling that I am missing out on some vital nightlife going on in my community.  I saw just how many people are beginning their most important work at 5pm after the regular work day is done and civic duties begin, those who compassionately care for and advocate for the most severely affected people in our country especially in this economy; the poor, the ill, the very old and the very young.

I sit on the board of our local community center and this week as part of my duties I attended a five hour funding meeting of the Community Services Committee, a commission appointed by the mayor of Madison to dole out 4 million dollars in discretionary monies...mysterious to me beyond that.  City funds have been slashed for 2010/11, creating an ominous B-list of organizations and/or their services on the chopping block.  I was instructed in advance to wear my nametag and look bigger than I am, like trying to scare off a bear.  The more people representing the organization, the better represented we were in the minds of those people two feet away who might take away as much as $11,000 of our center's budget.  That's somebody's job at the center.  The committee's task is ridiculously hard and the organizations, even as they begged and pleaded for their money to be restored, acknowledged the difficult task on behalf of the committee and their unenviable position.  Somebody will eventually go home unhappy and there's no organization more deserving than another.  A Sophie's choice at this point in the game.  Each organization is part of a web that stretches across the city to catch the vulnerable at multiple points in the life cycle and is only as strong as the ones around it.  Problem is, everybody's on Jello legs.

I liken the dread of the past few days leading up to the first day of school, for my own kids anyway, as being the equivalent of kneeling before the chopping block with your neck exposed below the guillotine blade while the guy who cuts the rope stands idly by talking to his buddy.  Cut the rope already. The blade dropped painlessly in most instances today as joyful and excited kids all over the city returned to school.  However, the blade is still dangling over the futures of several community organizations all over Madison as the Monday meeting went on so long with the public comments that another meeting had to be scheduled for tonight to actually decide on the cuts.

To give you a taste of it because it really was a unique experience despite my nagging backache still, imagine a large board room at a public utility with a central table and chairs all around the perimeter and just a few rows of chairs at the back, bursting at the seams with crying babies, kids, executive directors in suits, parents and nervous staff members.  Empty chairs sat at the head of the table where each organization's representatives sat one after another making very personal cases for restoring the funds to their organizations.  The room was filled with the absolutely beautiful kids of this city that I know as a school nurse may come from the most at-risk families in the most at-risk neighborhoods...the families and communities of first generation immigrants, non-native English speakers, Latinos, African-Americans, Hmong, single-parent households, tenants, victims of trauma and injustice, the mentally ill, the uneducated and the disabled.  There were no punches pulled.  African-American parents and organizers talked honestly about African-American boys being at grave risk and disadvantage without access to strong male role models, educational support and over-archingly, hope.  Therapists and social workers talked passionately about the effects of trauma and mental illness on families without intervention.  Without the programs and organizations that make families and kids of color and/or poverty a priority...Boys and Girls Clubs, Urban League, Rainbow Project, Community Centers, Centro Hispano, job training programs, women's advocacy groups....we all suffer and we all pay.  First person accounts over and over of being "saved" by these programs.  Impassioned pleas using words like sanctuary.

Tea Party mentality is a luxury for only the fair skinned who encounter few barriers to equality, education and jobs. The operating budgets of the organizations represented at the meeting are tethered shoestrings and even that is more than some working taxpayers seem willing to pay citing big government as the problem.  Whatever, right?  However true, refusing to hike taxes in the end trickles down only to hurt those at the bottom as everyone above still takes their full cuts.  I'm not making that up.  That's human nature.  Most of us have been the last person to get a bag of candy or a joint being passed around a group.  Last gets the crappiest candy or the slimiest roach depending on what's your pleasure.  Kids and families will fall without their community organizations, that is a fact.  Saddled up, mounted, rode hard and dismounted my soap box in just one paragraph.

I was so impressed with the poise of the kids who courageously spoke to the grown-ups in charge.  A group of Hmong parents and children stepped to the fore, one of the children playing an indigenous musical instrument for the room as evidence of the work of their cultural center.  A committee member asked a child of this cultural organization his opinion about whether holding onto such strong minority identification is not divisive within a community and delays immersion into American culture.  An adult's explanation later said quite the opposite happens, that by identifying with one's heritage and culture and learning to love oneself the individual can immerse more fully into American life.  But the child more succinctly and practically stated, "Well, no because these programs go on during the school year and we do our homework there." Duh.  Bravo, dude.

It is, in the end, still Madison Eutopian society and as one would expect, the committee was kind, encouraging and literally applauding of parents and children for their eloquence and bravery in speaking to the large forum.  All the while, the committee adjusted the agenda to accommodate parents with kids both in the room and at home so they could get the little ones or themselves home.  I'm proud of my city's genuine care and concern for its families but in the end that care and concern doesn't translate into dollars approved by its citizenry for schools and non-profits.  I pay enough in taxes is always the rally cry from the white folks.  Really?  Do you?  I pay willingly and I would pay more if needed.  A mere $80,000 adjustment in the city budget might fix everything--doesn't seem like much in a city budget and one community center director tells the commission to go the city council and find the money and restore everyone's budgets.  Easier said than done?  I don't know the answer.

The mayor and the city council go to meetings like this all the time, hence their beleagured expressions.  My back pain so far has been a daily reminder of the anguish some people in my city face today.  A good kind of pain that maintains character and compassion for others.

Hell on Earth is the pain of a child

Our dentist as he pointed to the x-ray: "You paid $7,000 in orthodontia, you simply have to get these out of there before they wreck all the good work done."

On Monday, an important milestone was reached by our oldest.  You see, we run in only the very well-heeled social circles of American society where state health plans reign and orthodontia is the order of the day.  And with that lifestyle of champagne dreams and caviar wishes, Olivia endured our culture's coming of age ritual that might be akin to the certain ritual of other cultures, namely, female circumcision; the forcible wrenching of her "what'd we ever do?" yet-to-have-erupted wisdom teeth, but in only the very best of oral surgery offices that money can buy!

The lady at the front desk: "Nothing to eat after midnight and DO NOT FORGET your medical and dental insurance cards with you to the appointment." (her real message being, it would be better to forget Olivia rather than forget the insurance cards.)

Initially it seemed funny showing up to the cattle call of the "8:45am arrivals for a 9:00am start" families, the children silent, unfed and unwashed for their perp walk to registration.  Parents were apprehensive while the kids all wore the same facial expression, almost a mask that said, "I got this" but so thinly veiling their dread and hunger.  And all in similar suburban uniform...loose fitting t-shirts, running shorts with girls in flip flops and boys in sneakers.  In the waiting room, we Moms sat with our sewing or our books because we know the drill.  Awkwardly, the Dads mostly came unprepared for their 90 minutes, either playing with their phones or glancing at Sports Illustrated for ten minutes before staring blankly at the walls, arms folded across their bellies before finally, yes you know it...dozing.  Typical.

"Olivia Hunter?" The governor had not called in a reprieve.  We walked hesitantly to and through the doorway down the long corridor to a stark dental office.  Meet and greet with the surgeon, plan discussed, questions answered, kiss on the forehead, squeeze of the hand and I was sent packing, passing three assistants in the hallway masked, gloved and gowned.  She was probably asleep before I even sat back down in my chair in the waiting room.

All the kids were gone when I returned, secreted through more than one door by numerous ladies in blue.  My one attempt at gallows humor, God love me I cannot help myself.   I said to the woman across from me, "Well, that was like walking the plank..." She stared through me without acknowledgment of my comment like they often do in Wisconsin and put her head down with a vacant smile.  I am constantly left hanging when it comes to the spirit of humanity here in the Midwest so nothing new there.  Finally, two dads who knew each other struck up a conversation much to their own relief and mine and the silence was broken.

the plant was more engaging than the woman across from me

I had time to reflect...the guy snoring next to me distracting me from my book...on the utter privilege of parenthood that affords so many gifts but has steep prices that must be paid, like subjecting one's kid to something incredibly painful even in doing the right thing.  The worrying never fucking ends, people.  It's all what I call, "The BIG Lie".  Getting them to their 18th birthdays, buying them laptops and trundling them off to college so that we can resume some sort of carefree pre-kid existence?  What kind of a joke is that?  I'm a lunatic now, thank you very much.  There's no going back to my former state of mental health, if ever there was any.  Parents of soldiers, firefighters and police know about the big lie.  That they can move forward with their own lives not curled up in the fetal position, knowing their kids are in danger every day, that's real heroism.  I guess ultimately I'm made of the same stuff but sitting in this waiting room Monday knowing the brief but intense pain my kid would endure over the next few days made me queasy.  They'll come back alive alright but it will be us doing the triage and mending and nursing afterward.  No Walter Reed for the post-extraction pain patients.  Just mom and the sofa.

Three days later, her pain is still never lower than a 5 out of 10, she cries when it gets to 7, she's hungry for real food and fatigued by pain.  I have accidentally overdosed her with Tylenol this morning hence we may need a new and different clinic later this week for a replacement liver.

The Jersey I know and love

the reader and the thinker

I found myself searching for the right words to explain "my" Jersey shore to a friend who’s never been.  What makes it special?  Because I can smell funnel cake on the wind and hear the blood curdling screams of children being flung about sketchy amusement park rides from my beach chair? Because being physically trashed by dangerous waves is awesome?  Because I like to walk and eat from a gigantic tub of caramel corn as an appetizer to my dinner?  Because I like to whoop my kids' behinds at miniature golf?  Because I love low flying planes that drag giant banners advertising lobster dinners and five dollar “Pink Grenades” at the bars in Wildwood?  How do I love thee?

the boardwalk at night full of teens and adults....just not together

I’ve been going to Ocean City, NJ since I was a kid.  My friends and I would swim by day and swarm the boardwalk at night looking for good old fashioned boy-girl fun.  During the day we played miniature golf and rode bikes and body surfed.  At night, we put on our lip gloss and sweatshirts, preened for the Jersey boys and ate pizza. Later as high schoolers, we smuggled in beer and drank til our eyes flew at half mast meandering through the streets looking for kids we knew and parties we weren't necessarily invited to.  Nothing too messy, just standard fare in the late 1970s.  Why high schoolers picked a dry town to party in I've never really understood.

annual cut throat mini golf game where Liv always gets a hole in one but never wins

I am an Ocean City legacy.  My dad went there as a kid and my aunt and uncle own a house there now.  My own kids have vacationed in Ocean City since they were born spending at least a week there almost every summer.  I love tradition and never feel like I have enough of it going in my family to my satisfaction.  Norm on Cheers lived a perfect life in my eyes and that's always made Chip grow a bit quiet.  He and the girls generally like to try new places and new things on vacations rather than the same old same old whereas if I had my way we’d have long ago bought a summer house (with magical money that is part of all fantasies) and vacationed the same week in the same place our whole lives.   I married the wrong guy and had the wrong kids again—typical. 

Another August tradition, the annual Ocean City Baby Parade. It may have rained but that didn't dampen the spirits of the Queen Infanta and her ladies in waiting (I kid you not) or the babies who remained baffled for their 101st year on the boardwalk.

There is one more key element to the Ocean City experience for us.  Her name is Aunt Polly and she irons her money… before slipping it in your pocket.  She runs a teenage fantasy camp first for me as a young adult and now for my kids each summer which this year began with a hug and a fifty dollar bill.  She waits on us breakfast, lunch and dinner and stocks all our favorite treats.  She does our laundry daily.  We watch loads of Law and Order and Seinfeld reruns after as many lazy days as we can get baking and swimming at the beach.   She takes us to Atlantic City where we park the girls in a cafe and throw a few quarters in the slots before hitting the buffet, her treat.  All in all, it’s over the top pampering. It's an adolescent spa with full and I mean FULL cable on three TVs, no bedtimes and unrestricted and wanton snacking. 

10pm: “Have a snack.”

10:15pm: "Did you have a snack? Why not?"

11pm: “Do you want some candy?  How about a piece of pie?  Well, have another one.” 

Midnight: “Are you sure you don’t want a snack before bed?”  

Philly hoagie jersey style...a hot italian...like I like my men

It’s absurd and perfect.  We ate ourselves silly... from funnel cake to Mack and Manco pizza to Kohr Bros. soft serve, Shrivers strawberry laces and Primo's hoagies.  A feast of sugar laden delectables and fried and fatty turbocarbs eaten mostly on the run.  Nobody sits long at the shore when eating.  The seagulls will get your food. 

We rode the rides at Playland and this year I couldn’t have asked for a better gift from the girls than when they said, “C’mon Mom.  You have to go on the rollercoaster.  It’s our tradition.”  

A harvest of emotions

I've had trouble getting to my blog.  Our last week has been spent with family in eastern Washington, truly one of the most beautiful and lunar looking places in August as the wheat comes time to harvest.  There's been a little focus issue around honing my craft with this little face popping up behind ottomans and end tables for five days.  She's way more fun than turning a phrase.

She's an enchantress whose favorite game is tricking fawning aunts and uncles to walk across the room for a special something she dangles in her hand only to pull it back at the last moment with a giggle and a pointed look at everyone in the room that signals that it is time to applaud.  And by God, you had better clap.

It's an anniversary of sorts.  I started this blog two years ago just a month before my darling father-in-law, Larry Hunter, passed away.  A blog made specifically for the likes of him in fact, somebody who would check regularly on our progress on sabbatical.  He loved photos and he liked lots of details about family, especially his granddaughters.  After he died I couldn't even write about it, glossing over it in one of my early entries as "the past few weeks haven't been the easiest" or something like that. It was unbearable to think about for longer than a minute at a time, let alone sit still and try to blog about it.

I was blinded by my own grief and frantic and cranky about my inability to fix the situation for my husband.  I'm basically terrible when he's terrible - when his dry sockets were giving him trouble I told him to "snap out of it".   It's a bad life partner trait as it turns out and we're currently making arrangements to accommodate it and protect his safety.  He'll be one of the few that actually begs to go to a nursing home in lieu of staying home alone with me when he's ill. 

This weekend we were fortunate to be so very propped up by our extended family who made the journey with us both physically and emotionally to lay our beloved father and grandfather to rest in peace in a place that I won't mention for fear of internet-lurking park rangers but was a special place for him as outdoorsman and fly fisherman.

They steadied us with their presence and quite literally smoothed the rough road before us.  As for my husband and brothers-in-law, their strength and patience and dignity through the loss of their dad has guided all of us to safe passage as we press beyond our own grief.  Before scattering the ashes, Chip's brother Mike paid the three spouses the highest compliment we could ever hear saying that he saw his dad not only in the grandkids but in us as well.  Gracious and inspired words of comfort from the youngest child.

Grandpa's bell on the 13th hole of the U of I golf course to signal players behind a blind turn that it's ok to hit.  The woman on the right apparently won a box of golfballs for her longest putt at the 2nd Annual Larry Hunter Memorial Golf Tournament.

Rufous hummingbirds en masse in celebration of Larry's return

As wife of the oldest brother, I am translated from Mandarin, Big Mama

The REAL Mama and the baby that is the joy and rebirth and new life of our family

Not exactly an august post in August

Camp suitcase vomits its contents 

Ally returned yesterday from her first year as a camp counselor.  I've put a positive spin on the putrid laundering that follows each camp week which is that going through the suitcase provides insight into the murky details shared....a burned candle, grass, mud, dead spiders, unused stamped envelopes, a picture.  Sanctioned snooping and there was nothing interesting or incriminating...really a little disappointing.

As I drove her and her friend home from what was described as a really great week, I was struck by how ridiculously negative their conversation was.  I guess keeping a cork in that social bottle for six days resulted in a profound amount of pressure that needed release.

"She acted like she didn't remember me from last year.  She asked me what my name was, can you believe it?  And in my head I was like, 'Shut up Bethany.  Last year you wanted to be me."  

Like adults going for a job promotion, they had been on their best behavior trying to impress the big counselors and the camp staff grown ups with their positive attitudes and helpful natures to better their chances of being chosen again as counselors next year.  That's a long week of holding in every negative thought about other kids, and there are a lot of those thoughts right now.  Negativity rules.   So for 90 minutes in the car they poured their hearts out to one another about their frustrations over the course of the week, laughing uproariously and being incredulous at every social faux pas committed by other kids as I drove in silence listening to their debriefing.   That's what Angelina Jolie told me to do...stop talking and listen.  What, isn't Vanity Fair where everybody gets their parenting advice?  Constantly reminding myself to shut up and drive rather than interject and share is frankly an exhausting way for me to live.

Case studies suggest that adolescent peer groups are also characterized by exclusivity, impermeability, and hostility toward nonmembers (Cusick, 1973). 

http://www.du.edu/psychology/relationshipcenter/publications/pdfs/Agedifferencesinadolescents.pdf

Being a grown-up girl in my own family,  I think we may need to work out the complex social dynamics of society in preparation for navigating the bountiful yet treacherous waters of adult social life. Women are cruise directors.  We facilitate and encourage passengers to interact and play well with one another while trying to ensure everyone's safety.  We remember the birthdays, the anniversaries, the get well notes and the teacher thank you gifts.   But do we have to get down in the mud first as teenagers in order to function as the social caretakers we become as adults?  Coach Chip and I have talked a lot about this as once upon a time he watched his happy little team of girl buddies devolve into a group made of individual diva princesses delivered to softball tournaments in their own white-stallion-drawn minivans manned by beleagured mother footmen.  The social fabric was tattered for one very long summer as the games began.  Impermeability, exclusivity and hostility, you aren't kidding.  A means to an end?  Arguably, perhaps.

Refusing to disturb the "class", she will not enter

Finally she understands

A 50th surprise birthday party held in a public space for a friend whose adult siblings and friend co-conspirators planned and executed a surprise so massive she literally wouldn't enter the room, mistakenly believing she would be interrupting an adult education class.  She actually was so non-compliant she went missing in the building for a few minutes.  But she was finally and reluctantly dragged into the room to realize we were not a Zumba class but a room full of friends and family there to celebrate her birthday.   I don't think I'll live long enough to sufficiently exhaust the possibilities of teasing around it.

The night ended with a pool drive-by to catch more than I intended of the achingly (literally, people were getting up in pain and doing stretches against the nets) long-winded summer swim season banquet.  My pals below, youngest siblings each in housefuls of swimmers, sum up my take on the speeches but the slideshow finale of a hundred plus kids that populate my world made it truly worth the seven hours of thank yous.

Just because there's a microphone doesn't mean everybody has to use it,  they seemed to say with their eyes