Shhh, don't talk about it

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

That's been their mentality from the start.

Don't talk about Mom's Dementia.

Within the first year of my now 14-year-old son's arrival, she sent the same book twice. When I politely brought it up, she sang out, "Oh! I'm just a doting Grandma! [pregnant pause] But maybe I should make a list of what I send...?"

"No biggie, Mom. It's fine to have two copies of a book," I said.  Because: Books.

Way Out In The Desert(s)

To which she then suggested that since I have two books, perhaps I need to just have a second child. 

Yeah. Because children are like Lay's fuckin' potato chips. Ya might as well have more than one!

Fast forward 11 years to spring 2016, it was after my Breast Cancer Adventure. My first Port Angeles Friend and I took a field trip to see my folks. We went out to dinner, and after my mom excused herself to go to the bathroom, Dad addressed Mom's "problems with her memory."

"I know, Dad," I said. "That's a big reason why I'm here." 

We talked in hushed tones. I mean, we all know that every Mom has the Super Power of being able to listen to the conversation you're having at the table, in a noisy restaurant while she's in the bathroom, and the bathroom is on the other side of the restaurant, you guys. Right?

My dear first Port Angeles Friend was, as always, incredibly kind and offered my Dad her personal experience with her own mother-in-law's dementia diagnosis. The three of us conspired for me to have breakfast with my Mom alone one morning, so that I could express my concerns and offer ways to help. 

I mean, HELLLLLOOOOO? Health Educator since 1997! 

Oh! And as an added bonus: Special needs mom turned breast cancer survivor turned tonsil cancer caregiver, here! 

I wish I was lying.

And my day job is teaching college students how to make informed health choices! #DreamJob #Gratitude 

Dad! I am here to help you guys! This is what I do! Think of it as a return on your investment in my bachelor's degree. For real. I have specialized training, as well as personal experience, and can totally help you and Mom navigate the health care system and --

Here she comes!  

My dad had his eye on the bathroom door and watched my mother walk across the restaurant.

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

The next morning at breakfast, I explained to my mom how I found the lump in my own breast. That I promptly chose to talk with my spouse, and to see my doctor about a problem we could not deny. I stated that from my perspective, as a mom of a child who has neurological disabilities, I felt as though her brain health was beginning to decline. I told her I loved her several times, and I pleaded with her to please ask her own doctor for a referral to a neurologist or neuropsychologist. 

She said she would. 

But she didn't.  

Because shhh...don't talk about it. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, you guys.

Yet, from the perspective of the patient with dementia, it's gotta be the the hardest goddam thing to do. Walk into your physician's office and say "I need to be tested for dementia"...? Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. I imagine that's harder than, "I found a lump." 

But maybe making comparisons between their hard and my hard isn't the way to go with this. Their hard is their hard.   

And my hard is my hard. 

It's not a contest, you guys. 

Not my circus, not my monkeys. 

My monkeys fly...

 

 

#ClusterFuckShitShow

Well things in our nation have certainly turned into a bigger #ClusterFuckShitShow much faster than mostly anticipated...mostly.

I'm not quite sure where to start...yet again...about the events as they've unfolded in the last few weeks, but can say for certain that on Monday June 8, the Washington State Department of Health stated:

The Washington State Department of Health and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention now recommend that people wear cloth face coverings when they are in public settings where they cannot maintain 6 feet of distance from others.

Don't blame Inslee for all of it. I mean I'm all for blaming the old white dude in the room, but it's deeper than him. While Inslee is far from perfect, he's not the Governor Douchey...Ducey of Arizona, who reopened his entire state, and is now seeing huge increases in the number of cases across the state, and then had the fucking balls to say, "we all just gotta learn to live with it"? In spite of the fact that evidence is coming in that wearing a fitted mask to cover our mouth and nose...oh...wait...SCIENCE!

And, let's just get this outta the way here and now. Your mask needs to cover your mouth and your nose. Otherwise, this is what I'll see. Every. Time.

Now you'll see it, too. You're welcome.

Anyway,  Inslee's basing his decisions about your health on data that the epidemiologists and biostatisticians at the Department of Health's of Communicable Disease Epidemiology are mathing up. Oh, #AndAlso, did you know that there are shit ton of communicable diseases these people track? For real. Check out this link for a cool table. #ImAGeekLikeThat #HealthData

Anyway, so get your masks on. And be sure to wear it to your local Black Lives Matter Protest! #ForReal But, only go if you're capable of going, you guys. My family was incapable of going to the protest in our community. For lots of reasons, that I really don't need to list, right...? I mean.... #PayAttention #Please #YouGuys

If you wanna blame someone, or something, blame the virus. But know that the virus itself is not in your control.

And I'm not gonna go on with some "we can only control our own reaction" nonsense because no. Just no.

I've been watching my older son seize for ten years. His epilepsy is not in my control.

When I had breast cancer five years ago, what happened to my body was not in my control.

When my husband went through HPV-caused tonsil cancer four years ago, how he responded to his surgeries and medications were not in my control.

Three years ago, with less than two weeks left in the school year, when my younger son fell off the goddamn monkey bars at school and broke his radius and ulna in his dominant arm and ended up in a full-arm cast for the entire summer. Guess what? Not in my control.

#ThankJesus my kid taught himself how to wipe with his left arm and hand. You know what I'm saying.

But, if you will, he also created some fantastic art, during the summer of 2017, pictured below, #ProudMomMoment

Wonder Woman pencil sketch, and Greta.

This picture hangs on my bedroom wall, on my side of the bed that I share with my husband. Our son was 9 at the time, just finished second grade, where he learned so many different ways to write the date (thanks Mrs N! You rock!) wrote, in very small print, "I did this with my left hand". #OfCourseHeDid

Also worth noting, 2017 is the year Gal Gadot's Wonder Woman exploded on our culture. And fuck yes we took the boys to see it! #DUH my kid drew this after we saw the movie. It was really pretty cool.

Oh and, let's not forget that we Andersons absofuckinlutely do things to balance the Force because, two years ago, when my younger fell off the goddamn monkey bars at Hapkido and bow-fractured his non-dominant arm at the end of the summer and ended up starting the fourth grade with a half-armed cast.

#OfCourseHeDid

#NotInMyControl

#MyLifeIsAComicBook
 
Annnnyyyyywaaayyyy, my point, of course, is that the current Coronavirus pandemic is absolutely not in our control. We can do things to prevent contracting it, like staying home, wearing a mask, and, if we feel safe, we can Bubble with others. NPR has a great 4 minute podcast that explains bubbling.  (Based upon his voice he can totally be in my bubble, yo! #ImASuckerForAccents)

Our federal leadership has failed spectacularly at it's public health campaign, with the idea that a virus is a business to manage. The individual currently occupying space in the Oval Office has decided to halt funding to the World Health Organization. As if you can just stop doing business with the health of the world. Our health is not a switch that can be turned on and off...or a contract written only to then be renegotiated or terminated.

And as of today, Friday June 26, we in Washington State are required to wear a mask while in public. We were all given a choice to be responsible citizens, but some of us had to go and fuck it up for everyone. So now we all get to wear our masks, all the time. Except you! Lady at JoAnn's who was with her daughter and think we don't see you. Rude. And dammit it's getting more and more challenging to recognize folks...but on the other hand it's a little bit easier to avoid some...we all have them and we all are them.

So you may be asking, "Well, why do I need to wear a mask that covers both my mouth and my nose?" Because #JesusRachel get to the bigger point!

The reason we need to wear masks is to protect other people. I wear a mask to protect you from contracting the Coronavirus. Because I care about you. Even though I don't know you. I recognize you as a part of my community, and to protect your health, and even the health of the people you live with, I'm willing to wear a mask when I am in public in my community.

This isn't about the government telling me what to do. Because, really? #fuckthat This is about a basic humanitarian level of caring about each other. Yet, perhaps not shockingly, wearing a mask has become political in America. And the irony is not lost on me that an entire group of people are completely pissed off that the government is telling them what to do with their body is, by and large, the same group of people who are attempting to control the health care rights of women's bodies, all while stripping health care rights away for all Americans...in the midst of a pandemic.  #FuckinSickos

I'm still over here trying to wrap my brain around why access to health care, and health care in general, are not a right as an American Citizen. Years of research have proven that having a higher education leads to better paying jobs, better health insurance, and better health care. There's a strong correlation between socioeconomic status, color of skin, and level of education. It's an area of study called Health Disparities.

So, by that, I think I'm safe to say that being a white woman married to a white man, and we both have Master's Degrees, he has great health insurance and we have this thing called, dare I say, "White Privilege." Stop clutching your pearls. It's not that shocking. And oh for fuck's sake I'll push even harder and say that my white privilege even helped me survive breast cancer. My husband survive his tonsil cancer. And #JesusKnows that having stellar health insurance makes it easier to afford the myriad medications my 13-year-old son has consumed since he was four in order to keep his seizures mostly under control.

But you guys, here's the thing. I recognize that I'm part of a community. And most of the people I choose to associate with recognize that they are a part of a community. So, when I choose to wear a mask in public, I'm choosing to say "I see you and I don't want to get you sick." Because the bottom line is I don't know if I'm shedding Coronavirus. I'm pretty sure I'm not, because there's a low community transmission rate in our county, and my family is on a pretty tight lock-down in that we have not traveled off the Peninsula since before the outbreak. But what about other people? Where have they traveled?

By not wearing a mask, are you're choosing to say "I am incapable of seeing the forest for the trees"? Are you saying that you don't care about the people in your community?

Are there exceptions? Absolutely. And you can read more about them by clicking on this link. 

But right now it is goddamn late and I am tuckered out, you guys. Thanks for reading. And, keep your nose in your mask. #ISeePenises

Love and feathers,
#MaRa

The Valley of the Sun

I descended upon The Valley of the Sun on Thursday, a little more than 48 hours before My Little Brother was scheduled to be married to his Fantastic Fiancé.

Although my flight outta The Emerald City left on time, I had trepidation about leaving. Not so much because of who I was leaving. Or because who I was going to see. It was more about who I was seated next to.

Because, let's face it, you guys, on a jumbo jet, your seat mates could be your lifeline. I mean, we're flying by the Cascade Range and over the Grand Canyon, and do pilots take mental health evaluations?  Jesus. What about that fella that stole a plane at SeaTac? It'll be fine. Maybe the pilot is Iron Maiden front man Bruce Dickinson. Heh. Randy'd be totally jealous. But Dickinson doesn't work for Alaska Airlines. Oh well.

Why is the grown woman next to me wearing glitter finger nail polish? And are they are all different but also seeming to match each finger on her opposite hand...? Oh lawd. This is my curse. I did nails in college and notice such things. Where's my oppressively thick Stephen King book?

Why doesn't her hair move very much? Her hair is past her shoulders. When my hair was long it moved all the time. She must be using a serious amount of hairspray, you guys. At least she, and her hair, aren't all perfumey and going to make me nauseous and want to vomit all over the place.

Wonder Woman Talisman

Wait a hot goddamn minute! Is the younger woman her daughter? Sister? Lover? Wife? You can never tell. Well, they clearly know each other, Doak, so be kind.

Oh Sweet Baby Jesus! She has glitter on her shoes! Where's my Wonder Woman Talisman? I bet she's really soul sisters with one of my favorite Paras, MR (You Glitter Queen, you!). Oh, well, I suppose I'll just look out the window. And read my oppressively thick Stephen King book. No ear buds or music so I can stay alert and aware. Because my seatmates may need to join #TeamAnderson and help the three of us bounce the fuck outta there pronto! You with me?

I had my new Vans on. The Boob Shoes. Because I needed something easy on-easy off getting through security. Also, just so ya know, the shoelaces say "Do It Yourself"...so these are totally on point for me and my family.

The Boob Shoes #Vans

And if I've got boobs on my shoes, she can have glitter on her shoes. It's all good. Just don't shed glitter on me, mkay? Because I'm not shedding my boobs onto you. 

I've descended upon The Valley of the Sun before. The last time was in the late nineties. When my husband and I were dating...and then when we lived in sin...we'd head south on Interstate 17 from Flagstaff to Phoenix for the day. It took about an hour-and-a-half back then...In my day...and because of the numerous mountains and valleys in Arizona, yes, it really was up hill both ways, you guys.

When I lived in Arizona, Phoenix was never a destination for an extended time. It was a stopping place between Flagstaff and Tucson for gas and a bathroom break when I'd head home for a long weekend. Phoenix was a place for concerts. Except that time we were so poor in December 1996 we couldn't go see Garbage open for The Smashing Pumpkins. That defined serious disappointment for me.

So, long story short (too, late, I know)...the passenger next to me was a cervical cancer survivor: she had chemo and radiation, but she never lost her hair...the lucky girl. I told her that when I shaved my head, my older son chose to shave his head...but that my younger son freaked out and ran and hid and we couldn't find him for about 10 minutes. It was scary...to have Mommy look so different. Oh! And the younger passenger was a math major. So, cancer + math = BFF on a 3 hour flight to Phoenix. #Winning

The cancer survivor was heading to The Valley of the Sun for time with her family. She was also going to Sedona. As an alumnus of Northern Arizona University, I recommended she take 89A from Sedona up to Flagstaff. She asked what Sedona was like. I told her that the Yavapai Indians consider Sedona a holy place...but times have changed and sometimes there are people who tape crystals to their foreheads and sit in front of Bell Rock, waiting for a vortex to open. That usually the Vortex Seekers were harmless, but it was a good idea to keep your distance and not interrupt the energy exchange between said Vortex Seeker and the Vortex Site...because you sure as shit do not want to get sucked into a Vortex. It could be like a Black Hole and we'd never see you again. Also, be proud of me, you guys, because I refrained from telling her about Blow Job Rock. No really, it's a thing. You're welcome.

The younger woman was a math major and looking at Grand Canyon University. She asked me what it was like to live in the desert. I told her that during the summer, it's like living in an oven, and you cannot get naked enough to cool off when it's over 100 degrees for over 100 days, but that with the A/C on, you can cool a room down to 72* and have the perception of being cool. I told her that wearing pantyhose in the desert is akin to wearing a scuba suit and trying to walk in water: ZERO FUN. And that, while 100 degrees for over 100 days is completely oppressive, your face will not actually melt off like that Nazi at the end of "Raiders." She was like 16 and did not get my cultural reference, you guys. She said, "But it's a dry heat, right?" And since she's lived her entire life in Klamath Falls, Oregon, and really had no idea WTAF a "dry heat" is...I simply said, "Yes. It's a dry heat," and left it at that.

And, yes, the two women knew each other because they met on the plane from Medford, OR to Seattle. Then they happened to sit next to each other on the flight from Seattle to Phoenix. Sometimes life just works like that. Why they chose to fly Medford-Seattle-Phoenix and not Medford-Portland-Phoenix wasn't discussed. And, really, it wasn't important. My seatmates were delightful and it was a great way to descend upon The Valley of the Sun.

I landed just before lunch and the plan was for The Kid to pick me up at the airport. And so he did. Here we are.

Me and My Little Brother. He's super adorable.

Upon My Little Brother picking me up at the airport, we drove 30 minutes all the way the hell out to East Mesa because he needed up some photo booth thing for the reception. Then we drove 30 minutes back to Phoenix because I was starving. And it was hot. Not melt your face off hot. That shit usually goes down in July. But it was hot for this #PNWWoman.

We ended up eating a delicious vegan lunch at a restaurant called Green New American. An old friend who lives in The Valley of the Sun said this place was delicious. And since The Kid knows his food because he spent a lot of his college career waiting tables, this place was on point and tasted nothing like sticks and leaves. French fries covered in vegan ranch dressing, vegan cheese, and red hot sauce? With a "burger"? Sure. Why not? #WhenInRome

I'm thankful we had the time together, just me and My Little Brother, alone. We had some pretty rich discussions about things related to his wedding: Our Parents, members of the Egyptian Cohort who were also descending upon the Valley of the Sun, my husband and our kids, and life in general. When I asked him if he was happy, he said yes. And I truly believe in my heart that he is.

Since his Beautiful Bride was in clinic until after dinner, and needed to manage the Egyptian Cohort, The Kid and I made a plan to have dinner with just Our Parents. Really it was for me to get eyes on them and for The Kid and I to have time alone with Our Folks. And, it was during this time I learned more about My Parents and their capabilities as senior citizens...and how scary it can be to age.

The last time I had eyes on My Parents, it was in the spring of 2016. It was after My Cancer Adventure...and about six weeks before my husband was diagnosed with his own cancer. And when I last saw them, it was in Tucson. So, seeing them in Phoenix...not in their natural environment...and out of their comfort zone...combined with the myriad emotions that come up during weddings...it was bound to be eye opening for me.

Before My Little Brother and I arrived at the Airbnb my Future Sister-In-Law arranged for My Parents stay at for the weekend...well let's just say that may or may not be a blog post for another time. At this point, I'll simply say that teaching people who are not tech savvy to use an electronic keypad to unlock the front door didn't go over well...my Dad's flip-phone ran out of minutes...and the "helpful neighbor across the street who seemed nice" because he let My Dad use his phone to call My Little Brother...and then My Dad repeated the keypad code to My Little Brother and the neighbor ended up with the code for the keypad...which is essentially the keys to the house...yeah....

So, my entire family is very thankful the owner of the Airbnb was incredibly compassionate, came over and disengaged the electronic keypad, and gave My Senior Citizen Parents a plain old key to get in and out of her rental property. My Little Brother the Public Defender diplomatically pointed out to Our Folks that for all we know, the "nice neighbor" could be the neighborhood meth dealer and my Dad just accidentally gave the keys to the house to him. #Whoops

In a way, I left my family in the Pacific Northwest with all of it's health issues...to go to the Desert Southwest to manage my family with all of it's health issues. It was setting up to be quite a fun-stressful-supportive-crazy-once-in-a-lifetime experience in the Valley of the Sun.

And I missed my husband all weekend.

I think perhaps...

I think perhaps, the best thing I did for myself was getting far the fuck away from my male housemates, physically, geographically, mentally, and spiritually for four full nights last week.

It's made this nasty GI bug that has impacted all four of us significantly more tolerable.

While in Phoenix I had no idea that my family would, within 36 hours of my return, be welcoming me home with what some folks call "the stomach flu...."

I've been up to my eyeballs in bodily fluids, including my own, starting with my older son waking up twice in the wee hours of Tuesday morning with vomiting. In a positive spin, he made it all the way down the hall and into the toilet, both times. He's come a long way.

Typically I'm the parent who deals with puking, while my husband is the parent who deals with Kids in the Night (that's got the potential to be a teen horror movie, so I'm claiming it now!). However, my husband, being a very kind man, dealt with the older boy in the night...knowing I'd be home dealing with the day shift. Because the older one always gets hit harder.

When I was in Phoenix, I spent all day Friday in bed. I was unable to keep down any food or water. I ran no temperature. Maybe I had something...but it felt more like a hangover...so I'm rolling with that self-assessment. It was secretly kind of nice...just the no obligation thing...not the puking thing.

I think perhaps I know myself pretty well...and am humble enough to say I'm still learning about myself and my life.

While in Phoenix, I had the opportunity to learn about how my relationships with each of my parents have changed. For most of my life, I battled with my mother. For reasons I can only speculate on, my dad appears to be angry at me. I think perhaps he's incredibly frustrated with his situation.

Never in our wildest dreams do we anticipate our life turning out as it does. I never thought I'd be a college instructor...or the mom of a child with disabilities...or a yogi...a breast cancer survivor...a tonsil cancer caregiver.... Similarly, I think perhaps my dad never anticipated that his retirement would be about caring for his wife in her rapid decline. Her brain is atrophying...she has very little color in her face...she's lost weight compared to the last time I saw her at the end of March 2016.

She's become quite happy...or at least she appears to be. I took my parents and My Little Brother to dinner on Thursday night in The Valley of the Sun. We went to some #GoddamnFancyPantsPlacePlace in Scottsdale called Postino. It was delicious. The Kid knows his food. And points to him for picking a place that accommodates his veganism and my need for real cheese. #Duh

Anyway, after dinner, we four made a stop at Safeway because the Airbnb my folks were staying at didn't have any food in the fridge...because that's how Airbnbs work. Incidentally, the Airbnb arrangements were made by the Beautiful Bride. Needless to say, The Newlyweds learned a lot and My Folks will not be staying at an Airbnb again.

So, naturally there was a huge discussion about who should go in the grocery store, make decisions about what people were going to eat, and be quick about it. #FuckThatNoise #ImOnVacation So, go Dad, go! You take your boy. I'll stay in the car with mom. Bro, gimme your keys so we can lock ourselves in. My ringer is on in case Dad needs to ask Mom questions. But you text me. Do not hand him your phone and let him call because then we will never leave Safeway, dude, you know what I'm sayin? Take your time. Trust me when I tell you he needs the mental health break. Dividing and conquering is how to parent The Parents. It's all good. It's why I flew solo.

As my mom and I were sitting in the car, even though she asked me at least three times how old my boys are, or what grade they are in, we had a delightful and relaxed conversation. I patiently answered her questions. I also explained that The Boys were not here for many reasons, including school, expense, sports, and stress. She completely understood. I told her that they enjoy things like Living Room Soccer, Hallway Baseball, and World Wrestling Federation: Living Room Edition. We had a good, and much needed laugh together.

So she appears happy. My dad...not so much....

While at the wedding reception of My Little Brother and his Beautiful Bride, I gave myself opportunities to have conversations with folks who are my parents' ages, people I know they consider close family friends. These people have been a part of my family as long as I can remember. Apparently, whenever my dad brings up my mom's health, and specifically her brain health, to my mom...my mom gets pissed and doesn't want to talk about it. And that's completely understandable. Denial is their coping mechanism. Alternatively, they are incredibly private people.

In my research and teaching of the health of aging...hopefully we make it there, right? Anyway, the research shows that strategically, it's best to not argue with them. In fact, it can just get you in trouble. I think perhaps my dad needs to develop some strategies to help himself best help her.

To help them both, I've printed the information in the "printer friendly" version from above link and will send it down to them. Because #JesusKnows that had I chosen to print the page, my dad would've become overwhelmed and thrown it away. The Internet is such a trend.

My dad is a prideful man and appears to be completely satisfied with his "ignorance is bliss" mentality towards the fact that he's not on the Internet...no, really, I wish I was making this piece up. I distinctly recall living in Flagstaff, attending NAU, 23+ years ago, having a Math T/A require we have an e-mail...? WTF is this email nonsense? And who in the goddmamn does that T/A think he is requiring such shenanigans? Seriously, you guys. Is he really that important? Yes. Yes he is. #MathProfRockStar

I recall my dad calling the Internet "trendy"...he said it was a soup of the day. #JesusDad #IThinkPerhapsHeDoesntKnowWhatAHashtagIs #GodLoveHim #WhatElseCanYaDo And now, the Internet and the Information Age is just how the world works. And no, my dad's got no #GoddamnClue about Amazon. Netflix? Prolly not...Maybe a DVD Player...? But I'd bet money the VCR still blinks 12:00. I know for a fact it's a VHS and not Beta.

If you haven't jumped on the Web...well, as my dad said, he's on a stage coach and everyone else is driving a car. I think perhaps a better analogy is he's chosen to remain with the Flintstones, and damn near everyone else is like the Jetsons! Bless his heart.

Anyway, I've also printed a picture of me, My Little Brother, and our folks, the night before The Kid got married in an elaborate ceremony (more on that to come). In typing this, and putting some pieces together in my head, I recognize this could be one of the last pictures the four of us take while my parents, my mom in particular, is coherent. I'm not intending to sound cold...it's just reality, you guys.

My Little Brother, Mom, Me, Dad. The night before The Kid got hitched.

Today is Friday and it's the first day my older son went to school since Monday. My younger son had a horrible night and didn't sleep...because of the GI bug. My husband drove my older son to school, and went to work...but ended up canceling classes and came home. I'll leave soon to pick up my older son, and make a couple of stops on the way...including getting a card for my parents, and a stop at the Post Office to mail the card, the info on dementia care-giving, and the picture of the four of us. Hopefully the picture will distract her, jog her memory, and my dad can keep the paperwork on the down low. We'll see.... It may just end up in the trash. In my heart, I know I've tried my best and set boundaries.

Ultimately, at the end of the day, to my dad, it doesn't matter that I'm a college Health instructor, and I research and I teach about topics such as aging. It doesn't matter to him that I have years of experience caring for my son, whom I love very deeply and who happens to have myriad neurological disorders, struggle to simply get through the day sometimes...and that he needs a pretty significant daily dose of anti-seizure medications to stay healthy. That doesn't matter to my dad. Like I said, he's got a lot of pride. From his perspective, I don't have a clue what I'm talking about because, the bottom line for him is: I am a child. I will always be a child. I will never be an adult. In. His. Eyes.

I think perhaps this has something to do with the fact that he's never seen me parent. I've never traveled with my children to Arizona. The last time my parents were in my home in Washington State, my 13-year-old son was ten months. You read that correctly. Ten months old. And, no, they've never even met my 10-year-old. It's horribly unfortunate and quite disappointing that my kids do not know...will never know...my folks.

But, I'm allowed to be a selfish bitch, and if you don't have the courage, the capacity, the ability, to deal with me, my husband, our kids, and our numerous health issues, of which I'm quite outspoken, then you don't deserve us. No matter our connection prior to those numerous health issues. You don't get us dad, and mom. My Little Brother, and his Beautiful Bride: they get us. He came up during My Cancer Adventure. And in the space of 10 months, they came up to visit us TWICE. They get us. Just like I told every guest at their reception when I made an awesomely witty speech and toasted them. They. Get. Us.

Except when they got married. Then they only got me live and in person. But, they still get us as a family. Because that's what family does.

They get it.

On a slightly different note...and bringing us full circle back to "the stomach flu"...it's my blog, so I think perhaps I'll get on my soapbox now...

I think perhaps...actually I know people that say "the stomach flu" make me want to poke out my goddamn eyes.

There is no "stomach flu" people.

The flu, or influenza, is a respiratory infection. It hits you in the lungs. Not the gut.

So, with kids who have parents who smoke, those kids are at an increased risk for influenza and other respiratory impairments, like asthma and bronchitis, as well as ear infections...because they are inhaling secondhand smoke.

And while I recognize that folks have the best of intentions when they say "the stomach flu" it really tends to be a pet peeve of many health care professionals I know. So, please, use the correct terms. If you have "GI issues" and are dealing with barfing and hoping to make it to the toilet before you have liquid come out of your ass, then you're more than likely dealing with Norovirus. Alternately, you could also be dealing with Ebola, but that usually involves hemorrhaging. Like, bleeding out of your ass. And, Ebola hasn't yet made it to America. Hopefully it doesn't.

Also, you can feel free to watch this nifty 60 second video that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention made about the flu. And refrain from whatever your stance is on vaccines. #ScienceWorks

Peace out, dudes.

Thanks for reading.

And wash your hands.

#MaRa
Ringleader
Anderson Family Circus

Finer Than Frog's Hair

My patience has been finer than frog's hair lately. Completely non-existent.

A little over a month ago, we separated our sons' room. They'd been sharing their room, in bunk beds, for seven...or maybe closer to eight...years...? We combined their rooms when they were about 5 and 2-1/2 years old. They started sleeping in the same room when we only dealt with one major health issue, my older son's epilepsy.

They shared a room though his subsequent autism diagnosis. And developmental delay diagnosis. The other neurological diagnoses that make him who he is.

My older son on the bottom bunk because he is bigger; my younger son on top bunk since he is smaller and more nimble. The Tortoise and the Hare.

They had each other throughout my Breast Cancer Adventure. Diagnosis. Lumpectomy. Chemo. Radiation. They were 8 and 6.

And they slept under the same glowing stars when their father was diagnosed with HPV-caused tonsil cancer. They were 9 and 7.

Now, at 12-1/2 and 10, they need their own space. We have three bedrooms. And I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired, so I said yes to the huge change.

My younger son was creating his birthday list, and asked to have his own room. We set a date for the move, April 27, the Saturday before his tenth birthday. Two days before the move, he and his training partner leveled up at Hapkido. So there was definitely some positive Qi in the air.

Separation Day went smoothly, we'd been talking about The Separation for quite some time. We had a firm date a few days before, as we were coordinating with our dear friend Prof Z, Physicist of All Trades. We needed help taking bunk beds apart. Because duh. I mean, one time, my husband and I tried hanging up a medicine cabinet together, and nearly filed for divorce. So, to save our marriage, and not have "bunk beds" as the reason on the divorce decree, we asked for and received help.

The following Tuesday was another milestone for my younger son: the Tenth anniversary of having my vagina ripped open by birth for the last time in my life, #thankyoujesus Birthday. And in my house, by default, that means cupcakes at school. And that means he gets thrown ten times at Hapkido, which is something both of my kids really enjoy.

This year's throwing was extra special because my younger son was going to be thrown by his mentor. And he had a ton of questions about which throws she was going to do on him. To which I'd reply something like, "I don't know. It's out of my control. But Ms. V knows what she's doing." And thinking in my head, "Jesus, kid, I sure hope you sleep tonight." For my son, being Hapkidoed by a mentor is a dream that is akin to my husband having a personal conversation over dinner with Stephen Hawking. Or maybe not because he's dead, and I'm pretty sure he ate through a g-tube...even though Randy did at one time, too. Ok, maybe a better analogy is me having a dinner conversation with Dr. Ruth Westenheimer.  No, really, she's still alive, you guys...and she's got a new thing going on the Internet...because she's a badass.

Anyway, the six weeks that my kids have been sleeping apart have been a huge transition for all of us. Especially my older son, since he has myriad neurological challenges, including puberty...which is a clusterfuck for any family. But my 12-1/2 year old is the one who moved...down the hall...into the room that was once his room when my kids slept apart.

And my patience is finer than frog's hair. Completely non-existent.

Any change takes time to adjust. There was a grace period where my older son was allowed to go into his old room/his brother's room, and my younger son was absolutely not permitted to scream about anything. But, naturally, he did. Especially when my older son touches my younger son's Legos. #SweetJesusTheresNoFuckinReasonToScreamOverLegos

And I get it. It's a constant fucking pissing contest between them. They are kids. They are boys. They are competitive. They are establishing boundaries and dominance. I get it. But seriously, you guys. Put your penises the fuck away. You're not in charge. I am. And I can piss circles around both of you. Standing up. With my eyes closed. #Bitches

Because getting a child through puberty, who is the opposite gender from you, and is developmentally delayed, is not going to be easy. Imagine your child at the age of five. Now try explaining puberty to your child. Yup. That's what were doing here at the Anderson Family Circus.

Not to mention that he's graduating from sixth grade next week. And Movin' On Up to the Middle School, which is a huge transition and stressful for any kid. Yes, we had a tour. Yes, I'm communicating with the Middle School.

So, even though my patience is finer than frog's hair...completely non-existent...I'm doing my best to get through the changes that my kids are dealing with as individuals. And as much as I like to forget that it's been four years since I went through my Cancer Adventure, and three years since my husband went through his Cancer Near Death Experience...having patience for all of the things is really fucking hard.

I'm doing my best to remind myself that I'm human, and that mistakes are inevitable. Ultimately, change happens, and as much as I'd love to smother them both, my job as a parent is to support and guide them.


#AndAlso I'm not into going to prison. Who would run the Circus, you guys?

Happy Birthday, Mom

Happy Birthday, Mom!

You're 70 years old!

It's quite an accomplishment to make it to 70.

How does it feel?

Do you know?

Do you know that you're officially a septuagenarian?

Do you remember your birthday?

I worry you don't.

Because I know your brain hasn't been working properly for at least 10 years.

Do you remember that your own father was in a nursing home at the end of his life and that he didn't recognize your mother, to whom he was married for 50 years? 

Dementia runs in our family.

But so does denial.

It's your coping mechanism.

I get it.

I wish I could ignore the fact that you choose to ignore your health.

I wish I could ignore the fact that my own child has numerous neurological disorders.

I wish I could change a lot of things for both of you.

But I'm not capable of fixing either one of you.

I can do my best to help you.

And him.

But you're an adult.

Turning into a child.

Whereas my son is a child turning into an adult.

Who will likely never live on his own.

Never truly be independent.

I know now why you haven't been to visit me and my family for 12 years.

Why you've never met my younger son.

He'll be 10 years old at the end of this month.

The last time you were in my home, my older son was 10 months old.

He'll be 13 in September.

Do you know that?

Probably not.

Because you don't even know us.

Because you live in a State of Denial.

It's too overwhelming for you to travel.

It's too overwhelming for you to look me in the eye and acknowledge that your grandson is a lovely boy who doesn't live up to your unattainable expectations of perfection.

He is disabled.

It's too overwhelming for you to look me and my husband in the eye and acknowledge that, even though I asked you and Dad several times to come visit us over the years, including in 2015 when I was going through breast cancer treatments, fighting for my life, you didn't come.

And here I thought, because I was told, that you and Dad always had my back.

That you'd always support me.

Nope.

And here I thought that, if your kid gets a cancer diagnosis, you get on a plane and you go to where ever they are, because, ultimately, I'm still your kid.

Happy Birthday, Mom. 

That seizure disorder diagnosis that you received in September 2018?

Probably related to your dementia.

But maybe not.

When I talked to my son's pediatric neurologist about your diagnosis, and told him the medication your on, he explained that it's impossible to know if the dementia is caused by the seizures, or the seizures is caused by the dementia.

It's a classic "chicken or egg" thing.

And, Dad?

Poor Dad.

I know he put off his retirement because he knew his retirement wasn't going to go as he anticipated.

I know he anticipated traveling.

Maybe even up to see me and my husband and our boys.

Nope.

I know he anticipated being able to take his woodworking career and turn it into a hobby.

He made a desk for my Little Brother.

And a gigantic clock for us.

But his work has been caring for you.

And raising a Golden Retriever puppy.

Having a puppy right now is fucking insane.

I'm sorry your older Golden died unexpectedly and traumatically.

But why in the goddamn did you guys agree to get a puppy?

Whatever.

Not my problem.

You guys are adults.

You made your decisions.

I just wish you guys would stop and think about your own futures.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Do you remember that my dear friend and I flew down from Washington to Arizona about this time three years ago?

Because I needed to see for myself what was going on. 

It was about six weeks before my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 tonsil cancer.

Do you remember that you and I went to breakfast alone?

That I told you the story of how I found my lump on a breast self-exam. That I ended up having breast cancer. And how I advocated for my own health when I was a cancer patient?

Do you remember?

That I pleaded with you to please get the help you needed and deserved?

That I got home and printed off information about the care you could receive at the University of Arizona from their program on senior citizens?

Because you and Dad aren't on the Web.

Because you guys told me over twenty years ago that "the Internet is a fad."

Because you both live in a State of Denial.

Consequently, you guys have no idea how the current world works.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I hope you like the quilt I made for you and Dad.

I put a label on the bottom left corner on the back side.

And included the date I created it.

To help you remember.

But do you think it's a new quilt every time you walk in the room and see it?

Did you hang it up?

Or are you using it as a blanket?

Either way.

I anticipate that you'll fold it up and put it in a corner and forget about it.

I anticipate that you will not hang it up.

I know you had the interior of your home painted about five years ago, and that you don't want to re-hang the photos and artwork because you don't want to put holes in the walls.

Weird.

But whatever.

It's your home.

Your decisions.

But don't worry.

I'll suck it up and drag my entire family to Arizona for my Little Brother's wedding in November.

I'll start training my kids in April about how to get on an airplane.

We're taking a major field trip to the Museum of Flight. 

And I also found this awesome program, called Wings for Autism.

Here, watch this 6 minute video, which explains the program.

And what my family will do.

What I'll put them through because I love my Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé.

Because they love us.

And we love them.

And this is what we do for people that we love. 

Because, seriously, how long has it been since our family had something beautiful and delightful happen?

How long has it been since we could all be together and be happy?

How long since we celebrated?

I don't remember.

And even though My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé gave me, my husband, and our kids a free pass...and told me that because of everything we deal with...if we are unable to make it to their wedding, they completely understand...and will not be offended.

Nope.

We're making plans to descend upon the desert in the fall.

Because, ultimately, this is likely to be the only opportunity you will be given to meet my boys.

To have an inkling of what my life is like.

To see me as a parent.

Who knows...between your neurological disorders and my son's neurological disorders, maybe the two of you will become as thick as thieves.

At the very least, you'll both enjoy listening to The Beatles.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I love you.

Love,
Rachel
xoxo

Dad's Shirts

Dad's shirts arrived in the mail in a plain brown box in April 2017. Understandably, Mom needed to take her time to go through them; they were now incredibly special treasures, containing memories of times gone by and places they had traveled to together. She needed to process, in her own way, what it meant to pack up her deceased husband's shirts to send to me, with the plan being for me to cut some, possibly all, of these shirts up and then sew them back together as a memorial quilt. She didn't know which shirts I would end up working with when she bravely packed them up in Oklahoma, sealed the box and addressed it to my husband and me, and took them to have them shipped all the way up to Northwestern Washington.

Mom and I had many conversations about this project, prior to her shipping them up. I requested creative control, which Mom agreed to. However, she had one caveat: she needed the shirt that Dad had designed and made himself to be in the middle...

...because, obviously, Dad had an incredible sense of humor. And really, you guys, he made it. Because that's what he & Mom used to do for a living before they retired in 2013...about 6 months before Dad was diagnosed. They planned on spending their retirement traveling in their big and beautiful 5th wheel trailer.

My husband's Father was diagnosed with stage 4 prostate cancer in October 2013. And, basically, stage 4 cancer means you're in some serious shit. Like, you really don't EVER want to hear your doctor tell you that. You don't ever want to hear your husband's physician say to your husband, "You have stage 4 cancer." It's the worst of the worst...of the worst.

But Dad, just being Dad, did a bunch of his own research on his disease, he educated himself, and he found a drug study that he was able to participate in which helped to extend his life by about 18 months.

Dad ♡

When my father-in-law passed away in June of 2015, I was going through my own breast cancer chemotherapy treatments. Sometimes life is just fucked up like that. My husband did not attend this father's funeral, which was in Oklahoma. His father was a firm "no" on the topic.

Actually, it was more like an ABSOLUTELY NOT!

He did not expect his son to leave me alone with our two boys, who were 8 and 6 at the time, and home on summer break. Now would probably be a good time to mention that our oldest son has myriad neurological disorders and requires extra supports to get through the day. Because sometimes life is just fucked up like that.

Sorting out child care as a single parent going through chemo...? While I know that there are parents that do not have the choice, I am eternally grateful that my father-in-law was generous enough to not put me through that. I am thankful that he was not so selfish in his dying days that he put his son in a position to choose between staying in Northwestern Washington State with his family who was depending upon him like never before, and traveling to Oklahoma to attend his funeral. A dying father made a decision for his adult child; it was a tremendous gift.

What are ya gonna do?

We visited with him frequently via video chat. We saw him as often as we could all emotionally and physically manage. Being a cancer patient is exhausting. Caring for a cancer patient is taxing. Parenting a child with special needs is incredibly stressful. All of that combined? The amount of pressure we were all under is hard to describe...but at a certain point you have to just surrender that sometimes life happens big time for some families. What are ya gonna do?

While we all emotionally struggled with our own grief in our own way during his passing, we all ultimately respected Dad's dying wish. It was one less decision my husband and I had to make during an already life-altering time for each of us as individuals; for who we were as a couple; for what it means to be parents; and even as adult children, we needed Dad to make this decision...but we didn't know what we needed. Thanks, Dad. I love you.

We all grieve in our own way. There's no "right" or "wrong" to it. It's unique to each individual. So, it didn't surprise me that it took my mother-in-law to take nearly two years to send up the box of shirts. There were about two dozen in all. Not all of them were cotton. I was taught to quilt by old school quilters before my kids were born: cotton.

Cotton-poly blend...ehhh...not so much.

But those 100% cotton t-shirts with all the cool stuff Dad loved? Yup! Gimme those!

However, the box sat in the closet, sorry, Mom, for quite some time. My husband wasn't ready. I was not capable of going through the box myself; at the end of the day, it's his Dad, and he needs to go through it when he's ready. I gently encouraged him when it first arrived...and he pushed back. His own experience with cancer wasn't far enough behind him. His experience as my caregiver during my cancer wasn't far enough behind us. We became busy, as we all do, and the box sat in the closet. For a very, very long time...forgotten...seen occasionally...not quite ready...maybe it was used more than once to cover up a few Christmas gifts for the boys...I'm sure Dad was happy to oblige in a little conspiracy for the boys he loved so much....

Me, texting with my MIL

And then, out of the blue, one day in November 2018, Mom texted me and said, basically, "How's it coming with the quilt?"

I think the first thing I did was say, "Randy! Can you please get that box of your Dad's shirts outta the closet? I gotta get started on that t-shirt quilt for your Mom!"

And then I texted Mom back a few minutes later and said, "Oh, it's coming along...."

The one that got away

My husband opened the box, and he went through the shirts. He separated the t-shirts from the button down shirts. He decided to keep the short-sleeved button down shirts and give me the t-shirts for the quilt. There were a total of 10 t-shirts, however, 9 of them ended up going in the quilt. The last one my husband decided to keep for himself to possibly wear, because it's Batman. Old school Batman.


Now, making a t-shirt quilt is quite an involved process because t-shirts are made from pretty stretchy material...where quilting fabric is, comparatively, less forgiving. It's a tighter weave...and thicker. So you don't use quilting fabric in a wet t-shirt contest.

Also, t-shirt fabric can roll in on itself, and when you're sewing fabric together, you need flat edges...you don't need fabric rolling in on itself because that would make you so frustrated you'd end up throwing your goddam sewing machine through a fuckin' window. So to help keep your sanity from shattering like a pane of glass, you have to get this stuff called fusible interfacing. And this is totally worth it because without it, your t-shirts won't last as long, and quilts are made to be used for years, unlike wet t-shirts. So, the interfacing makes the t-shirt fabric stronger. Got it?

Back of the front of a shirt, with interfacing

It's a necessary step. It's a pain in the ass and it's hella time consuming, but it's not a negotiable thing. First you cut the t-shirts up the seam on each side, then you cut the sleeves at the shoulder...on the seams.

Make sure you check each sleeve because sometimes souvenir t-shirt designers think they are clever and put stuff on the sleeve and you gotta decide if you're gonna incorporate that into the quilt.

Then you gently cut the collar out of the shirt out. You have to be careful here, because some times there can be a design close to the neck, and you certainly don't want to go cutting someone's design. I mean, that's just rude.

Anyway then you take your ironing board and your iron and you have to press, not iron back and forth, but PRESS the fusible interfacing on to the inside of the front of the t-shirt. And you have to HOLD the iron on the fabric for about 10-15 seconds. And you have to have a towel or a cloth diaper or some bullshit piece of fabric between the interfacing and the
iron because you certainly don't have time to get the adhesive from the interfacing off of your iron....

Press the iron. Count to ten slowly. Move the iron. Press the iron. Count to ten slowly. Move the iron. Repeat. A lot. All over the shirt.

On the design wall

I did that for nine shirts. I made each block about 15 inches wide by 17 inches tall. I honored Mom's request that the white Guinea Pig High Powered Drug Control Testing Specimen t-shirt be in the middle. I made sure that the one shirt that had writing on the sleeve was added in. And then I played with different options on my design wall, which is really fancy...it's the underside of a cheap table cloth...the other side is vinyl. And you just put the shirts on the wall...no pins...nothing fancy...just run your hand over it to make it stick.

As I worked on this project in November, with the goal to get it to Mom by Christmas, my family slipped in and out of gastrointestinal illnesses that were going around in our community. Life was telling us to slow down in a way that it hadn't in a while...quilts can wait.

Double border

But we talked a lot about Dad...about Pop-pop...while I worked on this quilt. He was with us. Perhaps he wanted to spend Christmas with us, and that's why I didn't make my personal deadline. Sorry, Mom. But I know you get it better than my own parents do. Thank you for being who you are. 

In our conversations, I asked my husband what his Dad's favorite thing to do was. "Fish," was what #RandySaid

...and as a result, we chose to do a double border: a thin inner border of light blue for water, and a wider outer border full of fishing lures. It was one of those things that just came together.

In the process of sandwiching Dad's Shirts. 

The back of the quilt is also worth considering...and I tend to overthink things. Elvis fabric? They fell in love listening to The King. No. That didn't feel right. Too masculine. After all, it's technically for Mom. Green? Eh...it could work. Brown? Maybe. Purple...of course, because it's Mom's favorite color. But also because no matter what happened, she always had Dad's back. A deep royal purple was in order. The purple is for you, Mom. 

Then I had to sandwich it. No, for real, that's what it's called, you guys.

Basting the quilt

I don't have room in my home for a long-arm quilting machine. But I do have laminate flooring. So, I asked my family to move the dining room table, it was before lunch, and they were feeling really quite helpful throughout this particular project. Then I busted out the 2" wide masking tape, and got down on my hands and knees and taped the back of the quilt to the dining room floor, making sure it was rather taut, keeping the seam in the purple straight. There can be no wrinkles in the fabric.

Then I got the quilt batting and laid that on top of the back of the quilt. And it had to be smooth...no wrinkles. I use the long edge my 24" x 6" flat ruler to gently flatten the batting...kind of a push broom...for the smoothing process.

And then I laid out the quilt top. Again, smoothing it with the edge of the ruler.

And then, finally, I basted the quilt by pinning the shit out of it. I used my flat 24" x 6" ruler again, and safety-pinned all three layers together, in 4" increments, so it'll end up a gigantic grid. I do this so because the old school quilters said. Also, when I eventually untape and pick up the quilt sandwich, it will all stay together and nothing slides around.

The 12 year old sews

And that's sandwiching a quilt.

The final measurements of Dad's Shirts was about 58" wide by about 66" long, so the sandwiching process took a couple of hours of sitting and moving on the floor. It's very grounding, and I think about the type of stitching, or quilting I'm going to do, as I'm moving around and pinning.

And by the way, having quilting as a hobby...it's ain't for the inflexible. Quilting is rather physical. Thank you, me, for giving myself 20+ years of regular yoga practice.

The 9.5 year old sews

Aaaaanyway...so I quilted this bad boy with coordinating thread to match each individual t-shirt. When I was making this quilt, I thought about, and put the call out via Facebook, for quilting with invisible thread. I appreciate the folks who helped and for the loan of invisible thread. However, a very wise quilter at my local quilt shop advised me to not explore invisible thread with this quilt. Why? Too emotional. Dad's Shirts is...and was...a very emotional piece of art for me to be given the opportunity to create. I am very proud to have made something so beautiful. I was, and am, thankful that my Mom-in-law trusted me and loves me and is confident in my crazy ideas and my abilities. But this was absolutely not the quilt to learn to do something new on. I'll save the invisible thread for another time.

So, while matching 12 threads to 12 t-shirts was tedious, it's ok because I added some new colors of thread to my stash. For the bottom thread, on the back of the quilt, I used a variegated purple thread, because I wanted dashes of lighter purples in the back of the quilt. 

Back & binding

I selected a deep burgundy for the binding. The binding of a quilt is the part that goes around the perimeter and part of it is attached to the quilt with a machine. But, the old school quilters said that you are going sit yo'ass down and you're gonna finish that quilt up in your lap, by hand, and use a whip stitch. You do the last step with love. Never with hate. That's only for cooking. 

Label, on the back left bottom corner. Ruler is 12"x6".

It is worth noting, as a Washingtonian, that I did NOT choose purple for the Huskies and burgundy for the Cougars... besides...WSU is crimson, and crimson and burgundy are not the same color. Google it. I did. I'm just too goddamn tired to do a link. I can't give you everything, you guys...be a little bit responsible for your own learning, mkay?

Attaching the label

Because both of my sons sewed on Dad's Shirts, I asked them to help me with the creation of the label. I surrounded the label with dark blue butterflies, because Mom loves butterflies, and Dad loved blue.  The label was attached by hand.

Port Angeles, WA shirt

While working on this project, I remembered fond times of when Dad and Mom came to visit us when we lived in Las Vegas. And I'm thankful they also made it all the way up to Port Angeles to visit us before Dad's diagnosis. Seeing Pop-pop take Angry Birds lessons from my older son, slide down the slide and play with his grandsons is a memory I cherish.

Dad having an Angry Birds lesson

Dad and I's, flying high!

To make sure everything was secure and my quilt was ready to go, I threw it in the washer and dryer, like you do...and it passed inspection. I put Dad's shirts in a large plastic garbage bag, to make sure it was protected, just in case anything happened during shipping.

Hair back; safety first!

And then I put it in a box. Oh! And Mr 9.5 made a couple of one-seam-fleece hats: one for Mom and one for her brother. He was quite proud of these because his entire fourth grade class made hats one day because their teacher is awesome like that! And it would be remiss if me if I didn't include a picture. Boys sew. It's cool, you guys.

And then I put that box into a larger box. Because I'm paranoid about something happening to this one-of-a-kind creation. Of shirts that my Father-in-law used to wear. When he was alive.

It was a stressful couple of days, just after Christmas when I shipped this very special package off. I was regularly checking USPS.com and would get anxious when I didn't know where Dad's Shirts was. But I knew when it was out for delivery. And I made arrangements for Mom to sign for it. Because, you don't cut up your Father-in-law's shirts only to sew them back together and make a memorial quilt for your Mother-in-law and then send it without requesting a signature on delivery. Duh!

Regardless, she texted me when she got it. Thanks, Mom, for trusting me with this. It was an honor and a privilege to create this. Thanks to my husband for always having a keen eye for fabric. Thanks to my sons for helping create something beautiful for Grandma.

Dad's Shirts, 58"x66"