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

Budding Violinist

I'm doing my best to not go down the "holy hell what did we just do to permanently damage everyone's hearing" rabbit hole. I have ear plugs and headphones at the ready, just in case the rumors are true that it's really that bad.

But, in an autism home, we have that stuff at the ready anyway, because sometimes our hearing gets super sensitive. Usually it's before me or one of the boys gets sick, or if someone else has been yelling and melting and raging at me for hours, like he has been recently...since weeks before the start of the school year...because transition...and his twelfth birthday...and testosterone...sixth grade. The season is changing, the days are becoming shorter, and the air has grown invigoratingly brisk at our house....the Big-Leaf Maples are turning golden-orangey-brown, and the Honey Crisps are fresh and huge and crunchy and amazing...and with a little peanut butter...I SAID GODDAMN!!! 

I'm trying in earnest to let go of the fact that my younger son is merely nine. Not even 9-1/2. He doesn't know the formalities of a proper orchestra. I'm pretty sure he's not even aware that Classical Music is a genre. Or what a genre is.... Or that any form of music really existed before Elvis or the Beatles...or his personal favorite, Iron Maiden. He's not aware that a couple of hundred years before the Beatles were even born, people were composing and playing music in an entirely different way than they do today. I mean, seriously, the only reason they know the name Beethoven is because they've heard the Beatles version of "Roll Over Beethoven"...and yes, I know Chuck Berry did it first...but just roll with me here, you guys, mkay? And Mozart? Fuhgeddaboutit. The fact that the man who is probably the most famous classical music composer died at the young age of 35? My kid's head would explode.

Most days, my older son has a Beatles Bubble Bath Break: long hot soak in the tub, with the Beatles playing on the blue tooth speaker. During the summer, the bath usually occurred after lunch, for an hour or so. And now after school: first snack, then bath. What's your picture schedule say, Mr. Sixth Grade? You have Hapkido and can spend about 20 minutes in the tub today. First Beatles Bubble Bath Break, then Hapkido. I'm setting a timer on Alexa that says "GET OUT OF THE TUB!" in 20 minutes. He is capable of turning on the speaker and telling Alexa to shuffle the Beatles. It's good for him; gives him an opportunity to work on his annunciation. Also, he's completely capable of doing this all on his own. But, I draw the bath...and put in the goddamn bubbles. Because god knows that blue syrupy soapy shit would end up all over the goddamn walls, which would ultimately create more Bitch Work for me. You know, part of the problem with being a mom is our children have this attitude of "Someone will come along and clean this up!" and they run away beating each other like the monkeys that they are. Maybe I should give him a "how to draw your own goddamn bubble bath" lesson. He's probably capable of doing that on his own....

Up here on the North Olympic Peninsula, in my children's school district, they start teaching strings in fourth grade. And the music teachers are fucking serious about it. No fiddle farting around, if you will. They even sent home a letter saying, essentially, that if you snooze you loose and waiting till fifth or sixth grade isn't an option. It's now or never, kiddies. I know because the day the strings teacher introduced strings, my child told me about the letter, saying that is was on Gold Paper. He didn't know WTF was written in the letter. But, dammit it was on Gold Paper! I was told by my 9-year-old that he needed to go to the music store today. And that we needed to sign up for his music lessons today. And that waiting till tomorrow wasn't an option. I communicated to my son that until I read the letter on Gold Paper, and had more information on how much money all of this was going to cost, I was absolutely not going to take him and his brother to a music store right this second. Because it's a little more important to go home, get a Beatles Bubble Bath Break and some goddamn food and then go to Hapkido and get thrown around. I pay a monthly tuition for back up parenting, and we're not missing Hapkido, thank you. So, let's go home so I can read the Golden Letter and gather more information about Strings Night.

The 9-year-olds

I made arrangements with a good friend, who also has a 9-year-old boy, to go to dinner and then go to Strings Night. I think the woman from the music store thought my friend and I we were a married couple. Because my friend and I, and both 9-year-old boys, all have the same last name. As if all Andersons are related. The woman from the music store mixed up our contracts and put my friend's credit card number on my contract, too. So, to make sure that my friend wasn't paying for two violin rentals, I requested that the woman from the music store redo my contract. She became rather flustered, but agreed to redo the contract. We didn't say anything about our marital status. But we did provide different mailing addresses on each contract, just to really confuse the woman from the music store.

Anyway, on the one hand, I see the side of introducing strings early, because the sooner we can start band and orchestra education the better. But on the other hand, as a kid who started on viola in the sixth grade, switched to violin in Jr. High, and played violin all throughout High School, made some amazing friends by making music with them...really? Why are you preventing kids from starting strings in 5th or even 6th grade? What about us stragglers who need more time to think about making life-altering decisions, you guys?? But, ok, that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away.... do I really need to culturally reference that one, you guys? Ugh...here....

Fine.... 

Anyway...

So, I have an incredibly deep sense of gratitude for the people who play and teach Classical Music; especially those who teach the greenest, most freshly learning children. I'm the first to admit that teaching groups of fourth graders how to play a stringed instrument is not my my skill set. No, child you need to play between the fingerboard and the bridge. NOT between the bridge and the tailpiece. When you play between the bridge and the tailpiece...well, that's why it sounds like an animal dying, sweetie.

I am happy to step way the hell back and let the teacher instruct her selected area of study and expertise. I'm thrilled to buy the required book for $10. I even purchased a fold-up music stand because it was a reasonable price at $15. But, I'm not buying a shoulder rest for $25, because I know a trick for a chin rest that involves rolled up quilt batting and rubber bands, so we're gonna save a little money on that one, thank you very much. And, besides, if and when he decides to become the next Amadeus, then we can talk about the shoulder rest. He's already working on being the next Bruce Lee and Lionel Messi. And he's planning on winning all the Oscars.... So, let's take the Budding Violinist thing a little slowly...and methodically...if you will....

We are renting his instrument. Because we're not financially in a position to spend several hundred dollars on a new violin. Or even $100 on a used one. Because you're nine. And you've never played an instrument before, and I don't even know if you're going to enjoy playing, so I'm not down with spending a shit ton of money on this little adventure until I know you're gonna be into it for longer than five minutes. Seriously. Bitches. Also, I really like the fact that when we rent the violin, even though I told him to treat it like he'd treat Mrs. Ventura's Bokken, using the upmost respect and awareness, the fact remains that if he accidentally drops his violin and breaks it, or he uses the bow as a Bokken and it breaks, then it's not going to cost me a penny. Because a good friend and I took our 9-year-old boys to strings night and we signed up for a rental and have a contract. Just don't tell the music store if you use your bow as a Bokken. Actually, don't use your bow as a Bokken. Duh. It's not a weapon. Not everything is a weapon, son.

My son asked me to teach him to read music. Um...honey...I'd really love to help you with this...but it's been a really, REALLY long time since I've read music. I think it's best to let your teacher help you with this. Well...let's see...I graduated in 1990...and I was 17...and how old am I now? Yes...I turned 46 in November...so nearly thirty years since I've read music. Yes, 29 years. Thank you Junior Math Prof Rock Star. So, since your music teacher knows how to read music, she will teach you how to read music. #NotIt

But, please, don't call pizzicato "plucking." I'm gonna draw a line in the sand on that one. Seriously. I mean, I know they're fourth graders and you're trying to keep it simple. But really, in my experience, students, even young ones, are capable of meeting you where you set the bar. And, technically, you pluck a chicken. You pizzicato a violin. Or viola, cello, or bass. Also, while we're talking about this, you don't pluck your eyebrows; you tweeze your eyebrows. Just to clarify so that we're all reading the same sheet music, here.

And, I know you're following the curriculum from the book and that first you start with pizzicato, and that bow work doesn't even start until page 16. And I know that eventually, the bows are all going to flow in the same direction at the same time. However, I am curious to know when do you divide up first and second violins...? I haven't talked to my son about this yet because he'll do his best to be first chair, and he's only nine and certainly doesn't need that type of self-induced pressure. And how in the goddamn did I get to be 46?

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"

Mrs. Claus

When I was younger, in my late teens, I was pretty serious with this one fella....

And every year at Christmastime, his mom would give her kids gifts from Mrs. Claus.

Right? 

She's obviously brilliant. 

And she told her husband that Mrs. Claus was a neighbor or acquaintance or someone she knew from when they lived back east. 

Seriously. 

And to the best of my recollection, on the rare occasion that the husband questioned, then she was like "Honey, you remember! The lovely neighbor Mrs. Claus!" and that was the end of it. He blew it off...whatever.

I'm giving credit to my ex-boyfriend's mother on this Mrs. Claus thing up front because I had a major plagiarism case in my classroom last year, and I'm a firm believer in citing my sources. And while I have a lot to say about the major plagiarism case, I'm not saying anything because I really love the teaching gig I've had since 2002.

For the past year or so my family has been letting go of the traditional approaches to the holidays, and let's face it, we all know women have been running the show around purchases for Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever holiday families celebrate. Women. And Mrs. Claus has been a silent partner too goddamn long.

My family celebrates Christmas, and not in the religious sense. We celebrate simply being together and yes, we do Santa. It's part of having a child who is chronologically 12, but developmentally 5. We will likely always do Santa....

Honestly, I put a lot into the Solstice, living up here at 48.12* N, and 123.43* W where the sun was up from 8:01 am till 4:22 pm on December 21. Each day after the solstice, the sun is up for a little longer. Let there be light.

In my house, we celebrate Christmas. And we're fine to say Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and, really, I, like a growing number of Americans, don't give really care what kind of greeting you say, just be kind when you say it. For reals.

But, here's the deal, the Santa I was taught to love is an old white dude who's been given credit for the work of others for a few hundred years. And, honestly, Mrs. Claus has been getting the shaft, if you will, about this whole thing. I'll let Miss Granger deal with the elves, yo. That's not my jam...

As a feminist, my heart belongs to Mrs. Claus, because I, like many women I know who happen to also be moms, am the following Departments:

• Planning
• Purchasing
• Wrapping
• Decorating
• Cooking/Baking
• Cleaning/Housekeeping

Sometimes, we call the last two Departments the Bitch Work Departments, because obviously.

Also, as the primary food source (wasn't that shit supposed to stop after I weaned them? FUCK!) sometimes I add hate as a necessary ingredient in my recipies. A lot of people cook with love. But I find hate works, too. It's better than spitting into their food. I mean, that's just disgusting. But hate? Adds a little spice to life. Just kidding. I only add love. Because there's already a lot of anger in my house because of the myriad diagnoses my family has been handed over the past eight years. And, Jesus knows, there's a shit ton of hatred in the world.

So, as Mrs. Claus, it's my responsibility to ensure that Christmas happens...to be totally responsible and make magic happen for my kids.

And, as Mrs. Claus, I purchase really good stuff for myself. Duh. For the past several Christmases, Mrs. Claus purchased a gift certificate for a pedicure for me. Because Mrs. Claus knows I need to park my ass for an hour and indulge in self-care with no children around.

Mrs. Claus has even become so popular in my home that my kids say things like, "I sure hope Mrs. Claus has arranged for the elves to fill up my stocking!" That's right. They are boys being trained to know that women run the show.

Over Portugal

Even though my very bright, but young 4th grader is starting to question me about Santa...I went straight to Mrs. Claus: "Yes, actually, Mrs. Claus is the one responsible for overseeing all the planning including the route planners who work with the meteorologists, and then they coordinate it all and send it up to Google Santa Tracker and then Mrs. C gets the final word on all of that. You know?"

A couple of weeks ago, we were standing in line to see Santa at Swain's, because they have everything including Santa, my boys asked me where Mrs. Claus was, "Oh she just dropped him off and is gonna pick him up later because she's gotta get back to the North Pole and make sure the elves are getting the toys made."

Secretly, it's kinda fun.

I even talk to strangers about Mrs. Claus. I recently had a delightful conversation with a nearly 4-year-old girl and she's never fucking heard of Mrs. Claus! Sweet Jesus! That's just shameful. So I filled her in. I think her dad was a little concerned. He didn't turn around and look at me because he either didn't want to encourage me, or he wanted to get the fuck outta there. I can't say I blame him. I mean, some middle-aged broad with a purple pixie was talking to his 4-year-old in a pink pussy hat about Mrs. Claus. He was not gonna jump in on that conversation. Gotta penis? Get out.

Last night, as my husband and I were setting up and making Christmas happen, because my husband knows which side his bread is buttered on...our younger son struggled to get to sleep. It's the excitement of Christmas. I get it. I've been there. Sometimes I'm still there. But not when a child gets out of bed to pee...and then can't get back to sleep...because he's never been to sleep in the first place. Ugh.

Our living room and the boy's bedroom share a wall, and we were as quiet as we could be in our set up. But, due to sickness last week, we've been super duper minimal this year. It was all we could do to get the Christmas stockings out of the loft in the shed. I'm not down with live trees; allergies. And, I don't want to make our incredibly dedicated 4-legged child move out of her space.

Keeping in the tradition of thinking outside of the box, my 4th grade son decided to paint a Christmas tree...and we placed presents under it. He was concerned that Santa wouldn't find our house. I told him Mrs. Claus had it all under control, and that there'd be gifts from Santa and Mrs. Claus in the morning.

And there were. Complete with flame-less candles for the win. 

Painted Christmas Tree with gifts.

NatrureBridge Field Trip

At the end of October, my son went on the biggest school field trip ever. The entire sixth grade class went to a 3-day, 2-night expedition to NatureBridge at Olympic National Park. 

All the gear. Note the van and packed trailer in the background.

The school district where my kids are enrolled is generous enough to pay for every sixth grader who attends school, as well as the teachers and a few parents that are crazy enough to chaperone, to go out to Lake Crescent and learn about the natural environment up here on the North Olympic Peninsula.

Waiting to load up

The sixth graders were given Field Journals, in which they take notes about what they learn in their natural environment: Old growth forests, the Elwha River system, studying water samples and macroinvertabrates, and geology.

Writing in his field journal

NatureBridge promises a classroom without walls, and they delivered big time for my son. Did I think he'd be capable of doing this? Yes, absolutely. Was I nervous about sending him? Absofuckinlutely. Did I over-pack the suitcase? Totally. But, when your kid is spending three days outside in the largest rainforest in the world, which is North America's Pacific Temperate rainforest, and it's the beginning of the rainy season, and you know your son gets messy at the drop of a hat, you over pack his suitcase.

Happiest kid ever

He didn't brush his teeth. He didn't take a shower. He may have changed his clothes. But he's a twelve-year-old boy who was with his friends, away from his parents, and upon his return I asked him if he did any type of personal hygiene, he said he "wasn't really interested" in those things.

Fantastic. For reals. Because I'm sure the other sixth grade boys also did not clean any parts of themselves, either. Integration at it's finest. Borderline Lord of the Flies.

In order for this trip to happen, my son needed additional supports from adults. My son is developmentally disabled, and struggles to grip a pencil to write his name, but did the best he could with his field journal. He walks really quite slowly, which translates to he needed a lot of gentle pushing, and perhaps even a bit of pulling, when they were hiking Marymere Falls. But he did it. He's done it before, so it's not like he's never been. But some of his peers had never been. It provided him an opportunity to be a leader.

At Marymere Falls

The adult that was primarily in charge of him was his former Special Education Teacher, Ms. B. She was in charge of my son during first grade, and then again in fourth and fifth grade. He was homeschooled for half of second grade, and all of third grade. So, she knows him, and our family, very well. I consider her an integral part of my son's education and we've become dear friends.

Eating the sandwich he made

My son made his own sandwich and ate it. I found this hard to believe, and Ms. B knows I would think she was totally bullshitting me, so she took a picture for proof!

Little bit of soccer practice

While he was out playing and learning and having the coolest experience ever, my husband and younger son and I had a little fun. I got to go to soccer practice. I typically didn't go because there's really no need for all four of us to go to practice. It's a logistical nightmare for all four of us to go anywhere during dinner time because it throws off the entire schedule in a way that takes days for my special needs child to recover, so he and I would typically stay home and play UNO. He's really quite good and ends up kicking my ass quite a lot.

Dinner: chicken, slaw, ginger cake. He ate it all.

My kid with special needs ate all of the food that was offered to him. We were not permitted to pack food for them. And, as a dedicated rule follower (mostly) I did not pack food for him. I'm sure they accommodate kids with special dietary needs...but that's not something my son deals with so it's not on my radar.

Because my son takes medications on a regular basis to control his seizures, a form needed to be completed by his physician, and of course, I had to send all of the necessary meds, in their prescription bottles. So, there was some homework on my end to get this shit done. I know intrinsically my kid isn't the only kid that was medicated who was going on this massive expedition, but when you're doing the prep for this, it feels completely fucking isolating. Because, as a culture, we're trained to NOT talk about these things. We're trained to NOT discuss the fact that some kids need meds to get through their day. There's no shame in the fact that my child needs medications in order to not seize. But my culture makes me sometimes feel like he's not healthy because he needs medications...leading me to meditate on "what does it mean to be healthy?"

The kids all went out to NatureBridge on Wednesday and came home on Friday. And everyone was exhausted when the buses pulled in to the school parking lot about 45 minutes later than they were expected. But, considering they had to move about 100 kids and adults, running 45 minutes late is understandable. In my experience of being at the lake, it's so beautiful out there that it can be difficult to leave and head back to reality.

I am so thankful that my son had this amazing experience and for the adults that helped him. Special thanks to Ms. B for having his back, for taking all the pictures, and getting them to me. We love and appreciate you more than we could ever express.

In the burned out tree on the trail

With Ms. B.

Larger than life

How Abby spent most of her time: on her boys' bed

In a canoe on the lake

Happy and exhausted

Brothers reunited; they really did miss each other

How's It Hanging

9.5: Hey, Mom! How's it hanging?

Me: They're both hanging fine, thanks.

9.5: smiles and nods as he takes a drink of water.

Me: How's it hanging for you?

9.5: Fine, thanks.

Me: Do you know what that means?

9.5: Ummm...no….

Me: It means you’re talking about your penis.

9.5: No it doesn’t!

Me: Yes it does.

9.5: I'm never saying that again! (Pause) No it doesn’t mean that, Mom!

Me: Yes it does. Go ask Dad. Because, clearly, being a woman, I have no 
idea about penises.

9.5: DAAAAADDDD!!!!! Runs down the hall. Returns about 10 seconds later, 
running at top speed down the hallway into the kitchen.

Me: Well? What’d Daddy say?

9.5: He said it means I'm talking about penises.

Me: It’s fine to talk about penises, we just don’t need to harass anyone about penises. 
Or vaginas.

9.5: Right. Or vaginas, Mom.

Me: Thanks, I. I love you.

9.5: I love you too, Mom. 

Surprise! Surprise!

So, My Little Brother, who is 12 years younger than me and provided me the BEST form of birth control EVER as a teenager, showed up at my younger son's last soccer game of the season yesterday.

They boys had the biggest and best surprise of their lives! Because they really do love their Uncle Sammy. No, he's not Uncle Sam. Never has been, and likely never will be. Because, seriously? In this political climate? No, thank you. 

My Little Brother brought his girlfriend, and they are rather serious. Like, I'm pretty sure they're gonna get married type of serious. You don't trek all the way up to the North Olympic Peninsula from Phoenix, Arizona, with your lady, if you're not serious about this broad.

And it's great! For reals. Because she's an ophthalmologist and his vision has been shit pretty much his whole life. She's got an impeccable future-sister-in-law-bedside manner because, according to her: "he needs some pretty powerful lenses." But, really, we all know he's really just interested in her for her LASIK surgery abilities.

That and our mother is probably thrilled that her son the lawyer is marrying a doctor. Seriously. Because it's all about appearances with my mother. She's a "what would the neighbors think?!" type of a gal.

The last time My Little Brother was on the Olympic Peninsula, was the summer of 2015, when I was going through chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer...and yes, he went with me to chemo...because he's a nice guy. My parents didn't come up. I'm still working on letting go of that...and it's not the point of this post.

The last time I saw My Little Brother I went down to Arizona in the spring of 2016, about 6 weeks before my husband was diagnosed with HPV caused tonsil cancer. He was living with a different woman at that time...and they were completely different. And while I was disappointed they didn't work out, I'm also kinda relieved...because the new girlfriend he's living with...in a completely different house...is delightful.

Like, she doesn't miss a beat, has a quick wit, with a touch of dark humor. We're very much looking forward to getting to know her this week.

They are not staying with us, thank you Jesus.

Partly because we don't really have the living space. I mean, we could make it work if we absolutely had to...but we are thankful they are AirBnB-ing it.

Partly because they are vegan...and the logistics of cooking two dinners...and sometimes I have to throw corn dogs and Ore-Ida French fries at my kids to get food in them...right?!

Partly because I'm recovering from the Ear Infection From Hell...and while I just finished 14 days of antibiotics, I'm still using ear drops 4 times a day (only 4 more days of that)...and nobody wants to deal with house guests when they're recovering from illness. Not to be rude...just being realistic, you guys. 

She has no desire to have kids. And I'm ok with that. Because, really, in the event of something catastrophic happening to my husband and me at the same time, I'll need my brother to step up....

But, if she can survive the week with my crew, and learns more about the Anderson Family Circus, then she's in......