Due to events that are beyond my control, I'm flying solo to My Little Brother's wedding.
He and his Fantastic Fiancé have decided to get married in a church.
Not just any church. Like, if it was A Little White Chapel, in Vegas, my family would be more likely to make more of an effort swing that...maybe.
Alas, My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé are getting married on Saturday in Phoenix, in the Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria. My future sister-in-law is an Egyptian immigrant. She and her family moved to America when she was about five years old.
And the ceremony is gonna be at least an hour.
By way of comparison, Vegas weddings are like 5-15 minutes, depending on the Chapel. When I worked at the Treasure Island Hotel and Casino's Wedding Chapel, the longer versions of the ceremonies were 15 minutes.
Yes. Yes, I was a professional Wedding Coordinator on the Strip. It was before grad school. I can tell you that not everyone is happy on their wedding day. So, being a Wedding Coordinator is actually part of the reason I went to grad school. My 9-month stint in Corporate America enhanced my record-keeping skills, and as a mom of a child with special needs, those skills are employed frequently.
My children are not church trained.
Circus trained? Yes.
Church trained? No.
And neither my husband or I have any desire to church train our children.
I certainly planned on taking them...My Little Brother's wedding...after all this is a once in lifetime event...and my kids worship their Uncle...and #JesusKnows in my family, with the myriad health issues that plague us, we certainly need to party and celebrate whenever we are given the opportunity.
Well-meaning friends who attend various church services said that most churches have a family room...? Like I could take my kids if they started acting like the monkeys that they are...?
Nope. Not happening. But thank you, well-meaning friends, for the suggestion.
When people who are autistic are taken out of their comfort zone, and expected to be on their best behavior inside of a place where they've never been in...a church for a minimum of an hour...and let's face it, it'll be more like several hours because pictures...there will be no chilling.
I hate to think of the discomfort and stress my older son would have...the increased case of the giggles...the increased chance of him wetting his pants. Not to mention the different shades of red my husband's beautifully bald head will turn trying to manage his own frustration and subsequent anger with the entire situation...no, thank you.
As parents, our primary job is to set our kids up for successful experiences. Yes, our kids need to fail every so often. But I'm not hauling my monkeys all the way from the North Olympic Peninsula down to Phoenix and expect them to sit quietly and not interrupt their Uncle's wedding...when they are hungover from traveling like they never have before in their entire lives...all in heat and sun they are not at all accustomed to...and, let's be honest, when it's 85 goddamn degrees outside, would you want to sit in a church with a fancy outfit on? No. You'd want your ass in the pool. With SPF 20 Million. Because my family of Pacific North Westerners have pasty white skin...and as a cancer survivor...SPF 20 Million is required, yo.
When My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé came up to visit us in July, which was the second time inside of ten months, they graciously told my husband and I that if we needed to not go to their wedding, they totally support us and our parenting decisions.
Due to life circumstances, My Little Brother is the only person from my family that came to help me, my husband, and our boys when I was going through breast cancer treatments in the summer of 2015.
My mom's brain health is declining; dementia is a bitch. And the way my parents tend to cope with life-altering health issues is to not address it. Denial is a powerful coping mechanism for them.
And I get it.
But I don't.
Because if I didn't speak up when my son was three and having these weird eye movements, who knows what would've happened. Turned out he has epilepsy.
And had I chosen to not speak up when I found a lump in my breast in February 2015, I'd probably be dead. Cancer sucks.
Had I not pushed my husband to persevere through his own battle with HPV-caused tonsil cancer in the summer of 2016...we'll he'd probably be dead...and my kids would be orphans...because that's just how life shakes out for some families...and that totally sucks.
My point is, I choose to parent my family very differently than my parents parented me. (Is it socially acceptable to use three different forms of "parent" in one sentence?) It's not good or bad. It just is what it is.
And, for those of us who are parents, we know our kids better than anyone. My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé know my kids pretty well. My parents, on the other hand, have no idea who my kids are...they have never seen me parent my children...the last time my parents were in Washington State, my older son was 10 months old; he is now 13 years old and in 7th grade. They've never even met my younger son, who is 10-1/2 years old and in 10th grade.
I know that this past springtime I said I was gonna train my monkeys to get on a plane, however, plans change...and ours sure did. Honestly, part of me says there's no fucking way I'm gonna haul my kids all the way the hell down to Arizona and back to Washington State at any time because my parents have put forth zero effort to get to know my kids. So, they don't deserve to spend time my kids, especially during the school year. And regardless of when you travel, traveling is expensive.
So, the best decision my husband and I made was for him to stay home with the boys, while I fly solo to Phoenix. Do I wish they were with me? Kinda. I'm not gonna lie, I'm thankful for the much needed break. Do I wish things were different. Of course I do. But I can't change it...so why waste time and energy on things you can't change?
The bottom line, My Little Brother loves his Fantastic Fiancé so much that he's willing to learn about the religion she was raised with and get married in that particular church. And my husband and my kids love My Little Brother so much that the best choice is for the Male Andersons to stay
home.
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
Monday, September 2, 2019
Scantily Clad Barista: The Wonder Woman Edition
Ya know when you're driving and stop at a random coffee stand and the barista is scantily clad in a Wonder Woman outfit, and while it's not at all what you expected, you don't bat an eye? Annnnd THEN, she ends up buying you your coffee for you?
Yeah. That.
Wonder Woman made and bought my coffee. Ok, well, she wasn't really Wonder Woman...but you know what I'm sayin, you guys. And she did make a mean iced coffee on a hot summer day.
It happened on the way home from our first-ever school clothes shopping experience. My soon-to-be thirteen-year-old son was sitting next to me, so I have a witness. And also, no, really...this was our first time ever going school clothes shopping. Because of lots of the numerous and rather intense health issues my family manages on a daily basis.
He really didn't bat an eye either.
Because, duh, it was a hot day and we were shopping down in the Closest Shopping Mecca and we were heading home and I needed a 16-ounce, iced, white chocolate, triple Americano with cream, but easy on the ice please....
So why wouldn't a bodacious young babe with glasses and long brown hair and a nose ring answer the window to a random coffee stand on the highway in the sticks?
Except that she was also in a red underwire Tommy Hilfiger bra and Wonder Woman Blue Underwear with White Stars, complete with a sparkly gold headband with a red star in the middle, and gold wristbands up to her elbows, with a red star on each...to deflect the bullets-n-bullshit....
Girl's gotta earn a living. Shit, I'd do that if I was living a different life...before kids...and who in the goddam still wears Timmy Hilfiger? Tommy? Whateverthefuck.
And it's just a goddamn coffee. I gotta stay awake on the drive. Jesus, you guys. Parenting a child with special needs, while you're driving? Not for the faint of heart.
Anyway, so as she was opening the window, which was a little stuck, I turned to my nearly 13-year-old boy child and said, "Dude! Wonder Woman's gonna make me a coffee! You want anything?"
To which he replied: "Huh?"
Typical. #GoddamnYChromosome
I mean, maybe his reply was because his brain works a little slower due his epilepsy and other neurological challenges. But, he's also an almost teenage boy, and #JesusKnows they don't fuckin' listen.
So I told Wonder Woman that I loved her costume. Just get the bullshit out of the way. I don't care if you're dressed like this because you're coffee stand is popular with the log truck drivers, but I need a goddam coffee and I gotta parent my special needs child who is sitting in the passenger seat, next to me, while I'm driving, for the next 90 minutes. And, fortuitously, your coffee stand is on the right side of the road.
So here we are.
Besides, those bitches in the stand on the other side of the road used too much goddamned ice and I felt I got ripped off, quite honestly.
So I looked up at Wonder Woman and said, "I need a 16-ounce, iced, white chocolate, triple Americano with cream, but easy on the ice please."
"Easy on the ice?" she asked, with her hip out, because she just stands that way, you guys. I don't know. Maybe she's got scoliosis. Regardless, she's hot.
"Yes, please, Wonder Woman. Easy on the ice," I repeated.
I turn to reach for my purse and I think at this point my son was playing with his Rubik's cube. Duh. He's a fidgiter. And I stated, "You're good...? Right? You've got your water and your Rubik's cube. You're good."
I reached in my purse and pulled out my Wonder Woman Talisman that my sons gave me when I went through breast cancer four years ago and I showed it to her.
I flashed the Wonder Woman Barista our mini-me and said, "My sons gave this to me when I went though breast cancer treatment four years ago..." and Wonder Woman Barista looked at me like, "What the fuck?" which is how I'd look at me too...
And then I said, "and I'd sit there during chemo and rub her boobs for good luck..." and Wonder Woman Barista looked at me like a goddamn deer in the headlights because she sure as shit didn't anticipate this conversation...but she nodded her head and said, "Oh! That's great!"...because, what else was she gonna say...?
I think she probably assumed that our interaction, based on her knowing what she was scantily clad in...seeing a woman pull in, with her teenager-ish-looking son...and the mom probably doesn't know this is a bikini barista stand. Because I didn't. And, if I had to bet money, she probably anticipated a rude interaction with her female/momma bear customer and a gawking teenage boy.
There was no rudeness. It was a pleasant interaction. My teenage boy didn't gawk.
And, apparently, they have topless baristas over on the I-5 corridor! I had no idea! For real. Until my friend was over there conducting farming business, because farmers get up early and my friend needed a goddamn coffee and unknowingly pulled in to a topless barista stand. Sometimes I'm so sheltered I scare myself you guys...anyway, the topless barista covered up and had a lovely conversation with my Female Farmer Friend. And I know a lot of Female Farmers. Because #ClallamCountyLiving ...it's gonna trend.
Then Wonder Woman turned and leaned out the window and handed me my 16-ounce iced, white chocolate, triple Americano with cream, and it was easy on the ice. I looked up at her, like the goddess she is, and said, "What do I owe you?" And she said, "Nothing!"
So I made the face you make when someone gives you something that you didn't expect and insisted I pay. To which she replied, "Nope. This one's on me. It's been a pleasure talking with you." I thanked her, and handed her three bucks and told her it's for her "fun fund" jar.
And then I told the Scantily Clad Wonder Woman Barista to make sure she does a breast self-exam...because that's how I found my lump. Also, if you look really closely at my Wonder Woman Talisman, you can see that the yellow from her outfit is worn off, you guys...because rubbing Wonder Woman's boobs while you're going through breast cancer treatment brings good luck.
That's what I told myself anyway.
A little bit of luck, and a whole bunch of research and science.
And gratitude.
For all the things.
Yeah. That.
Wonder Woman made and bought my coffee. Ok, well, she wasn't really Wonder Woman...but you know what I'm sayin, you guys. And she did make a mean iced coffee on a hot summer day.
It happened on the way home from our first-ever school clothes shopping experience. My soon-to-be thirteen-year-old son was sitting next to me, so I have a witness. And also, no, really...this was our first time ever going school clothes shopping. Because of lots of the numerous and rather intense health issues my family manages on a daily basis.
He really didn't bat an eye either.
Because, duh, it was a hot day and we were shopping down in the Closest Shopping Mecca and we were heading home and I needed a 16-ounce, iced, white chocolate, triple Americano with cream, but easy on the ice please....
So why wouldn't a bodacious young babe with glasses and long brown hair and a nose ring answer the window to a random coffee stand on the highway in the sticks?
Except that she was also in a red underwire Tommy Hilfiger bra and Wonder Woman Blue Underwear with White Stars, complete with a sparkly gold headband with a red star in the middle, and gold wristbands up to her elbows, with a red star on each...to deflect the bullets-n-bullshit....
Girl's gotta earn a living. Shit, I'd do that if I was living a different life...before kids...and who in the goddam still wears Timmy Hilfiger? Tommy? Whateverthefuck.
And it's just a goddamn coffee. I gotta stay awake on the drive. Jesus, you guys. Parenting a child with special needs, while you're driving? Not for the faint of heart.
Anyway, so as she was opening the window, which was a little stuck, I turned to my nearly 13-year-old boy child and said, "Dude! Wonder Woman's gonna make me a coffee! You want anything?"
To which he replied: "Huh?"
Typical. #GoddamnYChromosome
I mean, maybe his reply was because his brain works a little slower due his epilepsy and other neurological challenges. But, he's also an almost teenage boy, and #JesusKnows they don't fuckin' listen.
So I told Wonder Woman that I loved her costume. Just get the bullshit out of the way. I don't care if you're dressed like this because you're coffee stand is popular with the log truck drivers, but I need a goddam coffee and I gotta parent my special needs child who is sitting in the passenger seat, next to me, while I'm driving, for the next 90 minutes. And, fortuitously, your coffee stand is on the right side of the road.
So here we are.
Besides, those bitches in the stand on the other side of the road used too much goddamned ice and I felt I got ripped off, quite honestly.
So I looked up at Wonder Woman and said, "I need a 16-ounce, iced, white chocolate, triple Americano with cream, but easy on the ice please."
"Easy on the ice?" she asked, with her hip out, because she just stands that way, you guys. I don't know. Maybe she's got scoliosis. Regardless, she's hot.
"Yes, please, Wonder Woman. Easy on the ice," I repeated.
 |
| Wonder Woman Talisman |
I reached in my purse and pulled out my Wonder Woman Talisman that my sons gave me when I went through breast cancer four years ago and I showed it to her.
I flashed the Wonder Woman Barista our mini-me and said, "My sons gave this to me when I went though breast cancer treatment four years ago..." and Wonder Woman Barista looked at me like, "What the fuck?" which is how I'd look at me too...
And then I said, "and I'd sit there during chemo and rub her boobs for good luck..." and Wonder Woman Barista looked at me like a goddamn deer in the headlights because she sure as shit didn't anticipate this conversation...but she nodded her head and said, "Oh! That's great!"...because, what else was she gonna say...?
I think she probably assumed that our interaction, based on her knowing what she was scantily clad in...seeing a woman pull in, with her teenager-ish-looking son...and the mom probably doesn't know this is a bikini barista stand. Because I didn't. And, if I had to bet money, she probably anticipated a rude interaction with her female/momma bear customer and a gawking teenage boy.
There was no rudeness. It was a pleasant interaction. My teenage boy didn't gawk.
And, apparently, they have topless baristas over on the I-5 corridor! I had no idea! For real. Until my friend was over there conducting farming business, because farmers get up early and my friend needed a goddamn coffee and unknowingly pulled in to a topless barista stand. Sometimes I'm so sheltered I scare myself you guys...anyway, the topless barista covered up and had a lovely conversation with my Female Farmer Friend. And I know a lot of Female Farmers. Because #ClallamCountyLiving ...it's gonna trend.
Then Wonder Woman turned and leaned out the window and handed me my 16-ounce iced, white chocolate, triple Americano with cream, and it was easy on the ice. I looked up at her, like the goddess she is, and said, "What do I owe you?" And she said, "Nothing!"
So I made the face you make when someone gives you something that you didn't expect and insisted I pay. To which she replied, "Nope. This one's on me. It's been a pleasure talking with you." I thanked her, and handed her three bucks and told her it's for her "fun fund" jar.
And then I told the Scantily Clad Wonder Woman Barista to make sure she does a breast self-exam...because that's how I found my lump. Also, if you look really closely at my Wonder Woman Talisman, you can see that the yellow from her outfit is worn off, you guys...because rubbing Wonder Woman's boobs while you're going through breast cancer treatment brings good luck.
That's what I told myself anyway.
A little bit of luck, and a whole bunch of research and science.
And gratitude.
For all the things.
Thursday, August 8, 2019
My Warrior Family
When Mrs. Ventura asked me, quite a while ago, to write a paper about my experiences at Phoenix Dragon Martial Arts, of course I said yes.
But then I started thinking about it and didn't know what to write about. It's rather challenging to compact 8-1/2 years into a paper. Because, really, this is the first thing my sensei has ever formally asked me to do, so I didn't want to mess it up, you guys.
I started asking myself what to write about....
Do I write about the time, way back in January 2011, when I started taking Cardio Kickboxing classes at night to take a much needed break from my two young sons? That class resulted not only in a healthier version of me, but I met a lot of really cool people who also felt it was acceptable to hit and kick bags for stress relief and exercise.
What about the spring of 2011, when my boys and I did the "Mommy and Me" class? We all know Mrs. V would never call it that, but it was that type of structure. They were a bit too young, at the ages of 4 and 2...so we waited. At the time, my older son had recently been diagnosed with epilepsy, and needed a safe space to exercise; his pediatric neurologist was very firm on me not letting him climb without a net, swing without being harnessed in, or swim without a life jacket and an adult within arms reach. The doctor explained it usually isn't the seizure that kills a person, it's the fall from a play set that can break their neck. If he seized while swimming, he could drown. I felt the dojang, which is what the school is called, was a safe place since he'll be playing and learning on a padded mat, and he'll be learning how to defend himself should the need arise.
Do I write about the time my kids were sometimes the only kids on the mat, and in order for Mrs. V to get them to stand where they needed to be when they were in line, she took colored electrical tape and put it on her mat. She grabbed their favorite colors and made a green X for my older son to stand on, and a purple X for my younger son to stand on. Mrs Ventura ordered them to stand in fighting stance, with their left foot at the top of the left side of the X, and their right foot at the bottom of the right side of the X. She's brilliant. It worked.
And, this all happened before the mural on the far wall.
Oh, wait, what about writing about the time in August 2012 when I joined the Venturas, and a group of pretty cool teammates, down in Washougal for the Spartan Race. Why in the world would I choose run a 3-mile obstacle course race through the mud? I don't even like running. Like, there's a joke that's been around for years: I should just jump on a Segway...because I seriously hate running...and cheer Mrs. V and her team on...with a bullhorn, so I don't strain my vocal chords.
Maybe I should write about that time that Mr. Ventura told me my roundhouse kick is pretty powerful and suggested I start Hapkido. So I did. And I eventually learned how to throw people...helping me to feel like I was the most powerful woman in the world. Even though we all know Mrs. Ventura is; she could take you from here.
Or should I consider writing about the time my older son was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at the age of six, the same year I ran the Spartan, and about a month before I turned 40...? Do I write about the incredible support my senseis, the Venturas, gave me and my family during that time? When my teacher, Mrs Ventura didn't wear her doboq (uniform) and was simply my friend, Meghan, who literally let me ugly cry on her shoulder a LOT that time in the fall of 2012 because what happens to a kid who has epilepsy and autism? What will his world look like? I have a son who is developmentally disabled. I teach Health at Peninsula College. I know that research shows that people who are disabled are more likely to be victims of crime, including sexual assault. So, part of the reason my kids study Hapkido is to protect themselves and reduce their chances of becoming a statistic. I do not know if there has been research regarding the siblings of people with developmental disabilities being the victims of crime, but I think it's safe to say that my younger son is also at risk of being bullied because of his brother's disabilities.
In the winter of 2015, my son started having drop seizures at school. A drop seizure is when someone has a seizure and falls. What if he hits his head on a desk? Or the floor? What if the impact from the hit causes a concussion? His brain is already fragile. What if a seizure causes him to fall so hard that he hits his head and dies? Nope. We pulled him. He needed to be in a safer environment and the result was homeschooling him. Not up for negotiation. Don't argue a health issue with a college Health instructor. The Venturas have homeschooled their daughter for years, and were supportive in the decision my husband and I made regarding our son. He started attending homeschool Hapkido classes. It felt like the right decision at the time.
And then about a week after we started homeschooling him, I did the first breast self exam I'd done in years, and found a lump. A mammogram and ultrasound-guided needle biopsy proved my lump to be breast cancer. I had a lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation. Yes, I homeschooled my son with developmental disabilities through it all. There were times I'd take my son to the homeschooling classes at PDMA, and just go lay down on the futon in Mrs. Ventura's office; the side effects of chemo left me so exhausted, it was all I could do to get my son to classes.
Six months after I completed radiation treatments, my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 tonsil cancer, caused by Human Papillomavirus (HPV). He spent the summer of 2016 going through surgeries in Seattle, and twenty-some radiation treatments and a few chemotherapy treatments in Sequim.
In June 2017, about 2 weeks before school was out for the summer, my younger son fell off the monkey bars at school, breaking his arm and spent the summer in a full-arm cast. But he was on the mat, with Mrs. V supporting him and giving him lots of different ways to still practice Hapkido.
The teaching-learning style that the Venturas have established for all students have served my family well.
The dojang was my go-to for sanity. It is a safe place for my children. Over the years, Phoenix Dragon Martial Arts has become an oasis for me. When we entered the school way back in January 2011, my family dealt with one health issue. As we kept getting hit with the myriad health issues we did, being on the mat allowed me to check all of the health issues at the door, even if only for an hour or so.
We incorporate Hapkido philosophy into our everyday life, one of them being respect. When my younger son started playing the violin in the fourth grade, he immediately wanted to use his bow as a weapon...and the first thing I said was "treat your bow and instrument like it's Mrs. Ventura's bokken (sword)" and he stopped. Immediately. There is no more weapons with violins in my home. My constant question of "What would Mrs. Ventura say?" was never asked on this particular topic.
Intrinsically, I know that the time I've spent on the mat has been one of the best forms of physical and mental health care I've been able to provide myself, and my family. This place helped me, mentally, get through breast cancer, helped me get my husband through tonsil cancer, helps me with parenting two boys who, by the nature of what we deal with as a family, need a little more support than other kids do. The support my husband and I receive in parenting our two, not only from the Venturas, but from the amazingly supportive friends we've made because of Phoenix Dragon Martial Arts, have been like nothing else. It truly takes a village...or a tribe...or a group of Warriors...to survive this crazy life.
And I am so thankful to have found mine.
This post was also published on Phoenix Dragon Martial Arts blog.
But then I started thinking about it and didn't know what to write about. It's rather challenging to compact 8-1/2 years into a paper. Because, really, this is the first thing my sensei has ever formally asked me to do, so I didn't want to mess it up, you guys.
I started asking myself what to write about....
Do I write about the time, way back in January 2011, when I started taking Cardio Kickboxing classes at night to take a much needed break from my two young sons? That class resulted not only in a healthier version of me, but I met a lot of really cool people who also felt it was acceptable to hit and kick bags for stress relief and exercise.
What about the spring of 2011, when my boys and I did the "Mommy and Me" class? We all know Mrs. V would never call it that, but it was that type of structure. They were a bit too young, at the ages of 4 and 2...so we waited. At the time, my older son had recently been diagnosed with epilepsy, and needed a safe space to exercise; his pediatric neurologist was very firm on me not letting him climb without a net, swing without being harnessed in, or swim without a life jacket and an adult within arms reach. The doctor explained it usually isn't the seizure that kills a person, it's the fall from a play set that can break their neck. If he seized while swimming, he could drown. I felt the dojang, which is what the school is called, was a safe place since he'll be playing and learning on a padded mat, and he'll be learning how to defend himself should the need arise.
Do I write about the time my kids were sometimes the only kids on the mat, and in order for Mrs. V to get them to stand where they needed to be when they were in line, she took colored electrical tape and put it on her mat. She grabbed their favorite colors and made a green X for my older son to stand on, and a purple X for my younger son to stand on. Mrs Ventura ordered them to stand in fighting stance, with their left foot at the top of the left side of the X, and their right foot at the bottom of the right side of the X. She's brilliant. It worked.
And, this all happened before the mural on the far wall.
Oh, wait, what about writing about the time in August 2012 when I joined the Venturas, and a group of pretty cool teammates, down in Washougal for the Spartan Race. Why in the world would I choose run a 3-mile obstacle course race through the mud? I don't even like running. Like, there's a joke that's been around for years: I should just jump on a Segway...because I seriously hate running...and cheer Mrs. V and her team on...with a bullhorn, so I don't strain my vocal chords.
Maybe I should write about that time that Mr. Ventura told me my roundhouse kick is pretty powerful and suggested I start Hapkido. So I did. And I eventually learned how to throw people...helping me to feel like I was the most powerful woman in the world. Even though we all know Mrs. Ventura is; she could take you from here.
Or should I consider writing about the time my older son was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at the age of six, the same year I ran the Spartan, and about a month before I turned 40...? Do I write about the incredible support my senseis, the Venturas, gave me and my family during that time? When my teacher, Mrs Ventura didn't wear her doboq (uniform) and was simply my friend, Meghan, who literally let me ugly cry on her shoulder a LOT that time in the fall of 2012 because what happens to a kid who has epilepsy and autism? What will his world look like? I have a son who is developmentally disabled. I teach Health at Peninsula College. I know that research shows that people who are disabled are more likely to be victims of crime, including sexual assault. So, part of the reason my kids study Hapkido is to protect themselves and reduce their chances of becoming a statistic. I do not know if there has been research regarding the siblings of people with developmental disabilities being the victims of crime, but I think it's safe to say that my younger son is also at risk of being bullied because of his brother's disabilities.
In the winter of 2015, my son started having drop seizures at school. A drop seizure is when someone has a seizure and falls. What if he hits his head on a desk? Or the floor? What if the impact from the hit causes a concussion? His brain is already fragile. What if a seizure causes him to fall so hard that he hits his head and dies? Nope. We pulled him. He needed to be in a safer environment and the result was homeschooling him. Not up for negotiation. Don't argue a health issue with a college Health instructor. The Venturas have homeschooled their daughter for years, and were supportive in the decision my husband and I made regarding our son. He started attending homeschool Hapkido classes. It felt like the right decision at the time.
And then about a week after we started homeschooling him, I did the first breast self exam I'd done in years, and found a lump. A mammogram and ultrasound-guided needle biopsy proved my lump to be breast cancer. I had a lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation. Yes, I homeschooled my son with developmental disabilities through it all. There were times I'd take my son to the homeschooling classes at PDMA, and just go lay down on the futon in Mrs. Ventura's office; the side effects of chemo left me so exhausted, it was all I could do to get my son to classes.
Six months after I completed radiation treatments, my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 tonsil cancer, caused by Human Papillomavirus (HPV). He spent the summer of 2016 going through surgeries in Seattle, and twenty-some radiation treatments and a few chemotherapy treatments in Sequim.
In June 2017, about 2 weeks before school was out for the summer, my younger son fell off the monkey bars at school, breaking his arm and spent the summer in a full-arm cast. But he was on the mat, with Mrs. V supporting him and giving him lots of different ways to still practice Hapkido.
The teaching-learning style that the Venturas have established for all students have served my family well.
The dojang was my go-to for sanity. It is a safe place for my children. Over the years, Phoenix Dragon Martial Arts has become an oasis for me. When we entered the school way back in January 2011, my family dealt with one health issue. As we kept getting hit with the myriad health issues we did, being on the mat allowed me to check all of the health issues at the door, even if only for an hour or so.
We incorporate Hapkido philosophy into our everyday life, one of them being respect. When my younger son started playing the violin in the fourth grade, he immediately wanted to use his bow as a weapon...and the first thing I said was "treat your bow and instrument like it's Mrs. Ventura's bokken (sword)" and he stopped. Immediately. There is no more weapons with violins in my home. My constant question of "What would Mrs. Ventura say?" was never asked on this particular topic.
Intrinsically, I know that the time I've spent on the mat has been one of the best forms of physical and mental health care I've been able to provide myself, and my family. This place helped me, mentally, get through breast cancer, helped me get my husband through tonsil cancer, helps me with parenting two boys who, by the nature of what we deal with as a family, need a little more support than other kids do. The support my husband and I receive in parenting our two, not only from the Venturas, but from the amazingly supportive friends we've made because of Phoenix Dragon Martial Arts, have been like nothing else. It truly takes a village...or a tribe...or a group of Warriors...to survive this crazy life.
And I am so thankful to have found mine.
This post was also published on Phoenix Dragon Martial Arts blog.
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
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 Tenthanniversary 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?
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
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?
Monday, April 1, 2019
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
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
Saturday, March 9, 2019
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.
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?
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?
Thursday, March 7, 2019
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.
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.
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....
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...."
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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? |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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.
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| In the process of sandwiching Dad's Shirts. |
Then I had to sandwich it. No, for real, that's what it's called, you guys.
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| Basting the quilt |
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.
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| The 12 year old sews |
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.
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| The 9.5 year old sews |
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.
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| 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.
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| Label, on the back left bottom corner. Ruler is 12"x6". |
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| Attaching the label |
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| 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.
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| Dad having an Angry Birds lesson |
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| Dad and I's, flying high! |
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| Hair back; safety first! |
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.
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.
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| Dad's Shirts, 58"x66" |
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