Once More with Feeling.

Interview with local Boston commoner re: Royal Wedding

On a typical day,  Care gives us our wake up call sometime between 6:00 and 6:30 a.m. On the rare morning she is trying to prove her unyielding love for her parents, she'll give us a glorious 7:00 a.m.

This morning I heard movement over the monitor at 5:22, kid talking to herself, and doing what I call her "leg thwapping", a move that involves her quickly raising both legs and slamming them down as hard as she can over and over again. You can hear this from the floor below, it's that forceful.

Taking into account all 3 items: the early rise, the animated self-talk, the restless, geeked-out energy pouring from her limbs, it could only mean one thing-

I  think she knew the Royal Wedding was happening.

So fine....fine.   It's not the everyday occurrence and perhaps she was dying to see what the House of A. McQueen put togther for her gown.

I interviewed my little Anglophile between the service and first kiss, and after all that excitement,  it seems to me (and correct me if you disagree) she seems a little "meh" about the ceremony and downright dissapointed with the dress (hey, don't look at me- I thought it was lovely and agree, a nice throwback to Princess Grace's gown).

Please excuse interviewee's hair, it's looking a little poindexter-ish due to some bananas she decided to use as hair product.

 

 

 

Missing You

Not sure how to follow that. That wasn't exactly light material, in subject matter and the fact that you might have well thought I was getting paid to write by the pound (3,200 words according to this thing. Maybe next time I'll just write the dictionary.) But believe me though when I say, "and that's the abridged version."  Two weeks in a hospital, I tell you: you see some stuff.

But it wasn't all  "A Very Special Episode of..."  content all the time.  In that downtime, I could find something  odd or funny despite the "A Very Special Episode of..." turn my life was taking.  For example, you might recall me mentioning a major component of the pre-eclampsia is (was) the blood pressure,  and  I had arrived with a life-threatening level and then was able to maintain a relatively healthy one for 2 weeks with a lowest dose of BP medication. This was an incredible accomplishment in and of itself.  However,  I kept recalling an episode of The Office where the office tool Dwight raved about his brain's superiority as compared to  the lemmings he was forced to suffer daily.   So through all the  checks and charting, I kept hearing Dwight's braggery to Jim & crew on how he could raise his blood pressure at will, because his mental fitnesss was such, was so increbibly advanced, that he could manipulate involuntary bodily responses any which way he pleased.   So when Jim sarcastically asks him, "Annnnd why would exactly you want to raise your blood pressure?" Dwight's  rebotically responds, "So that I can lower it."

I may have used that bit once or twice with the staff.

Anyway, I needed to get that out of me since it's been sitting with me for 2 years. My secondary thought was maybe (maybe, maybe,) since  Interwebz is forever(-ish), one day some pregnant or one day would-be pregnant lady will read it and not be inclined to self-diagnose , or brush it off, or suck it up until the doctor's office opens.  And maybe,  if that were to happen,  it's possible to think one person might be spared a horrific outcome.  If that were to happen, ...well, that would be a comforting thought.

But even with Daniel's birthday looming  (which honestly for the majority of the day I was surprisingly okay), this has not been a good month.  A lot of waterworks and snot, crying in places where I just assume not give in to the ugly face.  Maybe you read my post about going to the dentist office two weeks ago? Reception got the ugly face that day (I so ever  grateful to be the only patient in the waiting room). The last time I had been there I was a few months pregnant with Daniel and loved getting to tell them (since they ask when they take x-rays) that yeah, there was a possibility that I was pregnant, since hi, I was due in the summer. In addition to the  emotional landmine of the office, for the few days prior to the appointment, I had just spent those trying to recover what is now a permanently erased a voicemail  I'd saved from my mom on my old cell phone, a result of switching to the iPhone (this futile act included many embarrassingly tearful calls and conversations to various level Verizon employees and the third party company  who does their voicemail). And  just before my appointment,  my sister had told me that our Mom's blog had been deleted. So losing that voicemail and her blog was like losing her all over again.  All these things kept pushing and pushing on me,  so when reception of dentist day asked, "How old's the baby now? Getting big?" and I said, "Nine months" and then I immediately thought they meant from the last time I was there a few years ago, so I foolishly started to back track and tried to explain about Daniel and then...

...I choked. It was too much. My voice cracked and I couldn't hold it in. I quietly bawled to the receptionist as I explained my son died, and I haven't been to the dentist because I had an appointment scheduled while I was on leave, never kept it, and never made another appointment, and-  and- oh my God, isn't the dentist gonna kill me when he sees what I'm bringing him.

(and what I would be "bringing him" would be his summer home's down payment. Holy Christ).

Like I said, I've never been so grateful for an empty waiting room. It then occurred to me that Mike & I have the same dentist's office, and he of the non-skipping of appointments probably filled them in about Carolyn. I had blanked on that piece of important data. Oops.

Today, April 27th, is my Mom's birthday, a woman whose death of 15 months ago- 9 months after Daniel's and 6 months before Care's birth, I can't really fully explain now.  The complexity of our relationship would easily exceed 3,200 words, and the impact would be,  God, I can't imagine that word count on that.   She didn't know about either of my children, but I was trying to find a way to get to the point where I was going to tell her about Carolyn. And then she died.   Our last face to face encounter on Thanksgiving ended with a  hug & and kiss, and I had a phone conversation with her on Christmas. Two moments I try to hold to.

It goes without saying give anything for her to to be here. Her death tragic and sudden and there was so much I wish I had said and done.  I would jump at the chance for her to see her youngest granddaughter, play with her, and for her to see me in the role of Mom in stead of just kickass Aunt.  She would get a kick out of Care's  fake sneezes and whistling, and be endeared by the fact that the first song I sang to Care was "You Are My Sunshine" only to be followed up with "The Muppets" theme song. 

There is no neat bow for to end this one, but I felt as though I should write something on the woman-who-gave-me-life's birthday. The same woman who had explained to me when Tara Dooley called me a 'dipstick' that it really meant nothing, since she was talking about a part of a car (and then proceeded to pop the hood to our station wagon and pulled out oil-covered metal piece all, "See Jen, THIS! THIS is a dipstick!")

("A" for effort, Ma, but Dooley still had it over me with the insult as it is, afterall, a classic.)

Two

He would be walking.

Or off running.

There would be talking.  I'd hear "Mama." He would be repeating "No" or maybe a series of "Whys?"

He would be going to Lowes with his Dad. "Helping" him in the yard.

Instead,  he's in the next town.  In a container, underground,  smaller than some of my larger pocketbooks. A small, Styrofoam cooler, really. He has a photo of the 3 of us taped to his casket.

This is my reality.

Our reality.

I'm not sure what I can say or add about the grief of losing a baby. A baby I only got to know for 6 1/2 months "on the inside" and three hours out.

Two years ago today I gave birth to him. Diagnosed with severe pre-eclampsia and HELLP Syndrome which  landed me with an emergency c-section, I can remember everything like it was yesterday.

Two weeks before delivering, nearly 24 weeks pregnant, I was sitting in bed watching American Idol.  I was feeling well and enjoying being pregnant that night.  So much so that I made my first, stereotypical pregnant lady gesture and leveraged my delicate condition to have Mike go out to get the soda & ice cream for a Coke float.  Mike asked, "Are you serious?" just to make sure I wasn't just trying to be funny. He obliged with the trip to 7-11, came back and made me one.  I guzzled it down.

Shortly after drinking my Coke float, I started to feel some pain in my ribs/chest.  I wasn't sure what was going on, although I had experienced something very similar 2 weeks prior.

The pain of 2 weeks prior to the Idol night  I'd described  like a straight shot down my lower esophageal region and straight down my chest. I took a shower, thinking that would relax pain in my chest. At some point, I threw up once. Maybe twice.   I did eventually fall asleep, but would wake up again. After being unable to get comfortable for the night, I went to the ER where they thought maybe a gall bladder issue.  Of course I had started to feel better when I got there. After running the standard tests, and an ultra sound on the gallbladder,  they said they saw nothing. My BP was a little elevated- 140/80-ish, although that can occur when a person is in pain. I was showing some protein in my urine, but not a high enough level to cause concern, and it was also brushed off since it was the early a.m. urine, which tends to be more concentrated and give an overstated result.

Back to the night of Idol, the pain was similar but this time was going under my right breast, in the ribs.  Once again, I couldn't find a comfortable position and again. I started to vomit.  Based my experience of the  night/E.R. two weeks prior (and had had another occurrence between that point, that was relieved with a hot shower), I thought, as everyone had thought and told  me, that this was probably severe heartburn. Maybe throwing back a large Coke Float like it was a shot hadn't been my best idea.

This time though the vomiting and pain kept coming, despite all the showers I took. I couldn't sleep.  I was pacing the house,  going from bed to the couch and back.  Midnight, 1:00 a.m., 2:00, and on, from the couch,  I'm trying to keep hydrated  but I couldn't keep a few bites of Popsicle down. A bucket was now next to me. Later, a bathroom event where both ends were jockeying for the toilet position.  I was really uncomfortable and  getting into weird positions, including child's pose trying to stretch out the pain, to make it stop. I decided I'd call the doctor "first thing" in the morning.

No, I don't know what the hell I was thinking either.

The symptoms had started at around 10 p.m. Wednesday night. A little before six in the morning, I called my OB's office and got the answering service.  I explained my symptoms: the pain in my right ribcage, the constant vomiting, not being able to get comfortable and that I was about 24 weeks pregnant with my first.

The OB who returned my call on call was not my doctor. Focusing on the detail of the pain in the chest lead her to believe I needed to be seen by... my primary...for a chest x-ray. I would be remiss if I didn't say this makes me bitter, since I was actually giving her some clear markers of pre-e/HELLP: pain in the right rib area, vomiting, first pregnancy.  I called my primary, got the answering service, they called back. That doctor, knowing nothing of my medical history, demanded that I get myself to the E.R. as fast as possible, do not bother showering, nothing. And no, I was not gong for a ridiculous chest x-ray. Looking back, I think they knew.

After the calls back and forth with OB and primary doctors' offices, I arrived at the local hospital around 8 a.m. A full two hours after I called, and now 10 hours after the initial onset of physical symptoms.

Let it be known, a pregnant woman complaining of chest pain will cut any waiting line.

I gave a urine sample and eventually got  a bed and my blood was drawn.  They  hooked me up to a BP monitor.  The on-call OB, a kind man who was the hospital's high-risk specialist, and a doctor from my OB office who happened to be at the hospital that day, were in my room. The  BP monitor gave the reading: 190/101.

Stroke high.  Seizure high. Coma high.

Two pairs of doctors' eyes bulged at each other. The set me up with an IV of magnesium sulfate.  "The Mag", as it's known, was to keep me from having a seizure.

Urine showed protein, and the blood work showed high liver enzymes  and low platelet counts.  I was really bad shape.

I'm told I have severe pre-ecplamspia and HELLP syndrome.  I didn't know what that really meant, since I didn't get that far in the books. I'm confused,  in denial, or both, because I'm a really healthy woman.  How can I be in bad shape?

I'm told they're doing their best to buy me time. Hours, not days or weeks.   Words like "edge of viability" are thrown at me. I don't really understand, since two weeks ago I had pretty much the same deal and they sent me home.

 A steroid shot was given in my butt to help develop his lungs. I'm in a dark room now, my sister  also with me now and I'm trying to keep it together. The doctor,  about to step out of the room for a minute, hears me squeak, "Doctor, do you think there is  there any chance you might be wrong?"

In a most compassionate, soft tone, "Jennifer, I have been doing this for many years, and when I see something like this, I know I'm right, but I hope I'm not."

I start to cry.

The good news, if there was any to be had,  I'm not only not getting worse, I am, in fact, stabilizing.  The Mag is working, and my BP is brought down to a somewhat acceptable level.  A really bad migraine started to emerge, but the nurse said that was expected given how high my BP had just been.  I mentioned to her that I had been getting them the past few weeks, and I'd needed Tylenol with Codeine to cope.   Those were likely early warning indicators of the pre-e, she says.  I see an ultrasound of my son being active and normal.

The kind doctor says I need to be transferred where I can be monitored for high risk pregnancy 24/7. I make the decision to go to Mass. General.

I get my very first ambulance ride.  I make chit chat with the nurse who's riding with me, since I am feeling better and convincing myself that this is somehow a temporary blip to recover from.  Despite the sirens, traffic into Boston slows the ride considerably, but as luck had it,  a state trouper  was in that traffic and I receive a free police escort for the rest of the way.

At MGH and out on the stretcher where all the ambulances are, they detain me, shielding me from another ambulance's patient. Apparently what was coming in was something too gruesome of heartbreaking for me to see. "You don't want to see that."

On the Labor & Delivery floor, I'm given raw, frank data of  my condition and my baby's chances of survival. The bottom line is, at 23 weeks, 5 days pregnant, they're going to round me up to 24 weeks and try to keep me pregnant. Babies delivered prior to 24 weeks, the benchmark for "Edge of Viability"  do not typically survive, and the risk too high for the mother to try to keep them inside.  It would not take much less for them to delivery me right then and there. I've responded to the Mag well, but really, I'm being given a chance to keep my baby alive because of the ROUNDING ISSUE.  A decimal point.

This is also remarkable considering the only way to "cure" pre-eclampsia and HELLP is to deliver.

I see the next day, and am given another shot of steroid for the lungs . Twenty-four hours later I will be considered "Beta complete". I'm taken off the mag drip, and on the lowest dose of BP medication.  My BP behaves. I do a 24 hour urine sample.  I'm still showing protein, but my blood work is showing signs of recovery to acceptable levels.  I still have occasional headaches, but not as intense.  The high risk OBs start to wonder how this is possible,  as  it is not normal pre-e/HELLP behavior for someone who arrived so extremely ill to bounce back with so little intervention or without delivery of the baby.   So they begin to test for viruses, since they now have the time to do so,  including Cat Scratch Fever. I don't own a cat.

I've met with the neonatal doctor and given percentages on survival rates and health stats. The fact that I am "Beta Complete" is a start, but the gestational age, his estimated weight (around a pound) and the fact that he is a male, Caucasian baby (the most vulnerable in terms of survival) are all going against him. The best number I'm given during my stay was 15% survival- and even at that, not without the likelihood of severe disability.

For most of the next 2 weeks, there's not much in terms of excitement, and I settle into a routine. No excitement= good news.   I become an expert of numbers for various blood stats and chart my BPs. I am comforted that  I am puzzling the team of high risk docs. I am Super Woman. My body has  defied the logic of this disease. I mentally fist pump myself for confusing intelligent people and cruel diseases. I'm determined not to be a statistic.

 I go through 2 roommates - one who went into labor while I was zonked out on Ambien.  There were the small victories that came with being stable like not getting blood drawn multiple times a day to only a few times a week, or being taken off the BP cuff that went off every 20 minutes. I get permission to shower and and get fresh air.  As time goes by, I'm more confident that I'll ride out a good chunk of my pregnancy until he was born, safely. I eye 28 weeks.

 One advantage of the hospital bed rest & surveillance was I  got to see my son  everyday with ultrasounds, getting  scores of consistent 8/8s, the highest he could get for his age.

There was one small thing, literally:  he wasn't gaining any weight.  When my BP shot up as high as it did, there was damage to the cord that was feeding him.  It constricted the capillaries.  The damage was done.  The blood was being pumped out twice as fast as it was coming in. The analogy used to explain his daily ordeal was that he was having to run a marathon every day to get the nutrients just to survive. I dream their measurements are off in his favor.

The morning of April 23rd. A Thursday. A full two weeks after admission. 25 weeks, 5 days pregnant.

I have a blood draw very early in the morning and I go back to sleep.  They come back for another draw and I, for reasons I couldn't even tell you then, get up out of bed to get and eat a single peanut M&M from a bowl by the window.  The nurses advises me after seeing this not to eat anything. Something is up. Why do they care? Breakfast is coming soon.

The early a.m. blood showed bad things: dropping platelet levels and liver enzymes going back up. If confirmed by the 2nd draw that morning, I'm going to deliver.

The 2nd blood draw of the morning confirmed their initial finding.  I am getting very sick again, even though I feel perfectly normal. However, the delivery plan has a little wrench in it, as that 1 peanut M&M at 8:00 a.m. pushes the surgery back because the requirement of 8 hours empty stomach. I had not eatne anything before breakfast for 2 weeks. Today I have 1 piece of candy.  Had I not had eaten it,  I would have delivered around noon.  That 1 M&M bought me about 4 more hours with my son kicking in my belly.

I cannot tell you how stupid yet profound that scenario reads back to me.

A single M&M bought me a few more hours with my alive son.

I kept in my mind that I would not freak out until there was something to freak out about.  I remember I watched Ellen while awaiting the 2nd draw's results, trying to keep my stress level low. She had Lindsay Lohan on that day, which was good, because Ellen called her out on her going to the clubs even though she was supposedly getting sober/in recovery. I love people like Ellen calling bullshit on people like Lindsay.   There was also a silly bit of women in Sumo-like costumes chasing a football which had me laughing pretty hard. I prayed that my son could hear his mother's laugh, and not feel worried. I didn't want to send him a bunch of stress hormones, and I heard laughter is good for a person's well being, and this was all I could do for him at this point. I later told kid-appropriate jokes to Mike during surgery, so he also wouldn't worry about me.

I see how that can sound really, really  dumb and naive, or lacking of feeling or I lived in some fantasy world,  or I don't know, unprepared, but you don't know until you're in the spot.  This was all I could do for him: provide a place where his mom wasn't freaking out. I didn't want him to hear me sob or become hysterical. If shit got bad, if he was to die, I could breakdown later.  It wasn't over til it's over, as far as I was concerned.

I delivered my  boy, Daniel. It bothers me I still can't call him Dan or Danny or D-Money. He's Daniel to me for some reason.  Born a  tiny 1 lb., 2 oz., just over 13 inches at 4:22 p.m.  He never cried. His heart rate was not strong- around 80 bpm, but it was beating. He was not dead.  They performed CPR to increase the HR. The doctor informed me he was likely to die in the OR.  As he was telling me this, my son's HR improved and the team called him over. Once again, I fist pumped my logic-defying DNA I'd clearly passed on to him.

They had to rush him to the NICU, but before they did,  they stopped by my head so I could see him in the isolet.  I looked at him, he looked at me. His eyes were open.  It is a moment I can still replay in my head.

In shock,  and time seeming to stand still,  all I could muster was a series of "Oh my God"s.  I'm not sure I even said, "I love you."

They left for the NICU.

Post-delivery surgery took longer than expected due to a bleeding fibroid. Once back in a recovery room, my body temp dropped and  they have to wrap me in warming blankets to get me back to normal.  Mike eventually was given the green light to leave me to be near Daniel. By the time Iam  moved to see him in the NICU, he has passed away. Two hours and 58 minutes later.  I hold him.

I sob and become hysterical.

The rest of my story is about as shitty as one could expect, since a parent isn't supposed to bury their child.  As I said I can't really add anything of value to what grief is or how to cope with such a loss. It's different and yet the same for everyone. People comment about God's Plan but I can tell your grieving parents think their plan was better. Go home with a baby, not a memory box.

After he passed, I remember reading  a comment left on a blog from an OB  nurse that said those offices don't mind the multiple calls from the hand-wringing set;  they worry about the ones that don't call.  I can't say if I had called or gone to the E.R. much earlier if that it would have changed the outcome, but the fact that I can't say definitely 100% one way or the other is something I carry with me.  I really wish I had called sooner. This was not the time to suck it up or try to deal with the pain on my own, even for 8 hours.

Mostly though, I wanted to write this because of this fragile, sweet, beautiful boy who mattered. He was here,  meant something to quite a few people, was so wanted and so fiercely loved. I just wished I could have been his mommy, here in the tangible sense,  for a whole lot longer.

 

"Call 1-800-Dentist. Here, let me get the number for you."

My friend Mary and I had this thing about the old 1-800-Dentist commercial, in that it would INCENSE my friend Mare because the lady recommending 1-800-dentist  would pause to say, "here, let me get the number for you," as she flipped through her roledex.  Oh, how this would burn my friend Mary UP.  "THE NUMBER IS 1-800-DENTIST. WHAT IS THERE TO LOOK UP??" and it never got old for me seeing her lose her shit over it. I knew from then we were kindred spirits, even if she was old enough to be my Ma.

Anyway, all this to say I am off to the dentist this very minute having not been seen in 2.5 years.  People, I made the appointment because, aside from the obvious "girl you need to" I am in pain, which reveals to me that shit aint right.  It is no secret I have crap for teeth, and this, I feel, is the beginning of a very expensive and very painful series of appointments.

If I am not back to the space, please know if was nice knowing you, and that the dentist killed me dead with the drill. Or his bill.

Over/under on # of cavities or if I need a root canal/crown(s).  Seriously, I think the situation is so bad no guess would be too extreme at this point.

Fondly,

Jen

 

A Christmas Story

Mike's at a Celtics game with his crew tonight, so by defacto I've been  Single-Momming all day. With a little quiet in the house now, thought I'd might update here and thinking what to write....what to write... and then it occurred to me-

I ever tell you all about the time our house got robbed on Christmas?

1994,  I was 21 and living at home, working/going to school.  I lived with my mom and sister, Emily, who was in high school at the time.  The details of how we as a family got together for gift exchange is a little fuzzy as to who was where (I have another sister who was in nursing school and a brother who was living in Baltimore with my father), but I think just the 3 of us exchanged gifts that year at home and then drove to my grandparents in Massachusetts.

We came back home on the evening of December 26th and after going up to our rooms to unpack,  my sister Em noticed that her room had been gone through since some items were missing. After hearing that, my mom also realized  some of her stuff was gone, too.

It was figured out pretty quickly this wasn't your typicial burglary.  As we started to name items, it was pretty tailored to meets the desires of a very specific demographic.

Here's a list of the inventory that I can still recall and see if you can figure it out:

-Fancy Shampoo/Conditioner (Pantene Selects if I recall correctly)

-One Lucky Vanous (Diet Coke guy) calendar (incidentally- my Christmas gift to Em)

                             Help! I've been kidnapped!

-My one pair of Banana Republic jeans that I scored at Marshall's and paid like $20, tapered, light stone wash and I swear made me look awesome when I hit the clubz ( I had no money and so could not afford a "real" pair of BR jeans, so to find these in a Marshall's was HUGE to me.)

(Yes, I'm still bitter, you'll see why...)

-Some of my Mom's rings - including an emerald ring her parents gave to her

-My sister's diary

I'm sure if my sister read this, she could add to the list, since she bore the brunt of theft.

Yes, a teen girl had hit our house. It would be unfair to call this a "break in", since we had an (admittedly bad) habit of leaving the house unlocked, because we lived in "such a good neighborhood."  I would call this more of a "Walk-in" or perhaps "Sneak In".  But what was more obvious (other than our lack of judgment not locking the front door) was who had done it.

There was a girl up the street from us who was at one time friends with my sister, Em. The girl, I'll call her J, was a few years younger than Em.   J was in 8th grade and her mom had on numerous occasions asked me to sleep over their house while she worked the overnight shift at the Post Office. Sometimes my 16 year old sister would take this gig.  While there was another much younger daughter in the house (about age 6 or 7) in play, the need for the supervision was due to J's behavior, since she had a habit of either sneaking out or having people over. And the people she had over were not, um, helping her study or anything.

My family had been very open-armed to this girl, even though I thought she was a total twit. Not that we were the Bradys by any reach, but we were a good crew for her to be around, had kept an eye on her, took her to places with us,  and made her part of our little family because her home life was pretty rocky, and made more so because of a recent divorce.  My mom, also single, empathized with the mother, and I knew J's mom had been pushed to her limits with J, and was doing her best to keep it together, since and she wasn't getting much assistance from the ex-husband.

I knew J had clipped the items. What burglar comes in for a Diet Coke guy calendar and shampoo? I was PISSED she had done this to us. On Christmas, no less.

I  like to think I'm pretty level headed and hard to frazzle in times of crisis. I find it's best to deal with the X-situation first, and then fall apart/explode/rant when all is said and done.

This was not my shining moment.

My exact words to my mom when I Cagney & Lacey'ed the case: "OH FUCK THIS."

A bullshit me bounded over to her house. I knocked on the door. No answer.  Knowing they were home, I opened the door and said a bunch of "Hello?"s.  This sounds strange now, but it really wasn't since her mom had entrusted me with a key,  her kids, and was I welcome there. I went upstairs to the Mom's room and the mom was there.  I told her what I had suspected, and asked permission to search her daughter's room.  She agreed.  I went in searching through the layers of teen-bedroom detritus  and was able to locate a few items: the jeans (which at the time I didn't know were missing, and now had a hole cut into the knee), Em's calendar, now written all through, Em's diary, which now had a few added entries from "Em", including a bit of her first experience with a tampon and liking how it felt going in & out of her (classy), and the shampoo.

The bigger ticket items: the jewelry, an Irish Belleek ashtray, cash were not there.

I spoke to J's mom and told her what I'd found. I said I needed to find J and she has coming with me. The mom gave a a resigned, "Do what you gotta do."

I found J in the basement. With a boy. If they weren't having sex, they were rounding 3rd by the time I made my presence known.  I told her, "Get your clothes on and get upstairs. And guy- BEAT IT."

More enraged, I walked up to the mother, and said, "Oh and by the way, I just found your kid having sex."

When a clothed J finally made her appearance, I yelled.  A lot.  Mostly "what the fuck are you thinking?" and "You fucked with the wrong family."  I dropped probably no less than 20 F-Bombs that night to a 14 year old girl.  Not my proudest moment at all,  but I had felt so betrayed by her I just couldn't keep my shit together. Our family been there for her so many times, my sister had been her friend when they were younger, and THIS was how she treated us:  by stealing from us on Christmas.

It was all I could do not to jack her up against a wall at this point, mostly  because her (fucking) perfected teen indifferent-to-defiant attitude.  Deciding to take a page from the Scared Straight campaign, I said to her, "You're coming with me."

First stop:  My Mom.

My mom had her moments of getting people to spill- and at a minimum, lay the guilt so heavy you couldn't breathe.  When I came up empty with the jewelry (and a few other items), I thought  she could make her get the stuff back.   We learned  J had a partner, and the partner had the other half of the loot.  It was then advised she could call this person at that moment.  I stood beside J as she called, and  her partner in crime said, "tell them I don't have it anymore." That report got J a quick,  "then I guess we're  seeing the Vernon Police tonight."

I drove the 14 year old thief the police station.

Once there, I get some face time with a officer laid out the details. He advised, giving the 2 idiots 24 hrs to give *all* of the items back, and if not, then press charges. I am sure the cop was seeing the crime for what it was, the value of the items and ages of  the criminal mensas, and perhaps rightly thought we would have a better chance of seeing the (mostly sentimental) items returned if we gave a window for them to do the right thing/avoid a rap sheet.

To be honest, this suggestion was not really a favorite of mine. In my eyes, which were only 21 years old then, saw this in black & white- a crime was committed, and I had a person ADMITTING IT, had recovered some of the items at the home of said admitter-er, and I'm to give this girl some slack? What the fuck, V.P.D.?

Begrudgingly, we gave the damn 24 hours.  The next day we returned to the police station to confirm we had our stuff back "mostly satisfactorily" since all but the cash was returned (surprise). I'm not sure if it was stipulated she had to pay us back or what.  The officer from that day was of my mind that we should have pressed charges AND gotten our stuff back. He was my kinda guy, since even though I knew we could drop a charge, I wanted these girls pissing their pants, at least for a little while.

 

 

yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen

I'm just back from our first vacation as a family. Taking a nine month old, newly teething and for added fun, going though her first cold (or illness, as it just happens), to board a plane 1,000 miles due south was a little ...what's the word, I guess anxious? But she handled the flight well and as it turned out, when Operation: Snot Rag was finally completed, and after Tooth One and Tooth Two   finally stop taking her to the mat  (moreso the newer, Florida-born Tooth Two, the bitch) AND she figured out that Napping is RAD! and so is not waking up at 3:45 a.m.!, it turned out I could fall in love with my kid all over again. The phrase "like woah" really doesn't do the feeling justice.

I have more photos of her than I'll ever need from the trip, but here's one I took that just that when I look at it in the right frame of mind, I tear up.

 

 

We had a fantastic time  relaxing in Florida.  It was a much needed break from the cold, the back to back (to back to back...to back) snowstorms we'd endured and the 9-5 gigs and the daily grind of the walls here, and as much as that is true, I am glad to be back home (although hoping we dodged the last of the snow which we avoided when we were away) but maybe a little sad to be putting my flip flops back in the bin I store them in, since I know it'll be more than a month or so before I really get to wear them regularly. 

Until then, I have a disk full of pictures to keep me warm.