Is that the face of a grandmother? Say “Of course not, my gosh, there is no possible way you could be a grandmother,” or I’ll have to track you down and slap you. HARD.

A few days ago I got word from my oldest son, now 22, that he was going to be a father. And if he was going to be a daddy, that means I would become a grandmother. The thought was slightly frightening on a few levels, not the least of which, I.WOULD.BE.A.GRANDMOTHER.

Me? I’m too vain for that sort of thing if the truth be known. I still want guys to look at me and think, “she’s not bad,” or “I’d tap that.” Not, “hey, look, there’s granny.” Does that make a bad person? Probably, but I’m nothing if not honest.

There were other thoughts going through my head, too. I mean, was my kid ready to have a kid? He just graduated from his schooling, is the process of securing employment, and he and his fiance were about to take the first steps to buy a home, and now he has a baby on the way? Yikes. How would he and his girl possibly survive this? Of course, not lost on me was the fact that *I* had my son when I was just 19, and separated and living, once again with my parents. Not an ideal situation to be having a baby, but what’s done is done and there’s only room to go forward. That is exactly what I told my son. Yes, it was a shock to hear it, not totally surprising since history has a way of repeating itself in family situations, but still a shock nonetheless. Son a father? Me a grandmother? God help us. But more importantly, would I be a hot grandmother? I kid (sort of).

I did joke with him on that first day though of finding out, that if he or his fiance took the baby to Sears portrait studio or freakin’ Wal-mart, and not made me the baby’s official photographer, I’d be royally pissed. See? I can still muster up a load of laughs even in slightly and/or extremely upsetting situations. Not that having a baby is upsetting per se, but when your child is just heading into adulthood, and really was not planning on parenthood anytime in the near future and then pending fatherhood just sort of falls into the picture, it can be sort of boot-shaking.

It’s a weird position to be in really. One part of you, as the parent of a child about to become a parent, who yes, is a man, but in your mind, and heart, still a boy at times, is scared. Scared for him – will he know how to be a dad? Will he and his fiance be able to afford a baby (like any of us can really afford kids, if truth be told)? Will this tear them apart or bring them closer together? Will they name the baby Skyscraper or something else weird? OK, the name thing didn’t really cross my mind and I’m assuming they wouldn’t name their baby Skyscraper or Hermit, or HeyYou. Once again, digging deep for the humor. There’s another part of you that is excited, because oh.my.gosh. there’s a baby coming. Mixed bag of feelings.

The situation made me stop and think about my own parents. Did they have similar fears for me when I was 19 and pregnant and living in their home? I knew jack shit about babies. Yes, I have a younger sister and brother and remember when they came into our lives, but uh, they had a mother to take care of the important stuff, like diapers and other baby related crap. I just let them hang around with me, on occasion. Were my parents scared for me? Did they lay awake at night wondering how I would manage? Probably. But then there comes a time, when you put those thoughts aside – they’re still in the back of your mind, but you have to let the positive thoughts come through instead.

You have to let your kid know that no matter what, you’ll be there. There is no time for anger, or lectures on birth control, or saying stupid shit like, geez, what were you thinking? You don’t need a baby now. Doesn’t matter because when there’s a baby coming in a few short months, you have to get in the THERE’S A BABY COMING MODE. That’s what I did. Within a day, I was thinking of the day the baby would be born, what they would name the baby, how I had totally planned to make up a cute, fun title for myself. No Grandma, Granny, Nanny, or Nana for this chick. Oh no, I was going to invent something awesome because, uh, hello? Remember? I still harbor some vanity.

I pictured them bringing baby to stay with us for the weekend while they went away camping. How they’d fuss and remind me of feeding times, diaper changes, burping, bedtimem rituals, because I apparently don’t have children of my own. I’d smile and nod and tell them to have a great time, and baby will be fine. And when they arrived on Sunday to pick up the little guy (or girl), I’d say how much he/she missed them and they would smile – relieved I had taken good care of their munchkin and happy to hear they were missed by their baby.

I’d go shopping and buy cute things, spoil the baby because that’s what grandparents (insert cute made up name here) do, spoil their grandbabies.

Unfortunately, sadly, things aren’t going to work out that way. At least not at this point in time. My son told me today that his fiance miscarried. Yet another round of emotions.

Sadness because your child has had to experience something painful, those feelings of well, it wasn’t meant to be, which I do believe things happen for a reason, but that doesn’t make it less upsetting or confusing. Guilt, because for that split second after you heard the pregnancy news, you were thinking, gosh, can my kid really do this? Of course I believed he could do it, and knew he would step up to the plate. I was given the benefit of the doubt when I had him and I would definitely return the favor.

Obviously they were not expecting this pregnancy. But, after the inital shock, they decided to make the best of the situation and like me, had their dreams and plans floating around in their heads. Would they have a boy or a girl, would baby be a redhead like me and my son? Be born bald? Would they give him/her one middle name or two? So much to look forward to, and much work and responsibility, but so much joy to come as well. Now that pending joy is gone.

To my son and his fiance: This was not your fault. A miscarriage is not about fault. It’s something that happens to some of us (I’ve had a miscarriage and as son knows, I had a daughter who died at birth, too) and we may never know why. It wasn’t meant to be and as cliché as that is, it’s true. One day, when you do have a child, you will think of this time and the baby that wasn’t meant to be on this earth, but because of that pregnancy and miscarriage, a path was carved for you to have the child you end up with. Life works in mysterious ways. Make sure you take time to grieve and then look ahead to your future.

One day, I’m sure my son will be a father and when that day comes, I’ll be there. (But don’t call me Grandma).

1987: Me and son

When he was an infant and toddler, he would vomit 25 times a day or more – a lot of things would set him off. The way something felt on his skin, if he got a hair on his hand, touching his bare feet on the grass, a certain noise – you name it, he’s probably puked because of it. Even now, as a kid of almost 13, he can still have episodes of vomiting without much provocation, although it’s way less frequent now. So, when he’s sick and puking from a stomach virus, he gets grossed out that he’s thrown up, thus making him throw up some more. See where I’m going with this? Ya, welcome to my world for nearly 14 days.

He finally went back to school on Tuesday but still wasn’t 100%. He was pale and although his fever had gone, he said he still felt “funny.” He sometimes has a hard time articulating what exactly is wrong with him, so I have to play 20 questions with him to get a sense of what he’s feeling. That’s not always fun either. I get a lot of ‘I don’t knows’ lemme tell you. But, it’s been a little over 24 hours since he barfed, which makes me happy for him and happy for me and I’m sure my washer and dryer thank me, too. His appetite isn’t back to normal, but then his eating habits aren’t normal either, so it’s just another version of what are we going to feed the kid today? That’s another whole post, for which I’ll regale you with at a later time.

My kids will be done school tomorrow and then be home for the next ten days – spring break is here. Can’t wait, yay, horror… I mean hooray, I can’t wait to hear my daughter tell me how bored she is 350 times a day. So excited! Luckily, my son is very good at keeping busy and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say he’s bored, so that’s a plus. And I can sort of sleep in, which will be nice. So, I guess spring break isn’t all bad. Mostly torture for parents, but it has some good points – well, two. Sleeping in and not rushing around at the ass crack of dawn.

Let’s hope the break is barf free. Thx.

Don’t you just love that photo? My daughter took that this morning and although I look quite drunk, I assure you I wasn’t. Although with the day I had, I sure wanted a drink, even though I don’t drink (but that’s another post, another day).

It started off fairly well until my son’s bus was late this morning and after he had gotten out of my SUV, he waited at the bus stop for almost 10 minutes (I wait there until he gets on the bus), freezing his butt off. I called him back over to sit in the vehicle to get warm and I called the bus company, and they said the bus would be along in about 10 minutes. After about five minutes, I see the bus pulling up so I tell son to get out and run over to the stop. Poor kid is running as fast as he can, with a fairly heavy backpack and as I’m watching, I see the bus driver closing the doors and begin pulling away from the curb. Great.

I’m thinking, this is just going to mess my whole day up should I have to drive him to school. With traffic and such, it’ll be an hour out of my day, and he’ll be late for school, just won’t start off on the right foot. However, to my relief, the driver saw him and stopped and he got on. Yay.

I make my way to the grocery store to pick up a handful of items. As I’m walking around as quickly as possible, almost done, I hear a woman’s voice come over the intercom. She’s informing customers that their debit machines (including credit cards) are out of order and they can only accept cash. Fantastic, because I never carry cash anymore. I’m about ready to ditch my cart with my items (and possibly punch someone), when I realized I did have some cash that my husband had given me the night before. Yay again. And luckily for me, the cashier was a young man who was working on all brain capicity and there were no issues at the time of payment. Yay again. Maybe I don’t need that booze (that I don’t really drink anyway) after all.

I make a quick trip to the bank, and all goes well there. In and out in 5 minutes. I head home, put groceries away, make a stew in the crockpot (I love you crockpot) and get my work done. I decided to go back out later on and go through the drive thru at Starbucks and order my crack strawberries n’ cream frapp. As I pull up and order, I’m told they’re out of the mix to make it, can they make me something else? No. No you can’t, because that’s the only thing I order from Starbucks. I get to sit in the drive thru lineup and wait for the 89 cars that are ahead of me regardless of not having a yummy drink to look forward to. No yay here.

I drive home, all disappointed that I didn’t get to drink those 6000 calories and possibly make my boobs bigger. Did I say boobs? I meant ass. Make my ass bigger. See? I’m still pissed about it.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur (am I sure I wasn’t drinking?) and then it’s time to pick up my son from the bus stop. I get there about 3 minutes before the bus usually arrives, and wait for another 10. I call the bus company and inquire as to where the bus is. I’m told they’ll radio the driver – lady comes back and says, she can’t reach the driver. Oh, that’s nice. I want to know where my special needs son is, but you can’t say. Fantastic. By this time, I have one minute to drive a five minute drive to pick up my daughter. I have to leave the bus stop and go get her, so I tell lady on the phone when she does reach the bus driver, to please have him (or her) tell my son to wait at the park for me, and I’ll be back in a few minutes and to call me – but I don’t get a call during the time I’m driving to get my daughter.

I get my daughter, who was worried (she’s a worrier – not sure where she gets that *ahem*), wondering why I wasn’t at our usual pick up spot, so I explained what happened and we talk about our back up plan should I be late again. She’s fine after that.

We head back over to the bus stop, and I look for son at the park, which I see no sign of him. I call the bus company back and ask how much longer the bus will be. Oh, the driver has been there already. Um, okay, well where’s my kid? Don’t know. Oh, well, that’s acceptable. I’m told they’ll contact the school to see if he even got on the bus. Lord. I decided to drive home to see if he possibly walked home. But even if he did, the doors would be locked, and he’d not be able to get in. I get home and there’s no sign of him. I run in the house to answer the ringing phone – it’s the bus company. He’s not at the school, so pretty much, no one had a clue as to where my child was. Where is that vodka when a frantic mother needs it? Uh, not that frantic mothers necessarily need booze, but hey, I was still pissed at missing out on my frapp, so vodka sounded good (sorta – doesn’t it taste kind of like rubbing alcohol?). Anyway, I hear a knock at my front door and it’s a lady telling me that my son is at her house – she lives just 2 houses past mine. I tell the bus lady that my son is here, at the neighbors house. Neighbor leaves to go back to her house and motions to me to come over when I’m done on the phone.

I go over and there’s my little buddy sitting at her kitchen island (her kitchen is beautiful by the way) and he smiles and I smile and then I thank her and of course I start to cry (could I be a bigger baby?) and she hugs me and tells me it’s okay and that she’d seen my son locked out and didn’t want him to be outside by himself and that if I ever need her, to feel free to call her (she gave me her number) and she’d gladly keep my kids if I needed her to or if I needed anything. And holy run-on sentence, but I had to get that all out. What a sweet lady and she really was lovely to me. I thank her again and look at my son and see he’s got tears in his eyes – I could tell he was a little worried that mom wasn’t at the bus stop when he got off of the bus, but I was proud of him for telling the neighbor his name (that’s huge, you have no idea) and although he didn’t talk to her after that (probably just nodded his head yes or no to questions), I’m glad she was thoughtful enough to be concerned for her neighbor’s kid. So yay for that.

I ended up with a migraine (never fails after a bus incident – and trust me, my poor kid has had three of them now over the past couple of years) to cap my day off, but it’s almost gone now. I wonder if the liquor store is open? I’m kidding. Kinda.

It takes a lot to offend me – really, it does. I can dish out politically incorrect humor with the best of them, sarcasm and black comedy can be oodles of fun and although I’m a crybaby at times, in certain areas of my life, I can take crap dished out to me. However, when some jackass has-been ‘comedian’ is trying to stay relevant to the times by bringing up the subject of autism in his book and calling parents of children with autism “inattentive,” and “competitive,” and in a nutshell, says there’s really no such thing as autism, it just means our children are stupid and/or lazy, I take offense. Here is what he wrote:

“There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their dumb-ass kids can’t compete academically, so they throw money into the happy laps of shrinks…. to get back diagnoses that help explain away the deficiencies of their junior morons. I don’t give a [bleep] what these crackerjack whack jobs tell you – yer kid is NOT autistic. He’s just stupid. Or lazy. Or both.”

I’ll assume he was attempting to be comedic (sort of missed the mark on that one). I’ll assume the premise of his book is to bring focus on the way we live today, the way we parent our children, the way we overeat, don’t exercise, talk too much, we don’t work hard enough, we overindulge in every aspect of living – just a general decline in how, we, as a society, walk through the world right now. I get it. He’s trying to be witty and humorous and probably throwing a dash of sarcasm in the book too – but honestly, implying – hell, saying – that inattentive parents are to blame for a child with autism is ridiculous. Or to say that a child who has been diagnosed with autism, doesn’t really have that, he’s just stupid. Or lazy. Or hey, both, is just wrong.

Would I be as offended by his comments if my own son wasn’t a special needs child? Maybe not, I don’t know. The fact is, my son is a child with many challenges – many. And he does display characteristics that fall into the autism spectrum, although his formal diagnosises do not include autism, those things are still present. And no way in hell, is some washed up douche bag, who knows nothing about raising a child with special needs, going to tell me (and many others) that my son’s afflictions are because I was/am an inattentive mother. Oh hell to the no. Of course there are crappy parents out there, that’s a fact of life. And perhaps those crappy parents have contributed to the fact that their child doesn’t flourish in whatever situation they may be in. But to say that I somehow, made my child the way he is, is ridiculous. My son was born the way he is – his brain is wired differently, his sensory and tactile issues are because he receives things differently than you or I, and sure, if I was a shitty parent, maybe he wouldn’t have made the progress he’s made.

I have gone to every specialist known to man, had tests done, therapy, read books, researched, attended seminars, worked with his schools – done whatever it takes to find answers, to get help for my child, to do whatever I can to make his life as fulfilling as it can possibly be. And for Denis Leary to be so flip about such a serious subject is not acceptable. Would he feel the same way if one of his children were autistic? Probably not – he’d blame their mother for giving him stupid and lazy children. He’s narrow-minded and ill-informed and so not funny.

When my son is struggling with his anxieties (and I have to talk him down for the 23rd time that day), at 12 still can’t tie his shoelaces (although I’ve been trying to teach him since he was 3), is made fun of because some of his behavior is perceived as odd (and still I walk proud with him in public even though we are both called names like freak, and weirdo), struggles to eat normally (I so want him to eat a slice of pizza or chow down on a burger, but that has yet to happen since we’ve not moved past baby food but we keep trying!), beats himself up verbally because he’s frustrated with not being able to handle a simple task (I hug him fiercely and help him articulate his thoughts so he can get that simple task done and be proud of his accomplishment) and looks at me with all the innocence of a preschooler (as I help him with his grade 3 spelling words even though he’s in grade 7, but he draws me the cutest pictures for my fridge), I’ll think of your words, and remind myself that it’s all because I’m an inattentive parent. If only I were a better mother to my son, then he wouldn’t be so stupid and lazy. Thank you for being so perceptive Denis Leary.

But hey Denis, good luck with your book. It’s great when chain-smoking, aging, past their prime, not funny, assholes try to get one more laugh out there.

I think of her often, see her in the blooming flowers, in a fluffy cloud, in a tiny raindrop or feel her presence in a warm summer’s breeze. Although the pain has subsided and I can talk about her without feeling overwhelmed, there are times when my tears will fall, unexpectedly, surprising me. Losing a child is not something you ever, truly get over. You always feel it, live it, sometimes can’t really believe that it happened to you. But it did.

Later, today, when all is quiet, I will open her tiny hopechest of memories, write in the journal that was given to me by my sister-in-law, a journal that I write in every year on this day. I share my thoughts with her, let her know what’s happening in our lives, how much I miss her and let her know I will see her again one day. I look at her pictures, read the cards given to us, touch the handmade gifts made by my nieces and nephews, and hold her tiny dress and bonnet, and remember the last time I saw her and held her close. I will thank her, for because of her death, 14 months later, our second daughter, Madison was born. Her birth was bitter sweet, but she was very much wanted and I believe that part of Angela’s soul lives in Maddy.

Today Angela, you would be nine-years-old and I picture you with long, red hair, a spattering of freckles across your nose like all of your siblings, and a smile that would light the darkest day. One day I will hold you again, be well my sweet baby, and I love you.

I get to write about celebrities every single day. I can be snarky, snotty and sarcastic if I so choose (and alot of the time I am -sarcastic is my middle name). Most of the time it’s fun -however, when we have to write about a celebrity dying, it’s hard. It’s a weird line to walk. It’s our job to write the stories, especially if it’s a breaking news story. And yet, at the same time, it makes you feel guilty. Heath Ledger was a great actor and more importantly, he was a dad to a young daughter. I just keep picturing his ex having to explain to their 2-year-old that her daddy is gone.

It’s been a good, solid 2 months since it’s been going on again and I’ve got every single symptom:

Nausea
Anxiety
Memory problems
Depression
Trouble sleeping
Restlessness
Irritialbility
Difficulty concentrating

I thought this was a good picture that reflected my pain because the light hitting my eye looks like a lightning bolt piercing my skull and that’s what it feels like. Or maybe it just looks like I’m being spotlighted by law inforcement for being so beautiful. I never thought my looks would be such a burden. *Sigh*. I can’t help it people, I can’t help it. (If you’re a new reader here, keep in mind, I use sarcasm, A.L.O.T.)

I’m thinking maybe I should see my doctor even though I’m a doctor of loooooove because I’m sure he might be better able to cure me than me. He has a degree in healing and I have degree in sarcasm which I’m pretty sure won’t get me out of this. At least so far it’s not helped. I guess I’ll have to put my crime fighting on hold for now. Criminals all over the world, will be breathing a sigh of relief for now. But watch out betches, I’m coming to get you soon.

She’s the kind of friend, who you may not talk to every single day but you know that she thinks about you and you think about her and when you do talk, you can share anything. She’s the kind of friend who would drop what she’s doing if you needed her to come over and give you some wicked migraine pills to help ease your stupid painful migraine. She’s the kind of friend who hurts when you hurt. She’s the kind of friend who would finish putting together your patio set because you’re too girlie to figure the fucker out and may break a nail. She’s the kind of friend who laughs with you AND at you because she knows that you would never get mad at her for making fun of your blonde moments. *Because you’d be mad often since you often have them*……..but I digress.

She’s the kind of friend who makes really yummy potato salad and loves that you love it. She’s the kind of friend who loves your chocolate chip cookies so much, that’d she hide them from her own offspring to totally enjoy them all to herself. Now that’s a friend.

She’s the kind of friend who can say ‘fuck’ and make it sound so funny and at the same time, she can say just the right thing to make you feel better when you’re down. She’s the kind of friend who, you actually haven’t a clue what the hell she’s saying when she’s really riled up because of her accent but you think it’s freakin’ hilarious to listen to her.

She’s the kind of friend who cares about how to approach you or tell you something for fear of hurting you, because she would never want to hurt you. And she never has.

She’s the kind of friend you’ll have for life, no matter where she lives and now she’s going to be living far far away and although I’m sad about that, sad that I can’t just call her up and say ‘can you come over?’ and sad that we can’t have any more of our girls out breakfasts with Ang (another sweet friend but this isn’t about you wench…haha) but as her friend, I’m very happy for her new life change.

Penny, I wish you much success in your new home, your new city, your new everything and I will be coming to visit because you’re going to make me some of your potato salad and I’m going to sit by your pool and you’re going to take me shopping. Bossy aren’t I? I miss you already.

Now we just have to wait and see how long it takes for someone to come and hook us back up. The nice (not being sarcastic) lady I spoke with this evening said it can take up to 24 to 48 hours. I’m hoping for an hour. Although she didn’t give me that option, I’m crossing my fingers and wishing on my genie that it comes true. I mean that bitch lives in a gold bottle and wears a bikini, so surely she can grant me that much.

It would be nice if you not only dreamed about me tonight (just because I’m cool), but crossed all of your crossable body parts, you know, if you’re not using them right now. Thanks.