Parenting

Picture Day

vintage class photo, 1957 (Photo credit: deflam)

Yesterday, detangling Flower Child’s hair.

Mrs Fringe, “Tomorrow is picture day, so let’s make a little extra effort, and you have to pick an outfit that you want to take a picture in.”

Flower Child, “No it isn’t. It’s De-cem-BER. Picture day is October 30th.”

Mrs F, “It was supposed to be October 30th, but there was no school that day because of the hurricane. So picture day was rescheduled for tomorrow, December 3rd.”

FC, “The paper said October 30th. I read it.” *preens*

Mrs F, “October 30th has passed. It was the day before Halloween. We’ve been through all of November, and now it’s December. Picture day is tomorrow. Do you want to wear the dress you wore for Thanksgiving?”

FC, clearly not believing me, “OK.”

This morning, getting ready.

Mrs Fringe, “Remember, it’s picture day. I’m filling out the paper for school, please give the envelope to the teacher.”

FC, “Umm, ohhhh,” rubs her stomach.

Mrs F, “Are you sick?”

FC, “No. Maybe. I don’t think so. It’s October 30th?”

Mrs F, “No, it’s picture day.”

We keep getting ready, Flower Child alternating between fighting nervous smiles, tearing up, and ummming. I sit down on the couch with her, finally figuring out she doesn’t want to wear the dress she’s already wearing.

I’ve already filled out the form and sealed the envelope. She picks a different outfit. Polka dot little too short skirt. Striped too big shirt. Sparkly tights. Mismatched socks. Early bag lady, but she’s smiling. I like to think she’ll smile when they take the picture, but if I was laying money down, I’d have to bet she’ll be giving her very best “smeyes,” a la Tyra Banks. Going to look fab against the fake flowering tree background.

The Cheshire Cat (Photo credit: Wild Guru Larry)

Once Upon A Time

fairy tale pic (Photo credit: Kjirstin)

In a land in which no one ever expects to reside, there were two little girls, born just days apart. One called The Empress, and one called La Princesa. The two girls didn’t live close to each other, and each was busy with the business of their kingdoms, learning to talk, and eat, pester their respective older brothers, and throw royal panties out the tower window.

One day, the beat in The Empress’s brain began to count out a new and unusual rhythm. Not long after, La Princesa’s brain also began keeping a new rhythm. Suddenly, each kingdom was regularly experiencing strange and terrible lightning storms. Healers were called and many potions were tried, but still, the storms persisted. La Princesa’s mother and The Empress’s mother each sent carrier pigeons with messages for the new world, called The Internet, hoping to find others who had battled these storms and defeated them; or at least knew how to protect their families while the storms raged.

Many Queens formed a Great Alliance, loaning each other shields of understanding and swords of knowledge. Many only stayed for a time, but the most weather beaten grew powerful and remained, through storms and strange beats, through potions that offered relief and those that were poison, helping each other to laugh and dance, when they were rooted, shin deep in muck.

Image of a letter sent by carrier pigeon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Empress’s Queen and La Princesa’s Queen began noticing they were sending out very similar messages. Soon, they began sending messages directly to each other, in addition to the ones they were sending and reading from the other Queens of The Great Internet. La Princesa and The Empress had both begun their lives small but mighty. Years passed, they remained small, but each began having periods of weakness, succumbing to the vapors as if the castle mice were stealing their feasts. Queen Empress and Queen Princesa realized not all of the other Queens with stormy kingdoms had such enchanted mice. They compared tales of storms and threats and events and spells, and the crumbling walls and general disrepair of their castles, moats leaking sewage into their grand halls. Potions and Healers and Seers were exhausting their riches. They whispered prayers carried by the wind. Still, their golden girls’ spirits were powerful.

Each Queen traveled to new seers, seeking answers and resolution. The Empress met a powerful seer, who offered answers, though no resolution. La Princesa’s Queen continues the quest. As the two Queens formed a stronger bond, and their pigeons knew the way to each kingdom without thought, La Princesa and Empress began to recognize the birds from each other’s lands. With their Queens’ help, they began sending messages to each other.

Each girl learned she had much in common with the other. Neither girl was bothered by asking or answering the same questions several times. Neither girl used unkind words about the other. All the kingdoms around were struck by a terrible storm, and the carrier pigeons couldn’t fly. La Princesa worried about The Empress, and The Empress worried about La Princesa.

One day, a special dove brought a great gift for La Princesa. It was a colorful drawing– rendered by The Empress– of the two friends and told the tale of their friendship. This treasure was so special La Princesa couldn’t speak, but her smile…her smile brightened her sleepy eyes and the gloomy day, casting a glow over the Queen’s eyes, making them leak in that way she hated! but she couldn’t see the cracks of the castle walls or the dusty cornices. She saw the pink streaks behind the gray clouds, and the miracle of the bird’s wings against the sky as he soared back towards the land of The Empress.

Fairy Tale … (Photo credit: lapidim)

Is That You, Hot Lips?

M*A*S*H (Photo credit: L.A.’s Filming Location Expert)

What can I say? I needed a little break from the battering of life on the fringe. I waited and waited, but neither Hawkeye nor BJ showed to patch me up before sending me back to the front line. (Though I swear I saw Klinger at the Thanksgiving Day parade.)

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I can’t believe it’s already come and gone. The best part? Both boys were home! Nothing cures self absorption like non stop hours of prepping, dishwashing, cooking, and more dishwashing. And of course, the time honored American tradition of kicking off the holiday season with gluttony. Do they still make Alka Seltzer?

dishpan hands (Photo credit: sammydavisdog)

Man Child left early this morning, he came for the long weekend with his friend Miss Great Smile. Nerd Child leaves tomorrow morning. The nice part is they’ll both be back before long, for the Christmas break.

Miss Great Smile was a good sport, helping with prep AND she dragged Mrs Fringe into the 21st century, getting me signed up for Twitter. So please look down to the bottom left of this page and follow me.

Parenting is like anything else in life. Most things that come up are subjective, open to interpretation. But there are certain absolute truths in mothering.

1) It always gives me warm fuzzies to have my fringelings with me. The warm fuzzies grow barbs when they leave.

2) You never get tired of Parent Teacher conferences when teachers are telling you how great kiddo is.

3) Parent Teacher conferences always suck when kiddo struggles.

4) I could really use someone reminding me to breathe when talking to the doctors at the end of any appointment with Flower Child.

5) Getting your finger caught in the front door because you couldn’t resist one last, “Did you remember to pack…?” when saying goodbye hurts like hell.

What are your absolute truths?

MACY'S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE 2012 / &qu...

MACY’S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE 2012 / “Happy Thanksgiving” – Sixth Avenue & 42nd Street, Manhattan NYC – 11/22/12 (Photo credit: asterix611)

Merry Epilepsy!

Mercury EEG (Photo credit: Max ☢)

It’s always somebody’s awareness day, week, or month, right? November is Epilepsy Awareness month. If you’ve noticed purple ribbons, or purple in general, showing up in icons on Facebook over the past few days, that’s why.

Seizures and epilepsy are part of my little corner of Fringeland. I believe awareness is particularly important to epilepsy, and people with epilepsy, because there’s such a long history of stigma attached, so much misinformation. There are those who still believe it’s the mark of Satan. Hell, years ago, when Flower Child was diagnosed, I received phone calls from well intentioned relatives telling me if I would just pray harder….The fact is, seizures are a misfiring in the brain, and how much of the brain gets involved and where determines the presentation of the seizure; in other words, what you see. Anyone can have a seizure. A diagnosis of epilepsy is usually made when there are two or more unprovoked seizures.

To give a short but clear idea, I’ll just say Flower Child had a favorite EEG technician long before she had a favorite teacher.

Flower Child doesn’t quite “get” the concept behind awareness, but she knows she’s got a great reason to wear purple every day, and has noticed all the purple icons popping up when looking over my shoulder. Being an excellent advocate, she’s letting everyone know. Sort of. In her mind, it’s kind of like letting people know it’s her birthday, or wishing people a Merry Christmas. She also likes to use weighty words, though their definitions get confused in her mind.

Their Purple Moment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So you know she makes sure to tell everyone on the elevator, and in the store (before fatigue brought her down for the day and she wasn’t telling anyone anything), “It’s Epilepsy Appreciation Month! You should wear purple!”

Lots of elderly people in my building, losing their hearing, they all assume they’re hearing her incorrectly if they did in fact hear her words clearly. One wished her a happy birthday. Several others look at me to “translate.” I do, and they do a double take, “Oh, well, umm, thanks for telling me.”

The reality is, my world is pretty small. Most of it is quite tedious. If it wasn’t, I might not feel such a drive to write fiction, and create imaginary worlds. And yet, somehow every day is an adventure.

I’ll leave you with just a few facts:

-Never ever put anything in the mouth of someone having a seizure, you risk injury to yourself and to them.

-Epilepsy is a spectrum of neurological disorders.

-70% of people with epilepsy are well controlled by medications. That means 30% aren’t.

-About 50,000 people die in the US each year from epilepsy. Yes, epilepsy. That’s more than breast cancer, more than skin cancer, more than drunk driving accidents.

-A seizure isn’t always obvious to a casual observer. Tonic clonics, or what used to be called “grand mals” are only one type of seizure.

Epilepsy Awareness Ribbon (Photo credit: Cynr)

Go Play In Traffic

Lower center of the The Last Judgement by Michelangelo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Several years ago, I read “A Complaint Free World,” by Will Bowen. In it, there’s a challenge to go 21 days without complaining, gossiping, or criticizing. You put a bracelet on, and when you catch yourself in one of the aforementioned activities, you switch wrists, and begin the count again. It wasn’t magical, I didn’t “start enjoying the life I always wanted,” but it was enlightening, to say the least. Now, I don’t think anyone will nominate Mrs Fringe for sainthood, but the exercise left an impression on my brain, if only so I’m aware, and recognize when I’m engaging in these behaviors.

So, I’m quite aware I’m about to be judgmental. Mea Culpa.

The other day I was walking up my block, when I heard, “Hey, hey, HEY STOP!” I looked across the street to where the voice was coming from, and saw a man yelling and running towards a toddler who was running into the street, with a truck coming pretty fast. There was a group of people in front of a building, the little guy was obviously part of that group and had wandered away. Maybe he lost his ball, maybe he was following a pigeon. It was fine, little guy was spotted and safe before the scene was a script for the evening news. It happens. Dad thinks Mom is watching the baby, Mom thinks Auntie is watching the baby, Auntie thinks Grandma is watching the baby, etc. Frightening, but not shocking or cause for judgement.

But then, I was walking along Central Park West and saw a man in a snappy suit, riding his bike. Nice, thanks for saving the environment while getting your workout in. His baby was on the bike with him.

English: Looking north past AMNH along Central Park West. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you aren’t a New Yorker, let me tell you, Central Park West is not part of the park, it’s a big, busy avenue. And it was dusk, when visibility is worst. Aww, look at dad, doing his share. Only one problem, baby wasn’t in a safety seat designed for a bike, she was strapped to Dad’s chest in a soft, front carrier. WTF are you doing, Dad? I see you had a helmet strapped on your own head. This is not safe, can’t possibly be legal.

Suddenly, it all made sense to me. All those ridiculous labels on walkers (which I don’t think exist anymore, “don’t leave baby unattended near stairs”), the danger of bath seats. Heh, imagine, you shouldn’t walk away from your 5 month old in the tub, even if they’re in that nifty seat? There really are adults who can read who need these warning labels.

I can’t say that was a regular sight, but it wasn’t surprising. I don’t get it. New York parents are the most paranoid bunch you’ll ever see. Inside. God forbid their toddler should learn not to touch something. There’s an entire industry, not just comprised of safety products to pad those corners, but of people who are paid to “consult,” come to your apartment and make it safe for baby. The earlier the better, preferably long before baby is born. Because, you never know, baby could slip out of your irritable uterus at 26 weeks, just when you’re standing near an outlet, amniotic fluid spraying into said outlet just as baby flings out his arm in a startle reflex, poking one delicate finger into the open socket. Could happen, right? What a racket.

So in the apartment, all is non toxic, organic, non breakable yet sturdy, soft and yet firm enough not to suffocate, elegant yet flaccid–no wait, that’s Mom’s wine, out of reach, of course.

But outside, on the streets and sidewalks, suddenly a different story. These same parents seem quite vested in proving to the world that even their toddlers are sophisticated New Yorkers, eating edamame at snack time, and intuitively understanding the flow of traffic patterns in New York. Except they don’t. Because even if they did, often they can’t be seen by a driver or bicyclist. So these parents who have spent hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars for a baby proofing consultant to divulge the secrets of padded walls and common sense don’t think any of these rules apply outside. Every day I see kids running, scootering, or wheeling their little wooden scooter bikes down the sidewalk on their way to school (of course, morning rush hour when sidewalks and streets are busiest), half a block to a block ahead of the parent, while mom or dad calls out a gentle stop-at-the-corner reminder. Watch and give it a minute, then you see the same mom or dad running to catch the two, three, or four year old who didn’t stop and is now crossing the street by themselves, or forgot they were going past an active parking garage.

And let’s not forget the other pedestrians, who are expected to move out of the way for little Susie and Johnny so they can enjoy their childhoods unfettered, and show their suburban cousins they get just as much time playing outside, and it really is worth paying $3500 a month for a two bedroom apartment.

I get it, to some degree. The same child who will whine about walking seven blocks to school will happily pedal there. It’s nice to give them an opportunity to burn off some energy before they’re indoors and building their SAT vocab skills. Can’t start too early, yanno, competition is fierce.

If you haven’t been to Manhattan, let me tell you, all the horror stories you’ve heard about driving in New York are true. The streets are crowded with cars, buses, taxis, bikers, and pedestrians. Don’t forget the ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars on their way to an emergency. Lots going on, every driver has to be aware of every possibility.

wrong way, lady! (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

For the most part, I think they do a great job. But with all this going on, so much congestion, parking, double parking, taxis stopping and starting without notice, delivery guys on bikes who don’t watch where they’re going but say a prayer instead, ummm, accidents happen. All the time. People get hurt. Car vs bike, bike loses. Bike vs bike, both lose. Car vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses. Bike vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses.

Parenting is hard, nobody makes the right call all of the time. Parents whose children are diagnosed with epilepsy are cautioned by pediatric neurologists about bathtubs and swimming pools; NY parents are cautioned about bathtubs and the subway. Parenting in NY does carry extra challenges, I’ve made decisions that my suburban counterparts don’t understand. But I can say with a clear conscience that I’ve never sent my kids out to play in traffic.

This has been a Public Service Judgment by Mrs Fringe.

20070901 – Greg Z’s birthday party – Nicole – new tattoo – the more you know – (by AE) – 1306312142_8cf5b6332e o (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

And, Have an Orgasm!

Atomic Housewife. 19/52 (Photo credit: Sarahnaut)

Does anyone else know/remember that old joke, poking fun at Women’s Lib? Something like this: Before women’s lib, a woman would get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband. After women’s lib, a woman has to get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, go out to work, come home and clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband, AND have an orgasm.

Mmm hmm, very liberating indeed.

Is life better for the average woman than it used to be? I think so. There are more choices, more acknowledgement of compromises–hey, I can now be a feminist and still shave my underarms.

Underarm Hair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are women who choose not to have children, women who choose to have children and stay home, women who choose not to define themselves by their marital or maternal status at all. Still far from true social justice, because these choices aren’t accepted without question, but analyzed, judged, and whispered about. Being a woman who is a mom, I’m going to focus on that choice.

I don’t know who first coined the term Supermom, or exactly how long it’s been around, but I think it’s fair to say easily 20 years. Conservatively, 20 years. Twenty years of cartoons, jokes, analyzing, and disclaimers. We know better. Supermom is bullshit. Every bit the work of fiction that Superman is. So how come we’re still weighing ourselves against this curvy little lie?

No one human being can fill all roles, be all things to all people. Not even the little people we bring into our lives, or the one person we vow to stay with forever (whether or not forever ends after 7 years or 37). We all wear many hats, juggle different roles and obligations–true for men as well as women. But somehow, we women expect and are often expected to do just that. Especially those of us who have limited budgets, so hiring others to take care of some of those roles isn’t an option.

Even little things. Like unexpected company. I am not a fabulous housekeeper. I’d like to be, but ultimately, once we get beyond the basics of a reasonably clean bathroom and kitchen, it just isn’t that high on my list of priorities. We’re in a small space. There just isn’t a place for everything. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do some extra cleaning and organizing if company is coming. I don’t like surprise guests for this reason. What does this have to do with feminism and supermoms? Well, let’s face it, no one is going to leave my messy apartment and whisper to her girlfriend, “Wow, that Husband is a pig. When was the last time he dusted?” No, the judgement would be more like, “Ugh, did you see that laundry hamper? I wonder when Mrs Fringe last found her way to the laundry room.”

If a mother works outside the home, somehow she’s still magically supposed to take care of all the hearth and home stuff, and be awake, alert, competent, and presentable on the job. And her kids are never supposed to get sick, or have any other needs that would involve taking time off. If a mother is a SAHM, she isn’t supposed to just take care of hearth and home, she had better be Supermom squared, to compensate for her lack of brain cells…err…value…err…income. She’s supposed to do it all perfectly, naturally, organic dinners that are gastronomic delights to children and adults alike, sandwiches on bread baked that morning, tastefully decorated home, never a stray sock left behind on laundry day, homemade and prizewinning Halloween costumes, and of course, oodles of time to volunteer at the children’s schools. Because, yanno, if you’re a SAHM, what do you do all day? You must be bored. *Do not confuse intellectual boredom with free time* Only, if you are bored, don’t ever say it out loud, because well, you could get a job and really do something. Never mind the mind numbing fatigue, and the fact you spend every single day being looked down upon and devalued, and there’s no such thing as a day off or quitting time.

So no, I’m not Supermom, and I don’t know one woman who is. Those who come closest are those whose annual income allows for quality, long term nannies/babysitters, full time housekeepers, and spouses who are also big earners and highly educated–socially progressive. We all know this, all make fun of the term, we judge ourselves and judge each other–but we all still beat ourselves up for not being this fictional character.

Delany wrote issue#203 of Wonder Woman, the women’s lib issue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dear Peeple In Charge,

English: Quill pen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is the salutation on the letter Flower Child began working on last night.

During dinner, Husband, Flower Child and I had a lovely, meandering conversation. Her mind makes some interesting connections, and when I’ve got the luxury of time, I like to follow. In order to make a connection, she speaks aloud, touching on every detail of every thing she can remember hearing/seeing that somehow reminds her of what came before.

The maze of Longleat House (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Without this process, her mind stalls, and she can’t follow or remember. We began discussing Greek goddesses, which jumped to eating habits in history, Pa Ingalls curing meat, the gold accents on her Cleo de Nile doll, why organic fruits and vegetables taste better but cost more, why she had to eat some soup and not just the coconut chips garnishing it, and why everyone should help each other.

Somehow it made sense to tell Husband and Flower Child about a scene I passed when I was on my way to the hospital the other morning. There was a man standing outside a coffee shop where I got off the bus, panhandling. A familiar scene to me, there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable. No aggression, no singing, no yelling, no horrendous odors, no aggression. An older, elegantly dressed and coiffed woman about ten steps ahead of me. Her nose turned up so high if I had been standing next to her I could have checked for polyps. She turned to another man walking by her, “No one ever gives money to those people, do they? I hope not.” Obviously not a New Yorker.

Not much of a story, more of a moment. But I turned to Flower Child, and saw her eyes watering and lip quivering, “What’s wrong? Come here.” She pressed into my hug.

“That’s terrible.”

Yes, yes it is. I told her no one person can help everyone, or fix these things, but if everyone does what they can; even it’s limited to contributing one can of food to a food drive, it can make a difference.

She isn’t all that clear on the distinction between city and state, state and country, country and continent, principal and president–but she’s writing a letter to the people in charge, because it’s wrong to ignore people who are hungry.

Man Child and Nerd Child also care about others, volunteer time and give what they can. Community service means more than a line on a college resume.

The other day I was telling friends a story from my childhood. My mother would send me with a lunch every day. I wasn’t much on eating three meals a day, and I rarely got “good” sandwiches. These were the days when you heard a lot about the starving children in Biafra. On the way to school, I passed a mailbox. Each day, I would drop my brown bag into it. Unless the sandwich was olive loaf, in which case I kept it. That poor mailman, his bag must have smelled permanently like bologna. My friends’ immediate thoughts were what a caring child I was. Not so much. More like practical. “They” were hungry, I wasn’t, and would have gotten into trouble if I brought the sandwich back home. If anyone used the term win/win back then it would have applied.

I’m a lucky mama. My children have compassion, good souls.

Campbell’s Soup Cans by Andy Warhol, 1962. Displayed in Museum of Modern Art in New York. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wake Up!…Your Early Morning Call

Kate Bush – Hounds Of Love (Photo credit: Piano Piano!)

A little Kate Bush playing on the iPod in an attempt to prod myself along. Not sure what today’s sin is, but it feels appropriate to have that background voice proclaiming “guilty, guilty, guilty!”

I’m about 5 hours late for my usual blogging time. On a good day, I have 1 to 1 and 1/2 hours to myself before anyone else wakes up. My most productive time of day since I had children, though I’m not a morning person by nature.

English: Alarm clock Polski: Budzik (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s my time to work out, check my (non-Mrs Fringe) Facebook acct, read and answer emails, and now blog. Hmm, either I’m over-scheduled for that time slot, or there’s something very wrong with my time management skills cause I haven’t been getting half of those things done since Man Child and Nerd Child left, and Flower Child began school.

It used to be two hours of focused time, but Flower Child’s new school is further away than the old one, so we need to leave the house earlier. For those who don’t live in NY, getting kiddos off to school is different than most of the rest of the country (if you’re an at home mom, different again if you’re getting yourself off to a paying job no matter where you are). Yes, we NY mamas also get up, get the kids up and fed, make lunch, meds for the med needs kiddo (s), and all that other fun morning trauma, but we have to get ourselves dressed, no waving to the school bus driver in our pj’s. Somewhere in here I also walk the beasts.

A man and his son dancing to the band in Times Square station (Photo credit: wwward0)

Then walk to the train, down and down the subway steps, catch the train, ride a few stops, up and up the train steps, walk from the train to the school, and then get ourselves home; to be repeated at pick up time. Most days, I’m grateful my days of carrying a stroller up and down those steps are over. When Flower Child isn’t well and needs assistance, I’m wishing I still had it.

This morning I went grocery shopping after dropping her off (Trader Joe’s is my best friend). Husband even came to pick me up, so a morning that started off behind schedule picked up nicely. Started cooking the Doggie Gumbo for the week, unloading the groceries, and the phone rang. Mother in Law needed Husband to help her get Father in Law to the ER.

Just another morning in Fringe World. I really need to work on my schedule, but for now, I’m going to put Jig of Life on for the 8th time, and dance around the empty apartment.

“I put this moment…………………here.”

Steel Drowned (Photo credit: NeoGaboX)

Waiting For Godot

‘Waiting For Godot’ (Photo credit: dave lewis 88)

That’s me, waiting for Dr Big Shot, or the on-call working with him, to call back. Flower Child was not better this morning.

The last couple of hours, though, have brought some improvement. Mrs Fringe is a tired Mama.

Luckily I ran into a neighbor when I was on my way to the laundry room with the puked on blankets; she was quick to tell me of the evils that will surely befall me if I don’t sign the petition to block the increase of SROs in the neighborhood. Too beat to make much of a case, I just told her I think it’s a complicated issue, and the people in question need support. She was quick to agree, and told me it’s too expensive for them here, they should go somewhere else instead– somewhere less populated. Like Wisconsin. Or Brooklyn. Still shaking my head.

Shall I Toss You Off of the Terrace Now?

March0806 012 (Photo credit: ShellyS)

You would think that was the question when I asked Flower Child what she wanted for breakfast this morning. In Mrs. Fringe’s little world, this is a bad sign. She almost always wants breakfast, even if she has no intention of eating it, she likes to know it’s there at her spot; her morning routine no matter what the day brings.

Today she’s sick. We had our last beach hoorah yesterday, and it was a beautiful day. The waves weren’t too strong, just enough to make it fun. The sun was strong but the breeze was constant. She was listless within 45 seconds of heading home, asleep within 5 minutes once we arrived. This morning she’s my little puddle on the couch. The joys of medical needs parenting. Neuro crud, ptosis (connected to neuro crud), fever, that faint but definitive gray tinge to her skin, holding my breath to see if this is “just” a cold or virus.

I hope so, and sometimes it is. Other times, for no known reason, it turns into strange flus, pleurisy, pneumonia.

I’m a mom, first and foremost. I’m also a (wannabe) writer, wife, friend, dog walker, reefer, chief cook and bottle washer; human being.

Some moms will say all is well with their world when their kids are doing well. I’m not one of them, sometimes my world sucks even if all is well with the kiddos. But when all isn’t well with them, there’s no question. My heart is doing triple time up around my esophagus, and life sucks.