Resistance is futile. I finally joined Facebook tonight. And it's freaking me out.
So first thing, when I sign in, I have an automatic friend request from someone whose name I don't automatically recognize. Except that I might. And I'd be okay with being friends with him if it's who I think it is, but don't want to, y'know, friend some random perv. And I have no idea how to find this guy's profile and find out who he is and if he is who I think he is. Or even if legit people can attempt to friend you before you're even ON Facebook.
Oh, and also? It greets me with this huge list of people I might know. And it's mostly right! How the HELL does it know these things when I just signed up? And who the hell are these other people I don't know but it says I should?!?
And third? I signed up with an email address that both my husband and I use. So what if these are technically HIS friends? Am I screwing everything up?
I am so confused, and WAY too damn old for this stuff.
Life was so much simpler way back when.
P.S. speakin of things that are freaking me out, this blog got a hit today from somebody searching for "Laurie's pantyhose surprise." This does not feel good.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
This is SO un-PC I Shouldn't Post It, But I Will Anyway
I have NOT been able to get this song out of my head for two days.
Backstory: When I went to visit my daughter in Italy last month, we saw a gorgeous guy with well-coiffed, very Italian hair wearing tight red jeans, wide belt, shiny shirt, pointy-toed shoes... And I said, "You know, in the US, there's no way that guy would be straight."
Yet hanging on his arm was a supermodel type.
Later that day my daughter played me this song, from the play "Legally Blonde."
And now it will be stuck in YOUR head. You're welcome.
P.S. My son is doing well, going for blood tests every week so we can figure out how things stand before deciding on a course of action. So far everything looks very good. We'll know more in a couple of weeks.
Backstory: When I went to visit my daughter in Italy last month, we saw a gorgeous guy with well-coiffed, very Italian hair wearing tight red jeans, wide belt, shiny shirt, pointy-toed shoes... And I said, "You know, in the US, there's no way that guy would be straight."
Yet hanging on his arm was a supermodel type.
Later that day my daughter played me this song, from the play "Legally Blonde."
And now it will be stuck in YOUR head. You're welcome.
P.S. My son is doing well, going for blood tests every week so we can figure out how things stand before deciding on a course of action. So far everything looks very good. We'll know more in a couple of weeks.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Conversations Which, In Retrospect, You Probably Shouldn't Have With Your 14-Year-Old Son
Son: Uh... So in case you were wondering, we're...uh...having sex ed this week?
Me: Oh, yeah?
Son: Yeah. Like...HIV-AIDS stuff.
Me (the wise one, who's already parented two kids through this stuff): Oh. Is this where you learn to put a condom on a banana?
Son: WHAT?!?!?
Me: Oh. I guess not, huh? Never mind.
Son: Wait. What? I'll never look at a banana the same way again.
Me: Oh. Sorry.
Son: What is it, like, "For the banana who's looking for a good time?" Or "How a banana gets ready for a party?"
Me: I believe...yes. You've got it.
Son: Okay, mom, you can stop buying bananas now. Like...forever.
THE END
For the record, he is fourteen years old. And he says he does have friends who have already had sex. Which, with luck, did have something to do with condoms, despite a lack of banana training.
I think the friends are all or mostly girls. Don't want to pry for fear of shutting off the spigot. When I suggest that girls who have sex at this age may well have self esteem issues, he rejects it and blames TV. My guess is we're both right. But I was very relieved to discover that he's as shocked by this as I am.
I am desperate for him to get into honors classes next year so he can be around a whole bunch of other kids who don't see this as normal behavior.
Sigh.
The world has changed since I was a kid.
Me: Oh, yeah?
Son: Yeah. Like...HIV-AIDS stuff.
Me (the wise one, who's already parented two kids through this stuff): Oh. Is this where you learn to put a condom on a banana?
Son: WHAT?!?!?
Me: Oh. I guess not, huh? Never mind.
Son: Wait. What? I'll never look at a banana the same way again.
Me: Oh. Sorry.
Son: What is it, like, "For the banana who's looking for a good time?" Or "How a banana gets ready for a party?"
Me: I believe...yes. You've got it.
Son: Okay, mom, you can stop buying bananas now. Like...forever.
THE END
For the record, he is fourteen years old. And he says he does have friends who have already had sex. Which, with luck, did have something to do with condoms, despite a lack of banana training.
I think the friends are all or mostly girls. Don't want to pry for fear of shutting off the spigot. When I suggest that girls who have sex at this age may well have self esteem issues, he rejects it and blames TV. My guess is we're both right. But I was very relieved to discover that he's as shocked by this as I am.
I am desperate for him to get into honors classes next year so he can be around a whole bunch of other kids who don't see this as normal behavior.
Sigh.
The world has changed since I was a kid.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Nothing Has Changed, Yet Everything Has Changed
My son chose to go back to class today, just about 48 hours after surgery. I drove him the ten miles back to campus. As we went to leave the house, I reached for his backpack.
"I can get it, Mom," he said. An indulgent smile, a slight roll of the eyes.
I hesitate. The doctor said he was not to lift more than ten pounds for the next month. On Wednesday, the backpack was definitely more than that. But he's since removed the laptop, so perhaps...
Still, I hesitate. This would be a kid who's carried his own backpack since kindergarten. He is strong, and independent. Nothing has changed...
Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. Now, he is battling a life-threatening illness. But I sigh, and hand him the backpack.
This is a new dance we are doing now, he and my husband and me. We have suddenly, forcefully been reminded of the fragility of his life. And yet he, himself, has not changed. He has been living independently for two years now. It's important that this continue.
And yet... And yet... How can we let him go?
It's not so different from when he was a toddler. One second he is grasping your hand tightly, and the next he has released it. He turns to look at you, and his face is defiant, and frightened, and proud. You analyze the danger, and his need for independence... And you let him go.
It's frightening, and it hurts, but you let him go.
He is out with friends tonight. Just over 48 hours after the surgery. And he is planning to move back to the fraternity tomorrow. It's what he's done for the past two years. It's what he needs, right now, in his life.
You want to protest. You want to hold him close, for at least one more day.
But instead, you let him go.
It's frightening, and it hurts. But you let him go.
Nothing has changed. Yet everything has changed.
And still, with fear and pride, you let him go.
"I can get it, Mom," he said. An indulgent smile, a slight roll of the eyes.
I hesitate. The doctor said he was not to lift more than ten pounds for the next month. On Wednesday, the backpack was definitely more than that. But he's since removed the laptop, so perhaps...
Still, I hesitate. This would be a kid who's carried his own backpack since kindergarten. He is strong, and independent. Nothing has changed...
Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. Now, he is battling a life-threatening illness. But I sigh, and hand him the backpack.
This is a new dance we are doing now, he and my husband and me. We have suddenly, forcefully been reminded of the fragility of his life. And yet he, himself, has not changed. He has been living independently for two years now. It's important that this continue.
And yet... And yet... How can we let him go?
It's not so different from when he was a toddler. One second he is grasping your hand tightly, and the next he has released it. He turns to look at you, and his face is defiant, and frightened, and proud. You analyze the danger, and his need for independence... And you let him go.
It's frightening, and it hurts, but you let him go.
He is out with friends tonight. Just over 48 hours after the surgery. And he is planning to move back to the fraternity tomorrow. It's what he's done for the past two years. It's what he needs, right now, in his life.
You want to protest. You want to hold him close, for at least one more day.
But instead, you let him go.
It's frightening, and it hurts. But you let him go.
Nothing has changed. Yet everything has changed.
And still, with fear and pride, you let him go.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Power of Little Things
Tonight, several hours after his surgery, my son wanted sushi. Since there is not a good sushi place in our town, we traveled to the next town over to pick it up.
The waitress somehow picked up on my state of mind. (Perhaps it was the head buried in the hands.) She asked if I was okay. I mentioned that we had spent the morning in the hospital with our son as he had surgery. She said that if he was well enough to request sushi, he must be doing okay. She is probably right.
When I got home, I discovered a yellow sticky note on one of the takeout containers: "Feel better," with a smiley face.
It's these little things that I cling to.
The mayor's wife, a cancer survivor herself, made us a macaroni and cheese casserole for lunch today. Ham, salad, Girl Scout cookies.
A co-worker, survivor of multiple surgeries as an adolescent, offered up advice to me on the best things a mom can do. (Hint: orange popsicles, not red. And your own suffering, as a parent, really does take away some of the pain.)
My husband's Admin. Assistant sent an e-card, an animation of someone facing a deluge alone, until a friend shows up with a boat. I have watched it three times.
It is these things, these little things, that are getting me through. I have read every single comment and email from the last few days multiple times. Yes, they're that important.
I have offered up these things myself in the past, but I don't think I ever really understood what they mean. They mean a lot. They mean I am not alone.
My son is doing well. He is in our rec room right now, watching TV with my husband. The surgeon today would not even talk about negative outcomes. My son may be facing chemo, he may be facing more surgery, but he will survive. He will survive. "Twenty years down the road," said the surgeon, "he'll probably remember 2009 as not the best year."
Yes, he will. And so will I.
But I will also remember the little things. And be grateful.
The waitress somehow picked up on my state of mind. (Perhaps it was the head buried in the hands.) She asked if I was okay. I mentioned that we had spent the morning in the hospital with our son as he had surgery. She said that if he was well enough to request sushi, he must be doing okay. She is probably right.
When I got home, I discovered a yellow sticky note on one of the takeout containers: "Feel better," with a smiley face.
It's these little things that I cling to.
The mayor's wife, a cancer survivor herself, made us a macaroni and cheese casserole for lunch today. Ham, salad, Girl Scout cookies.
A co-worker, survivor of multiple surgeries as an adolescent, offered up advice to me on the best things a mom can do. (Hint: orange popsicles, not red. And your own suffering, as a parent, really does take away some of the pain.)
My husband's Admin. Assistant sent an e-card, an animation of someone facing a deluge alone, until a friend shows up with a boat. I have watched it three times.
It is these things, these little things, that are getting me through. I have read every single comment and email from the last few days multiple times. Yes, they're that important.
I have offered up these things myself in the past, but I don't think I ever really understood what they mean. They mean a lot. They mean I am not alone.
My son is doing well. He is in our rec room right now, watching TV with my husband. The surgeon today would not even talk about negative outcomes. My son may be facing chemo, he may be facing more surgery, but he will survive. He will survive. "Twenty years down the road," said the surgeon, "he'll probably remember 2009 as not the best year."
Yes, he will. And so will I.
But I will also remember the little things. And be grateful.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
A Mother's Role in Dealing with Testicular Cancer, Part I
I slept about thirteen hours last night, from 4-ish in the afternoon, to 5-ish this morning. Partly because I'm still horrifically jet-lagged, and partly because I just didn't have the energy to deal with any more of life.
My older son, the sick one, wants to be at school this week as much as possible, both before the surgery and after. It's best for him to be there, attending classes and studying. Also odd, from my perspective, because he's only told a couple of people -- his girlfriend and his best female friend. I think maybe being at school means being able to continue to think that this isn't life-changing. And who am I to judge that? He needs to do whatever it takes for him to get through this.
And who knows, he may be right. Many of these cases end with surgery. No chemo, no radiation, just in and out, then up and about in a few days. I am hoping. Even as I worry.
But in the meantime, what do I do? What is my role? Where should I put my time, since worrying is hugely unproductive? I can't even pace around the house, my normal response to stress, since my feet are still so blistered from hiking all over Rome in new sandals that I pretty much can't do anything but hobble from room to room.
So instead I'm thinking about cancer. And specifically about testicular cancer.
Do you know that I don't even know which side of the body is involved? I mean, it's not as if it's come up in conversation. ("Honey, is it your right testicle, or your left testicle? Wait, where are you going? Come back! We're having a conversation!!")
I was thinking about this last night, when I was reflecting on the surgery and the fact that they say it's not a bad idea, if you're having something like a leg amputation, to write, "Not this leg!" on the unaffected side. Just in case. I mean, surgeons are human, right?
So I'm thinking, "Hmmm. Wonder how I'd bring up that topic with my quiet and undemonstrative son? Here, honey. Here's a sharpie marker. You know what to do."
I was also thinking, last night, (given the fact that when you sleep for thirteen hours, you don't actually sleep for thirteen hours) that I would give anything to spare him this. Anything. And wishing there was a place where you could go, as a mom, to offer up your own pain to spare your child. Or, if it were to come down to it, to trade in your own life to save his.
(Anybody remember those old S&H Greenstamps redemption centers? In my mind, it's something like that. Or maybe more like an auction house. What am I bid to save this testicle? One breast! One breast! Do I hear two? Two breasts! Two breasts for one testicle!)
Although now that I think of it, I could just offer up one of my husband's, because, y'know, we've got all our kids. So what does he need it for?
(I really shouldn't write before seven in the morning, jetlagged, after too much sleep, should I?)
Basically, I guess what I wish, (aside from wishing this wasn't happening) is that there were no stigma attached, and he felt comfortable telling people and accepting their support. (The only reason I'm writing this here is because not a lot of people from my real life read this blog. Otherwise I'd be keeping quiet, for his sake.)
Lance Armstrong, pr*ck that he is, took the disease a way towards mainstream acceptance, and for that I am grateful. I think eventually it will be like breast cancer, which used to be considered shameful. Back in the seventies, my grandmother went through her surgery entirely alone, with just my mom for support.
Now though, hell, they do walks with squads called "Teams in Training." (Oh! What does that abbreviate to!)
(For those of you who haven't had your caffeine yet, it's TIT, okay? T.I.T. How's that for taking the disease mainstream?)
I'm pretty sure that's what testicular cancer needs. LIVESTRONG, sure, but give us an acronym.
What catchphrase starts with the letters B.A.L.L.?
(Sorry, people. Humor is the only way to survive this.)
My older son, the sick one, wants to be at school this week as much as possible, both before the surgery and after. It's best for him to be there, attending classes and studying. Also odd, from my perspective, because he's only told a couple of people -- his girlfriend and his best female friend. I think maybe being at school means being able to continue to think that this isn't life-changing. And who am I to judge that? He needs to do whatever it takes for him to get through this.
And who knows, he may be right. Many of these cases end with surgery. No chemo, no radiation, just in and out, then up and about in a few days. I am hoping. Even as I worry.
But in the meantime, what do I do? What is my role? Where should I put my time, since worrying is hugely unproductive? I can't even pace around the house, my normal response to stress, since my feet are still so blistered from hiking all over Rome in new sandals that I pretty much can't do anything but hobble from room to room.
So instead I'm thinking about cancer. And specifically about testicular cancer.
Do you know that I don't even know which side of the body is involved? I mean, it's not as if it's come up in conversation. ("Honey, is it your right testicle, or your left testicle? Wait, where are you going? Come back! We're having a conversation!!")
I was thinking about this last night, when I was reflecting on the surgery and the fact that they say it's not a bad idea, if you're having something like a leg amputation, to write, "Not this leg!" on the unaffected side. Just in case. I mean, surgeons are human, right?
So I'm thinking, "Hmmm. Wonder how I'd bring up that topic with my quiet and undemonstrative son? Here, honey. Here's a sharpie marker. You know what to do."
I was also thinking, last night, (given the fact that when you sleep for thirteen hours, you don't actually sleep for thirteen hours) that I would give anything to spare him this. Anything. And wishing there was a place where you could go, as a mom, to offer up your own pain to spare your child. Or, if it were to come down to it, to trade in your own life to save his.
(Anybody remember those old S&H Greenstamps redemption centers? In my mind, it's something like that. Or maybe more like an auction house. What am I bid to save this testicle? One breast! One breast! Do I hear two? Two breasts! Two breasts for one testicle!)
Although now that I think of it, I could just offer up one of my husband's, because, y'know, we've got all our kids. So what does he need it for?
(I really shouldn't write before seven in the morning, jetlagged, after too much sleep, should I?)
Basically, I guess what I wish, (aside from wishing this wasn't happening) is that there were no stigma attached, and he felt comfortable telling people and accepting their support. (The only reason I'm writing this here is because not a lot of people from my real life read this blog. Otherwise I'd be keeping quiet, for his sake.)
Lance Armstrong, pr*ck that he is, took the disease a way towards mainstream acceptance, and for that I am grateful. I think eventually it will be like breast cancer, which used to be considered shameful. Back in the seventies, my grandmother went through her surgery entirely alone, with just my mom for support.
Now though, hell, they do walks with squads called "Teams in Training." (Oh! What does that abbreviate to!)
(For those of you who haven't had your caffeine yet, it's TIT, okay? T.I.T. How's that for taking the disease mainstream?)
I'm pretty sure that's what testicular cancer needs. LIVESTRONG, sure, but give us an acronym.
What catchphrase starts with the letters B.A.L.L.?
(Sorry, people. Humor is the only way to survive this.)
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