They're Killing Me

I'm not saying my kids and I don't have some sort of co-dependent thing going on, although I'd prefer to say that we are "close." Either way, I'm happy I have a good relationship with them, and that we are friends, and that they feel they can talk to me when they need someone to talk to.

All that aside, they're killing me.

It's been a tough week for them. K, as you know, is sick. She is sick because the kid she tutors Saturday mornings has a mother who doesn't know that she's supposed to keep him home when he's sick. Maybe his 13 year old immune system can throw it off, but K's cannot. This is the beginning of her last week of classes for the semester, and she's missed class, hasn't gotten a paper done, and so on. Her nose is so messed up inside that she cannot eat without choking for air, because she can't breathe through her nose at all when she eats, which I guess is what normal people do. Anyway, she's not the world's best patient, as we all know, so it's been trying.

As for the other one, who is, in fact, the world's best patient, her problem is not that she's sick. I think her problem is that she's stressed. She called me last Friday morning, having a meltdown over something or other, and again this morning. Her little cat, it turns out, is not a good patient, and chewed open her stitches the other night, having had her lady parts removed last Friday. So far this week, R has had to go in late to work twice and had to leave early twice, all for emergency vet appointments. And the cat is basically okay, and hopefully will not damage herself this time, but last night, they sent the cat home with new stitches and the warning "Don't let her lick them!" So of course, R was up all night making sure the cat didn't lick her stitches, and had to take her back this morning anyway to get a cone or something put on her. And I got the meltdown call.

Honestly, I don't know how people have their children later in life. I don't know how they have the stamina to put up with it. It isn't even just the toddler chasing when you're 45, it's the teenage thing when you're 60 -- how horrible that sounds -- and then whatever you've got for however long it goes on. I was thinking yesterday, if I won the lottery, I'd set K up in her own apartment before I even paid a bill or bought a car.

Okay, so, much later.

I had a very hectic afternoon, with one errand or another, out of the house, and in the house. I did have the luxury of the house to myself, up until the minute I was finishing with phone calls and was going to have some peace and quiet and then K came home early from class. Ah well, she went to class, and although she looks miserable, she must be feeling better because she's waaay less sick-y tonight. And R's evening is better -- talked to her twice, once she had a nap in her -- and the cat, hopefully, will deal with it all and let her sleep.

It is freaking cold out there. Possible rain and/or snow tomorrow, ick. I have so much less patience for winter as the years go by: don't wanna wear a coat, don't wanna drive or walk in the snow, don't wanna wear bulky layers and still be cold! I went to the ATM on my way to school this morning, but my window wouldn't open. Horrors! Electric windows not working is what killed my last car, you may recall. (Car was too old to get replacement parts for the third time.) But it worked fine after school, so I guess it was just frozen. Damn. That never happened before.

Oh, happy third night of Chanukah. We're doing very well this year; we've actually lit the candles all three nights and I've even said the prayer, which is not to say that I'm praying, just that I know, more or less, the right sounds to make when the Chanukah candles are being lit. My mother had a pamphlet with the phonetic pronunciation on it, which is how I learned it, although I think the prayer has two parts and I only know the first one. And unlike French or even Spanish, I cannot pull off a reasonable Hebrew accent, so it all sounds very un-official, if you know what I mean. But I say it anyway. On the sixth night, I also especially remember my Grandpa Sam, whose birthday was the sixth night of Chanukah. He only ever knew the real date of his birthday because once he got to America, he went to the office of a Yiddish newspaper and asked them to look up the date of the sixth night of Chanukah for the year he was born. (He knew how old he was, exactly, because he had been Bar Mitzvahed just before leaving the old country, so, 13.) It was December 16, 1892, just in case you're keeping track.

Well, I have rambled on here a bit more than I meant to, and now I'm off to change into my jammies and settle in for Ugly Betty.

WATCHING LAW AND ORDER :: ENTRY #1642