Stories

Monday, I did actually write.

My style is very much “stream of consciousness”; I rarely pick a topic and sit down and just type precisely what I intended to say. Which is why I have such difficulty writing anything substantial--there is no structure. I just start and see where it takes me. A lot of the time, it actually works out and I manage to piece together enough coherent thoughts for a blog post. When reaching down deep inside my psyche, usually what comes up is fairly tame in nature.

Occasionally though, what I end up writing is too personal. While I strive for as much transparency here as I feel appropriate, there are obviously some parts of our lives that must remain private. The biggest filter I have to run it through is:

Is this my story to tell?

I am a story collector. I love to hear people talk about their lives, their hopes and dreams and interests. I want to know what makes them the way they are, why they believe as they believe and what brought them there. People are so fascinating, and I enjoy getting to know them better. The interconnectivity that weaves all these individuals together fuels my voracious imagination.

So when I sit down to tell the story of my little family, I have to be conscious and respectful that I only tell my truths, my stories.

Michael is mostly fair game as our lives are often completely inseparable for the last decade plus. I try not to speak directly for him; before I post, I always have him proofread and give approval.

The children are a little trickier because while our stories run so parallel, I do actually want to protect their privacy to a certain extent while still acting as a chronicler of times they are less likely to remember independently. It is a matter I handle with as much delicacy as I feel possible while still conveying the principles I am trying to get across.

There are certain subjects that I feel so little ownership over, even as they relate directly to me and inform great portions of my life, that I have avoided talking about them here or anywhere at all.

My biological father--my mother’s first husband--is one such tale. They divorced when I was younger than Tula, and his appearances in my life were so few and sporadic that most of what I could tell you about him would be gleaned from others’ relayed experiences. What I do remember was not wholly flattering, but I can’t imagine my girlish recollections would be entirely accurate either. I imagine the truth lay somewhere in the middle--not a complete villain, but scarcely a saint either, and (by choice) a pieceplayer in our adventure.

I also cannot be persuaded usually to touch politics with a ten-foot pole, a subject which I feel I have less authority to speak on the more that I learn.

Childhood is mostly fair game, as long as I don’t embarrass my brothers and sister (who, as far as I can tell, are wholly impervious to shame), but I can’t imagine it would be excessively interesting to anyone nor particularly relevant to what is going on now. (Unless you find enjoyment in my embarrassment. I was painfully awkward.)

What I ended up writing earlier this week was based on a prompt I found on the Abilene Writers Guild website: First Love.

The wheels in my head began to spin away as I thought about my first serious boyfriend and how little I understood then about relationships and men in general. I ended up writing quite a lot on the subject, starting with what I was raised to believe about love and dating and puberty and sex. There were so many misconceptions that I had, and that ignorance caused me quite a bit of heartache and trepidation, led me into situations I was ill-equipped to handle.

By the time I had reached the end (or as much as I would be able to get out at the moment), I knew it wasn’t something I would be able to share. It was too personal, too exposing, not for graphic content but because it cut too much to the heart of me. I had to get out into the sunshine and fresh air, drink ice water to loosen the tightness in my chest.

My early relationships were not great in the way that all young relationships suffer. He was not a good boyfriend, I was not a good girlfriend because we didn’t yet know how to be better. It is a practice course where everyone involved only stands to be hurt, but we do it anyway because it’s how you learn. No amount of relationship books I read (looking at you, “Chocolate Chili Pepper Love”) could have prepared me to know what I wanted and needed from a romantic partner like finding out exactly what I didn’t. As much as this story was my own, it also belonged to that hapless boy I knew so long ago, and it didn’t feel right for me to put it out there.

The more I thought about it though, the more I felt the point of the prompt, and the more I really thought about first.

My first date with Michael, we sat on the couch in Katie Rogers dorm because I had sprained my ankle falling down to flights of stairs rushing to meet him. It was swelling and purple and didn’t bother me much because this goofball in a Hawaiian shirt was making me laugh.

The first kiss Michael and I shared was halfway between my dorm and his, with all the stars out and the air was cold so he wrapped me up in his leather coat to keep warm.

The first time Michael and I made dinner at his apartment, we had no utensils except for plastic ones stolen from the school cafeteria. After trying several times to flip bacon with a fork that was rapidly melting, we had to borrow one from the married couple next door. That became the only fork we had when we couldn’t scrape together enough money to buy food, little less household items, so we would share it while we ate the very worst tunaless tuna helper sitting together in the only recliner we owned.

Mila the miniature pinscher was our first pet, this adorable, horrible screech-monster we were in no way ready to take care of. We had to take her back to the pet store because we weren’t supposed to have her in the first place, and Michael held me while I cried.

Our first apartment, which we called The Dank with no trace of irony, whose air conditioner went out every year and perpetually smelled like the tacos we couldn’t afford from the restaurant next door, but we were so proud of because it was just ours.

The first time I saw Michael cry, when he saw the sonogram picture of our little gummy bear baby Emerald.  His eyes may have been misty again the first time he held that red-headed infant in his arms and introduced himself as “daddy”.

When the doors of the church opened, the song “Gaelic Morn swells, and I saw the man that makes me so happy beaming because this is the happiest day of our lives. Michael’s grandfather introduced for the first time as husband and wife.

Michael is the story I chose for myself, my first and true love. His birthday was toward the beginning of the month which we celebrated per his wishes as totally innocuous day without note. He’s not big on people making a fuss over him. Personally, I think he deserves grandiose fanfare everyday, this man that works so hard to provide for his disaster-prone brood. The humor and patience with which he handles our oft-stressful, exhausting, chaotic circumstances gives me the strength and courage to keep going when I want so desperately to give up. All day, I try and do things to make his life easier or to make him happy because he is the best part of my day.

For me, it always comes back to him. When I exhumed all of that yucky, personal junk the other day, all I ended up uncovering was thankfulness for the path God put me on that led me to this goofball I married.

I think that’s the better story anyway.

—Andie

Da Mama

So, as promised, here is a little bit more about me, tha mama!

I grew up in a small town, surrounded by family. I have two brothers and a sister, we range in age- (soon to be) 22, 23, 24, and 25. We are very close because of our close ages, and being this far away from them kills me, as I know it kills them. I am obviously the youngest.

In school, I have always been really good at English and History--basically, things involving memory--but have loved the sciences. You can blame my mother for that because she got her degree in microbiology when I was little, and is as big of a nerd as I am. While in high school, I played trombone in the marching band (GEEK), and participated in Literary Critiscm for UIL, as well as volunteering for anything in everything. I was particularly active in my youth group, as well with the charity organizations Teens Living with Cancer and Carter Blood Care.

My dream has always been to be a neurologist, specifically in pediatrics, but unfortunately I have neither the stomach nor the time to invest. Which stinks, because medicine is a big love of mine, and will probably always be. As it is, with a degree in business, and my history with the company, I hope to get a position as a new accounts consultant for the aforementioned Carter Blood Care. I would be doing good work with them, and would still have intimate ties with medicine.

Art has always been a fascination with me as well, and while I am not particularly good at it. I keep working at it though, because talent is a matter of time invested.

Michael says I am super-sensitive and a bleeding heart (which is why he frightens away any stray that gets too close to our house). I love cats so much--probably because we share one big common factor--when we want to be loved on, when we want to be touched, we will initiate it. I am not very cuddly, as it would turn out, and am not a big fan of hugging or kissing anyone but my husband and children. My cats are Remy LaBeau and Oscar de la Renta (I'm weird), and we also own a rat terrier named Pepper Ann Potts. Michael refuses to let me have any more pets unless something "mysteriously" (read--I find new homes for them and they...) disappear.

Mr Gables

Gabriel is the sunniest baby in the world--he is quick to smile, constantly cooing, giggling,
and seeking out companionship. His very first smile was for his Big Sister, Emerald,
because I sincerely doubt there is a single person in the world that adores him more than
she does. She is forever giving him kisses, loving on the baby with hugs and trying to
hold him, reading to him, sharing toy, and generally trying to make sure his life is as happy
as humanly possible.

He enjoys watching Baby Miracles, including Jonah and the Whale--its a video of kid's singing
church songs and classical music to the story of Jonah, as well as live videos of the things
Jonah would have seen while he was sinking (turtles, starfish, etc).

Mike likes to play a game with him called Tooty Airplane--since he is literally the gassiest baby there ever was, Michael flies him around the house increasing the speed every time he toots. Gabriel loves it--he thinks his daddy is so funny.

Wonderful!

Michael and I do this thing that I like to call “mini date”.

Everyone knows how hard it is to get a date when you have kids; it is a well-documented and much-lamented phenomenon. We are no exception particularly because we have so very many children and each child feels like a lot more children than just one because of the nature of their being. There are a handful of people both willing and able to watch our rodent army for a few hours, but opportunities don’t arise too often where we both have the means and the motivation to go out. With this in mind, I have instituted Mini Date.

For five to ten minutes, Michael and I will sit in the car together, sharing a hot pretzel or a soda, and listening to the podcast “Wonderful!”.

If you have not heard of this podcast, it is on Maximum Fun (www.maximumfun.org)--the co-hosts are Rachel and Griffin McElroy, a married couple that talk about things that they love. It is about positivity and it is contagiously joyful and it helps perk you up in the middle of a dreary or frustrating day.

On that format, I was going to talk about a few of the things that I like and that make me happy because it is Monday and Monday is the day that I write. It might not be as interesting to you as it is to me, but hopefully it brings a little bit of positivity to your day, too!

First up: Sun Bears!

My favorite animal are bears--traditionally I like black bears because they are curious and super good, but I go through cycles. Currently in the top spot is a species from Southeast Asia that is one of the smallest bears, only about the size of your average Emerald. Malaysian sun bears, also known as honey bears because they use their strong claws to tear open trees and hives and their extra-long tongues to reach the honey.

Those ridiculous tongues--which range from 7 to 10 inches long--are why they are my current favorite because every picture of them is absolutely, endearingly ridiculous. When they have babies, the mother and father bears may actually live together and co-raise their cubs, which I think is pretty cute.

In general, they are kinda neat, underknown and underappreciated dorks.

The next thing I wanted to talk about was…

Microglia!

Also known as glia or glial cells, neuroglia are support cells that provide protection for neurons. They are my favorite part of the human body, specifically astrocytes (star-shaped cells that, among other functions, provide nutrients to the neurons) and microglia, who are friend-shaped.

The immune system has no business messing around up in the central nervous system, but the brain and spinal cord still need be protected. This is where all the Neuroglia come into effect. Glia actually means “glue”, so neuroglia means “brain glue”. Microglia then means “little glue” which makes no sense, but it is the runtiest of the four types of glial cells. They only make up about 10-15% of all cells found within the brain.

In resting state, they have a little fried-egg shaped body with tendrils going out in all directions, which it uses to monitor the interstitial fluid for signs of trouble. If it senses any inflammation, it sucks in all its tendrils, puffs up (presumably the cellular equivalent of hiking up your britches) and floats around looking for trouble-makers. It could be bacteria or a damaged cell or foreign cells, anything that could be a potential threat.

When it locates the source of trouble, it secrets cytotoxic factors that will reduce the issue to debris, then devours the bits like a deranged and murderous roomba. It has a function called antigen presentation, which is like if your roomba decorated the outside of himself with cheerios and dust bunnies so everyone could see what he had eaten today. Here is a really neat video on the subject if you are interested and want to know more:

https://www.khanacademy.org/science/health-and-medicine/nervous-system-and-sensory-infor/neural-cells-and-neurotransmitters/v/microglia

I just like the idea of this little cell perpetually ready to square up, I guess, but I also think of him as a neat mini shepherd that takes care of his neuron sheep, or miniscule scavenger boys. Their function is not nearly appreciated enough.

I am only going to write about three things today; if this ends up becoming something people enjoy, I may do a semi-regular thing. On to my third thing which is…

Carnations!

When I was in high school, the student council sold carnations as a fundraiser for Valentine’s Day. They were $1 each and different colors meant different things like secret admirer or friend or crush. On Valentine’s Day, class would be interrupted as they delivered individually wrapped flowers. I just loved the way it made the school smell, that delicate and romantic clove-like perfume, and I loved the surprise and joy people had when they realized someone had sent one just for them.

That memory from high school is one of the reasons these are my favorite flowers. Another is I love how they are both beautiful and practical--you can get a dozen for $5 and if you take good care of them, they can last for two to three weeks in the vase.

The name “carnation” could refer to flower garlands, or to” incarnation”, God made flesh. It’s scientific name dianthus means “flower of the gods”. It is one of the oldest cultivated flowers, storied in Christian tradition to have first bloomed where Mary’s tears fell on the road as she watched Jesus carried the cross. This is how they, particularly pink and peach in hue, because associated with motherly love.

Those are my three happyment enducers today; I am thankful that God made long-tongued sun bears, feisty and protective microglia, and delicately durable carnations.

There are so very many wonderful things in the world for us to delight in. I hope your week is full of all such things, and that you get a moment to revel in those good vibes.

—Andie

Unkind

Writing is how I emotionally work through what is happening in my life. The hope is that by unpacking some of this unpleasant day, I can calm my body and brain enough to sleep. I debated whether or not to identify them by name, but I decided against it--rising above and all that. I will be referring to them as Mrs. A and Mr. B.

It was a hard day today. Some are like that, I know. It felt like every part was a struggle.

Tuesday, there was a city bus stopped picking up passengers on my way home, so I turned down College Drive to pass it. It’s not a street I normally go on; it’s nice and quiet, near where Michael’s department has their supply shop. While I was driving, I saw a sign: “4 bedroom house for rent”.

Normally I avoid phone calls like the plague, doubly so those with strangers. There is this psych metaphor about spoons—you only have so many allotted spoons each day, and each activity takes a certain amount of spoons, which means you can only accomplish so many things in a day. You have to budget your emotional energy resources the same way you budget your finite money. Making a phone call, which seems innocuous, can be daunting because you have so little control over it. For me, it takes too many spoons.

But we need to get into a bigger place, so I figure it is worth a try. Probably going to be more than we can afford anyway. I call and leave a message on the listed phone number.

A little while later, I get a call back. It takes yet more spoons to accept an unexpected phone call from a stranger, but I answer. We visit about the house, size and price, what my family is needing. It is sounding fairly reasonable and she seems nice; she and I work out a time that afternoon for Michael and me to come see the house.

The woman’s husband takes us to see inside. Before we step foot in, Michael tells him that we have two older cats that are non negotiable. We are willing to pay deposits or work out conditions, but the cats come with us, so if they have a no-pets policy, this is not an option. Mr. B says that to get a family as renters, they might be willing to make an exception.

He shows us around the house and it is perfect. It is large and very nice, and comes furnished. All of our furniture is hand-me-downs, things we got free off of Craigslist and Facebook; it would be so nice to have things that aren’t falling apart. It’s a little more than we are spending at our current house, but it is twice as big, with four bedrooms. We are so excited because it has things we have been dreaming about—a dishwasher, a dedicated laundry room, counter space. This is a place we could be comfortable and happy in for a while.



At the end of the tour, Michael asks again about the pets. Mr. B wants to discuss it with his wife, but he thinks we can work something out—they like the idea of our family moving in. It is looking very positive.

We take an application, call our current landlord to ask if he will be a reference. Michael also speaks with a leader from our church whose financial advice we seek often and appreciate; he, too, agrees to be a reference, and says this sounds like a wise move for us. Both of our references are friends with the landlords, both people the couple respect. They have discussed the pet situation and we agree on an additional deposit, plus to pay for the carpet to be cleaned once a year. We are told to bring our application by in the morning and our deposit by the weekend, and we could have the house.

I tell Mom about it and the name of the couple we met with. Her eyes got wide—she knew this woman as they had attended church together in the past. Mom recommends I call Jarrod and talk before we sign any paperwork.

Wednesday morning, Emerald and Tula had doctors appointments with their endocrinologist. Tula had trouble sleeping so I was up a lot of the night before, not at my most mentally sharp. Emerald was moving slow, having to be told multiple times before she would accomplish a task, and it was frustrating me. We drop the application off with Mrs. A and hurry late to the appointment.

Tula was fussy from having not slept well and struggled throughout the double-length appointment. The doctor does not recommend a pump for her, which is disappointing but understandable. She is still in the honeymoon phase of her disease and it can fluctuate too much for a pump to be advisable.

It’s finally over, but we have to go get the girls’ hemoglobin a1c drawn. It’s a blood test they do every three months for their diabetes. Tula, who had finally fallen asleep on the car ride to the lab, was displeased by the needle in her arm. She was shaking all over and sobbing, calling for Daddy as her little arm bruised like a pear. We got through it. Emerald got dropped back off at school and I went home to have lunch with Michael.

Cartoonishly, annoyingly bad, while taking our frozen pizza lunch out of the oven, I drop it topping side down. It’s ruined. To the rescue, Michael ushers me to the car where we have a picnic lunch and listen to a podcast. It was actually lovely.

After I get the kids from school, Mom phones. Mrs. A had called her, which was odd—she was listed as emergency contact, not reference. Mrs. A had mentioned to Mom that she was going to “drop by” and visit with us about the cats because she had other interested parties. I am concerned because we might lose this house we both had liked so much.

I am out in the backyard pulling weeds to take my mind off what a horrible day it was when this woman I met literally met yesterday shows up unannounced and uninvited on my back porch. Emerald didn’t know any better and had let her in. I was so taken off-guard; she hadn’t called, had in no way implied she was coming over to my home, this place that she did not own. Our current landlord wouldn’t have sent her over without calling us; he always alerts us to visitors. Surely Michael wouldn’t have either.

This whole situation has taken spoons I didn’t have left.

This stranger says she has come to meet my cats. I say that they are rather shy and wouldn’t likely come out for people they don’t know, to which is promptly tells me to show her how we have them set up here. She talks and acts like she has a right to be here, like we had set an appointment for me to show her how we store the litter box and where we keep the cat food. Flustered, I show her.

She informs me then that she suddenly remembers that she has a severe cat allergy (which, had I known before, I likely would have discouraged her from entering the house as both cats are now actively rubbing against her legs) and they have other offers so we need to look for another house.

Unless, she leaves the question dangling, I might have the cats put down….?

The sheer amount of horror I felt at that question, I can scarcely describe. I know not everyone cares for cats, and there are quite a few that hate them. But these are my pets. I have raised them for over a decade—they are no kittens, but nor are they feeble and dying animals. They are sweet and gentle boys who spend the entirety of their day laying in warm spots and purring and fulfilling their sole purpose in life: to bring me joy.

And this horrid woman is standing in my bedroom suggesting that I have them killed because she, a stranger, doesn’t like them.


I usher her politely to the door as she continues her idiotic prattering, rattling off excuse after excuse why my nice family with perfect references and impeccable rent history is not a good fit for her rent house. With a mixture of fury and sadness, I shut the door on Mrs. A and text Michael to come home.

Michael calls Mrs. A who refuses to speak to him, just handing the phone promptly to Mr. B who said our landlord did not have kind things to say. Michael firmly but civilly tells him how disappointed we are in how this situation was handled, how they had gone back on their word to us after we agreed to their additional terms. Mr. B apologizes several times.

We contact our landlord who balks—he said they asked three questions.

Did we pay our rent on time?
Yes.

What about the pets?
I have them down as service animals.

Can they come take a look at the house we are in?
That would be up to Andie and Michael.

He talks with us for a while and then again with the couple, getting two different stories. He calls back to reiterate that we have been great tenants and that he said nothing to imply otherwise.

I am absolutely crushed. I feel like a fool. I should have told her it was presumptuous to show up at our house and to go away. I should have called her out on her rudeness.

Michael says the measure of our character is how we act when someone treats us unkindly. He wished them luck in all their future endeavors; I sent them a thank you card for their time. I also wrote this rather grumpy blog post, so I suppose Michael is made up of nicer stuff than I am.

They learned nothing from this, because they don’t see that they did anything wrong. I can’t change that. They have a right to do as they wish with their house. Had they politely called and said that they had reconsidered the cats and it was a no-go, we would have been disappointed but respected that. They could have told us they decided to go a different direction.

Instead, they ambushed me, pushed their way into my home while I was alone with my children. They lied, mislead, and told me to kill my cats, then let me know my family wasn’t good enough for their rent house.

Since she left, I have been cycling through emotions—disappointed, embarrassed, furious, depressed. I am so angry that she would think this was okay, that she had a right to act that way, and even more so that she likely thinks she did the right thing.

I know that God is gently tugging me back toward the path He has set for me; this was not a waypoint the Weardens needed. And I believe with all my heart that what He has planned is going to be so much more amazing than what we are leaving behind. I also recognize that this was a blessing, to see the sort of people these two were before we entered a legal rent agreement and were at their mercy. I shudder to think what liberties this woman would believe herself entitled to if we lived in a property she owned, if she would show this much presumption toward a perfect stranger.

In the end, I respect their right to do as they please with their house, and I understand that cats can be a threat to property in certain situations. Not every landlord wants to take on that responsibility.

I just wish they could have been a little kinder, that’s all.

--Andie

Attitude

Emerald’s favorite sentence is “I hate my life.” It is her go-to when we ask her to do something she doesn’t want to do, when she gets in trouble or when something happens that she perceives as “unfair” like bedtime or not having a cellphone, anything she asserts “everybody else at her school” doesn’t have to deal with. Most often, it is followed up with a declaration of how much she hates diabetes as it is the epicenter of all negativity in her life.

She says it so often over the last five years that it has almost lost all meaning.

I would like to think myself above an emotional response to such an outburst, but I have found that I most certainly am not. It could elicit any number of things, depending on my mood and what else is going on at the moment.

It might make me angry--angry that Emerald is not more appreciative, more grateful for the life we have provided for her. Angry that she would say something so inflammatory. Angry because she might possibly mean it.

It might make me sad because she has a right to hate her life. She didn’t make a decision to have this disease.

Michael said something that led me down the rabbit hole recently: What are the chances that we would have these kids with these conditions, with this frequency? It sparked my curiosity so I began to chase it down, looking at the statistics. 9.4% of the American population has diabetes; only 5 to 10% of those diagnosed have Type 1. About 0.24% of that population are under 20.  Less than 10% of those with the genetic marker for diabetes will actually develop it in their lifetime--risk factors include certain viral infections, living in colder and northern countries, immediate family history, being given cow’s milk too early, being of caucasian descent, and having other autoimmune diseases. It is more likely to affect white males than white females, and more likely to affect African or Asian females than white females. Just 6% of families that have one child diagnosed will have a second one develop diabetes.

Michael was right. Statistically speaking, Emerald was a long-shot to develop this and yet here we are--our number kept coming up. So a lot of the time, it makes me so very sad that she has to deal with this and that we have to deal with this, that there is no cure and this will be her life for as long as there is an Emerald.

I feel ashamed, too, that I can’t do better for her. For all I know, I am completely flubbing this whole deal up. Maybe she has a point. Maybe her life is just terrible and it’s my fault because I couldn’t provide more, be better, do better. I might expect too much of her, may be too strict. I didn’t expect to be the hard-ass parent; I hoped I’d be patient and understanding and kind like my mother and instead I’m a cranky goblin.

And let’s be honest, occasionally I feel slightly amused. What a drama queen.

It makes me wonder: is that how God feels when I complain about this life He has given to me?

When I grouch about diabetes, is He annoyed that I don’t appreciate how He has provided medicine and care so that we can keep the girls healthy and safe? Does He get frustrated that I don’t thank Him for watching over them and protecting them from the worst this disease has to offer?If I fuss about autism, is He sad that I’m focusing on the difficulties and not on what a sweet, intelligent, wonderful little boy Gabriel is?

Is God ashamed of my attitude toward all the blessings He has given me?

Emerald has inherited my sass and penchant for hyperbole; saying she hates her life is a habit that will prove hard to break. I cannot change her attitude—she is entitled to feel unhappy at her situation, because being unhappy is how we improve. Our emotions are a call to action to remind us to change what we can and to somehow find peace with what we cannot. I would like to teach her that a bad moment does not make a bad day, a bad day doesn’t make a bad life. It is a good reminder for me, too.

Maybe Emerald is just entering a new stage in her life, and I’m reading too much into it, taking it too personally. If that’s the case, there’s a storm a’comin.

Huh. Why don’t I feel any better?