True Confessions

Confessions in Motherhood:

1. Everyday I receive an email that Robby and his classmates write at school. At the end of the email each student is asked to answer the same question. On Friday the question posed was, "What are you going to do this weekend?" Robby's classmates responded with answers such as "I'm going skiing" or "I am going to my Grandma's house." Robby wrote, "I am going to get man food at Sheetz and then me and my Dad will play XBox without wearing our pants." 

For the record and contrary to how it sounded, Robby does not play XBox naked. He was referring to wearing his pajama bottoms instead of his jeans. Unfortunately that was not conveyed in the email. Yikes!

2. When the lady in the meat department complimented Robby's army pants, in addition to saying thank you he felt compelled to add that "the deep pockets make it easier for me to scratch my privates. I bet you didn't know I was doing that while you were slicing the ham for us, did you?"  I think I need to find a new deli.

3.  A few days ago I walked by the bathroom and thought I saw Robby standing on the vanity. I opened the door to find him standing in the sink, with his pants down to his knees, trying to pee into the toilet which was on the other side of the room.  He was not successful, which is the real reason I had to scrub the floor.

4.  Robby has discovered a wonderful epicurean delight in the form of a Hot Pocket. He is so taken with this treat that Saturday morning he asked for one for breakfast. Tired and trying to buy time until the caffeine began to work, I agreed to the unorthodox breakfast. When I handed it to him, he hesitated and asked me to wait. He took off the blanket and hopped off the couch, which was the first time I realized that he was naked. "Hang on Momom. I'd better put on pants because that hot cheese might hurt if it drips on my privates."  I still don't know why he took his pants off in the first place!

5. A friend from down the street came to play on Saturday. I was in the computer room working on a web page when I came out to check on the pair. I asked if they wanted a snack to which Robby proudly proclaimed that he had taken care of it. It was then I noticed that they were both chewing on their own tube of raw cookie dough. 

I'm giving up on the Mother Of The Year award!

Lumber Jane

I love the tranquility and the connection to nature that comes from living in the woods. Robby loves spending his hours playing in the stream, climbing the trees and looking for assorted creatures only to return home sopping wet and covered with mud and unknown muck. There is only one not-so-small complaint I have about the setting: the upkeep is a bear!

Last year we had a large tree cut down and we discovered the high cost of tree removal. It took me nearly six weeks to roll the imposing trunk sections up the hill so that the yard would be clear. If it weren't for Mr. Bill's assistance, I'm sure that the brush, twigs and branches would still be littering our yard. Once everything was cleaned up, I vowed that I would, at all cost, avoid getting another tree cut down.

Scott apparently misunderstood my statement because when he heard that the electric company would cut down our large hickory tree at no charge, he jumped at the opportunity. I was saddened when the crew arrived last week to remove one of my favorite trees. It didn't bother me that it was beginning to lean towards the power lines, but I figured that it was better to be safe than sorry. If we could get a tree removed, it was probably a good opportunity.

The power company did cut down the large hickory tree, but I became agitated when the crew left the tree chunks in the center of our yard. Without bothering to change out of my pink monkey pajama bottoms, I went running after their truck to find out when they were coming back to finish the job. This is when I learned that Scott's free-tree-removal plan was fatally flawed.

The power company will cut a tree down, but they do not remove it from the property. I now have obscenely heavy hickory tree sections, each 4 foot long, laying throughout the my front yard. Each section seems impervious to my pushing. Incidentally, I learned that standing over it and cursing has no impact either!

Of course Robby is delighted with the cut up tree. The trunk pieces make an ideal playground as he playfully moves from section to section. I spent the weekend schlepping the smaller sections to the wood pile. After toiling for countless hours I had cleared everything that I could lift into the wheelbarrow, leaving the unmovable pieces for another time. 

I have thinking been about how to remove the trunk sections from the yard. Each idea eventually leads me to the same conclusion- it is going to be slow, difficult and probably painful. So much for our great money saving idea!

Communication Issues

Yet again I have been reminded that the statement "I want your honest opinion" should not be taken literally. Instead, perhaps it would be more realistic to begin the conversation by saying something like, "I  want you only to agree with me. If you have any other opinions, please keep them to yourself and simply tell me that I'm wonderful." Although the statement goes against social convention, it would certainly provide an more honest key to the conversation!

I hate hurting somebody's feelings. Knowing that my words or actions have caused distress in somebody instantly fills me with remorse and guilt. Because I hate having negative emotions, I try to avoid possible conflicts at all costs.

A few days ago I was asked for my honest opinion about a scenario posed by a friend. Largely in part of the request for honesty, I provided my perspective. Evidently my position clashed with her views because I was summarily dismissed and the friendship was severed.

I try to temper my words, but I become frustrated when an individual has an extreme response simply because a differing view has been voiced. Please don't ask for my honest opinion if you don't want to hear what I have to say. I become both disheartened and angry when my words cause pain. 

Adjustment Issues...

During the past few days, I have been reminded of the fragility of my comfort level. Between the carbon fiber socket, the spacers and the foot component, I am reliant upon a lot of manufactured parts. When something is not set up in what I dub "the sweet zone," my gait, the length of time I'm able to wear my leg, and my comfort are all compromised.

Getting a new leg always produces a mixture of emotions. While I'm excited about being able to sport new components and a snazzy new chromed socket, I also dread the inevitable and frequent trips to my prosthetist's office for minuscule adjustments. No matter how comfortable the leg feels at the first fitting, I always end up requesting minor changes as I search for ideal comfort. In my quest for the sweet zone, I have learned to carry a light schedule the two weeks following the delivery of my new prosthesis. 

My new leg felt great when I received it last Friday. True to form, I began to notice small discomforts as I continued to wear it. By Monday I was back in Elliot's office getting an adjustment. Although it initially felt better, I suspect that the tweak made the situation worse. By Tuesday I was hobbling and Wednesday morning I was back in his office, hoping that he could work some wrench magic.

After nearly an hour of trial and error, which included creating and adding handcrafted wedges, the fit was perfect. I walked out of the office feeling like my prosthesis was a natural extension of my leg. The absence of pain is a wonderful feeling!

While my leg is perfect right now, I won't be surprised if it will need another tweak (or two). My prosthesis is something that I depend upon everyday, and although I may be considered picky, I refuse to wear something that causes pain. When it comes to my mobility, I am not willing to settle.

Who Caters Your Lunch?

Monday night was full of anticipation in our household. Robby came home from school with no homework and exciting news. He was going on a field trip the next day, and if that weren't exciting enough, he was going to be allowed to pack a lunch!

Due to food allergy issues, Robby's school has a strict "no food from home" policy. He, along with his classmates, all eat the same prepared school lunches and snacks. Needless to say, I often pick up a famished little tyke at the end of the school day.

The fact that he was allowed to bring a lunch to the field trip garnered as much, if not more, excitement than the trip itself. He carefully picked out a lunch box in August and hasn't been able to use it. Monday night, I emptied all of the green plastic army men out his Lego lunch box in preparation for its inaugural lunch.

After much discussion, which involved my vetoing his request for a marshmallow sandwich with a side of bacon, Robby requested a ham and cheese sandwich, cookies, sour cream and onion potato chips (in a separate little bag) and a bottle of water. I quickly realized that we did not have any lunch meat, we had no bread, and I had eaten all of the cookies. Obviously I am woefully unprepared to pack a school lunch!

After a quick trip to the grocery store, and spending nearly $20 in supplies, I packed Robby's first lunch box. He was so excited carrying his little yellow Lego lunchbox into school, and I was satisfied that I had a packed a nutritionally sound (sort of) and kid friendly lunch.

As I was putting his lunch box into his cubby, a fellow parent came into the classroom carrying a sealed pink tray. I didn't think much of it until another parent arrived carrying a similar style tray, only in blue. As I was getting ready to say goodbye to Robby, he asked me if I remembered to put the potato chips into his lunch. I assured him that his chips were safe in the lunch box. The parents smiled and remarked that Robby seemed excited about his "homemade" lunch.

Homemade lunch? Until yesterday I was under the assumption that all packed lunches were homemade. I learned that all of the colorful trays that were lined up in the cubbies of Robby's class contained his classmates lunches, artfully prepared by a lunchbox catering service. In our house, the lunch box caterer responds to the name of  "Momom." Always striving to be in vogue, many parents utilize a specialized catering service which prepares, whimsically packs, and delivers the lunches for their little cherubs.

The abundance of colorful trays did not seem to phase Robby, but it certainly took me off guard. I invested a lot of time and care in preparing Robby's lunch. I even woke up early and baked Robby's favorite sugar cookie knowing he would be excited to find this hidden (and contraband) treat. In an odd way I felt deflated as if I invested time but was outdone by a paid caterer.

Robby had a great time on his field trip and for the first time all school year did not come home famished. He thanked me numerous times for the surprise cookies and raved about how good everything tasted. When I asked him if he felt bad that he didn't have a tray lunch like his friends he simply said no. He said that his lunch was delicious and that the only thing that would have been better was if I had allowed him to pack his favorite sandwich: a bacon sandwich, hold the bread. 

The Not So Big Dig

The weather this past weekend was unbelievably beautiful. The cool and crisp air paired with the bright sun shining in a brilliant blue sky made yard work an easy decision. Sunday morning I woke up eager to break in my new leg by spending the day getting ready for spring!

It wasn't hard for me to lure my little helper away from the XBox. I simply had to ask if he knew anybody who was good at digging in the dirt and he was off the couch and pulling on his cowboy boots. After he explained that he was six years old now and too old to use a child's shovel, Robby dragged the large tool out of the garage and asked me where I wanted my holes. He certainly does love digging.

I decided to spend the day creating a walkway through the flowerbed in front of our house. The muddy marks on my stairs are a constant reminder of the shortcut that I take on a daily basis. Since I don't see my habit changing, I decided to create a brick walk through the bed to minimize the dirt that we all traipse into the house. I marked the area that needed to be excavated and let Robby go to town.


After about twenty minutes, Robby's shovel struck something unusual. He brushed off the dirt and proudly proclaimed that he found a meteorite. Dropping the shovel he ran into the house (so much for keeping the dirt outside) and retrieved his metal detector. He began jumping up and down when the machine beeped, confirming the metal content of the mysterious object. Mr. Bill, hearing Robby squeal and seeing him excited, meandered over to help us investigate.

It turns out that Robby did not find a meteorite but unearthed part of a canon ball from the Civil War. Robby delighted in his first archeological find and took off running through the yard with his metal detector, determined to find more treasures.

Mr. Bill stopped working his yard and brought over his metal detector. The two friends spent the afternoon searching the yard and uncovering cans, nails and the occasional unidentified metallic object. I lost my digging buddy and finished the excavation by myself.

As the afternoon wore on, I began to suspect that Robby's archaeological find was not accidental. When I asked Mr. Bill if he planted the canon ball, he simply smiled and responded, "You never know where you're going to find them. I put 'em all over your yard." While my enthusiasm was somewhat squashed by this confession, Robby remains oblivious to the baiting of our yard.

I suspect that the canon balls were buried in an attempt to reignite Robby's interest in metal detecting with his friend. If that was the reason, it certainly worked. Robby is now counting down the days until he and Mr. Bill can go metal detecting in a "real field." It'll be fun to see what the pair digs up!

Pimp My Leg!

When I received my first prosthesis nine and a half years ago, I was insistent that it be covered with a flesh-like covering. I was horrified by the thought that the casual observer would know that I no longer had my leg. I remember explaining my decision to Elliot (my prosthetist) by saying something along the lines of, "It's bad enough I have to walk on this thing. I don't care what it costs. I don't want anybody to know."

In retrospect, it is certainly easier to see that my desire to create a life-like prosthesis stemmed from shame. I had not fully embraced the reality of being an amputee and continued to be embarrassed. In many ways I was taken back to the angst of the teen years when the thought of being viewed as different was mortifying.  Having my prosthesis matching my biological leg provided me some comfort and allowed me to feel somewhat normal.

During the 18 months that I wore the cover, something unexpected occurred. I slowly began to adjust to my limb loss and without realizing it, my definition of "different" changed. I realized that different doesn't have to be bad or to equate to anything negative. Instead, many times different can mean just that: different. I slowly became okay with being different and no longer needed to try to conform.

One night after Scott went to bed I woke up, went into the kitchen and began to dismantle the artfully crafted cosmetic cover. I remember feeling an odd sense of exhilaration as I cut the foam and nylon and slowly exposed the metallic pylon and carbon fiber socket. That evening I realized that different can also mean unique, and that was something I could embrace!

A few weeks ago during a conversation with Elliot about a new leg he was creating for me, we started to talk about socket art. Until now, my sockets have typically been polished black carbon fiber. We were set to go with the same sleek look until I casually said, "If I ever get the chance I'm going to get it chromed." Elliot tilted his head, smiled and said, "I think it would look bad-ass. If anybody can carry it off, it's you. Let's go for it." 

I certainly have come a long way from that timid and scared amputee of a decade ago! Instead of trying to fit in, I've learned  not only to embrace but now proudly flaunt what makes me unique. I love my new chrome socket. I know my new leg invites second glances, stares, and probably volumes of comments. Instead of cowering or trying to blend, my pimped out leg shouts confidence.