Happy Birthday to Me

There are no words for the tragedy in Texas last week. The pain of it hits physically; I feel sick to my stomach as well as sick at heart, not only that lives were cut so very short but that the only action Republican politicians take is to offer the usual “thoughts and prayers.” This country’s spiral is terrifying.

When Eleni mentioned that these murders make her reluctant to send her kids to school, I—ever the voice of reason—pointed out that, as horrifying as they are and as much as we need to act on gun control, we’re at more risk of dying every time we get into a car. Further, I preached, to overprotect our kids from unlikely events just scares them and prevents them from developing properly into adulthood. Just stay calm, I advised. (Of course she knew all that and had just wanted to vent, yet she was patient with my unsolicited lecture.)

Three days later, during a backyard visit with my college friend P, I heard the sirens of countless emergency vehicles shrieking by. And then more. And more. And suddenly I was swallowed by an overwhelming panic. My amygdala must have spontaneously flipped into high alert—what if they’re heading to Ember’s school??—and all I wanted to do was race down the street to make sure she was okay. P had to remind me that I was being completely irrational and a bit bonkers. My conscious mind knew that, but my mammal brain didn’t. So much for my wise counsel to Eleni.

Following our close encounters almost two weeks ago I’ve been waiting for Covid to strike. Now and then I’ve test-swallowed to make sure my throat isn’t sore and test-sniffed scented things to confirm that my snout still works. Yet all is still well after four negative tests. It seems we might have defied the odds somehow—this time. And because we’re still okay, our planned visit with Lulu and Josh for my birthday became a reality.

I’m eating better than ever with Ember under roof. In days of yore I’d just grab a frozen dinner from the icebox (or not).  But since her arrival I’ve carefully written up weekly dinner menus. Well and good until recently, when she started kvetching about some of my choices, even those she helped make. “Pork tenderloin again?!?” So that I don’t get annoyed, I’ve added a new feature: signed approvals.

The little imp will be with me for two more weeks, when she zips back up to Chico and into her parents’ eager arms. In the meantime, every day I continue my pursuit of new ways to help her with life’s challenges. For example, she often grumbles that when she’s here, there’s never enough time for anything. True, and one reason for that is that focusing can be especially tricky for her, so the hours just vanish. Last week on her homework, she had to answer an easy yes/no question. Her process, pencil in hand, went something like this:

No. [Erase.] No thank you. [Erase.] No, thank you. [Erase.] No thanks. [Erase.] No. [Erase.] Yes…

Fifteen minutes later, the jury was still out on her response.

Or take toothbrushing. First, the lag between my asking her to get started and the commencement of the act is interminable. And then, once she begins, it’s:

Pick up the brush. Put it down. Examine your cheek in the mirror. Spin in circles. Stare at the tube. Squeeze it. Take the top off. Put it back on. Sing a cheerful little song. Ask Mama Ginna a random, urgent question. Turn on the water. Check your hair. Turn off the water…

Three nights ago it took twenty minutes just for the latter. So I devised a system to try to guide her a bit. Her new mission: finish up closer to a target time of 5:10 (morning) and 8:10 (evening, with flossing), with bonus points accrued toward an as-yet undetermined reward. The next evening, her ivories were sparkling after four minutes and 35 seconds!

Yesterday evening we were at it again. The moment I asked her to brush, off she rocketed to the bathroom, achieving a new record of 4:13. I was so pleased, until she announced she doesn’t want to be timed any more because she doesn’t like to hurry. Okay, then. I think I’ll try this now:

We’ll see how that goes.

I just finished a knitting project from a pattern that Marianna sent me.

Boy, is my summer busy.

• June: A weekend in Wilseyville with Ember and Lulu before Em leaves, a couple days in Grass Valley, four nights camping in Sequoia-Kings Canyon, Ember back here for a week of summer camp…
• July: Visit Small back East, camp in Lassen for three nights, welcome Em back for another week of day camp, an extended visit from an Oregon friend…
• And then Em is scheduled to return here in mid-August, shortly before her fifth-grade semester begins.

Right after that I get to have two more implants drilled in. The nerve damage from the last attempt is only now approaching recovery, nine months later, and the periodontist finally figured out why it happened. Apparently the mandibular nerve of everyone on the planet except me runs straight along the jaw, way beneath the roots of the teeth. But I’m unique. Right where the post is supposed to go in, it playfully leaps toward the gum surface, does a loop de loop, and then obediently heads south again. The dentist has never seen anything like it, of course. So she’ll have to work around it, and I’ll bet she’ll be as nervous as I. 

I just checked the spelling of “loop de loop,” because I hate making errors and having my readers think I’m a moron. According to UrbanDictionary.com, a loop de loop is:

A place where you smoke weed, drink alcohol, or have sex. “Let’s go to the loop de loop and have fun.”