You were Mine

I know, I know, its been a long time. But things have been rough the last month? Few months? Year? 20 some years?! Man its been a long streak of ugly luck and negative events and yet they're so close together and so frequent its hard to accept that its really been a long long time.

The past month has been exceptionally devastating. It seems that it has been full of loss and heart ache. 

For me, in this, the loss and heartache are inseparable. In just one month I have lost people in my life. Not just ANY people, but cornerstone you-were-my-rock-in-the-stream people. 

Im not at all new to loss. My first sharp loss was my Ta-Ta, when I was 3 or 4. He was my great grandfather. Not a great man, but none-the-less he was mine and he was funny. He used to offer me his pee pan when I would come see him in his room where he was living out his last few years. I loved him something fierce for my short years and his loss left me with imprints of my parents in funeral clothes, the news, and my reoccurring dreams of him trying to speak to me from the other side of life. 

I overheard the news of my Tia's imminent passing from a corner of the kitchen where no one noticed a 7 or 8 year old me. She was a plump and loving woman. Although she always gave me panties for Christmas, she too was mine and loved me. I ran from the sight of her in her casket, and saw her face on my funeral clothes so sharply I never wore them again.  

A lot of the people who's honest Love I was born in to left my life early on. As soon as I was able to, I moved far away from 'home' and 'family' and began collecting friends to create my chosen family. A group of misfit people whom didnt love me for the sake of sharing DNA but by virtue of choice. 

When I was dragged from the wreck of my PT cruiser back in '07, it wasnt at all family that came to see me. It was friends. Clients from work. People I lived by. I came to realize that these were the people who mattered. That those who out of their own deep concerned helped me when I was broken and not myself were the ones to keep close and love back just as strong. 

I dragged myself out of a miserable wreck of a failed marriage a little over a year ago. I looked around a saw a few great friends with faces full of concern and hands outstretched. I got up, and I fell. Again and again, I fell and I failed to walk well away from the disaster. Each time I collapsed and I looked up, there were less and less faces. Im broken, yet I am trying. Thought that hasnt been enough for others. 

I thought for a while that it was me. Blamed myself for the dissolving ties. But what is true love towards someone if it is not unconditional? Loving someone but stepping away in their darkest, most broken moments because their recovery and their trauma does not fit your schedule and needs... what is that? 

A lot of negativity has been attributed to me because I am an easy target. A woman put through the wringer and easily identified by the marred and scarred look of her. Isnt that the kind of person to easily blame for wrong doings? 

In this past year and some, above all my other trials, I have suffered much loss. Weddings, and concerts, and pitiful other excuses have taken precedence over me. I didnt expect my family to come see me in this new lonely state. But I expected others to. I expected others to love me enough to come hold me at my most frail moment. 

This past year has also changed me much. Yes, Ive learned to value the little things and accept mistakes and forgive others. Ive also learned to put up walls. Ive lost strength and positivity and valor. Ive lost shine. Ive lost little jagged pieces from the corners of my smile and the softness of my heart. Ive lost my 'muchness' that once held the love of some. That attraction and commitment another might feel for me. 

But I expected to be loved, unconditionally and irreplaceably. I expected the world to come apart and burst in to flames before some people in my life could feel that I wasnt enough. Or that my darkness was too heavy for them. Or that there was nothing left. 

This month has left me doubting myself and my worth as well as the dedication and love of anyone close enough to me to know me in truth. It has taken from me faith. 

It has left behind in its wake so many flash memories of the best times I had with them, torn to shreds knowing that each one was false. Empty. Nothing that will be remembered outside my mind, and not a tie they minded cutting. I loved them. They were mine.

Loss is not a new thing to me, in the form of death. Death took away the person but not the love. 

Its another thing all together when the love is gone...but the person still exists. 

6 years.

Dont worry, this wont be long.

As a matter of fact I cant even figure out how to start this.

I get told often: To be happy, to move forward, you must forgive those that have wronged you and also forgive yourself.

I am not entirely sure that I can forgive you.
Forgiving myself isnt easy either. After all, the sins that I must be paying off with this life-sentence arent easily ignored.

"Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; its you who gets burned."

Theres no getting rid of these coals I never meant to touch. None the less they burn through my youth and my health and my ability to move forward.

All the while, you, who crashed that car and nearly took my life...you take your life for granted.
I was wheeled into that trauma room yelling for my life, for a call to my small daughter because I was sure to die in those wrecked pieces I was lying in. You, on the other hand, yelled for the nurse to 'please please dont cut the boots off!'. Fickle. Shallow.

And never a day of regret.
For you any how.


I will lose that joint one day fucker. Or that leg even. Until that day, I live a slow and terribly painful life that I am ensured will only hurt more with each moment.


6 years tomorrow. 6 mother fucking years. And today, the pain spiked making me reach a new level: Ive decided to ask for the medicine I swore Id never give in to.

Baby B

First post of the new year! Yay, yay, hurray!

May my prize be paid in gold and chocolate! Or maybe just in free (But trustworthy and reputable!) babysitting because Gods know I have yet to take an uninterrupted piss, an unshared bite of something too sinfully good for anyone, or a moment where the ear piercing "MOMMY!!" doesn't throw me into some shade of panic. Take, for example, the sack of bones thud followed by the 'im in pain and its actually real' cry I heard today from downstairs. What with the crummy weather outside and my worsening hip injury, I ended up hobbling and hopping to the stairs on one leg and doggy crawling up to the second floor where I find one child pale and standing at attention in the hall while the other is buggery with tears and snot on the floor all red faced. Something about swinging small kid around and big kid dropping her on her head I just dont know. I need a fucking break. My breaks without kids usually involve errands. I DONT WANT TO BE AN ADULT!!!

Lets face it though, I was never quite a kid. Ive had nearly a 23 year run as an adult in 27 years of life. But those were really situations out of my hands. I was a kid playing at being an adult in an attempt to stay sane and alive. I left that life when I was merely 15 and thought I was, in some doggy-paddle sort of way, coming up for air.

I was 17 when a 1am 'feeling' landed me in the bathroom staring at two pink lines.

I will tell you now that I thought my world had finally crashed around me. I was fucked (ha!, ironic huh?) and it just cant get worse for a 17 year old emancipated kid.

I was maybe 5 or 6 weeks along the first time I stretched out in an obstetrician's torture table to take a peek at the baby that was causing me some concerning pain.
Any time a radiology tech says 'oh', its not good. I dont care what you have to say about it.

Oh.

Oh theres two heart beats here Ms. Jimenez....

Two? No...how could there be two...

My life seems to be toggle-controlled because this was one of the first times my life changed at the flip of a switch. Two tiny little heart beats, slightly overlapping and not at all in step with each other, came through faintly across a watery world. I watched dazed as the tech recorded each little life sound wave and catalogued them Baby A and Baby B. She measured each kidney shaped body and pointed out Baby B nuzzled close to the placenta wall facing away from Baby A. Ha, sibling disagreements already.

It cant get any worse I had said. So it did. But now I have twins on the way and its go big or go home right? Cant get any worse for a pregnant 17 year old alone in the world but for her unemployed boyfriend and her dead in the water Air Force Academy candidacy, right?

I think I was 4 or 5 months along desperately searching the black and white screen for Baby B. Wheres Baby B?!
"Sometimes this happens...its called the disappearing twin syndrome..."
Where does a whole baby DISAPPEAR TO?!?
"...The child was likely not viable enough to progress and your body did away with it to allow for better nutrient supplies for the more viable twin..."
Where did Baby B go...

Paddle swimming gets old.
I named Baby A Iris Elizabeth. Iris for the Goddess that brought messages down to earth from Heaven on a rainbow, the sign of peace after all the rain.

Ive never quite admitted this but I named Baby B Gregory. Gregory William.
I dreamt of him a few times. Unruly brown curls and chocolate eyes that would have melted me each time. In one dream he looked at me knowingly as his sister jumped into my arms and he then just disappeared. I think of him more than I should, when I look at Iris and think: Fuck Im crazy for thinking this way.
But what if he had stayed? Would I have lost both babies? Would I have had to see one leave me after knowing their little face?

Iris was born miraculously.

I had asked my stepmom what REAL contractions felt like. She said they felt like you needed to poop but couldn't.
I woke up at 3 am with a nagging pain in my tummy. I tried ignoring it and going to sleep but couldn't  Finally I got up and went to the bathroom. Man was my stepmom right about how they felt.

Strapped into the labor bed, I was told I wasn't a single bit dilated but had doctors concerned that my contractions were so strong and close together. In all the commotion I watched my child, who had made my belly bottom heavy, suddenly swim up and seemingly try to crawl into my rib cage. The nurses rushed in and gave me orange juice.

"Her heartbeat is irregular and slow. You need to take sugar and see if we can get her to liven up... you're going to have to have a C Section tonight"
I hadn't even finished the juice before nurses were unhooking my bed and the anesthesiologist was prepping me for an emergency C Section.

"Were losing her heartbeat"

I was the most chicken shit mother to ever have a Cesarean. Ill admit it. I cried and I yelled for fear.
The surgeon, Dr. Pepper (I kid you not!), was very quick. It wasn't very long into the procedure when I heard him say: "Well, she's blonde!"
Noon on the dot, January 21st, Iris was born.
But I didn't hear her cry... I asked everyone why I couldn't hear her. They chuckled and commented on her just being quiet as the delivery nurse briskly walked away with a little bundle to her work station. No sounds. No cries. The nurse rubbed her and wiped away the gunk, that much I could see. Then she stepped aside as Daddy came to see Iris and I glanced this little lily white baby, lazily lifting an arm and letting it fall down. Downy head of the finest blonde fuzz...

The nurse swiped Iris's eyes and pulled a pink and blue cap over the peach fuzz, then wrapped her up in a striped hospital blanket, leaving nothing but a sleeping peaceful face.

"Say hi Momma.."

"Hello my little Iris flower..." A kiss on the button nose and they rushed her away. A kiss and that was all.

It took 24 hours to see her again. I was sure I had imagined the little angel having touched her soft nose to my chapped lips. She was ill. The doctors couldn't tell why her T-cell count was so high and had her installed in the Newborn ICU. I wasn't allowed to touch her, for with my fever I could very well make her worse. I was done waiting by the 24th hour and to hell with wheel chairs that never came. I got up and walked the long corridor to the NICU, trailing little dots of blood from my emergency incision, damned if I wasn't to see my own child.

Iris spent 14 days in a little clear box, her little arms taking turns being strapped to a board that enabled 2-3 IV ports each. I spent hours each day just holding her to my heart, blessing the sound of her breathing and her little fist grasping me close.

To say that Iris is the gentlest of souls puts it mildly. She may not always follow directions properly, nor abide the rules as she should...but she is a kind and mindful girl. She has a moral compass I envy from time to time, and an innocence that seems otherworldly in its wiseness. Sometimes she seems like too much soul for one body, when she looks up at me and smiles like she knows what Im thinking. Or when she brings me a tissue to wipe away tears I swore no one knew about nor could hear. This is the baby girl whom when I fell sick with the flu and she was barely 2, brought me a blanket and herself a box of cheerios settling in quietly on the couch for 4 hours and guarding her mother. When I look at her playing quietly I wonder if I would have the sight had Gregory held on. I wonder also what it would of been like to see two little heads bent over some game, same age, same height, same birth. None the less, each year, on the 21st of January I celebrate her arrival in my world and I thank life that she at least made it.

I wont say this keeps me from losing my mind over her having taken her little sister and swinging her about the room till she collided with the floor. Nor that sometimes they both drive me to drink....Im not a saint.

This year we celebrated with Japanese food, cupcakes at school, and her very own recurve bow. My little fighter wants to follow in Momma's footsteps. Except I hope she has much better aim.

I look at her, all 9 years now, and sometimes feel like that 'too much soul for one body' is what happens when two children sharing a womb end up as just one. Is it crazy to think I didnt much lose him entirely?

Happy Birthday Doll-face. Thank you little sound-wave Baby B; Gregory.

Of Bribes and Year's End

Starting my truck requires bribery now a days.

Most mornings (or afternoons, or evenings...or just whenever), it likes to trick me.

Iris opens the driver door, propels herself over the car seats and opens the passenger door (that door refuses to work with a key). I haul Aeva in who is always too busy hugging a toy or as of late, a leap pad, to bother weaving arms into her harness. Digging for the bottom of the 5 point harness stuck under her ass CANNOT be a welcome morning routine but I kid you not, she never helps the issue. With Aeva snugly restrained, feet banging on the dash, I run around the back of the truck making sure that Iris is as comfortably settled in the back jump-seat as possible and I hop into my seat. I insert the key into the ignition, hear the beeping sound alerting me to power in the cabin so I turn the key and

Dead.

I cannot tell you how many freezing cold mornings I just slam my forehead on the steering wheel. Theres only one way to fix this and it comes with a good dose of frozen fingers, fear of electrocution, and public humiliation. I have to bribe the be-damned hunk of Harrison Ford Steel to start. Heres how I do it:

Popping the hood, I come up the driver side of the truck sliding my hand down to the latch soothing the now stubborn beast.
"Its ok there big guy...juuuuust looking to see what ya look like this morning"
Finding the terminals on the batteries, I inch in carefully.
"Whats this?? Are your connectors loose? Well Ill just check and see..."
Before you know it I yank off the negative terminal and the Beast sets off its car alarm, rousing every goddam nosey neighbors attention on this ghetto ass block. Silencing it requires pulling off the positive terminal while being careful that the negative terminal doesnt slyly tap back into the game and fry me something toasty.
With both terminals off the battery, the Beast is silenced.

"Ha! AND what?!"

There are two exposed fuses in the maw of the Beast that have a tendency to confuse me. One is of apparent value to the Ford, the other could fizzle out and die without grunt of care. Recently i've marked the important fuse and its this one I yank out with frozen fingers this morning....and drop into the guts of the engine. Fun-fucking-tastical. Luckily I have long fingers, small wrists, and a desperate need to reach the fuse at any fleshy cost.

Come here my precious....
"See there Beast? I have your fuse. You want your fuse back you say? Well theres only one way to go about that....you must let that engine purr, or chortle or what ever is necessary in order to get us chugging along 295 cuz I GOTS ta go! Deal?"
I can only imagine that this inanimate and inconsiderate metal wreck on wheels nods its head? Hood? Shocks??? Appealing to my humanity for the return of its buck toothed fuse. I let it watch me think a minute, admiring the little piece in the gray light of the ass-crack of dawn.
Pocketing the fuse, I replace the negative terminal first and then cautiously connect the positive terminal all the while hoping it wont zap the ever living crap out of me. Ive got metal in my body and horrible luck with machinery... you tell me not to worry...

The cabin light coming on is a sign that so far, were good. The Beast has given me a false sense of hope a few times before, but not today. Today when I turn the key, the Beast roars to life and even does a little shimmy to show its enthusiasm. Jumping back out, I replace the fuse, unhook the hood and let it slam. I pat the beast and climb in.

It seems that this year is personified in my decrepit Found On Road Dead Ranger. Its been crappy. I went from Jeep Compass smooth living, to begging a two seater truck to just make it one more trip...one more day. There is much compromising, bribing, and plain ol sucking-it-up now a days for me and the gals. We've moved too many times and began to find boring days to be the most appreciated days of all. I've learned to rely on myself, and myself alone because when youre locked out at 1 am, Maintenance will NOT pick your lock so fucking keep a spare key SOMEWHERE.
Theres a lot to be said about the past year but its just that...past. Its almost nearly chronologized in this blog, all my one step forwards 10 steps back choreographing my own little cha-cha. I cant tell you that I am better today, because I dont always feel it, but I am alive. Im ... wiser. Im able to take in situations without just sitting down and giving up or hiding under my covers until Ive cried it out of my system.

Today the girls and I toasted the arrival of a new year freshly bathed (to clean off any impurities of the past), with money in our hands (for financial stability in the coming year), yummy food in our bellies (that we may never find our selves hungry), Sparkling Apple-cranberry Cider (for the sheer loveliness of simple things to be enjoyed), and poppers... for joyful noises in our coming year of Restoration.

CHEERS!

Sandy Hook

I first heard about it, like most everyone else, at work.

20.

I was in an office full of coworkers whom have kids. There was discussions about what they could do to prevent it from happening to their own children. What we as a country could do to preventing it from happening again.

I put my head down and delved deeper into my stack of paperwork. I will not think.

I was delayed in leaving work due to my work load. I shouldered my bag at 15 past my usual exit time, got in my truck and drove steady. I will not rush.

My daughters excitedly greeted me with squeals and stories of a school field trip. I listened and commented. I will not panic.

I switched off the local radio station.

At home I let them stand in the kitchen with me and make a hodgepodge dinner from left overs, handed out juice boxes and settled on the couch with bowls in our laps to watch a DVD. Uneaten dinners still went unrewarded with dessert.
I offered up hot cocoa in mugs we designed, popped in a second DVD to the girls' surprise, and snuggled in the dark. 9pm. 1030 pm. 11pm. Tired girls made their way up the stairs having surpassed even a weekend bedtime.
I crawled in bed and had fit full dreams. Night terrors.

Most everyone that reads the words I write tell me I have a way with these words. I write like I speak. I am able to commit to paper things that others have difficulty expressing even verbally.
Where are my words now? I am unable to wrap it around the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary. Why are my words unable to penetrate grief and unravel it in a form for others to read and understand?

These little ones are gone. They barely touched this earth and from it they were stolen. In believing that we are all part of one consciousness, one soul...I believe that they have reached our Greater Form and are free from the pain and anguish and terror they must of felt. But the grief and pain is always for those left behind isnt it? Thats the reality of it. We who stay behind are left with a lifetime, however long or short, of grief and sorrow for those we no longer walk the path with.

These parents. They cherished the 2 pink lines such few years ago, Im sure. They prepared their entire world for an arrival of a life, the greatest achievement we could ever be granted. They took care to wipe runny noses, and child proof homes. They kept doctor appointments and taught self awareness. They held little hands growing bigger, skin made of their own skin, and knew that this child was theirs and theirs alone. This child they knew like they could never know another being in this existence. This anchor to life here, this purpose in a small little frame and upturned face smiling brightly.

There are no words for me to try to express what is only a FEAR of a call saying my child is gone.  A FEAR. That in my absence someone has dashed the breath of the little one who is the better form of my very soul.

They say a teacher shielded children and paid for it with her life. They say that others tried the same. Some failing. Some not. Their absolute bravery for children not even their own...the love that buoyed them through the sacrifice.

I dont care to hear what gun laws/behavioral health could/could not have done. I dont care to see or know about the odios excuse for a human who brought this upon innocent children. These things dont matter right now. They cannot change a fucking thing.

Ive met with death, of that Im sure. There cannot be anyone who at some point in their life hasnt thought: whats the point? I know I have. That very question was poised to me by Death while inside the wreck of my vehicle some few years ago.
'Whats the point?' It asked as my vision narrowed and I felt a calm release just up ahead. In that narrow tunnel I saw my Iris, head bowed over a scraped knee. Alone and without me. 'I could never kiss another boo boo' were my exact thoughts at her desolate image. So I started to scream. She is my point, as is Aeva. My children are my point, reason, and purpose in life. Without me, who would be there to guard and love them like only I can?

Those parents...

Ive seen my dearest friend hold her only child and know whats to come. Hold her close as she released from this world.
I have hugged friends who held in little boxes the child who was born without breath.
I have myself grieved the loss of two angels who I never got to hold.

These parents...they held these children and KNEW them...planned their future knowing their voice and interests and scent...Yet someone took them.

From far away they get told.

My girls dawdled today. They both took their sweet sweet time getting bathed and dressed for bed. In PJs they both sat on the couch with me and watched Cinderella until Aeva herself asked to go to bed. Im exhausted, they have a million bedtime rituals, and my injuries are particularly achy today.

But I am just tucking them into bed. Kissing eyes that are merely sleepy. Smoothing faces I will see in the morning. They are my point. And they are alive.

Oh little souls.... the grief resounds in my soul. And your parents...I cant ever even imagine.

Ho Ho Holy Fudge Sticks

Baltimore was most definitely NOT my top choice of towns to live in when it came time to find my own place. Its busy, noisy, dirty and dare I say ghe-heh-toe.
That, my ebonically challenged friends, is my way of sprucing up the word that best describes my dwellings: Ghetto.
Im not going to get into what exactly makes this place so.....Urban....but understand that I dont enjoy the firehouse alarms and Police sirens every quarter of an hour. The first time I heard the firehouse let out its wailing alarm I thought: OMFG! Were under attack!!
I quickly ducked as did the girls and we kept an ear out for 'The Big Voice' to tell us what to do next.

Apparently only military bases have those kinds of sirens. This one was just for the fire rescue.

Naturally, what with the constant authorities running amuck, my friends became concerned that I would need protection in case of a house invasion.
Get a gun! They said. A nice little glock with a safety!
Ha! I rather a shot gun! Scariest sound in the world!
So is its price tag unfortunately.

I got this guys! I got this! I have a broad sword! An honest to God broadsword. Stands 3/4s of my height and possibly just as heavy. Unsheathing it is a struggle but I was confident that I could wield it should someone dare break in during the night. I envisioned myself standing at the top of the stairs, a mighty sight, sword poised and ready to slay any heathen who dares cross my threshold uninvited.

What actually happened was I glued up an alarm system that went off when contact with the door sensor was interrupted. It conveniently failed to stay glued at around 3 am that same night, rousing me panicked and disoriented with its 'wake-the-dead' shrieking. I bypassed the sword, smacking into the bedpost, dresser, and door jam before unsteadily reaching the apex of the stairs, taking 3 wobbly steps down and tumbling the entire rest of the way.
Good news? If I had picked up the sword id be a mess.
Better news? Im sure even a thief would think twice about robbing a woman crazy enough to launch herself unarmed as ammo at his entrance.

Ah, good times. Good times.

But its not just me. No. See, I decided to go out to a bar called Howl at the Moon one weekend with a friend to listen to the dueling pianos and relax with a few drinks. Being that Baltimore is pitifully parking-challenged, and I dont need a DUI, I called a cab.
Dont EVER get into a 'cab' that lacks the Taxi signage, meter, nor visible licensure to operate. No matter how confident your 'friend' is.
First and foremost, no good cabbie immediately launches into his views on pot and the government's plot to control us through its illegal status. I started to question his sobriety when the words 'at least when you smoke you only like, sleep for a while and then get up and like, live again. Cuz alcohol and meth, they like make you sleep and you never come back man' came along
Somewhere with in a mile of the bar my cabbie decided to stop. In the middle of the street. Wayyyyyy before a green light.
Both my friend and I kept ducking to see if perhaps we had stopped at a red light that was too far above us to see from the back seat. Nope. No red light.
Thats when genius said: "Oh man, this isnt a light! Whoa, guys, why didnt you tell me this wasnt a light?"
Id of jumped out if wasnt held down.

Yesterday I thought it would be nice to try to make life here in Bmore much more ... normal. I ran into Walmart and grabbed a long box labeled 'Christmas Tree-6 ft tall' and raced home to show the girls. Today, after dinner, we broke into the box and voila: The grown up version of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree, tilt and all.

And fuck 6 feet. I can see over the top of it and I KNOW I havent grown vertically lately. The bedamned thing is scrawny and gnarled and every penny a $20 buck slump.
Much like me and this situation we call home, the girls took to it in excited little voices, lacing the plastic threaded wires with strings of lights and shiny baubles on hooks and making it merry. Theyve lit it up and placed sweet candy canes all on its pokey branches, making it a tree worthy of gifts and joy.

The bottom half of lights has fizzled the fuck out.

I aint seen nothin'.

2 Little Monkeys

One of the perks..ok the ONLY perk of not being fully divorced is that I am still able to go on base at Ft. Meade and see the doctors there under my soon to expire Tricare coverage. There isn't a spouse anywhere in the military that has never complained about Tricare at least ONCE and yet,...

Is it sad to say Ill regret losing my Tricare more than the Ex?

....I need to buy a little bicycle bell because Im going to Hell in a handbasket...

Like any good military nurse, my LPN ran me through the gamut. Height, weight (ug, blindfold-led), blood pressure, temp, agonizingly personal questions.

"Any anxiety? Depression?" Ha, what military spouse doesn't experience that?
"Yea."
"Are you getting treated for it?"

Fact of the matter is I havent seen a psych for a great long time. I've always been more of an after-action review gal. I put my head down, push through, and once Im on the other side of the battle field I come in for damage assessment. Being a Psych student you'd think Id practice what I will one day preach: Ask for help.

"No. Im not."
Eyebrow raise.
"Im putting in a consult."
Well, ill stick it in the recycling bin.

For all of my pains and troubles the doctor pretty much tells me Im stupid, this whole appointment is stupid and for my efforts I get a FluMist cuz, you know, that has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with what I came in for. Makes perfect sense in the Military Clinic world. Trust me on this one.

Great day to have a runny nose too. There I am sniffling, trying to look for tissues, but grateful that Im not being poked with a needle.
Until the nurse stops by in passing and takes my "FluMist Informational Pamphlet" and replaces it with "FluShot Informational Pamphlet"

"Sorry doll, Doctor didn't realize you're Anemic. We have to give you the shot."
Classic. Me.

On the drive home I mulled over the chat the Nurse had with me about reaching out for help with depression. I dont like to take pills. I dont enjoy sitting in a chair and 'talking about my feelings', thats what this blog is for.

"See there?! I tol' you I got MUSCLES!" Aeva has kicked the dash and is now using the resistance to flex what I can faintly see as her calf muscles, pant leg pulled up as high as she can reach from her 5-point restraint system. Which isn't much. I rein that sucker in TIGHT.

"Im gonna be a SUPER hero!"
"Oh yea? Whats your super hero name?"
"Aeva Zazzle D!"

Iris and I both laugh at her choice which humors Super Aeva Zazzle D not.

"Is. Not. Funny."
"Ok, ok, ok,..so what will Aeva Zazzle D do?"
"Im gonna keel aww da snakes!! Im gonna run real fast and Ima help you with my super powers!"

Im starting to worry about my daughter's fascination with killing things at this point. Earlier this week she slipped me a absurdly large post card of a disgusting Cicada (thanks Bass Pro Shop...instructive assholes) saying: "Dis bit me lass mornin'" Not two seconds later a stink bug zooms between us landing squarely on the TV screen.

Jogging in place, arms flailing, Aeva's face resembles the 'Scream' mask...not a sound coming out of her mouth till she spots her boot, grabs it and yells:

"I KEEL IT!!"

Thank god for my cat-like reflexes.

As we are reaching the home stretch on this cold, wet, windy, and pokey day Iris has started up our rousing chorus of "Down By The Bay". We butcher it like pros. Scaring fellow drivers when they see all three of us bellowing children songs and bouncing in our seats. Im by no means a good singer but Im really fucking this chorus up, my voice cracking and horribly out of tune because thats just how we like it best when Aeva, ever the umpire, gets upset.

"Im MAD at you!"
"Why?"
"Because."
"Because what?"
"Dont SAY dat word!!"
"Word."
"GAHHH!!"
"Why are you mad?"
"Im gonna sing now. Ima sing wit Iris"

Iris is great at ignoring us. She's well on past the Bay and on to "5 little Monkeys".  Aeva adds her quiet little voice, slowly swaying in her restraints.

"You sing too now momma"

Momma doesn't need to call the Doctor. She's got her Monkeys right here with her and they make her all better.