Whispers

Oprah always said that if the Universe wants to teach you a lesson, it will start like little whispers in your ear.  If you don't hear the whispers, the message becomes a bit stronger until eventually a tragedy happens.  All along, you realize that, had you heard the whispers, you could have prevented that tragedy. 

I think I'm hearing whispers.

For a while, I have thought about getting some mace or pepper spray.  I am out on the trails, by myself, all. the. time.  I roller blade solo. I hike solo.  I go into the depths of thick forests where there are no houses nearby, and usually no people.  Once in a while I think that I could get attacked by a sex crazed maniac.  So far my back up plan is to begin to pick my nose and then eat it in attempts to disgust the perpetrator.  My luck, he'd be turned on.

Even more than me getting attacked by people, there are all sorts of wild life that could attack as well.  I have already come face to face with a bear, and watched as an angry deer chased a friend's dog (whispers?). 

And beyond my own safety is the safety of my own dogs who have now been attacked by large dogs on more than one occasion (whisper?).

Last time I went out walking, another hiker mentioned she now carries pepper spray in order to combat angry dogs since her dog has been mauled by a pit bull (whisper?).

Then, as I am starting to write my blog, on pepper spray, a character on the TV show that happens to be on right now, mentioned "pepper spray" (whisper?).

So I have been hearing all sorts of whispers.  I think its time to get me some pepper spray and hope I never have to use it.  But at least I would be prepared just in case.

Saying I Love You

My family never utters those three words.  Its always implied and we all know we are loved.  We just never say "I love you" to one another.  The closest we get is the "Love ya" salutations on greeting cards. 

My Dad and I aren't super duper close, but we have always had a decent relationship.  His alcoholism has always been the first priority in his life which prevents our relationship from growing any deeper.  Ever since I moved out on my own, I get to see my dad mostly in his sober state which has been really nice. 


Me and my daddy taking a bubble bath :)

Today is Father's Day so I called home from work to wish him a Happy Father's Day.  Our conversation was brief, and by some random miracle, I ended our conversation with "I Love You".

Caught off guard, my dad kind of chuckled, said "Thank you, Doll" and that is how our conversation ended.  No "I love you, too".  Just a chuckle and a thanks.  But I opened the door for more "I love you's" to be spoken and maybe the next ones won't be quite so awkward.



The Oldest Brother

John, eight years my senior, taught me all I needed to know when growing up with three older brothers.  He taught me how to make the motorcycle and car noises with my mouth.  He taught me what a hattrick was while playing floor hockey in our basement.  (I think he enjoyed smacking me with the ball more than making a goal.)  Most importantly, he taught me all the names of the members from the band KISS.  He loved, and still does love, music.  He thought it was pretty cool that I could name all the KISS members from his poster hanging up in his room. 

He also taught me the correct usage for the term "Choice".  When I landed in the hospital for an over night stay due to walking pneumonia, my mom and aunt brought me a stuffed Cookie Monster.  Upon seeing it, I exclaimed, "Choice!"  Apparently all the nurses thought that was the cutest thing out of a one year old's mouth. 

Looks like I have two peacocks coming out of my head :)~

John is known to be rude, crude, and not very politically correct.  However, he has a deep respect for his immediate family so much so that he doesn't even smoke in front of his parents to this day.  He sees it as a sign of disrespect.  Out of all the brothers, I talk with John on the phone most often.  He calls me for advice on raising his daughter, he calls to hear about family gossip, and he always always makes the annual Christmas call for advice on what he should get as gifts for our parents.

My mom tells me I am pouting in this picture because I was not allowed cake until after the photo was taken. 

John has ebbed in and out from being favorite brother to being least favorite brother.  Now, all my brothers are "my favorite" each for their unique individual qualities they bring to my family.

The Middle Brother

 Because there is such a gap between my brothers and me, I don't have a whole lot of memories that do not involve them giving me bruises.  By the time I was old enough to have lasting memories, my brothers were all at the age where they were hanging with their friends and being a little more independant.  For some reason, memories of Jim are hard to come by.

Jim is my middle brother, seven years older than me.  Often cranky and mischievous, he filled the role of Middle Child perfectly.  He demands that you walk on egg shells while in his presence even today.  However, His quick temper is outshone by his quick wit.  Jim is the family comedian and risk taker.  Be it sending away for a ventriloquist dummy as a child to learning how to SCUBA dive as an adult, Jim is always up for the next challenge.

Jim served as the little devil on my shoulder.  He encouraged me to bring out my devilish side on more than one occasion.  Most of the time, the angel on the other shoulder won the fight.  One time, though, Jim set up a fight between me and my neighborhood best friend.  He wanted us to duke it out so egged us on until we ended up in a full blown fist fight.  My neighbor went home in tears and I earned some brother bragging rights.  Did I mention that the neighbor I sent home crying was a boy?  My brothers sure were proud of me, but I couldn't say the same for myself.

My brothers and I used to always take baths together.  You can see by Jim's little grin that he is likely withholding that blue toy thing from me probably trying to get me to cry.  But as you can see, I was all smiles.

I wonder how old we were when we stopped taking baths together.  At least my mom was nice enough to cover up the important parts for a photo.

The Youngest Brother

My last post gave me an idea to blog about each one of my brothers.  I have favorite and not so favorite memories of each one of them.  I Thought I'd take some rare photos featuring just that one brother and me while putting together a few lingering memories.

Bill is the youngest of the 3 brothers, but is six years older than me.  When I was born, he was in Kindergarten and could not wait to get home to hold me.  Believe it or not, The Brothers, as they were not so affectionately called, used to argue over who got to hold me.  Since Billy was in half day Kindergarten, he was excited to come home and have me all to himself without having to share with the other two.  This is one of my mom's favorite photos:


Both babies were so tuckered out

Once it was my turn for Kindergarten, Billy was in the 6th grade and in the same school as me.  As a kid, I was a mommy's girl and did not want to go to school.  In fact, I was a pre-school drop out because I would rather stay home with mommy.   One day on the way to the car to go to pre-school, I fell and skinned my knee.  Mom couldn't resist my bawling and let me stay home from pre-school from then on :) 

My tears didn't work nearly as well once I got into the big leagues.  Yes, I cried for 2 weeks straight in Kindergarten. It was my big brother's job to ensure I was doing OK on the bus ride to school.  Not wanting to look like a sensitive brother, he decided to yell at me while I was sobbing on the bus.  He called me a big baby which didn't help matters any.  Like any little sister would, when I got home from school, I tattled on him!  He got yelled at when he got home, alright.  Mom told him he shouldn't yell at me, but he should comfort me instead.

The next day on the bus as I sat sobbing, my sweet brother took me upon his knee and began bouncing me as you would an infant.  Well, I guess I was acting like an infant.  Naturally, Mom asked me how the bus ride went, and naturally I told her that he bounced me on his knee.  Poor boy got yelled at once again for treating me like a baby.  Actually, he didn't get yelled at, per se, he just was informed that bouncing me wasn't necessary.  He can never do anything right.

Don't tell the other brothers, but Bill was probably always my favorite.  He is still the brother I am closest to, and he is the first one I run to when I need something fixed.  He runs to me whenever he needs something too, which is usually money.  He owes me the world right now which is why he would bed over backwards to help me however he can.  He is by far the most sensitive brother and the least social of any of us.  Life has been a constant struggle for him, though that is not to say he hasn't made some of those struggles for himself.  I just want to see him content for once.

Ready for my 9th Grade Dance.  Complete with puffy shoulders, permed side pony tail, and acne.

He once told his own daughter that he hopes she grows up to be like me. That was the best compliment any brother could ever say about his little sister.

A Child Called Dirt

Being the youngest, and only girl, in the family had its ups and downs.  At first, I was cherished by my brothers.  They fought over who got to hold me and play with me.  As I got a bit older, they soon figured out I was more of a pest than a treasure.  They were not very nice to me most of the time, and I had a variety of nicknames. 

The nickname that lasted that longest and had the biggest impact was "Dirt Bag".  So named for having dirty feet after playing outside barefooted.  For several years, my name was "Dirt".  Yes, even my nickname had its own nickname.  When friends called for me on the phone, my brothers would summon me to the phone by calling out "Dirt! Phone!"  As much as I tried to ignore them when they called me that name, getting a phone call was about the most exciting thing for a preteen girl.  Naturally, I had to respond.

Before too long, all of my brothers' friends referred to me as "Dirt Bag".  Even my own dad was known to call me "Dirt" once or twice.  For a while, I wasn't even sure my brothers knew what my given name was, and after a while longer, I just answered to whatever they called me.  "Dirt" or "Redneck" were the two most popular and longest lasting nicknames.

The power of my "Dirt Bag" nickname hit me when I went to visit one of my brother's friends who had been in an accident resulting in a Traumatic Brain Injury.  He was confused and disorganized requiring a one to one staff just for him.  When I first saw him and said hello, he immediately responded, "Dirt Bag?  HI!"   The nurse looked at me like he was really messed up, but I assured her that he knew exactly what he was talking about.  And exactly who I was. 

My brothers continued to call me horrible names until they started to need me.  Pretty soon, they started calling me "My Favorite Sister" when they wanted a babysitter for their children or money for themselves.  "Hi, My Favorite Sister.  Do you have 20 bucks I could borrow?" 

It was a long road from "Dirt Bag" to "Favorite Sister", but I am very glad I outgrew my childhood nickname.

Tooting My Own Horn

Not often do I write much about my job, but today I am going to.  After a potentially horrible night last night, I left work feeling amazingly refreshed and validated. 

First, for some background.  The night before last night was hell.  I wasn't there, but the report on all the kids was not good.  There was a yelling match in the hall that could have let to a fist fight.  There was a seclusion and there were 2 episodes of restraining kids.  One of whom stayed in restraints throughout the entire night.  Beyond that, the potential of several of the other kids to "go off" is quite high as well. 

So report, where we get our assignments for the evening, was stressful and uncertain.  We were starting out our shift being two staff short and another staff working only from 3-7 and this staff had never even worked on our floor before, so basically we were 3 staff short.  Our charge nurse was in charge of the whole unit, passed out medications, was answering phones, and would have had to deal with any admits had we not been able to divert them elsewhere.  Two other coworkers were assigned 1:1 patients so their primary duty was making sure their patients stayed in control.  That left me with the daunting task of making sure the evening programming and patient care went as smoothly as possible.

In addition to that, I had 4 patients assigned to me, but it really was more like 7 since the other staff left at 7:00.  This was a heavy load even on a regular day, but this is my assignment on a double.  Actually it was my eighth shift in only five days.  The night could not have gone more smoothly.  Teamwork was a must, and its nights like this that I appreciate every single person I work with.  The kids were pretty decent overall and groups went without a hitch.  I must say that throwing in a movie out of laziness and using the excuse of being short staffed did cross my mind, but I didn't even do that.  In fact, I did a group involving scissors which is always a gamble when working with teens who cut.

By the end of the night I felt good about my group topic (anxiety/panic attacks), my group project (collage), and my patience when dealing with all of the soul sucking kids we have on the unit right now. 

Then the coolest thing happened.

At the end of the night, the teenagers said some very validating things to me.  One said, "You know what I like about it here?  I like that we feel cared about". 

Another said, "Yeah, and how do you work so much and still stay perky and happy?  How come you aren't crabby?"

And another said, "You work a lot.  You must like your job if you are here so much".

It was so validating that the very people I work so hard for took notice.  Not always do the patients take notice of  how much I really do enjoy it.  Its nights like this that I remember why I do what I do and it makes one whole week of hell all worth it.

Not-So-Eensie-Weensie-Spider

When throwing my laundry in the washing machine today, a large basement spider revealed himself to me on the top of the heaping pile of dirty clothes inside the machine. 

I could have rescued him. 

And normally I don't take to killing things, even ugly spiders.  You know that scene in "The Secret Life of Bees" where May puts a trail of marshmallows for the spiders (or maybe they were cockroaches?) to make their way safely out the door? 

Yeah, that could be me. 

Only it wasn't. 

Instead, I quickly turned on the warm water, added detergent, and even added bleach in attempts to poison the poor critter.  I laundered that little fella.  Hopefully it does him in and his poor spider parts get shredded apart to be drained away during the spin cycle. 

Otherwise I will be wearing the remains of an innocent spider inside my underwear.