Quick Question RE: Toilet Paper and Whether It Is the Children Who Are to Blame, or Me. Probably Me.

Jul 22 2017

Quick Question: Who is to blame — the children who, though adorable, are apparently feral, or me for failing to write the legislation appropriately?

The Situation: Ran out of toilet paper yesterday.

We had an entire bag full of it, and yet when I needed it, it was gone. Vanished. POOF. Disappeared in a cloud of TP smoke. I imagine. Since I wasn’t there to witness the actual disappearance.

On the bright side, my children leave dirty clothes scattered just everywhere in our house, especially the bathrooms, so used socks and T-shirts suffice where toilet paper is lacking. Yes, I know it’s gross. I assure you I’m thoroughly aware of the exactly how repulsive it is to use a sweat and dirt crusted sock to wipe oneself. But people who live in the jungle must use what’s at their disposal, yes? Yes. Don’t judge.

I went on a mission to find the missing toilet paper. I swear we had a bag full. And since I just recently gave my children the Toilet Paper Speech again, its absence was a mystery. For those of you who live pristine, lovely lives — and pretty please message me all the details because I swear on Jesus’ Holy Name I need a few precious moments to live vicariously through you — the Toilet Paper Speech goes like this, liturigcal reading style:

Parent: Darling, darling children whom I love to pieces — sweet children who I endlessly adore — what, pray tell, is toilet paper for?

Children: For wiping!

Parent: And, beautiful babies, who are precious in God’s sight, what exactly do we wipe with toilet paper? 

Children: Our butts. Also, vaginas if we have them.

Parent: And, little ones who seek to obey their parents and honor them all the days of their lives, are there exceptions to this rule?

Children: Yes, but only two.

Parent: And what are those two exceptions, cherubs?

Children: Wiping up our pee dribbles and poop smears on or around the toilet. Also, bloody noses.

Parent: Because…

Children: Because “Thou shalt not leave the water closet without conducting a detailed search for body fluids left behind. We are like the Marines; we never leave a man behind.”

Parent: And? …

Children: And we wash our damn hands!

Parent: Yes! Yes, abidingly perfect tiny humans. Yes. This is an Eternal Truth, and doing this will make Jesus happy. And it shall make your mother less likely to screech at you from the toilet. What, however, do we not use toilet paper for?

Children: Neither for cleaning the sink when it is chore time and we are too lazy to find the sponge, nor for mopping the floor because climbing the stairs to find an ancient towel from the laundry room is too odious. Neither for decorating our rooms, nor for wadding up to have a giant snowball fight. Neither for hiding under the front porch so we can take a dump without coming all the way inside, nor for wiping up the gallon of red sugar-free fake juice product we spilled on the floor.

Parent: Yes, sweet babies. Yes, all of this is true. And all God’s people said…

Together: Amen.

You can see why I was baffled. We are CLEAR on toilet paper in these parts. TP = for body fluids only, and only while ensconced in the toilet area.

I found the bag later, FYI. It was in the garbage. The whole thing.

I hollared up the stairs. “HEY! WHY IS THE TOILET PAPER IN THE GARBAGE? SERIOUSLY. GEEZ.”

And Greg hollared back. “Found it in the bathroom. Someone peed in it. The whole bag.” I could hear the eye-rolling in his voice. “I threw it away. Got TP on the shopping list.”

Sweet Jesus on a cracker. Who pees in a WHOLE BAG of toilet paper?? Rhetorical question. Obviously, a Woolsey child does. A Woolsey child looks at the toilet and looks at the full bag of toilet paper. A Woolsey child thinks to himself toilet paper is for body fluids, and a Woolsey child deposits his body fluids there. It’s not even technically against the rules. This is the problem with the Letter of the Law.

Lord love a duck.

So, quick question over to you: Who is to blame — the children who, though adorable, are apparently feral, or me for failing to write the legislation appropriately?

I fear I know the answer.

More soon.

With love,

 

 

 

P.S. We do not know who the culprit is. And, although I suspect it’s one of the children with a built-in hose, we didn’t conduct an investigation. Not a formal one. Not an informal one. Nope; we didn’t even ask. Greg found a urine-soaked bag of TP in the bathroom, threw it away, we’ve been wiping ourselves with socks, and our spray-happy child only had to tolerate his mother walking through the house yelling, “SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY?? YOU TOOK OUT A WHOLE BAG OF TOILET PAPER WITH PEE? That is DISGUSTING. This is NOT a game of Halo where your penises are your guns and your pee your ammunition. The toilet paper is NOT your enemy. KNOCK. THAT. SHIT. OFF. Never again. DO YOU ALL HEAR ME? NOT AGAIN.” There was giggling from several corners of the house, and we did nothing. Zero. Zilch. That is how apathetic we are these days. We’re winning at parenting, I tell you. Winning.

Spoons

Jul 20 2017

I’m still alive over here. SURPRISE! I’m like that guy they drag out of the house in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Not quite dead yet.

I mean, I’m still sick.

Still working on it.

Still waving in the dark. And pondering whether the night is all bad or if it’s just gotten a bad wrap. For now, it’s quiet here before the dawn. The crickets went to bed a long time ago, and the birds aren’t awake yet to signal the sun to rise. The moon set, but the stars are still out so I can see the outline of my hand. A little light to see by is enough for now. And the stillness of this night is soothing, sitting inside a warm blanket, watching my breath. It’s OK for now to wait for morning; I’m in no rush to force the daylight.

I went to the doctor again. That’s my profession for now. I told her I’m Not Worse. I was rather self-congratulatory about it. She said, though, that Not Worse isn’t the goal. The goal is Better. So we’re working on that now. Maybe we’re making progress? Maybe.

I’m not quite dead yet. I think I’ll go for a walk.

I went to the psychologist, too. Or rather a lovely student working on her PhD in psych. She’s nice, and she’s FREE. So yes, please do learn your craft on me, Lovely Student.

This week, she’s got me working on spoons.

“Imagine,” she said, “that you have a number of spoons every day. I don’t know why we use spoons. We could use anything as currency, but we use spoons.” She shrugged.

“I’m down with spoons,” I said. I wanted her to feel good about her metaphor, even though she seemed fine already.

“So you have spoons. Let’s say ten. Ten spoons to spend every day. They represent energy. If you spend seven, you have three left over at the end of the day. You didn’t overspend your spoons. But let’s say you overspent your spoons. You spent 14. That means you start the next day with 6, not 10. You end up running a deficit. Get it?”

I did get it. She told me to pay attention to the Spending of the Spoons. Not to fix Spoon Spending, necessarily. Just to pay attention to see what gets the Spoons.

So that’s what I’ve been doing. Paying attention to Spoon Use.

Only, I keep laughing at the Spoons.

All week, I’ve been dying over Spoon Spending.

Because I’ve already used All the Spoons.

Every single Spoon.

There is a DEARTH OF SPOONS around here.

I haven’t seen an available Spoon for YEARS.

In this life with 47 children and several jobs; this life of wife-ing and being a friend; this life in which I’m expected to feed myself and, theoretically, bathe and dress  and find my own caffeine; in this life, working on special education eligibility, and legal guardianship of my almost-adult man child, trying to keep my panicky kid calm and maybe even sometimes happy; this life where our churches are falling apart, and those who think like us are no longer welcome; in this life where we’re just beginning to understand what it looks like to actually love the marginalized rather than just think we love, or insist we love, or focus on our own wounds, or seek the approval of those in power in the Christian Machine; in this life of calendaring and doctor’s appointments; this life of trying to make sure my children each get a semblance of attention; this life of trying to learn to breathe; this life like so many of yours, I have already used All the Spoons.

THOUSANDS of Spoons.

Millions of Spoons.

I HAVE USED EVERY DAMN SPOON, friends.

My Spoon Deficit is ENORMOUS.

There is no way to recover from the overall Spoon Loss.

So all I need to know now is how to declare Spoon Bankruptcy.

Is there an office for that? A legal procedure? An online checklist? A toll free number to call?

I know I’m not the only one in Spoon Debt. I mean, I live in America; debt is our native tongue. Surely someone can walk me through this process. Yes? Any Spoon Counselors out there? A 10-Step Spoon Program? Someone hook me up.

In the meantime, I’ll be over here waiting.

Not quite dead yet.

And waving in the dark.

Yours truly,

Happy Independence… From the Christians

Jul 4 2017

I feel like it’s safe to say there are two kinds of people in this world: those who would never, ever, EVER laugh at people who experience developmental delay — you know, the conscientious, compassionate, kind type of person — and Terrible People like me.

It’s just that my two kiddos with disability have been entrenched in an argument that’s lasted days. They’ve yelled at each other. They’ve called each other names in ragey voices. They’ve rolled their eyes. They’ve tried to bait the rest of us into taking sides. And still it’s not settled why we’re celebrating Independence Day on July 4th.

Aden insists we’re celebrating independence from the Christians. Ian says we’re celebrating independence from the Nazis.

For a while, they were blaming the Jews, but they believed me when I said that wasn’t it. Whew! On the other hand, my contention that we’re celebrating independence from the British was met with unified derision. It was ridiculous when I suggested we’d need to be independent from the Land of Crumpets and Tea. I mean, what could we possibly be fighting against the British for? Their use of “chips” instead of “fries?” Their corner on the digestives market? No. Mom clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about. At least they agree on something.

Ian: It is the Nazis, Aden.

Aden: IT’S THE CHRISTIANS.

Ian: Nazis.

Aden: CHRISTIANS.

Ian: Evwebody knows Nazis are bad guys, Aden. Evwebody.

Aden: It’s the CHRISTIANS. … Wait. Mom, are we the Christians?

Me: I am, Aden. You get to pick.

Aden: Oh. KILL THE NAZIS then. KILL THEM DEAD. KILL, KILL, KILL.

Ian: Ha! I told you! It’s NAZIS. HAhahahaha! I am wight and you wong! Ha, Aden. HA!

Aden: Wait. No. KILL THE CHRISTIANS. Except Mom. KILL ALL THE CHRISTIANS EXCEPT MOM. Unless I’m a Christian. Then we KILL ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE.

In conclusion, even though I keep laughing at them, I feel like my kids have a general bloodthirsty grasp on this whole Independence Day thing and also theological schisms in general… Christians who flee religious persecution from Other Christians and arrive in a new land to persecute and massacre others.

I feel like we’re really slow learners, guys.

Also, I made blueberry cake to celebrate. And I’m going to go have a beer.

Wishing you a Happy Independence Day, fellow Americans!

With love,

 

Not Worse

Jul 2 2017

Here’s everything I know right now about how I am: I’m Not Worse.

Not Worse. HOORAY!

I feel like this might be confusing. Or discouraging to a Normal Person. Not Worse when you’re really Fairly Terrible and like you Can’t Breathe doesn’t seem particularly encouraging, after all. But if you’re sliding naked down a steep hill, and the hill is covered in brambles, and also shards of glass, and also razor blades, and you Stop Sliding so you’re only bare and bleeding, but not actively incurring more injury, you feel a little celebratory. A little jubulent. A little like, yes, I’m still bleeding out, but SLOWER NOW, so HOORAY!

I’ve been to the behavioral psychologist. I have assignments. So far, I haven’t done them. The problem with assignments is you have to have a brain that Remembers Things, and I don’t. We don’t meet again ’til mid-July, though, so I’m hopeful I can remember by then. Optimism springs eternal.

Because I don’t Remember Things, I blew off my doctor last week.  I had an appointment Monday. I reminded myself all day Sunday then forgot by Monday. A Brain That Works would perhaps have set an alarm. But nope. No alarms for this girl.

I remembered an hour after the appointment with a sudden gasp and an OH SHIT which of course my children heard. Three giggled. The one who’s the rule-following Pharisee was deeply offended. She also detests sarcasm, though, and thinks laundry should be folded, so we can’t take her too seriously, you know?

After I realized I ditched the doctor, I called her office and rescheduled like a grown-up. But because we live in a small town, and because she’s been my doctor for more than 20 years, and because our daughters have danced together, and because she’s been called to the hospital in the middle of the night to prep me for surgery after I suddenly miscarried babies — because we’ve scrapbooked together, and because we’ve adopted children from the same country, because she’s treated me for depression and identified it for me when I couldn’t — she texted me, too.

“Get your booty in here,” she wrote.

I wrote my List of Excuses. The usual ones People Who Aren’t Well use. I meant to. I tried. I wanted to. I’m sorry. I’ll see you next week, I swear. And, because I’m grateful, truly, that I’m not doing this alone, I said thank you. Thank you for riding my butt. 

I ran out to the liquor store later. On my bike because my college kid has claimed my car for the summer to get to work, and because the bike is a good mental health choice. Sunshine. Exercise. Flashing the neighbors because I wore a skirt. All bring me joy.

I bought my dad a bottle of Scotch. I bought my neighbor a bottle of Kraken. I bought my book group a bottle of vodka and prickly pear syrup with lime to make froofy, summer drinks.

Then I rode home.

With my doctor behind me.

Small town, I tell you. Small town.

She asked if I was riding a bike.

I said I was.

She said she really was riding my butt.

I sensed an opportunity to seize some Squandered Mental Health points from the morning.

REDEMPTION AT HAND.

“Do I get to make up any of my lost mental health points by getting out and exercising?” Because we all know we’re on a Points System, yes?

I mean, I can’t keep an appointment with my physician, so Demerits, obviously. But LOOK AT ME: dressed, outside, exercising!

And, you guys, she said YES! I DID get points back!

It was a really lovely 3 seconds.

‘Til she asked what I put in my bike baskets.

And I had to say liquor.

So much for credit.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

At least I tried.

Maybe I’ll accrue points next week.

Until then I’m Not Worse.

And I’m sending you love.

And waving in the dark,