Halloweensie Contest

med_1221779230-1It’s that time of year again!!

Children’s author Susanna Leonard Hill is hosting her 5th annual Halloweensie writing contest.  This is my second crack at it.  I love everything about Halloween, but I especially love this writing contest.  There are always so many creative entries, so don’t just read mine, head over here to Susanna’s website to read all the fabulous entries!

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The Contest: write a 100 word Halloween story appropriate for children (title not included in the 100 words), using the words costume, dark, and haunt. Your story can be scary, funny or anything in between, poetry or prose, but it will only count for the contest if it includes those 3 words and is 100 words (you can go under, but not over!) Get it? Halloweensie – because it’s not very long and it’s for little people 🙂 (And yes, I know 100 words is short but that’s part of the fun and the challenge! We got over 130 fantastic entries last year so I know you can do it!) Also, you may use the words in any form – e.g. haunt, haunts, haunted, darkness, darkening, costumed, whathaveyou 🙂

Vintage Halloween CoverSo here is my entry:(exactly 100 words)

The Haunting

Tonight when children go to bed,
I’ll be that thing that they all dread.
I’ll creep into their darkened room,
A spirit from the grave exhumed.

For this is Halloween tonight,
When even darkness shakes with fright,
But I’ll be laughing with delight
When frightened children bolt upright!

What’s that in the children’s room?
A gang of youngsters in costume!
They’re waiting for me in the dark,
A clown, a monster,
…is that a shark?

Now it’s me who shakes with fright!
The children laughing with delight,
I bolt back to my burial site,
I won’t be haunting them tonight!

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A Letter to my Patient

I know you don’t know me, how could you, we met while you were unconscious, so there’s not much to go on except for what I see and hear as I go in and out of your room. I catch bits and pieces of you from your family’s conversations, their obvious grief and concern over your well-being.   I am a complete stranger as far as your concerned, yet here I am caring for you in the most intimate way. Would you be embarrassed, annoyed…would you care at all? Can you hear me? Can you feel my touch?

Compassion

     As you lie there, I am like the ultimate puppeteer. Your tubes are my strings, and I carefully operate medicine, oxygen, and nutrition through the plastic lines running into your body all in a careful balance to bring you back to life. We spend twelve hours together, but you will never know me; even if you open your eyes, you will never remember me. I however, will always remember you. I take you home with me. I think about you in quiet moments. “Will you get better? Will you wake up?”

I have such a long list of things to do for you today. Your medication list is growing. You have an infection. Your lungs don’t look good. I must keep you asleep for another day to let you rest while your ventilator will continue to help you breathe. Your family is so nice.

I learned something about you today, and it made me laugh. Your friend stopped by. He was obviously distraught over your condition; he wanted to talk about you. I was so busy, but I stopped to listen to his stories. He told me you two were good friends, but that was obvious, then he told me you two smoked meat together. I was thinking “What??”   He said you had a smoke house, and liked to smoke meat. I laughed out loud. Not because I was making fun of you, but in all my years I don’t think I ever met anyone with a hobby of smoking meat. I was intrigued, and amused all at the same time. I’m glad I stopped to talk to your friend. He misses you in the smoke house. He’s a nice guy, which makes me think you must be too. Now I really want you wake up. Your family is nice, your friend is nice, you are surrounded by good people.

Deep down though I know you are probably too sick to wake up. Your infection is worse, and your body is dying. I’m losing control of the strings. I’m sad to see you go. You will never know me; you will never remember me…I will always remember you.

“2014 Halloweensie Contest Finalists. A baker’s dozen – 13 for Halloween!”

happy and sad pumpkin

Though I’m a little sad I was not a part of  the final 13 in the Halloweensie Contest, I am so happy to present the 13 stories that made it into the finale!

If you’re reading this, click on the link, and head on over to Susanna Leonard Hill’s blog for a tasty treat of delightful Halloween tales, and cast your vote for the final winner.  They are all really great and deserve to be there!!

Until next year…Mwah ha ha ha…

Happy Halloweensie!

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Halloween is my favorite holiday, so you can imagine my excitement when I discovered a little Halloween writing contest over at Susanna Leonard Hill’s website.  The Contest:  100 word Halloween story appropriate for children using the words: Creak, Broomstick, and Pumpkin.  Piece of candy right?

Hope my story is a delightful treat for you all, and not some terrible trick gone wrong.

Enjoy!!

Trick or Treat?

Clank, Clank, went the knocker

and C-r-e-a-k, went the floor,

“Ahhh!!” Screamed the children,

when she opened up the door.

*

Cackle, Cackle, went her voice,

and C-r-e-a-k, went the door,

“Ahhh!!” Screamed the children,

as her broomstick left the floor.

*

Clip, Clop, went her boot heels,

and C-r-e-a-k went the floor,

“Ahhh!!” Screamed the children,

as her broom began to soar.

*

Flicker, Flicker, went the light,

and C-r-e-a-k went the door,

“Ahh!!” Screamed the children ,

knocking pumpkins to the floor.

*

Pitter, Patter, went their feet,

and C-r-e-a-k, went the floor,

“Ahh!!” Screamed the children,

running, running, from the door!

Hope’s Door-A Gateway For Victims of Domestic Violence

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.  As a nurse, I am required by law, under my nursing license, to report both child and elder abuse, but domestic violence?  Not really on my radar.  I used to view domestic violence as something that went out in the ’80’s, like big hair and heavy metal.  Then I saw a woman getting knocked out in an elevator by her boyfriend, now husband, (Ray Rice), splashed all over the media, and there it was again; front page news, and we didn’t have to wait for October to be aware; domestic violence happens every month, in fact every day; in fact every 9 seconds (http://domesticviolencestatistics.org/domestic-violence-statistics/).

Over the last few years, every October I attend our local Domestic Violence shelter charity event for Hope’s Door; a safe haven for women in one of the wealthiest counties in the United States.  Violence does not discriminate, and it doesn’t take bribes.  It infests all walks of life. There are survivors, some who make it out, and live to tell their tales.  These are the woman whose stories I sit and listen to, and lament over, and they bring me back in time.  Back to 1987 when another famous domestic violence case was splashed all over the headlines, and I’m reminded how very little has changed in all these years.

I was a junior in high school and grossly unaware of the atrocities happening to women and children on a daily basis.  A very famous case of domestic abuse in New York City came to light that year about a six-year-old girl by the name of Lisa Steinberg who had been struck in the head and killed by her adopted father Joel Steinberg.

On November 1, 1987 in a classic 19th century Greenwich Village brownstone, formerly the home of Mark Twain, Lisa received a forceful blow to her head by the hands of Mr. Steinberg.  She fell unconscious, and was placed face down on the bathroom floor and left there unattended for approximately 12 hours.  Her adoptive mother, Hedda Nussbaum, also a victim of Joel Steinberg’s leaded hands, remained in the apartment with her dying child, incapable of calling for help, while Mr. Steinberg stepped out to dinner with friends that night.

On the early morning of November 2, 1987 little Lisa Steinberg stopped breathing as a result of her traumatic brain injury.  At that point, Hedda Nussbaum was given permission by Mr. Steinberg to call 911, but it was too late for Lisa.

When police arrived on the scene, Lisa, unconscious, naked, filthy, and covered in multiple stages of bruising, was handed over to an officer by Mr. Steinberg.  The soles of her feet were so encrusted in layers of black neglect; they required scraping to remove all the grime.  Behind this limp and lifeless child, in an adjacent room, the police officers spotted an infant tethered to a playpen with a rope tied around his waist; he was filthy and saturated in urine.  This was Lisa’s younger adopted brother Mitchell.

(Just a brief note, both children were “adopted” under shady circumstances as Joel Steinberg worked as an attorney in the criminal court system in NYC and did not go through the proper channels of adoption.)

Hedda Nussbaum was quickly vilified by her inability to call for help to save her dying child.  She refused to make any decisions without the consent of her partner, and the public outcry was deafening.

Domestic Violence had made the front page.

But what the public would soon come to find out, was that Hedda Nussbaum was also a victim of domestic violence.  On the same day Lisa was brought to the hospital, Hedda was also examined at Bellevue Hospital and found to have facial cuts and bruises around her eyes and nose, a split lip, several broken ribs, a fractured jaw, a broken nose, and life threatening leg ulcerations.  She was extremely malnourished.  According to her later testimony, it was discovered that Ms. Nussbaum and her children were not allowed to eat without permission from Mr. Steinberg. Ms. Nussbaum was an educated woman.  Liked and admired by her peers, she was described as: kind, intelligent, and quiet.  She was a former editor and writer of children’s’ books for Random House Publishing.   How could a woman of this intelligence allow a man to control her into such a state of immobility?

Charges against Nussbaum were subsequently dropped due to the severe nature of her abuse. She received immediate physical and psychiatric help, and later testified against Joel Steinberg.  In the first ever televised courtroom trial, the American public was given a front row seat into the minds of both victim and abuser.

The doors to domestic violence awareness and public conversation were now wide open.  That same year the National toll-free hotline for victims of domestic violence was established.

Hedda Nussbaum went on to help other victims of Domestic Violence, and began giving lectures about abuse at colleges and shelters.

In 1986, on a shoe string budget, Hope’s Door, a haven for victims in Westchester County, New York opened its first 24-hour crisis line; with no shelter to house their victims, they provided local hotel rooms to shelter the wounded and provide a safe place to breath.

In 1989 Hope’s Door was able to open its own shelter and provide temporary housing to victims of domestic violence.  No doubt this was made possible by the Lisa Steinberg/Hedda Nussbaum case which brought to life the notion that domestic violence does not discriminate: race, gender, age, or class.  Rich women and children can be battered just as easily as the poor.  Money can be rationed as effortlessly as food.

After the September 11, 2001 attacks on the United States by the then unknown  group al-Qaeda, American women were introduced to words like the Taliban, Burqua, and Sharia Law.  We learned of the atrocities of our foreign, female, brethren forced to shroud their identities under a shapeless black cloak, kowtow to men, remain uneducated and subservient, and suffer an antiquated death by stoning for the crime of being raped.  How did an entire nation of women become so submissive?

If you don’t know the story of Malala Yousafzai, a fourteen year old Pakistani girl, gunned down by the Taliban, you should!  Her crime?  “Promoting Secularism”, according to the Taliban.  Malala became an activist in 2009 at the age of eleven, writing a journal for the BBC Urdu about living conditions from 2007-2009 under Taliban rule, a time when girls’ schools had been ordered shut.  Malala has championed girl’s rights to an education and has spoken out against female oppression imposed by the extremist laws of the  Taliban.  Her conviction is so compelling at such a young age, it’s no wonder the Taliban fear her.

On October 9, 2012, while traveling home from school. two armed men boarded the van Malala was traveling home in, identified her, and fired their weapons three times.  One bullet entered her skull, and landed precariously close to her spinal cord.  Immediate surgical intervention was performed in Pakistan, then Malala was air lifted to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham England for further surgery and long-term recovery, and no doubt for her own security. She survived and went on to write a book about her experiences.

My father was a N.Y.C. policeman.  He wasn’t the preachy type.  But when he had something important to say, it usually came out in the form of one or two cogent sentences.  When the subject of men and violence came up, he said to me, “Jean, if a man hits you once, he’ll hit you again.  Don’t ever let a man hit you once.”

That line has stuck with me my entire life, and no man has ever hit me once.

To the women out there, “Don’t ever let a man hit you once!”

To all the people who make Hope’s Door possible, I want to thank you.

To all the people who man the National Toll free hotline for domestic abuse, and all hotlines across the country I want to thank you.

To Malala Yousafzai: Your indomitable courage is a beacon for all Muslim women that equality is a birthright that no man can steal, beat, or shoot out of you.  I pray for you, and your continued work for girls’ rights.

Domestic Violence awareness is represented by the color purple.  It is believed to have come from the early British and American  Suffragettes, who wore purple ribbons, and carried purple banners while protesting for equal treatment under the law.

Purple is supposed to represent: courage, survival, and honor.

My nine-year old son asked me if the color purple was used to represent the color of the bruises on the women who were beaten.

To all the people who might be suffering verbal or physical violence in your home, please reach out and get the help you need.  You are worth it!

National Toll-free Hotline for Domestic Violence: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or 1-800-787-3224

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)

Hope’s Door Pleasantville, New York: 888-438-8700

Woman Against Violence Europe (WAVE): 01-5482720

Women’s Aid Federation England: Free 0808 2000 247

Muslim Women’s Help Line Glasgow, England: 0808 801 0301

International Crisis Line for U.S. Women Overseas: 1-866-USWOMEN

Domestic Violence International Resources online: www.vachss.com

The Syphilitic Whores of Georgian London

The Chirurgeon’s Apprentice is one of my favorite blogs to read. The stories are a walk down the dark path of medical history, disease, and archaic treatments…I particularly liked this post and thought you might too. If you have some extra time, check out this blog!

The Chirurgeon's Apprentice's avatarThe Chirurgeon's Apprentice

harrisPeople think I’m obsessed with syphilis, and maybe I am. But it’s only because of my recent indoctrination into 18th-century history by aficionados of the period, such as Lucy Inglis, Adrian Teal and Rob Lucas.  I can’t read 10 pages of a medical casebook without coming across a reference to lues venerea. By the end of the century, London was literally crawling with the pox.

And it’s no surprise. Sexual promiscuity was as much a part of Georgian England as were powdered wigs and opium. For a few pennies, a gentleman could pick up Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies, or Man of Pleasure’s Kalendar—a pocket guide to London’s prostitutes published annually starting in 1771—and peruse it as he might do a fine wine list.

For three guineas, a man could partake in the pleasures provided by Miss L—st—r at No. 6 Union Street…

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The Three of Hearts

3 heartsI have this crazy theory that there are three types of love you must experience in your life before you can truly understand what love is: Crazy, Hot Love, Lingering too Long Love, and Love at Last. Which order they happen in, is completely random. What we learn from each one will either make us stronger, or devastate us completely. How do I know? Well like I said, this is my crazy theory; it’s not only what I’ve seen over and over again with my friends and family, it’s also what I’ve experienced throughout my own life.

When I was twenty I fell head over heels for a cute college guy who I met at a night club. I was living in The Bronx, working at my first job, and never felt more alive. When cupid struck, I had no idea what I was in for. I had had relationships in high school, but nothing had prepared me for what I was about to experience. I jumped in head first. All I wanted was to spend every waking moment with this guy.

I abandoned myself, my friends, and my interests. He became my only interest. There was no dullness, just wild up’s, and debilitating downs. If you could graph this type of love it would be a sharp spike up followed by a sharp spike down, over and over again. When it finally came to an end, his decision of course, I felt as if cupid had taken that arrow, stabbed it into my heart, twisted it around good and hard, then yanked it out, leaving behind a jagged edged hole that I thought would never heal. But alas ‘tis true, time does heal all wounds, and after a long year recuperating at my parents home, it healed mine.

My heart after this relationship.

My heart after this relationship.

Too many drinks, and too many bad decisions later, I decided to go traveling abroad. When I came home I felt refreshed, open minded, and alive. I decided to keep that open mind when it came to dating. I met my second big mistake at a chance meeting in my local pub. (Seeing a pattern here? Nightclubs, bars, alcohol, poor judgment…) Though the man I met there seemed nice on the surface, quietly, in the back of my mind, a little voice was sending me distress signals, “S.O.S.” Though seemingly subtle at the time, hubris and denial brushed it away. I was ‘together’ now; I was ‘open minded’ now…

So, I accepted his invitation on a date, and five years later found myself emotionally disheveled, needy, and dependent. It was as if I had slowly, been turned inside out. My reflection in the mirror was becoming transparent. I knew if I didn’t leave I would wither away. It was an exit I initiated, plotted and escaped through. It was I who had lingered too long in a relationship that was going nowhere. On the graph of love, this type looks like a mediocre spike, followed by a long never ending flat line.

Upside down, confused, and disheartened

Upside down, confused, and disheartened

So who comes along after your hearts been impaled, and then rendered bitter? Why true love of course! It does seem the kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, at least, that’s the way it happened to me. Just when I had resolved myself to be ‘cool, single’ Aunt Jean, and pursue multiple degrees back at school, I was bitten by the bug under the most unusual of circumstances. I had agreed to go to a surprise birthday party with my sister-in-law. (note: Not a bar) I didn’t even know the person who’s birthday it was. I was just helping my sister-in-law out of an extended five month postnatal confinement. Who would have guessed that my husband to be, was the first person she introduced me to at the party.

Ten years, three kids, and two houses later, we are still together, still happy, and yes, still in love. Not crazy, can’t keep your hands off each other kind of love, that produced too many children, but the warm simmer kind of love: dependable, reliable, and comfortable. True love takes work, but it’s the give and take kind. This love graph looks like a sharp spike, followed by the gentle and not so gentle curves like waves in the ocean that wax and wane until with any luck ‘death do you part.’

True Love!!!

True Love!!!

So here is to true love, and the crazy, wonderful ride it takes to get there!

Happy Valentines Day

Post by Jean James courtesy of:   http://www.inthepowderroom.com

The Sundowner: A Monster of the Aged

SunsetThere comes a time in the day when the sun begins to set, and the dark shadow of dusk creeps along the walls of all hospital rooms.  This is a capricious time that has some nurses counting on one hand the number of hours left in their twelve hour day, and other nurses crunching egg shells under their well worn clogs knowing those last few hours might be the longest of their shift.

Growing up I faced a cast of classic characters that ruled the night.  My demons included such greats as Dracula and The Wolf Man, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Frankenstein, and The Creature from the Black Lagoon.  In my teens I was haunted by the likes of Jason and Freddie, Micheal Meyers, and The Exorcist.  When I made the choice to go into nursing I didn’t realize that I would be facing other people’s demons as well.

Last Thursday started off like any other day.  With coffee in hand I headed to the nurses’ station, signed in, got my assignment, and took report on my patients.  As I’m getting report from the night nurse it’s clear she is exhausted, frustrated, and by all accounts finished.  I’d call it at least a two drink morning.  Her patient (soon to be my patient) wreaked havoc all night long, and it was obvious her patience was worn and tattered.   An 87 year old woman had broken her over the course of her 12 hour shift.  My patience however was fresh and new, and so I began my day upbeat, and optimistic.

Why so optimistic?  I had the sun on my side; nature’s way of soothing dark forces.  It wasn’t long before the cries of the night Banshee settled, and I could go about my day unencumbered…for awhile.

The Calm before the storm

The Calm before the storm

That “while” lasted until the sun began to set.  With the quickness of Dr. Jekyll’s potion, my quiet, frail, elderly patient began to morph into what I can only describe as a possessed soul.  Her paranoid eyes stared at me with the “I know what you’re up to” look, as I’ve seen this look many, many times before.  It is the stare of The Sundowner.   This phenomenon associated with the approach of night robs the elderly of their wit, and replaces it with paranoia, aggression, obscene behavior, and super human strength.

I couldn’t help but feel like a character in a movie, removed, and yet present at the same time.  I know this lady believed I was out to get to her, any convincing to the contrary only made me all the more guilty.  Her screams could be heard up and down the hallway as she shouted, “HELP…POLICE…HELP!!”

Damn you daylight savings time!

I was trying to help. I kept reminding her of the time, and place she was in.  I had her speak with her husband over the phone but nothing I tried was working.   Then out of nowhere SLAM and it was me screaming “Ow!!”  She launched her hospital telephone at me while my back was turned and it slammed into my shoulder with such force.  Several minutes ago this woman didn’t have the strength to roll on her side, and now she’s got the arm of Mariano Rivera, and it’s strike one for her!

I look at the clock.   It’s only 5:30p.m.  I need reinforcements, so I send out my own cry for help.  But it’s busy; it’s the ICU.  Reinforcements are slow to arrive.  I speak with the doctor, who orders a pill to try and calm her down…a pill?  This woman is spinning her head like the exorcist and he thinks I’m going to accomplish anything with a pill!

So like Nurse Ratched I approach with a calm, kind demeanor, offering her her dinner tray to eat, and hoping I might sneak in that pill, but she knows, she clearly knows I’m up to no good.  She looks at me with disgust, chuckles like the devil himself, then turns her head away.  “You’re a pig, you’re nothing but a filthy pig…get out of here.”  The words come out deep and low sounding.  Each syllable articulated so I wouldn’t miss a thing.  She is completely mad.

Heeeere's Johnny!!

Heeeere’s Johnny!!

She has beaten me at my own game, but I leave the tray of food as a peace offering and I move on to the other side of her bed. Out of the corner of my eye I see her reach over for her tray and with the spryness of a child propel it to the floor.  I’m running in slow motion to stop what I cannot get to fast enough and SLAM, food and broken glass explode over the floor leaving splatter debris clinging to my uniform…strike two!

When the Dr. finally arrives, his hubris preceding him, he asks me for the pill.  I point to the unopened package on the bedside table and he asks for assistance:  spoon…yes doctor…applesauce…yes doctor…crushed pill…yes doctor; he guides the spoon in for the final approach…BAM, the spoon goes flying and now she’s got Dr. Smarty-pants by his lapels, tears the glasses off his face and mangles the frames, strike three!

It’s at this point that Dr. Smarty-pants ups the ante and orders an antidote to Dr. Jekyll’s potion.  I dutifully administer the cocktail into her I.V.  It only takes a minute; she’s not quite the lobotomized McMurphy, but she winds down like the slow moving toy whose batteries are near the end.

Time for Nighty Night...

Time for Nighty Night…

It’s at this moment, when the chaos has quelled and everyone is pulling themselves back together that I can look upon this elderly woman and reflect on how such a sinister invader had taken over her body.

Why?

Why does this have to happen to people, and how can it take someone so frail and turn them into The Hulk?

Unfortunately it is still unknown what causes Sundowning to occur.  It is connected with people who may have dementia or Alzheimer’s.  It is also believed to be caused by a change in the brains circadian rhythm, a bundle of nerves that keeps the body on a 24 hour clock.  Whatever the reason, it is one of the more challenging and heartbreaking aspects of my job.

My heart breaks for these people.

My heart breaks for these people.

When 7p.m. rolled around I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  I too was now tattered and torn.  My night shift coworker greeted me with a warm smile and the same look of optimism that I had so foolishly worn 12 hours ago…

I think it’s going to be a three drink night!

I think that's me.

I think that’s me.

Dying Alone

River Running

Photo by Earnest B

Photo by Earnest B

Black water flows,
Circling in doomed
tide pools;
Awaiting the inevitable,
An unknown stream of unconsciousness.
River running fast but leading nowhere,

I wait.

Black water flows carrying the tail ends
Of life.
Air above swirls through forced motion

I wait.

Decisions being made
Without action to follow.
Life and death swirl in dark water

And still I wait.

Life beats fast before
Closing its chambers.
Red rivers flow
Until merging with black water.
Time stands still momentarily;

I wait
I watch
I listen

Then it’s gone in one moment;
The tide pools quell
Waiting mysteriously with hidden messages.
Black water flows on
I’m finished waiting
It’s time to go home.

I wrote this poem over ten years ago while working the night shift in NYC.  My patient was dying from complications of Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV). I knew nothing about this woman except that she was a prostitute at some point in her life, contracted HIV, was on a ventilator, near death, and all alone.

When I walk into a patient’s room, I don’t always have the luxury of caring for a person who can walk or talk.  I may need to wear a mask to ward off Tuberculosis (TB), or gloves to protect myself from infected blood containing deadly organisms.

When I walk into a patient’s room I check my hang-ups at the door.  I’m there for one reason, and for one reason only…to take care of the person in the bed in front of me to the best of my ability.

I don’t care how you got there, what you did in your life, if you’re a prisoner or a prostitute, I do care; however, how I’m going to make a difference in the twelve hours I’m assigned to your care.

I think the saddest thing I’ve encountered over my twenty-five years of nursing is when I’m caring for a dying patient who’s dying alone.  Not all of us are fortunate enough to have an entourage holding vigil around the deathbed.  Some of us go quietly, slipping out before anyone notices we’re even gone.

It’s heartbreaking to watch a fellow human being die alone.  I try to be present when I can sitting quietly at the bedside to bid them farewell on to their next journey.

They say we come into this world alone, so leaving should be no different, but I beg to differ.  I know this is my personal belief and may not be shared by others, but holding the hand of a lonely soul as they take their final breath is the least I can do as their nurse, but more importantly is the least I can do as their fellow human being.

holding hands

Back To School

photo by JeanJames

photo by JeanJames

I’m done…I give up…I surrender!  Summer bliss has turned into a summer blister under my thinly veiled patience and as the cool September air ekes out the summer warmth, so too does it eke out mine.  There’s a reason children need school, and it isn’t for the education.

What started out as a nostalgic, idealistic summer break has morphed into a full blown sibling war zone.  Where peace talks have failed, battles have begun.  Studies have shown that people, like rats, when forced into close proximity of one another show hostile behavior.  Well my little rats are gnawing at each other all day long, which in turn is gnawing on my nerves.  Battles here start first thing in the morning.  The verbal mortars drop before I’m half way through my first cup of coffee.

“Mom!!  He stuck his tongue out at me!”

“Well that’s because she called me a booger brain!”

“No I didn’t”…

”Yes you did!”

In unison:  “Mom!!…”

I’m barely awake and my blood is boiling hotter than my coffee, and I start screaming like a lunatic threatening to lock them all in their rooms for the day like the wicked witch from Rapunzel.  I wonder what happened to my sweet kids who used to be so nice to each other.

They’ve taken to fighting over just about everything:  who feeds the fish, who’s turn it is to watch TV, who scared the other person, who’s looking at who funny, who’s doing what better, and on and on and on; all day, every day.  And it’s not just verbal.  Perhaps enrolling them in martial arts was not such a good idea after all.  When lines in the sand are drawn, something, or someone breaks, and in this case it was my daughter’s collar bone; another causualty of war.

It’s to the point that I actually look forward to going to work.  My twelve hour night shift looking after critically ill patients is a cake walk compared to my day shift.  At least my patients are sedated and on ventilators, disabling them from irritating chatter; the quiet is refreshing. Not even a cardiac arrest can rattle my bones like three angry children.

Now, I’m no stranger to sibling rivalry.  I’m one of seven, so I get not liking your brother or sister for awhile, but I never remembered running the marathon of misery with any of them.  Maybe it was just the way my parents used to handle it: a warning look here, a whack of the belt there, or getting kicked outside for the whole day, allowed in only for meals and bathroom breaks. Nowadays, if I try any of those tactics child services is knocking on my front door.

So I take the diplomatic, peace talks approach, “let’s talk about it, what’s bothering you?” line of crap.  Then a deluge of he said she said comes pouring out, and I feel like a Hurricane Katrina victim running for my life after the levee breaks.  Where are the sandbags?  Where’s the National Guard?  I need help!  It’s her against him, and them against me, and I’m secretly starting to fear for my sanity.

I guess being cooped up together for the summer is just too much ‘in your face time.’  I’m sure it could drive anyone mad, no matter what your age.  But when you’re little and lack the interpersonal skills of debate, you’re reduced to calling each other ‘booger brains’, all day, every day, and then whining to mom each time a fragile ego is bruised.

If there’s any glimmer of hope for me it comes on the first Wednesday each year after Labor Day. Except this year, my school district decided we needed one extra week of hell just to make sure our sensitive sides were ready to let go and send our precious angels back to school.

So when I see those commercials of parents dancing gleefully down the aisles, buying school supplies for their children, I smile to myself, I get it.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure I’ll miss those little booger brains when they’re gone…

NOT!!!

Below is a video I think most mom’s (with a good sense of humor) can relate to.  That will be me doing the dance of joy and waving bye-bye as that big yellow bus drives off and I can go home and finally finish that cup of coffee in peace!