Birds, Bees and Hairy Armpits

I am a survivor, a fighter and an all around pain in the ass when it comes to certain things.  I dredged and trudged my way through a lot of hardships and losses, losing my parents and a daughter, failed and tumultuous relationships, financial struggles and then, the icing on the cake, being diagnosed with the disease that took my own mother's life.  I'm still smiling and I'm still happy and I'm still moving forward.  There is one thing that worries me like no other, one period of time that I'm now facing head on for the first time from the perspective of a mother and an adult.  This is scary business, some serious stuff that I really don't know how I'm going to handle.  It's called ....

.... dun dun DUNNNN ....

Puberty.

I am the proud mother of three babies, one of which recently turned eleven.  I'm looking at her and seeing my little girl, a chubby nine pound baby who had so many rolls she resembled the Michelin Tire Man (real name is Bibendum - I remember that but can't remember the name for scissors, go figure).  Now my chubby baby is almost as tall as I am with hips and a waist and ... lord thunderin' help me ... we're shopping for bras along with preparing for periods which I'm hoping that when it finally does come, will give a brief relief to what seems to be almost a year or more of severe PMS.  However, I also know that this is probably the tip of the hormone iceburg but I'm refusing to admit that yet.

Attitudes are changing, wants and needs are changing.  My little girl is in a strange transition period where she wants to be independent; choosing fashion and friends, taking babysitting classes and dreaming about her future while at the same time getting excited for Santa Claus and sheepishly asking for dolls.  Little Miss L who now looks eye-to-eye with her dear ole mother, is stuck between being a little girl and the reality of growing up.

It's becoming easier to embarrass my little girl and she's getting to the stage where being seen in public with Mommy Dearest and her "little" sister and brother is a shameful act.  That's where I dance around like a fool and watch her whisper through clenched teeth while her face turns red, "you are so embarrassing".  On the flip side of that, I'm not too embarrassing to be around when there's a nightmare, a bully or an issue with homework.  I am embarrassing when I start talking about how normal it is to get hair in funny places then complain about shaving armpits.  The two "little" ones find me hilarious while my blooming soon-to-be junior high student just turns red and ....

"MOM! NO! You're gross! Ewww!" ... *stomp* *stomp*

I guess it's obvious that we have a very open house about changes in our bodies and Miss L knows she can ask questions and get the uncomfortable answers from her mother.  I don't mind being open about the voice changes, hair changes, hips and boobs, pimples and moods simply because I don't remember anyone being that open with me.  I heard the word "menstruation" a lot but no one explained to me about cramps and bloating, PMS, leaks and what to do.  Ladies, we all know how beneficial it would be if someone had've taught us how to make an emergency pad out of toilet paper and that cold water takes blood out if you get it right away or, that a special selection of super comfortable "period panties" is an absolute must.  It would also help to know that small make-up cases in the bottom of our school bags would be perfect for hiding pads, fresh bloomers, deodourant or, what I would like to call The Puberty Emergency Kit.

I wish I had've been armed with the information so I'm hoping that my being so open about the changes we all experience to become an adult, as well as respecting our bodies when it comes to relationships with other people, will be of some benefit to her and to my other two soon to bloom munchkins.  I was twelve years old, only one year older than my snotty pubescent darling daughter, when someone was exceptionally inappropriate with me and my lack of even basic knowledge at that point left me in a situation where I couldn't even describe to anyone what happened.  Our girls need to know that our bodies are ours and no one has a right to touch us when we say no or when we're not ready.  I sincerely hope that my openness (no, my girls do not know what happened to me and this is the first I've come out with it outside of a therapist's office) can give both of my girls and equally importantly, my son, the knowledge, respect and ability to stand up for themselves and to know there is no shame in saying no or waiting and respecting the other person who may say no to them.

Mind you everything is appropriate according to ages although the little sister was quite jealous that her big sister got to go shopping for "panty stickers" without her.  That turned into an interesting conversation that ended simply with a disgusted eight-year-old whom, after absorbing the information, flipped her hair and strutted off doing her patented drama walk.  The boy might be a different story.  At this point he's simply fascinated with himself and that's wonderful but I do see a lot of phone calls to Daddy in the future.  Girls I kind of understand, boys are totally different animal.

With all that said, puberty scares the shit out of me and not because of talks or body changes or issues with sex or sexuality.  By they way, we are 100% supporters of gay rights and I myself identify as bisexual.  Wow, I'm coming out with a lot today aren't I?  I'm quietly giggling thinking of what twists my own, very private sisters would be in if they knew I was sharing so much with the world but hey, if I'm experiencing this stuff than so is someone else so why not share and commisserate and support each other?  Anyway, I'm on a tangent so back to puberty ... it's the realization of how fast time goes by.  Eleven years ago I was nursing a little girl and staring down at her, absolutely terrified of being a mother and shell-shocked that I really had a baby.   Then I blinked and I'm sitting here writing about puberty.  I never understood when people told me to enjoy them when they're small because it goes by quickly but now I do and I worry if the next eleven years are going to be just as fast.

I guess this is really a family transition and like all transitions, bumpy.  We'll survive and one day I'll get to do with my babies what I loved doing with my Ma before she passed and that was sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and talk about what it was like growing up, telling funny stories of things I did as a child that either I didn't remember or she never found out about.  I tell my kids that I'm not their friend, I'm their mother and here to guide them into becoming adults but, at some point in the future, we will be friends.  As much as I want them to stay tiny and innocent and ridiculously hilarious at times, I'm also excited to get to the friendship part of the parent-child relationship.

Those will be some pretty great stories ...

Another Hiatus ...

I guess my promise not to take another long hiatus from writing sort of went down the toilet.  In all honesty, it's been a pretty stressful couple of months or so with trying to figure a lot of things out.  It's okay though, I'm doing well aside from fatigue and a new relapse that is including vertigo which throws me off balance so if you see me out, I'm not as drunk as I might look.  I'm powering through it, setting myself some nap schedules and adjusting to my new normal.  Now that the diagnosis is definitive and the syringes of Copaxone are sitting happily in my fridge, I feel ... well, I feel surreal.

"New Normal".  Is there such a thing or is normal not so compliant as to allow itself to become in a state of newness?  I don't know how well or for how long I can wax poetic on the ever changing and morphing state of normal. I guess it can change, we change. I read somewhere that people tend to have gone through personality changes on an average of every seven years which explains why when we reacquaint ourselves with someone from our past, they can seem so very different than what we remember. Silly maturing brain. 

So I suppose the point of my rant before I drifted off into a pre-nap, exhausted tangent is that my new normal includes a feeling of being surreal.  I guess the surreal feeling is coming from having to adapt to something that I just wasn't prepared for nor did I ever want to be prepared for it.  Sitting across from a neurologist and hearing him say that he was positive I had MS turned my whole world upside down.  He went on after that explaining to me the ins and outs of the disease but all I heard was that I am now the proud new owner of the same disease that killed my mother.  I know, I know ... medications and treatments and outcomes are completely different now and the chances of me ending up with such an aggressive form of the disease is slim but I can't help it if I slip into memories.

There's a lot of new things that this new normal has brought with it, like giant pink elephants in the room with me that I try to ignore.  I'm sure this is perfectly normal to allow myself to slip into autopilot as I progress though the daily tasks of laundry and dishes and sweeping floors, chasing kids and making lunches.  The elephants sit there though, waiting for attention but I prefer the autopilot.  The old wonderful will has to be updated and we all know just how much fun that can be (definite sarcasm there) plus with that comes appointing guardians which means some difficult conversations to have.  Then there's determining a living will and the possibility of appointing someone power of attorney in the case that I can't make decisions on my own (already had a pretty intense nightmare about that one that required tea to recover).  There's also looking for a new apartment without stairs since my heavy legs are making it hard to get up and down the ones here.  I also have to hunt for some fat utensils for my gimpy hands, find some way to get some vocational training since office work is out of the question and almost impossible to me now and blah and blah and blah and elephants.  I prefer autopilot for the majority of the day and tackle the big things one at a time, no rush since I plan on being here until I'm at least 114 years old.

So even though I'm gliding through my days spaced out on Planet Distracted listening to old George Carlin stand-up and crossing things off of my multiple lists, I seem to be enjoying these days more.  I get excited for sunshine and snowflakes, the rain doesn't seem like such a horrible thing anymore.  I don't dread the housework but rather enjoy the outcome after a good cleaning session.  I like chasing tiny people around in the morning and waking the munchkins up has become a game.  I look forward to making supper and hanging out listening to the events of the day from the perspective of three elementary school kids whose hugs have become the best thing in the world, I could simply melt.  The daily trip to the gym to limp around with the other ladies, most of them over 65 and in better shape than me, is inspiring and amazing.  My lovely and sometimes strange BBM texts from two of the most wonderful and beautiful girls I know are sure to brighten my day and are definitely something I thoroughly enjoy, even if most of them are sent from the bathroom.  Then there are Thursdays.  Yeah, that's a whole other post but that amazing shooting teacher still gives me butterflies and makes me stutter.  Thursdays have become my favourite days, one that I can forget my elephants and relax with someone who loves zombies as much as I do, can talk as much as I do and smell the pears and caramel in a freshly opened bottle of whiskey.

It has become quite a surreal life these last couple of months.  2013 was frought with worry and wonder and 2014, although started quite oddly, seems to be settling itself into a balance of exceptionally difficult and exeptionally beautiful.