April’s been one hell of a month, and I’m happy to see it go. So much chaos surrounded Mom’s hospitalization, and I tried to keep the madness out of my own household, but it was unavoidable.

Late dinners and missed bedtimes by Mommy, combined with the absence of Granny, threw my daughter’s life out of whack. And like any kid whose life is knocked into a tailspin, my girl acted out.

E’s done so much fake crying, eye rolling, and arm folding, you’d think she was auditioning for a role on the CW. “We don’t give out awards for drama here,” I said. “When you grow up, you can take up acting and get nominated by the Academy.”

My reaction was not as she hoped, so E turned up the volume. After an incident involving lip gloss, I realized I was dealing with a diva. The best way to handle, I reasoned, was in true diva fashion.

“No sandals until you start listening to Mommy and Daddy,” I announced.

Her eyes widened. “What about my new flip flops? Or my nail polish from Granny?”

“I took them back. You won’t need any Barbie pink toenail polish either. No one will see your feet because you’ll be wearing socks and tennis shoes.”

“But Mommy…” she put on Sad Face #12.

“Don’t start. I may be able to get your flip flops back, but you need get yourself together now. Or you will be the only one at school in snowboots this summer.”

Even at 5 years old, E does not believe in wearing shoes out of season. She started to cry, for real. “I’ll try to do better, Mommy,” she said between sniffles.

So far, so good. She earned back one pair of sandals this week. I’m holding out the favorites — a pair of white flip flops with a silver flower — until I return from my business trip.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Things have been so crazy that I’ve lost focus on my five-minute challenges. Every time I try to get back to it, something gets in the way. For example, my brother and I spent the week clearing the clutter from my parents’ house so Momma can come home. (She’ll be home Wednedsay. Hooray!) If we had done that in five-minute segments, it would have been like emptying a bathtub with teaspoon.

There have been a couple moments this past month that were Five Minutes of Greatness. I wanted to share them at the time, but I just couldn’t seem to get to it. So here goes:

Five Minutes of Funk. My cousin shocked us all by eloping back in January. We didn’t know he was dating, much less married, until the invitations for his reception came out in March. The soirée was at a little bar downtown, but it was a full-blown reception, complete with a cake and DJ. Someone dragged me onto the dance floor for the family Soul Train line. I wasn’t really in the mood, but it turned out a good boogie was just what I needed to lift my spirits.

Five Minutes of Peace, Part 2.
“Running, crawling, slipping, and falling….always trying to get Uncle Scrooge’s money!”

I doubt anyone but me remembers this song from the Disney Mousercise record (Yes, vinyl, not CD). You danced along to songs featuring your favorite characters. “Uncle Scrooge’s Money” has been on my mind a lot lately, but it’s not because I want to rob a millionnaire.

I’ve been running, crawling, slipping, and falling since 4:55 a.m. on April 1. There hasn’t been enough time in the days to breathe.

For one perfect moment this week, I remembered. My daughter was asleep, and the phone wasn’t ringing. I turned off the TV, and as Whitney Houston once said, I exhaled. Now, I was holding a bowl of guacamole instead of a man, but it worked.

More to come. Thanks for stopping by.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

“Hey Mouse!”

My mother peered over her glasses and smiled at me when I walked into her room. Her smile was bright, and her eyes were clear with recognition. It was wonderful to see.

“Hey Momma.”

“I’m moving up to rehab on the sixth floor. I’m just waiting on my sandwich.” As if on cue, a nurse came in with a small turkey sandwich. Momma deftly opened a packet of mayo with both hands (Hooray!) and then spread it on the outside of her sandwich. After realizing her mistake, she ate the sandwich with a fork.

“Yep, I’m moving on up to 468,” she said as she brought the fork to her mouth.

“638, Max.” Her friend J was there with us.

“Oh, yeah,” Momma brought her forefinger to her chin. It’s what she always does when she’s trying to figure something out. “That’s right. 638.”

Other than keeping up with minor details, like room numbers, days of the week, and where to put the mayo, she a is doing extremely well for a person who had brain surgery 14 days ago.

Momma starts “rehab boot camp” tomorrow. It’s intense physical and occupational therapy to literally get her back on her feet. She will be in the gym at least four hours a day.

“I get to use the treadmill!” She declared. If I had asked her two and and a half weeks ago to go to the gym or exercise in any way, she would have asked me if I had snapped. But, I think she has learned her lesson. Momma’s stroke was brought on by uncontrolled hypertension, so if she wants to keep another stroke at bay, she will have to make some dramatic changes in her lifestyle. And so will we.

The most challenging change for her, I think, will be staying from behind the wheel. She always said that she couldn’t imagine not being able to drive, and now she’s been put on restriction for a minimum of six months. I smiled and told her I’d take good care of her car while she recoups. (While I’m not happy about the circumstances, I’ll take the temporary reprieve from the one-car blues.) She rolled her eyes jokingly. I know using her car means that I double as her chauffeur.

I don’t mind at all. It just means we’ll have more time together.

My brother and I are 12 years apart, which, in a way, made us both only children. While I was looking forward to new adventures in college, he was making new friends in kindergarten.

I taught him how to organize his Ninja Turtle wallet, much to the chagrin of my parents, who used to sneak and borrow gas money when they didn’t have cash. As a four-year-old, B “counted” his money nearly every day. They couldn’t get over on him once he kept his bills in order.

I sent him letters from college, and he wrote back with an uneven hand on that extra-wide-ruled kid paper: “Hi. I miss you.”

We were as close as we could be, considering that I was in college and grad school while he was growing up. Which really meant we weren’t all that close.

Things changed last year when we went to our family reunion in Memphis. After the annual banquet, we hit Beale street for some drinks. My brother was drinking from a whalebone!! The 12 year difference faded fast as I had a few cocktails of my own.

We’ve been talking a lot more since then, and I’ve learned that my brother has grown into a fine young man. I know it sounds corny, but I couldn’t think of a more witty way to put it.

Now we stand as two adults facing a family challenge. Questioning physicians, handling household affairs, and shepherding Daddy back from bouts of extreme worry about Momma. This last one is a blog post or two in itself.

I don’t think I could get through this without him. This trying ordeal has made me think about my daughter, who is an only child. What support network will she have when it comes time to “parent” my husband and me?

I guess we still have time. My parents waited 12 years, and, as I’ve learned, that’s not so big a difference after all.

— Post From My iPhone