Chicago Moms Blog

Life On Spin Cycle

I looked at my calendar the other day and sighed. The entire summer is booked solid between work, conferences, travel and the kid's activities.  When the kids were little, summer used to stretch out before us like an idle odyssey. I remember when the biggest event of the day was dragging out the swimming pool and filling it up for the toddlers to splash in. My neighbors, Barb and Denise, would bring their kids over and we'd sit in the backyard and chat for hours. Some days, we would order pizza and sit out and talk until the bugs drove us inside.

Barb moved away to California and the kids are now teens. Denise and I both work from home, so we try and grab a gab session here and there, but our visits are far too few lately.

I don't know how this happened, but life has ramped up to spin cycle. 

Like a washing machine, it started out so slowly that I almost didn't notice it.  I picked up one part-time job, then a full-time job-- added a book club, another women's group, a couple of writing assignments and then volunteer work. To top it off, I started writing a book.

Our Zipline Adventure

For spring break this year, we headed to Orlando but we didn't do the usual Disney vacation.  With two teens and one tween, we were looking for something different to do. We planned to stay at a Marriott hotel using my sister's "Friends and Family" discount, so we were trying to find a hotel with something different.  We came across one with a zipline, but the hotel was already booked. A few searches on the web turned up the Florida EcoSafari and Zipline.  We took a family vote and decided to add ziplining to our vacation plans.

It was cloudy and overcast when we arrived and we figured it was perfect weather for the two hour adventure. After being weighed, we climbed into a safari bus and headed out to the base. We ended up waiting an hour, but finally it was our turn to suit up. As we sat on the bench, the guide asked, "Does anyone have a medical condition that we should be aware of?"

He paused and looked around.  Paused again.

Waking Up Overwhelmed

I woke up today feeling... overwhelmed.

For starters, the dog decided to plop her head on me at five a.m. as she rearranged herself in more comfortable position to sleep in. It was an hour earlier than I planned to be up.  The oldest kiddo had to be on the bus early today, so I made sure he was up and running. I used the last check to give him lunch money, because I had forgotten how to access the lunch account at his school.

 As I headed over to the bathroom, I discovered an army of ants who  apparently needed a shower. Why the ants are attracted to this room is beyond me. I hauled the vacuum cleaner out and gave them a new home in the garbage bin. The hubby popped his head in just before leaving for work and casually mentioned that the middle kid threw up in the middle of the night.  In her bed.  "Did you clean it up?" I asked.

Um, no, he didn't.  He was too tired in the middle of the night to deal with it so he moved her to another bed.  That's life lately, two of us... tired.

I sighed. I found her sleeping in my office and I went up to her room to survey the damage. It wasn't pretty.  It took me a while to strip everything down and clean it up enough to be laundered.

The Best Years of Life Are Still Ahead

Last year, on my birthday, I was feeling a bit down.  Forty-four had crept up so fast.  I was now the mom of two teenagers and one tween and wondering just where the heck the years had gone. I was also frustrated with the pounds that had piled on over the years. I was sitting on the pontoon at my parent's lake, looking out at the boats zipping by and thinking back to a time when I, too, was zipping along the water on my own bare feet.

"Good gosh, are the best years over with?" I asked myself as I thought back to the years spent waterskiing on the lake.  When I was sixteen, the lake was alive with guys of all ages barefooting-- waterskiing on their bare feet. I was determined to barefoot, so I spent a few days trying to learn how to kick off a ski and glide on my feet. Every attempt landed me face first in the water.  I went home and pestered my Mom into buying a kneeboard.  Three days later, I let go of the kneeboard and found myself barefooting for the first time.

I loved barefooting and spent many days hanging with the guys and barefooting with them. There were no women role models for me and of course, in the days before the internet, there was no way to readily find them. 

One day, when I was nineteen, I was barefooting and crossing over the wake when suddenly my foot caught on the wake and I slammed right into the water.  My head hit first and I cartwheeled over. There was no time to do a normal tuck and roll like I had done many times before.  I climbed into the boat and tried to coax the water out of my ears.  Everything sounded muffled.  It wasn't until weeks later that I realized I had lost more of my hearing and had become deaf.

Insurance Companies Cover Viagra, But Not Hearing Aids

"Hey honey, guess what?" I said to my other half.  "If you need some Viagra down the road, don't worry, our insurance plan covers it!"

The hubby rolled his eyes at the thought-- but I guess it's a good thing to know that should he need a little help in the pleasure department, our insurance company would gladly pay for it. If I need a little assistance in the birth control department, I've got a couple of options that my insurance company will cover.  What most insurance companies won't pay for is... hearing aids.  Many people are shocked to discover the lack of insurance coverage and they often don't learn this fact until they're sitting in the audiologists office and they have to figure out how to cover a couple thousand dollars worth of ear technology.

Wouldn't it seem logical for insurance companies to cover a medical device that requires a doctor prescription to purchase it and an Audiologist (often an AuD.) to cover the complex programming?  Insurance companies will cover bilateral cochlear implants which can cost up to $200,000, but they balk at hearing aids, going so far as to label them "cosmetic devices."  

Patrick Hughes, owner of Inclusion Solutions, thinks it's absolutely crazy that insurance companies will cover Viagra, but not hearing aids.  He sat down with Margaret from Elmhurst, who took a moment to share her own perception of the Viagra/hearing aid debacle:

 

Raising Bilingual Children

 When my oldest kiddo was born sixteen years ago, the hubby and I taught him sign language when he was a few months old. We loved watching his little hands communicate back to us.  He could tell us when he wanted to eat, when his diaper needed changing or could ask for another round of Sesame Street.   The hubby and I were pretty sure he had hearing in the normal range up until he was about two, and then we noticed he wasn't responding to environmental sounds.  A hearing test showed a profound hearing loss and our journey of raising a deaf child began.

We had two more kids and hearing tests showed that they had normal hearing.  We knew that they could possibly lose their hearing because of our family history of five generations of deaf and hard of hearing relatives.  We continued to sign and when my daughter was fourteen months old, she began speaking in full sentences. We started getting lazy with signing as her speech took off and we could lipread her easily.  Early tests showed some great development in the intellectual area.  Our journey of raising a gifted kid began.

When Lauren was four and Steven was two, they both became very sick for a week.  When Lauren came home from preschool the following Monday, she said to me, "Mom, I can't hear."  I talked with the preschool teacher and she noticed the same thing, that Lauren wasn't responding in the classroom and she was frustrated.  Later that weekend, she tried to call her best friend and hung up the phone in tears.  She couldn't understand her friend on the phone.  I wiped away her tears as I fought back my own and later went in the bathroom to have my own crying spell.   A hearing test showed a mild-to-severe hearing loss and we added the fourth pair of hearing aids to our family.

My Marriage, My Cousin's Marriage--No Difference

I met my husband at Northern Illinois University back in 1984.  We went out to dinner one night with a group and sat across from each other.  We struck up a conversation and discovered that we both had a love of skiing. That conversation sparked many more and we often sat up until the wee hours of morning, discussing everything under the sun.  Four years later, on November 4, 1989, we were married, surrounded by our family and friends.

Edward Pazier and Dennis Bales first noticed each other on an "L" train going downtown 1992 while heading to their corporate jobs. Their first date was a lunchtime picnic in the gardens of the Chicago Art Institute museum and they discovered that they had a lot in common, from speaking Spanish, to their corporate jobs in the global world and a love of travel.  On January 23, 2001, they flew to Vermont to get married in an outdoor gazebo at the base of a snowy mountain and threw a large reception surrounded by family and friends that summer.

Edward is my cousin. He and Dennis have a marriage similar to ours-- they argue about little stuff and then make up, they enjoy eating out and do pretty much everything together.  But here's what's not fair:  should either of our spouses pass away, our rights are very different.  In my marriage, all assets would pass on to the spouse by law, including retirement benefits. In their marriage, the spouse would lose access to retirement benefits as their marriage is not recognized by Illinois law.

Their marriage is no different from mine-- is that fair?

An "Oh-My-Gosh" Day

My daughter stood in front of the pantry, the doors flung wide open and I watched as her gaze went from the top shelf down to the floor.  The jumble of food inside was barely recognizable.  A bag of chips was crumpled on the top, the spring clip nowhere to be found. I was pretty sure there was nothing but stale pieces left.  A bag of Double-Stuffed Oreos was nearly empty, with two lone cookies sitting among the crumbs in the tray.  There was at least four boxes of Wheat Thins, all of them open.  I had no clue which box was the most recent purchase.

"Mom!" my daughter hollered.

And then she said the sweetest words, music to my harried, mothering soul:  "I think I need to clean and organize this stuff!"

My heart skipped a beat and I tried not to show the surprise that I felt inside.  You see, my daughter is also missing the same Cleaning Gene that exists with her aunts and her Grandma. Not to mention a couple of the cousins. From the time she was a toddler, my daughter used the floor of her bedroom as a catch-all.  Toys, clothes, books, mis-matched socks and papers found a home on the floor. Tucked away somewhere in my house, I have pictures of her bedroom that could be mistaken for a tornado hit.  The problem is, I'm not too organized myself. I have piles sitting on my bedroom floor of stuff that I will "eventually get to."

The Honor of Attending a Birth

For six long days, Juliet's labor started on and off.  Every night, I tucked my phone under my pillow, waiting for the vibration that would signal the real deal.  On Monday, December 21st, the phone sprang into action and I awoke at 6:30 a.m. to a text saying that the contractions were pretty strong and that the midwife was on her way over.  We agreed to wait until the midwife arrived and then see if I should be on my way.

 

Juliet and I met a few years back, when her daughter was a toddler. I worked as a Deaf Mentor in the state's early intervention program and provided mentoring services to her family, teaching sign language and answering questions about growing up hard of hearing and becoming deaf. Juliet and I connected in more ways than one-- we both shared a love of writing and an interest in natural birth.  When Juliet became pregnant with her second baby, I casually offered to be a doula for her.  She took me up on the offer.  We met for lunch and discussed her plans for the upcoming birth.

 

Years ago, I studied to become a doula with the intention of making a career out of it.   I had the honor of attending several births, including an amazing home water birth where the midwife walked in as the mom was pushing.  My third child was born at home, but since I was induced with Cytotec, his birth wasn't quite the "natural" birth that I had anticipated.  I later went on to write an article for Midwifery Today about the dangers of Cytotec and a chapter in the book, "Don't Cut Me Again."  As the years progressed, the idea of becoming a full-time doula took a back seat to my other jobs.

Behind Barbed Wire

I stood in line with all the others, waiting for my turn to go inside the building. Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, I fingered the brass disc with the number 43 on it.  I was visitor number forty-three that morning.  A young woman stood in front of me, holding a sniffling toddler on her hip while she juggled a clear bag filled with diapers and baby food with her other hand.  Another son clung to her leg, crying and begging to be held.  With a sigh, the mom put the toddler down and picked up the crying child. In an instant, the other one began to cry.

My eyes drifted to the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the perimeter of the corrections facility.  This wasn't the first time I had gone inside a prison.  Years ago, I provided advocacy and counseling services to a deaf woman who was convicted of murdering her baby.  Once a month, I would go through the usual pat downs and security procedures at the women's prison and settle in for a two-hour session.

This time, the visit was personal. I was heading inside to visit a friend that I hadn't seen in twenty five years.  Ron and I were friends in high school.  We met on the swimming team and swam endless laps after school.  In the hallways, we passed each other notes that we wrote instead of paying attention in our classes.  The notes turned into letters when Ron joined the Navy and went off to sea.  He shared stories of his travels and sent post cards from various stops around the world.