Alternate Universe

Did you ever wonder what an alternate universe would look like? I have. One in particular. For people who do not know me so well, I'm on the heavy side. I have been since the age of 12 or 13. I like to eat. If I keep up with rigorous exercise I can keep the weight off, but getting hurt a lot means that the rigorous exercise doesn't stay up for very long.

In my alternate universe, heavy people are the norm. People that with low BMI's and that are skinny are the ones on the front cover of People magazine with headlines like "Look how skinny he/she is!" Not that, that doesn't happen, but people how are not boleamic, or sick from cancer, or whatever else you can think of. The people that are normally small and petite. The ones people doen't make fun of, or think they are very healthy because they are not overweight. These people are the abnormal if you want to think of it that way. These people (in my universe) wear clothes that are too big for them, they add padding to their clothes to make themselves appear bigger. They dont' wear dark colors to make themselves look smaller, they wear bright bold colors so they look heavier. I often wonder what it would be like for those people who sit on the bus and and think to themselves, "Oh sheash, I gotta sit by the fat guy" would do if the roles were reversed. How would they feel if people made faces at them, or if they avoided eye contact.

So many what if's in our lives isn't there? What if people in general were actualy nice to each other and accepted each other for who/what they are. How would our world be different?

I know that I have a hard time with changing my attitudes with people. I try daily to improve it, but it is difficult when you have people laughing at you, even though you are sitting across from them, or having people whisper back and forth about how stinky the fat guy/gal is today.

Pacifier in my Pocket

Did I ever think in a million years that I would have newborn at age 45? Did I ever think that I would have three step children under the age of 9 at the of 45?
I love kids. I always have. They are so innocent and interested in everything around them. I enjoy watching them play and learn at the same time.

Maddy, our 5 month old daughter has a difficult 5 months of her life. Although it could be worse, she has an eating disorder and very bad reflux. A few weeks ago she had a "G" tube placed in her stomach. We had so many people tell us not to do it, because it was unnecessary and that the surgery would be worse than the cure itself. Well, from what I can see, Maddy is thriving, rather than failing to thrive. She is gaining weight and most of the time is a very happy little 5 month old. She still eats from a bottle, but nit very much. We are working on her oral skills of eating, one step at a time.

Maddy likes her pacifier. It gives her good oral stimulation and makes her feel good. The one issue with babies is that they don't really hold onto things very well. So its very common that Maddy will lose her pacifier (or as we call it her "paci"). I tend to keep an extra in my pocket for what I call Paci emergencies. We must have a number of paci's around the house. Its hard to keep count exactly how many we have since we have some that are new born types, some that are infant types, and some other types that I just not too sure of.

There have been many occassions where I went to work with a paci in my shirt pocket. People will ask me why I have a pacifier in my pocket. Being a little on the quick witted side, I tell then its for our users that want everything and feel we don't treat them fairly. (I'm an IT Manager).

Todat at church I realized that I had four paci's on my person. One in my shirt pocket, and three in my jacket pockets. Two on left side, and one on the right. I didn't think too much of this at first, until after we got home. I felt as if I was a pacifier carrerier of some sort. Going around handing out pacifiers to people in need.

By the time we got home and I started to think about the number of pacifiers on my person, I started to look for one, especially since we were in a paci emergency mode. I couldn't fine one. I checked my shirt pocket, both jacket pockets. The kitchen table, the bedroom, the kitchen counter, everywhere. I just couldn't find one to save my life. When I realized, there was a pacifier in the car seat. Saved at last!

Worry

I can't take credit for writing this tid-bit. My mother sent it to me.. I think she knows I worry too much..

WORRY

Is there a magic cutoff period when
offspring become accountable for their own
actions? Is there a wonderful moment when
parents can become detached spectators in
the lives of their children and shrug, 'It's
their life,' and feel nothing?

When I was in my twenties, I stood in a hospital
corridor waiting for doctors to put a few
stitches in my daughter's head. I asked, 'When do
you stop worrying?' The nurse said,
'When they get out of the accident stage.' My
Dad just smiled faintly and said nothing.

When I was in my thirties, I sat on a little
chair in a classroom and heard how one of my
children talked incessantly, disrupted the class,
and was headed for a career making
license plates. As if to read my mind, a teacher
said, 'Don't worry, they all go through
This stage and then you can sit back, relax and
enjoy them.' My dad just smiled
faintly and said nothing.

When I was in my forties, I spent a lifetime
waiting for the phone to ring, the cars to come
home, the front door to open. A friend said,
'They're trying to find themselves. Don't worry,
in a few years, you can stop worrying. They'll be
adults.' My dad just smiled faintly
and said nothing.

By the time I was 50, I was sick & tired of being
vulnerable. I was still worrying over my
children, but there was a new wrinkle. There
was nothing I could do about it. My
Dad just smiled faintly and said nothing. I
continued to anguish over their failures, be
tormented by their frustrations and absorbed in
their disappointments.

My friends said that when my kids got married I
could stop worrying and lead my own
life. I wanted to believe that, but I was
haunted by my Dad's warm smile and his
occasional, 'You look pale. Are you alright?
Call me the minute you get home. Are
you depressed about something?'

Can it be that parents are sentenced to a
lifetime of worry? Is concern for one another
handed down like a torch to blaze the trail of
human frailties and the fears of the
unknown? Is concern a curse or is it a virtue
that elevates us to the highest form of life?
One of my children became quite irritable
recently, saying to me, 'Where were you? I've been
calling for 3 days, and no one answered I was worried.'
I smiled a warm smile.
The torch has been passed.