So I had this trailer...

This trailer meant a lot to me.  It was built in 1992 and I bought it used in 2002.  I just brought it home.  I didn't consult the husband.  I just did it.  The kids and I enjoyed our trailer for the next 8 (or so) years.  We camped out in it in the back yard.  We hauled it to BattleGround lake on a regular basis.  We took it to the coast.  We dragged friends along for the good times.  We huddled in it playing games during rainy icky camping trips.  

This trailer represented so many good things and so many good times.  I brought it to Lynden in 2011.  It has sat in the barn for the last three years being used as storage.  Peter and I never took it out.  Never used it.  

It was time to let it go.  I considered selling it but I couldn't.  How could I sell it?  Not only is a 22 year old trailer worth almost nothing, I was emotionally attached to the stupid thing.  I'm weird I know.  I will always have the memories no matter what happens to the trailer.

Fortunately my son offered to take it off my hands.  Now that he has a baby, camping in a trailer will be way better than a tent.  THIS I thought was the perfect solution.

We tried to take the trailer to him in February but an unexpected snow storm hit the morning we were to leave and I refused to take it out in the storm.  This weekend was snow and ice free and off we went.  But first the freighbor gifted me with an old mattress we could use to build a "real bed" in the trailer - instead of sleeping on a lumpy, bumpy, poor excuse for a bed that trailer manufacturer's think fits two people.

The plan was to get one last trip in, on our way to Kyle's house, stay in the trailer for the weekend and then leave it with him.  On Thursday we set out for Lincoln City.  The rain poured, the wind buffeted us about. It was awful weather but we made it safely to our destination.

The weather was still awful when we got to the campground.  Despite the wet, we parked the trailer and quickly hooked it up to the utilities.  

I plugged in the water hose, turned it on and water poured out the side of the trailer.  Mmm.. that wasn't supposed to happen.  Not wanting to spend more time in the downpour than necessary I quickly decided to just fill the reserve water tank and use it, instead of the direct feed.  Water poured out everywhere.  Obviously something very bad had happened.  We were going to have to bring in water in containers for this trip it seemed and figure out the leak under dryer circumstances.

We finally got inside the trailer only to find the driving rain had been driven into the trailer and soaked our bed.  Completely saturating it in one corner.  All the bedding was wet.  The mattress was wet.    Perhaps three years in the barn had caused seams and joints to dry out.  

We should turn on the heater!  I stripped the bed and hung up the sheets so they could dry. oh wait.  It seemed we were out of propane.

No water, no bed, no heat.  Oh well - Low tide is quickly approaching and agates are calling to Peter.  We could take care of these other issues later, tides don't care.  I just wasn't up to agate hunting in pouring rain so Peter geared up and went without me while I poked around a few shops, drank some wine and enjoyed the beauty of the Oregon coast.  He eventually sent me a text message that said he was on his way back and safely over the dangerous part of the rocks.  When I picked him up he confessed that he wasn't ENTIRELY over the dangerous part when he sent the text and, in fact, had fallen just after hitting the send button.  He was very banged up, but nothing was broken.

Things weren't going too well.  Perhaps giving away the trailer wasn't going to be so hard after all.

Heat issues addressed, we covered the wet mattress with a plastic table cloth, pulled out a couple sleeping bags and settled in for the night.  The first problem was that the mattress was squished into the space at the end by our feet, and flopping down off the edge on the other end.  Peter slept on the inside and I on the outside, propping myself up against the kitchen wall to keep from sliding out of bed.  Peter was restless because of his injuries (possibly a torn rotator cuff or some other pinched nerve, torn muscle issue) which caused us to look at the clock every 20 minutes it seemed.  About 3:00 in the morning I propped a suitcase under the edge of the mattress which gave me the luxury of not sliding out of bed. Unfortunately, it made me roll toward Peter - who wasn't in the mood to be touched or jostled in any way.  The second problem was that water continued to drip.  Mostly on Peter.  It was a very long night.  By morning I was ready for a cup of coffee. Oh. Wait.  Forgot to pack the coffee.

Friday we abandoned our plans to linger on the coast and took the trailer to Kyle's house.  We parked it and tarped it.  We had dinner with friends, we bought coffee.  We started the night with the suitcase under the bed.  The night was better, it was dry and warm.  Saturday Peter went off to his seminar and I spent the day with my son and grandson.

Then Saturday night happened.  Peter's injuries had reached the apex of discomfort. Swelling was maximized, soreness and pain had grown.  Getting comfortable in a 19 foot trailer wasn't possible.  He was up.  He was down.  He tried to sleep in the car.  He walked the neighborhood.  He was down.  He was up.  Back to the car.  Back to wandering the neighborhood.  He did not sleep.  I got the bed mostly to myself.  That bed was very comfortable!   

It was finally morning and we were able to be on our way.  I packed up our things and said farewell to my trailer.  

Despite the very rocky trip and miserable three nights we had just spent in it, despite the leaking and the water problems and the bed issues, despite the fact that it was not being sold to a stranger but given to my son I could not help but shed a tear.

Jack Maxwell

Jack is now 9 days old.  I don't know what kind of Grandma that makes me... waiting a full week plus to tell the world about his arrival. But I've been busy!!

Jack was born October 18th at 8:30 a.m.  He was 8 1/2 pounds, 21 1/2 inches, and three weeks early.

Peter was unable to get away - but I was in the car headed south as soon as I could manage.

My son seems to have fallen in love with HIS son

My daughter, despite her general aversion to babies, seems to have fallen in love with her nephew

And then there is me..  quickly falling under Jack's spell.

Mary, Jack's mom is doing well and recovering quickly.  Unfortunately, seeing as how we all hogged Jack - I don't have a photo with HER in it.  How rude is that??  She was very understanding though, and for that I'm grateful.  It's not every mom who so willingly shares her new baby.

Call me Beppe

Beppe.  Pronounced: "Beh-peh."   
Peter can be Pake.  Pronounced:  "Pa-keh."

Those are Frisian words.  I'm not Frisian but Peter and his family are.  Since I'm adopted and my background could be anything I COULD be Frisian and just don't know it.  That means that using Frisian words are perfectly acceptable (she says rationalizing..).

It's not that I'm vain like some women and insist their grandchildren call them by the first names and they go around denying they are old enough to have grandchildren.  That's not the reason I'm resisting being called Grandma.  I never really knew my grandparents and have had very few occasions to use the terms Grandma and Grandpa.  Those terms to me represent people that love you, but live a long way away.  My mother was called Grammy and I kind of feel like that name should still refer to her, not me.  I had cousins that had a "Meemaw" and I know other people that had an Oma and Opa.  To me these names just sound so much cozier and welcoming.  I think Beppe is a fine term for my not-too-distant future self.

An ultrasound today confirmed that the big event should be early November.  I'm very happy for my son and his wife.   I read something the other day that was quite moving.  I did not write it and I do not know who did but it seems relevant to my feelings.  For both my son and daughter-in-law I share these words:

We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of “starting a family.” “We’re taking a survey,” she says half-joking. “Do you think I should have a baby?”

… “It will change your life,” I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.

“I know,” she says, “no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations.”

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes.

I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking, “What if that had been MY child?” That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her.

That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of “Mum!” will cause her to drop a soufflé or her best crystal without a moments hesitation.

I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think of her baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old boy’s desire to go to the men’s room rather than the women’s at McDonald’s will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.

That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

My daughter’s relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks.

I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his child.

I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.

I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike.

I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time.

I want her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.

My daughter’s quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. “You’ll never regret it,” I finally say. Then I reached across the table, squeezed my daughter’s hand and offered a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.

Septorhinoplasty

Today was "the" big day for Kyle. He had a Septorhinoplasty with a cartiledge graft from one of his ribs.

He was such a trooper! His nose already looks better.

And now.. I'm tired.. he got to sleep the day away, I was awake and pacing.. or wait.. I wasn't pacing.. I was KNITTING.. I'm making a really large bag for Jill and made significant progress. YAY! I'll show it off when I'm done knitting and ready to felt it.

My son get's to pick his nose!

He get's to pick out a new one anyway.

I'm going to crawl into bed and stay there. I will pull the covers up. WAY up over my head. I will stay there for the next 570 days. Please take turns poking cheetos and glasses of wine under the blankets for me to find.

I used to work with a guy who had this black cloud hanging over him. If something was going to happen.. it was going to happen to HIM. I would tsk tsk his direction and wonder what fate and kharma had against him. It's horrible to think it's my turn.

Late Tuesday morning my son called me from Redding, California. In a muffled, slurred voice he said to me.. "uh.. Mom. I've been in an accident."

I, of course, pretended not to understand him. (It was my brief moment of denial..). But it was useless and the truth prevailed. Kyle said his car was a bit bashed up - but drivable, his nose was broken and he had split his lip. It didn't sound so bad. He was 6 hours away, his girlfriend, Mary, was already there as he had called HER hours earlier. I decided not to go. Then I decided to go. Then I decided not to go. Then I decided to go. Then I decided not to go. Ultimately I grabbed Jill and off we went.

On the way there Mary called and said he was going into surgery that would take about and hour and a half. Surgery?? I was quite puzzled as it hadn't sound so bad as to require surgery. Apparently Kyle wasn't really paying attention to reality when he called me (the pain meds were talking I'm sure). His nose wasn't just broken.. it was well.. mostly gone. The outside was there - but whatever is inside a nose was gone. His lip was split - but it was split from lip up into his sinus cavity. He had a big steering wheel shaped dent on his forehead. It took hundreds of little tiny stitches to put things mostly back together. The surgeons reported that they had a very hard time telling what went where. The boy is messed up and his face is swollen almost unrecognizable. His truck is totaled. Want to see a picture? I have one I'm saving to torture him with when he recovers and even THINKS about driving dangerously. My beautiful son isn't so beautiful at the moment. However - he was glad to see his mommy despite his tough guy attitude and I got to bring him home last night. He is my baby after all.

We have an appointment next week at OHSU to see how he's healing and to get hooked up with a plastic surgeon to finish rebuilding his nose.

On a funny note - We also had to buy him some clothes because the paramedics had cut his off of him. Jill said to me..."it seems the only time Kyle get's new clothes is when his old ones get cut off!" It's true. The last time was early last year when he was on his bike and got hit by a car. They cut off his clothes then too!