Cindy the Mc

Anthony Weiner: The Big, Burning Question

2011-06-14T09:56:00.007-04:00

This has been eating at me for a long time -- months, maybe even years -- before Representative Weiner's... unfortunate Tweet. No one has addressed it. No one has asked the big, burning question. It seems no one wants to touch it with a 10 foot pole.

Just one paragraph in, those of you who know me best know I can't help myself. You know I've been sitting here for a couple of weeks, with the angel on one shoulder saying, "Leave it alone, Cindy. Let it go. It's not your place. You don't always have to be the one to say something." Poor, dejected little angel. She has fought the good fight, but she is no match for that pesky, persistent little devil on my other shoulder, who is, as always, my nemesis.

The devil on my shoulder is not a devil in the biblical sense. She's more of a dickens. She's been spewing at me in that "The Emperor Has No Clothes" way she has, and she's been doing it pretty much non-stop. I fall asleep thinking about it. I wake up thinking about it. I cannot turn on the TV without it being rubbed right in my face. I can no longer endure such prodding. I must get this off my chest.

Why, in hell, does Anthony Weiner pronounce his name "Wee-ner"? The congressman spells his surname W-E-I-N-E-R. Shouldn't it sound just like the word Whiner -- or maybe even Viner?

Look, I only took Spanish (and a couple of forgotten years of Latin) in school, so I realize I could be laying myself bare to some harsh correction. I'm all about asking the hard questions, people. If I don't elicit the response I'm expecting, well then I will take my licks and walk away satisfied by having learned something new today.

See, I have friends who studied German and friends with German names, and long ago and far away, I lived near a family from actual Germany and became fast friends with the daughter Elsa, who was just a year younger than I. And? I'm a writer and a bit of a word and language geek, so I tend to notice things along the way.

Here's a thing I noticed along the way: in Germanic words, it seems the vowel combination I-E, represents the sound which, in English, we called "long E." Similarly, it seems the vowel combination E-I represents the sound which, in English, we call "long I." I grew up down the street from Weiss Farm, which is pronounced with a long I. My pastor's last name is Weisenbach, which has a long I in the first syllable. And then there's Oscar Mayer's most famous product. [NOTE TO SELF: Do not digress into a lot of bologna baloney.] I am all about the wiener here today people, which -- not at all coincidentally -- is how it's spelled: W-I-E-N-E-R, as in "I wish I was an Oscar Mayer..."

To be frank, I don't know for certain that Weiner is a Germanic name. I do know the Representative is Jewish though, and Weiner looks like a Germanic name, so it seems likely to me that he is descended from European Jewish immigrants who came from somewhere near Germany. Is there some Yiddish pronunciation rule that runs contrary to the I-E = long E and E-I = long I one noted above?

I ask because... okay, I realize choosing between the rock of "wee-ner" and the hard place of "whiner" is a bit of a Morton's fork, but what about the Viner option, people? For me, Viner evokes images of vineyards yielding luscious, juicy, perfectly ripe grapes, waiting to be plucked and eaten or, in this case, crushed into wine...

...which personally, I've been drinking a lot of, in a so far impotent attempt to forget that I saw a picture of a picture of a U.S. Congressman's cock. Thanks a lot Opie and Anthony (and other Anthony). Thanks a whole lot.

Gulp.

Ghosts

2010-11-22T18:43:00.004-05:00

Millay's rain was full of ghosts, but my ghosts swarm on cool, dry, grey days and starless nights. The surround me, crowd me, but they cannot touch me, do not call to me, and will not take me with them. I hear their echoes, never their words. I crave clarity. They give me confusion. I need comfort. They bite and scratch in unghostly ways. How they got here without even a wind I do not know, but as much as it bruises to have them haunt me, it would kill me -- were they gone.

November

2010-11-22T11:59:00.002-05:00

November is for mourning, longing and watching the last leaf -- who refuses to acknowledge his own death -- flutter on a dried out stem, and forget to fall. Were I that leaf, I would throw myself to the ground, shrivel up and wait for the snow to cover me in all my decay.

Julia

2010-11-20T16:08:00.008-05:00

Julia turns 12 in the coming week. I wrote this about her, half her lifetime ago.

...

September 6, 2004

Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you, Julia

Six Septembers ago, you tried to come too soon. Oh, it wasn't six years to this day. Things don't work out so neatly in real life, but it was six years ago this month.

You were not due until November 19, 1998. What got into you, that September? Why were you so determined to get out of me? Could you not stand the wait? Did you decide you were ready? You were not, dear. But oh, how very like you, lovely one.

Daddy put me in the car took me to the hospital.
The hospital took one look at me, and put me to bed.
They kept me over night.
They kept you in my womb.
They sent me home the next day.
Nana and Daddy sent me directly to the couch.
They fussed over me.

Daddy did everything: laundry, cleaning, bathing Benjamin, playing with him. Even Benjamin seemed to understand (not like, mind you, just understand) that I could no longer pick him up. I explained to him. Daddy explained to him. Nana did better. She taught him to climb on his bed, so that I could change him, there. She showed him how to climb into and out of his highchair. When he needed me to pick him up, instead I would sit down, and he would crawl into my lap, finding a way around my belly--finding a way around you.

Julia, Julia, oceanchild, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Julia, seashell eyes, windy smile, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia

They poured water into me, until I floated. They took the doctor's orders seriously. I did too. I saw the humor in the contradictions, though:

Drink more water than humanly possible. Then, drink some more. And when you can lie down, lie down. When you can't lie down, sit. When you can't sit, sit anyhow. And yes, I know you have a two and a half year old little boy, and what a cruel joke these orders must seem. You're going to follow them though, right?

Yes. I am just not sure I know how.

Sure you do. You'll figure out a way to deal with Ben. Put up gates. Lock doors. Drag out the crayons. Put on the TV. LIE DOWN.

It's got a good beat, but can I dance to it?

Ha! My wife scoffs at my orders whenever I tell her about a patient in your situation. She says, "Are you going to watch the toddlers for her?"

I like your wife.

I do, too. Still your daughter needs eight more weeks in there, understand?

Hey, tell her.

And we can't accept anything less than four. Understand?

Yes.

So, lie down.

Well, maybe if I wasn't drinking so much water. Benjamin aside, I'm not going to get much time lying down, if I'm drinking water. You may not have noticed, but...I'm rather pregnant.

Aha! I suspected as much. But listen, we're not going to accept anything less than that four weeks. We'll get you through the next four weeks,and then she can come anytime she wants, and we'll be ready for her. Eight would be better though. Shoot for eight, okay?

And dear one, I, who had been waiting for you for as long as I could remember, never did mange to be ready for you. I'm still not.

You calmed down. My uterus calmed down. I never did. Cat on a hot tin roof. Bird on a wire. Butter scraped over too much bread. You were a dream about to come to true. I had to believe. So many dreams turn into nightmares. I was afraid to believe.

Her hair of floating sky is shimmering, glimmering
In the sun

We decided we needed to get serious about choosing your name. Don't worry, love. Julia has been your name since I was old enough to imagine you. I wanted to name you Alice though, for my Nana. Daddy was afraid it was too old fashioned. We also liked Emily, Emma, and Olivia. One late September evening, we discussed it with Benjamin. He was so little. You will never know that little boy. His world was different. He was the only one. You will never believe this, but he could not wait for you to come, either. In the end, Julia Alice, Benjamin decided in favor of your name, every bit as much as Daddy and I. Then we put on my Beatles CD. The three of us held hands. Since the doctor never technically answered my question about dancing, our little circle of love slowly danced around the living room in our old house, with you in the middle. John Lennon sang your name.

Julia, Julia, morning moon, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia

John's beautiful song, of course, is about trying to recapture that which has been lost. The mother he never had enough of. The dream that came upon him. The dream that faded as quickly as it came. But dear, that is what babies are, even the healthiest, strongest babies, like you and your brothers. Even the best parents fake it. As soon as we get used to one stage, you move onto the next. By the time we figure that out, you'll have moved on again. We run behind, and try to do our best to protect you. We intentionally lag behind sometimes too, so that we won't stunt you.

When I cannot sing my heart
I can only speak my mind, Julia

After all that worry, you were late in coming. The nineteenth of November, 1998 came and went with nary a pang. Wednesday, November 25, 1998, Nana took me (and Benjamin) to my regularly scheduled ob/gyn visit. He examined me and said, "Well, that was a lot of worry for nothing. You must have made things too comfortable in there. How would you like to have this baby, today?"

I said, "No," as Nana said, "Yes." I am sure the doctor did not want his Thanksgiving dinner interrupted. I did not want to rush you. I knew, just knew, that it would all go too fast. They overruled me. Nana and I went home to pack my bag. Daddy came to take me to the hospital, and Nana stayed with Benjamin. I can still see him sitting in his highchair, coloring. I can still feel the little pang of guilt over my involvement in ending his babyhood.

Now you are going to kindergarten. Tomorrow. All summer long, Daddy has been telling you that he is not going to let you go. Trying on my role for your teen years, I take your side. I tell you not to worry, that he does not mean it. In my heart though, I betray you. I wish to God that Daddy had the power to slow it down.

We have already gotten time with you that most parents do not get with their children. Since you had not turned five by the end of August 2003, you were too young to enter kindergarten last Fall. It did not matter that you would turn five before the year was up. That is not how it was when I was little. It still is not like that in some towns.

Some people thought I was crazy. They thought I should have had you screened and then petition to let you start early. I never bothered to find out if our town allows such a thing. Why would I? A whole extra year with you? Why in God's name would I ever give that up? Extra Julia is one of my most favorite things. Why would I refuse such a blessing?

You are mine. For at least 12 years and two months, and three weeks (minus two days) more, as far as the law is concerned, you are mine. Since you will stay in high school (and my lovely one, you will) I have at least twelve years and nine months. I will start to wean myself when you go to college (you will). I will learn my boundaries by the time you begin your career. If you get married, by that time, I will teach myself to pretend my heart does not think it owns you. I will fool the world. If you choose to have your own babies, I will love them for whoever they are.

And I will help you, if you want it, when you need it.

I will kiss them, hold them, rock them.

I will never tell them, but sometimes, I will close my eyes rub my lips along their hairline, and pretend they are you. Just for a moment.

Julia, sleeping sand, silent cloud, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia

Go to kindergarten. Go, but remember you are not in your senior year of high school. You will get there soon enough, love. Look how quickly you got over being a baby, being a toddler, even being a little girl. Strangers routinely assume you are a year or two older than you are. You have no touch of baby left about you, on the outside, anyhow. They do not know your heart -- your baby soft heart that warms me and fills my life with joy.

When Christopher was born you were so little, still a baby yourself. You're just one year, and five months (minus one day) older than he. You had seen him when you visited us in the hospital, and seemed interested, and not threatened. The day we brought Christopher home from the hospital, when I carried him into the parlor, you shook your head, "No."

After I have to leave you tomorrow, I will do the same.

... calls me
So I sing a song of love for Julia, Julia, Julia

For me now, John's beautiful song, of course, is about trying to recapture that which has been lost. The baby I never had enough of. The dream that came upon me. You have not faded. The dream that is you, is more vibrant than ever. But in the end, it will not be mine.

Except in my heart.

...

Update, November 20, 2010: You are mine. For at least 6 years and 5 days more, as far as the law is concerned, you are mine. Two-thirds of your childhood is behind you. Who's going to be my baby girl when you're grown and gone?

Ted Kennedy: Redemption Song

2009-08-26T08:19:00.005-04:00

The work goes on; the cause endures; the hope still lives; and the dream shall never die. --Edward Moore Kenneday, U.S. Senator, (D) Massachusetts; August 12, 1980, Democratic National Convention.

There is so much I could say about this "Lion of the Senate" -- this lion of a man. With apologies to C.S. Lewis who died the same day as JFK, Edward Moore Kennedy was not a tame lion. Not our boy-o. His sins have received more than due coverage throughout his life, so I will not speak of them here. We are fallible creatures; we all fall short. Ted, our Teddy, always regained his footing and his standing, and humbled but never bowed, he forged on to fight the good fight.

It is with deep sorrow that I offer my condolences to the Senator's entire family and his many friends. You are in my thoughts and prayers. To his widow, Victoria Reggie Kennedy I will say: once he grasped the hand of you, his better angel -- his better angels won. Thank you for that, ma'am. Thank you for giving him back to his family and to us all, better than he was before.

Because that is the real story of Edward Moore Kennedy, politician and man: while Teddy's sins were emblematic of our societal ills, his aching heart was -- is -- part of our shared lore -- this mortal life -- this groaning creation. His pain and suffering, his bleeding heart (I write those words in their best sense, with pride and gratitude), is where we recognized him, knew him, loved him, forgave him, and it is where he would meet us time and again, encouraging us to follow him once more into the breach. The triumph of the Kennedy family has always been more than balanced by tragedy's icy fist, and this tied them to us and ties us to them still -- in ways better mediated on than spoken. This morning on MSNBC, Doris Kearns Goodwin, echoing Hemingway, commented of the tragedy of the Kennedy family and the sorrows, sins and renaissance of the Senator in particular, saying: "He was stronger in the broken places."

Senator Kennedy's life's work in the U.S. Senate made us likewise. Heathcare, workers rights, civil rights, voting rights, the rights of the mentally ill, the disabled, the downtrodden, the oppressed -- Kennedy never forgot who put him in office and never stopped fighting for them -- for us -- for you -- for me. Even in the worst of his playboy years, his privilege and prestige never blinded him to the causes of his heart -- ensuring that all Americans were afforded the blessings of liberty that shine ever bright on our all too often dark and troubled heads. This man -- who mourned too much and too often -- never doubted those blessings. No matter how pervasive the darkness seemed, he believed in the Light of the World, even when his view was obscured, by sorrow or his own short-comings.

On that same day the LORD told Moses, "Go up into the Abarim Range to Mount Nebo in Moab, across from Jericho, and view Canaan, the land I am giving the Israelites as their own possession. There on the mountain that you have climbed you will die and be gathered to your people, just as your brother Aaron died on Mount Hor and was gathered to his people. This is because both of you broke faith with me in the presence of the Israelites at the waters of Meribah Kadesh in the Desert of Zin and because you did not uphold my holiness among the Israelites. Therefore, you will see the land only from a distance; you will not enter the land I am giving to the people of Israel." Deuteronomy 32:48-52 (NIV) "The Death of Moses"

Ah, how I had hoped and prayed you would live to see true heathcare reform come to pass, but like the great Lawgiver before you, you were only allowed to look down upon the Promised Land to which you spent your life leading us. Our shared faith gives me hope that this morning, sir, you have already walked into the arms of our Lord and your family, and not just forgiven, but redeemed.

So today, dear Senator, I thank you. I thank you for living your life fully and completely. I thank you for your failures as well as your victories. I thank you for the convictions you learned at your mother's knee and on your own often-scuffed knees in your Mother Church, during both your worst trials and greatest hours. You represented the people of this Commonwealth and served the people of this nation and the world -- with passion, compassion, humor, ingenuity, and an utter lack of cynicism -- with a lasting belief that giving the best in us is best for us.

I do not think I will see another like you in my lifetime, but I hope my children will, and that in some way, my fondness and admiration for you and your self-sacrificing service will influence them to follow, in whatever way our Lord has laid out for them, in the best of your footsteps. Thank you, sir. God bless you. Much has been and undoubtedly will be made of your fondness for wine, women and song, so tonight, this woman -- whose life and world is better thanks to you -- will raise her cup and sing to your memory.

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery.

None but ourselves can free our minds.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Some say it's just a part of it:
We've got to fulfill the book.

Won't you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
'Cause all I ever have...
Redemption songs.
Redemption songs.
Redemption songs. (--Bob Marley)

In That Chair

2009-01-20T13:01:00.001-05:00

The resemblance between Dick Cheney and Mr. Potter is utterly striking.

I Love This Report Card Day

2008-12-05T14:37:00.004-05:00

Everyone got a good report card this trimester. We have to sign and return them (and aren't given a copy), so I'm making note of these to remind me, in case there are lean years ahead. Yesterday, my two youngest children brought home their report cards. They get A B C grades for performance, and numerical grades for effort (with "1" being the best).

Daughter's Grades:

English: A-; 1
Reading: A-; 1
Spelling: B; 1 (fair enough; tests are perfect, spelling on papers is...not)
Math: A-; 1
Social Studies: A; 1
Science: A-; 1
Handwriting: A; 1

Follows Directions: 1
Works well independently: 1
Completes work in reasonable time: 1
Uses independent time wisely: 1
Demonstrates courteous and considerate behavior: 1
Conduct: 1
Homework: 1
Art: 1
Music: 1
Physical Education: 1

Younger Son's Grades:

English: A; 1
Reading: A; 1
Spelling: A; 1
Math: A; 1
Social Studies: A-; 1
Science: A-; 1
Handwriting: B; 2 (it's a fair cop)

Follows Directions: 1
Works well independently: 1 (this is a big improvement)
Completes work in reasonable time: 1 (as is this)
Uses independent time wisely: 1 (this floored me)
Demonstrates courteous and considerate behavior: 1
Conduct: 1
Homework: 1
Art: 2 (also a fair cop)
Music: 1
Physical Education: 1

Oldest son got his report card, today. He gets A B C grades for performance, and numerical grades for effort and conduct, and the teachers can include (canned) comments, too.

Oldest Son's Grades:

English: A-; 1; 1. Pleasure to have in class. Good solid student.
Social Studies; A-; 1; 1. Good overall student.
Pre-Algebra: A-; 1; 1. Pleasure to have in class.
Science: A-; 1; 1. Very good participation. Good overall student.
Spanish: A-; 1; 1. Cooperative. Considerate. Courteous.
Computer: B+; 1; 1. Cooperative. Considerate. Courteous.
Consumer Science: A; 1; 1. Good effort.
Physical Education: A; 1; 1. Pleasure to have in class.

All three children are a little bummed out they didn't make straight As. Scott and I are thrilled and proud of them though. Oldest son is particularly annoyed that his computer class is what kept him from straight As. He can't figure out why he didn't get an A. I told him if he thinks it's a mistake to approach the teacher after school (the class was only a half term long) and ask her why, because sometimes they make mistakes, but otherwise to let it go. A B+ is just fine, and his effort and conduct earned him a 1, which means as much to me as the achievement.

I think we'll have to get them a little reward for these report cards. They worked quite hard this term. Go kids!

Go School! It's your birthday!

Stranded In The Drive-Way

2008-11-02T11:14:00.003-05:00

Stranded in the driveway
Branded a fool.
What will they say
At Sunday School?

Scotty, can't you see
I have no Camry key.
We had a talk,
But then you balked.
There's no car left for me.

The Saturn's flown,
All alone...with Boolie,
I wonder why-yi-yi
Oh why you left me
The Camry.

Oh Scotty -- baby -- someday
We'll get a second key.
Somehow, someway
A Camry key for me.

Together forever
And ever will we be
As soon as we get
A new key.

Scotty, my darling,
You stranded me real bad, you know it's true.
But baby, you gotta believe me
When I say -- I'm ride-less without you.

The Saturn's flown,
All alone...with Boolie,
I wonder why-yi-yi
Oh why you left me
Oh, Scotty.
Scotty! Scotty!
Why-yi-yi-yi?

Oh, Scotty.

The Politics Of Dancing

2008-09-14T08:31:00.003-04:00

I hate politics. Well, that's a big lie, right off the top. I get terribly wrapped up in politics and passionate about politics and angered by politics. I don't hate politics. I'm a political co-dependent and I keep going back for more. I hate myself for loving politics.

Part of the problem is that I'm a seeming paradox. I'm a politically progressive lifelong Christian -- a fairly orthodox one, at that. I'm a stay at home mother and a feminist. I'm one of those ridiculous asses who wants to make you bang you're head against the wall when she says she's pro-choice and pro-life with all sincerity. More on that another time. Maybe. Maybe not, if I can find a good 12 Step program for political addicts.

I was at a Bible Study once, and somehow politics came up. Now, I live in the Boston area, and perspective is everything, so I'll note that a contingent of the people we speak of as "conservatives" would be considered moderate elsewhere in the States. Anyhow, one of my friends noted that she found it so frustrating that everyone she meets from Massachusetts assumes she is a Democrat -- because she's from Massachusetts. Everyone laughed -- everyone but guess who. Yeah. Instead, I got all nervous and blurted out, "And I get tired of everyone I meet at church assuming I'm a Republican because they've met me at church." I tried to say it in a lighthearted, amused tone of voice, and the people did laugh, but I think it was a pity laugh, because my face was flushed and I really did blurt it.

The subject of politics not only makes me blurt, it leaves people hurt. Take any issue, start a passionate discussion about it, and unless you're holding that discussion in an echo chamber, you're going to find there are real humans, with real emotions, troubles, challenges and pain, who have damned good reason to hold views in direct opposition to your own. It also causes hard feelings.

So I'm not going to discuss politics with my husband. I'd much rather dance with him.

Mirror Mirror On TheWall, I'll Now Shut Up About My Fall

2008-08-18T11:06:00.003-04:00

I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself today. We're on vacation, and the weather is gorgeous, so you can see how hard my life is. Um...I mean, I've been feeling sorry because my face still looks pretty beat up. Some of the swelling is subsiding, but the bruises on my chin and neck are ugly. The road rash (tile rash?) on my chin and above my lip is still there. The gash on the bridge of my nose is just starting to close (I think I should have gotten a stitch or two in it). The soft tissue on either side of my nose is sort of swollen and has left me looking like a lion. And now? I have black eyes, one of which has this lovely, fluid filled bag under it, so I'm pretty sure I broke the nose.

We're going to the beach later in the afternoon, because of the timing of the tides. There's not much beach on our beach at high tide, so we're waiting until it passes. My mum's going home today, but she's been playing games with the kids, God bless her. They're playing Monopoly, and I just don't have the patience for it. I substitute whenever someone needs to go to the bathroom, or whatever, and that's enough for me in the morning. I'm much more inclined to play games at night.

I tried to read one of the books I brought along with me, but the kids tend to argue when they're playing games and I try to intervene so that the game remains relatively pleasant for my husband Scott, and my mum. So instead of cracking my books, I've been bouncing from blog to blog. In between rounds of sitting in on the Monopoly game, I've been playing my own private game of poor, poor pitiful me, poor poor pitiful me.

I came across a link at the Boar's Head Tavern that booted me square in the seat of my pants. It's a pictorial of Pakistani women who have been burned -- sometimes with acid and usually by male relatives -- for various infractions. At least one was burnt, while pregnant, because her dowry was too small. One woman was burnt because when she was five, she was unhappy that her mom was having another baby. You got the part where she was five, yes? Five. As in five years old. Her father threw acid in her little five year old face for acting like a five year old.

Yesterday, Scott and I had been joking that when we go out this week, I'm going to flinch whenever he comes near me and say, "Please sir," a lot. This morning, I was telling him and mum that I was going to plant myself on a stool at the local pub and talk all tough, and act like I got my bruises and abrasions in a bar fight, and throw out a lot of, "You wanna start with me, punk?" sorts of statements. These jokes were just, of course, a way of dealing with my injuries -- primarily the enormous injury to my vanity. Now I'm just humbled, to be reminded how hard life is for so many of my sisters all over this planet.

I'll link to the pictorial now, but please note, it's not for sensitive viewers: link. Try to tough it out though, because the women pictured in the piece are real women, living real lives, and we ought not be so delicate we can't even look at the faces they never get to take off.

It's funny how a kick in the pants can make one's diamond shoes feel far less tight.

Does Your Face Hurt? It's Killing Me.

2008-08-16T14:13:00.005-04:00

I fainted, this morning. I fainted and did a spectacular face plant, right on the bathroom floor. The ceramic tile bathroom floor. I sort of convulsed when coming to. I knew I was on the floor. It felt cool and I was glad of it, except that something kept slamming my face back into it. Of course that something was me. Talk about sticking a landing.

I was confused, and then I heard my daughter ask me if she could open the bathroom door. I said, "No," although I don't know why. She's a smart cookie, by the way. She knew there was a possibility that my head could be behind the door (it wasn't), which is why she asked. She opened my bedroom door and told my husband to get up, but he didn't hear her. She came back to the bathroom door and asked me if I was all right. I finally stood up, looked in the mirror and my face was covered in my own blood. I looked down at the bathroom floor and there was a pool of blood there, too. I turned on the faucet and starting washing it, but the blood wouldn't go away. It was also on my shirt and my arms. I finally grabbed a bath towel and put it over my face, because I wasn't sure where the blood was coming from, couldn't stop it, and I was scared.

I called out to my still sleeping husband that I needed help. He (and our daughter) got me into bed, calmed me down, he brought me a cloth to wash up my face, but the blood kept coming. They were both so concerned. My poor babies. My family is so sweet. My oldest son had no clue any of this was going on, and walked into our bedroom joking around (very loudly) about being a zombie, because he has been sleep walking the last couple of nights. My husband started to snap at him, but it was clear he was just clueless not tactless. My younger son was in the basement, taking his daily turn on the PS2, so he had no idea what was going on. Later, while I napped, my husband told him I fainted. He thought my husband was joking. Then he wanted to come see me, but my husband wouldn't let him, because he wanted me to sleep.

Eventually, I felt up to looking in the mirror. It seems I had a bloody nose, which has since stopped bleeding, but I also had a cut across the bridge of my nose, that didn't want to stop at all. I might have had the bloody nose before I fainted. I don't think so, but there's this nagging question, which leaves me foggy on that point. I started to clean up all the blood while I was in there. When I opened up the bathroom door, I noticed there was some blood on the hardwood in the hallway. When I bent down to wipe it up, my husband (who was still in our room) spotted me. He told me he'd kick my ass if I didn't get it back into bed immediately.

I told him I was going to tell people that he beat me, but that I probably deserved it, so I'm just going to submit to him. I think that was the first time either of us laughed all morning. He then joked that I looked like I'd gotten silicone injections in my lips, because the left side of my lips are swollen. I think my teeth cut into my them (both upper and lower). My gums hurt. The left side of my chin is swollen and hurts. There's a sizable abrasion on it. There's an abrasion above the left side of my lips. My nose hurts. There's a sore spot on my left shoulder. I have a headache (or maybe it's just the face pain, I can't even tell). My jaw hurts when I try to open my mouth too wide. It hurts to eat, even soft food, like donuts. Oddly enough, the jaw pain is in the right side, even though all my other injuries are on my left.

I woke during my nap once, because my daughter ran upstairs crying that she was going to throw up. She never did. I think it was just a delayed reaction to the situation. The poor little kid is the one who found me. She saw my face when it was all bloody. She saw the pool of blood I left on the bathroom floor. She heard me crying in my bed until my husband calmed me down. If not for her hearing my thud and talking to me until I came to, who knows how long I would have been there.

I know what happened and it's not nearly as big of a deal as it seems (despite the fact that my face looks like I got hit my a mack truck). I get panic attacks. I've been treating them (very successfully) for the past year and a half, but this morning, I let something (I'm not going to share) scare the heck out of me. I felt the white hot fear flush through my body. I've been around the block with panic enough times that I usually am able to handle this with no problem, but this morning, it caught me off track, because it's been so long (thank you, medicine) since I've had even a minor one. This was a major one.

I know why I had the panic attack. My family has had sort of a rough week. One of my cousins got a diagnosis of liver cancer, and there have been other things going on, too. There's been some good excitement and some bad excitement at my job, and I haven't been sleeping right. Also, I ate a trigger food at supper last night. Let me tell you, I don't plan on doing that again, because this morning sucked out loud.

You should see the other guy. I mopped the floor with him.