Summer's End

So now what?

The next few weeks were a haze of end of Summer activity.

First, there is Back to School shopping for the kids. Hil had accomplished a lot when we had gone outlet shopping when we were on vacation. Pat had not found a single article of clothing or a single pair of shoes he'd ever be caught dead wearing in the corridors of the high school. And he'd decided that basketball pants (he's the proud owner of dozens of them) are no longer cool and we must pitch them all and replace them with considerably more expensive and difficult to buy dark wash jeans. And the selection of acceptable t-shirts and requisite hoodies has narrowed significantly since last year. I see a large charity clothing donation in my future. We will be going to another outlet mall. I am secretly praying that there is a bar on the premises.

And to go with all the new clothes, we'll need hair cuts. Hil is easy. Wants to grow it down to her feet. Just a trim, please. Pat is will let exactly one human being come anywhere near his head with a pair of scissors or clippers, and it is Vincent at Super Cuts, a walk-in only place about 2 miles away where your 11th hair cut is free. It costs me 2 hours and 18 dollars every few weeks. Lars refuses to take him there. He'd prefer that Pat walk around the corner to the barbershop with the 100 yr old man cutting hair against all logic with electric clippers and a wicked case of DTs. It's five dollars and Lars doesn't have to get off of the ass groove on the sofa. How convenient. So I guess I will be doing the round of family hair cuts. Again.

And there is the Back to School barrage of paperwork and permission slips and materials fees and consent forms and club registrations and PTO commitments. No I do not want to chaperon the dance. And yes, I will teach my child about internet safety. And no I do not want to buy a raffle ticket for a round of golf or dinner for two at a local restaraunt I've deftly avoided since it opened or a basket of cheer that would not cheer a wino on Vine Street much less me.

The kids go off to school. They are with Lars that week. It is bizarre and unnatural for me not to see them off with notes in their lunches and kisses on their freshly scrubbed faces. Lars sends pictures from the morning. Hil has churned out the hype with her hair and jewelry and is stunning in her perfectly assembled ensemble. Pat is adorable and dressed to make a good first impression with a perfectly pressed collared shirt. I still wish he'd shave, but he's making a statement.

And to soothe my soul, I head to the shore. Spend some time with Caren and Joe and their kids and their kids' spouses and boyfriends and even a grandchild in a huge manse about 10 steps from a nearly deserted beach. It is a great way to ignore the fact that my life is not the way I'd like it to be. I don't have a job and have scarcely few prospects at the moment. I miss half of my children's lives every year, and many milestones (because asking if I can participate is still an intrusion that sends Lars sailing over the edge of reason). I blinked and my grade schoolers were off to high school. And I have too much weight and not enough shoulder on a good day. I need a partner to share the load with.

While I am at the shore, enjoying the late afternoon sun on Caren and Joe's rented veranda, Lars texts me. "DID YOU KNOW THAT HIL IS HAVING PAINS IN HER SIDE NEAR HER KIDNEY?????????"

No, dumbass. She told me she was writhing in pain on the bathroom tiles but I chose to ignore it.

Against my strongest desire to send a blistering insult, I dial it back and send a tame reply that doesn't overtly suggest that he is a complete moron. He should know that without my saying, anyway.

"Yes, she's told me that she's had a twinge or two. My observations are that she is a little dehydrated, and that she is about to get her period. Period." I've been getting my period for 35 years. Her symptoms are the little trail of breadcrumbs your ovaries leave for you so you know exactly the path to misery.

He argues that he is worried that she could be suffering from the same condition that damaged her one kidney a few years ago. God forbid the other kidney should be affected the same way.

My God, how did this man get a medical license?

Without sounding screechy or preachy, I remind him that her first period was one month ago exactly. She has no idea what signs and symptoms to look for to predict the arrival of her Monthly Bill. And I remind him that the kidney problem she had experienced was the result of a birth defect. (And birth defects don't magically spring up at the age of 13.) And the hallmarks of that condition were fevers and infections. Not a twinge on her side where her ovaries reside. I suggest he give it a day or two and see if her period arrives. She has been profoundly bitchy. Her period is the most likely culprit. (Let's review our notes from Physical Diagnosis class, shall we? I remember how to rule in and rule out, do you?)

I leave the veranda to go to the kitchen. I return with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses. I sense that I am in for a bumpy night. Caren and I are going to have to brace ourselves.