Inheriting the duck

Shortly before my grandpa died, I guess he went over a list of things with my Aunt Cindy, including items that he wanted dispersed to certain family members after he passed away. According to my aunt, Zoey was at the top of his list, and what was the #1 item on his mind, the most pressing thing he wanted to know would receive the proper home? The most annoying stuffed duck you've ever heard in your life--wackwackwackwack--all the damn time, whenever we visited. I don't remember Zoey particularly LOVING the duck, although I do remember my grandpa getting a kick out of the constant wackwackwackwack noise that he would play over and over for her. I asked several times if Cindy was SURE he wanted the duck to go to Zoey--wasn't it really baby Eli? Or Finley? Avelyn? ANYONE BUT MY CHILD?

But no. Cindy assures me it was Zoey.

See, the thing is, my grandpa believed in reincarnation. And I'm pretty sure he's coming back as that f***ing duck.

Which is the only thing that will ever prevent me from tossing it straight in to the Goodwill bin.

Well played, grandpa. Well played.

For the love of Papa

On Monday morning, after a really long and hard battle with COPD, my grandpa passed away.

This brought to a close two weeks of intensity, including many trips to the hospital, phone calls and status updates from my grandma, battles over hospice vs. no hospice, more battles to make sure grandpa was getting the morphine he needed to help him breathe and to ease his pain...basically, two very long weeks for our family. Because I am lucky enough to now live in town near my grandparents, I was honored to be on the frontlines every day--visiting the hospital, talking to doctors and nurses, and most importantly, spending plenty of time with grandpa in the last few weeks of his life.

The grandpa that I remember from my childhood was always loving but gruff--telling us, in a low voice, when we asked where Mom had wandered to "she went to poop and the hogs ate her". He always had a bag of popcorn stashed by his beat up brown chair that he knew we were sneaking from even when it was 10 minutes before dinner and Mom had told us no snacks, you'll ruin your dinner. He is the only person I've ever met who loved green olives sans martinis, and Spam--although he only ever tortured his own children with his Spam Creations, never his grandchildren.

And while he was gruff, and prone to more growling than talking, he turned to absolute mush when his great-grandchildren came on the scene. Here was the most stubborn, obstinate man who refused to cooperate with a majority of his medical care, being told by his two year old great-granddaughter 'Papa! Take your medicine! It makes you feel better!', and he was finally witnessed cracking a smile. Zoey absolutely loved her Papa, and has absolutely no clue what I'm talking about when I tell her that Papa is now in heaven, and that means we can't see him anymore.

Yesterday, she tromped in to the kitchen in full dress-up regalia, including purple plastic high heels, an inside-out pair of pajama pants acting as a scarf around her neck, red sunglasses, and a badly knit beanie on top of her head. She announced 'I'm weady to go see Papa now!'. Had Papa appeared to her in a dream and asked her to come visit dressed as a bag lady? I told her, again, that Papa is in heaven, we can't see him anymore...but she interrupted, annoyed, saying 'No Mommy! Just a yittle bit! I just want to see Papa for a yittle bit!'.

I know, Zoey. Me too. But I think I'd opt for more comfy shoes.

Allow me to introduce my husband...the doctor.

Setting: Our bedroom. Sunday night, the eve of Bryan's first day at his REAL job as a chiropractor!

Bryan: Hey, can you iron this shirt for me? And does this tie match the shirt and pants?

Me: Um, yeah. I think Stacy and Clinton would approve. But hey, is that a stain on the front of the pants?

Bryan: Oh. Yeah. Damn, I need some new clothes.

Me: I know. Here, I'll put Spray N Wash on them, but you have to pick new pants. And wait...give me that shirt. *sniff* Is this shirt even clean?

Bryan: Yeah. I mean, I think so. Why are you sniffing the armpits of my shirt?

Me: Because you have this HORRIBLE habit of thinking your shirts are clean, hanging them all sloppy back in the closet, when in reality they smell like you may or may not have died in them.

(walking to closet to further inspect shirt line-up)

(pulling out shirt after stinky shirt)

Me: Bryan! Seriously! Are ANY of your shirts clean?!?

Bryan: YES! Quit smelling all of them! Nobody will notice!

Me: Dude. You are a CHIROPRACTOR. You are going to have people routinely twisted into pretzel shapes with their FACE in your ARMPIT. You can not go to work smelling like this!

Bryan: Ugh, okay. This one is clean. And these pants. They're fine.

(starting to iron shirt)

Me: And while we're on the subject of a new wardrobe, let's be picking out some wrinkle free shirts and pants, okay? Because if you think I'm going to be ironing for you every night at 9:00? You're crazy. (Leaning down to more closely inspect shirt) Hey. This is covered in...cat hair? Bryan? ARE ANY OF YOUR CLOTHES CLEAN???

I am wondering if every doctor and his wife has had a similar conversation the night before he transitions from poor, starving college student to poor, starving doctor.

As I type this, Bryan and Zoey are at the Men's Wearhouse, getting Bryan fitted for some new pants. I sent Zoey to help him color coordinate, mainly because I myself didn't want to leave the house in my pajama pants. Stacy and Clinton? You're welcome.

Why it would be perfectly fine with me if my daughter turns out to be a lesbian

Bryan was gone at the gym this afternoon, which is typically no big deal, except that he was gone for FOUR HOURS. (Apparently GI Joes' Going-Out-Of-Business sale caught his eye on the way home. Again, whatever.) I called him and asked him to stop at the store, please, and pick up some broccoli.

45 minutes later, he walked in the back door carrying...nothing.

After a quick squinty-eyed glare, he caught on and walked right back out the door. I called after him to get some eggs.

20 minutes later, this is what he returned with:

Broccoli
Zucchini
2 bags of licorice
Multiple packages of batteries (?)
NO EGGS

This is the point where I began lecturing Zoey on how much better off in life she will be if she lands herself a nice wife, because women tend to have attention spans longer than those of gnats, and also tend to not get so distracted by the 2-for-1 licorice display that they forget one of the TWO items they are supposed to be picking up at the store.