Tag Archives: mom

Petals on a Rose

The poem my mom asked for only days before her passing. She said, “You need to write a poem about not being able to fix petals falling off a rose.” Maybe she knew her time was short. I never got the chance to read it to her.

Petals on a Rose

moms roses2

Rose petals from mom’s casket spray in her favorite green vase

If you were here with me you would see
A million memories of us drifting free

The days we laughed and days we cried
The years we spent together side by side

Those days are now remnants on weary dreams
And yet I hear your voice in all I see

Your scent has left, but your smile not lost
Those days we owned were worth the cost

I want you back, but my heart now knows
You can’t put petals back on a rose

 

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN

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The Pee Factor

Its happened to us all; at least from the stories I’ve heard, but this is my story. So sit back and drink a tall cup of water while listening to the glorious sounds of water trickling down that little zen fountain . . .

It was a particularly warm day, even for a Southern California winter. The temperature in the High Desert was an astounding seventy-five degrees, which made me quite parched. I proceeded to drink two glasses of my alkaline water before hitting Baja Fresh for a taco and  more water before trekking down to Los Angeles. I ensured I had emptied my bladder before the trip, as having three kids has destroyed any competency to be able to hold more than a Dixie Cup full of liquid.

The drive to L.A. was rather nice. Great music played on the radio, the temperature continued to rise to a staggering eighty-four degrees–mid-February mind you. When I arrived at my daughter’s school I proceeded to use the bathroom again: a safety measure more than actually having to go. Once we were all set and ready to go, I felt confident that we would make it home without incident.

What I didn’t plan for was heavy traffic on–what I forgot–was a four day weekend and Valentine’s Day friday. It seemed every few miles there was a broken down car, vehicle accident, or unexplained jam up. The CHP was in full force, and all I could think was, “thank God, I went to the bathroom before getting on this mess.”

One hour later, and not much closer to home, my belly began to fill full. Damn! I knew the feeling and knew it wasn’t good. I began to drive a bit more defensively and maneuver around traffic. This didn’t help with progression, but I was still okay so long as traffic eventually opened up. There was a light coming into view: my transition freeway was just up ahead and meant only thirty minutes to home. I was excited since my belly was now bulging over my low rise pants and a sharp pain was stinging at my side.

Of course, life isn’t always fair. A motorcycle accident occurred and slowed the on ramp. My phone rang with my oldest son scolding me for being late, as he had to get to school. Deja vu! I yelled back, a quick reflex from the urine burning in my bladder. I had no tolerance as sweat began to bead on my forehead. There was an exit up ahead, but I couldn’t get over in time to make it. The next exit was blocked with yet another accident, and I gazed up the long stretch of highway that split straight up  the San Bernardino Forrest. I was in for the long haul.

We inched our way up, and noted it was three hours passed the time I originally realized I had to pee. Urine began to bead on my brow as sweat. It was now looking for any avenue out of my system, and my heart began to race at the prospect of having to pee in my pants. My eyes searched the van for anything that would afford me the opportunity to pee in, but all I found was a small bowl from the Baskin Robbins and a water bottle. I knew I wouldn’t hit the small targeted opening of the water bottle, and the small bowl wasn’t going to cut it either. I figured I could pee in the bowl, stop mid pee, and then empty the contents into the water bottle, and rinse and repeat, but I passed at the thought,knowing home was only fifteen minutes away–in theory.

Another accident! I made some evasive move and swerved around the cruel vehicles, all the while noting the look on the woman’s face as she exited her vehicle; looked like she had to pee too!

Finally! I made it out of the dreaded snail race only to hit a stop sign. For real? When did that stop sign get there? I got passed that and hit my second stop sign, and I recall feeling like my body was ready to shrivel up and go fetal. The pain in  my side soon felt like a thousand double serrated daggers were digging into my flanks, while some alien being was reaching into my bladder and filling it with more fluid; a torturous burning, acidic fluid!

Next came the train tracks and the warning to slow to 35 MPH. But my brain was starting to turn on me, and before hitting the tracks I saw a fluffy jackalope taunting me. There was no slowing down! I hit the gas and yelled for the kid to hold on tight as the van put the General Lee to shame in its plight to reach new launching heights. The landing was rough and caused the fluid in my belly to press harder into its full line sensors.

Another stop sign! Is that three? Was that there? Oh my God! Is that a detour? I was detoured and trying to see passed the yellow fluid that had now risen to my eyeballs caused me to turn into the wrong lane. Some smart guy had moved the detour sign to point into oncoming traffic but I had to pee so a game of chicken ensued until I was able to get back into my lane through the cone. I looked in my rearview mirror to see others had also made the wrong turn. All the while, outside my driver’s side window the jackalope continued to taunt me.

Stop sign number four came and I felt a California roll was in order. I prayed there was no cop, knowing peeing in my pants would either get me put in jail or placed on a psychiatric hold. Petal to the metal, I hit the last stop sign and came to a complete stop, knowing home was only feet away. I made the left and California drifted a VW Routtan family van onto my small cul-de-sac while yelling at my daughter, “when the doors open, you run out. You run like the wind because mamma has to pee and she isn’t waiting for stragglers.”

Sure enough, we skid into the driveway, and I hit park, shut off engine, and her sliding door all at once. I yelled, “Go! Go! Go! This isn’t a drill. We are at defcon Yellow!” Of course she fell behind, conveniently distracted by some cuddly cute domestic. And I ran through the door, legs crossed the entire way, holding my nether regions like some Michael Jackson music video, bypassing hugs and hellos, straight to the sweet bladder salvation of the toilet. Except, by that point, I had to go so bad that my bladder quit on me and decided to punish me by holding out–or holding in. I cried a little. Then the strain and spasms of peeing came forth and my tears flowed just a little easier.

“Thank you, Jesus,” escaped my lips as a micro tremor of relief coursed through each nerve. So the next time I drive down to L.A.–next Friday–I will ensure there is a large bucket in which to pee, and I will not drink anything prior to my trip–or maybe the day before. Now to find out where those domestics took my daughter to…

Tania L Ramos, RN and Author with the World’s Smallest Bladder!

Maybe this will help

shewee

Influences We Are

I try and write on a daily basis, but this last week has been about as crazy as any. Then I did an iOS update to the iPad which wiped out four chapters of my scifi book. I didn’t complain, I put it on my things to panic over right after a crappy paycheck because I was sick and missed 24 hrs of work, after burst a pool pipe, after a car accident, but before unpaid bills.  See the priorities there?

The person who did have the biggest fit I have ever seen was my daughter who uses my writer pad app to jot down words.  I was unaware of her “future” book she had saved on there.  The kid is five yrs old  mind you.  So she told me (demanded?) that I sit at the computer to write her story again.

So I sat down and wrote it out for her verbatim.  I must say this: The kid is talented. Not only can she draw like a champ, but the kid has serious imagination. And not only does she have a creepy imagination (I’m so proud), but she gave her story a beginning, middle, climax, and cliffhanger end. She left it open for the “part two,” in her own words. Then she says, “Now put it on the internet and tell me my level (rank).”

Tear.

JORJA’S STORY: The Monster in the Window (copyright 2013, reproduced with permission from the author. yeah, I did ask.)

There were two kids, a boy and a girl, brother and sister. His name is River and her name is Jorja.  They were sleeping and it was dark, so they didn’t see the monster come into the window.  River heard a noise and woke-up his sister and they ran out of the house. Far away from the monster.  They got lost in the woods and cried, but they had each other so they were okay and ate berries.

Years later the mom, her name was Tania was had another kid.  When he turned 9 years-old, she tied him to the bed. He cried because he did not want to be tied to the bed, but she told him, “I am keeping you safe from the monster so he won’t take you.”

“What monster,” he said.

“The one that took your first brother and sister,” she said.

He told her to let him have one more day without being tied up, so she let him. That night he ran away to find his brother and sister.  He found them in the woods and they were still little kids.  The three of them found the monster and vanquished him [yeah, her word not mine]. They went back home to their mommy and she was crying.

“Don’t be sad,” River said.  “We are now home.”

She gave them a big hug, but she thought she saw a shadow moving outside the window.

****************************************************************

That was my daughter’s story. It was all her and those were her words.  Despite the fact that she used a little author intrusion, I think it was brilliant.  I told her I would publish it to my blog and she could follow her rank here. 😉

Jorja's 1st attempt at art (age 5)

Jorja’s 1st attempt at art (age 5)

The moral of the bigger picture is this: Influences we are! What are you teaching those that watch you even when you think they are watching Spongebob?

 

 

 

 

 

Tania L Ramos

Facebook.com/TaniaLRAmosbooks

I Have Ants In My Pants: 4 yr olds & metaphors

Try telling that to a four going on five-year-0ld.  She immediately proceeded to jump up and about and swat at me like my life depended on it, because in her wonderful, glimmering, still hopeful hazel eyes I was being consumed by fire ants and was nearing the end of my life.  Her words not mine.  Well I alliterated, her words were, “Get them off! Get them off! If they eat you they will drag you into their fire ant hole and you will die!”  She said that while jumping higher than our cats and beating at my legs (and she hits pretty hard).  At one point she decided to dig a little deep and get into a perfectly cute zone of inner-being and let out a confounded, “hiyah!” Karate never looked so hilarious, and had there been actual ants in my pants, I’m sure they would have surrendered at her sheer determination alone.

I later (not too much later, I did say she hit hard), had to explain what ants in my pants meant; not to be confused with a bee in my bonnet (not that anyone under the age of 30 would even know what a bonnet was).  So I explained that it was a term used when someone was feeling anxious about something.  Anxious=waiting on pins and needles –> “You’re standing on pins and needles.  Does it hurt?” Okay, let me clarify, AND stop using metaphors to a four-year-old (who, I suspect at this point, is simply yanking my chain <— metaphor, and was intently bashing my leg for pure enjoyment).

Anxious=mommy waiting for her book to come out any day now, but not knowing when that is.

Jorja: when I get anxious I have to stop and count to ten.  Just count to ten mom, and stop saying you have ants in your pants.

Me: that is easier said than done

Jorja; No! If you just do it then it is easier done than said.

Me: (thinking I’m going to pay out serious money for this child’s law degree).  You don’t understand how nervous I am and I’m not getting into another metaphor match so you can misconstrue that too.

Jorja; I don;t know what misconscrew means and why you have a screw, but you’re being silly.

Me: I’m silly because I’m nervous about my book? I’m just afraid nobody will like it.

Jorja: (huge sigh, tugging on her eyes at lack of being able to instill any wisdom into mommy) OMG! You drive me nuts.  Now I have ants in my pants.

AND THAT IS HOW YOU TEACH CHILDREN ABOUT METAPHORS.