“My MOM Has Fibromyalgia!”

My daughter made manager at her work a couple of days ago, after three years of taking food orders, working the grill (they make gourmet burgers) and every other menial task that comes with the job.

The kid has one hell of a work ethic, something that I’d struggled with in my early years. It took having her at age 22 to grow my ass up and do what was (mostly) right.

I can’t express just how proud of her I am. She’s done with classes for the summer, so at this very moment, she’s in her bed sleeping, probably dreaming of the day when she graduates from college and gets a “real” job.

A real job to her is one that doesn’t involve coming home smelling like grease.

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This is the first image you’ll find when you Google “smells like grease.”

She works with mostly males and from what I’ve gathered, some of them are real assholes.

This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.

They hired an 18-year-old boy who has fibromyalgia and he was having a bad day. According to my offspring, the guys began teasing him because of it. He was struggling hard to keep up with the physical challenges of working at an upscale fast food place and in the end, he asked to be sent home.

That really gave these imbeciles even more fuel to ridicule the suffering boy. This infuriated my daughter so much that eventually she lost her proverbial shit and went off on them.

“My MOM has fibromyalgia you *$@&!!” (I’ve never heard her swear, unless you count damn it once.)

I guess this info only gave them more to poke fun at, which seems to be just the way, doesn’t it?

My daughter said that she was so furious, she barely spoke to anyone for the rest of the shift. (This all happened before she got promoted to manager, otherwise the silent treatment wouldn’t have been prudent.)

“Aw, honey. That poor boy and he’s so young,” I said to her.

“I wanted to punch them. They just don’t understand, bunch of idiots.”

I felt three distinct emotions during this conversation:

  1. Empathy for the young man who has a whole lifetime ahead of him with the monster known as fibromyalgia.
  2. Anger at the people who were throwing shade at him. (What? Am I too old to use that expression?)
  3. Love, because she was ardently sticking up for the underdog and of course, for me, her mommy.

“Well, honey, most people don’t understand something unless it’s happening to them.”

“They all suck.”

Yeah, she had me there.

Only I would have said that they fucking suck.


When I attempt to do something that might cause me harm, my daughter tells me to be careful.

She also tells me not to fall, which is something that I do often enough to prompt her to say that in the first place.

Or she’ll just tell me to sit down, that she’ll do it.

And as stubborn as I am, I usually let her.

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My Little Miracle

My daughter is 21 years old today!

I became pregnant with her at that age, but I was 22 when she had to be delivered almost 6 weeks premature in order to save both of our lives. Labor was induced, but the whole ordeal lasted a total of 5 days, with me staying on the ICU maternity ward for 24 hour surveillance in case I started to stroke out or have a heart attack due to my sky-high blood pressure.

She’s my little miracle.


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B at 2 months and an extremely young me.


I remember the day that this photo was taken, my mom came over for a special photo shoot, which is why we’re both dressed up.

I’m taking her out to dinner and if she wants, I’ll buy her (her first) legal drink. I don’t think that she enjoys alcohol all that much, but you know, tradition and shit.

Happy birthday baby girl, I love you so much.

The agenda

I have an agenda a mile long.

One of these days I am going to start reading these books that I have acquired over the last year. I am going to start watching episodes of all of those interesting looking shows on Netflix. I am going to start on that writing project I have been putting off, or finally get to answering that email.

 I will sort through my old clothes that I never wear anymore. Maybe tomorrow, after my nap.

It keeps piling up, this agenda of mine. I am pleased I have the desire for all of these things, but once it comes to actually doing them, I procrastinate the hell out of it. Friends will ask me to do something, and I will forget. There are days when I can barely remember my name let alone promises I have made, and I try to explain that it should never be taken personally.

If my dog didn’t start doing her crazy dance, I would probably never let her go outside to do her business. Even she knows that I need reminded.

Lately when anyone talks to me, especially my daughter, I focus on their lips, in hopes that what they say will find a permanent crevice in my mind. I hate that I forget simple things, like how Baby B did on her English test, or if she packed herself some snacks for band practice. My role has changed considerably within the last year or so. I might not be working 10 hours days anymore, but I am a less available and reliable mother now. I am only thankful that she is almost 17 and doesn’t need my constant supervision.

It had been on my agenda all summer long to get her to a doctor for a check-up and also a therapist, because she had started having anxiety and stomach issues associated with it. I was so busy with my own journey that I left her needs in the dust.

Finally, it hit home last month. She needed me to do these things for her. I am still her mother, regardless of my own health and mental status. I got over myself and made her a doctor appointment. She is healthy, and was told to lay off the Dr. Pepper. She has been clean over a month now.

Then I set her up with a children’s therapist. She likes her and will see her twice a month, at the same time I talk to my own. I stay downstairs and she goes up.

I am glad she decided to corner me and ask for help.

I am sorry I had to make her ask, her blues eyes pleading with me to finally really listen to her.

She needs to remain the first on my agenda.