Y'all be rich

Ian and I each got insulin pumps last year. We've talked about the $10,000 in pet bills. Then I paid $15,000 for the new HVAC downstairs. I got a $1300 standing desk to fix my body. And then I needed to replace my iMac at home for $4000. My budget is groaning under the strain of necessary purchases.

I looked for places I could update my spending to help me recover from all that. I paused my Roth IRA contribution, increased a payoff to suit me better, and looked at my life insurance.

I pay a lot for life insurance. Rich and I got a policy for me in October of 2014 for a million dollars. It was clear Rich was uninsurable and not going to live forever. If he died of cancer and I got hit by a bus the next week, it was going to take a lot of money to help Kim and Jack upend their lives to raise a five-year-old in another state.

But it's not 2014 anymore (man is it ever not 2014). Rich is gone. Shrop is here. Ian is nearly 12.

I told Shrop that I was paying a shit load of money every month for term life insurance just so he and Ian could go to Europe when I die. And that felt like bullshit. I want to go to Europe.

So we looked at our finances. And I called my financial advisor Jake. We decided not to 86 the term life insurance entirely but reduce it dramatically to $250,000. So instead of $302.88 a month, I'm going to pay $92.88 a month. And when I die, Shrop and Ian can get a toy hauler for their track cars. They have to airbrush my name on the side of it, though. I'm writing this down now so you all can hold them to it. "Genie's Magic Lamp" or something would be appropriate.

Sample toy hauler for Shrop and Ian upon my untimely demise

I had a lovely chat with David at USAA about my policy. His dad died of skin cancer when he was 12 years old. We talked about the importance of step-dads. We marveled about how we're all living and shit.

David informed me that their policies have changed recently and might get a better rate if I reapply. I reminded him that I'm a Type 1 diabetic. He told me that the research shows that the longer you have Type 1 diabetes, the less likely it will be the thing that kills you. That was encouraging, both to my sense of well-being and my wallet. If my application is approved, my monthly payment goes down to $81.04. I can pay for a sushi dinner each month to ensure that Shrop and Ian can throw money at problems if I leave this mortal coil unexpectedly.

My dad's mom had a small life insurance policy, just enough to bury her. She was a farm wife and had no real reportable income. When she was reaching the end of her life, she told my dad, "When I die, y'all be rich!" She didn't know the amount of her policy but just knew it existed and presumed her death could solve all the family's money problems. No one told her any differently.

My new policy doesn't kick in until October 17. So if I die in the next 11 days, y'all be rich.

Sample tombstone of “I was hoping for a pyramid”

Moving the mouse pad

Ian walked into the kitchen yesterday to ask me something while I was making lunch and on the phone. He wanted something from me. I sent him away abruptly. I even started to complain to him that I never see him except when he needs something but paused that thought, which is good because it's not true; it just feels that way.

He had malware on his computer and needed help removing it. I agreed to do it after my lunch call. I removed it pretty easily (it was one of the simpler ones to uninstall) and went back downstairs. As I was sitting at my desk, I heart a weird wailing noise. Ian sent a text, "Can you please come up here?" I assumed he was playing a game and needed more tech support, but I trudged up the stairs.

When I walked into his room, Ian was sobbing. I looked for blood, dead pets, broken windows, anything that might give a hint as to what was wrong. I tried to ask him why he was crying, but the words that came out were unrecognizable. The only thing I could pick out was, " ... I've messed everything all up ..."

I took off my shoes, turned out the lights, and escorted him to the bed. We curled up while he continued to cry into my armpit. I stroked his hair. After several minutes, I managed to learn that all this upset was because when I came upstairs to fix his computer, I moved things so I could type. "It took me a really long time to get the mouse pad where I liked it, and now I can't get it back to how it used to be, and it will never be the same. My headset fell when you were at my desk, and the microphone moved, and I'm not sure I can get it back to where it was. And I accidentally hit a button on the computer, so the lights are no longer rainbow; they're only red."

Whew. I could tell Ian he was acting ridiculous about the computer. But something told me it wasn't about the mouse pad. It's about things never being like they were before, and that honestly feels like a legit reason to lose one's cool for a bit.

I told him that his tear-filled report didn't sound like anything was ruined. We could fix all of that with enough time and effort, possibly even making it better than it was before. We can make a little computer stand to put next to his desk and give him more room but still allow him to see the rainbow colors inside the computer tower. We can rearrange the headset so it won't fall. We can try out some new mousepad scenarios. The first step, though, was for him to manage his emotions so he wouldn't fall apart during the solution portion.

We cuddled and sat for a few more minutes until he was ready. I found the button that changes it back to rainbow colors (you have to press and hold it). We reattached the headset and scooted the monitor an inch or two to the left. The situation improved a bit.

Later that evening, as we were playing badminton, Ian thanked me for helping him. "I was stuck. I needed your help to get unstuck." I'm super proud of my kid for how emotionally honest he is. It's such a gift, particularly during a pandemic.

Honestly, I think many of us get stuck from time to time. My version of stuck is to rotate through the tasks of answering emails, cleaning something, and doing a PT exercise for my knee, trying to will my joint into full recovery. For some, stuck can look like barricading yourself in your room, internalizing everything that isn't perfect as your fault, or consuming endless hours of news. It could also involve throwing yourself into work or projects, sleeping either 4 hours a night or 15 hours a day, snapping at loved ones, or fantasizing about other lives you could have lived that might have been better during this global predicament.

All of those ways of being stuck are normal. We each have to find the best way to get un-stuck, hopefully with a little help from others here and there.

Empty hours during an epidemic

When Rich and I were dating way back in 2003, we had a term called "Empty Hours." We lived 100 miles from each other, and while we visited frequently, there was always a deadline for the end of each visit when one of us would have to leave. We had to save conversations for those in person time slots, make sure we did certain things together, and generally always be mindful of what we could fit in. The time together was always a bit frantic because we knew it would end soon, and we didn't want to waste it.

Rich and I did eventually get more Empty Hours as we moved into the same house, got married, worked at the same office, and had a kid together. Once the initial hubbub of his hospice calmed down, we again were able to have some empty hours together, even if he wasn't much of a conversationalist those last couple weeks.

Shrop and I have been discussing parenting and what's imperative to impart to one's child. There is a lot of quality and quantity to consider. The other day, I surmised that perhaps my father was so intense about sharing his principles, in part, because he was not with me very often compared to Mom. Daddy worked two jobs in addition to maintaining rental properties. We didn't have a lot of empty hours together. Shrop nodded and offered that perhaps it's also why he is so intense about wanting to share Very Important Things with Ian when he sees him. Shrop's not in the house all the time like I am. Most heartfelt moments can't be scheduled.

With the forced time together due to COVID-19, we have the opportunity for some Empty Hours. I've seen charts about how to keep kids learning and scheduled over the next several weeks. I saw posts with activities on Saturday and Sunday when it wouldn't even usually be a schoolday or workday. We could use some time to be with each other, without a schedule or a deadline.

Many of us are still working in addition to figuring out how to feed everyone, care for loved ones safely, and keep calm. The hours are not precisely "empty". And now is not the time to make sure we all excel at our jobs and studies. MIT changed all their courses to pass/fail this semester. Let's work on passing. If our schedules are less full, we may have more room to fill up our hearts. The people closest to us are now literally closest to us, and it would be great to enjoy that as much as we can without the worry of a deadline.