I'll Take a C-section and 2 Chicken Soft Tacos To Go, Please

Recently I was watching a reality show with SM. It was about a highly pregnant celebrity preparing to give birth by C-section. We watched in silence as the mother-to-be tried to come to terms with the impending surgery and birth and deal with her fears and anxieties. Since I've had 2 C-sections of my own, I nodded in sympathy as the lady sobbed on her husband's shoulder while he did his best to talk her off the ledge, in soothing, loving tones. Memories began parading through my mind, and I wound up railing at SM in that You-Know-What's-Wrong-With-This-World direction which always terminates in And-It's-All-Your-Fault.

"You just can't understand what's so surreal with the whole C-section experience," I said. "It's different from other surgeries. When you have your other body parts operated on, your entire responsibility in the operation ends when you hear, 'Now count backwards from 100, dearie', but in a C-section, you're there for the whole kit 'n' caboodle. First of all, you have to walk yourself to the operating room. That's like being a kid in trouble and your mom or dad telling you to go outside and pick your own switch. Then there's the whole epidural-trust issue. They tell you you won't feel a thing, but there's no perceptible change to let you know it's kicked in. You lay there like a trussed-up deer carcass wondering if the darn thing will really work. You're completely strapped down, and the only thing you can do is move your head from side to side. You can't see a thing because there's a surgical drape 5 inches from your nose, blocking your view. You imagine the doctor making the first slice and you levitating straight up like the Starship Enterprise. You watch your blood pressure on the monitor rise like Krakatoa getting ready to blow and wonder irritably why people keep telling you to calm down. Then you suddenly realize that the doctor's been in your abdomen for the last ten minutes. Hey, it really did work! No pain. Sweet hallelujah. (Although soon the uterus realizes what's happening and fights back. You DO get contractions. Crap.) And if that's not surreal enough for you, this terrifying, exciting, momentous, life-altering, thrilling milestone in your life is simply something to fill in the time between breakfast and lunch for the surgical staff. It's the biggest brick wall of your life, and for the staff it's another day, another dollar. You are among strangers, and unless your husband allows you to reach through his nose down to his kidney and yank it out, all that I'm-right-here-with-you crap is just going to make you mad. You are told by calm, professional people, in all seriousness, that you must walk through this brick wall in your life, and they see nothing strange about it. They've probably done it 6 times already that day, and the brick wall is very transparent to them. So you, laying spread-eagled and utterly helpless, are looking at them in bewildered disbelief, and they're talking about what to get for lunch. 'So I hear they opened up a new Taco Bell down the street. Wanna go after we wrap this lady up? Whoa, buddy, watch out for that liver! She's only got one. Hey, check this out - I can make her belly button poke in, poke out, poke in, poke out' (appreciative laughter from staff).

So then, after interminable minutes of sweating it out and mentally cursing, you hear your child's cry. It's the one thing that's kept you going, the light at the end of the tunnel. And you made it! You lived! And the epidural's still going! Yay! You're a mother! So you do what any sensible woman does, and you burst into tears. Your baby in all her wrinkled glory is brought to you and she glares at you for interrupting her in-utero naptime and plunging her into blinding daylight. You cry some more, because now you feel guilty right out of the gates, you're already a failure, and this is when your husband tells you he's so proud and that you will be a great mom. You want desperately to hit him, but he's holding the baby and has moved out of reach. You're wheeled to recovery, and for the next three days any attempt to get out of bed will, you are convinced, make all your intestines fall out. You devise clever ways of maneuvering in and out of bed when you go to the bathroom, and countless people show abnormal and unembarrassed interest in how long it takes you to poop and fart. All throughout pregnancy and delivery you've nursed the theory that this is all your husband's fault, and by this time you are well and truly convinced you are right, it is all his fault. However, you're in no position to chase him down and pound him for it. Once you have begun to deal with that disappointment, the baby blues slam into your psyche with all the fury of a hurricane. No one remembers anything about your C-section by now, except you. You, of course, will carry these memories to the grave, but to everyone else you were just one of many in the procession. You feel wretched. You have done the equivalent of crossing the Alps on an elephant, or at least looking like an elephant crossing the Alps. You want to relive the highs, the lows, and fully savor the victory, but no dice. It's over. Next chapter: how to stop your boobs from feeling like red-hot bricks hanging from your body, how to exist on 3 minutes of sleep a day, and how to get breastmilk stains out of everything you own."

And that, I told SM coldly, is why..."IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT."

You'd Think I'd Be Over This By Now

I haven't written a post in a few days because nothing has really happened that seemed noteworthy. But Sophie, in a burst of support and inspiration, delivered with the goods and now I have LOTS to write about.

I get my best writing ideas when I'm sick, tired, hurt, or taking care of someone who's sick, tired, or hurt. Sophie got sinusitis late last week, and while technically she was sick, it wasn't enough to write about. Not here in the South, where everybody and their brother get sinusitis. But then, today, after church when the kids were upstairs changing clothes and SM and I were downstairs getting dinner ready, Sophie changed everything. She came downstairs, tripped on her jean cuffs, and fell down the last three steps, hitting her nose, biting her lip, and spouting blood like there's no tomorrow. SM and I took about a fraction of a second to try to interpret the thuds and slamming sounds before leaving skid marks to see who just broke their neck. Rounding the corner, we saw Sophie throw back her head and howl and scream as red went everywhere. SM and I leaped into action, getting wet paper towels and checking to make sure bones or teeth weren't broken. It was one of those Laurel-and-Hardy moments when we were bumping into each other in the foyer. Every time he'd have a bright idea of something to get, I'd say "No, we don't need that" and every time I'd think of something to get, he'd already be coming down the hall with it. Just imagine two bulls in a very small china shop. We were trying so hard not to panic but the sheer amount of blood pouring out of Sophie's face was pretty frightening. We ran back and forth for a few minutes, getting one wet paper towel after another to sop it all up, before it finally occured to us to simply sacrifice a big, clean kitchen towel and put it up to Sophie's face, allowing us time to get her into a chair so that we could fully see the damage.

**deep breath**

You know, I've used Lamaze so much more after delivery than during...it's really very helpful...

So things gradually start to calm down. As dinner was about to boil over on the stove, I sent SM to deal with it while I examined Sophie. The blood flow began to slow down. I gently cleaned her face and hands and was able to see that no teeth were loose and her nose wasn't broken. I had Sophie count slowly and take some deep breaths. I even made a little joke or two that made her laugh and relax. And then it happened. Oh, yes. It came on like a runaway semi. I felt my head start to swim and my stomach start to rise. I handed Sophie the wet rag and casually went upstairs where I stripped off my Sunday clothes at lightning speed, asked SM for a can of ginger ale, and sat down with my head between my knees.

Why is it I can handle a dire emergency but fall apart like a weak kitten when things are actually improving? What's that all about?

When I was in college I was a flag instructor at band camp for a local high school. During the camp a student fell down the dorm stairs and hurt her knee. Since I was an instructor and a female, that qualified me as a responsible adult (HA!) and I rode with her in the ambulance. At the hospital I paced up and down the hallway while the student waited in an exam room. Over the loudspeaker I heard that another ambulance was coming in with a chainsaw accident victim. *Yuk* Before I could move out of the way, they rolled the guy in and I saw exactly what a chainsaw accident injury looks like, complete with orderly mopping up the blood behind the gurney as it rolls down the hall. (I wouldn't recommend it, in case you're wondering.) So I got a full-frontal view of a very horrible sight, but I was perfectly fine. No faintness, no queasiness...nothing. I was just fine. Then I wandered in to check on the student again, took one look at her swollen knee, and just about tossed my cookies and passed out.

So no wonder that I had to get away from Sophie and her bloody nose. I couldn't even eat dinner with her at the same table. It was too much. Every time I walked near her I felt my brain begin to slide right out of my body, and I'd have to go sit down again. To keep her from taking it personally I said, "Do me a favor...don't do that to Mommy again, ok?" and she laughed. She knows me so well. While I appreciate her sacrifice so that I would have a blog entry today, I told her it's really not necessary to try quite so hard. She could take the rest of the day off. Now I just have to pray she doesn't get a black eye. Try explaining THAT to her school tomorrow. Especially when she says she got it "falling down the stairs". That's like "I walked into a door." I don't think it's going to go over well. Wish me luck.

There's Just Not A Title Weird Enough For This

I'm not into conspiracy theories but if I were, I'd say there's a conspiracy afoot that's bigger than Area 51. I am, of course, talking about the superbly organized secret society of kids. Specifically, Weird Things Kids Do and Say That Make You Go, "Huh?"

Why do little boys have this terrible fascination with poop and pee? Sam's latest thing is singing every preschool song he knows, but using the words "poop" and "pee" instead of the normal lyrics. Why is this? Now, I would imagine that it's the shock factor. He likes getting a rise out of me. But he does it even when I'm not paying attention, and he tickles himself to pieces doing it. He just likes saying "poop" and "pee". What is that about?

Tonight Sophie asked me, out of the blue, if God ever gets the hiccups. ???? How would I know? I just looked at her in consternation. And of course it made me wonder, does He burp? Does He trip over things? Does He forget where He put His chariot keys? When He calls for one of the angels, does He go through every name in the book until He finally gets to the one He wants? Can you just imagine? "Mich-Gabr-HEY YOU!" Wonder if God does that. So now I've got this whole line of thought that I can't get rid of, while Sophie, having delivered her payload of confusion, happily goes to bed and forgets she ever asked me a question. Doesn't that just smack of conspiracy to you? I tell you, the CIA has NOTHING on kids and their left-field maneuvers. And don't think, just because these are the only two examples I've got tonight, that this is it. Oh, no. These kids have confounded me lots of times, and they specialize in tag-teaming each other. Just when I come down from one messy thing with one kid, the other one leaps in and takes over. It's wrestling at its finest, and I'm sorry to say I'm losing.

Well, this is a short one tonight but it's the best I could do. They have their little club and I'd love to know the secret handshake.

Sambo

I wrote this in 2007. After coming home full-time, I was amazed and deeply moved at how much the relationship between me and Sam (then two years old) had improved beyond all measure. The bonding that you would expect between a mother and her baby took a little longer with us, and when it finally happened it took my breath away. I've been in love with my little Sambo ever since, if you can't tell from the poem! : )

Sambo

There is a peculiar creature
Who lives in my own house.
A quixotic imp with such a zest
Many rivers cannot douse.

This wonder of mine,
This tale of mine,
Is my special secret,
This secret of all time.

You see, I have a Sambo,
As marvelous as can be,
Like the legends told by Scheherezade,
A Sambo is a sight to see.

What? You know not a Sambo?
You know a Sam, a Sammy, and a Samuel, too,
But not the legendary Sambo?
Then come close and let me tell you.

A Sambo, you must know first,
Has a spirit, flaming tall
You’d think he was a giant,
Standing astride the general sprawl.

He is brave, oh fearsomely brave,
And his wrath is awful to behold,
His eyes narrowed in righteous fury,
The king’s right makes him bold.

This giant among men is not all war,
He is a music Muse, too.
Wooing hearts with dance and song
And laughter, ‘til you’re blue.

And just when you think you’ve got the measure
Of this extraordinary giant of mine,
I must mold this image even further,
And force you to redesign.

You see, this worthy, high-sounding giant,
He loves to play and tease,
He tickles, squeals, runs and hides,
And looks behind to see if he pleased.

I can’t forget to tell you,
He’s inquisitive, canny, and swift.
His mind will untie any knot you bind,
And he’ll do it in very short shrift.

So what think you now
Of this secret of mine,
This Sambo in my house,
This wonder of body and mind?

Think you a fantasy,
A figment in my brain?
An impossible glue of elements,
Not practically explained?

Let me tell you, then,
You know not what you say.
For my Sambo is real,
And I can prove it. Listen, I pray:

For my Sambo is a little boy,
Tall in heart and mind,
But small in fingers and nose,
And tiny in feet and behind.

He is a man in the making,
A king for miles around.
But tonight he’ll sleep in my arms,
My Sambo, a wonder unbound.

Now Where Did I Leave That House…

I wrote this over three years ago when we first moved to a new city, so the age references are a bit off. Use your imagination.

Now Where Did I Leave That House…

We moved a few months ago, and I swear: ever since then it’s been like living in the Twilight Zone. I mean, more so than usual. We moved only an hour and a half from our old home, but it feels like Mars sometimes. What makes it really confusing is that I used to live here, back before fire was discovered. So, some things I remember and other things are brand new. Very surreal, if you know what I mean. One minute I’m cruising along a familiar road, then I make a left and spend the next three hours wandering in confusion and figuring out how long the juice box and graham crackers in Sam’s diaper bag can last three people.
We moved into a rental house on a Friday in January. Three days later, Sam exhibited moving-day blues in a really spectacular way, by spiking a 105 degree fever and earning himself a trip to the local ER. This child, who never a day in his life was affected by Tylenol, was given said drug by the ER nurses over my protests that it was useless. The nurses smiled just a little condescendingly at me while they coo’d at Sam and coaxed him to sip the medicine. He, in turn, groaned pitifully and looked at them as if to say, “I…[gasp]…asked her to…[gasp]…give it to me, but…[groooooaaaaannnn]…she wouldn’t do it…” and then in one hour flat his fever broke. Now, I ask you: what self-respecting mother wouldn’t feel like scum incarnate if all she’d had to do was give Tylenol instead of GOING TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM??? I could NOT believe it. I just kept repeating, “It’s never worked before…I promise, it has never, ever, in his whole life, ever worked before…what did you give him? Was it special NASA Tylenol or something?” One nurse, trying to make me feel better, said that they’d probably given him more than I normally did, because of the extreme situation. Uh-huh. Right.

So that was the first weekend.

The following weekend we were scheduled to get satellite TV installed. This was serious cause for celebration; the house was wired for cable (which was disconnected after the last tenant left), and so regular network TV didn’t work. We couldn’t find the box with all the DVD’s and videos, so all I and both children had to watch for one week straight were two DVD’s we got from Walmart. It was incredibly cold that week, so we had to stay indoors, and with Sam still sick, we were homebound.
We got really, really sick of those two DVD’s.
By Thursday Sam was well enough that we risked a little trip to the zoo. I bought a poster for Sophie so that she could start decorating her room. Of all the available posters at the zoo, showing pretty parrots, stately giraffes, cuddly koalas, etc., the poster she wanted most was of a deep black, menacing panther staring hungrily at the camera. Well…OK. If she can sleep with that thing staring at her, so be it. So we got home and I mounted the poster on her wall.
Friday came, and with it, the satellite installation guy. Remember, we were three people on a serious cabin fever trip. We were desperate for any deviation from these two DVD’s. The installation guy came in the house; Sam took one look at him and, throwing his arms open wide, flung himself at the guy’s knees and hung on for dear life. Sophie began bouncing up and down like a kangaroo wired to a generator, and shrieked, “WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME UP TO MY ROOM AND SEE MY BLACK PANTHER POSTER?”
Did I mention that the gentleman in question was black?
I’ve never seen a serviceman work so quickly…and peel out so quickly, too, for that matter.

That was the second weekend.

By the end of January, each child had been sick two times and I had been sick one time. Thank heavens, SM, who was now the only breadwinner in the family, stayed relatively healthy. He kept looking at us strangely and shaking his head slowly. I don’t think he’d ever seen such pestilence so up close in his life. We learned monk-like patience and endurance from that first month.

Then my son decided he would stop eating. Forever.

Now, let me back up just a moment and give some details here. Before we moved, I worked outside the home. SM got a job opportunity in this new city that enabled me to not only come home, but also to homeschool our daughter. I was really looking forward to both these changes. Sam had had more babysitters in his short little life than a whole daycare, and he had always had problems with his feedings as a result. It was just a matter of inconsistency, I told myself. Get him with one person long enough and things will smooth out. Yes, I discovered later, that one person is me and my brain waves are now so smooth they are flat lines. You see, while inconsistency between babysitters was an issue, it was not the primary issue. HIS MOUNT EVEREST OF STUBBORNESS was the primary issue. Oh, yes. Sam is stubborn. He is the epitome of “cut off your own nose to spite your face”. My lovely, sweet little boy is the most stubborn thing on two legs. He drove off one babysitter (an experienced mother of two) after only three days because he would not eat the entire time she watched him and it unnerved her to the point of hysteria. I’m a highly stubborn person, and this child who isn’t even two years old yet was beating me into the ground. Sam is normally an easy-going fellow, but when it comes to eating, he’s Attilla the Hun. It’s a game, and he is the umpire. I thought that was supposed to be my job, but I have been assured that the dinner table is the number one battleground between toddlers and parents, and we parents really don’t ever win. After three months of intensive head-butting togetherness (along with many tears and one hysterical conference with the new pediatrician) I figured out just a few rules of the Eating Game:

1. Do not feed the child unless he is bawling and hugging the refrigerator. Cruel, you may say, but if I give him food one second before that, it will absolutely be rejected. And as we all know, a toddler’s style of rejection usually means food getting smeared on something important, expensive, and uncleanable.
2. Do not simply assign a food by plunking it down on a plate and walking off (always a dicey proposition in any case). Offer a choice between two foods. I don’t care if you assign roast chicken, herbed vegetables, and Baked Alaska: it will be rejected, period, to the tune of outraged howling. On the other hand, if I offer a choice between two foods, no matter how nasty, it will light up Sam's life because HE gets to decide something about his future, and that’s a Big Deal. I could offer a choice between mud and spackling, and it would still make him happy. Go figure.
3. DO NOT LOOK AT THE CHILD WHEN HE IS EATING. This acknowledges that he has temporarily capitulated, or at least come to a mutual understanding with you, and that is too much for his fragile ego to handle. If our eyes meet while he is in the act of eating, he will hurl the food down, gag on whatever’s in his mouth, lay his head on the table, and sob for all he’s worth. It just doesn’t pay to look at him.

Throughout this ordeal, everyone assured me that “when he’s hungry, he’ll eat.” Well, maybe that works on Planet Earth, but Sam obviously flew in from somewhere else. No one would believe me when I said, “No, he won’t, because he’s gone days existing on nothing but juice and milk.” See, this is what confused me: I have to give him liquid to keep him hydrated, but this same liquid would keep him full and ultimately sabotage my feeding efforts. It was a Catch-22. I went to the pediatrician and begged for enlightenment. He said that while it was theoretically POSSIBLE that my son had some sort of physical issue that prevented him from wanting to eat, he thought it was just…STUBBORNESS. And, oh, yeah, “he’ll eat when he’s hungry.” That’ll be $25, ch-ching!

I tried everything. I tried being mean. I tried being sweet. I tried being tough. I tried nonchalance. I tried schedules. I tried spontaneity. I tried pretty-colored food. I tried bribery. I tried everything in a loving parent’s arsenal, and nothing worked. One day, after a particularly bad morning’s attempt to get him to eat breakfast, I dropped Sam off at Mommy’s Morning Out and sobbed on the shoulders of the preschool director and Sam's teacher. I was flat out of ideas, and I was being beaten by a one-year old. The only foods he would reliably eat every time were yogurt and cheese puffs, neither of which constitute a complete diet. I was convinced he would be 18 and still eating yogurt and cheese puffs. I poured out my sorrows to the ladies in the preschool, and they listened, patted my shoulder, and comforted me. One of them mentioned the “give him a choice” method. That sounded interesting. That was the day of the pediatrician’s appointment. After the appointment we stopped by Burger King, where, inexplicably, Sam ATE TWO WHOLE CHICKEN FRIES. I was stunned. He looked at me as if to say, “What?”
The next morning I offered him a choice between a breakfast bar and a pop tart. He goggled at his choices, and leaped for the pop tart. A moment later he had eaten 2/3 of it. I stood in amazement, truly thunderstruck. It was like being given the key to a locked door.

So those were the first three months.

Meanwhile, as a sort of segue between acts, Sophie was doing her part to keep things interesting. Occasionally she would say something entertaining, shocking, and/or barbarically humiliating. One day, out of the blue, she asked me, “Mommy, which of these is OK to say: damn, darn, or rats?” I was silent, kind of shattered by this, and thought hard and quickly. I’d always told her that if she wasn’t sure if a word was bad, she could ask me about it and never get in trouble over it. So, I gave my answer. “Well, honey, you shouldn’t say ‘damn’ unless it’s in the Biblical sense and there are responsible adults around. Even then, you should probably avoid it. If you feel you must, you may use it, but only when you’re grown up and out of my hearing. I’d prefer you didn’t say ‘darn’ because it’s too close to ‘damn’ and it just doesn’t sound pretty coming out of your mouth. It’s not nearly as bad as ‘damn’, but still…and you can always say rats, phooey, drat, etc. Does that help?” Her question answered satisfactorily, she perked up and ran off, leaving me in the dust and pondering the teenage years in my future.

Then there was her performance yesterday. We were in the car, talking about something, and I answered a question of hers by saying, “Just a little bit.” Without hesitation she launched into the “My Fair Lady” song, but with a marvelous bit of childish mistaken identity: “Just a li’le bi’, just a li’le bi’, just a li’le bi’ o’ burning duck!” I laughed so hard I almost wrecked the car.

Then there was our entrance to our new church. Shortly after we arrived, the kids’ ministry decided it was going to redecorate its area of the church (not our fault). The powers that be declared one wall available for the kids to write and draw on, and provided lots of magic markers. Sophie, eager to impress her new church friends with her artistic prowess, drew a picture of our dog with an arrow pointing to his behind with the word, “Pee” written in big, black letters.

Maybe we can try the Presbyterian church on the other side of town. I bet they haven’t heard of us yet.

Sam has learned some new things since we’ve moved. He discovered toilet paper the other day. He touched it gently and inquisitively, just in case it bites or something, and looked at me to make sure I didn't tell him "no". I just watched him. He touched it again. It was squishy. It was soft. He began poking it in earnest. That made it roll a little. His eyes widened. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, and at least I could set some boundaries if I was here to see it. So, I just sighed and let him figure it out. He made it roll a little more, and then began pulling the loose end and walking away with it. A big grin started stretching across his face. Next thing I knew, he said, "Oh, woooooow" and then: "Like dat!"

We are in so much trouble. The bathroom will never be the same.

He has also learned that farting makes people laugh (at least when the fartee is a toddler); he has learned how to turn on the keyboard, turn up the volume, start the demo song, dance like it’s 1999, and feign ignorance when I tell him to turn it off. I never knew toddlers could get down and boogie like that.

Since moving here we have thrust ourselves into a new world, chock-full of strange and wondrous experiences. We have contributed mightily to the local economy via Wal-Mart; we have been to the local pharmacy at least twice, and frequently three, times a week since moving. We live near both railroad tracks and chickens. Whichever one doesn’t wake us up, the other will surely do so. By the way, did you know that roosters crow all day long? I hate those birds. They are completely unpenned, and roam freely all day long. They used to roam in our yard until SM and our pony-sized dog came around the corner and surprised them one morning. SM says he figured Prince improved the chicken’s reflexes by 120%, but I think that’s an exaggeration. It couldn’t have been more than 115%. At any rate, except for the crowing, they leave us alone now.

It’s still taking some getting used to, this driving up to a different house. Often I stop what I’m doing and wonder what’s going on in our old neighborhood. It’s a little sad to me; we lived in a truly lovely, gracious old Southern town that was beautiful in more ways than I can count. The only thing more beautiful than the flowers were the people, and we have so many friends we miss. But, as we like to say, gas isn’t ten dollars a gallon (yet), and there’s no brick wall on the interstate. And there’s always snail mail and email and Ma Bell. There ARE ways to keep in touch. It’s just not the same. A new acquaintance recently said, with a remarkable amount of perception, “There’s often a certain amount of grief associated with moving, especially if you loved the place you just moved from.” How right he is. I expect to see certain landmarks as I drive around, and it jerks me back to reality when I round a corner and don’t see them. I guess that’s what I get for driving on autopilot, eh?

Valuable Lessons, Free From Me to You

Dawn dish detergent is the best for getting Vaseline out of hair. Go ahead. Ask me how I know.

Surprisingly, cats do not like being licked by anything other than another cat.

Don't ever tell your child it's time for a nap. Just get them fed, bathroomed, and cozy on the couch, and let nature take its course. They'll never know what hit 'em.

The best toys are usually packing materials.

A white cat, given an entire king-size bed on which to sleep, will always lie on the black pants set out for that day’s work outfit.

Given a choice between vinyl tile and carpet, a sick animal will always throw up on carpet.

A whining, hungry child will wait until you set down her plate to tell you that she’s not hungry anymore, and not one minute sooner.

Along those same lines, a perfectly healthy child will wait until you wash her sheets to have a nosebleed in the middle of the night.

Never, EVER, forget to have a child go potty before she goes to sleep.

Husbands usually feel most romantic just after they’ve mown the lawn but just before they take a shower.

You can make any meal on the planet using cream of mushroom soup.

Husbands should accept and not question the healing powers of chocolate.

Never tell a woman suffering from PMS that her bad mood is “just PMS.” Not if you want to live to see another day, anyway.

Some stickers don’t come off wooden furniture. And you won't find out which ones they are until it's too late.

Pebbles and washing machines don’t mix very well.

You can have a neon sign flashing "Poison Ivy" over a bush in your yard and your husband will still refuse to admit that's what it actually is, because then you'll want him to get rid of it. He'll call it something like a Himalayan Star Plant or St. Agatha's Vine - anything but poison ivy - but don't believe it. It's poison ivy.

To a man, macaroni and cheese IS a vegetable. 'Nuff said.

Whoopsie-Daisy!

Owing to the fact that I woke up way too early yesterday morning and couldn't go back to sleep, I had lots of time to get ready for the day in a leisurely way, considering it was a Monday. I calmly took my time getting Sophie out the door to her bus stop. I effortlessly floated upstairs to wake up Sam and get him started on his day. I had breakfast ready for him and I didn't have to rip open a box to get it...I had an outfit picked out without flinging clothes all over his room. It was...so...elegantly simple and unhurried. I felt very Zen as I came downstairs to get my purse and Sam's backpack as we were getting ready to leave for preschool. "Ah," I thought, "This is how organized people live. I could get used to this." So I found Sam's backpack and I realized I hadn't looked in it over the weekend to make sure there wasn't anything important in it that I should read, you know, before we got to school (like, "Please bring 2 dozen brownies to class Monday" or other commands like that). I pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read: "Please remember that Monday is our field trip to the Koger Center to watch a production of 'Charlotte's Web'. If your child is riding our bus, be at preschool at 8:30. If you are driving your child to the Koger Center yourself, please meet us at the Koger Center in the lobby at 9:15. Also, please remember to have your child wear his or her red preschool T-shirt for easy identification." I looked at my watch. It was 8:40. I had 35 minutes to change Sam's shirt, run out the door, fight traffic going into the city at rush hour, find a parking space in the garage, and hustle Little Man into the lobby. Holy freaking cow. "SAM!!!" I bellowed. "GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Thinking he was in trouble, he stopped whatever he was doing and burst into tears. "NOW!" I yelled. I ripped off his Buzz Lightyear shirt, for which he'd lobbied hard that morning, in one upward motion, grabbed his red shirt, and pulled it down over his head in a downward motion. Whoosh up, whoosh down. Shame about those ears. I picked him up and ran downstairs, grabbing purse and jacket on the way out.


I took a back road that was thankfully straight and got us quite a ways before we had to hit serious traffic. Sam, who is familiar with the way to school, immediately noticed that we were going in a different direction. He gave lots of personal comments freely about this deviation. Then he noticed that we were traveling in the same direction as church. "Mom, we're going to church." "No, Sam, it's the same way but we're not going to church." "But Mom, this is the way to church." "Yes, Sam [gritting teeth], but we're not going to church." He fell silent. And then...ROAD CONSTRUCTION. Detour, detour! I frantically wove my way around orange barrels, cones, and giant potholes, trying to find the way out of this god-foresaken maze, while Sam intoned "we're lost, lost, lost" from the back seat. I finally made my way out, seriously running a red light whose yellow light had gone out long ago. But I made it. We were on our way. I found the Koger Center, went the wrong way to park, hauled the car around, found the parking garage, went up three flights, found a space, grabbed Sam, ran up three stinkin' flights of stairs, wheezing the whole way, and got into the lobby...at 9:15. On the nose.

Well, hallelujah. Now I could sit and quietly gasp to death while the group got its act together. Just as I crawled my way to a bench, someone decided to move our group. Like red-shirted sheep, we went up TWO MORE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS. I was ready to die. Sam was waving at friends like a born politician, just having a ball. He wasn't even breathing hard. There were a huge number of schools on this field trip and the place was packed with red shirts, blue shirts, green shirts, yellow shirts, uniforms of all colors and patterns, black-hooded nuns, soccer moms, teachers holding signs, etc. Utter madness. Zen felt a very long time ago. We finally made it into the auditorium and found our seats. And then the show got started. I don't mean the play. I mean watching all these little kids trying to sit in auditorium seats. They just weren't quite heavy enough to keep the seats down, and you haven't lived until you've seen 800 children get eaten alive by their auditorium seats. There was panic galore as the kids would pull down their seats, sit down, lean back, and then get violently folded in half as the seats slammed shut like giant Venus Flytraps. Legs were waving and flying everywhere. It was so funny. You'd see some girl's pink bow at the top of the seat and arms and legs waving madly on the sides, while screams and crying were muffled by the cushion. I was laughing fit to be tied. So sue me. It was a stress-reliever after the insanity of the last 35 minutes. Sam thought it was a blast, after he got over the first-time shock. I had to put my purse in his lap to hold him down. Even then, if he wiggled absentmindedly or forgot to hang on, SLAM would go the seat and I'd have to rescue him.

The play was a huge hit, the kids enjoyed it tremendously, but for me the highlight was the Amazing Theater Seats. I'll never forget it. And that was the most exciting thing in my life yesterday. Dare I try for more tomorrow? Stay tuned...

Signs You've Been Sick Too Long

There's an unfortunate club being formed in the area where I live, and unfortunately I have joined this unfortunate club. (The repetition is the literary version of scary music, letting you know something bad's coming. Think Jaws.) Yes, it's the annual stomach bug (aka the "Puke and Spew Until You're A Withered Husk" virus), and I've had it in spades. It's tapering off, and it is a measure of how much I love to write that I'm sitting here right now, still harboring this virus, punching out a blog. Or blob, as I accidentally typed and then corrected. That may be more accurate. We'll see.

I imagine that a doctor getting sick feels a certain interest in experiencing first-hand what he or she clinically diagnoses every day. In sort of the same way, while I was incapacitated I noticed things that peaked my interest (what little there was left), things that went on around me. With the three brain cells not devoted to getting me to the bathroom in time, I began compiling a mental list of these things, these signs that told me I'd been sick way too long. Maybe you'll find this list fascinating. Maybe you won't. Maybe you'll leave me a comment like, "Dehydration can do funny things to the brain - don't write, drink!" and that is true. But hey, if rock groups can write platinum hits while on LSD, then I'm going to wring out SOMETHING from this sorry, dehydration-induced experience.

Signs You've Been Sick Too Long

1. If you're a mom, then getting sick isn't allowed in the first place. There is no acceptable length of time. You're sick, so you've already broken the rule. Shame on you.
2. You've memorized the daily TV lineup (that's an easy one).
3. Not only have you memorized the daily TV lineup, but you can locate each show of choice on the remote blindly while you have an icepack on your forehead, covering your eyes. (Top THAT.)
4. You take a nap with the icepack on your forehead, and you wake up with a strange sensation of frozen eyeballs because the pack slipped down over your eyes while you were asleep. That's not the sign you've been sick too long. What IS the sign is that you enjoy it.
5. You realize that the kids, who have basically been on their own while you're down, have not fought for 36 hours straight, and you don't question whether or not this means they are alive. You accept it and give thanks. And go back to sleep. Or the bathroom. Whatever.
6. You realize one kid has worn the same outfit since Wednesday night. And it's Friday morning. And you don't care. If you live, you'll fix it later. If you die, then it's no longer your problem.
7. You go on a fishing expedition in the kitchen to see what you can possibly keep down, and while looking you find the remote in the pantry (which I did, not 30 minutes ago). You quiz the kids - only out of idle curiosity, because the only thing liable to excite you right now is the plumbing system breaking down - and find out they actually had a good reason for putting it in there. And you APOLOGIZE FOR MOVING IT.
8. You notice a certain agenda to the TV lineup that traipses through your hazy day. First, there are the skin-care commercials, designed to get you a guy. Then there are the diet commercials, designed to get you in the clothes that will get you a guy. Oh, yeah, and make you feel good about yourself, blah, blah, blah. Then there are the childbirth shows, designed to show you what happens after you got the guy. I woke up from Sick Day #2 to screams emanating from my TV. I weakly raised my head, turned my blurry, tired eyes towards the screen, and beheld a woman giving birth to a breech baby, without an epidural. Heck of a way to wake up. (Of course, that's a heck of a way to give birth, too.) And last, there are the commercials that comfort you when you realize you got the guy, you got the baby, and are now wishing you'd thought about it all just a little more: Stouffers, Cadbury Eggs, Appleby's, McDonalds, and so forth. And just when you can't look at another chocolate egg or mozzarella stick without reaching for your ThighMaster, there are shows about people like the Duggars, God bless 'em, who have 19 kids. That's designed to show you, "See, it could be much worse." Only someone who's been sick and in the same room for four days running could possibly have the time to notice something like that. And then the whole shebang repeats: skin care, diet, birth stories, comfort food, 19 Kids and Counting. Over and over. What I really found funny was this: you know how every time the Duggars have a child, they change the title of their show to reflect the new number of kids? Well, yesterday I saw this: 9 am, 17 Kids and Counting. 9:30 am, 19 Kids and Counting. 10 am, 18 Kids and Counting. It's like they had twins between 9 and 9:30 but then accidentally left one at the mall between 9:30 and 10. I had to laugh. It just looked funny. But then, it would. I'm delirious.

Those are the signs. Read 'em and weep. That's all I've got time for. I'm going back to bed now.
See you later.

Priorities

I would like to know whose idea it was to put Mother's Day before Father's Day. Unless Mom resorts to the humiliation of informing Dad just how she'd like to be surprised on her special day, she has to rely on that most unfortunate of all creations: a man's ability to remember a special day. As in, not HIS special day. Someone else's. Who on earth do you think advises Dad on what to buy for gifts? Who do you think plans vacations? Who do you think buys greeting cards? See, if Father's Day were to come first, then Mom's special day would have a fighting chance. Dad might see what a big to-do Mom and the kids make out of HIS special day and that would hopefully lead to the conclusion that perhaps he ought to step up to the plate and do something similar for Mom. Father's Day in May, then Mother's Day a month later...I know that's a stretch, but it's certainly better than waiting until next year. Dad might be able to remember that long. Men - God bless 'em - are so good at so many things; they do so much, they work so hard. (I know I'm generalizing; humor me.) You wouldn't think something as little as remembering Mother's Day, a birthday, or an anniversary would be such a problem. But as the years have rolled on I'm realizing that those particular little factoids are lodged in memory somewhere between our favorite fingernail polish color and the conversion factor between Splenda and real sugar. It's low on the totem pole. Now, ask them the make and model of the first car they ever made out in, and, well....you see where I'm going with this. It's a matter of priorities.

Priorities. That's a loaded word. What's more important? What makes you get off your behind and do something, and what can wait til you feel like doing it? Who is more important? Who gets the good service, and who gets told sorry, the office is closed, come back tomorrow? Who gets the velvet glove treatment? When you are placed somewhere on someone's list of priorities, you get a really good, quick idea of how much you mean to that person.

Occasionally I do the unforgiveable and I get sick, or, if my back is acting up, I get hurt. I retire to bed. I try to run the place from bed but give up after a while because everyone's realized that I am down and unable to enforce most threats. Mom is no longer top dog and Dad's in charge. Oh, Lord. Have mercy. Dads, as we know, have their own way of doing things. So while I am in bed, surrounded by remote controls, books, homework and music practice charts, assorted toys, and a cat, Dad is putting himself in my shoes and trying to convince the kids that there's a new sheriff in town. It's hard to do that when he makes five meals in a row without a single vegetable or fruit. It's hard to do that when Sam, at age 4, reminds him that you're supposed to wash hands before you eat. And Daddy, we can't eat yet - we haven't said the blessing! Daddy, where are my pajamas? You didn't get my pajamas! I can't wear this to bed - I wore this to school! Daddy, that's not how you do it! Daddy, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG!!!

Daddy has come home from a hard day on the construction site. Daddy woke up hours before sunrise, has done hard manual labor for 8 or 9 hours, breathing dust, listening to swearing men, and driven an hour to get home. Daddy comes home to a wife who is down for the count; he has to make dinner, wash a load because no one has any more clean underwear, chase after the kids to make sure they've done all their nighttime routines, and then...then he comes up to our room. He sits beside me, weariness oozing out of every pore, and asks, "How are you? What can I get you?"

Priorities. It's a big word. I don't need a number or a list to tell me that I am very high on his list. We made an agreement when we got engaged that I would treat him like a king if he would treat me like a queen. We're not talking about feelings. We're talking about acting on love. See, love can be a verb as well as a noun. He loves me, and the kids, by working every day. By coming home every day. By helping out around the house. Every time he calls me his pet name, "Beautiful", he's lying through his teeth, but I figure it's for a good cause. : ) He's there. He's dependable. He wakes up every day with an attitude that says, "I'm looking forward to another day with you." Even when the previous day has sucked lemons, he still does it.

Not too long after we got married, I wrote a list of things that, to me, embodied the feelings I got from this new partnership. Here they are:


If I Could Show You What Marriage Is Like…

…having your best friend with you…
…having someone who can read your mind (only occasionally…usually at the wrong times…) and finish your sentences (sometimes right, sometimes wrong)…
…having the assurance of another warm body in the house…
…feeling the yoke tug and sometimes yank hard when you both go in different directions or at different speeds…
…knowing that there’s someone in the world who really cares what happens to you…
…hearing yourself referred to as “wife” in the first few months (later, hearing yourself referred to as “mom”), and getting a thrilling shiver…
…determining just how far you’ll go in letting your new spouse see your worst sides (putting on pantyhose, for example, or flossing, or coloring your hair…it’s not pretty)…
…trying to figure out when your spouse really means what he/she says or lies out of gallantry, to save your feelings…
…trying to figure out which you want, gallantry or the truth…
…the feeling you get the first time your spouse is selfish or unthinking, and it hurts you…
…learning what’s really worth feeling hurt over…
…learning how to handle it gracefully when your spouse feels it necessary to wake you up just to tell you they love you…
…learning how to forgive and help your spouse out of trouble when he or she dug their own pit and deserve everything they have coming…
…seeing your checks and mailing labels with your married name…
…seeing your names in the phone book for the first time, together…
…the first time you can give married advice to someone else, and you turn out to be right…
…never, EVER, having to sit at the little table at Thanksgiving, ever again…
…being able to talk to anyone of the opposite sex about anything, because the pressure’s off and you don’t have to worry about what the other person is thinking…
…learning just how important a role bathrooms play in the health of any marriage…
…discovering that it’s OK and healthy to want to be alone sometimes…
…realizing that once you’re married, is there really any point in not drinking out of the same glass, or not using the same fork?…your standards will adapt, but you probably won’t want to advertise it…
…working on a house project together and getting such a feeling of pride and family when it’s done…
…”nesting”, or keeping house together…
…your sudden willingness to get rid of years’ worth of stuff from your single life, but your firm decision to keep all 300 unused wedding napkins…
…that feeling of utter peace when you’re with your spouse…
…that feeling of absolutely mind-bending hysteria when you want to kill your spouse…
…being so in love with your spouse while a good friend is having trouble in his or her marriage, and you ache for them…
…looking forward to a future with the one you’ve chosen, knowing that he or she is just as committed to keeping you happy as you are to keeping them happy.

So, really, I guess Mother's Day is year-round. Would I trade a year of devoted care for a single day of remembrance? Nope. Though I would like a rose that's NOT from the gas station.

The Show and Tell Hostage (aka "Call S.W.A.T.")

Didn’t you love Show and Tell when you were a kid? I did. It was an opportunity to vary the routine, to see something interesting, to show the other kids something I bet they’d never seen before (ha!), and especially to escape some horrid subject I was trying to avoid. I never stopped to consider the effects Show and Tell had on my mother. Now that I am a mom myself, I realize what an experience it is. My son’s preschool teachers came up with an ingenious (read: creatively treacherous) way to combine fun and learning, and sent out a memo that, henceforth, each week’s Show and Tell object should begin with the Letter of the Week. Great. Not only do I have to be able to find something in this house, but now I have to coordinate it, too.

Well, moms and dads, you and I both know that the instant you are confined to the Letter of the Week, every brain cell devoted to that letter dies. If the Letter of the Week is D, for instance, I promise you that you will neither find nor recognize a single dinosaur, dragon, Dumbledore, dog, or duck anywhere in your house. You don’t know the meaning of real panic until you’ve stood there in the middle of a toy explosion in your child’s room, panting and staring wildly around you, with the only D-words you can think of being dynamite, drywall, and D-cup, none of which should ever make an appearance during Show and Tell.

I blew Week A simply because I didn’t realize the restriction about the Letter of the Week. The school year had just started and I was on information overload. I’d missed this particular little detail and brought my son’s toy binoculars for Week A. RATS! I felt sorry for him as he dragged into the classroom, head down, clearly ashamed of his loser mother. The teachers had told us in Orientation how sad it was when a kid didn’t have anything for Show and Tell when everyone else did. This was meant to engage us into being willing partners with our children, but all it did was let us know just what a boatload of guilt we were in for if we ever let the little darlings down. The teacher who met me at the door set me straight and then said that if my son didn’t have an “A” object, he could simply say an “A” word to show his classmates (ain‘t preschool great? Wish real life was like that. “No, Mr. Chairman, I do not have the figures for that presentation but I can say them: Z-E-R-O.”). So here I was in the hallway, hunched over my son during his first week of class in a new school, his first day of Show and Tell, knowing no one and watching his new classmates walk by with their backpacks stuffed to the gills with “A“ objects, and I was hissing the word “astronaut” into his ear and trying to get him to repeat it after me. He just did his best to pretend he didn’t know this crazy lady. So I blew it right off the bat. But, I thought grimly, heading down the Walk of Shame back to the parking lot, now that I know, I’ll be prepared. The binoculars will work for next week.

Scientific question: how long does it take one four-year old to lose a pair of toy binoculars?
Answer: The time required to lose an object is inversely proportionate to the importance of that object, and directly proportionate to the amount of time that is required to find it.

So I stuffed Buzz Lightyear in my son’s backpack, along with two badges he got from Lowes for attending their kiddie workshop. Buzz is a pretty cool toy and I briefly wondered about the wisdom of letting him loose in a preschool room that ran high to boys. I needn’t have worried, because my son completely forgot the toy AND the badges were in his backpack! Nice. There goes Week B.

After I’d been sidelined by Weeks A and B, I decided to be more proactive and get prepared for Week C. Days before Show and Tell was scheduled, I sat down with a pencil, a piece of paper, and a dictionary. With focus worthy of brain surgery, I went through the C’s and diligently wrote down every single C word that seemed preschool-ish. That’s half the battle, you know. Thinking of the dumb words in the first place. (As an interesting side note, I discovered an astounding wealth of words relating to sex that start with the letter C. Hmmm. Interesting.) Well, this method worked. My son happens to have a kid’s set of musical instruments, one of which was a pair of cymbals. Cymbals! What a great C word! They are small. They are obvious. They’re sort of educational, in a musical kind of way. AND they don’t have anything to do with sex. Yes! We had a winner. I swaggered into preschool with the self-confident, arrogant air of one who has beaten the system. MY son was prepared. WE found a great Show and Tell object. WE are hot snot.

Do you know how long, on average, a preschool teacher lets a kid present his Show and Tell item? Approximately 11 seconds, that’s how long. Next!

So in order to keep my status as a rule-following parent, a parent who cares enough that she’ll call out the bloodhounds to help her track down the only age-appropriate item in her house that starts with the letter G (not that bloodhounds can read, but you get the idea), I have to go through this farce every single week, barring Thanksgiving and Christmas, until the alphabet is exhausted. What in the name of all that is holy will I do for the letter Q? X and Z? Just how many zebras are going to show up during Z week, anyway? I realized, with a sinking feeling, that I was now a hostage to the system. It had sucked me in and swallowed me whole. There would be no negotiating out of this. Call SWAT.

My son’s teachers are obviously relieved that I have gotten with the program. My son acknowledges me now when I pick him up on Show and Tell days. Now I just have to keep it up. Where’s my dictionary….?

Pluto is TOO a Planet

A miracle has happened to me today. An honest-to-goodness miracle. In my little world, these things just don't happen.

After getting up to see Sophie off safely to the bus stop, I went back to sleep. Her bus comes at 6:45, and Sam usually wakes up on his own around 7:30. If I concentrate really hard on thinking of nothing at all, and visit the bathroom without reading any books, I should - theoretically - have nothing to keep me awake for 45 glorious minutes. Forty-five minutes, mine, all mine! (maniacal laughter) So, gleefully and gratefully, I crawled back into bed.

At some point Sam came in my room saying he was Superman and needed a cape. Opening only one eye, I tucked his blankie into his collar and told him to stay away from kryptonite. He would play for a while until he got hungry and came to me to ask for breakfast. That's, like, another 45 minutes or so! Hot dog! That could take me to 8:15! I snuggled down deeply into my bed and chuckled.

After a while I stretched luxuriously. Took my time opening one eye, then the other. Lay there in a still, silent, warm room, relishing the situation. I lazily turned my head to look at the clock. It said 11:15. WHAT??!!?? I catapulted out of bed, taking three years off the cat's life. He let me sleep until 11:15??? He never came and asked for breakfast! My poor boy, starving in a house full of food! Staring mindlessly at the wall while his stomach caves in! He was probably curled up in the fetal position, wondering if he could have some of the dog's food! Oh, my BABY!!! For the second time this week I flew down the stairs without actually touching any of them. I turned the corner to look for Sam and I heard a giggle behind me. Whirling around, I caught sight of a heel as he ran in the other direction and into the den. I followed him and he leapt out at me: "BOO!" I asked him if he was hungry. He said, "No ma'am [another miracle]. I had a bite." He likes breakfast bars and he calls them "bites". He told me that he got it open all by himself. I just looked at him. He...FED HIMSELF??!!?? WITHOUT WAKING ME UP?

"Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.'"

Wow. This is a most blessed Friday, indeed. The sky must be sunny. The birds must be singing. And all the planets must be lined up just right. Including, I might add, Pluto, which will always be a planet as far as I'm concerned, regardless of what the bickering bobble-heads in the scientific community say. I feel a need to play Handel's "Hallelujah" chorus. I will be more kind, more generous today, as others have been kind and generous to me. I'll hug my children more. I'll make a good dinner, with fresh fruits and vegetables. I will greet my husband at the door with...well, never mind. Let's just say that I'm gonna be nicer to everyone today. (wink, wink)

The Pantyhose Poem

This is an oldie but goodie. In fact, I think it was the first thing I wrote, as far as having a book or memoir in mind. Can you tell what was bothering me that day?


The Pantyhose Poem

I do not like pantyhose, Sam I am.
I do not like them on my leg,
I would not like them on a peg.
I do not like their rips, their runs,
I do not like their tightness ‘cross my buns.
I do not like that tight waistband,
And my hands are white, but my legs are tan?!
Pantyhose should be banished, seen no more!
Hose-covered legs should be thrown out the door!
No more turkey-dance, putting them on!
Nor falling over; pantyhose, be gone!
How’d the crotch get down to my knees?
I cannot walk, but must hop like a flea.
Oh, my ankle has a weird little wrinkle;
Take off that hose, it vanishes in a twinkle!
Oh, me, oh, my, oh, me, oh, my…
My pantyhose woes even trouble my toes!
That “sandlefoot” seam (which, in an ad, is so dainty)
Slides under my toes; I want to scream most un-saintly!
Women of the world, unite against hose!
May the tie that binds be not pantyhose!

Where's A Defibrillator When You Need One?

Well. It is not given to many of us to have two heart-stopping experiences almost simultaneously, but there you have it. It's got to happen to somebody. Today it was my turn.

You know that awful feeling you get when you're waiting for your child's schoolbus to drop her off, and you see the other kids get off, and then...the doors close. Your child hasn't gotten off. The little stop sign on the side closes. Your child isn't there. The bus drives away...and you're streaking across your lawn, in pajama bottoms, bad hair, and with a Veggie Tales blanket wrapped around your shoulders, screaming, "WAIT!"

Then there's another awful feeling. While you're standing there, panting loud enough to set all the neighborhood dogs barking, and you realize, "Oh, ****, I was supposed to pick her up today."

That thudding sound you're hearing is my heart hitting the deck.

I ran back into the house - scared the dog half to death because he didn't think I could move that fast and he had trouble getting traction on a hardwood floor - went flying upstairs, yelling as I went, to wake up Sam. He'd been taking a nap, asleep for about an hour. It was nowhere near time for him to get up. Nothing in his experience could ever have prepared him for this crazy woman barging into his nice, warm, quiet sanctuary, hauling him out of bed, running downstairs, and taking him out into the cold without a coat...or shoes. Thank goodness he had socks on. That's something, right? As I'm running out the door, my cell phone rings. Somehow, I knew who it was even before I looked at Caller ID: "Hi, is this Sophie's mom? She's here at school and--" "I know, I know, I know, I'm on my way!" I shouted, throwing the car into reverse.

Thank you, Jesus, we're only five minutes from the school. There's a limited amount of self-berating one can do in only five minutes.

So we got to her school, and I pulled up to the curb. I waited. No Sophie. Don't tell me they're going to make me come in! I groaned. I was really going to have to suffer for making this loopy of a mistake. I envisioned the accusing eyes of the secretaries as I unbuckled my shoeless son in 45-degree weather. Yeah....this was going to be tough. Suck it up. Be a woman. Face the music. Trying to be helpful, Sam put on his best stoned look and started moaning as he clung to me, half-asleep. I went inside, trotted into the office, turned to look for Sophie...and there she sat, tears pouring down her face. The secretaries didn't have to look at me in judgement. Sophie was doing it all for them. Man, what a look. I put Sam down and just held her while she sobbed. Well. That's it. I am a worm. There is a special place in hell for moms who forget their children. (It's called, "The Ride Home", in case you're wondering.) The secretaries cheerfully told her that, see, here was Mom, they wouldn't have let her stay at school all by herself, these things happened, she was OK, and so forth. They told me that they'd given her two pretzels. (I wonder: are carbs good for hysteria?) Sam, of course, perked up and said, "Pretzels?" and that's when they noticed he wasn't wearing shoes, so I gathered both kids and bundled them into the car.

All the way home, all five minutes, I got a blow-by-blow account of the dreadful experience I'd brought about. I sighed. Part of me was thinking about all those kids you hear who get left at malls and gas stations, but I really didn't think that this was the time or place to remind her that this was not nearly so traumatic as she was making it out. I apologized some more. We got home and I had a brief argument with Sam about how his nap wasn't really over, this was all just a dream, he needed to go back upstairs and go back to sleep. Strangely enough, he bought it. Cool. I turned around to say something to Sophie, but she was gone. Gone upstairs into her room.

*sigh*

Some days you're the bug, some days you're the windshield.

Are We There Yet?

Have you ever noticed that even if you have enough bathrooms in the house for every member of your family, your kids will still find a way to fight over who gets THIS ONE? "But Mom, my toothbrush is in this one." (So pick it up with your God-given little fingers and march into another bathroom before I throw your toothbrush out the window and make you go to school with fuzzy teeth.) "But Mom, I was here first." (And you can be the last, too, if you don't straighten up and realize that IT DOESN'T MATTER.) "But Mom...but Mom...but MOM!!!" You know, they should change the name of Calgon to "But MOM!"

Sophie went to school late today - heck, everybody did, because of the snow - and it threw the entire morning off. Bless 'er, she's used to moving around in the dark, like some cave lizard, and having light this morning affected her system so that the only remedy was sitting on the ottoman in the den and staring mindlessly at a TV cartoon. That is, until I blocked her view and told her to get dressed for the 5th time. After we got her off to school, Sam and I went to the grocery store to blow half a paycheck.

Now, our kids never really bug us on trips out of town with, "Are we there yet?" They do it during grocery-shopping trips. "Are we done yet?" You know, where there are other people in listening range so that you can't threaten them if they say it one more time. I usually manage to get at least one good threat in around the family-planning/feminine protection/incontinence aisle because no one wants to be caught loitering around THERE. So this is a typical trip:

Produce:
Sam: Are we done yet?
Me: No, honey, we just got started. See this long piece of paper? That's all the stuff we have to get.
Sam: Oh. (pause) Are we done yet?
Me: Here, have a potato. Play with that.

Aisle 2: breads, pastries, buns, and for some reason, dried cranberries.
Sam: Are we done yet?
Me: No.
Sam: (pause) Are we done yet?
Me: No. Look, dried cranberries!

(We skip Aisle 3 because it has baby stuff we don't need, but more importantly because it has toys.)

Aisle 4: juices, canned fruit, and ethnic foods
Me: Sam, do you want this juice [pointing at one] or that juice [pointing at another]?
Sam: Are we done yet?
Me: No, we're not. Which juice do you want?
Sam: Candy!
Me: God, give me strength.

Right about the time I'm ready to put him on the sidewalk with a "Free to Good Home" sign around his neck, some lady walks by and Sam turns on the charm. He beams when he sees her as if she's carrying the Holy Grail. Which, if she's got candy in her cart, she might be, come to think of it. He catches her eye, and just when she starts to smile at him, he ducks his head and grins. This makes her chuckle. She has forgotten about the angel-hair pasta she was looking for and is now concentrating fully on the adorable 4-year old flirting with her. He looks up, hunches his shoulders up by his ears, and laughs, sometimes putting his hands on his cheeks for extra effect. They chat for a minute, with Sam asking directions to the candy aisle, and they promise to keep in touch. She tells me, "What a sweet boy! You are so lucky!"

I really am lucky. I mean, I don't feel like it until we really ARE done (you should see us rocket out of the Dairy aisle, like we're at the Kentucky Derby and the cash register is the finish line), but I am lucky. Blessed is more like it. Sam keeps me on my toes. I don't know if it's because he's the second child or if it's because he's a boy (and I do mean ALL boy, frogs and snails and puppy dog tails), or if it's an unholy combination of the two. He's made me straighten up and be a better mother than I was the first time around. I can't slack off around him. Sophie's my rule-follower. She's self-sufficient, she obeys house rules, and it rarely occurs to her to deviate. I can tell her to make her own peanut-butter and honey sandwich without wondering how much it'll cost to get it out of the carpet...or the VCR...or the printer... If I gave Sam a jar of peanut butter and a jar of honey, AND A KNIFE, God help us all. Sophie's the kind of child where I can groan with relief and say, "Oh, good, now I can lay down and take a nap." Sam's the kind of child...well, let's just put it this way. When he gets older and has a sleepover, you don't want to be the first one asleep.

I recently watched a show that followed four unwed teenage mothers through pregnancy, delivery, and post-partum. It was very moving, deeply moving, to watch these children have to grow up so fast and face some very unpleasant realities, make some really hard choices. I felt tremendous compassion for these young ladies. One girl gave her child up for adoption, the other three girls kept their babies. They all worked like dogs to make something of their lives and, in the case of the last three girls, to take good care of their children every day. And without exception, while they each talked about how difficult it was, how every day was so overwhelming, they each also said that the love they had for these children is what got them through, what made each day bearable. I'm certainly not glamorizing being an unwed teenage mother, but these girls had figured out the secret: children make it worthwhile. They all desperately wished they had done it differently - waited until they were older, found a partner who would commit to sharing this life - but what was done, was done. They were shaken, shocked, and completely changed by the amount and depth of love they felt for their kids. And that's how I feel about Sam and Sophie. When Sophie's spilled something on the carpet and tried to clean it up herself by smearing it...it's still worth it. When Sam's played submarine in the bathtub and more water is on the floor than in the tub...it's still worth it. When they tag-team each other and ask me questions during my favorite TV show (but never during the commercials, notice)...it's worth it.

One time when Sophie was younger I asked her what she loved most about her life. I was expecting an answer like, "peanut butter" but instead she turned to look at me with those blue eyes and she said, "You" and made me cry. The other day Sam told me that I was his best friend. Considering he keeps company with Mickey Mouse, Special Agent Oso, and the Imagination Movers, that's high praise indeed.

"Are we there yet?" Oh, boy. We are sooooo there.

Waiting for the Snow

OK, here's hoping this works out. I finally started a blog. I don't even know what "blog" stands for. But now I've got one. I feel like I'm part of a club and I don't really know what the club is, but I've been told I needed to do this and like a sheep on a bad hair day I am following and trusting blindly.

Waiting for the snow...weather services should really just spring the surprise on us. Otherwise we poor snow-starved saps gravitate to every window in the house, staring hungrily at the skies, willing the stuff to come down. I spent more time looking out the windows today than I normally spend...what? Doing laundry? Putting on makeup? Don't make me laugh. OK, let's just say I spent a lot of time looking out the window. Waiting for the snow. Sounds like Waiting for Godot. Did Godot ever come? I don't know - I got away with not reading it in high school.

(Side note: in 9th grade we were assigned a list of books to read. We would be tested on each of them in discussion-style questions. One of the books was "Innocence Abroad." I never actually read that one, either, thinking in a lame-brained way that somehow I could fudge my way through it. This was before we got into a higher-level class where we were expected to know what we were talking about. I began to write my answer and suddenly realized: wait - is it "Innocence Abroad" or "In a Sense Abroad"? Yikes. I had a 50/50 shot, so I took it. I chose, "In a Sense Abroad." I wrote a fudged discussion answer using the wrong title entirely. The teacher laughed so hard she could barely hand it back to me in front of EVERYONE. Moral of the story: gambling and education don't mix. Don't do it.)

So it's rained nonstop all day and the temperature is hovering at 32.5. It will taunt us like this all evening. Once we go to bed, 14 flakes will fall in our county. Then it will go away. And that will be our March snowfall.

I'm in an unusual position of looking for things to do. Until this past month I homeschooled our daughter Sophie. It was a real job. Lots of time-consuming responsibilities. It was fun, hard, rewarding, and like school everywhere, at times a real pain in the butt. But we both loved it. And then this year, 5th grade, halfway through the year, she told me she wanted to go to public school. Not having been in a few years, she felt there was a certain...glamour, shall we say?...in classrooms, chalkboards, posters and class art, lunchrooms, and oh, my, THE SCHOOL BUS. She wanted to experience it all. I had my reservations but I had to respect her passion for trying something new, I had to let her try her wings. It's been a month now since she started and she's having the time of her life. Oh, she is doing so well, she was obviously ready for this. I really am happy for her and proud of her - I would never want her to fail just so she would come back to me - but I told her she needs to understand that I can be happy for her and sad for me at the same time. It's not her job to keep me happy. Her job is to do her best in whatever form of schooling she uses, not to fix me. That's my responsibility. (She said, "OK!" brightly and skipped of to the bus stop while I stood in the doorway clutching tissues to my eyes.) I lost a job when she went to public school. I also lost a constant companion. Yeah, that's right - I was doing it for me as much as her. I know that. And I was willing to let go for her sake, but WOW has it been hard getting used to it. Our 4-year old son Sam goes to preschool, so for three hours a day, four days a week, I come home to a very quiet house. Now, the cat and the dog see it as a heaven-sent opportunity for me to just plop down and give them backscratches; I hate to disappoint them but that's not going to happen. So instead I've been wandering the house. Looking at an awful lot of laundry. Thinking, "I should really get a life." And instead I look out the windows, waiting for snow. My, aren't I just the soul of responsibility and get-off-your-butt-edness?

I've got some ideas of things to do, ways to fill in the time and make something of myself. Signed up for substitute teaching at Sam's preschool...volunteering at a local hospice organization...and yes, doing that darned laundry. But until inspiration hits, I'm feeling sort of lost, like I'm going through the motions. Homeschooling was like a mission for me, something I really believed in. I still believe strongly in it, it's such a great thing to do with your children. It was better than an alarm clock in the morning for getting me going. It was like nothing else I've ever been involved in. And then Sophie came home on her second day, all bubbly and excited: "Mommy, the way Mrs. Price teaches math, it's now my favorite subject!" *sigh* Well. Isn't that special. Don't feel like you have to go easy on me. But: the bottom line is, math is now her favorite subject! Whether I like it or not, whether I feel special or not, God bless Mrs. Price, because math is now my daughter's favorite subject! And that is a miracle.

No snow yet.

I knew I was in trouble today when it was cold and rainy and the highlight of my afternoon was having peanut butter cookies in the oven when her schoolbus pulled up. Geez, how June Cleaver can I be???? Oh, the professionals are shaking their heads at me and saying, "Just leave her, it's too late, she's gone," and the homemakers, the soccer moms, the casserole-baking, coupon-clipping, binky-washing moms are saying, "Just hang in there, sister."

I started this blog because - wait, I have to let the dog in, I forgot he was out in the rain - I started this blog because I enjoy writing and sometimes my friends get a charge out of the quirky humor I sometimes throw out there. (Holy COW this dog smells bad.) Anyway (holding my breath right now) I'm not always introspective. I love making up new words to old songs, I love those left-field jokes, and I REALLY, REALLY love the funny and crazy things that my kids and my husband come up with in everyday life. You can't make up this kind of fun. There are days I just stare after them, like, "Who was that masked kid? Was that MY child?" or "What planet did YOU just fly in from?" My kids are just now getting old enough to inform me sweetly that, genetically speaking, they flew in from Planet Stephanie, so I need to stop with the weird looks.

You know what? I don't care whether it snows or not. I've got a pretty cool family around me, and there's lots of interesting things outside the house that I can start doing. I've got three hours a day, four days a week, that belong to me, little old me. What can I do with that? What CAN'T I do with that?

Well, dadgum. Look at that. It's started to snow.