With a Rubber Hose

We were all rushing around like bees in a hive:
4:45p Daycare pickup
5:15p Early dinner for the girls
5:45p Matt's class at the gym
6:15p Grace's gymnastics class

At 5:40 Clare decided to put herself on the evenings agenda too.

I was barking orders and clearing dishes and clearly not paying attention.

She looked at me slyly.
"Mama," she said with a smile, "In my nose."
"What's in your nose sweetie? Buggers? Do you need a tissue??"
"No," she said, "Up my nose. No buggers. A bead!"

Time froze for a second. She was so proud of herself.

Upon inspection, there it was.  As a distraction, I had pulled out a big bag of beads over President's Day weekend and let the girls and their friend string necklaces. The rubber of the elastic cording in the bag must have been getting old, because the necklaces have been systematically breaking and spraying nostril sized beads all over the floor. I thought I had been doing a good job of cleaning them up.

I tried trying to wiggle the bead back down her nose with my fingers from the outside. It wasn't budging. In fact, with the way she was fighting me, it was sliding further up. I called Matt. By the time he came home from his abandoned class, Doctor Google had given us some new ideas:

Try tweezers! - Except as soon as she saw us coming with them she would start to scream and thrash so violently we were afraid of poking the bead up into her brain.

Use a shop vac to suck it out! - Which we do own as part of the ill fated pool draining experiment, but they are big and loud and the hose was the size of 1/3 of her face. So we tried the vacuum, which didn't go over well either, because I don't vacuum. Ever. Well, only on special occasions. It is usually something we leave to cleaning crews, so Clare has only ever heard the vacuum 2 or 3 times in her life. That option did not go over well either. And now she was crying so hard she was doing the opposite of the vacuum and starting to suck the bead up further into her nose all by herself.

So at this point we were talking about the immediate care center. And Grace has realized that her chances of going to gymnastics were getting slimmer by every passing minute and starts to have a meltdown.

At the clinic, the doctor was indeed able to remove the bead in the predicted 30 seconds, but it was well worth the $50 copay. She would have never let us get it out.

And now the house has been purged of the beads and we repeat the daily mantra of "I promise I will not put anything up my nose. No beads in nose. I promise."

White (House) Christmas

Matt is always one for new adventures.

His latest started at the end of October. It was an ego boost of an adventure, for he was recruited. Was explicitly told that his name was one on a very short list of people that have their sought after skill set. It would be a commute heavy detail of six months, but would yield experience (and prestige) that would be unattainable any other way in his current position.

Plus, there seems to be other seasonal perks they forgot to mention.

You know, like making the list to receive a White House Christmas card.

The Burbs

For the metro-DC crowd, we live in the boonies. The Wilds of Maryland, where there are still lots of u-pick farms minutes away, cows a-plenty, and a decent segment of the population that wear flannel shirts by choice and trade. It is very Republican in these parts.

I love our neighborhood with it's neurotically manicured laws, big green open parks and neighbors that wave to every car that drives by. Our next door neighbors are like family to us. They have a set of keys to our house and will always help if you need it. It is a quiet, friendly, safe place to live.

This images keep haunting me.

I was putting Clare down for bed. I kept thinking, What is that noise? The neighbors must be having a party. Thank goodness Clare is a heavy sleeper.

Matt and Grace weren't home. It was the first time in... well, ever ... that they were gone at 7:30 at night. He took her to a town all meeting to voice his support for a bike trail near our house.

When I went downstairs, the noise was louder. I walked right past the front windows and into the kitchen to clear the dinner dishes. Through the water I caught snippets of words.

Come out with your hands up.

Holy shit. Wait, what???

I immediately called next door. Across the street, a neighbor was being arrested. I saw it. I stood like a statue, though shaking slightly at the thought of what might come, with all the lights turned off and the front window open. I saw him come out after an hour; I saw him remove the gun from his waistband; I saw him put it on the car; I saw him kneel down and put his hands on his head; I saw the police take him away.

It was horrible. For the family, the neighborhood and for us.

We don't know the family very well, their post college aged children don't mesh much with our preschool demographic. But Gracie loved the family dog, and the kindness the man who was just taken away always showed her.

We were never afraid of him. Should we have been?

Eyes Wide Open

I like my natural disasters to be straight forward. To give some sort of warning.

I grew up in a Chicagoland tornado alley, so honestly, those whipping columns of wind hardly even phase me. I'm like a human radar. I look at the sky patterns and color, sniff the wind and then head back inside.
       Meh, it's fine. Let's finish dinner.
Most of the time it's a false alarm. Either way, you've had plenty of warning if something is going down.

Hurricane's too. While I do not claim to be an expert on this weather phenom, you can see them coming. There have been days and days of incessant news stories and time to prep. And you'd better prep early because everyone now has the fear of Katrina in them. I never see the downside of buying extra milk and canned goods though. There is never any such thing as too much milk in our house. In fact, I think we will be stocking up for Irene this Friday.

Earthquakes though, those are tricky things. No warning. No odd goings-on in the sky or newscasters instilling panic in us. Just BAM: Shooka-shooka-shooka.

Yesterday's earthquake only lasted 36 seconds. It was 36 seconds of quiet panic though. In the metro DC area a person's mind tends to wander towards man-made causes of a shaking building, not Random Acts of God.

It was 36 seconds of panic and then a few minutes of:
Where are my babies? What do I need to grab to leave? Do I have time to tweet this? Does Matt feel this too? Is this an earthquake? Yes, it is an earthquake. No, I don't know what magnitude it is, I am using my phone to tweet. Make sure you grab your stuff, who knows if we'll be let back in. What if the parking garage collapses? What if this building collapses; lowest bidder you know. No, I don't know the magnitude yet, I'm texting.

After an hour of sitting outside with Clare (relatively) in my arms, solidified with confirmation that we did indeed part of the East Coast earthquake and feeding a miraculously found sleeve of Ritz crackers that were in my purse to hungry children, we were sent home so building assessments could be preformed.

While there has been reports of damage to buildings, including the disheartening indefinite closure of the Washington Monument, our house remained unscathed.

Unless you find shifted books and photographs upsetting.

Come Talk to Me @ BlogHer

So I’m about to go on an adventure.

All by myself.

Well, not really all by myself. Robin and Denise are coming with me.

But right now, I feel all by myself.

I tried packing my bag all weekend long. I put things in, I took things out. Grace put things in and took things out. I’ve analyzed if I have enough room to bring my own pillow like a child because I just don’t sleep right without it.

And now? My stomach is churning. The calendar has flipped and it is officially August and I am officially leaving in 2 days for San Diego.

Posts like this have really been helping, but still…. I get it is OK to be awkward. In my mind though, it is fine for other people to be awkward, but aren’t I supposed to have my shit together and fully embrace the idea of freedom and adventure for five very long days. Part of me relishes the idea of seeing this computer based life in person, but another part of me feels like such a fraud.

You know, you read me. You’ve noticed that my posts have dropped off significantly in the last year or so. Am I a blogger, just because I have a url? Well, I guess I did have business cards made to that effect.

Once I get on the plane I know I will be fine. We have invites to parties galore, and lot of free booze will make all my worries go away, right?

So really, come talk to me. Because I think I will really need it.

Have I mentioned that my stomach is churning?

Bad Medicine

This picture was supposed to be part of a completely different post.

One full of glory and self-indulgent satisfaction. Instead, it is part of a story about Bad Medicine.

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

We were sick far more days in December than we were healthy. In fact, I'd be surprised if out of the 4 of us, there was more than 4-5 days without headaches, coughing, runny noses or antibiotics. Such is the life with two small children in daycare I suppose, but still. Blah. It was horrible.

All through the month, Clare's teacher, formerly Grace's teacher, kept lecturing me on the healing powers of lemongrass. Specifically the concoction of lemongrass, ginger, lemon and honey. She swore by it as a instantaneous cold remedy*, and who was I to argue. I was the one with the lingering colds.
* She did always slide in that 12-13 hours of sleep was required too. Super. I'll get right on that.

So upon the decent of our first January colds, she sent me up to the Latino Market minutes away from my work. I stocked up on enough lemongrass, ginger and some superfluous dried lavender flowers to keep in in business for weeks. When I got home on Friday night, I dutifully pulled out my 5 quart soup pot and stuffed it full of the reeds, roots and water. Matt complained that the house smelled like hippies, but I was undeterred. I bragged on Facebook. I was so pleased with my homeopathic therapies and was convinced of the healing effect they would have.

Sunday morning, Clare had dark rings around the bottom of her eyes. Weird. The cold must be wearing her down too, poor baby.

Sunday night, the dark rings had turning into little pink spots with matching accessories on her forehead. WEIRD. Huh, a good night's sleep will make it go away, right?

Monday morning, she looked like this:

HOLY SHIT!!!! She's having an allergic reaction to something. I combed my head to try and think of what she's eaten that's new. Nothing. Absolutely nothing........

But she is a breastfed baby.......

And I drank 2lbs of lemongrass extract on Friday night and Saturday, something she's never had before.......

And OH MY GOD I'M POISONING MY BABY!!!!
(OK, I know it's not poison, but still- she is clawing at her own flesh and her whole body is covered in a horrible rash.)

And the Doctor scratched her head and said she'd never heard of anyone being allergic to lemongrass before, but it definitely looks like an allergic reaction so lets give her some heavy doses of Benadryl and see if it goes away - and by the way - lets look in Grace's ears while she is here why yes, she seems to have another bad ear infection to boot so lets do another round of antibiotics.

But does Grace mind? Not one bit. Because it means she gets to play with the train table for a little bit longer along with getting dum dums pulled out of her ears and Elmo stickers.

24 hours later, Clare seems to have faded back down to her normal peaches-and-cream complexion, as opposed to the giant strawberry she was sporting, and smiling as though nothing had ever happened.

Public Service Announcement

I’m 38 weeks pregnant today.

Baby Center is a gift to pregnant women. Whether it is your 1st kid or your 8th, there is something reassuring about knowing what your body is doing in a given week. 40 weeks of updates. 40 weeks of pictures. 40 weeks of reassurance and cutsie quips about pregnancy.

By the time you’re at this point, the quips definitely aren’t cute anymore. Being told that your kid weighs as much as a small watermelon isn’t funny. It is annoying because it means you now have 7lbs rolling around in your abdomen trying to scratch their way free from uterine bondage.

This is the picture that goes along with 38 weeks pregnant at Baby Center.

This is what the picture is missing. The IMPORTANT things that the picture is missing.

Let me explain.

1. Ribs- Do you see where those feet are? Yep, right in the ribs. Kicking and stretching and getting a work out right into your rib bones. Oh, and a little bit of lung too just for good measure.

2. Bladder- At least they show the bladder as compressed in the picture. What the untrained eye doesn’t see though is that it is the pressure pinnacle of the 7+ pounds in the womb. That means every time you stand up, you have to pee. Every time you move you have to pee. Even when there is nothing actually in your bladder, it still feels like you have to pee.

3. Colon- I have been fortunate to not have any gastro-intestinal issues with pregnancy. It does not change the fact, however; that there is still a portion of the bladder pressure distributed to the other side of the head. That when the baby has the hiccups and starts bouncing around, she is bouncing off delicate internal bits sending your colon into odd vibrating spasms. Not cool kid, not cool.

4. Spine- Finally, the spine. I keep describing my back pain as how I imagine it would feel if the baby was chewing on my spinal-cord. Sometimes I am convinced that she is. Either way, look at where the elbow is. I swear she has my pointy elbows.

As I write this, my whole belly is shaking. She is testing out the escape routes, deciding between north, south, east and west. Poking and prodding to find the path of least resistance. Right now, I think she is going with exiting through my back.

I really, really hope she changes her mind.

Please See Cashier

A few months ago I bought a new lighter at the grocery store. One of those big, long stemmed ones that keeps you from burning finger tips when lighting candles. Apparently my municipality puts lighters in the same category as cold medicine and spray paint. It’s part of the playground of miscreants.

I got carded.

Well, kind of.

The teenaged punk manning the mother-station of the self check kiosks just waved at me and said not to worry about the “Please See Cashier” notice flashing on my screen. I then overheard him tell his cohort punk that he just puts in random birthdays from 1978 when that comes up. Because anyone born 1978 is pretty old.

*Wait a minute. I was born in 1978.*

My head almost exploded. Then I fought back tears. And I know I will never be able to forget the heart crushing reality of the first time someone called me old. My mom gets pissy about being called ‘mam. I’ve never had much of an issue with this, because I can write it off as regionalisms and good manners, not a slam on perceived age. This kid though, he flat out said, “31 is pretty old.” Bastard.

While I was convalescing on the couch this past Saturday, I spent an unprecedented amount of time watching TV. I flipped though all the channels and watched more than my fair share of Hallmark movies. Then I remembered my beloved HBO In-Demand. Front and center was 17 Again. Score, it is something Matt would never watch.

This morning, while sorting through all the Facebook posts I missed over the weekend, I saw my 16 year old cousin Kat posted a quote from the movie. “You can plunder my dungeon anytime!” She and her high-school herd had also been taking advantage of Zac Efron’s free presence on HBO this weekend. So I commented.

And you know what? She too unintentionally called me old, by calling Efron old. She said, ‘Yeah, he’s a lot older than he looks. He’s like in his mid-twenties.’

And my heart once again stopped beating for a minute. First of all, I totally thought the kid was jail bait. Second, 22 IS NOT mid-twenties. Third, if 22 is old, then what is 32??

I know I am having this theoretical conversation with a 16 year old. I get that, but WTF.

The more I think about it though, the more I have to realize that maybe she is right. I like to pretend that I am still 20 in my head. Living just a toe over on the wild side. Not having to answer to anyone. Flirting my way into college bars with a barely passable ID. Parties that I didn’t always remember the end of. Sleeping until 5pm and then waking to do it all over again.

Now, I go to bed at 9:30pm. I wake before the sun finds it decent to be up. I dress conservatively and wipe butts and smile at the other daycare moms. A wild night is having an hour and a half dinner without interruption and an extended bedtime of 11pm. Which I then pay for the next day.

Am I old?

I cried when I turned 25. I tried to ignore my 30th birthday. Is the lighter punk onto something that I am completely missing? I don’t have wrinkles. I’m a young mother, not the Grandma. I still get carded at the liquor store… but is that because my signature is worn off the back of my debit card?

I guess that is the answer though. I am old enough. I am old enough to have my own life, family and money which has allowed me the ability to pay cash for my purchases via my debit card. Something I didn’t even come close to having at 20, much less 16. And I don’t want go back there. I love my life and the last twelve years that have turned me into a random old age to punch into a cash register when buying controlled substances.

The spiteful part of me just has to remember: Karma is a bitch and in 2025 it will be you standing in a random line being called old by some other teenaged punk making minim wage kid.

I Do Believe

My brother Jerry, the firefighter / paramedic, called me yesterday with an announcement. He saw a ghost.

Jerry said he was covering for another station, so he and his partner went go hang out while the other squad was gone. His partner wanted to stay in the ambulance to sleep, Jerry went in the building.

Most of the lights were off except for the truck bay and the ambient light in the kitchen where he was trolling for snacks. He said when he turned around there was a little girl, about 7 years old, standing in front of a big gumball machine in the kitchen. He didn’t think much of it because often times people do bring their kids to work and have them spend the night. He didn’t say anything to her and the girl turned and walked silently back into the bay moments later.

When the other squad returned a hour later, he informed them that someone’s kid had been up.

Nobody had any kids here, they said, the station is empty.

No really, Jerry responded, a little blonde girl wearing a dress. She was looking for candy. I figured it wasn’t my kid, and didn’t particularly care what she was eating at 1am, so I didn’t say anything.

That’s when they cracked smiles. Oh, you saw her! That’s our ghost.

Not funny, Jerry said. She was real. I saw her.

There is nobody here, they said. Go look in the bunks. Nobody is there.

Jerry went and looked. Nobody was there.

They told him they had responded to a call in the summer of 2007. The girl died on the scene and has been with the station since then.

I believe in ghosts. I believe in angles. I believe in good and evil. I believe. That is why I don’t watch scary movies. I believe.

Yesterday, as I sped through the woods on the way home from L’s birthday party, the dark, narrow, twisted road all of a sudden got REALLY dark.

Hmmm, I thought, maybe I should turn on my brights.

Just as I did I saw a large deer running down the steep embankment that counts as the roads edge.

The super-bright flash of my headlights startled the deer and stopped it dead in its tracks. I have no idea what would have happened to us if it hadn’t. There is no wiggle room on that road. There is no edge. There is no straight line. There is nowhere to go.

There was nowhere to go.

I drove the rest of the way home really, really slowly.

And thanked my guardian angels. I have two of them you know.

I do believe.