forgive and forget

I have a lot of good and even wonderful things going on in my life, but the stuff that sucks really sucks at the moment. I have figured something out that has brought me a lot of peace. I have parents who are aging and aged. They are officially elderly. In their elder years they are sweet and funny and unfortunately in terrible health. In their younger years they weren't always so sweet and, in fact left their kids with some unfortunate memories, like most families experience. I'm not a greatly religious person, but I follow most things that nice people find to be good, like honoring my parents. I haven't always been happy with them. They each have made me crazy angry on occasion (and vice-versa, naturally). But, now, when they are really vulnerable and certainly not going to be with us much longer, I've decided to start over and accept them as they are today, forgiving all the stuff that happened before. You may disagree, my siblings sure do, but it is working for me.

Ben Franklin for President

I love Ben Franklin. As founding fathers go, he was one of the best. The man was a do-it-all kind of guy. He was a diplomat, inventor, author, scientist, and he loved beer. BUT! (a big but) Benjamin Franklin was never, no never a U.S. President! Really, go look it up if you don't believe me.

peanut allergy

I've just had such a bad experience. Worse, I caused a small child and her parents to have a terrible experience. Remember I have friends who are "perfect women"? We went to a July 4th BBQ at PW's house yesterday. It was such a sweet, traditional but with the flair only PW could provide backyard party. The conestoga wagon used for the Christmas party was now holding our potluck dishes. I agreed to bring a large container filled with ice and drinks, but I didn't feel that was enough, so the day of the party I whipped up some cookies, knowing there would be a lot of children at the party. We had been there about 20 minutes when my daughter came to me and said that PW's daughter ate one of my cookies and was sick in the bathroom. My daughter followed up with, "Mom, she has a peanut allergy!" I ran into the house to find PW in the bathroom with her daughter, her husband on the phone to 911 and the grandparents hovering around discussing the contingency plans. The daughter ate a cookie, started having problems (Anaphylaxis) and tried to hide until her friends got help. Her parents gave her some benadryl and an epi shot and we watched her to see if we needed an ambulance. Once the initial panic was over, PW and I sat down and cried. I still can't believe I brought toxic cookies to her house. I knew her daughter was lactose intolerant, but I didn't know about peanuts. Still, I should have checked in with PW. I was just working on auto-pilot, just making some cookies. PW said she was surprised that I was the one to do that, because my family has so many health issues (true). That was it for me, I couldn't stop crying and when the house cleared, my family and I made an exit from the party. We went out to dinner and I cried through the whole thing. PW called and asked me to come back, but I told her we were finished for the night. This morning I called and apologized again and spoke with PW's daughter who is fine and was very sweet. They've invited us over for left-overs tonight, which I think is really nice of them. I hope the grandparents aren't there because I honestly think they wanted to murder me.

Fun With Fireworks

This is a re-post of an entry I made last year at this time. I had the pleasure of meeting some new friends who read this blog who asked me to transfer some of my older posts into this new, secret blog. And, by the way, so far I am incognito in cyberspace. No word that any family or acquaintances have recognized themselves in these postings.

I have two children who are afraid of fireworks. They hate the noise, they hate how unpredictable fireworks are, it's all just too much. Because of this we don't go to fireworks displays or set any off at our house. Last year I decided to ease them into the whole July Fourth scene. I picked up a pack of sparklers and a few whizzy, spinny things that make sparks on the ground. You remember sparklers? You hold them in your hand and write your name in the air. They sparkle and are pretty and last all of 15 seconds? Glorious childhood memories were conjured up when I bought that pack. Fast forward to last summer. I gathered everybody on the steps by the driveway. I had wet the grass with the hose, nice and safe, don't want any freak accidents. It was still early so it wasn't dark and scary. I used my best "Mommy-is-the-island-of-safety" voice and it went something like this:

Okay, we're going to start with this cute little flower basket one. Let's see, it says it emits a shower of sparks. Oooh! That sounds pretty. Here we go! (lights the flower basket which goes crazy with sparks and loud, high pitched whistles which scares the bejesus out of me and I FALL DOWN trying to get away from the thing. This is all caught on tape, of course) Kids scoot up a few steps. I get up, apologize for the bad words I've yelled and pull out the next demon firework. It's a little race car! My son loves cars!

Look, Honey! This one is a car! Now, it's going to shower sparks and make noises like the other one, okay? (okay) Ready? (ready) (lights the race car which does indeed go crazy with sparks and whistles but has the added bonus of ROLLING STRAIGHT TOWARD THE STEPS!)
Run! Run!

Kids are all on top of their Dad who is looking quite amused by this time.

Alright, that was a little scary. I'm really sorry about that. Look, all we have now are sparklers! I only bought the kind that you look at and don't hold in your hand. Maybe next year we can get the kind you hold. These I will put into the ground and we can stand back and watch them. Okay? (okay)

(lights the sparklers, which do indeed begin sparkling and shooting big chunks of burning embers into the air, one of which goes into the sleeve of my tee-shirt.) I'M ON FIRE! HELP! HELP! (jumping and flapping)

Kids and Dad are in the house, watching out the window. Show's over.

Have a Happy July 4th everybody and remember: stop, drop and roll.

Mable's Baby Story

So, here's a little birth story. It happened three years ago and I still have little panic episodes. Warning: for those of you who may be pregnant, this is probably one of those stories you don't need to hear. Let me start by stating the fault lies with many people, including me. I look back and see things I could have/should have done differently, but the fact of abandonment by my medical team is undeniable. I was due with my 4th baby. I love babies. I love being pregnant, I have honestly enjoyed labor and delivery drug-free each birth. No, I'm not a pioneer woman or earth muffin. I always told my husband and doctors/nurses "If I feel I need it, give it to me". I just never got to the point of asking for meds, I just handled it like they taught me in Lamaze and tried to stay calm. Anyway, I start having interesting contractions one day and some bloody show (sorry to the men and/or queasy readers - this is your last chance to exit this blog....) but, hey, I've been through this three times, it's gonna take a lot to get me to the doctor. I experienced false labor with every pregnancy and those middle-of-the-night trips to the hospital only to be sent home still pregnant are no fun. Well, the contractions keep coming and are getting regular so I decide to sleep and go to the doctor the next morning. Note: I went to a clinic with 3 doctors, A B & C. Dr. B I loathe with the fire of a thousand suns and refuse to let him near me after a really bad moment during my second labor when he called the hospital from hi s house and told them to tell me not to push, he'd mosey over when he finished dinner. I was at 10cm. Dr. C is okay, but Dr. A is my hero. He has really taken care of me over the years, he knows all of my ins and outs, literally. (sorry, couldn't resist) He and I have an agreement that he will deliver this baby no matter what, whether he is on-call or not. He even changed his vacation to accommodate my due date. At the clinic, good old Dr. A examines me, but is not impressed. He tells me to go home, but if anything happens to call and go to the hospital. After I hang out at home for a while, I'm feeling pretty much like having a baby so I call the clinic. The receptionist tells me Dr. A has gone for the day and no, she won't page him, he isn't on-call. "But we have an agreement!" I say. She says, "Sorry, if I don't have his written orders, I am not to call him. You'll have to go to the hospital and see the Dr. on-call". In the hospital I am hooked to a monitor which also isn't showing anything very impressive and the nurse tells me Dr. B will be in soon to do an internal exam (nurse already did one, I am starting to dilate). Remember, I hate Dr. B's guts. After an hour Dr. B still hasn't moseyed in to check me so I pull the monitor off my tummy and say I'm going home. The nurse checks in with Dr. B who orders her to give me 2 Ambien and send me home. Mind you, I am a lightweight with all meds/alcohol/whathaveyou. I once took 1/2 an Ambien and it was, "Bye bye, Mable. See you next Thursday". So, off I go to labor at home. I think I've mentioned that I've done this a few times so I'm thinking, the best way to hurry up a baby is movement! We played badminton with our three other kids in the backyard. Now my neighbors tell me it was a really scary sight seeing this hugely pregnant woman running around. I would pause for each contraction and go on playing. When it got dark we went inside and I continued the reading aloud of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Again: read a little, have a contraction, read a little, and so on. At bedtime I dutifully took my Ambien (only one though, I 'm not a complete fool) and we all go to sleep. My eldest daughter is worried about me so she camps out on the floor in our room. At about 3am I wake up suddenly, having to use the toilet. I clamber out of the bed and go into the bathroom when I realize I don't have to go potty, I'm about to have a baby. Apparently I've slept through transition! I call my sweet husband who comes in saying, "Oh no, oh no, you can't have the baby here!" He said I had the look of a wild animal in my eyes as I sought a place to deliver. Fortunately we had been in full nesting mode and a huge pile of clean, folded towels was at the ready. He threw them all over the bathroom floor so I would have a semi-sanitary place to deliver. Like all my babies, a couple of pushes was all it took. I had been reading a fabulous book on Midwifery to prepare for this birth and the knowledge I gained was a saving grace. I remembered not to push too hard, but to pant and let the baby exit easily. I still tore, but oh well. By this time my husband had 911 on the line. They were instructing him to tie off the cord. He told them he didn't have anything to use and then he remembered his brand new pack of shoelaces! After the cord stopped pulsing, he tied a lace around it as instructed. The baby was born and didn't make a sound. She was really warm, of course, but her eyes weren't open and she wasn't moving. They kept telling us we had to get her to breathe. My husband put his face against hers and she wasn't inhaling. We had her laying on my chest/tummy and we began rubbing her back vigorously, back and forth and finally she gave a huge cough and blew out all the stuff that was blocking her mouth and nose. At his point the paramedics arrived and loaded us onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. I delivered the placenta on the way to the hospital. One thing I forgot to mention was that the hospital I planned to deliver in, the one in which I'd been checked that day, was in another town. The ambulance took me to the hospital in the town where I live, which didn't know who I was. After checking in, baby to NICU, stitches, etc. Social Services came to see the homeless lady who had the baby on her bathroom floor! They thought I had no doctor! Oh, and my husband wasn't yet at the hospital because he was at home cleaning up the bathroom and waiting for the sitter to get there. When we finally got the story straight, the new hospital was in shock about what had happened. They called my doctor's office and told them they had his patient. Do you know, my own doctor, my beloved Dr A NEVER CALLED ME? Not one word, no "how is the baby", no flowers, no check-up, no "how are you doing". Nothing. The baby went to the NICU and stayed for a week. She was healthy, but had a hard time breathing room air. Her little face was obscured with tape and tubes, it was an unbelievably difficult time. She wasn't able to breastfeed with her tubes so I pumped and tried to bottle feed her. When we brought her home she was still on oxygen, but soon that wasn't needed. Today she is a fabulous, healthy girl about to have her 3rd birthday. I will never move from this house. In my bathroom I've hung a print by Gustav Klimt of a detail of a painting depicting a mother holding her baby. I think they kind of look like us.

Mohawk Boy

We're on our big trip and have covered a couple of states and over 1000 miles so far. We're in Montana, land that I love. Well, I love Bozeman where I went to college and lived for a while. We were there for the Sweet Pea Festival of Art. It's three days of fun each summer. I got to see lots of friends and sorority sisters, it was marvelous. From there we traveled on to Kalispell which is in the NW corner of MT, almost at the US border. It is so beautiful up there, you can't believe it. Flathead Lake is so big and amazing. I love the place. Now, you may have heard the story about Kalispell and the alligator? Yikes. The place is a little behind, but don't tell the people who live there. They have their dial-up and that's just good enough. I know, I'm from there, so I think the people are funny and quirky and NOT AT ALL like Deliverance. Plus, the people up there have this funny accent. For example, they pronounce Sunday like sun-dee. Sundee, Mondee, Tuesdee. But again, don't tell them. In Kalispell we spent some time with my folks who I've mentioned in blogs past. Speaking of quirky..... Well, my parents are an acquired taste, but good people. Quirky. My daughter asked about the first time I brought my then boyfriend (her Dad) home to meet them. I told her the tale of bringing him inside, making the introductions and running out in tears. Well, he loved them and me and here we are.

Then my daughter said: Okay, so you brought home Dad and the Mohawk Guy, anybody else?

Husband: ummm.... the Mohawk Guy? (See he knew about Mohawk Boy, but didn't know that he had ever been to my hometown with me. We don't talk about Mohawk Boy. We were having a rough patch in our relationship, say no more.)

Now I'm pointing out cute houses and trying to steer the conversation away from old bad boys and my daughter is laughing and peeing her pants in the back seat over the crisis going on in the front. It was good to see him get so riled up over Mohawk Boy. In fact, I think every marriage needs a good dose of Mohawk Boy just to liven things up.

The Perfect Woman

Do you have a perfect woman in your life? You may be one and not even know it! You know who I mean, she's pretty and thin, has cute kids and a perfect house. She usually has some other great talent, got good grades and is generally all-around fabulous. Well, I have two of them in my life. We'll call them Type-A and Type-A+. Type-A is a CPA with an architect husband and two little boys. They live in a stunning house of his design and manage to take many fun-filled vacations. She is also an award winning dancer and although in her late 30's has the body of a showgirl. I once helped her move to a new home and when I came across some random thing I asked her where her junk drawer was located. She just looked at me and said, "I don't have one of those." HUH? Can I just tell you how many of "those" I have and that they are the key to my sanity? I secretely got an evil jolly when she became pregnant, thinking kids would really shake up her reality. Plus, childbirth is messy! Of course children have not swayed her from her orderly course one bit. Her boys have always slept through the night and always put their toys in the pottery barn cubicles when they are finished playing.Type-A+ is perfect in her own way, which is what makes having two of them as friends particularly diabolical. A+ isn't wealthy, but I swear the girl can do anything. Her husband travels a lot and she knows how to do any kind of home maintenance. She once built her own screen door and painted it the perfect shade of Martha Stewart green. At any given time she has a jumbo batch of frozen cookie dough ready to slice and bake. Homemade, of course. She is a Jill of all trades and is literally the Google of our neighborhood. If you need an answer, ask A+. The only thing A+ isn't really, really good at is calling before she comes over. I swear it's a test! She pops in unannounced to make sure she is still number one. You could drop in on her at any hour and she would be ready for company and would invite you to lunch. She'd even send you home with flowers from her garden. If you've read my blog, you know how I feel about unexpected company. Bing Bong! Oh look, it's A+ at my door, kids in tow. I clean my house, I really do, but I'm not ready for company with no notice. Instead of going through the apologies for the state of my post-Fourth of July house, I just closed the door behind me and we visited in the yard! She weeded my flower bed, no joke. That's not the first time I've done that and I'm sure it's a topic in the neighborhood. I am the crazy lady who won't let you in her house unless she specifically invites you in. Kool-aid Mom, I ain't. I just like to give myself a big old break now and then and just be a bag lady and play with my kids. That is not the time for the white glove brigade to stop by for inspection. Clearly, I have issues. But I always call before I come over.

I'm a Butterfly!

I've been volunteering in my son's kindergarten class. Li'l Freddy (not his real name, ya think?) thinks it's nice for me to be there and as long as those good feelings are in the air, I'll take them. His classmates never got my name straight, but I love the derivations: Mrs. Freddy, Mrs. Freddy's Mom, Mrs. Mom. One little girl, Macy, was wearing a pretty, bedazzled shirt with a butterfly on the front.

Me: Macy, I really like your shirt.

Macy: I'm a butterfly!

Me: I can see that!

Macy: But you can't see my wings.

Me: No, I can't.

Macy: Do you know why you can't see them?

Me: (getting with the program, lowering voice to a conspiratorial whisper) Because they're invisible?

Macy: (looking at me like I'm the crazy, three headed Mrs. Mom lady) No! They're just really small!

Christmas and the Perfect Woman

Christmas and the Perfect Woman
This past weekend I attended a party hosted by one of my Perfect Women. This is the one who weeds my flower beds when she visits me in the summer. Please don't get the idea that I don't like miss type A+. I really do, she and I have a lot in common. It's the things we don't share that make our friendship interesting. A+ is my own personal Martha Stewart, without the wealth. She can do it all and, if I asked her, she would come over and do it at my house, too. She's like the "Hometime" girl, only beautiful and southern. A Chi-O for those interested. On arrival her house and yard are decorated with little lights. She has brought in a small Conestoga wagon which is surrounded by lit deer. Go inside and the lights are perfectly dimmed, as she has installed dimmers this past week herself. Evergreen boughs cover each window and door frame. The Christmas tree has a nice collection of not perfect ornaments, which is a relief. When you have kids, people send them ornaments and, there you are, wondering where to place "Biker Barbie" for the best effect. A little choo choo train runs around the bottom of the tree. And, above the fireplace is a painting of... you guessed it! A regionally famous artist saw A+ and asked her to sit for him. She has a print, the original sold for $17,000. In the kitchen it's a bit out of her control as this is a potluck so nestled between her homemade sugar cookies and gingerbread boys are random dishes of meatballs and (my addition) li'l smokies. But she has provided a myriad of beverages: cocoa with or without schnapps and wassail are heating on the stovetop and a large tureen of her old family "recipe" is on the counter. This is for adults only and contains a fifth of Southern Comfort. One guy comes in wanting to show us his "fireball" trick involving Everclear and she sends him out into the snow for his pyrotechnics. All the children are included and are having a merry time in the basement which has been converted into what looks like a preschool, but is just the way A+ wants it.The kids are being kids and dumping out entire containers of Mr. PotatoHead parts, but then I watched these little boys magically pick them all up and put them away when they were finished. There is a little kitchen, a lego table, a train table, all atop a cushioned carpet. No one is fighting or crying or unhappy. How does she do it? There is a door in the wall that if you open it you will find A+'s pantry. She has carved out a pantry in a wall with no space, just what is there between the studs. The girl never fails to amaze and inspire. Knowing she would be returning my crockpot the next day, I was motivated to finish my decorating that I started Thanksgiving weekend, fold my mountain of laundry and identify the furry wad that is under the computer desk.