Spring Broke

Spring break found us in a place I now admit that I have always prematurely misjudged, unnecessarily profiled, ceremoniously mocked, and unreasonably discriminated against. Know that I have sought forgiveness for my impolite waywardness and made peace with inaccurate misperceptions.

Tennessee was our destination of choice to spend a few days away from the life John’s new medical practice has seemed to consume. (It’s going to get better ANY MINUTE. I just know it.) To be more precise, Sevierville, or Gatlinburg, or Pigeon Forge – they all seem to run together- was so much stinking fun that I felt the need to preface this post bearing all of my judgmental sins.

For some reason, most of which has to do with the mass marketing done by Dolly Parton and other businesses touting the area as the honeymooner’s DREAM destination, I have always thought that this type of setting may not necessarily fit our idea of a vacation. Countless commercials, brochures and billboards depicting the availability of heart shaped tubs in YOUR VERY ROOM, country music blaring out of all existing town speakers, and newly married folks spilling into the streets, would seem to suggest that our desires and those the Smoky Mountains offered could not possibly coincide.

I was wrong.

Until you have joyfully “traded paint” with your six-year-old son at a NASCAR theme park, you have not fully lived.



Until you have gathered with your family of five in a hot tub on the back deck of a cabin aptly christened the LOVE SHACK, you have not fully lived.




Until you discover the only way to identify your daughter on the racetrack is by the large pink bow that races by you, you have not fully lived.



Until you have witnessed your child scurry up a rock-climbing wall, surpassing the grown man (AKA the plumber) who desperately needed a belt to pull up his drawers, you have not fully lived.



Until you have observed and appreciated the pure adoration and all consuming love demonstrated by honeymooners at said NASCAR theme park, you have not fully lived.

I have now fully lived.

I could continue with my usual wordiness, devoting more paragraphs to the unparalleled good times experienced by our family in the mountains. But I think I will let the pictures and a few random comments speak of the surprising joy found in the land that unilaterally belongs to Dolly.

Mary Mac declares herself the winner:



Correct driving skills:




Incorrect driving skills (Notice the closed eyes.According to John, this is the way I drive in real life.)



Chandler mimics the driving skills of his daddy:



Racing to race:



Fearless mountaineers:



Evil spinning machine where my stomach still resides:



Spinning some more...:



...and some more:



John struggling to hold onto his guts:



Peace to Three:



Spring break turns into spring broke. Time to go home. Goodbye cabin, goodbye mountains, goodbye Dolly.

Sunday Naps

This afternoon we found ourselves in a quiet house. Chase and Chandler were playing across the street at the home of friends, and we somehow convinced Mary Mac to lay in her bed for an afternoon rest. It is a phenomenon that doesn’t occur often, but when it does, we all go looking for the elusive nap.

John was on call this weekend, which meant multiple calls in the middle of the night as well as numerous trips to the emergency room to admit sick patients. Training during his days of residency cured him of needing more than five hours of sleep at one time, but it is the repeated interruption to his sleep pattern that brings on the exhaustion at the end of his seventy-two hour responsibilities. That issue coupled with my supposed “stealing of the covers” and “commandeering of his territory” (his words) does not make for a restful night.

This morning, the alarm clock screamed especially early, as John’s duties were twofold. First he had to make rounds on twelve patients at two separate hospitals before rushing to church, with worn Bible in hand,to teach Sunday school. All in the pouring rain. And all while answering his cell phone every five minutes to answer my frantic questions about the location of my car keys. And my favorite lipstick.

So this afternoon, the house was full of quiet, our stomachs were full of carbs and our eyelids already full of the sheep we would soon be counting. John found the bed first, while I answered a few emails and checked on a few ebay items that the recession and the "stimulus package" remind me that I don’t really need. I tiptoed into Mary Mac’s bedroom to make sure she was asleep before delighting myself with the delicious slumber that would soon be mine.

She was not in her bed.

I have reluctantly learned not to immediately resort to histrionics when I cannot find my daughter. It has been a painful process, but one that has been good for my overall maturity as a parent. That is all I can say about it at this time.

Calmly, and because I am now mature, I walked into our bedroom, very reluctant to wake up John with the news that Mary Mac was not in her room.

This is what I found:



In case you were to think that Mary Mac had her arms around a headless man, let me quickly ease your fears. To block out the usual noise that vibrates through the hallways of our home, John habitually buries his head under his pillow, like a medically inclined ostrich, in a desperate attempt to gain a little peace and quiet.

Maybe you need a closer look:



Oh, the joy of Sunday naps. And the over consumption of carbs. And a little girl who prefers to nap right beside her daddy even if she can't find his head.

Plans

I had a feeling that the moment I typed the words “a sweet girl has been hired to take my place, allowing part-time hours for me” on a previous post, that God had his arms wrapped around His stomach, belly laughing at my premature words.

“Oh, silly girl”, I imagined Him thinking, “how many times do I have to tell you that the plans you make only cause me to laugh harder!”

Freedom in the form of grocery shopping, laundry folding and household cleaning were literally inches from my grasp when we found out that a front staff person from John’s office had contracted MONO. We knew what this meant – John would have to check in his own patients at the front window while simultaneously conducting the necessary exam in the waiting room.

(Of course this really did not happen. The mean old HIPPA Police would have carted him off to the HIPPA jail that houses the docs caught violating patient rights and disclosing privileged information. Their punishment includes time served at various insurance companies, stamping DENIED on all claims submitted by law abiding doctors, until either fulfilling their complete sentence or transferring to a mental facility all the while muttering, “I will not pay your claim. I will not pay your claim. I will not pay your claim…”.)

Anyway.

I really enjoy working at John’s office. Since he also happens to be my favorite person to be around, I like hanging out with him all day, even if it does sometime entail him asking me to fetch a cup of coffee - the nerve. My day is rewarding and fun and leaves me with a real sense of accomplishment.

The challenge has been maintaining some sense order at home when long days are spent at the office. At the end of the day, it takes concerted effort to address dirty school uniforms, a disorderly home, school notes and announcements, baseball practices as well as the ever present question, “WHAT AM I GOING TO MAKE FOR SUPPER?!”

(Sorry I had to use my capital letters voice but the all-star parent in me really wants to serve nutritious meals, but unfortunately, sometimes hotdogs and tater tots are the way we have to roll. Martha Stewart is to blame for the high expectations I have for myself and really should be sent to HIPPA jail to stamp DENIED on insurance claims for her crimes against all housewives.)

Working the amount of hours I have over the past two months has instilled a renewed sense of respect for full-time working moms. I am convinced that there will be extra jewels in the crowns these moms will receive in heaven as well as the availability of Martha Stewart to clean their heavenly mansions.

Oh, you know I am only teasing. She will only cook for them.)

In the meantime, and until my part-time hours return, I need to get a system in place. Attention to details and schedules and menus will have to be considered the night before, as well as laying out uniforms and lunches and backpacks for easier morning routines. I need to efficiently and effectively use the amount of hours available during this transitional period in our lives, maybe even utilizing a checklist to monitor my responsibilities.

At least, for now, that’s my plan. Can you hear God laughing?

Crazy Hats

This week the children have been celebrating the birthday of Dr. Seuss at the school they all attend. Monday they donned the color green in honor of Green Eggs and Ham, and Tuesday, silly socks were worn to commemorate the book, Fox In Socks. I offered my fancy socks to all three but my little sock snobs emphatically refused.

Today Chandler and Mary Mac chose funny hats to wear to pay tribute to the classic, A Cat In The Hat.Typically, John wears this hat when seeing patients, but just for today, he loaned it to Chandler:




Of course, I am just kidding. This is the hat he really wears:



Chase dressed up as the main character from the Magic Treehouse for a story parade at the upper campus. John wears these glasses, with the hat above, while in the exam room:




To be fair, I am including John’s response to the creative liberties I take when referring to him on my blog:

"So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads."
Dr. Seuss


I may just have to joyfully agree.

Saved

“That doctor saved my husband’s life.”

The soft-spoken words of the attractive, middle-aged woman took me by surprise. She had just barely walked up to the checkout window, laying her purse on the shallow counter and her emotions on her monogrammed sleeve, when greeting me with this simple, yet somewhat forthright statement.

I wasn’t familiar with the patient, nor did she know that the doctor to whom she referred sometimes drooled on my pillow when sleeping, but it was clear that this was information she felt compelled to share, the importance of which superseded the business of scheduling a follow-up appointment or providing the co-pay.

“Really?” I responded. “What happened?”

The woman recounted an office visit she initiated on her husband's behalf. She recalled to me that her husband was somewhat agitated about the appointment, protesting loudly about the interruption it would cause for his standing tee time, further arguing that it didn’t make much sense to see a doctor when there obviously wasn’t anything wrong with him.

Nonetheless, the man kept the appointment, and met my husband for the first time during his physical exam. The golfer didn't have any health issues or any symptoms suggesting concern; he just wanted to appease his wife with this yearly consultation he hoped would ease her unfounded worry.

During the exam, it was discovered that there was something peculiar sounding in the thingamajiggy found on the side of the man's throat.

(The sweet lady was very specific about her husband’s condition, citing medical jargon that caused the neurons in my brain to scream, "WHAT?! I DIDN"T EVEN KNOW THAT THERE WAS SUCH A THING LOCATED IN THE THROAT! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

But because I am now considered professional personnel in John's office, all outbursts have to be kept to a minimum. In an effort to continue to hide what a true, medical moron the doc's wife happens to be, I nodded my head as intelligently as possible, faking my way through the medical terms that caused this couple such grave concern.)

The condition was imminently life threatening and surgery for the man was scheduled the next day. The blockage was immediately removed, leaving an angry six inch scar on his neck, but the opportunity for many more golf games completely intact.

Since that time, the woman continued to explain tearfully, she tells all who will listen, that her physician saved her husband's life. Family members, friends from church and long-time golfing buddies are now all patients in our practice because of the zealous and gracious message this woman proclaims. Her news, she says, is too good, too joyful, not to share with others.

Driving home this afternoon, I began thinking about the woman's reaction to the second chance at life her husband had been given. As a believer - as one who is just as grateful that Jesus granted me a second chance, allowing an eternal existence and an infinite number of golf swings - shouldn't I be just as zealous and gracious about the message that saved my own life? Shouldn't my news be too good, too joyful, not to share with others?

I don't have the medical capabilities, training or intelligence to prevent physical death for others, but I do have the capability, training and intelligence to impart the way to everlasting life. Just like those my husband treats in the exam room, situations that sometimes waver between life and death, the interactions I will have during this lifetime are strikingly similar. It is a matter of life and death for all those that I meet.

I know the remedy for an empty and broken life, and I pray that my passion, my compulsions, will mimic that of the grateful woman, who through a random doctor's appointment, was given many more nights to sleep beside her husband, allowing the same drool to accumulate on her pillow as I do on mine.

"I tell you the truth, he who believes has everlasting life." John 6:47

Energetic Joy

There is a business in town that caters to those with an abundance of energy. Hyper- active personalities are royally welcomed in the same manner my bank deposit is royally snatched by the teller for my overdrawn account. Those who choose Capri Suns as liquid replenishment or Lucky Charms as substitute nourishment find complete acceptance in this establishment that caters to the vivacious and beckons the lively.

Which is why I thought that it would be the perfect setting for my five year old daughter’s birthday party.

This warehouse is filled to the rim with gigantic inflatables and very much like the vision children have of heaven. They run, jump, bounce and laugh to their heart’s content while parents wearily watch from scattered chairs throughout the building, witnessing an energetic phenomenon they once could claim before it was stolen by their offspring.

For a solid two hours, friends from Mary Mac’s preschool class raced with joy from inflatable to inflatable as though their teacher were chasing them with arithmetic practice sheets, only stopping when I lay my body across their paths to snap a photo or two. They were like wild monkeys in a zoo, swinging from one place to the next, and communicating to each other with high-pitched squeals that only primates would understand.

At the end of our frenzied two hours, we gathered in a room to eat pizza and celebrate the birthday of my sweet child. Parents thanked us for providing an afternoon activity that would appropriately wear out their children, thus making bedtime rituals easier with each worn-out birthday participant.

The gratitude quickly changed to disdain when we brought out this,



and this,



making it necessary to stay an additional two hours to jump the sugar sufficiently out of their systems.

Happy Birthday Mary Mac!

Happy Birthday Mary Mac

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com