Deer Dynasty

I am uncertain as to why they have chosen our neighborhood in which to congregate. Outside appearances would suggest that it wouldn’t be the likeliest choice for privacy, or even an area that would provide protection from the elements. One would think that roaming in the woods, grazing and frolicking with forest friends, would better suit their needs and overall temperament.

Previous encounters with deer have not resulted in positive experiences. They are more aggressive than the movie, Bambi, would have you believe and are slowly taking over our section of the city. I hear that they are even cutting in line in front of our chocolate lab, Sophie, as she waits patiently for her Bojangles biscuit each morning.

As much as deer annoy me, I couldn’t help but cringe at the real life episode of Deer Dynasty that happened just a few yards away from me.

(Special note: Deer Dynasty is my play on Duck Dynasty, a reality television show that has provided my family with hours of entertainment. It is so stinking funny and will make you happy, happy, happy.

An additional note: There is a photo below that is somewhat graphic. It is kid’s stuff for those of you who hunt, and creepy stuff for those of you who don’t. Please proceed with gastrointestinal caution.)

A few weeks ago, I was working in our home office,  contemplating new ideas that could possibly entice my husband to fire me, relieving me of responsibilities that include the begrudges of quarterly taxes and insurance companies that delight in providing reimbursement 120 days after submission,  when a flurry of commotion caught my attention. Facing a window that provided a view of our front yard and beyond, I was startled to see three police cars wheel into my next door neighbor’s drive way.

I immediately did what any concerned citizen would do and grabbed my camera with telephoto lens. A response some might call nosy, but one I would like to think of more as curiously aware. Regardless, documentation would be needed to justify the release of the metal chains that imprisoned me to the work desk, an excuse note of sorts for the boss man more concerned about office utilities being paid in a timely manner than my amateurish attempts at neighborhood paparazzi.

Five police officers stepped out of their vehicles and huddled together in what seemed to be serious, tactical discussion. I stood on my front porch, camera in one hand and cell phone in the other, trying to decide if there was time to call my neighbor, Cammie, to join me in my crime watching efforts.

Suddenly, one of the officers removed himself from the group and in purposeful strides made it to the trunk of his vehicle. He pulled out long, latex gloves - the kind my husband uses for the unmentionables that occur in his exam room - and slid them on up to his elbows.

Just as I began to imagine the elaborate crime scene the policeman was going to investigate and wondering if I should offer my services as photographer, I spotted the object of his intentions. My stomach flip-flopped in the same way it did when I was pregnant and accepted that the stork would not be involved in the delivery of my baby.

A large, unfortunate deer with questionable jumping abilities had tried to scale an iron fence, miscalculating the height that would lead to its demise.  The animal was hanging upside down, hind quarters gruesomely impaled on the iron spokes, a ghastly sight that left me momentarily dizzy.

I watched the gloved officer walk slowly toward the animal, carrying a large stick in his right hand. Despite my nausea and shaky knees, I pulled myself together to photograph what happened next. I am tough like that.

The man eased closer to the fence until he was just inches from the dead deer. He lifted the stick and poked the animal in the side, and without warning, the deer raised his head and brayed loudly in the officer’s face, baring teeth and tongue in a way that makes Freddy Krueger seem friendly. The man stumbled backwards, surely wetting his pants in the process, and in a cartoonish panic backtracked in a canter/ crawl to a safe distance.

For fifteen minutes, I watched the officers gather again in a group to discuss the severity of the situation. The deer was now very agitated, and none of the men in blue wanted to repeat the ordeal as experienced by their damp comrade. One pulled out a cell phone and began talking in animated expression.  I wondered if he was calling his supervisor, animal control or another officer to bring a pair of dry uniform pants. It turned out that it wasn’t any of these options.

A few minutes later, a beat up Bronco pulled into the driveway. A fellow in camouflage hat and t-shirt emblazoned with “Sponsored by Beer” emerged from the vehicle. Without hesitation, he walked to my neighbor’s yard to get a closer inspection of the deer. 

With a plan in mind, the man took off his white tennis shoes, and then planted himself in a bear hug position behind the animal.

With a grunt and a thrust, he lifted the deer off of the fence and dropped it ceremoniously to the ground. The white shoes didn’t suffer a single scratch.

He hauled the animal across the yard……

And then loaded it into the back of his Bronco.

I would like to think that the man took the deer off to a secluded place in the forest , burying  him after a meaningful recitation of  the Lord’s Prayer. But my Southern roots know better, and accept that the deer ended up grilled to medium rare perfection, devoured by a table full of good ol’ boys enjoying a fine meal and an elaborate tale about law enforcement  incontinence. 

Fancy Toes

It was in my twenties when I first discovered the pedicure. For a period of time during college, I never missed a manicure appointment, a deliberate reaction to the end of a collegiate basketball career. Sports dictated that fingernails were to be short and trim, an unsightly punctuation to the damaged looking fingers on both of my hands either broken or inured during games and practices.

During the first week of college basketball practice, as an inexperienced and out of my league freshman, I fractured a bone in the index finger of my right hand. The team trainer, known for his warped and twisted sense of humor, placed a very large splint around my finger, which he then taped to my middle finger for stability. The splint reached about two and a half inches beyond my right hand, in a slight curved position, a cumbersome contraption that sat me on the sidelines for the remainder of practice.

Once the final suicide drill was completed, the team and I headed to the dining hall on campus for dinner. I knew that my injury looked unusual but I completely misjudged the ridiculousness of my hand with its large, perpetual pointing finger, wrapped in mounds of tape and gauze. I would soon found out by a sharp-tongued member of the male species how out of the ordinary I appeared.

I was standing at the salad bar, wondering how farmers grew the baby cobs of corn that are put into salads and if somehow they feel inferior to the larger versions of corn eaten with barbecue, when I felt a lumbering presence to my left. “What’s up, Jones?” he greeted before taking in with wide eyes my alien looking hand.

“Whoooaaaaa, Jonesie! What happened to you? You look like E.T.! Phone home! Phone home!” he finished in all of his hilarity and for all to hear. I rolled my eyes, took the remaining baby cobs of corn –that would show him – and walked to my team’s table, balancing the tray precariously on my injured hand. I would be known as E.T. on campus for a long time, despite begging the wicked trainer to trim back the splint more normally the next day.




Pedicures always seemed a little too intimate to me. I’m not a big fan of feet – either those of others or my own – and the idea of another scrubbing and moisturizing in between toes is not my idea of a relaxing experience. However, exchanging basketball shoes for flip-flops, I realized that grooming in this vicinity was necessary and much needed. So in my twenties, I relented, gritting my teeth when the bottoms of my soles were sanded like an old piece of furniture found in the attic, all the while discussing with the devoted nail tech the difference between a French pedicure and an American.

Mercy.

So, because God is the wittiest person I know, He gifted me with a pink loving six year old little girl full of joy who loves manicures and pedicures “with all her heart” and “forever and forever.” So much that for her seventh birthday party she wanted to celebrate it in a nail salon with all of her friends where their toes would be scrubbed and moisturized all the while discussing the differences between a French pedicure and an American.

So that’s what we did. And a good time was had by all.

And after the party was over, the birthday girl practiced her basketball skills with her mama in the driveway, bright pink fingernails sparkling under the moonlight with each enthusiastic dribble.

Rotten

Chronic strep throat and sinus infections led our pediatrician to the conclusion that our nine-year-old son, Chandler, should have his tonsils and adenoids surgically removed. (As opposed to the thought had by yours truly that magically wishing them away or clicking my heels together three times would somehow prevent a visit to the operating room.)

A consultation with an ENT (ears, nose and throat) doctor confirmed that the procedure was necessary and a surgery date was scheduled. A week after Christmas and a week before school resumed, we felt confident that the timing of the tonsillectomy would allow an ample recovery period. It ended up however, that physical healing for my son took longer than anticipated and mental recuperation for me is still somewhat suspect.

The day of surgery went well for Chandler. He was calm during the pre-op rituals, rolling his eyes appropriately when I asked if the “happy medicine” given to him could be shared with his legal guardian. The nurse did not really think that I was funny, which is fine, because I really was not joking.




As the medicine took effect, I watched my son drift in and out of goofy joy land, that wistful place I would like to visit when the loads of laundry in my home threaten rightful sanity. Chandler stared with fascination at the ceiling tiles above him, only to then turn his attention to the magic and wonder of the bed rails:



Every once in a while his focus would find me long enough to inquire why my eyeballs were so close together:



or how it came to be that I was the only mom with two noses:




When it was time for surgery, the nurses wheeled my son away and I felt a sob escape from that sacred place familiar to all moms. The place created uniquely for a child the moment they are born, that opening that will leave your heart vulnerable for all remaining days. I stood in the hallway, fighting for composure and losing badly, until I spotted a nurse I knew pretty well. Surely she had some random sedatives to spare......

(Oh, I kid.)

I sat in the waiting room pretending to read the book in my lap but totally eavesdropping on the captivating conversation happening behind me. There was an argument occurring between a husband and wife about whether time permitted a smoke break outside. In summary, the woman’s point was that while she hadn’t had a cigarette since her morning coffee and really needed one or four, she was afraid that she would smell like smoke when the doctor called them from the waiting room. And she didn’t want said doctor to know that she smoked. To which the husband responded, “But you do. So why you fakin’ it? Let’s go smoke.”

My name was finally called and a nurse led me to a small waiting room outside of the operating room. The doctor came in shortly after, removed his face mask, looked me squarely in the eyes, and said, “Those tonsils were rotten.” A simple, direct diagnosis if I ever heard one. I thanked the physician and he led me to my son.

Chandler was wheeled into a recovery room, sectioned off by movable curtains that allow for patient privacy. I sat in the small area with Chandler as I waited for his anesthesia to wear off, thankful that the surgery was a success and free of complications. I closed my eyes in the quietness of the space and prayed, grateful to God for keeping my sweet child safe. A sudden, loud sound interrupted my thanksgiving.

It was a familiar sound, but one out of place. Surely, I misheard.

The sound erupted again, but louder, accurately confirming what I initially identified. A man recovering next to us, separated by only a thin barrier of cloth, was burping. Note the plural form of the word as it was done with repetition and considerable volume.

(As a sidenote, the current Guinness world record for loudest burp is 107.1 decibels, which is louder than a chainsaw at a distance of 1 metre. Thank you Wikipedia.

In addition, Wikipedia notes “Belching in front of people in public places tends to be received in a manner similar to flatulence”. I wholeheartedly concur.)

Every ten seconds or so, the man would release a lingering belch, followed by his companion telling him to “let it all out” so he would feel better. I began to wonder if the man recovering had been anesthetized with a carbonated drink.

Clearly, the patient was uncomfortable, which made two of us. Mercifully, after a fifteen minute chorus of varying lengths of eructation (thanks again, Wikipedia), the burping man and his companion left the recovery area.

Chandler slowly came out of his anesthesia, a little disoriented and in some pain. The worst is behind us, I remember thinking, as I carefully helped him into our car. I could not have known that the next nine days would be so trying, that in my mental instability, I would begin to wish for the presence of the belching patient if only as a distraction.....

Thick Skin

I aspire to age gracefully. Embracing each year with open arms, not folded, with eagerness, not dread, demonstrates a zeal for life, a confidence in stature, that only comes with the experience and wisdom aging brings.

I don’t look the same as I did last year, and already changing for the mirrors waiting in the next. Photographs remind me that elasticity in skin is like a fading friend, lacking the loyalty necessary for longevity and support.

Mark Twain said, “Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.” Most days I believe that I’ve earned the lines on my face honestly, laughing more often than not, leaving creases around eyes that speak truthfully of surrounding joy. Nevertheless, I wholeheartedly agree with Ninon de Lendos who observed, “If God had to give a woman wrinkles, He might at least have put them on the soles of her feet.”

Just when I think I am nonchalantly gliding through the maturing process, accepting with contentment current stage and age of life, my children poignantly –and bluntly - point out the changes that seem to take them by surprise. Not in an effort to hurt my feelings or make me aware of mounting flaws, but merely in that matter-of-fact tone of voice reserved for report of the unusual.

In a recent conversation with Chandler, our nine-year-old son, he stopped talking in mid sentence about his football card collection to stare intently at my eyes. He paused for a few seconds and then said, “ There sure are a lot of squiggles on your face.” Many of which he caused, I might add.

Mary Mac is fascinated with the various hairs that sprout from my person, a phenomenon that only werewolves would accept as normal. She has pointed out the fancy “fur” that grows in my nose, witnessed firsthand the removal of “coffee grinds” above my lip and more than once inquired about the reasons God would want “hairs to grow from those freckles on your face.” To be fair, I plan to ask Him that very same question at the pearly gates one day. (I also will track down Eve to demand restitution for PMS, birthing pains and monthly bloating.)

Feeling as though my hair color should match that of my runaway eyebrows, and beyond appropriate time to tame the grey, I had my hair darkened to its original tint. Arriving home with a look I thought was somewhat subtle, my oldest son, Chase, glanced in my direction, and said, “You look like you are wearing a black helmet.”

Knowing that a black helmet was better than one peppered with grey, I confidently responded, “This is my original hair color. God made me this way.”Not missing a beat, and in classic Chase manner, he retorted, “Well he made you just one pair of combat boots away from being a Goth. If you get a nose ring, you’re done”.

P.G. Wodehouse is credited with the following quote: “There is only one cure for grey hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.” I would like to add that this would also remedy squiggles, nose fur, female mustaches, and random hairs. As a bonus side effect, halitosis would be but a distant, offensive memory.

Despite ongoing annotations from my offspring about the gerontology aspects occurring right before their too observant eyes, the goal remains the same: I want to age with dignity and grace. Even if it means that in the process, through comments made and observations offered, I develop skin that is supernaturally thick, yet hangs a little loose.

Last Resort List

By resorting to the list below, I am admitting the following:

1. I am as behind on this blog as I am on the laundry. And grocery shopping, housekeeping and overall grooming. (I wear pants in 100 degree heat for a reason. )

2. Providing the usual details about recent events and using the usual excess words that sometimes makes my husband’s ears hurt is not going to happen.

3. If I were to do so, it may take me until next year to catch up on all that has occurred, a task so daunting it makes my overgrown eyebrows ache.

Like many situations in our lives, sometimes it is a good thing just to start all over again exactly where you are. The more we get behind, the harder it is to look ahead, a stagnant place that isn’t good for anyone. My wheels keep spinning; they just haven’t been taking me anywhere.

So, today memories comes in the condensed variety. Sort of a cliff notes version to help get me back on track of all things bringing joy.


1. The children started back to school. Just in time. Because the temperatures in our town reached an intensity that only the devil would enjoy,the last week of summer found us all inside together not only jumping up and down on each other’s nerves but wiggling around all under each other’s skin. Clearly, our annoyance with one another encompassed our entire anatomy.

All three look especially old in this picture, as if they could head off to college any minute. They still don’t take seriously my plans to home school them post high school years.



2. As if is not enough that I battle laundry piles that threaten to spill into the streets, we decided to take our chaotic house one level deeper. An ascension into total disorder and disarray that would make Dante’s Inferno seem like Disney World. We are renovating our home, which includes the addition of bedrooms and a laundry room while we live in said home. A decision that may prove to be regrettable as our family of five continues to to fight over one bathroom and sleeping arrangements that include piling children on top of one another like fire logs.



3. This one had his braces removed.



This one had braces put on.




This one continues to suffer from the indignity of it all.



My tag along friend, Mr. Double Chen, resents the attention stolen from him by the orthodontics.

4. My husband is convinced that the squirrels in our small town are retreating to his office to die. Because of keen investigative skills – and a stench that made his nose hairs fall to the ground – John discovered dead squirrels in the attic that had to be dealt with immediately. Unfortunately, the rodent removal occurred during office hours and in between patients. Doesn’t that make you want to make an appointment?





5. Football practice and games continue to unnerve me and make this child very tired.


6. My sedative prescription had to be increased because of repeated sightings of reptiles like this:



7. Some embrace the reptile nonsense. How can she be a child of mine?



8. But then I find a photo like this on my i-phone, taken without my notice by a precocious six year old, and I have no doubt that she belongs to me.



(As an ending side note: if the eyebrow lady ever asks if the hair above your lip is to be removed as well, the answer should always be yes.)

There’s No Shame In Public Places

I would like to lay the blame elsewhere. The culpability of friends, social contacts, or even Sunday School teachers who collectively play a role in overall influences would be preferable over accepting the responsibility as handed down through the deoxyribonucleic acids of their genetics.

Goofing off in public is a trait common in all three of my children. It is an inherited commonality, a direct derision from the Y chromosome of my better half. While most wouldn’t describe my personality as meek or unnaturally reserved, I can lay claim to an ability to draw upon appropriate amounts of decorum when in public places. The majority of my immediate family cannot, nor do they care to.

For as long as I have known my husband, he has tried to catch me off guard in public outings where laughter would be unbefitting for the normal. He considers it a personal challenge to disrupt the composure of yours truly whether it is in church, the labor and delivery room, a serious meeting or any other setting one does not desire out of place notice. As with any situation, attention is not given to the perpetrator causing the inappropriateness; instead, focus is aimed at the person giggling like a buffoon.

Therein lies my husband’s joy.

I first noticed this unfortunate trait in my oldest son, Chase, when he was two years old. I was standing in the aisle of a grocery store and Chase was sitting in the folded down seat of the buggy. My back was to my son as I scanned the shelves for the desired item, while another lady, only a few feet away, perused the ones opposite mine. We turned to our respective carts at the same moment, just in time for the cute toddler to look the stranger directly in the eye and say loudly, “ Excuse me lady, I pooted.”

Really, there are no words.

Recently, we celebrated the first day of Summer by going to an IMAX theatre to see the movie, Shrek. I gathered our concessions and walked towards our entrance where my three offspring were waiting in line for the movie to begin. This is what I found:






Surely, the Sunday School teachers are to blame.

Baseball Preservatives

Little league baseball season can wreak havoc on a household, much like runaway eyebrows cause mayhem in my appearance.

All three of my children played on a team this year, creating a complication in schedules that would have made Mr. Rubik cry for mercy. Nightly practices intermixed with ballgames three nights a week presented a transportation and supervisory challenge to our family unit containing only two parents.

Often, I would watch one child at one field, while relying solely on the eyes in the back of my head to monitor another. Stationed at the third field was my husband, pile of medical charts beside him on the bleachers, catching up on the office notes cut short for baseball. It wasn't the most perfect of systems in place, but the best we could offer because we are simply outnumbered by the offspring.

Supper proved to be another issue during those nights that began at 5:00 pm and didn't end until well after eight. Our meals didn't come anywhere close to that smug food pyramid that makes every mom feel like a nutritional loser. Some nights it was a hotdog from the concession stand, and when we had reached reasonable quota of Oscar Mayer, it was a well-balanced combo of jumbo dill pickle with a side of Cheetos, filling stomachs that longed for a leafy vegetable.

My husband often rolled his eyes as I fretted out loud in the stands, while eating yet another bag of Doritos, that our children were only a few Flintstone vitamins away from baseball induced Rickets. (Mr. Concession Stand Guy, it could really help a mother out of if you would consider a few dairy products and maybe a banana or two in your selections next time. What's wrong with a glass of milk in between innings?)

Baseball season has joyfully come to a close, and we are slowly reintroducing vegetables to our dietary regime. It has been a methodical and purposeful process in order to counteract the onset of preservative withdrawals. And when the twitching and gagging does occur, we just offer a handful of Cheetos, waiting for the additive levels to stabilize, and start all over again.


(Sing to the tune of Take Me Out To The Ballgame)

It’s supper again at the ballgame
Time to eat with the crowd
Give me some Peptol and strong prozac
‘Cause my sanity may never come back
Let me root, root, root for some loose change
Concessions exceed my price range
For I’m one, two, three hot dogs out
From a gastronomic exchange.

Where The Sun Doesn't Shine

It took me weeks to make the appointment. Numerous phone calls were made but never completed, pressing the off button as soon as I heard the voice of the receptionist. Clearly, not the nicest of manners demonstrated but somehow, wrongly justified by the self-induced phobia from which I suffer.

Undergoing a tooth extraction or removal of an appendage seemed preferable over the yearly screening that examined all available epidermis. An experience that never fails to disrupt my sense of modesty, it is one that has to occur due to unfortunate skin type and progression of a condition known as delusional paranoia.

The last few visits to the dermatologist occurred while living in South Carolina. On those visits, I disrobed down to undergarments, despite repeated instructions that the physician preferred patients in their birthday suit under the drafty, open-backed gown. Although I complied each time, I did so with my eyes tightly shut, wondering how in the world the doctor could talk about mundane topics like the weekend weather and tasty crock pot recipes, all the while examining personal parts of which only God should be aware.

(My husband, John, just interrupted my blogging to inform me that skin is the largest organ in the body. It reminded me a little of the whiz kid in the movie Jerry MacGuire who knew the weight of the human head. Except John is a grown man. And spits out scientific facts because he cannot help it.)

Since moving across state lines, I have dreaded the inevitable appointment with a new physician, with new eyes, with new topics to endure during an examination. After succumbing to the ridiculousness of the unintentional prank calls made to the dermatologist’s office, I finally scheduled the visit that always finds me desperately praying for the return of Jesus before the doctor enters the exam room.

On the day of the appointment, I sat anxiously in the reception area, mentally preparing myself for meeting a colleague of my husband’s in the buff. It did not escape me that I was blowing the impending interaction completely out of proportion, as though my nudity were a blip of concern on his clinical radar, but the aforementioned condition prevented me from responding like those considered reasonable.

The nurse called my name and led me to the exam room. She handed me a flimsy, see-through gown and instructed me to unclothe down to bra and underwear.

Huh?

“Excuse me, “ I said to the retreating back of the nurse. “ Are you sure I shouldn’t remove, um, well, you know, everything?”

“That is not necessary,” the nurse responded with a raised eyebrow and a questioning look as though I were some floozy patient just dying to get naked.

Don’t get me wrong - on any other occasion I would have been thrilled to keep my stuff covered and all to myself . It’s just that experience would suggest that going commando was standard of care in the dermatologist’s office and I had prepared for such. Said differently, I had not planned for the doctor to see my underwear and had unwisely opted for comfort over cute.

There is some colorful history with these underpants. They are leftover from maternity days - the kind every female loves but pretends that they don’t own. Uncommonly bulky and elastically challenged, yards of cotton provide a roominess that can only be described as joyfully comfortable.

In a panic, I texted my husband at work.

Me: “uh-oh.”

John: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “You know those u-wear you hate?”

John: “The ones I threw away?”

Me: “I saved them. And I’m wearing them. And Dr. C is about 2 C them.”

John: “Just take them off. You have on a gown, don’t you?”

Me: “Yeah, but he’ll think I’m a perv."

John: “Better than thinking you are Baby New Year.”

A sudden knock at the door made the decision for me. Friendly and easy going, Dr. C introduced himself and told me how much he admired my husband. I wanted to say that I hoped poor choice in underwear would not adversely effect his opinion of my spouse, but knew that there really were not enough words to protect against the cloth-like diaper he was about to behold.

Without going into the embarrassing details of the exam, suffice it to say that it took extra effort to clear away all of the fabric to thoroughly examine the area where the sun doesn’t shine. While he smiled throughout the ordeal, and acted as normally as could be expected while drowning in stretched-out cotton, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, speaking of the significant task endured.

I recounted the experience with my friend, Beth, over lunch today. After she stopped laughing at my undergarment faux pas, she said, “Well, you know what you need to do on your next visit, dont’ you? You’ve got to wear some really fancy underwear so that the dermatologist at least understands that you know better.”

But, I can’t do that. I’m not even sure that I can return to an office that probably refers to me as PWBGP - Patient With Big Girl Panties. So, I’ve already started my round of hang-up calls to various offices of dermatologists in the hope of securing another appointment by the end of the year.

In the meantime, I have been unable to find the worn-out underwear that caused such distress for me and a hard day‘s work for my doctor. I suspect that my husband might have actually followed through with his ongoing threat and dumped them ceremoniously into the nearest trash can.

Either that, or handed them over to Baby New Year.

Bedhead, Bedroom Shoes and A Runaway Bosom

It was bound to happen. For years, I have been playing with carpool fire, escaping the humiliating burn that was inevitable to occur. Risk takers, in general, are a prideful bunch, attempting to defy odds that all reasonable folks know are not in their favor. Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall (Proverbs 16:18), words that ring in my ears as I contemplate the events of one morning.

I would ask that you refrain from judgment. As presumptuous as it may sound, I am certain that I am not alone in circumstances that beg for anonymity in the car line. In fact, we often pass by one another, baseball hats pulled low over our foreheads, huge sunglasses hiding the smudges from the previous day’s mascara and morning breath that can only be described as demonic.

The habit began innocently enough. A rushed morning, a scramble to fill lunch boxes and empty backpacks, left little time for proper dress. As is the case for most harried, worn-out moms, priority is given to the needs of the offspring first, and any remnants left over hardly adequate to address decent grooming.

The rush of school mornings that I compare to Noah right before the flood became less hectic when I readied myself in less than eleven seconds. Through much practice, and studying film of various pit crews in NASCAR, I have been able to accomplish pseudo-acceptable dress in the amount of time it takes for my children to bicker their way to our vehicle.

Certain concessions in attire are made to ensure arrival before the mocking of the tardy bell is heard. For instance, a sweatshirt is often worn over a pajama top. While I am aware that I have reached an age that has been sucker-punched by gravity, and fully recognize that any excursion lacking underwire is just plain wrong, the reality remains that it is quicker to hang free rather than support that which hangs.

Pajama pants worn to bed are also worn in carpool. At first, it was confusing to my children, as they often asked if I was headed to Wal-Mart after drop-off because “you know we always see people in their pajamas in the check-out line.” In addition, the bed head that frightens my husband every morning is sometimes covered with a baseball hat completing the look that can only be admired by colorblind hobos. And besides, who will really know if I don’t get out of the car?

Famous last words spoken by the unkempt, unshowered and unsightly.

My son’s forgotten lunchbox in the back seat of the car forced the issue one fateful morning. He was to leave for a field trip with high hopes of taking nutrition with him. I sped back to the school, hoping that the bus hadn’t already left, knowing that if it had, the Lucky Charms cereal eaten for breakfast wouldn't hold him.

With a quick glance to the mirror to confirm that I looked as disheveled as you are now imagining, I ran fingers through hair that hadn't seen a brush in twenty-four hours, and briskly walked towards the entrance of the building. Positioning one arm across my chest – as though I were about to say the Pledge of Allegiance – I tried without much success to hide unrestricted body parts.

Wearing red and white striped pajama bottoms topped with a faded blue sweatshirt, I looked like a tattered American flag shuffling up the steps in my bedroom slippers. The battle plan was to toss the lunch box at the kind receptionist and then turn on my fuzzy heels and run like the Red Coats were coming.

Instead of a quiet, inconspicuous retreat, I was met with an impromptu meet and greet with a few of the staff and two visiting students who fully took in with bulging eyeballs my bed head, bedroom shoes and runaway bosom. Together we all pretended that I didn't look like a bra-less fugitive in patriotic colors.

Allow my mistakes to be a lesson to those of you who tempt fate every morning in the carpool line. You may think that you are getting away with bulky sweatshirts and flannel bottoms, hiding crusty eyes behind sunglasses and halitosis behind rolled up windows. But I'm here to proclaim this very painful truth: my first could  be your first  and you too will be caught in all of your unsupported, floppy glory.

God Bless America.

Close Encounters 3

The event I am about to describe is an occurrence that made me involuntarily twitch for the remainder of the hour, spontaneously shudder for days and induced an uncontrollable tremble I fear will be with me for the rest of my life. The cause? My husband added another day to my work schedule.

I still feel quite faint from the interaction.

It has taken me a few days to gather my thoughts on how to appropriately describe the final patient encounter that occurred in my husband’s medical practice last week because I have been distracted by the HUNDREDS of hours I will soon punch into the time clock. (Just for the record, we don’t really have a time clock in the office. That sentence was a visual entirely intended for my spouse.)

The final patient encounter from last week is not for the weak stomached. If you are like me and lack not only a medical background but also any interest in the various fluids a body can manufacture, this may be especially difficult for you to read. Unless of course, you are a nine-year-old boy, then you will think that the following account is altogether appropriate and beyond cool and may even try to re-enact the entire scenario for your friends at school.

A patient checked into our office last week carrying several clear ziploc bags down the hallway that leads into one of the exam rooms. Before I could stop my eyeballs from seeing and my feeble brain from understanding, I correctly identified various colors and lumps that are consistent with the mucous that has been known to soar from one’s nose or cleared from one’s throat (Otherwise known as snot. That’s for the nine-year-old boy.)

Before I continue, I want to fully acknowledge that mucous makes folks feel really bad. It makes me feel bad. When it is clogging up airways and noseways (yes, that’s a medical term – I’m sure of it) all you can think about is ridding your body immediately of the substance that Shrek likes to eat. In fact, I have now witnessed the lengths people will go to in an attempt to ensure that their physician understands, observes and dissects the innate evil that resides in their phlegm.

However.

Allow me to offer a few friendly suggestions to consider before you feel compelled to blow the substance from your nose or clear the loogies from around your tonsils, rushing to your doctor’s office with the evidence bagged, tagged and ready to file in your chart:

1. If you describe the color of your mucous to your physician, it is unnecessary to actually bring it in for him to see. THE DOCTOR WILL BELIEVE YOU.

2. If, heaven forbid, you were to discover a foreign substance enveloped in the mucous, a detailed description of your discovery will suffice for any real life proof you could offer. THE DOCTOR WILL BELIEVE YOU.

3. If you were to recount the thickness of phlegm you are experiencing in your nose or throat, then said phlegm can remain inside of your body without actually exampling it for your physician. THE DOCTOR WILL BELIEVE YOU.

I asked my husband later how he reacts when presented with a bag of green, slimy fluids that I’m convinced God did not expect others to see. He responded, “I react the same way I do with all of my patients, regardless of whether they bring an item for show and tell or not. I listen to their concerns, nod my head empathetically and try to hold onto the contents of my stomach.”

I’m certain that I have now exhausted the topic of phlegm, as well as provided more information than you really wanted to know when perusing various blogs you hoped would bring a little joy. But now, at least, you know to save the ziplocs for your child’s lunch rather than for mucous storage, which is the way the Almighty intended. That’s biblical.

My blogging has made me an hour late for work that is going to result in a written reprimand filed in my records from the boss. (Or at the very least, a dramatic eye roll while looking at his watch.) Plus, all of this focus on mucous has made my throat feel funny. I think I need to clear it, drive to the office and show the remnants to my husband. Maybe he can put that in my records as well.

A letter to Santa....

Dear Santa,

I don't know if you are still taking requests but I have a few that I hope you will take the time to consider . The following are items that could really supplement my holiday joy. So, if you can,and especially if you are in a jolly mood, please help a mother out.

1. I would like the magic potion that would allow my children to sleep past 7:00 am. I'm all for the early bird getting the worm, just somewhere else besides my house.

2.I love my husband - really, I do - but could I also have a wife? One who washes clothes, packs lunches, remembers show and tell and all piano lessons, pays the bills and irons clothes properly (instead of willing the wrinkles out with the dryer). A gal who returns phone calls and emails in a timely manner, makes dinner representing all the food groups, and cares about dirty baseboards and cobwebs.

3.I would like for my children to grow verrrry slowwwwly. While I still want to sleep a little later, I want my little ones to stay little. It's all going by too fast and there's too much I want to remember. Can't you fly around the world super-duper fast and slow the world down? (It worked in the Superman movie)

4. I would like to use the bathroom alone. Enough said.

5.I would like a razor and a tweezer that produce year long results. Unruly eyebrows that point rudely at others is not cool.

6. I would like a turkey I can cook for Christmas dinner minus the unnecessary guts found inside the cavity of every bird. Who decided that gore should be included with the purchase price?

7. I would like a SUV makeover so that when the door is opened in the carpool line NOTHING falls out of the door. Not one pencil or one old field trip permission slip, not one shoe or one croc, not one empty juice box or one Happy Meal french fry. Nothing. Denada. I want to win the clean car award rather than be humiliated in front of thousands.

8. I would like smooth, luxurious Clairol hair. The kind that withstands the southern humidity instead of the current mane that turns into Bon Jovi concert hair at the slightest moisture in the air.Unless, of course, I am wearing acid wash jeans, jelly shoes and blue eye shadow.

7. I would like to wake up Chistmas morning with everything magically "lifted", certain areas properly "tucked", and all cellulite abstracted. Things pointing North rather than South would be especially appreciated.

8. I would like for Martha Stewart's show, magazine and products to be available only in the Netherlands. Reminders of my ineptness in napkin folding, candle creating, fresh juice squeezin', gravy makin' and pillow stitching is cruel and unnecessary.

Just like the turkey innards.

Joyfully yours,
Joni

You Probably Should Go to Someone Else's Blog

I know that I am getting ready to set myself up for much ridicule from those that I know. Having a mostly sound mind, the photos I am providing below are of my own volition, without coercion or under threat of blackmail, and a subject matter I’m fairly certain you will not find all that interesting.

Nevertheless -

(Allow me to pause for a moment. This is why I love to blog: you are allowed unlimited freedom in exercising words like NEVERTHELESS or THUS or FURTHERMORE whereas in real life - there I go again: WHEREAS – in real life you’re not going to find yourself with many friends speaking like a seventy year old English professor who religiously attends every Shakespearean festival or poetry reading that makes its way to town.)

Nevertheless, because it is the little things that bring me happiness each day, and sometimes those little things happen to be at my own expense, I am sharing these very personal observations with you all in the name of joy.

This is how you know desire for personal warmth supersedes any sense for fashion :



Please notice the fancy fringe-like material at the top of the sock. Someone thought it was the extra "something" needed to make the sock a fashion success.



Oh, did you want a closer look?



Ankle Muffs. (Get it? Ear muffs, ankle muffs? Never mind.)

Birds of a feather....

My personality has never been one described as skittish. I’m not jumpy, or frightened easily, and I don’t walk the streets downtown bug-eyed and in a state of alertness for whatever danger may be waiting for me around the corner.

HOWEVER, I have never come as close to losing all bladder control as I did recently when sitting in my car. (Okay, maybe I’ve come close a few times, but really those times can only be considered post pregnancy incontinence issues that one learns to accept in the same manner I’ve accepted the permanent parentheses mark between my overgrown eyebrows. Excessive information, I know…)

Just as I was buckling my seat belt, I made the mistake of momentarily glancing towards my left, through the glass window, just in time to witness a near sighted and clearly unstable bird SMACK directly into the glass just inches from my face.

The bird and I made direct eye contact slightly before it slammed into my car with an audible THUD. His (her?) eyes were all googly and crazy looking and in that split second I made sinful judgment concerning my feathered friend’s intelligence.

Never before had I thought I might be a candidate for Depends until Mr. Cuckoo cannon-balled into my window. Now I walk around in a whole new state of bladder awareness never experienced before.





The children were fascinated with the dead bird and it took almost all of my evil eyes to adequately warn them from touching the stiff legged creature. I'm not sure what diseases they carry, I told them, but I'm certain THEY ARE VERY DANGEROUS AND WILL CAUSE THE VERY FINGERS YOU TOUCH THEM WITH TO FALL OFF. (I have to resort to my capital letters voice when the children do not respond to my evil eye.)

Understandably, there was much sympathy for the bird, and my oldest son ,Chase, thought it would be nice to have a proper viewing so neighborhood friends could pay their respects. The picture you see below details the "viewing":



Later that night, after remembering that we left the bird enshrined in the pool basketball net while we ate supper and the children took baths, we discovered that the bird was gone. Either a dog in the role of unsolicited pallbearer took the feathered body, or God took it home to glory, to fly high and away and joyfully free from all menacing Ford Expeditions.

Early Bird Special Workout

So I started a new workout regime this week. I am working with a trainer in a group setting, hoping that this type of arena will provide the motivation needed to encourage me to ACTUALLY attend.

(Plus, I’ve already paid the trainer’s fees and he’s not interested in giving me a refund to swap for something more reasonable like a week’s worth of Starbucks coffee and a renewal of my Southern Living magazine. He’s very rigid that way.)

I have always been somewhat physically fit, playing multiple sports in high school and then basketball in college. Memberships in gyms were one of our first purchases in each new town, and our relocation to our current home was no exception. The only difference is that our current privileges only give us access to a very small weight room with a spattering of treadmills and elliptical machines.

I tried to make a go of it, but the early morning hours that are convenient for me are also desirable to those who seek the early bird specials. Don’t get me wrong. I love the elderly and feel like they have a lot of wisdom to offer; it’s just that I can’t work out next to them because I am distracted by worry. What if they fall off the treadmill? Or even worse, go into cardiac arrest? I’d have to use my superhero powers of trained First Aid professional to offer assistance:

“STAND BACK. (Using the same hand motions that NSYNC used when singing the song Bye, Bye, Bye.) I am a trained First Aid Professional. Sir, may I assist you? (It has always seemed rather ludicrous to me that you have to seek permission from someone who is on the verge of seeing Jesus but I guess the American Red Cross is too busy saving lives to waste time in People’s Court.)”

It’s just a distraction, I tell you.

So back to me.

This particular trainer and training facility came highly recommended by a friend, but he warned me that it would be very intense, but worth it, as I would see results rather quickly. I hate to admit it, but instant gratification has always been a good incentive for me and one of the reasons I think the Chia Pet is genius. Instant results.

However, I knew I was in trouble when I arrived for my first training session appropriately named “the torture chamber”. After participating in said chamber I am wholeheartedly convinced that this is the method used by the United States to retrieve valuable intelligence from pesky, Russian spies. Or at least the recipe to Paula Deen’s banana pudding.

I managed to survive the workout that included thousands of lunges, squats and push-ups, walking back to my car on shaky legs and opening the door with arms that resembled spaghetti. My whole body was bone weary, but I did feel satisfaction that I completed the session without collapsing or crying like a little girl. I felt tired, but somewhat confident, that in just a few weeks I could be a back-up exercise girl for the Billy Blank’s Tae Bo videos. (That SO cannot be his real name.)

The next morning quickly proved that I would not be that exercise girl in the infomercial, primarily because video production cannot happen in the horizontal position as I had difficulty getting out of bed because I was in SO MUCH PAIN.

My body is infuriated, rebelling at the way it was treated in the “chamber”. My gluteus maximus has been screaming insults at me for days and the muscles in my abdomen are angry that they have been found after months in hiding. I walk as though I’ve been riding on a horse in dire need of a session with the Horse Whisperer, grimacing with each step with a face that makes the Joker look handsome.

It has been very unpleasant.

I’ve since had a second training session and the soreness is joyfully a little better, but I am starting to question my membership in this group. Because I like walking like a normal person and sitting down in a chair without assistance in standing back up, I’m wondering if this is the exercise regime for me.

I’m thinking that geriatric gyms are more my speed.

Identity Crisis

Like most, we took great care and deliberation when deciding on the names for our children. There were several choices that brought us joy just by mere utterance of the proposed monikers. Here are a few we tossed out to those who inquired:

Scooby Doo. (Yiiikkkes)

LaLa (This revealed the disdain some adults have for the teletubbies. I feel sorry for the mothers of the teletubbies as the awkwardness they must have to confront on a daily basis must be tiring.):

"And what does your son do for a living?"
"He's a teletubby."

Dill Pickle (This always produced a SOUR expression.)

(For the record, I know the jokes are terrible. Please locate the mean, little red box in the upper right-hand corner to safely exit when you have had enough.)

While we weren't entirely serious when mentioning these considerations to others, we readily admit the enjoyment we received from their reactions. It become somewhat of a sick game to summon the most outrageous name of the day to share with family and friends, all in the name of a good-hearted chuckle.

(And when you are pregnant, there are few things that are funny when the stuff between your shoulders and your waist line actually touch and hair pops out of places that are just wrong. In my hormonal mind, laughs, while contrived, were deserved and much needed.)

In the end, family names were chosen for all of our children, and for the most part, our offspring are happy with the choices made.Except, it would seem, for Mary Mac.

Her first and second names are a combination of each grandmother's name. Mary is my husband's mother and Mac is from mine. (As a point of clarification, my mom is not a truck driver with hairy arms and nicotine stained fingers as the name might suggest. It is Mackaela, which has been shortened to the very feminine Mac.)

Anyway.

The initial identity crisis began when Mary Mac first began talking. She has two older brothers and often found herself in a situation necessitating a firm claim over playroom territory and/or toys. "Mary Mac's!" she would bellow at her brothers so often and for so long that she thought that to be her identity. For months, when anyone asked the child her name, she would respond in the possessive form, "Mary Mac's."

That stage transitioned to a new level altogether when Mary Mac demanded that we refer to her by a new name she came up with all by her defiant self:

MARSHMALLOW

Reluctantly, our family mostly complied, particularly if it prevented a monkey fit in public. With child number three, we were past caring about the strange looks received by others as we called out to our green-eyed Marshmallow. Even if it did leave those observing with the impression that we were members of some hippy cult who, after gazing all googley-eyed up at the groovy, blue sky, chose to name our baby after the shape of a fluffy cloud.

It's now been over a year since we last referred to our youngest as Marshmallow, and she seems to have finally embraced her originally given name. Our newest concern is the realization that in the future we will have to ward off any love interests bearing last names of "Nugget" or "Flurry", or even worse, "Rib", to prevent possible matrimony resulting in a name combination that only Ronald McDonald would enjoy.

So the identity crisis continues.

Clearly, Scooby Doo was the safer choice.

You Know It’s Summer When:

1.Suppertime is random as well as the food you serve. Five thirty one night, seven thirty the next. Well-balanced meals become off-balanced meals, sometimes in the form of pure additives and preservatives. (There are vitamins in preservatives, right?)

2. The mommy is joyfully the last to awaken and usually it is to a poke in the forehead rather than the beep of an alarm.

3. Your children’s attire chosen for the day resembles that of fugitives, but you are too hot and too unconcerned to put together anything remotely resembling precious.

4. A highlight of the day is retrieving the mail. You watch for the mail truck like a child watches for the ice cream truck, and you begin to seem borderline creepy and stalkish-like to the unsuspecting mailman.

5. You crave barbecued anything like a pregnant woman craves pickles and a glimpse of her swollen ankles. Suddenly everything tastes better grilled and topped with a little barbecue sauce including deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, and summer squash.

(I’m kidding about the mashed potatoes.)

6. Your calls to your husband at work increase ten fold. Highlights of The View are surprisingly not received warmly from your spouse even if the segment on bikini waxing was highly informative.

7. You see canning jars at the local grocery store and for a brief moment consider canning vegetables for the upcoming winter. That is, until you remember you don’t know how to can and wonder how canned vegetables can be better than the miraculous “steam in the bag” vegetables found in the frozen section. Not to mention that it is tough to get the daily summer dose of preservatives in fresh vegetables.

8. You reluctantly put on a bathing suit for ALL to see, all in the name of taking your children to the local pool, even when normal, every day modesty prevents you from allowing family members (or friends for that matter) to EVER see you in your undergarments.

9. Every time you glance in the mirror you see a multi-colored ring around your lips because you can’t seem to stay out of the children’s popsicles.

10. You realize the enormous amount of “summer grooming” that has to take place after the ongoing neglect that has occurred during the school year. Appointments attended for highlighting the hair, pedicuring (I’m sure this is a word) the toes, and waxing the eyebrows begin with your “specialist” saying, “So exactly how long has it been since your last visit?” After wiping your eyebrows out of your eyes, you lie, and say just a few weeks.

That's how you know it's summer.

The Big Day

Today my oldest son, Chase, turns nine. NINE. How did that happen and when did I become so ancient? Like most long-suffering, martyr mommies, I must remember this special day by recounting the day of his birth, the day that changed my world from black and white to the most vivid of colors.

The weekend Chase was born my husband and I were in the middle of child birth classes. We put it off until the last moment, primarily because I was still under the deluded impression that the stork was going to bring my baby. (Or at the very least I was going to lay on some eggs in my stretched out maternity pants and those eggs were going to somehow hatch into an infant. Actual childbirth just seemed so…messy.)

Anyway, our class was a three day weekend marathon of which we only managed to squeeze in a Friday night’s session. The good news is that I missed out on having to view the scary/creepy video of a stranger birthing a baby that looked like an alien. The bad news is that I became the stranger birthing a baby that looked like an alien. (Not really, Chase. You were BEAUTIFUL!)

Early Saturday morning I awakened to a sensation that would later confirm that my water had broken. Upon my discovery, I shook my husband from his slumber to joyfully announce my findings only to have him tell me that I should go back to sleep.

Allow me to pause for a moment. My spouse is a very smart physician, trained at one of the top universities in the Southeast. He is a brilliant diagnostician and I say this in the most biased and non-objective manner possible. But he “don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies.” Because his profession often leaves him in a sleep deprived state, he thought we had plenty of time for some extra shuteye before moseying on down to the hospital.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? ( I said these exact words to him using my capital letters voice) I called my obstetrician who promptly suggested an immediate journey to the hospital. I hurriedly dressed, grabbed my suitcase with all of the very unnecessary necessities and then wet my pants.

I dressed again and then wet those pants as well. I burst into tears imagining myself entering into the hospital, squishing water with every step taken, making the worse kind of puddles all over their tiled floors. This was NOT included in my detailed birth plan.

My clever, eagle scout of a husband came to the rescue with a very complicated and unique solution to my incontinence issue. He rolled up a big fluffy towel, and in his serious doctor voice, instructed me to place the bulky towel inside of my jeans twice a day for seven to ten days. (I told you he was sleepy) It was difficult to walk (think pregnant Jabba the Hut)and I showcased a waddle that I have not seen since in a woman with child. But at least my pants remained dry. Ridiculous looking, but dry.

We arrived at the hospital and pulled up to the valet.

Only in Atlanta would you find a valetician (I made up this word) to park your car while delivering a child, like you are on a fancy first date that ends with a delicate crème brulee as your dessert.

Our particular attendant did not think I was funny as I asked him about the night’s specials. He apparently was too occupied to appreciate pregnant humor, staring bug-eyed at the humongous bulk in my jeans, wondering if I had already started delivering the quadruplets it looked like I was carrying.

To further complicate and confuse the matter, I entered the sliding glass doors to the hospital backwards. And in a bent over position. I figured that if I was in the ready stance someone walking by could just pop that epidural needle in my back at their earliest convenience. Because the anesthesiologist had not met me in the parking lot as requested in my birthing plan, I, in an effort to be a compliant patient, was willing to have the procedure completed at the check in desk.

This childbirth would not be occurring in the “natural” manner which I reminded every nurse who helped prep me for the big event. One exasperated nurse finally responded, in a very twangy voice, “Honey we knew you weren’t goin’ to have this baby natural the minute you walked in backwards. You had your make-up on and your hair fixed. Ain’t nothing’ natural about that.”

Well.

The rest of the morning went smoothly without many mishaps. I received the golden epidural and was calm throughout the delivery, with the exception of one small, minor occurrence.

I didn’t turn freak-out mode on until, while in the middle of pushing, a genius nurse rolled a gigantic MIRROR in front of my goods because she thought I might want to actually see the birth taking place. I believe I used my capital letters voice again when I said (or yelled as my husband recalls),

“MOVE THAT MIRROR!” (Sort of in the same way they say, “Move that bus!” on Extreme Home Makeover, but in a tone that isn't quite as jolly.) “DON”T YOU PEOPLE KNOW I’M NOT INTO THE NATURAL THING? I HAVE ON MAKE-UP FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I DON’T WANT TO SEE MY STUFF!”

Or something like that.

Anyways, I will spare you all of the details (I know, I know. It’s a little too late in the post to worry about sharing too much information) but the rest of the delivery went great and out came my exquisite son in all of his gooey glory.

I loved him instantly and immediately felt sorry for all of the other moms who would have to have their newborn infants compared to mine in the nursery. I was certain he had to be the most beautiful child the hospital staff had ever seen.

We left the hospital a few days later, carrying my sweet bundle of joy through the front lobby doors. I was a first time mommy, smiling ear to ear, and it was the most natural feeling in the world.

Even if I was wearing make-up and had my hair fixed.


Happy Birthday sweet, wonderful Chase! You are beyond anything we could have imagined on our own and thank God for you every day. The world is a better place because you are in it.

In The Potty

I abhor public restrooms. I can't think of many others who find it a joy to visit a bathroom visited by many others.

Early on in my teaching career I developed a bladder of steel, mostly out of lack of opportunity for relief, but also because of the hysteria instigated by the undercover reporters of 60 Minutes who swabbed toilets with Q-tips, proving that the ill-fated E-Coli was just one flush away . I circumvented the unfamiliar commode in the same way I would avoid stepping on the round, metal covers of sewers. It was highly unlikely I would be the one pedestrian to fall into the black hole of neighborhood waste, but I wasn't willing to risk such a hazardous step. In school, I would dance and wiggle my way through an entire day rather than engage in an activity that forced me to confront the cavalry of cooties which, in my paranoid mind, swarmed all over every stall.

However, as the mom of small children, my super-hero skills of lavatory restraint do not benefit my cause. Pea-sized bladders have forced me to frequent every bathroom of every public place we have ever visited. These breeding bastions of bacteria beckon all little children the same way a fully costumed, buck-toothed Easter Bunny draws the curiosity of a hesitant child - they aren't sure they want to be that close to them, but they definitely want to at least take a peek.

To my crew a visit to the restroom is somewhat of an adventure, one that as a parent you are reluctantly committed to explore, only to watch them discover the terror of the automatic flusher which scares their urinary tracts into immediate compliance. We have been participating in the Tour de Toilets for over eight years and my children now, unprovoked, theatrically proclaim upon entering any stall, "DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!" They have been trained well.

Mary Mac, my four year old, has probably caused me the most distress in public restrooms. With her two older brothers, a "point and shoot" method for most occasions has proved effective in our ongoing fight against germs. Not so for my daughter. Couple our "positioning" issues with her desire to speak very loudly, and you have unexpected, undesired dialogue in a public place for all to hear.

Recently she and I walked into a very crowded bathroom, waited in a very long line, only for her to pronounce in a very loud voice that she was NOT going into the stall because "THAT LADY JUST MADE IT TOO STINKY." I tried to give "the lady" an apologetic smile but, unfortunately, her disagreeable stomach would not allow her to receive any contrition on my behalf.

I remembered this awkward interaction as the two of us again found ourselves looking for a restaurant restroom this past week. Before entering, I reminded Mary Mac that it was not nice manners to point out the smells of others. (Yes, I realize the absurdity of this conversation, but if you had been the recipient of the scathing look from the "stinky lady", you would have said something similar. I'm sure of it.)

We walked into another crowded bathroom, waited in another line, only to find ourselves confronted with another awful odor. As we exchanged places with the gastrointestinal offender (G.I.O.) I gave my four year old the evil eye with a raised eyebrow, hoping we could avoid another embarassing scene. Mary Mac responded to my facial gestures with these exact words, with her speaker on full volume, "FINE. I'm not going to say it STINKS in here,but you're gonna have to HOLD MY NOSE while I go."

Because I am a big chicken, we did not come out of the stall until I was certain the previous occupant had exited the restroom. It took a long time. And the smell endured in that small space caused Post-Stench Traumatic Stress Syndrome which I have now added to my ever increasing list of ailments.

Currently, I am trying to "un-potty train" my four year old. While Dr. Spock may not approve, I am not too concerned as he is not the one who has to suffer toilet visits with Mary Mac. I heart Pampers.

Housecall

I'm not a doctor in real life but I do play one at home. Much to the chagrin of my physician husband, I sometimes (a lot of times) will offer up a diagnosis that isn't entirely accurate or remotely close to the true identity of an illness. It is an unfortunate side effect of being married to someone, who over the course of the last twelve years, has taken call on more than 200 weekends. He takes call from home, answering hundreds of questions about emergent, and too often, non-emergent issues, determining if those ill need further medical attention in the emergency room. These phone calls can be taken from almost anywhere - from bed at two o'clock in the morning, from the seat of his riding lawnmower, or from behind a cart at the local grocery store. No matter the location, when he is on call, he is IT, until he tags the next doc in the rotation.

Because of rigid commitments to HIPPA requirements, John never vocalizes the identity of those he speaks to, but I do occasionally hear his advice. I try not to listen. I really do. Because I know that if I do tune in I'll hear just a part of the counsel that only makes sense when received as a whole. This selective piece of information will be implanted in my overactive brain until it can be retrieved later for a litte drama I like to call "medical hysteria". My friends always comment that it must be such a convenience to sleep next to someone who possesses such a wealth of medical information that can be easily accessed with just a wink and a smile. For normal spouses it really would be advantageous. However, I, admittedly, am an abnormal wife who has called "wolf" too many times to get the proper attention deserved for any of my brown recluse spider bites or yellow hay fever symptoms .

When my oldest child was a toddler, medical hysteria often visited our home. I was a first time parent, scared silly that some ineptness on my part was going to cause my son irreparable harm. I found myself in a state of constant alert, bug-eyed and in a ready stance, for the next rare disease that could possibly cause a thumb to spontaneously grow out of my child's forehead. Clearly, there is no such thing, but at the time, I felt like I was always on the verge of experiencing some rare, unknown, medical malady.

One such example occurred after I noticed a drastic change in the contents of my son's diapers. (Weak stomached readers should proceed with caution.) His stool was unusually dark, with a tarry consistency that seemed extremely atypical.I knew just enough to be dangerous (meaning that I watched a lot of Dr. Oz on Oprah)and remembered that blood is black when presented in the stool.

I was quite upset and called my husband at work. Skipping phone pleasantries, I immediately launched into a very descriptive account of my findings, in a frenzied, emotional manner that guaranteed him home in minutes. Once arriving home, John examined the contents I had carefully preserved and became concerned after seeing the color of the poopie. All the while, I am offering helpful, running commentary like, "It's gotta be blood. I just know it is - don't you think it is? Have you even looked at the color? What do we do? Should we call an ambulance?"

John's level of apprehension wasn't even in the same hemishphere as mine, but he did calmly decide to take the specimen to the lab at his office to run some tests. He left with the evidence in a ziploc bag and I waited very unpatiently.

He returned about twenty minutes later with the much anticipated results. I watched as he walked straight into our kitchen pantry, and then returned with an empty package and a look on his face that reminded me of Encyclopedia Brown.The dark color of my son's stool did not indicate the presence of blood, but, instead a condition called plethysmo oreo, or in layman's terms, Oreos eaten in excess. Medical hysteria at its finest.




I wish I could tell you that there has been improvement in my behavior where the medical arena is concerned. There has not been. The combination of eavesdropping on weekend call, and enjoying addictive episodes of Grey's Anatomy and House have only produced the regrettable result of hypochondriac housewife.