Single Mom Takes Kids on Vacation (Hilarity Ensues.)

that is my “I’m trying to be happy” face…

So, this past spring, I decided to take my three kids on a  vacation. After all, I am an adult, we are a family and this is just what you do. Apparently, it is not what I do. I was listening to A Prairie Home Companion the other day and they did a skit about Lutherans and how their vacations are always riddled with sickness and uncomfortablilty. Had I known that before I had my brilliant Let’s Take A Vacation idea I may have been more prepared with less expectation.

It was spring break and I surprised the kids with the idea just two days before we were leaving. I had booked a hotel in Virginia Beach! My oldest, who was 14 at the time, was not amused. My younger two (10 and 6) were really caught off guard but quickly warmed to the idea. Good, we were all on board with the family vacation! Well, not the 14 year old, she was soooo 14 I almost dropped her on the side of the road  to fend for herself. But I didn’t. Cause I am the mom.

We packed up the car with  everything we  needed on the 10 hour drive. We had snacks and DVD’s and headphones and games. This was gonna be great! A family vacation! And to be totally honest, I was kind of proud of myself to be doing this all on my own. No husband, no friend…just me and the kids. I am SuperMom. Well, according to me anyway. The 14 year old may have a different take on things.

And we’re off! Along about Philadelphia, I heard the first “how much longer?” Are you kidding me??? Kids actually ASK that?  We stopped for a potty break and I bought a map. Yeah, I bought a map. I had my directions from mapquest, but I wanted a map. Let me explain: I like to feel spontaneous. Like taking-a- road-trip-to-a-place-I-have-never-been-before-with-just-my-kids-and-no-other-driver spontaneous, so I  didn’t bring a map. Around about Philly, I decided that part of being spontaneous and fun would be to see where we are going. I bought a map.

I unfolded the map and to see a line that goes right through the water of the Chesapeake Bay. My hands started to sweat, and I wasn’t sure why. I would soon find out why. The directions had us going straight through Delaware from the top to the bottom. Ok, I had never been to Delaware. Yea Delaware! Oh how naïve.  Ever been to Delaware? I am sure it has some redeeming qualities, I mean, I didn’t see one, but maybe you know of some. It was 3 hours of strip malls and road construction. Stop and go. Nothing to see here ma’am. I hate Delaware. Now I know. But I tried to keep the kids happy “Hey look kids! Another Walmart!!! That makes 5 and we have only traveled 15 miles!! 10 year old, tell me how many Walmarts is that in a square mile radius?” Kept them on their toes. The 14 year old just stayed asleep, waking up only to complain that she was hot and refusing to take off any of her three sweatshirts, finding it more pleasurable to whine at us about her body temperature. Good times.

All the way through Delaware I was checking the map, knowing that we were getting closer and closer to the line through the water. My anxiety started to build. I don’t like bridges but most people don’t. It is just a means to an end. It won’t be pleasurable for me but I have driven half way across the country, I’m not a wimp.

At the end of Delaware I checked the map again and suddenly saw “Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel” labeling the line through the water. I started to feel really sick to my stomach. I was trying to convince myself that it could mean that there is a choice. Take the bridge or the tunnel. I would choose the tunnel. That’s easy. Ok, I reasoned things out with my 3 kids… it has to be an either or option right?!? They agreed with me because they were starting to get wary of my behavior not because they had any idea what I was talking about. They had never seen me in full blown panic attack mode. Buckle up, kids, this was going to be a bumpy ride…

They were oblivious to the sheer terror that had overcome me. They trusted me to get them from point A to point B as I always have, why would this be any different? Because I had to drive 17 miles across water. I had NO idea that I had gephyrophobia (a severe phobia of bridges). Who knew? I didn’t. The closer we got the more anxious I became. But I was still counting on it being an either/or type thing. As we pulled up to the toll booth (because not only would I have the pleasure of this Bridge Tunnel catastrophe, I also had the pleasure of paying for it) I asked the lady “So, um, how long is this thing?” And she handed us a packet containing the history and blue prints of the damn thing. As if I would want to see aerial views of what I was about to do or see the horror half constructed. I said “thank you” and she looked me in the eye and asked “Are you going to be ok?” And I looked her right back in her eye and said “Let’s hope so!” And I peeled out leaving smoke and tire tracks…

Ok, not really. I did proceed at a normal speed towards my greatest fear which, at the time, I had no idea was my greatest fear. I was really thinking it was just a bit of anxiety. Ha! So, as my bit of anxiety was mounting, I told the kids to shut off the dvd player and not move or speak. Not quite sure what them not moving or speaking was going to help, but that is just what I needed in the moment. I threw the information pamphlet at my 14 year old and told her to find out how long this insanity was and how long it was going to take. So, she sweetly started reading me miscellaneous facts. I said through clenched teeth “Just tell me how much longer this damn thing is”. As I had the steering wheel clenched, knuckles white,  I tried hard to focus on the car ahead of me. I zoned into the license plate and prayed. I started to analyze myself and why I was feeling so petrified? I had faith that the bridge was solid, I had faith that my driving abilities were such to get us safely across, so why, then, did I feel this intense, inescapable fear? Meanwhile, the little one in the back had found a tape recorder and was playing with that, making incessant beeping noises. I managed to squeeze out “STOP! NO NOISE!!” Yeah… this had officially turned into the trip from hell. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, we got to the tunnel. Ok, I could breathe. The tunnel was so comforting. I loved the tunnel. I wanted to live in the tunnel and never ever leave. But all too soon, we were headed up and out of the tunnel and onto the next bridge. Panic. My 14 year old was very amused by my obvious discomfort. She started filming the scenery. And the funny thing was, no one was talking or moving. I couldn’t even speak in complete sentences at that point. I managed to bark out “SODA” and she handed me my soda which was literally inches from my hand. I took a shaky sip and threw it back at her. She kind of laughed. I felt like I was I am in the fields of Vietnam or in surgery. It was that intense. I asked the 14 year old every few seconds how many more bridges, how much longer. It was sheer hell. The next tunnel was again a bit of heaven. Being that it is a two lane bridge tunnel, I stayed behind the same car the entire way. That was also a blessing. I had zoned in on his license plate because if I had had to look away or been distracted by a new license plate I may have lost it completely and driven right off the bridge.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, there were signs all along the way saying “DO NOT PULL OVER” and “KEEP DRIVING” so I felt like no matter what happened I had to just keep going. There was no way out. As we came out of tunnel number two and on to the last bridge, I tried to use distraction as a means to get a grip on my fear. I asked the 14 year old to talk to me. Now, on a good day, the 14 year old isn’t that into making conversation with me. So, true to form, she says “about what?” AGH!!! I don’t care!!! Whatever!! Distract me!!! So she said “Well, I can’t see the land yet, it’s really like we are in the middle of the ocean and there is nothing around…” AGH!!!! STOP!!! Different topic!!!! As we exited the last bridge, I really thought I may just have a heart attack. That was way too much stress for one person. I wanted to cry and throw up and call someone to come get me. I was not strong, I was not brave, I’m a wimp. I didn’t want to be the mom anymore. I can’t hack it.

Now who though up something as horrible as The Bridge Tunnel? And why had no one thought to mention it to me? This was a hugely traumatic experience. I was scarred. I couldn’t stop talking about what a nightmare it was. Because it actually was a nightmare for me. All of my nightmares have to do with water, bridges and driving into water. Imagine having one of your nightmares come to life. And in that nightmare you realize that you are the sole responsibility for three kids. No one coming to the rescue, no way to wake up. On top of that the extra added pressure of being a good example for these kids and making sure they are having a good time on their vacation. Pretty sure sitting still and not talking while your mother is freaking out is not the traditional “good time vacation”. Although, my 14 year old did derive some pleasure out of it I am sure. The peanut gallery in the backseat finally say “can we talk  now mom?” Sure.

Gettin Better All The Time

This morning I woke up to the 21 month old telling me in his own language (that I am still learning) that he was STARVING. Despite having dinner last night and then a pear, a meatball, a whole cup of milk and a granola bar for a bedtime snack. To add to the 7am fun of trying to decode what his clicks and hums mean,  I am sick. I am actually very sick with either a head cold, the flu or possibly a prolonged stroke/heart attack/ intestinal twist, Dr. Facebook can’t quite diagnose me. The dog,of course, understands everything the baby says and jumps off the bed thinking that I am going to also jump off the bed and go get food. Yeah dog, not happening. I lay there and contemplate texting my neighbors an S.O.S. that I’m dying, the baby is starving and the dog is about to explode. But I am not that desperate…yet.

I roll my butt out of  bed and the baby immediately starts screaming because he is positive I am going to leave him for another baby who has more money and a private jet. So, I scoop up Mr. Baby and stagger to the bathroom to set him down so I can pee. Which is also a total betrayal of love and loyalty according to him. Meanwhile, the dog has also decided that I don’t love him either and is downstairs barking like someone is ripping his ears off. I am doing my very best to ignore both of them and just get ready as fast as possible so that the screaming stops and the dog doesn’t pee, puke or poop on the carpet.

As I brush my teeth, I remember that I threw up last night in the sink, so I have to grab the disinfectant and do a quick wipe while Mr. Baby tries his best to climb INTO the sink. It was literally a wrestling match with me keeping him away from the germy sink and the Clorox wipes. I won. Off to his room to change the diaper.

I can’t smell anything because of this plague I have so, poopy diapers have been a complete surprise for the past 4 days. I should have known…I should have KNOWN, but I was so full of confidence because he never has poopy diapers in the morning. Never. That is, until THIS morning. I whip off his diaper with an air of arrogance reserved for horse jockeys and white men and sure enough, poop goes flying everywhere. I. Mean. Everywhere. The wall, the baby, my bottom lip. EVERYWHERE. Look for the blessings, isn’t that what Mr. Rodgers told us? At least I can’t smell the poop that is on my bottom lip.

Mr. Baby decided that he was over the poop and the Nana who refuses to allow him to play in pukey sinks or with chemical wipes and decides to take his naked poopy body to the top of the stairs to conference with the dog through the gate thereby smearing baby poop into the crevices of the gate which the dog thinks is a terrible breakfast but if it’s all he is going to get, he will take it. I can’t even with these two.

I get all of us cleaned up and dressed and ready to confront the possibility that the dog has exploded all over the livingroom. We make it downstairs and it’s a Christmas Miracle! The dog has NOT exploded, no pee, no poop. He did use the Christmas tree water to wash down the baby poop, but I call that resourceful and give him a pat on the head.  I get the leash on the dog, the hat and coat on the baby, and I find my flip flops and off we go into the frozen tundra of Upstate New York in December to get to the Starbucks for breakfast. I’m not going to debate the pros and cons of having Starbucks every morning so you might as well keep it to yourself. Just accept that is what is happening today and every day up to this day in rain or snow or dark of night (morning, whatever) and any illness or pooptastrophy.

I get the dog to his favorite morning poop area, I get the baby buckled into his seat, I get my half awake/flip flops/sweatshirt under a sweater/forgot to wash my face into the car to go. The dog starts whining, the baby starts with his favorite game of Drive Nana Crazy In The Car in which the rules literally involve cry-screaming, repeatedly saying NANA and pulling the dog’s ears, for as long as the car is in motion. It’s not a hard game but I haven’t won it yet. I can tell you that if I had ANY doubt as to the sort of day this is was going to be, it was erased when Mr. Baby decided to add pushing the All You Need Is Love button on his Beat Bugs book in between “Nana” and scream-cry and pulling on dog ears. Gentle reminder I suppose.

We get to the Starbucks,  I open the back window half way for the dog and go in for our usual. Mr. Baby seems to lighten up while we are in line as all of his favorite baristas are saying hello to him while he snacks on his blueberries. I put him in his seat and that is when I make the fatal mistake of throwing away the empty blueberry container. I don’t know what I was thinking. I truly don’t. My lack of consideration for Mr. Baby and his empty blueberry container can only be attributed to my own stroke/heart attack/flu illness. He let me know how wrong I was. He also let the entire Starbucks know, as well as the car dealership next door, the bank across the street and the Target a half mile away. One of the barista’s dropped a full pot of coffee when Mr. Baby released the cracken. Side note: another benefit of this stupid plague is that I can’t hear anything. No sense of smell, no hearing, I have become numb to many of the weapons of the toddler.

I smile and nod at the other consumers, I wave cheerily to the people outside who make a sharp turn back to their cars rather than enter the war zone that has suddenly erupted. I can read the dog’s lips and see he has joined the army and is barking his head off. I am pretty sure we are all going to be arrested now. So, in anticipation of spending the next 24-48 hours either in jail or in the psyche ward, I calmly finish my bagel. Who knows when I will get another.

I gather up the baby, my keys, my tea, a handful of napkins and hobble out to the parking lot while yelling at the dog to zip his lip. I do the buckle, the starting, the drive. The baby finishes his Drive Nana Crazy In The Car game. We get home, I get everyone out and up the stairs and into the house. I think I am going to just go ahead and die at this point. But the dog insists on being fed, the baby wants his We-Just-Walked-In-The-Door-Snack and the 3 cats are swirling between my legs because they know I like being challenged when walking around my own home.

Fed. Done. Sit down. Put Mr. Baby’s show on. Dog jumps up onto the leather couch and silently throws up everything he has eaten in his life. I just happen to look over and see his “Sorry about that” face (thanks Mr. Rodgers) and leave the room to grab  the clean up supplies which sets off the Screams of Abandonment from Mr. Baby. I come back to find the dog on the orange suede chair and take a step towards him to take off his collar directly into the slime puke or the “after-puke” he has let slide from his doggy mouth. Squishes between my toes, all warm and well, slimey. I hop into the kitchen while praying my uterus doesn’t fall out (another story for another day) and grande battament my leg into the kitchen sink while yelling at Mr. Baby to not touch anything and at the dog to not eat anything. At this point, if it had been a regular day, I would either be crying or laughing or both. But today, as I battle the possible anthrax infection spreading throughout my body, I just silently scrub my foot in my kitchen sink while staring out the window wondering what the me in the parallel universe stepped in this morning…

Adventures In Exercise

Spin class, anyone? I have discovered your dirty little secret you Spin Class Divas. I fully understand how you suck people into your little cult. I went in to the room a virgin, in more than one way, and came out not needing another cervical exam for at least the next 4 years. I am talking about the seats. The teeny tiny bike seats. How do men take Spin Class???

When I was a little kid, and had to sit on my cousin’s lap in the car because it was the 70’s and it was just what happened in the 70’s, she would always, ALWAYS whine that my boney butt was digging into her thighs. It’s true. I have a boney ass. When I sit on the floor, I can roll on my butt bones, it’s like my only party trick. So, setting my boney ass on a small, hard bike seat was a rude awakening. Andddd…off we go!

First of all, I had no idea that there was a lever that I could adjust to change the speed. I started on 12 and was totally dying 5 minutes in. After about 15 minutes on 12, my daughter showed me the lever that would change the speed. Brilliant!! But trying to get my boney ass comfortable was the real issue.

I could go really fast but my butt!! I could stand up but the seat was angled so that I am pretty sure I won’t need a colorectal screening this year. And then there is the whole foot jail. Your feet go into these foot muzzles and that is a blessing and a curse. Like, if you forget your feet are being held captive and try to step down to rest, you will wind up falling sideways into the wall, which draws the exact amount of attention that no one wants. Especially from the super hot eunuch 3 bikes over…considering the pain I am in, there is no way he can be anatomically correct.

The lights are off, the music is loud, my thighs are on fire, I have NO idea what the numbers on the screen mean and the instructor keeps saying we should shift or stand or sit or that the mountain climb is coming up…I don’t know what all that means so I just keep pedaling thinking that the class is only 45 minutes. By minute 44, I am riding side saddle, dripping sweat into my eyes which makes it look like I am crying and trying so hard to balance in my foot prisons so I can take a sip of water.

I was consoling myself with the fact there would only be 1 more minute of this hell and then I can ask the instructor to get a shoe horn to help me get this bike seat out of my ass. Wrong. We blow by the 45 minute mark and she is saying something about “sprints”. I was so confused I started pedaling backwards…

Overall, it was fun…I rode a whole 15 miles in an hour. I used to ride 30 miles in like 15 minutes when I was a kid. The motivation was different but ya know… I used to ride my bike every single day. And if I had an uncomfortable seat, my Gramp would change it for me…I have a feeling I will be doing a walk of shame everywhere I go tomorrow and I know I am engaged to my bike. Haven’t felt this close to an inanimate object since that massage chair at the mani/pedi place in the mall.

Spin Class = Work Out or Make Out?

Adventures In Snowblowing

Obvioulsy this isn’t my first rodeo. But that doesn’t mean I do things the easy way, or the right way, or the common sense way or any other way that YOU would do things. And that’s ok. That’s not the point of life.

We are in the middle of a March snow storm similar to alllll of the other March snow storms we have had in the past kazillion years of Central New York. This one was hyped and this one actually lived up to the hype. Good for Stella. Yeah, they named it. Stella. Or “STELLLLAAAAAAAAA!!!!”. There was a State of Emergency declared for the entire state and anyone caught driving in my county would be ticketed. Great. Everything was closed including the POST OFFICE!!!!! Yup, that’s right. No mail. It was sleeting, storming and dark of night-ing and the 2017 mailmen said “nope”.

I guess the powers-that-be have finally figured out that snow storms kill people. People actually think that their job is worth dying (or killing) for and the big wigs decided that people are just wrong. So, they close everything and that’s that.

Now, back to me and my fantastic story of pointlessness and annoyance and a little bit of genius.

Last night, at 10:30, after I took my ambien, I decided to go out and snow blow. To get a jump on the morning crappola. I bundled up, sort of, and squeeze out the front door because the snow was so high I could only open the door maybe 6 inches (or a foot, but lets pretend I haven’t gained 50 pounds and I can still squeeze through tiny spaces) and stepped into over 3 feet of snow. Wow. I sort of swim/fall/march to the back yard where the snowblower is and I knock the snow off and prime it and pull the string thing about 100 times. Nothing. I know it needs gas. I know damn well it needs gas and I had even put the gas can NEAR the snowblower like last week in anticipation of getting gas. Which I did not do because duh. Before I got pissed, I went in the basement and grabbed the extension cord and plugged it in and pushed the button and TA DA!!! It started (that’s the little bit of genius part). I did two passes in the driveway and had just started on the third when the damn thing died. No gas.

I looked at my car long and hard. It’s a wonderful Rav 4 and it knows how to drive in the snow. But does it really feel like driving up the driveway in 4 feet of snow? Let’s find out. I kicked around in the general area of where I think I left the gas can, find it, pull it out of the 6 feet of snow and grab the shovel. I shovel off the snow from the top of the car and hop in. I can’t really see anything because snow, but I’ve lived here for 10 years. I know how the driveway goes. And I go…until I stop. In the middle of the damn driveway. *sigh* ok. Looks like I am walking to the gas station.

The good part is that the gas station in only 2 blocks away. The bad part is the village hadn’t plowed the sidewalks or the street so I was literally high stepping thru 11 feet of snow to the gas station in the blinding blizzard with a wind chill of -20. All for nought. The gas station was closed. Of course it was. Everything was closed. It was a state of emergency and no one was supposed to leave their homes otherwise Stella was gonna get ’em.

And then there’s me.

So, I walk back through the chest high snow to my house and squeeze back through the front door and strip and go to bed. Well, first I sat and cried about my frostbit knee region and then I went to bed.

Next morning. I get up, bundle up sort of and walk to the gas station with my gas can. I start filling it and gas just pours out everywhere because the bottom corners are cracked. Ha ha ha. This is so funny. I went inside and asked if they had a gas can and the girl was all “Um…no.” And I was like “Ha ha ha. This is so funny.” And she was like “Um, let me check in the back” And low and behold! A gas can! Now, I have gas all over my hands and mittens from the gas fountain that was the old gas can so I stink and I can taste it and I may or may not be a little loopy from the fumes. I fill up the brand new gas can and kick thru 15 feet of snow, UP hill. I stop to chat with my neighbor who is out shoveling and then onward to snow-blow. I fill ‘er up and get to gettin.

Up the driveway I blow, to the end that is plowed in with snow that is literally over my head. Annnnddddd….stuck. I do my patented Hip Rocking Talk Out Loud To It method and 15 minutes later I am unstuck. Big Guy with Little Dog walks by smiling. I reek of gasoline and sweat and fear and I smile back.I snow blowed for over an hour. I did snow blow thru The Great Wall of Snow at the end of the driveway. Patience and perseverance are two qualities one must have when snowblowing. Really don’t need those qualities for anything else so go ahead and get rid of them as soon as you are done with blowing snow.

The moral of the story is this : Pay a plow guy. Or maybe live in Arizona. Or possibly keep the snowblower filled with gas during the winter or just learn how to hibernate? You decide. 

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way

home from the Women’s March. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, we were in tee-shirts and sunglasses, outside in January, in Seneca Falls, NY. Myself, my youngest daughter, my oldest daughter and my grandbaby. We marched, we listened, we were a part of history. And then, we started walking back to the car.

Now, we took a school bus shuttle from the parking lot to the March, so we were hoping that we would be able to catch a school bus shuttle back to the parking lot, rather than walking the 2 miles. And as luck would have it, a school bus shuttle was just rounding the corner, headed towards the parking lot! And that is where my luck ran out.

We flagged down the bus, he stopped right there in the middle of a left hand turn to open the doors and let us on. What a swell guy! On goes my oldest daughter with my grandbaby, and then my youngest daughter hops on and there is me, on the curb with the baby stroller that is FILLED with bags and outerwear. A diaper bag, a backpack, a bag with ice packs and bottles of breast milk, 3 winter coats, hats, scarves and random baby gear and toys. And cheerios. Cheerios just sprinkled in because babies.

Me, in my floor length hippiefied skirt that I trip on whenever I have to go up stairs and this stroller of nonsense, trying to quickly fold it up and get on the damn bus. I had 3 kids, I am well versed in how strollers work, but apparently now that I am a Nana, I have lost all of my super mom powers and I am relegated to stuffing tissues up my sleeve and always having a fuzzy lifesaver in my pocket. Because I tried to collapse the stroller with everything on it. Did Not Work.

I yell for my youngest to come help me. I throw the majority of bags at her and she climbs back on the bus. I try to collapse the damn stroller again. It gets smaller but it doesn’t click shut. So, I just hold it together and attempt to board the bus. By this point, I am sweating, the bus driver is confused and my kids are rolling their eyes so hard their faces are gonna stick like that. I trip on my skirt up all 3 stairs with the partially open stroller and I try really hard to force it on to the bus. It won’t fit. I stuffed it as far as I could onto the bus. I squashed the bus driver and then I realized that I was not actually on the bus and now the stroller was blocking me from the seats. I had been giggling and muttering to myself the whole time but this realization that I would have to get off the bus and try again nearly made me lose it. Off I go, try, in vain, to make the stroller smaller, get on the bus, trip on my skirt getting up the stairs and … nope.

By now, I am full on laughing like a lunatic, the bus driver has been watching all of this with morbid fascination and my kids have sunken thru the floor. I have effectively gotten the stroller so stuck  that I am leaning on the bus driver and I can’t get to the seats. Ok, so, the only solution is to climb over the stroller or share the bus driver’s seat and help him drive the bus. I opt for Plan A. Around about this time, I notice that the rest of the bus is enthralled with my one woman show. There’s some tittering and ha ha’s and even a couple of “whaaaaa?????”. I’m not deterred. I’ll march 2 miles for a good cause but I’ll be damned if I will walk 2 miles for no good reason.

So, I hike up my skirt, I get one leg over the stroller, get my skirt stuck on one of the wheels, I do a half- calf -triple- latte-jete-pas-de-bourree, let out a “Son of a NUTCRACKER!” and fall into the seat on my left. Ta DA!!!

I am pretty sure I was the full embodiment of why we need a Women’s March.

 

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night…

What did YOUR Uterus do today?

It all started when  decided to pretend-pay my bills. I do this usually once a month. I open up all of the bill-ish looking mail that I have been sticking in a basket on my desk for the prior 29 days. Then, I very adultly decide which bills I will pay and which can wait for another 29 days or so. Sometimes I find fun things disguised as bills, like, letters letting me know I have accumulated enough points on my cell phone bill to get 3% off of a brand new toaster ( I don’t toast things so…)  Or a letter from a fellow village resident letting me know that we have someone in the neighborhood who is using all of the bandwidth ( I don’t know what bandwidth is so…). Or, in the case of Last Night, a letter from my GYN telling me I was scheduled for a “procedure” at 9am…the next morning….which would be this morning.

And so, I went to hang out at my doctor’s office  at 9am. I mean, there was a “procedure” to take place , but I guess the warm up to that was me sitting pants-less for 45 minutes in anticipation. Yeah. 45 minutes of no pants. I swear it must be somewhere in my Permanent Record that I enjoy sitting ass naked in exam rooms. I don’t, but somewhere along the line, someone got the impression that I did, and now, here we are, 43 years later…free ballin…again. I have to say I was curious as to what  this “procedure” would entail. Aren’t you curious?

The nurse came in and took my blood pressure. 119 over 77. She complimented me on my low blood pressure (nurses always do, which is why I added it to my online dating profile). I asked her what all this “procedure” was going to be like. She was pretty vague…something about iodine and a small amount of blood and uterus and cervix. You know how some people hate the word moist? I feel the same way about the word cervix. It absolutely makes me want to gag. I think that is why I had such a hard time going into labor spontaneously. The thought of my cervix doing ANYTHING grosses me out the door.

Anyway, after about 4 days and 1200 texts to my friends about being half naked for no good reason, the doctor came in. She went over what she was about to do. It was something about a straw with a cutting tool and maybe a telescope? something about a spatula and then she said cervix and I tuned out.

I assumed the position, scootched down 3 times and tried to go to my happy place in my mind. All of the sudden, I felt this blinding pain, a cross between a cramp and buck shot being directed into my abdominal cavity. For a minute, I thought my missing right ovary had returned with assault weapons and possibly a rabid narwhal. I probably would have kicked the doctor right in the ear but I think I was being pinned to the table from the inside. There may have been some swearing, there was absolutely some begging and bargaining. At one point, I believe I may have promised the nurse a new car if she would just get the doctor out of my cootch long enough for me to jump out the window.

And then I heard the doctor sigh and say “Well, your cervix is very cooperative but….blah blah blah blahblahblahblah” Yeah, she said the magic word and that was all it took. Let’s just wrap up this TMI nightmare by saying that I had NOT planned on this nonsense today. In fact, I was headed into work when I decided to take this detour into female hell. I love being a girl, there are so many reasons to love being a girl. But the down-there doctor always makes me rethink my stance on feminism.

There is more to the story but, I will leave you with this thought : A gynecologist is simply a dentist for your lady bits.

How To Clean The Glass Between The Glass In Your Oven

Step 1) Google How to clean the glass in your oven (the in between part)

Step 2) Read  a blog by some lady who has detailed every step, but only the first paragraph because everything after that is just boring

Step 3) Get your oldest screw driver, a hammer, a spatula and a drill bit and start unscrewing every single screw you can see

 

Step 4) Pull all the glass pieces out of the oven, throw all of the screws and metal pieces in a pile on the floor

Step 5) Start cleaning the glass with windex. When that doesn’t do it, grab the steel wool and scrub

Step 6) use too much water and more windex and get all of the glass pieces nice and scratched up

Step 7-136) Try to reassemble the oven exactly the way it was…because if you don’t, you will lose heat and nothing (like the 13 pound turkey you are making in a few days for Thanksgiving) will cook correctly

Step 218) After 4 hours of glass shenanigans, stand back  and admire how lovely your oven looks…until you realize you can now see clearly inside the oven which is damn dirty.

Tomorrow I will explain how to install cup hooks inside the cupboard of the kitchen island by getting IN to the cupboard with a hammer, cup hooks and all of the pots and pans you own, which in my case is 337…

So, THAT’S What Labor Looks Like…

I mean, really, life is never more perfect…

I’m a grandma!!! Or possibly a Nana…although, I might be a Ruby…what I am trying to say is my oldest daughter had a baby on Friday!! And I was her coach!! Now, having had 3 children myself and successfully completing the How To Have A Baby course offered by the hospital, you would think I would have recognized the signs of labor. And before Friday, I would have agreed with you.

I was induced for all 3 of my babies, so MY labor was “hard labor” from the moment they hooked me up to the pitocin. Which is why, when my daughter was writhing in agony on the floor of my bathroom, I was thinking “looks like about 3cm and at least 8 hours and an epidural away from a baby”. I mean, she never SAID she was in labor! This is her first baby, she is my first baby. I just assumed her labor and delivery would be just like mine were…induced, long, painful until the epidural kicked in and then 2 pushes and done! Oh and also, she would be 2 weeks over due. In fact, I said this so much she believed me! So, when she started having cramps and back pain 2 weeks BEFORE her due date, she just assumed it was a bruised tailbone or something.

It is partially her father’s “fault” too. He knows a spot on the leg to push to kick start labor. He massaged this spot on my leg when I was pregnant with our 3rd and she was born a day early. She was over to his house on Wednesday and he showed her the spot…which was quite tender when he pressed it. And about 36 hours later…BABY!

Anyway, Thursday night she kept saying she was so uncomfortable. Lots of cramping and her back hurt. Instead of me saying “Let’s call the doctor” I said “Let’s bring down the barcalounger from upstairs so you can recline a bit” Because, she was due March 2nd. It was February 18th. And the 1968 barcalounger, that was my mother’s, will absolutely help her feel better. Her sister and I banged it down the stairs and set it up for her and she sat there for about an hour and then decided to go to bed because she felt pretty lousy. And Dr. Mom here said “Yeah, my knees hurt so, I’ll probably head up too…” And we went to bed. About 1:30am she came into my room saying her back really hurt and she just felt awful. So, I did some of the massage techniques and she shifted about trying to find a position of relief. There was no relief though, because she was in active, hard labor. But I was still thinking she might just be really feeling being 9 months pregnant. I now understand how women  have babies in public restrooms. Denial runs strong in this family.

We timed her ‘uncomfortableness” and it was about every 5 minutes. That seems like a good time for me to take a shower. WHAT?!?!?! Yeah, because in my mind, there was no way that this baby was coming 2 weeks early after just an hour of hard labor. First time babies take forever! With lots of intervention and a hospital! I packed my bag, took a shower, she laid on the floor of my bedroom and threw up everything she had ever eaten in her entire life. I woke up her sister and told her to go start the car, put the dog in the crate and bring down the bags. My daughter got off the toilet, laid down on the bathroom floor and told me she was not going to move. And THAT was when I finally realized that HOLY SHIT! SHE WAS IN LABOR!! And I kicked it into high gear!

I yelled for her sister, I told my daughter that she IS getting off that floor and she IS going downstairs and getting in the car and we will help her. She said “No” I said “As soon as you get to the hospital they will give you some good drugs to ease this pain. You want to be done with this pain right?” She said “Ok” and her sister and I pulled her up, got her into some clothes, into the car and off we went to the hospital that was 35 minutes away. This was about 3:30am.

I truly thought that as soon as we got her outside and in the car, her “uncomfortableness”  would slow down. Wrong again. I really shouldn’t be allowed to think anymore. We started driving and she literally did an Exorcist move where she was aching backwards over the front seat while her feet almost went through the dashboard. While I was holding her hand and telling her what a great job she was doing and to breathe, I was actually debating if I should just run the stoplights. But naw….she can’t be THAT far along. Because labor doesn’t look like this. Labor looks like being in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs. She can’t really be in labor, 2 weeks early. Yeah.

We got to the hospital at 4:09am her sister went in to get the wheelchair because there was no way she was walking anywhere at this point. They triage-d her and guess what? You can probably guess, although I was still clueless…she was 10cm and ready to push! Wait…WHAT?!?!?!

They rushed her to the delivery room, and she immediately started pushing. Her water broke there on the table and with me holding one leg, the nurse holding the other and her sister near her head whispering words of encouragement, with 6 pushes she brought my grandson into the world! At 4:54am.

The next day, while baby nursed, we went over exactly how the heck she just delivered her first baby, 2 weeks early with no pain medication, with less than 3 hours of hard labor… amazing. I have never been so amazed by her in my whole life. And I have watched her do some pretty amazing things. Like be born, take her first steps, ride a bike, drive a car…but the way she handled giving birth to her son will always top the list of Amazing Things My Daughter Has Done. Me? I will cross Midwife off my list of possible jobs…

Spencer The Fearless

He looks brave, doesn’t he?

It was one of those days. I woke up knowing it was one of those days. Truth be told, I wake up every day knowing it’s one of those days. I just never know what is going to happen to make it one of those days.

I get up and remind the kid to let the dogs out. I remind the other kid to feed the dogs. Then I yell at the dogs for good measure and out the door I go to take the kids to school. This particular day, I come home and start working on the hor d’oeuvres for that evening. I volunteered to make hors d’oeuvres for our local theater company’s open night. Silly me. The dogs do not like it when I cook because they are barred from the kitchen which is their favorite place to be what with all the food falling or just sitting idly on counters waiting to be stolen.

Anyway, the kids come home. I drop one off to a friend’s house and come home to continue my hors d’oeuvres crafting. I pop the stuffed mushrooms in the oven and run the two younger kids to karate. I come back and I notice there is smoke coming from the oven. This isn’t the most unusual thing I have ever seen, so I just wait and watch. I open the oven door and smoke rolls out in great waves. But being a relatively mellow person, I simply shut the oven door again and wait. For what I am not yet sure.

I do this open and close with the oven door a few more times and my anxiety level starts to rise as does the smoke level in the kitchen. I start to get nervous about the fire alarm going off because it is connected to my security system and I don’t remember any passwords or numbers to
punch in. I have no idea what I will do if it…..SHIT! The alarm goes off!!!!

Now, the sensible thing for me to do would have been to shut the oven off. But who can be sensible when there is this nuclear bell ringing and the dogs have broken down the barricade and are now practically up my butt. I run to the key pad and start punching in random numbers….nothing. Except now Spencer has started pawing at my thighs as if that will help me to shut the alarm off.

My leg is bleeding and the alarm is going off, the smoke is still happening, and the phone is ringing. I run into the dark living room to the only phone that is currently working. The dogs are both trying to hang on to my legs as I run. Worse than scared children. I am tripping and kicking them as I go.

I answer the phone and it is the securities lady. I can’t hear her with the alarm going off, but I manage to give her my password and I hear her say something about a code I can punch in and that the fire department has already been dispatched. I thank her, hang up, turn around and step right in a HUGE pile of dog poop compliments of Spencer the fearless.

I go hopping back into the kitchen with the dogs still trying to jump into my arms. I punch in the code and the main alarm stops. I still have the voice saying “Fire. First floor. Oven” and it won’t shut up. That’s just humiliating. I am still not sure if it was a voice in my head or if it was coming from the alarm system. It very well may have been Spencer.

I hop over to the sink and scrub my foot off. I finally shut the oven off and
open the windows. I grab plastic bags and walk back to where the poop is
waiting, cleaning up all the little turds along the way. I do this with a
quickness as the fire department could be there any second!! At this point,
Spencer has given up on me and is trying to save himself. He is at the backdoor, on his hind legs trying to punch through the glass. Emma, the good dog, is sitting between me and Spencer waiting to see which one of us will survive and then she will decide where her loyalties lie.

I check the time and see I am now 10 minutes late picking up the kids from
karate. So, I leave a note on the front door : “Hi Firemen, Nothing on fire here. Went to pick up kids. Be right back!!” Spencer gave up trying to bust out the glass and is now concentrating on the door knob, cursing his lack of thumbs.

I get back and still no firemen. It had been over 20 minutes at that point. I am hoping that the security lady canceled them and it wasn’t personal thing (it’s a small town, you never know). Now, with all of this commotion, I am scattered. I have to regroup and figure out what I need to get done so that I can get these hors d’oeuvres to the show. What needs to be kept warm and what needs to be kept cold on the 45 minute ride to the theater. On a good day this is difficult because I have to think ahead so that Spencer doesn’t nab my food on the way out the door.

And he is still trying to escape the house. I am walking things from the fridge to the car, and he is trying his damnedest to push past me and get out. He’s such a drama queen. The smoke had cleared, the alarm was off. But he insists on acting the part of scared dog. He doesn’t know when to quit.

Meanwhile, my mean cat Cecelia, who has been gone for 4 days, shows up at the door. Cecelia is the meanest cat alive and no one understands why I keep her. But this is why. When my dog, who is supposed to be my best friend and loyal to the end is confronted with a bit of smoke and a fire alarm, he poops knowing I will step in it with my bare feet and then tries to break down the back door and save himself. Cecelia, on the other hand, who will never allow us to pet her, or even look at her, hears the alarm and decides she best come home and see if there is anything she can do for us.

Nature vs. nurture. Spencer has withdrawn his application for fire dog as of
yesterday.

Danceology

Sparkling By The Way's Blog

Being a dance teacher is what I do. It has become who I am. I have had great teachers over the years. Not all of them were kind, not all of them were good. I learned as much from the “bad” ones as I did from the good ones. I had one teacher who was incredibly mean. I believe her goal was to weed out the kids who couldn’t hack it.

I could hack it. I stayed and was abused and scared, but I loved what I was doing enough to stay. After all, criticism is really just a way to be kind. Abuse is just another form of love. Especially verbal abuse. Verbally abusing a child is really just shaping and molding them for their own good. Now, I know that’s a load of crap, but there are so very many who believe that.

I also had a teacher who…

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Pop Music Makes My Brain Hurt

Got my head x-rayed today after years of being told “You should have your head x-rayed” in response to every decision I have ever made. Apparently, x-rays can show why I make bad decisions. Technically, it wasn’t an x-ray. It was an MRI. Whatev. Same thing only different. I was so excited about  this I accidentally went yesterday, a day early. So, I went back today for realz.

I had no idea what to expect. I spent all day yesterday filling my brain with funny and interesting thoughts so that the technician would think I was brilliant and then gather all his colleagues to look at my incredible brain and then I would be the subject of a medical paper which would lead to a big budget movie starring Will Ferrell as me. I didn’t really think about what an MRI is like. I found out today. It is not as bad as a root canal but not as fun as a Disney ride.

The laid me down on a skinny, hard table. They put ear phones on me and then a helmet. This did not make me feel very sexy.  They gave me a thing to squeeze if I needed them and then I shut my eyes and tried to think good thoughts. They put on some generic pop music which was more annoying that the actual sound of the machine. The music made me think bad thoughts, like all of the people who have dissed me, my broken heart, my friends and family who have died…morbid. That’s what Kelly Clarkson does to my brain. Keeping my eyes shut, I yelled “Can you please change it to NPR?” The guy said “We don’t get that station, sorry”. He’s a liar. He said it would only take 3 minutes. Well, being a dance teacher for over 20 years I can tell you that a top 40 pop song is at MOST 3 minutes 30 seconds. I was in that helmet for over 5 songs which equals 15 minutes. Liar. I was going through Diane Rehm withdrawal.

After 7 hours of Taylor Swift whining about boys she has dated and all of the haters in the world, The Liar came in and told me they were going to shoot me up with some dye. Since he has a history of lying to me I asked for a second opinion. He laughed, shot me up, stuffed me back into the machine and cranked some Demi Lovato. At this point I realized I was missing my opportunity to WOW this guy with my hysterical thoughts and really informed opinions so I had to concentrate. The only thing that popped into my head was this :

Which made me giggle which my head move which got me yelled at. But it was too late. I was suddenly flooded with memories of doing my best guy friend’s hair with mousse and a hair dryer and it looked like this :

and the time when my kid yelled “SPAR” and went karate krazy on his big sister who was not expecting it:

And the time I got a handmade boob warmer for my birthday

and my beeeeAuTiFUL children

and the time I dressed my dog as a punk for Halloween (dog costumes slay me)

and the time my kid was NOT impressed with his banana hat

and the time my mean cat refused to let us go down stairs

and the time I sliced the tip of my finger off

And just as the pictures in my mind started to go down hill, The Liar said “Ok we are done” and pulled me out of the can and took off my helmet and the ear phones. I asked if he liked what he saw and he looked at me with an expression I can only interpret as “you have the most incredible mind I have ever seen”.

Nothing more to do now but wait for the call from Scorsese…