Sunday, August 31, 2008

Interior Battle of the Bands


If I possessed simple Photoshop skills, I would draw cute little arrows pointing to the appropriate elements of this pictures. Since I have zero Photoshop skills, I will instead depend upon my command of the English language. Here it goes...

No, this is not some strange photo of Hurricane Gustav. It is a poor-resolution scan of my neck x-ray taken at the Granby, Colorado emergency room during my summer vacation. You can see my mandible (impressed yet? I thought not.) in the upper left hand corner. The vertebrae in my neck extend down, creating that cloudy arch in the middle of the picture. The problem? No one should describe their neck vertebrae as an “arch.”
When the doctor approached me with this x-ray she said, "If you had come in here as a result of a fall, I would immediately have you in a helicopter to Denver."

What?

She continued by explaining that those wishbone-shaped areas, the individual vertebra, should be in a direct line. As it is, mine are "30% displaced." If the scan was clearer, you could see the spinal cord running inside the vertebrae, which are supposed to protect it. In my case, they threaten to sever it.

Sever. My. Spinal cord. That would not be good.

I wasn't going to share this on my blog because, well, it's a little depressing. But I haven't been my usual witty self and realized it's partly because I've been expending so much mental energy trying to hide and stuff all the emotions that go along with this information, emotions like fear. Fear sucks the spit and vinegar right out of a girl.

Boy, you should hear the tapes playing in my head. I wish I could fire the DJ--especially since he's still using tapes instead of digital media. Ba-dum-dum. Like I said, I'm not my usual witty self, but I'm trying. The damn DJ plays over and over: What if I fall? What if I'm paralyzed? What will happen to my children? What about my marriage? What was that pain?

Of course, he plays loudest a night, when my thoughts are magnified by my solitude. Fear's music rings dissonantly in my mind against a back beat of regret: I should have been more aggressive. I should have eaten more healthfully. I should have INSISTED that I take care of myself first.

Oh, and don't forget resentment. I'm too ashamed to post those thoughts.

Hope and fear, both residing in the future, fight a mighty battle of the bands. Hope sings a you-are-not-a-victim song. Fear simply sings back, "Yes you are." I look up victim in the dictionary and it reads a person who suffers from a destructive or injurious action or agency. In this area of my life, I suffer. I could consider arthritis a kind of agency.

Hope: 0
Fear: 1

Hope falters a bit, then chimes that the antibiotics can still work their magic as they have for many people. Fear yells like a big-haired eighties band, "Yes, but they haven't yet. You have such severe, longstanding disease. What if it's too late—too late—too late—too late for…?" Hope’s melody reminds me that the antibiotics still might. Just might.

Hope: 1
Fear: 1

Fear chants, "What if you fall before you've arrested the disease? What if you become paralyzed? What if? What if? What if?" Hope reminds me that it hasn't happened yet. Healthy people are harmed and even die every day, but that doesn't mean we should all live in fear.

Hope: 2
Fear: 1

Fear pounds a heavy bass beat, “Yes, but healthy people don’t have outward signs or obvious precursors to potential harm.” That beat drowned out anything Hope had to say.

Hope: 2
Fear: 2

However, in her strongest voice, Hope has so far sung the final melody: There’s always Hope.

Hope: 3
Fear: 2

The final scores have been close lately. Sometimes fear even wins. At those times I take a sleeping pill to clear the cacophony.

My greatest weapon against the what-ifs has been to ask myself, “What can I do right now?” Sometimes the answer is rest. Other times I find the solution in calling a friend or getting out of the house. I’ve even found solace in a salad; every bit of nutrition I give my immune system helps. As long as I can find some means of giving myself a sense of empowerment, my Inner Victim loses strength.

I return to my antibiotic doc on September 12, when I intend to ask him to prescribe rounds of I.V. antibiotics to jump start the process. In the meantime, I'm taking my Reliv shakes (no, I don't sell them) , getting a membership to a YMCA that has a warm pool for arthritis water aerobics, and taking the supplements my doctor suggested. I even have plans to develop a system for tracking all my efforts so that I can look at my accomplishments when I become discouraged, but I haven't started yet.

I hope I've ended this entry on a positive note. I'm trying to remain hopeful and optimistic despite my constant apprehension. Here's to Hope and to the end of the Interior Battle of the Bands. Hear clinking of Reliv plastic cups here.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

So That I'll "Remember That Time When..."

Hannah and I visited my sister, Ashley, Sunday through today to "help" while her husband, Ed, took a business trip back east somewhere. I'm not certain they'll be looking for my brand of assistance in the future. We'll see.

First, recall that Ashley has five children from 6 weeks to 8 years in age. She home schools her three oldest, though she didn't accomplish much schooling with me there. (Strike one against "helping.") Add Hannah to that mix and we had the equivalent of eight children being supervised by one-and-one-half adults.

Two-year-old Gianna and Hannah antagonized each other the entire visit. For example: while Hannah played with the MagnaDoodle, Gianna took the magnetic shapes that work only with the MagnaDoodle, not because she had any means by which to play with the shapes, but because it was certain to solicit a scream from Hannah. Want another example? Even though Hannah sucks her fingers almost constantly, she decided that Gianna should never, under any circumstances, suck her thumb. And if Gianna did suck her thumb, Hannah stood directly in front of her and screamed, "No! Don't suck-uh fumb!" Furthermore, if Gianna tried to escape said screaming, Hannah followed her and screamed all the more. I'm fairly certain that mothering assistance from a five-year-old wasn't the kind of "help" Ashley had in mind. Imagine any variation on those two scenarios, throw in the word "mine," and it probably happened over the past few days. Ash's house sounded a lot like the first 25 seconds of this clip...minus the "shut up" part (though I certainly thought it numerous times).





Monday evening Ashley lined up her awesome babysitter so that she and I could play Bunko with ten other fun women. We had a blast and returned to a clean house and a frazzled-looking babysitter. Later Ashley told me that Alex never looks like that. The only change? Hannah. In a momentary lapse common sense I failed to give the poor girl any kind of heads up about Hannah: no warnings, no suggestions as to how to handle meltdowns/breakdowns/Hannahisms, nothing. Thankfully Ashley had mentioned that Hannah had "special needs," but that was it.

While we played Bunko, Alex took five children to the park (Ashley kept the baby) and at some point Hannah crashed and burned, scraping her elbow and bottom, which was no big deal. However, it probably contributed to Hannah's later refusal to put on the jammy-shirt I had set out. Poor Alex had no idea that Hannah spends 85% of her life completely naked and that clothing falls far below sanity on the priority scale. Thankfully Ed happened to call that evening to make sure things were going OK (now why didn't I think of that?). When Alex mentioned her clothing struggles, Ed gave her sage advice: Do whatever is easiest.

Though Hannah often placed herself smack dab in the middle of most of the conflict, she also made us laugh until we cried more than once. I know before I even write this anecdote that you will not find it as funny as we did, but we were a little punchy by the end of day one. In part of our attempt to have five children dress for bed and brush their teeth, I instructed Hannah to take off her Pull-up and throw it in the trash. When she finally removed her Pull-up after my third request, she bumped into Isaac on her way to the trash can and dropped it. She picked the soggy big-girl diaper off of the floor, thrust it into Isaac's face and said, "Smewh it (smell it)!" Ashley and I took one look at each other and cracked up. Where does Hannah get this stuff? I'll lay the blame on Carl. He's not here to defend himself.

Some other memorable moments:

  • Ashley put Isaac's new remote-control four-wheeler on the kitchen counter so she could sweep the floor, unbeknown to Isaac who was walking up the stairs. He revved the four-wheeler across the counter and scared the you-know-what out of us.



  • Ethan, my eight-year-old nephew, thought Disney's The Sweet Life of Zack and Cody was a "bad" show to watch because they said (gasp!) lactose intolerance. Even funnier, he couldn't remember how to pronounce it once he realized it wasn't a bad word and therefore asked us--at least twenty times (no exaggeration)--how to pronounce it: loctas intelligence? slacker trancelot? tallerance scolah? Ashley told me that he knew exactly how to pronounce it when he thought it was a cuss word.



  • When I was in Colorado Mom cleaned my house, put fresh flowers on the table and placed mints on each of our pillows. She did the same for Ashley when her family traveled to Denver recently. Ash and I wanted to do something similar for Mom while she visited Alaska, but Mom hyper-cleaned her house before she left. Instead of cleaning we placed a pampering gift basket and two bright orange shasta daisies on her bedside table. In front of the gift basket we stood three cinnamon gummy bears, each holding a toothpick flag that, when lined up, read "We Missed You." The gummies that we placed in her office said "We Love You" and on her dining room table they waved "Welcome Home Mom." The biggest feat, though, was keeping six children from destroying Mom's clean house while we created the gifts.

  • Ed was sitting on a plane on a Baltimore Airport runway when the FAA had its computer glitch Tuesday. Thankfully the glitch didn't result in any accidents and Ed made his connecting flight in Atlanta with time to spare.

All-in-all we had a good time, the kind of visit that will be repeated for years to come in stories that start as Remember that time when...

Monday, August 25, 2008

Happy Belated Birthday Mom! How's Alaska?

This post has been delayed nearly a month now, but I've finally scanned the photos and uploaded them to blogger. Hey, Ed--aren't you glad you spent so much time scanning photos that one morning...only to wait two weeks to see them online. Sorry!

I'm not even sure when Mom will see all of this since she's in ALASKA right now, the last of the states that she hadn't set foot in. Has anyone else out there been to all fifty states?



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This second picture is of my baptism, cradle Catholic that I am. Mom is on the left. On the back of this photo she had written, "Angela's baptism at one-and-a-half weeks. I didn't look as skinny as I felt." Whatever!




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This picture is of Mom and me at The Overflow, the nickname given to a creek near my childhood home that overflowed its bridge during every rain. When Mom was a child she played there, then carried on the tradition with her own children, as you can see.



As I got older Mom allowed me to walk or ride my bike the two miles to the overflow on hot summer days. It never failed that a swarm of horseflies would attack me at the halfway point of my trip to the creek--I couldn't turn back, but thankfully I could run!

Around Memorial Day this year Mom, Ashley and I traveled back to my hometown. We were given permission to walk through my childhood home and through my now-deceased grandma's home. (I wanted to blog about that experience, but I developed some definite opinions that I found impossible to temper, so I opted to post nothing...for the time being). We ate lunch at the town park, then drove to The Overflow to play, though not to swim. We were shocked to find the bridge had finally caved in.



...throwing rocks into The Overflow

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...of course, Mom made cookies and brought everything we could possibly need

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...third generation Overflow kids. Or is it fourth? Did my grandma play there as a child?
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OK, now we're back to my childhood. Mom is nine months pregnant in this picture and probably excited at the prospect of potty training me. Especially since she used cloth diapers.



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Just another picture. Any guesses as to what she's doing?



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This fuzzy photo pictures Mom with Ashley. I love the helmet head, Mom!







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Mom worked at the high school for many years, allowing her to continue having those lovely school pictures long after the rest of us were spared. Great glasses, Mom! I wish I could've found the picture of me with similar glasses just to give Ed something to really laugh about.






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Mom with her mom and dad...





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Mom with Katie. I don't like this picture of Katie, but it's a good one of Mom...





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Mom and Katie (much better of Katie)...



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Mom, Isaac and Hannah...



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Mom and Hailey giving the thumbs up because Mom had finally finished the custom-designed, custom-made Laura Ashley window treatments for my bedroom. Too bad you can't see how beautifully they turned out in this picture...


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I've posted this picture before, but here it is again since I like it...





Happy belated birthday. I hope you're refreshingly cool in Alaska. By the way, Kathleeny-beany, she was at the Alaska State Fair yesterday. I couldn't help but think that you two might have run into each other without knowing it if only your back wasn't causing you such grief!

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Wanting To Want To

After about seven years (I've lost count at this point) we are finally completing TWO rooms in the gorilla/monstrosity building project--the French Door Room and our second bathroom. Woohoo! Today Carl and Dave checked off things on the punch list (look at me spouting all the lingo): fit wood blinds, repair pocket door and install its hardware, mount hardware on bathroom vanity, and on and on. For the first time in ten years we finally have a second toilet, a second shower (only cold water, though, until we purchase a second hot water heater) and a second bathroom sink and vanity--all in the nick of time given the fact that four females live in this house.

A while back Carl made the offhanded comment that I hadn't really helped much with the building project. Never mind that I handled the bookkeeping for our home and business, cooked, cleaned, potty-trained two children (and every other mundane mommy mission) and almost-but-not-quite acted as single mom while he and his buddy played Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor with power tools and big boy toys and had something enormous to show for a day's work. Who said size doesn't matter? Do you sense a little pissiness here? Nah.

Here's the thing. I want to want to help. I want to want to paint the trim, hammer nails into studs, install hardware. I imagine myself as Hometime's Peggy JoJo Susanne Robin Miriam and Carl as Dean, each of us carrying our own end of a 12-foot piece of 2x4, joking around and reminding each other of the proper safety attire. But it just isn't in me.

Part of my disinterest is the mucky byproduct of arthritis--it's hard to get excited about painting when every third stroke of the paintbrush results in a zinging catch in my shoulder socket. And how can I expect to carry two-by-fours when balancing my own body on my crooked ankles has become a challenge all its own?

I originally intended to stop with this point, to use this post as an example of how chronic illness invades every element of its host's life. And though that is true, it isn't completely honest. Because, you see, while arthritis does influence every single decision I make on a daily basis-- from showering to shopping--it is not to be blamed for my every shortcoming. Honestly? I don't enjoy painting. Or hammering. Or mudding and taping. As much as I want to take part in this whole building-project-thing, to be able to say we did that together or I saved buku bucks by painting every piece of trim you see, I don't enjoy it. It doesn't come naturally. I spill the paint, it runs when I'm not looking, then dries in little drips.

Today I dressed in paint-covered cut-off shorts and a stained t-shirt so I could be available to paint whatever needed painted. By gawd, I was going to do my part. Carl gave Dave (thank God for Dave) a task then showed me the bathroom trim that needed painted, the woodwork that needed cleaned before it received its last coat of paint and the bathroom hardware that needed screwed into place. Just then I remembered that the library closed in 45 minutes and I needed a book before I leave to visit my sister tomorrow. Priorities, you know.

I returned an hour later, told Carl I'd be out to paint in a few minutes and went inside to open my laptop. Again--priorities. I needed to post some comments on my favorite blogs after slacking this past week. With that very important task completed I went back to the garage and saw that Carl still hadn't set up a painting station for me. What? Did he think I was going to do that myself?

"I'll paint if you'll set it all up for me," I said nicely.

He looked at me skeptically and said, "We're sanding this door and making a dusty mess right now. It's not a good time to paint."

Darn. "OK," I said and went back inside to watch Olympic Rhythmic Gymnastics because I might want to take that up someday...after I'm miraculously healed or stem cell therapy is perfected. I had to give Carl credit for not bringing up the woodwork-cleaning project he mentioned earlier.

I just realized--we do make a great team. I pretend like I want to be Peggy JoJo Susanne Robin Miriam and Carl pretends like he believes me. I love that man.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Harvest Memories

I've never driven a BMW, never even been inside one. In fact, the closest I've come to a BMW was the time a neighbor backed hers into my Chevy Citation.

I've never flown first class, never been sailing (unless you count the time Carl and I sailed a little catamaran in the Bahamas), and never ridden on a train. But I used to operate one of these:





For several summers I drove the combine during wheat harvest, which beat the heck out of driving the truck (no air conditioning) or the grain cart (I lived in fear of running into the combine when unloading "on the go"). I loved it, though admittedly being a girl made it more enjoyable. I didn't have to grease the combine in the morning (I fixed and packed lunch while the guys did that), fix flat tires or solve major problems.

I did, however, have to know what I was doing; after all, a combine is more than an oversized lawn mower. The driver needs to drive fast enough to finish before being rained out or worse, having the wheat destroyed by the next hail storm. But she can't drive so fast that the wheat spits out the back end instead of pouring into the bin. And I learned the hard way that driving too quickly through dense wheat results in a jammed header. More than once I had to climb down from my air conditioned cab into the sweltering Kansas humidity, crawl through the reel and pull out the bunched-up wheat stalks handful by handful, all-the-while dripping sweat and inhaling lung-clogging wheat dust. Ah, those were the days. I won't take the time to explain the maneuvering acrobatics required to remove one of these monsters from a mud puddle.

We often couldn't begin until late morning because the dew caused the wheat's moisutre content to be too high, but I remember cutting past midnight many nights. Farmers work many months to raise a crop that is cut in a few short weeks, so when harvest time rolls around everything else goes by the wayside, even sleep, lest Mother Nature leash some fury that destroys the months of work in a matter of hours.

Here is what prompted this little trip down memory lane. How many town folk can say they've witnessed this in their front yard?




The neighbors across the street backed their combine into our front yard so they could mount their row header. I'm sure the men thought I was some town girl all twitterpated about seeing a combine up close. If they only knew...

In a related story, Pop sent me an e-mail today about some farmers in Norton, Kansas who broke a Guiness world record by cutting 160 acres of wheat in 10 minutes and 15 seconds using 100 combines. They have a Guiness world record for everything, don't they?

Friday, August 22, 2008

First Year Locker Room Worries

Katie began Middle School Wednesday and everything is new and unfamiliar: new building with three floors instead of one, classroom changes each hour, no recess, and above all P.E. Oh sure, she had P.E. last year, but this year provides a new twist. Showers.

This showering business has been an almost-daily topic between us for the past week. Does she have to shower? Can she wet her hair and look like she has showered? Can she just sponge off? She feels modest and frankly I'm all for promoting modesty as long as I can, so I asked the administration if she could wear a swim suit while she showered. No problem.

Because they have P.E. every other day, yesterday was her first day of P.E. I reminded her to pack her gym clothes, soap, towel and swim suit. Earlier in the week, as a result of her questioning, I had explained that she would change her clothes before P.E. and put them in a locker. Afterwards she would shower and change back into her school clothes.

Yesterday her continued confusion became clear to me when she said, "I don't get this P.E. thing. Am I supposed to change my clothes at my locker before P.E. class?" She was afraid they expected her to change clothes in the hallway at her usual locker. Ha!

"No, no. You'll go to the locker room and have a different locker. The locker room is sort of like the shower room at the public pool and it probably has lockers in it."

She looked at me skeptically when I used the word probably. "How do you know?" she asked.

I'm guessing based on my past experience with locker rooms. You know. Locker rooms. Didn't they take you there when you had your tour?"

"No. Anyhow, I'm all ready for gym class. I packed my clothes and a plastic sack to put my wet swim suit in afterwards. And I'm wearing my swim suit right now," she informed me.

I stifled a laugh. She planned on wearing that swim suit all day. By golly, no one's gonna catch a glimpse of my Katie!

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Is Honesty the Best Policy?

Shhh. Hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of nothing. No TV. No arguments. No telephone. No requests. No-thing. School began yesterday and today I am finally blogging again. This year my three girls are attending three separate schools: Katie has moved up to the middle school, Hailey is now one of the "big" kids in fifth grade and Hannah has returned for one last year at her preschool, leaving me entirely alone for two-and-a-half hours every afternoon. Ahhhh.

Anyhow, on with the blogging part...

At age twelve Katie's skin has become oily, resulting in--gasp--facial imperfections. You know. Zits. Let me rephrase that: zit. Singular. One little bump that looks more like a small mosquito bite showed up on her chin earlier this week.

"Mom, what is this?" Katie asked, pointing at the minor flaw.

"What are you talking about?" I asked in return, trying to downplay the whole situation.

"This! This big bump on my chin," she said, exaggerating her pointing.

"Oh, that. Let me see. Does it itch? It looks kind of like a mosquito bite."

"No, it's not a mosquito bite. It's more like a knot and it doesn't itch."

"Well," I paused. "It's probably a pimple."

"What? A pimple?! Right before school starts???"

"Oh, it's no big thing. You can barely see it and it really does look more like a mosquito bite. Just leave it alone and it will go away," I reassured her. Thank God she believed me and walked off happily.

Later that night we sat down as a family to supper. The minute Katie sat down across the table from Carl he said, "Is that a zit on your chin, Katie?"

Terrific.

Katie looked over at me with a mixture of humor (thank goodness) and astonishment and said, "Mom said you can hardly see it."

I gave him the look, but he continued his teasing torment by saying, "Well...mom lied."

I began to bumble, trying to repair the potential damage when Katie interrupted and said, "It's OK. I don't care." Thank God for that.

Either Katie has me fooled or she truly is one of those people who don't care what others think. What a blessing, a blessing I plan to cultivate and grow over the coming teen years.

And it seems that while I'm doing all this planning and cultivating, Carl achieves it naturally. Go figure. Maybe honesty actually is the best policy.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

My Circus Moment

Ahhh. A nice, quiet suite at the fairly new Mariott. For the next 24-48 hours I would avoid hearing, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” I drove down the freshly-paved lane between rows of evenly-spaced Bradford Pear trees, imagining the beautiful, white flower clusters they bear in the spring. Refreshing. Until I exited the Tahoe and melted into the 105 degree heat index. Carrying only my laptop and a grilled chicken Caesar salad from Wendy's, I entered through the automatic doors three hours before check-in, having confused check-in and check-out times. Duh. I needed to get out more. Nevertheless, the pleasant lady at the front desk found a clean room and gave me my keycard to twenty-four hours of blissful, unscheduled, quiet calmness.

The smell of new carpet and cleaning supplies contrasted nicely against the household fragrances I had left behind: trash that needed taken out, Hannah's potty-covered sheets (yes, Mom, I'm aware of my ongoing role in that little problem), and camping items still strewn about the house.

The elevator that took me to my fourth floor penthouse (OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a little) opened immediately and closed just as quickly after I stepped in. I barely hobbled through in time, but no worries. Thankfully I located my room just two doors down from the elevator, so I didn't have far to walk before fumbling with my keycard to calmness. After fourteen tries, I finally unlocked the door and entered my retreat.

I unpacked my lunch, turned on the tube and spent the next forty-five minutes feeling afraid that I wouldn't figure out how to enjoy this limited solitude. Should I swim in the pool? Read a book? Find a movie? Take a nap? Even though I had only slept four hours the night before, taking a nap was out. Time was too precious.

After my forty-five-minute fret, I decided to return to the Tahoe for the poster-making supplies I had purchased earlier that day as well as my suitcase, and then to stop by The Market (the Marriot's version of a micro-mini-grocery store) for a couple of bottled waters and granola bars before returning to my room.

I hadn't realized how dependent I had become on Carl and the girls. I could have used an extra pair of hands--or one of those rolling, suitcase-carrying thingys. Instead, I held my cane and two shrink-wrapped packages of 18" x 24"poster board in my left hand and two bottles of water under my left arm. ON my left arm I hung my bag of poster-making supplies and my little black purse containing my granola bars in its outside pocket while I pushed my suitcase with my right hand. I should join the circus.

Slowly I limped to the elevator and entered as the door slid against my butt, propelling me slightly forward. I had barely turned my circus show around to exit the elevator when the doors opened. Knowing how quickly they would close, I rushed through. I don't "rush" well. First my poster board packages fell onto the elevator doorway. Reaching down to pick them up, both bottles of water dropped and rolled out into the hallway. What to do?! Of course the lightning-speed elevator doors closed onto my bent-over behind, nearly thrusting me into the hallway before they automatically bounced back into place like elevator doors do. But not before they crushed one of my poster board packages.

I only had seconds. I picked up the poster board only to have my granola bars slip out of my purse. Again the elevator doors closed on me, only this time they didn't stop! Crap! I leapt back into the elevator, pushed the "door-open" button and tried to grab two packages and two granola bars off of the floor with my curled-up hands. That time when the door tried to make a human sandwich out of me it started screaming a constant, high-pitched alarm that seemed to say, "Come One! Come All! See the Amazing Angela attempt to get her a** out of the elevator! Witness comedy and danger simultaneously! Come One! Come All!"

I hopped back in and dropped stuff again, but this time the alarm continued even after I pushed the door-open button, so I kicked everything out of the elevator and jumped to safety in the hallway, nearly leaving my shoe in the process. I also don't “jump” well.

I said that I kicked out "everything." That's not quite true. My suitcase remained in the elevator, descending to some unknown lower level. I quickly pushed the hallway down-arrow button, but the elevator had had enough of me. Rejected. No response.

As I waited for it to return to the fourth floor, I heard a woman walking towards me, talking on a cell phone, saying, "I'm sorry I have the wrong number. I forgot what to dial--this is the wrong number." Pause. "Wrong. Number. So sorry." After I heard her phone close, she mumbled, "I can't believe I forgot his number." When she came into sight we said our hellos and she said, "Isn't this stupid? I forgot my husband's cell phone number."

"Not really. Stupid is leaving your suitcase in the elevator."

She looked at me blankly.

"I couldn't get my suitcase out of the elevator before it closed. It's riding down to the lobby right now."

After recognition registered on her face, she laughed out loud. At least someone was laughing. Actually, I was laughing, too. It was all pretty ridiculous.

When the elevator opened, MY SUITCASE WASN'T THERE!

"Oh no. Your suitcase isn't here." No sh**, Sherlock. "Maybe someone took it to the front desk."

"You're probably right. I'm going to leave this stuff at my room before I search for it." With that the doors closed, taking my temporary acquaintance in the direction of my suitcase.

I began to panic a little. My medicine was in that bag. What if someone stole it? What's going to happen to my peaceful evening? Oh no. Oh no. I dropped my salvaged items in front of my door. No time to fumble with poorly-swiped keycards. I successfully hurried into the elevator, even though I don't “hurry” well, and punched the STAR-1 button for the lobby. For unknown reasons the elevator stopped at the third floor and magically opened its doors like I was part of a Bob Barker game show, revealing my lonely, abandoned suitcase. Hurrah!

With only one item to manage, I easily maneuvered the suitcase to my room, swiped my keycard fourteen more times, kicked everything into the room, dropped the bag right in front of the door and fell onto the bed in adrenaline-induced exhaustion.

So much for my peaceful evening.

Note: Everything improved after that. After I finish this post, I'm checking out, doing a little Wal-Mart shopping (gag, ack, yuck) and returning to my lovely family. I can hear their cherubic voices already...

Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Never Shake a Baby...Run Away From Home Instead

Am I the only mother in America whose mantra has become school starts soon...school starts soon...school starts soon...? For anyone who doesn't already know, I home schooled Katie and Hailey from Katie's first through fourth grade years (the equivalent of Hailey's Kindergarten through third grade years). I swore I would never become one of those moms who couldn't wait for school to start, but (head hanging in exhaustion and overstimulation shame), I have.

I thought that our "vacation" would rejuvenate me, revitalize me, restore me to happy-mommydom. However, using a tree as a toilet, sleeping in a frickin-freezing tent and spending time in the emergency room for an allergic reaction left me decidedly done in. Even the mountains didn't stand a chance of doing their usual magic.

As of Friday I knew that if I heard "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom." one more time, I would snap. You know those Never Shake a Baby posters in your pediatrician's office? I realize I don't have "babies" any more, but for those times when I'm ready to snap, they give suggestions like:



  1. Leave the baby in a safe, secure place, take deep breaths and count to 10 (I have found that no "safe, secure place" exists in my house unless I'm willing to spend the next thirty minutes cleaning up an unforeseen mess)


  2. Go to another room or area of the house (They follow me. EVERYWHERE. Like I'm some kind of mommy magnet and they are little straight pins drawn towards me, often leading with the pointed end. And see #1)


  3. Ask someone else to watch the baby for you – a parent, a neighbor or a friend (Hey, Mom, could you take the day off, drive 2½ hours and watch the kids while I go have a cup of coffee?...OK, OK, yes I have friends, but they work OUTSIDE the home)


  4. Take the baby out of the house for a ride in a stroller or a car (Herding Hannah to the Tahoe--heck, ANY transition--results in even more madness. Kinda defeats the purpose, eh?)


  5. Be patient. If you find you can’t calmly care for the baby, or have trouble controlling your anger, take a break. Let the baby cry it out. (Again, this list is obviously for mommies with babies; not five-, ten-, and eleven-year-old children, but it's still somewhat applicable. I could allow the three of them to duke it out for a while, but then I'd have the same results as in #1 again.)

I've come up with my own number 6.

6. Leave all three children with their father (they are half his, you know) while I spend the night in a nice hotel.

And so I have.