The Selflessness of Selfishness

A couple of months ago, I was having a rough night.  I was shuffling around.   J was working night shift, I was home with three fussy kids, all with colds.  The Littles were finishing up dinner, I was at the stove.  I was getting more for someone?  I was starting to clean up? I don't remember.
What I remember is a sudden shooting pain, from my heels my shoulders.  Like lightning.  Like fire.
I went rigid, I drew a sharp breath.  And then, I had no legs.  They were gone.  It felt as though someone had actually pulled them out from beneath me; they simply were not there.
Without legs to stand on, I fell.  I tried to catch myself on the edge of the stove, but I wasn't strong enough.  I crumpled to the floor, took a moment to get my bearings, and was shocked to find that I still had no legs.
The Sisters could see me from the dining room; they were asking if I was all right, if I fell down.
I was telling them I was ok, I'll be there in a minute, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears.  Disassociated from me, like the lower half of my body.
I stayed there awhile. 10 minutes that felt like hours. Finally, I was able to grab onto the bar of the oven door, and pull myself up.
I was able to shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the water.  I got Mister into the tub.  But it was hard; it was very hard.  I carried Him from the high chair to the tub on Faith. I carried him inches at a time, with great effort, telling myself all the way- my legs are there; I see them.  I can do this; I'm fine.  I put Him in the bath.  I could tell now, that my legs were not gone.
But my legs and my back felt strange.  Weak and heavy, sort of transparent. My arms began to feel heavy, like I was lifting them through thick mud instead of air.  I tried to pick Mr up out of the tub and found that I couldn't.  I just could not.  I may as well have been trying to lift the house itself.
It wasn't because it hurt, I just couldn't make my arms lift Him.  I began panic.  But what about my kids?  Because they were watching, I didn't get hysterical.  Because there were there, depending on me, I didn't have the luxury of that.
So instead, they got a very, very long bath.
I waited.  Eventually, with my direction, Little One was able to get Mr into my lap, where he held onto my neck like a little monkey. From there I stood up and was able to get Him to the changing table, put Him to bed.  Because they are so independent now, I was able to get the Sisters into bed, and then I laid down too.
By the morning,  I was as good as I had been before the lighting at the stove.
Which was really only kind of ok, actually.  I'd been having numbness in my feet and hands for weeks.  So much so that once I'd been holding my flat iron with my finger on the plate and not noticed until I smelled burning skin.  So much that I'd gone out and bought flat shoes because I could no longer balance in my heels.  I stopped going to yoga because I kept falling down. So I went to a doctor.  I had bloodwork, MRIs, lots of tests.
It turns out I was lucky.  I apparently had Guillon-barre syndrome; a problem in which the immune system reacts to a mild illness by attacking the cells of the nervous system.  Only a third of people who get this remain able to walk at all.  Many people become totally paralyzed; in some even their heart and lungs stop.  I had a really mild case, and the best thing about this syndrome compared to other things I was tested for, is that (as long as you don't die), it goes away.
It can take a long time, I'm told, for nerve cells to heal.  But they almost always do, eventually, heal. I'm already a whole lot better.  I still have some numbness and tingling in my hands and feet; I still cannot feel my big toes even if you were to stick a needle in them, even if you put them in ice.  But I will, in time.
Looking back now I feel stupid.  All those weeks of struggling to braid the girls' hair, of dropping everything, of straining to walk the kids to school, before even making an appointment to see my doctor.  I think of that night at the stove and am horrified.  It could have become so much worse than it did- it's incredibly lucky that it didn't- why on earth did I not call for help?  What if it had become worse- and my kids were there alone in the bath.  
The thing is.  At the time, I wasn't so much worried about the problems I was having as I was ashamed of them.  With my new job, J's residency hours, the kids' new schools, and getting used to a new home, I was stressed out and missing a lot of sleep.  I would stumble or drop something and think, "wow, I am just really not handling things very well".  I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull myself together.  I just needed to try harder, to manage time better and get more rest. The night I couldn't lift Mister from the tub I was scared.  But more than that, I was angry at myself for being so weak.  For making such a big deal out of a strained muscle or something, for not being able to make myself push through it and look after my kids.
As a mother, the primacy of caring for your children can become so overwhelming that you start to forget yourself. You stop being able to see yourself as a person, start to forget that you need things. As your focus shifts to the people who need you, it's easy to feel less human and more like the machine that keeps the conveyor belt of life rolling.  How many times have I packed well-balanced, allergy-safe, carefully planned-out snacks for three kids for an all day excursion- and not even thought of bringing an apple for myself?  How many times have I insisted J take a nap after a long shift- yet after staying up all night with sick or fussy kids, when have I ever asked for a nap? I have cancelled lots of plans and pushed plenty of deadlines because someone was sick or tired and needed to be in bed- but I've never skipped gymnastics practice, story time, or field trips because I had a fever or headache.  Machines are not supposed to take sick days, or naps, or even bathroom breaks.
Usually, it's not my line to complain about those facts.  I believe that parenting requires sacrifice and prioritizing my kids needs over my own, and I'm good with that.  I don't resent anyone when we are in our sixth hour of Smithsonian museums and I'm starving while the kids munch organic apples dipped in home-made soy-yogurt.  It's no one's fault.
But mine.  Because sacrifice implies that you are giving something up for the good of others.  Prioritizing kids means doing the best thing for them.  Is it really for their good, is it really what's best for them, if I get hungry or exhausted and can't quite be at my best?  Or if I get sick and sicker and end up unable to get my baby out of a bath tub?
This whole experience has left me feeling extremely fortunate.  Because it wasn't bad enough to have caused any permanent damage.  But it was bad enough to shock me into reassessing the way I see myself, and into realizing that the way I take care of myself directly and profoundly impacts my ability to take care of everyone else.  Sometimes toughing it out and ignoring yourself to be there for others isn't brave or valiant or generous.  It's just stupid.
As I recover from that bizarre episode, I feel a lot like Mister, discovering the joy of movement and abilities.  I go to yoga and I'm grinning through the poses that burn- because I can do it without falling over!  I put on my old shoes and do a little dance in them.  Because I can! Everything seems like so much fun; things I had taken for granted are significant again. I'm practicing french-braiding the Sisters hair, I'm mending things by hand, I'm cutting stuff out with scissors.  And.
I'm eating breakfast, even if we will be a little late for school.  I'm locking the bathroom door.  And today (after tucking in two post-scary-dream Littles and soothing one who bumped His head in the middle of the night) even though the kitchen was messy and there was work to do, when Mister took a nap, I did too.  It may seem strange, but for my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to try to take better care of my family- by being a little more selfish.

Flap-jackie Chan

I'm entrenched in a ridiculous drama in which GoogleVoice has abducted my cell phone number and refuses to give it back.  It terrorizes me, Peanuts.  It's a mean, scurvy pirate.  One of the ways it messes with me is by randomly transcribing voicemails and sending them to me as a text that would take all of the Pentagon's cryptologysts to decipher.
I was picking up Missy from school one day, when one of these encoded nonsensical messages came in.  I wasn't yet familiar with this phenomenon, and so for a minute I just stared at it dumbly, wondering which one of us was crazy.  It made no sense, guys, none.
But I could pick out three words:
school
daughter
allergy
Which were the only ones I needed to see to turn my stomach inside out.  I smiled at Miss, who I had been unsuccessfully beguiling away from the sandbox, walked over to Her calmly, picked Her up, and sat Her on Mister's lap in His stroller.  I measured my words out like sugar in a teaspoon, "There is an emergency, so we are leaving right. now.  Hang on love!"
And I hauled our three tushies down the path, up the road, past the park and through the parking lot in record time, dialing the school as we trucked it.
She was ok.  She was looking scared and embarrassed, but She was breathing normally.  Other than some hives on Her face, She looked fine.  Except for the eye.
Her left eye looked as if She'd jammed a ping-pong ball under Her lids.  It was big and puffy, swollen and red.
The school features pancakes for lunch (got to start those healthy habits early).  One of Little One's friends was eating pancakes with her hands, and reached across the table to get Little One's attention. She touched Her face.  That's it.  That's all.  That's all it took to blimp up Her eye like that and freckle Her with hives.  The nurse had washed it out and put ice on it, but it was still swelling.
I was relieved.  It could have been so much worse than a swollen eye.  I was just getting my heart to start beating normally again, when She took off the ice pack to let me look.  The white of Her eye was bulging.  The whole eyeball was swollen and eerily fat, and a lima-bean sized pouch was extruding from the white sclera and swelling up and over the iris, covering the color of Her eye.
Eyes, Peanuts.  Heebiejeebie.  Eye stuff is ick.  It was the one part of EMT school I cringed in.
So because I was worried about the eye, and because it was only getting worse, we left kindergarten and spent a long afternoon in the ER.  Little One got some medicine and a cold compress, and after a couple of days was just fine; good as new.
But the scariest part of the story, to me, wasn't physical at all.  It was that when Her eye had started bothering Her, She covered it with one hand, and kept writing.  When Her teacher asked if She was ok, She lied and said yes.  She excused Herself to the bathroom.
She didn't come back for a long time, and so the teacher checked and found Her hiding in the bathroom, embarrassed by Her freakish look, rinsing Her eye in the sink.
Her teacher had FREAKED OUT.  The nurse said she was hysterical.  When she spoke to me, she was angry at Little One for the lie.
I didn't talk to Her about this until we were home, I knew She was ok, and we'd all had a chance to rest and decompress.  Then I filled J in, and we talked to Her together.  We told Her the truth.
"Little One.  It's lucky it was just a pancake and a swollen eye.  Because you need to know that if it had been maybe a nut, and you had gone off and hid like that...you could have died in the bathroom.  You could have stopped breathing and no one would be there to help you.  You HAVE to tell your teacher.  It is the most important thing." 
The silver lining is that when these things happen I don't get brushed off as the over-dramatic mom as much.  Now that Her teacher has seen Little One get a freaky fat eye from one roundhouse-kick by a pancake molecule, She is much more interested in asking me to read labels for snacks and keeping Little One away from spills.  Between our chat and missing a birthday party to spend hours in an ER waiting room, I'm hoping Little One has learned something, too.
The struggle between caution and level-headed moderation is a line as thin as the blade on a double-edged sword.  On one hand, we don't want Her to be paranoid so that She is living under a constant shadow of fear.  We want Her to go out into the big world, have adventures, live.  We don't want Her to be sheltered in a bubble of parental protection to the point that She doesn't learn how to navigate the reality on Her own (after all, the great majority of deaths from allergic reactions occur in teens and young adults- basically as soon as children outgrow their parent's reach).  And we don't want to ignore how real the social pains of food allergy can be at Her age; isolating Her and pointing out Her difference and making Her friends uncomfortable being around Her.  
On the other hand.  There is this story of a seven year old who died at school when a friend gave her a peanut on the playground. And this one, where a girl died in her school cafeteria.  Or this boy, who had two cardiac arrests, despite being given his epipen, when teacher forgot and gave him a hazelnut  candy in one of those dreaded birthday crap-eating fests that happen in Little One's class every other week.  This one, who nearly died after building a gingerbread house in school.
And many others.
Because talking about food allergy sometimes seems to get across about as well as that text message I got from the nurse. People are so attached to and in love with food. It's like hearing that your best friend goes around and axe-murders people at night- "cookies? really?  cookies are harmless! My cookies could never hurt anyone! It's just a cookie."  People seem to almost take offense.  When I was discussing Her food allergies with Her teacher at the beginning of the year, the teacher seemed a little annoyed- "obviously, I want to keep Her safe."  Yes.  No one is saying you are going to tie Her up and force peanuts down Her throat.  No one is calling you a sadist.
But something that is inherently nice, nourishing, even comforting to you, is- believe it! It's true!- deadly poison for some of us.  It is that big a deal to hand out a treat that "looks ok" without reading the label.  Or to expect that a little child not only have the 100% infallible judgement to stay away from allergens "because they are old enough to know better", but also to expect them to have superhuman psychic powers and know what ingredients were used in every processed cracker or home-baked treat brought into school, or that someone spilled milk on their chair yesterday and it wasn't washed with soap and water.  Or that the girl eating pancakes across the table is about to reach out.
A kindergarten teacher tasked with a bunch of crazy mini-people who have various special needs, language abilities, and behavior problems can easily view a food allergy as just one more kid issue to add to a long list.
Especially when my child does know better, is personally responsible beyond Her years, and classroom days go by smoothly without incidents.  It starts to feel like, hey.  What's the big deal?  She  must not be that sensitive, because every time we've bent the rules and let kids with peanuts/eggs/milk sit next to Her at the table so far, it's been fine.
Until it isn't.
It may seem harsh to tell a five-year-old that She could have died on a bathroom floor.  Or to tell it to Her teacher.  But it's true.
It's a strange world, as a parent, when you spend a whole afternoon in the ER, when your child gets a big swollen eye, and you feel thankful.  But I'm dance-a-jig, shout-to-the-stars, prayers-of-thanks grateful for that ugly swollen eye.
Because even though She had a couple of really bad days- She's still here.
As for the nurse and the teacher, of all the info I've showered them with since before school even started, this episode I think had the effect on them that those three intelligible key words in the transcribed text had on me.  It was just a swollen eye.  But, I hope, it was enough for them to get the message.   

Magical

Isn't it great when babies learn new skills?  It's so magical.
Except, maybe, when they learn how to take off their own diaper, while they are crawling around the living room and you are in the kitchen.  Because you're hastily packing up snacks for a long day of doctor appointments and it's TIME TO GO and then you turn around and- oh look! Little Mister has learned how to take off His diaper.  Which was full of poo.  And He has crawled right over it, like a monster truck going over a mud pile, and distributed it- two elbows and two knees at a time- around the whole. room.  Magical.  And then Miss (who is practically phobic about getting dirty) steps in it, freaks out, and RUNS.  What would you do, Peanuts? What do you wash first? You have three minutes to get out the door into car seats.  GO.
Bathe and dress two kids, wash out the cloth diaper, keep the third kid out of the monster truck arena, clean the entire living/dining/kitchen floor, start the washer, pack up snacks, bags, coloring books, WASH YOUR HANDS, buckle them in- under five minutes.
Like I said.  Isn't it great when moms learn new skills?

A Day In My Perfect Life

The day of the funeral for J's grandma started early.  Darn early.  Strong coffee in the dark early.We packed up the car and carried disoriented, pajama-ed Littles to their car seats and strapped them in.  We drove almost four hours, we arrived.
I hauled the disheveled crew into the church bathroom and got them changed and brushed, braided -and warned.  This was going to be a quiet time.  It was important that we be patient.  Respectful.  Haven't I mentioned how seriously Catholics take their churching? They needed to be on their very best behavior for the length of the service, and then there would be a reception. With a kids table!  They nodded, we went in.
Our family was seated in the first pew.  The very front, Peanuts. In a church that was jam packed all the way through the vestibule and to the door. Generations of family, and friends from other families, who have lived in that town and attended that church for not just generations, but hundreds of years.
It started out all right.  The Littles were a little tired, a little hungry.  But their second cousin came to sit with us, and that helped.  At first.
After awhile, though, the boredom began to eat away at their sanity.  Missy, in particular.  In fairness to Her, She was not exactly misbehaving.  She was not cranky, She was not fussing.  She was just admiring the flowers, noticing a bird out the window, wondering if it was lunch time.  Out loud.  She wasn't screaming, or whining either, but in that little chapel in the hush of a funereal crowd, Her sweet little voice was as obtrusive as a locomotive letting off steam.  I kept Shhhing Her.
All the kids began to squirm a little.  Not to worry! I am a prepared Mama, am I not, Peanuts?  I plan ahead, I know what I'm doing here, amiright, Peanuts?!  I saw the antsy-pants and headed off the meltdowns with my genius solution- crayons.  And coloring books.
This magical combination has served me well in many a pinch.  It has even been the key to breezing through entire Catholic masses!  So of course, I had great confidence.  Except.  Constantly turning pages and scribbling hard over a hollow wooden pew turn out to be noisy activities in a certain setting.  Not to mention three very sweet children who would not stop sharing - 
"Can I have the blue one? Thanks!" During the invocation and "Here! You want this pink and green one?"  during a bible reading and "Hey I'll trade you these three for your yellow!"
Who would not stop enjoying themselves- "Hey that's a really great rainbow!" when everyone was tearing up and "MOMMY! Look at my dol-pins they ah jumping ina ocean!" during a moment of silence.
And then, of course, the occasional "PLINK!...Roll....Roll....roll-roll-rollroll-rooooolllll" of a crayon to the back of the church, beneath somber feet.
So the thing is.  Despite the fact that Miss wasn't doing anything particularly wrong, per se, She was constantly and with increasing agitation getting SHUSHED.  This was annoying.  So annoying, that finally, She'd had about enough of it.  I mean.  Her sister was all engrossed in coloring with the cousin, Her dad was holding Her sleeping brother. Poor Missy had no one to play with but me and I was being an infernal killjoy.
She was telling me all about Her picture, and would. Not. Stop.  So I scolded Her as quietly as I could, admonishing Her to PLEASE be quiet.  And it was the Sshh that broke the camel's back.  The hands, Peanuts.  The Missy hands went to the hips.  This began a domino reaction.
The hands to the hips, the hips swung to the left, they cocked the head, which swished the pigtail, just over the forehead which furrowed and frowned above the eyes, which glinted and glared, highlighting the grimace on the little mouth, which opened to emit- the holler.
And the holler said, "NO!" 
I knew that Missy would repeat this answer as many times as needed until I learned not to interrupt Her.  So I picked Her up, and stepped out of the pew box.  She knew, in that moment, what was happening.  That She'd lost. And so She LOST it.  I am talking an all out, kicking legs, screaming at the top of Her lungs, world class, grade A tantrum.
And so I got to carry this thrashing siren.  AAaaaalllllllllll the way down the isle of the church.  Through the packed vestibule.  Out into the parking lot.
Having a small child is like Russian Roulette.  Every time you see a child having a tantrum in public you think- it's not me! This time.  But then one day.  One day, guys.  POW! You're That Mom.
And, if you're really lucky, it happens in the front row of a church.  During a funeral.  
Miss and I had a really, really serious talk in the church parking lot.  A come-to-Jesus, if you will.
After which I got to carry Her aaaaaaallllllllll the way back up aisle and into the front row to finish the service.
The talk worked, and the rest of the morning passed without any incident other than Little One beaming a cousin in the back of the head with a snowball.  Which I was actually a little impressed by.

But then, there was the lull between the service reception and a family dinner.  In the lull, we met J's cousin and Her family at a museum.  We got there first.  We soon realized that the museum was closed for the season.  We realized this because Missy suddenly took on an expression of horror and announced that She wasn't feeling well.  I was feeding the baby and J just grabbed the kid and ran.
A little later I looked and saw J's head stooped over some shrubbery.  In the garden of the museum courtyard.  Not 3 yards from the locked front door.
I grabbed our portable travel potty and ran like I was on fire squeaking "J! J!! You can't- She can't- this is a muSEum!"  He looked up at me, exasperated, holding the hem of Missy's skirt.  "What was I supposed to do?!" He asked. "It was BAD."  Poor Miss.  She was very upset. And very much a mess.  I had to use plastic bags to attempt to decontaminate the landscaping and to dispose of some clothing.  We went through a lot of wet wipes, and I kept looking over my shoulder for security cameras or police, or judgement day.  But in the end we got everyone decently sanitary and into extra clothes.  We met up with J's cousin's family and set out on the walking trail to take in the scenic lake and historical structures.

Along the way, the kids found a duck.  It was one of those decoy things duck-hunters use on the lake, and had been left laying around.  The kids loved it.  I mean, it looks just like a real duck! I don't know if it worked out for the hunters, but the children certainly thought it was worth flocking to.  They played with it, toted it, dragged it on it's rope like they were walking it on a leash.  In a few short minutes, it had become a family pet.  When we stopped for a break outside the open gift shop, Little One made an announcement.
"Ours duck needs a name! Lets name it!"
The other littles cheered and nodded in agreement.
"Yes! Ok! We will name it a good name- Hey! I know a name! I know a name what rhymes with duck!" 

 . .
----

Can you guess, guys?  Can you guess what name.  Rhymed with "duck".
For the second time that morning, a sound emitted from the mouth of one of my children caused all adults within earshot to fall into immediate and total silence.
"Oh! Uh..." -I had to say something Peanuts- "Uh, um, hey.  Hey, how about LUCK?  That rhymes! How about Luck duck or lucky duck instead!"
Little One was offended.  Why did I have to micromanage everything? Why did I have to steal all the thunder?
"No, we already named it.  It's F*#@.  F*#@ Duck. That's his name." 
The adults began to cringe and protest.  Little One was so baffled.  She didn't know what everyone's problem was, only that it was really annoying.  The more we tried to coax Her into choosing another name, the more adamant She became.
"F*#@!  FU#@!  It's F*#@  F*#@  F*#@  the DUCK!  F*#@ DUCK!" At the top of Her frustrated little lungs.  At the museum.  With J's family.
Finally I managed to pull Her aside and whisper to Her that I knew She didn't understand, and She wasn't in any trouble, but that word had a grown-up meaning, and it wasn't nice. We don't use that word. She was totally miffed.  She shrugged me off with an "ok" and was a little sullen and grumpy with me the rest of the walk.  Finally we arrived at the lake and the kids all got cooed at by a couple on the beach.
"Oh! How cute! You have a duck! Is that your duck? It IS? Awww! What's it's name?" 
The adults in our group froze. We stared.  We waited with baited breath.  We were all on the verge of stepping in! Little One looked at the decoy.  She hesitated a moment.  And then, a little reluctantly answered, "It's Lucky.  Lucky Duck".  The strangers "awww"ed and the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief.  After a while we headed home.

With the car in sight and our good-byes said, we were ready to go to the family dinner at the restaurant.  I was ready, still in my dress clothes from the funeral.  Walking to the car I half-joked to J, "Well. At least we made it."  At that very moment, Little Mister woke up from His nap, having been peacefully held right up to me in His sling.  He looked at me with shining, innocent eyes.  He smiled.  And then He pooped an epic, gale-force, poo.  He had not pooped in three days.  Three.  Days.  He had saved it all.  For that moment.  The diaper exploded.  The sling became a linen goo-pool.  Mister and I both were covered.  Back in this parking lot of the closed, no bathroom museum.
Someday when I die, if I go to heaven I will look around.  I will find the person who invented wet-wipes.  I will kiss them.

Much later, we finally got home and *bathed* and into bed at J's aunt's house.  She helped me tuck in the kids and showed me Her fancy "white noise machine" that helps her grandkids sleep.  She turned it on so we could enjoy the magic.  It worked great! It drowned out all background noise! It worked so well, that late in the night when Little Miss awoke in a dark, strange room and was too scared to get out of bed, I could not hear Her calling for me.  I could not hear Her at all.  Until finally, I did.  And found Her sobbing in the bed.  Soaking wet.
I gave Her a bath and dressed Her in Her dad's TShirt.  I made Her a little nest on the floor next to me, so I could hear Her.  I washed the blankets and the sheets and cleaned the mattress.  I fed the baby and climbed into bed around four in the morning.
Some days, I go out with my children.  I wear white and come home clean and tidy. I get compliments from strangers on how lovely and well-mannered my children are.  Some days I like to pat myself on the back a little.  Hey! Doing all right! Some days it seems easy, or at least workable, and it seems like we are on a roll.  And then some days. Some days we have this hot mess.

Life is all about balance, isn't it?  It's all about ups...and downs.  But as bad as that day got, come on.  It was kind of funny.  And the silver lining?  The good thing about all this happening on that particular day, the day of a funeral?  It's that no matter how much literal and figurative crap one I go through in this life- it is life.  I'm lucky to have it.  I'm happy that I get to have these days where my family is all together and if it has to be crap we're going through, at least we go through it together.
J's Grandma, from what I knew, was a lady with a fabulous, ready smile, and quite the sense of humor.  I'm still a bit in shock that she's really gone, and I'm sad about it because I liked her a whole lot, and she was very kind to my kids.  But it makes me feel a little better thinking that if she was watching, from somewhere, as we tried to pay our respects, I'm pretty sure she got a good laugh out of us.

Seven

You might not believe it.  But really, you can ask J, his mom, teachers, friends, and many random strangers we've been in elevators or standing in lines with.  And they will tell you it's true.
For months, Little One has been announcing to everyone who would listen: "Mommy haves a baby boy in hers tummy! It's a brother! He's coming on December 7."  
We would gently correct Her; He's due on the 12th, love.  Not the 7th.
"But that's when He's coming." 
We figured She guessed 7 because it's the day of the month Her own birthday falls on.  Or maybe She confused the date with the AFC Charity Benefit, since we'd told Her I'd be traveling to DC that day to volunteer, as I do every year.  Whatever the reason, She stuck to Her prediction. On December 6th, as I prepared for my trip, we all joked.  Wouldn't it be so funny if She was right and the baby suddenly came the day of The Event?  I mean.  What are the chances.
On the 6th, I woke up full of energy.  I had a lot to do to get ready for my trip.  All day my Mother In Law kept saying, "Don't you ever stop?  Won't you sit down for just a minute?!"  But I didn't.
I emptied and scrubbed and vacuumed the inside of the car.  I rearranged the car seats; one, two, three.  I cleaned out all the the kids' closets, organizing by size and season, folding and hanging.  I did six loads of laundry.  Organized the pantry. Took out the recycling. Cleaned the house top to bottom, hauling the vacuum up the stairs.  Hauling it back down.  I got out all the baby stuff from the garage; I washed the bottles and the teethers and the crinkly toys.  Cleaned up and swept the garage while I was at it.  I finished up some wrapping and decorating, I started the holiday cards.  I painted my toenails.  At- no kidding- 9pm, my generous MIL accompanied me shopping so I could wrap up a gift for the birthday party the Littles were attending later that weekend.  I just needed to get stuff done.  All the while I noticed that the Braxton-Hicks contractions I've had so many of this pregnancy were a little stronger than usual.  But I didn't think much of it, until around the time we were walking the store that evening.  "You've dropped," my MIL noticed, "like, way dropped."  I did feel like I was waddling around.  I did feel a lot of those practice contractions. 
Hmm, I thought.
Nah.
But then, ouch.  Hmmm.....
By around eleven PM I was writing them down, timing them.  Just to see. 
"Is it today?", J asked.
"NO.  It is NOT today.  I'm going to DC in the morning.  I'm going to the event."
J gave me a certain smile.  "Ok."  He said.  But, like Little One, he knew.
By midnight there was no more denying it.  The contractions were strong and the list I'd been keeping read one every ten minutes like clockwork.
"So.   Today?" 
"Maybe."  
I walked around the house awhile.  The list read- five minutes, five minutes, five minutes.
But guys.  It was late. And after all that productivity all day, I was dead tired.  I mean, SO tired.
I laid down.  They spaced out again.  All night, the contractions got stronger and more painful.  But the timing didn't budge- ten minutes, ten minutes.
I tried to rest between them, but it was a long night.  As the sun came up, I was struggling through each one, wondering how long this was going to take, for goodness' sake.  The Littles came bounding in, bubbling with hugs and cuddles and can-we-please-have-waffles-it's-Saturday! And looking at me funny when I would suddenly sit up straight and take deep breaths.
J took them down to eat and kept checking in on me.  I was sitting in bed, just waiting out contractions. They were really strong, now. 
"Why don't you take a hot shower?" J suggested.  "It helped you the other times." 
"Ok, but will you stay?  I'll call out when a contraction starts and you can help me keep timing them."
I stood up.  I had two contractions just walking across the room.  That was weird.
I got into the hot water.  But, just like that, the contractions had gone from 10 minutes apart to two minutes apart.  I was in the shower yelling- "another one! ....And now!... NOW!" After about ten minutes J came in and told me to get out.  But I didn't want to. 
"The hot water just helps so much though."
"GET OUT. GET DRESSED." 
J does not often, in fact basically does not ever, outright order me around.  But he knew. Thank goodness for J.
I got dressed and, because I am apparently myself even when in transition-stage labor, stood there putting on my mascara and brushing my hair with contractions coming one minute apart.
"GET IN THE CAR!" J was almost yelling now.
I put on my favorite new maternity/nursing dress, so I could wear it at the hospital, after.
"GET. IN. THE.CAR."
I got in the car. A contraction came on, stronger than ever.
"Whoa...J.  J!! We're not going to make it.  We're never going to make it!"  
"I know! That's why I said to get in the car!"
"AHH! J! Drive faster.  DRIVE FASTER!"
J was racing along the freeway, thankfully free of traffic for once.
A contraction would hit and I would start hollering,
"It's too hot in hereTooHotTooHot!!!"
He rolled the window down.
"NOOOOO!  NO NotGoodEitherThatIsNOT GOOD EITHER!"
It would pass.
"Sorry.  Sorry J.  Yelling helps.  It just does."
"I know."
"Don't pay attention I don't mean to yell at you"
"I know that, love, it's ok."
"AHHH!  WHY-IS-IT-SO-HOT-DRIVE-FASTER!"
And so it went.  It became very real to me how close to having a baby we really were.  I remembered Little Miss, and began to become seriously concerned that this baby was going to be born in the downtown tunnel.  
But He wasn't.  We made it to the hospital and parked the car.  And then, because this is how patient-friendly this hospital is, I got to walk.  Across the parking garage.  Down the long hallway.  Through the pharmacy, where the pregnant lady and her friend stood with their small children cooing to them, "Look!  Look, guys, that lady's going to have a baby!  She's having a...yikes don't have it here in the hallway."  
I was not yelling, now. I was walking, very slowly.  A contraction would come on and I would stare at the floor and take a deep, silent breath, and think to myself, "Keep walking.  Keep walking. Keep walking."  And I did.
At the elevator, the mothers let us on first.  "Go ahead, we'll take the next one. Good luck!" 
Some hospital staff person got on with us.  "I'm guessing four?" She said.  Labor and Delivery. 
We nodded.  The doors opened and we got off.  I was squeezing the bajeezus out of poor J's hand.
We realized it was the wrong floor.  The lady had gotten off on three.  We waited for the elevator again. We finally made it to labor and delivery, though, and I could (TMI alert) actually feel the baby at this point.  We walked up to the window where the nurse was sipping a coffee, looking at a computer screen.
We stood there.
She sat there.
We stood there.
contraction.  "HI! Hi, hello?"  Deep breaths.
"Yes? Can I help you with something."
I looked at her like she had five heads.
"I'm having a baby."  Deep breaths.  Deeeeep breath.
"ok....?"
I started wondering which one of us was crazy.
"This is labor and delivery, right?  I mean..." contraction. "I'M HAVING A BABY RIGHT. NOW!!!"
She got annoyed with my rudeness.  She took a sip of her coffee.
"Ok, well, if you'll just take a seat over there, I'll get your paperwork together."
I could feel the baby's head.  I pressed my hands on the counter.
"I don't think you understand."   contraction.  "I REALLY THINK YOU SHOULD LET ME BACK! I REALLY NEED TO GO BACK NOW!"
J tried to calm me down, he stepped to the window to try to talk to her. 
She blinked twice, very slowly.  She handed J a clipboard.
"If you'll just complete this paperwork,  then I will let triage know you have arrived."
Triage.  Triage?! I looked at the form.  I could barely see through the blur of pain from another contraction, but the thing seriously had like 50 questions.  It might as well have been a biochemistry final exam. J's pen was flying over it and I was ready to kill people.
"NO! NO!  THIS BABY IS COMING! IT'S COMING NOW!"  
The nurse looked at me and sipped her coffee.  She didn't say a thing.
This is the point when some kind of instinctive delirium took over.  I felt the baby coming and I knew it was time and any slight grasp on reason or logic I'd been clinging to was gone.  I went over to the locked double doors to the delivery deck and began screaming.
"HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE! PLEASE SOMEONE HELP!!!" 
The doors swung open and some visibly annoyed nurses rushed over. 
"Ok, ok.  Calm down, please.  Lets get you into triage and- " contraction.
 "AH! THE BABY IS COMING! IT IS COMING!"
 "-and we will see if you are dilated.  Do you need to use the restroom first?"
This was such an insane question to me at that moment that it totally threw me off.
"What? No! Wait yes.  No.  Yes. NOOOOOO!!! THE BABY IS COMING HELP!"
They pulled me into triage and as I climbed onto the bed, my water broke.
It was the end of that lovely dress I'd bothered changing into.  
Suddenly, there was a rush of activity.  I was flying down a hallway and someone was yelling out "Meconium! Meconium!" and I was looking around for J and calling "Is my baby ok? Is he ok??"  We got into the delivery room and they were telling me to get off the stretcher onto the bed. 
These people, guys. I had been doing everything within my power, I mean everything,  since the moment we left the house to hold that baby in.  But we'd made it to the delivery room.  And the fact that they were asking me to get up and move told me they were all freaking insane and would never get it, and I decided in that moment: the hell with you people. And I stopped trying so hard to hold him in.  I just closed my eyes and did nothing.
So, as the nurses were lifting me from the stretcher to the bed- literally in midair- the baby's head popped out.  The moment I was on the bed someone said "ok push!" and I did, and the rest of the baby was out.  We had made it just in the nick of time.  We had a son.
Born after almost 14 hours of labor, yet all at once.  With a fairly dramatic entrance, weighing exactly seven pounds.  And born (with no regard whatsoever for my weekend plans, just as His sister predicted) on the seventh.
Did I ever tell you?  Seven happens to be my lucky number. 

Living Large

Today I spent eight hours with Littles and Bananas at the hospital.  We did a sort of tour of waiting rooms, triage stations and exam tables.  Then I dragged the lot of them across a parking deck in wind and rain to find an exploding diaper.  Changed the poor shivering buns on the passenger seat, then drove the soaked bunch of hungry, no-nap children whining in harmony through two hours of rush hour to get home.  J is out of town again.
It's not all rainbows and sunshine all the time, is it?
In fact, it is simply amazing how much actual, literal crap is involved in this job.  I honestly would write more for you Peanuts about our current lives, except that practically every story involves poo or vomit or both.  If I can't be spared it, Peanuts, at least you can.  Some of it, anyways. 
Tomorrow we go back to a doctor, Friday to another.  Between the four of them we are the traveling band of medical maladies.  Since I've been hit with a good strong respiratory infection the last week, I make a perfect ringleader!
But even though the house is a wreck and the kids and I all had a great laugh today about the state of my rainy-day hair, we are hanging in there.  At the end of the day we get to snuggle up, all smelling like baby soap, all in our fuzzy jammies, and read stories.
Suddenly the rain seems cozy and friendly, the messy house still feels like home.  The long day melts away behind us.  That too has passed.  And now we're Here, wrapped in blankets, cuddled together in an imaginary adventure to dream about soon. 
This season of life feels large to me.  As large as I am! The days are so long, the work is so ponderous.  The headaches are so blinding and the sacrifices demanding.  But the payoffs.  The sweet moments.  They are breathtakingly huge as well. As long as I remember to hold on to those while the challenges fall into my lap, life may get heavy, but maybe there will be balance. 
And hot chocolate.  There will always be that. 

Same Girl, More Adventures

Awhile ago I posted an update on Little One's allergies. 
Since I've had a few questions from family lately about how Her fevers are going, let me give Little One more reason to slap me with a HIPAA lawsuit someday. Bring it, Little One!
I don't talk about the fevers as much as the allergies, because unlike food allergies, which other people can have a lot to do with making worse/better, there is nothing anyone can do about Her fevers.  Not even me.  And I'm the mom.  I'm supposed to have super-kiss-it-better-powers!
But they are a big part of our lives, nonetheless.
Little One has a glitch in Her immune system that causes Her to spike high fevers about once a month, for about a week.  They come with lovely side attractions like vomiting and lymph nodes the size of ping-pong balls.  So much fun! 
Let me tell you something about Little One.  She is tough.  I mean, this kid is tough as nails.  How much is inborn, how much is building up a tolerance for discomfort after a small lifetime as a human pincushion, who knows.  But my girl is so tough, She doesn't even know She's being tough.
So most people don't notice.
Think about it.  A week of fever that comes every month. That's a quarter of Her life.
Most people don't notice that 1/4 of the time, She is experiencing something that would have most kids crying and pouting in bed.  And practically all adults.  Because She is tough, and because Her parents take the stance of, "this is your life so go live with it", She goes about Her business- school, swimming lessons, chores- even though She is fevered and in pain. 
To the average observer, Little One might seem like a kid that's due a nap.  A little bit droopy, a little bit grumpy.  A little bit.  Almost no one can tell that She's powering through a really tough week.  And we don't bring it up.
Before we knew what was going on, when She got sick we would baby Her a little.  Let Her lie on the couch, let Her eat soup.  Then the week after the fever was as rough on us as the week during; it took that long to readjust to having to follow the rules and the schedule and not being a Special Case anymore.  Well if we keep that up, it's literally half our lives spent off-kilter.  It's telling Her over and over that She's a victim and She Can't.  No thanks.
So She might be a little grumpy at a playdate, but I'm not going to skip it. Or say, "Sorry. She's running a fever of 103, taking three medicines, and hasn't kept down any food today.  It's not really Her fault She's a bit fussy."  I don't want Her to hear me say that this thing, normal for Her, is an excuse, or that I think She needs to be apologized for.  I'll just let Little One know that if She's too tired to play, we can go home.  She decides.  Sometimes we do, but we say She's tired and leave it at that.
Unlike food allergies, which anymore are pretty common, fever syndromes are still pretty rare.  So I also don't talk about it much because I get blank stares.  No, it doesn't really make sense.  It's an odd disorder.  No, She's not contagious; She's not actually ill.  Her body is just attacking itself for awhile.  Luckily my girl can take a self-beating and keep on kicking.
Still.  Just because we don't make too much fuss about it doesn't mean is isn't hard.  For Her, there are a lot of times She is expected to achieve and behave as usual when She just feels like crap.
For Her parents, between fevers we all but forget them.  It feels like they are no big deal.
But when one hits, it's misery.  It is misery to see my baby having to fight hard to get through a day.  An onlooker might not be able to tell how bad She feels, but I can.  She might not cry or whine one bit.  But when She just can't swallow Her dinner, She falls into my lap ready for bed two hours early, and looks up at me with these big, suffering eyes...it breaks my heart a little.
My super-kiss-it-better-powers fail me here, Peanuts.  In the middle of a fever, it is a big deal. We can't remember why we ever thought it wasn't a big deal.  We want to sell our internal organs if it will make it go away so She can feel better.  And then She wakes up in the morning, fine.  And we move on; we forget about it again for a few weeks.  It's a roller-coaster for us all.
The high demands of burning like that for a week each month ratchets Her metabolism up so that She needs a special calorie drink and a careful diet to get through the days without running out of energy.  But Her teacher can't understand why I keep bothering them about why She hasn't had Her snack at school.  She has to have it, I try to explain.  Every day.  One missed snack a day and She will dive off the growth curve and send all Her specialists into a tizzy fit.  I get to be That Crazy Mom. 
This summer, after a couple particularly bad rounds of fever, we agreed to try high-dose steroids.  It was like a miracle.  One dose and She'd wake up the next day as good as new.  One day a month is SO much better than a week.  SO much.
But the problem, which is common for fever syndrome kids, is that while the drugs shortened the fevers, it also caused them to come closer together.  Closer and closer, until we were having to give them to Her every two weeks instead of once a month.  Hard to say how much better that is.
So now we are considering third-line treatment, which is surgery.  In a little over half of cases, a tonsillectomy has been found to "cure" this fever syndrome.  Maybe not forever, but for at least a good long while.  Maybe by then She will be old enough that Her body will have stopped this cycle; it usually does happen on its own around puberty.
I know it's a minor, common procedure.  But it's still hard to elect to put your child under a knife.
I know I have found comfort scanning the internet for blogs of fever-syndrome moms.  It helps to know that though it's a rare problem, She's not the only one going through it, and it helps to see how other parents handle managing it for their kids. So maybe someone will read here and know there's someone who gets what you are going through, who is facing the same kinds of decisions.  If so I hope you share your story and advice in the comments.
For those who are just part of the Little One fan club, now you know Her better.  In the next week or so we will see the ENT guy and decide whether to try the surgery.  I'll let those of you who are curious know how it goes.  In the meantime, if you meet Little One She might be fighting or recovering from a fever.  But if you ask Her how She is, She'll tell you, "Good!" Which is exactly what She is. 

Mom Luck

Mom luck. 
The rule that dictates that only after one has cleaned the house, scrubbed the floors, and taken a shower, shall one child vomit all over Mom (and the clean floors) and the other poo all over Mom (and the clean floors) (and the clean bathroom). 
It was all going to need washing again soon anyways. 

Phobias and Philias

**Be warned.  This story is graphic, and extremely gross. Read at your own risk, and preferably not while eating. ** 

We all have little pet peeves, right? Things that we just Can Not.  I have a friend who can't stand butterflies, one who's afraid of sea water.  There's all the usual stuff that freaks people out; heights and elevators and spiders and lions/tigers/bears.  Me?  I don't mind any of that stuff.  I'm not afraid of the dark.  I like flying and falling and public speaking.  I used to have a pet tarantula, for goodness sake.  His name was Terry!  
But, I have a thing about bathrooms. Even clean bathrooms kind of ick me out, and I can't stand dirty ones.  I Can Not.  In times of stress or chaos, the rest of my house might temporarily fall apart, but I scrub the bathrooms every week like it's a religion, and in my family you know that the Good Lord help you if you get fingerprints or toothpaste spittle on my mirrors.  Uh uh. 
Filthy bathrooms, especially public ones, give me some serious heebie-jeebies.  I mean, ick people.  Just eew.  Do you have anything that freaks you out like that? If you do, keep it in mind.  I'm telling you this so that you can understand the gravity, people, the serious seriousness, of what happened to me last week.
I took our two latest Bananas to visit their siblings, and when we left there was a lot of sadness.  They have been through a lot recently, and I really felt that they needed a familiar, comforting transitional place before taking them back to my house.  For these kids, that place is one they are accustomed to visiting frequently, but one my family does not go to.  So, though it wasn't my cup of tea, I took them to McDonalds.
I am not a McDonalds patron.  So maybe they are not all grimy and smelly, but this one was.  Nevertheless, the extreme joy of the Bananas convinced me to stay.  I ordered "For Here" so they could work off any extra anxiety in the "play place".  This, Peanuts, was not a wise decision.
Because I was already a little grossed out by the way my shoes stuck to the floor, and the slick oily finger smears shining in streaks up and down the faded yellow slide.  And then, 3-year-old Banana had to potty.  This is not a child who can hold it.  So in we went.
I'm not sure if she wasn't feeling well or if this is normal for her, but I tell you I stood in that nasty stall with the baby on my hip for- believe I timed this on my cell phone, Peanuts- over half an hour.  Half an hour in my most unfavorite place on earth.  While she pooed.  She kicked her clothes onto the floor.  She played with the toilet seat.  I am trying to be rational and pick my battles, and calmly ask her if she's ok, and is she done.  And now, is she done.  ......now?
She is singing and chatting and having a grand old time.  I am trying to breathe and remember how important it is to practice patience, even when I want to run screaming into a bathtub full of hand sanitizer.
Then the baby, who has a cold, sneezed.
"Bless you", I said, still keeping my eye on Three.  Then I felt a wiggle and heard a schlurrrmph from Baby, and looked to see that she had blown a thick, neon-green snot rocket, and smeared it with the back of her arm, ALL OVER her face.  She looked up.  Grinned at me.  And blew out her diaper.
Ok.  So three is still doing her business, and I step out of the stall, just long enough to wash Baby's face and arms in the scummy sink basin.  Before handling the diaper issue, I peek back in to check on Three in the stall.  She is leaning forward.  She is up to her elbows in the murky toilet water, splashing, singing, and wiping the stuff all up and down her front side.   Like paint.
 I did not scream.  People. I have seen broken bones sticking through skin, I have seen open heart surgery, I have held a piece of skull over an open brain and not blinked, but for this- can I tell you how proud I am of myself that I did not scream?! 
I didn't do it.  I took a deep breath.  A deep, stink-filled breath.  I spent the next 6 minutes exactly trying to get Three to please finish her business and to convince her to- no! no, no! Don't touch the- wait! Stop! Lets keep our hands on the seat. ON the seat, please, on the seat!
She looked at me like I was nuts. "But whyyyyy? I like to splashies!"
In the end, I had to bathe them both in the McDonalds sink as best I could.  And then go back out there.  To the play place.  And watch them finish eating.
We survived.  Somehow.  We got home and people, we all got baths and then the bath got a bath.  It might go down as one of the most appalling experiences of my life so far.  But I faced a fear and lived to tell the tale (aren't you all so lucky I did).
And later that night, tucking Banana into bed, she cried and shrieked and refused, and then jumped into my arms and held me so tight and hugged me for a long, long time.  I rocked her until her rigid body relaxed, I tucked her in, arms still around my neck, and she whispered, "I don't want to go home.  Can I stay here?  I want stay here with you. Can I stay tomorrow?"  
I remembered that I wasn't the only one facing fears that day.
I thought about what a gift it was, to be trusted by a child who had no reason whatever not to expect the worst of me.  How rarely in life we are given the benefit of the doubt like that.  I put her to sleep, knowing that she would wake in the night, as she does every night, screaming in terror.  And that I would go to her and, as if granted the magical superpower to keep demons at bay, be able to soothe her back to sleep with just two calm words and a hand on her back.  Amazing.
I guess foster care is a dirty job. But somebody's got to do it.  Lucky it should be me. 

Pregnancy Portrait

So. Now you know what I've been up to while drawing out the process of logging our trip beyond reason.  I've been making a person! How is it going, you ask?  Oh, well since you asked.
I think the answer can be best illustrated by Little One, who has expressed the essence of the last three months beautifully with this masterpiece:

 

"See, Mommy, that's you, on yours knees, and there is the potty there, and see you are making a yucky face! And there, see there that's your big round belly that has the baby inside it!" 

It is really quite an accurate likeness.
I do not do pregnancy with grace, Peanuts.  Not with any.  I do not do adorable, glowy pregnancy, raving about how feminine and alive and special I feel.  I feel like crap.  I just claw my way through the days with a plastic Target bag in one hand. Eating like a starved monkey one minute and then hurling until my mascara runs down my face, and I don't even care because now I lost my lunch and I'm starving again.
On a good day I start thinking, look at me! Go me! I did a load of laundry! Now I'm going to make din- wait.  No. No I'm not.  I've just been hit in the head by a swinging tube sock full of broken bricks.  I'm going to lie on the couch.  I'm going to lie here, trying to summon the strength to continue breathing, while the house falls down around me and the children go completely feral.
My husband is trapped in a strange hell, in which he has to manage single-parenting feral children among the mess while simultaneously minding a starved monkey. Who whines a lot.
His parents have been staying in town for the duration of this madness, and I'm sure it is the worst vacation ever.  I wish I could feel more guilt about that, but I can't because I'm too busy feeling so selfishly happy that they have been here to give J the occasional strange-hell respite and take the feral children to the zoo. 
Not that the Lord-of-the-Flies-Littles are without their merits. They can be quite sweet.  I lie on the couch and Missy says, "You not feeling good?  I snuggle you.  I snuggle you baby." And climbs up to lay Her head on my tummy and pat me gently.  She sees me dash across the house, slippers flying, and hollers, "you t'rowing up 'gin? Ok! Ok! I feel you bettah!" and dashes as well- to the art area to make me an elaborate drawing to cheer me up with.  Little One is just as concerned.  She breaks into the bathroom, holds my hair back like a good little sorority sister, and reassures me.  "Aw.  It's ok, it's ok Mommy. Go ahead."  She sings to the baby and brings me things and plays endless Uno games when I can't rally for much else. 
Most importantly, they remind me.
They go around being their little selves and remind me that in just a little bit of time, all of this will be a faded memory.  So pale next to the dazzling vibrancy of what it's all for.  They remind me that a few months of sleepless nights, weary days, and being transfigured into an invalid, starving monkey is a small price to pay for the sleepless nights and weary days I will get to spend rocking the perfect little person whose heart is already beating in there somewhere. 
In the meantime, I probably haven't returned your calls.  But if you need me, you can always find me.  Little One's picture up there is not just a portrait, it's a map!  Print that baby out and if you want to find me, you'll always know what room I'm in. 

My Inspriration On a Sick Day

He doesn't wear a cape.
He wears a baseball cap that used to be blue, I think.  He wears a long-sleeved shirt that is thin and faded, as he appears to be himself.  But it is washed and his navy slacks are also worn, but somehow spotless, as if immune to the dust they swung through on the way.  He wears shiny leather shoes.
He mentioned in passing, answering another question, that his leg was sore.  Just in passing, so it wasn't a big deal.  But we were waiting around for the bus to take the families home from a group meeting, so to be polite I asked about it.  I asked, if it wasn't embarrassing, could I see the leg?
He shrugged.  He lifted the hem of his trousers, scrunching them up to his knee.  I grit my teeth.
I asked him to wait.  I went to the clinic and gathered some things. Through a translator we spoke to each other gently.  He came and sat on the low rock wall where the clothes are washed, where the faucet gingerly rises from the dirt and the earth slopes towards a drain at the base of the compound wall.  He is a very brave man.  I know this because he did not flinch or cry out as I carefully pulled away the dead tissue, as I scraped the pus and the scabs from his wound, digging out the strip of cloth bound around his calf.  His leg was swollen to over twice the size of the other.  It was hot and red and festering.  The infection had opened a gaping hole and I knew there was little I could do with first aid to help it.  I asked him if he had ever changed the makeshift bandage, grown over now, which I was extracting from his shin.
He explained that he had children who were not infected with HIV, as he was, and he was afraid that if he changed or cleaned his wound, there would be blood, and he would expose them to the virus.  To protect his children he had sacrificed his own health and comfort.  I knew this was nothing new to him.  He works nearly 24 hours a day, a toll visible in his wan face and the dark circles around his eyes.  He is a guard.  So for 20 hours a day, he must stand on that leg.  Walk and patrol on that leg.  Hide any trace of pain or malady lest he get fired for the state of that leg.  He had suffered like that for many weeks.  He does this because he must.
Some time ago, his wife- six months pregnant at the time- was at work collecting garbage at the large open air market, when she was attacked.  A metal cart was thrown forcefully at her, tearing through her abdomen.  She lost the baby.  She very, very nearly lost her life.  She still may.  She recovers now at home- a structure made of boxes, metal scraps, and blue plastic tarp- and is unable to leave bed.  Even if she lives it will be a long time before she can return to work.  So her needs and those of their children depend on this father keeping that job- walking and standing without fail on that leg, day after day, without showing his pain.  And day after day, he does it.
I did the best I could.  I showed him how to clean his wound with water and disinfectant, how to bandage it with sterile dressings.  We explained how to change and clean it so that his children would be safe.  And then, which was difficult because I know his situation at home, I had to tell him that though I am not a doctor, I was fairly certain he would lose that leg if it wasn't treated by one very soon.  He is a kind man.  He is a calm man.  He just nodded and thanked us and took his bundle of supplies.  When he walked away I cleaned up the blood and the gauze and things and I thought about fortitude.  I thought of him working hard, working though pain, working in the face of very little hope for anything but a long life of work and pain; doing it for love of his family.  No one knows this man.  He lives in a shanty in the middle of a city slum.  He doesn't wear a cape.  But if you ever want to know a real, true hero, I know where to find him. 


**Updated to add:  AFC has ensured that this gentleman is receiving medical care, are are trying to help him find another job which will be less painful.  He participates in a community outreach program through the AFC organization. 

Excellent.

*TMI, icky stuff post.  You're warned. 

It's also unnecessarily long, but some of you have asked me about my thoughts on potty training.  

So, ha.  That's what you get for asking!*

Folks.  It's Potty Time. 
Many of you know that I have strong opinions about potty training.  Two, specifically.

1) Yes, kids can be potty-trained well before their second birthday.  Don't tell me they can't; they can.  It's not that hard, either, and yes they can.  Yes they can.

2)The limiting factor in potty training is primarily the parent's potty-training-readiness, not the child's.  And further.  That is a perfectly acceptable limitation. 

In the case of Little One, I did potty training in the method I put together over years of observation and experience with other people's kids, that works for me.  I started early, went slowly, did not ever force, and used a combination of no diapers and positive reinforcement for the final push through to consistently dry undies. 
The thing is (in my opinion of course) if you start really early, potty training just sort of happens early as a matter of course.  Alternatively, you can wait until the child is like three or four and just make a deal or convince them to one day decide to make the switch. 
But the age most of us parents are ready, is the in-between.  The twos.  The age when all children are pre-programed to oppose and resist anything we tell them to do.  When their innate reaction to everything we say is "NO." How does this make sense? No wonder so many people describe potty training as a nightmare.
Ha.  Well.  With Missy. About the time I knew we should be introducing the idea, we were getting ready for moving and deployment.  And then those things came, and, well.  See number two, above.  This Mama was just not ready for the time and effort it takes to teach such a skill. 
And so my recent efforts to broach the subject have not gone over well.  Miss had learned- from me- that the place you "go" is a diaper.  So, when I stripped Her of that, She would just...not go.  She would hold it for hours and hours, all morning guys, until nap time when finally I put Her in a diaper.  There were plenty of times She needed to pee and so She went and fetched Herself a diaper and brought it to me.  Or followed me around doing the pee-pee dance, begging me for a "di-di" so She could go.  And there was the time She gave up on me, and just went and got a diaper, spread it out on the floor, sat on it, peed, and went back to Her puzzle.  She flat refused to even sit on the potty- unless it was cleverly disguised as a reading chair!  In which case She used it for just that. 
I was beginning to think that I was seriously going to have a two year old in diapers. 
Then one day. 
She came to me.  She had a clean diaper in one hand.  She had two clean wipes in the other.  She handed them to me, laid down on the floor.  And said, "Mommy, Miss poo-poo.  All icky.  Wipe, pees!"
And I was like.  Ok seriously.  It. Is. Time. 
But first of all, there was that missed window.  And secondly, this Missy.  Wow guys.  She is fiercely independent and stubborn.  So I needed a plan. 
I thought about it.  I decided to use two of Miss's most prevalent attributes; that independence, and Her intense desire to do everything Her sister does. 
First I gave up on the little potty.  I don't use it, Little One doesn't, and Miss does not appreciate being babied.  I dug out the seat Little One had used as an older toddler, the little seat with the attached step that goes right on the real potty, so She can climb up by Herself and not fall in. 
I showed Missy how it worked.  Hmm.   She was intrigued.  I left it out during school hours, let Missy check it out and get used to it.  Then after school, we had a bathroom pow-wow.  First, Little One showed Missy how to use the new seat.  We made a big deal over how cool and grown up it was.  Then I looked my too-smart-for-my-own-good daughter in the eye, and explained to Her in a cheerful but fully adult tone of voice, that mommy and sissy do not wear diapers.  We do not potty in our undies.  Big girls go in the potty.  Missy is getting to be a big girl, too.  If She goes in the potty, She can have a cookie, like a big girl. 
At the word "cookie", Her eyes got very big.  I try not to introduce refined sugar before the age of two.  So Miss is not typically allowed cookies. And sometimes, She has to see Little One get a cookie, and hear that She is not old enough yet.  So the cookie (actually a tiny chunk of a digestive biscuit) is a Big Deal. 
She climbed up and looked at us.  She tried.  But She looked stressed; we were just staring at Her, waiting!  I was afraid She'd crack under the pressure guys! So to lighten things up, I made a little joke, asking in a silly voice, "pee-pee? Are you in there? Come out, you!" Missy laughed.  And then. She did it.  Her first intentional pee in the potty, ever. 
This is all I needed guys! A breakthrough! Because afterwards, we all cheered and clapped, and then. There was a cookie. She really got to have it and eat it, and it was just as amazing as She always imagined.  And so, within the next hour, I handed out four more cookie bits.  To keep the momentum going, we went to the store and picked out a box of animal crackers-er, cookies, just for Missy, just for potty, and put them in a special jar.  Now, every time She goes She's allowed to choose one. 
She can only have it if She actually goes. Not just if She asks for one.  Not if She begs.  Not if She says pee-pee.  Not if She just sits on the potty.  She has tested all these theories, and identified a direct link between pee in the potty and cookie in hand.  And She never has to complain about wet undies/diapers, and never has to hold it when She needs to go.  A revelation! 
So now the hard part begins.  For Her, learning exactly when to alert the mama so that She makes it in time, learning how to wait a little bit sometimes, learning that it's worth it to stop even the most engrossing book or game when She needs to go.  For me, it's the part where I can't really go anywhere and I spend half the day running to the bathroom, waiting, cheering or not, washing hands, repeat.  It's hard when there's another Little demanding attention.  It's really hard when there is 50-60 minutes of driving required daily for preschool commuting.  But it's time. And it can be done!
Wish us luck, Peanuts!  This part is always an adventure. 

Update From The Wire

Holy cow people.  The countdown is on. 
Less than a week to go and things are a bit crazy around here.
After averaging 13 hours a day of driving around and stalking rental properties, for four days, I finally decided on the first one I saw.  A rigorous comparison study showed it to be the best, and now of course I love it, and have already succumbed to my type A-ness and sketched a scale floorplan of it and penciled in all my furniture.  Unfortunately, the property manager is some kind of a sadist, and refuses to actually send me a lease to sign, despite my continual phone calls ("b-but, you've been saying 'tomorrow' for over a week!") and desperate email in which I begged her not to cause my little family to be homeless when we arrive NEXT WEEK. NEXT WEEK!  Hello, woman, I have no legal place of residence for my children NEXT WEEK and if you think I am crazy by email, wait and see what happens when I am there in person.  NEXT WEEK. 
Ahem. 
But.  Other than that. And the fact that Missy has a 104 degree fever and is (TMI alert) squirting poo on everything, the complete chaos of a partially-packed house and the tangible impending-deployment tension between me and J, other than that. Everything is peachy. 
Since (clearly) we have nothing else going on, we threw a backyard farewell party for a cozy 50 people last weekend which was completely fun and worth the dishes (pictures coming... someday).  I was surprised by a fabulous goodbye brunch from the incredible friends I will be leaving here (sappy emotional post coming...someday).  A talented, generous friend took some precious family photos (coming someday), another is taking us into her home and under her wing for a few days after the movers come. I got to see Little One singing Her sweet heart out with Her class, and Her first ever ballet recital is coming up (photo/sappy post combo...someday). We get to see J get his wings tomorrow, we just had a lovely visit from his parents, and my mom arrives today. 
So you see.  The scariness and the stress and the preemptive missing begins to crash my sanity level to the floor- but just then the sweetness of life and the goodness of friends and family weighs on the other side of my heart-scale.  Balance. 
Life always offers it.  It feels like walking a tightrope at times; even balance can be scary.  But it's a malleable kind of scary; the kind that morphs into and out of excitement by the step.  It's sort of a teetering balance walk- scary, exciting! scary. exciting! and sometimes it's sort of exhausting.  But in my own personal opinion (you might say I belong here in the circus) it's a whole lot better than sitting still. 

Not Sure What Was More Painful

A couple of days ago, I pulled something in my neck.  It was probably from the bar fight I got into.  Probably the part where I was cracking a chair over this biker dude and screaming, "what now?! WHAT?!"
Ok.
Ok fine.  It was from pushing my kids on a swing.
Which is even more embarrassing than a bar fight, right? Pathetic.
But anyways, it probably could have been more embarrassing.
So I hobbled around- to preschool, to ballet lessons, to the store, the post office, like a toy soldier- ramrod straight, turning my whole body rather than my head (try checking your blind spot like that. It's pretty silly). And occasionally wincing and involuntarily yelping like a tourettes patient. For two days. 
But even so. It wasn't all that embarrassing. So.
My amazing, incredibly generous friend did this amazing, incredibly generous thing and bought me a massage.  "It's non-refundable and it's already done, " she said, "So you can't say no. Go today."
I mean, wow. I have had one massage before; a gift from my mom right before my wedding.  So I was all giddy like any lottery winner, and I showed up early and changed and then it all started.
There was this very peaceful, calming music playing. I think it was a harp or something.  But then at the same time, there was some Amy Winehouse. Some Adele.  Not super relaxing, but, you know, I was like, "hey, I like Adele!" Sort of interesting music taste for a ponytailed man with biceps the size of my head, but you never can tell about people.  Sort of odd to be playing it along with a soundtrack of tinkling water and wind chimes, but maybe that's like his thing. I don't know.  I just went with it.  I don't know how these things go people! It was my second massage ever!
So this goes on for at least 20 minutes. It starts to get kind of annoying. I mean it's just so loud. At which point the guy finally "ahem"s and goes, "um...is that your phone? Are you...expecting a call?...or something?"
I was all confused for a sec and then I realize he's talking about his weird music.
"No! I thought that was yours?!" 
"No, no. It's definitely coming from your purse."
And it was.
Apparently, when I had gone to turn my ringer off- because, you know, having the phone ring during a massage would be really embarrassing and rude- instead I had somehow, somehow turned on Pandora.  Which, honestly, I didn't even know I had on my phone.
How did I do that?!  How am I really that special a person that I can manage to mess up laying still.
I do not know, Peanuts. I do not know.
And really. Did I have to do it while I was in my skivvies with a perfect stranger? Come on now. 
On the upside, I feel about a million times better- I can even shake my head at myself in shame! And besides, it clearly filled my embarrassment quota. At least for the day.  

Moving On Day 3-The Stinging Beach

After Kitty Hawk, the girls and I met J for our second night of camping.  He had picked out a gorgeous spot right on the beach of the Outer Banks.  He had picked up fresh local fish to grill.  We were excited!
But it did not go as planned.
J forgot the tent poles in my car, so camp was not set up when we got there.  He had been waiting for us outside. When we pulled up to this man- on the beach in lovely weather, sunset just beginning- you'd think we'd find a relaxed, happy sort of fellow, despite the lack of tent poles.  Right?
Uh, nope.  He did NOT look happy.  He looked....bumpy.
And he was.  Because it turns out that this particular beach had mosquitoes.  THOUSANDS of them.  They had to compete with biting sand flies for your flesh, but they seemed to be winning out, overall.  There were thick clouds of them.  They were everywhere.  They were hungry.
So were we, but there was no way we could let the babies be devoured while we cooked.  So I took them out to the water while J got those blasted tent poles out and made a refuge.  The water was just a quick walk across the dunes.  Just a hot, sweaty, mine-field of CACTUS, carrying two unhappy children while trudging through sand up and down hills and being EATEN ALIVE along the way, stroll to the water.
Once we got there, the ocean breeze blew away the clouds of biting bugs and Miss gasped and giggled in the salty wind.  Little One splashed into the surf in Her sun dress screaming "This is so much fun! This is so so FUN!"  She got soaked, I cooled my bites in the water, we watched the sky get pink.  It was the eye in the histamine hurricane. Then we headed back. 
This beach hates people.  It must. There were:

mosquitoes
biting sand flies
stinging nettles
cactus all over
Stickers and goat-head thorns

Our idyllic spot wasn't working out.
The kids were miserable; little cacti and stickers kept getting lodged in toes, and the welts on both girls were swollen and angry looking.
The dogs were miserable- their freshly-shaved coats did little to protect them, and they were rolling and scratching as they were covered in bites too. They ran away and came back limping, with cactus chunks in their paws.
We were miserable.  Because all our babies were miserable. 
It had been a hot, sticky day, so we decided to brave the "rustic" showers, even though the mosquitoes were worst there, with all the water pooling on the ground.
It was a special shower.  A wooden stall on a little hill, with a spigot at the top. You had to hold this metal bar above your head to keep the water on.  The cold water.  Which gave you one hand for washing and swatting mosquitoes.  There were no lights.  Which meant you had to do it more or less in the dark, which was just as well.  That way I didn't realize until I opened the door and the moonlight came in that I had been showering all cozy-like with an enormous spider.  TMI alert.  But please imagine- not in too much detail- but for your amusement, the idea of standing starkers in a wooden shack, in the dark, with one hand stuck above your head, soap in your eyes, hopping around like a complete loon because you are a a slicked-up smorgasbord for dozens of biting insects.  Hopping around in the icy water slapping yourself all over and laughing like a nut because seriously. Is this really happening.
Now.  Imagine jumping wet into your PJs and tearing down the hill holding your pants up with one hand and flying back to your campsite, followed by a cloud of demonic insects.  Imagine us all- dogs included because we couldn't leave them out in that mess- fleeing into the safety of the tent in the early darkness.
Whew.  Safe.
And then. Flicking on the lantern.  Looking up.  At the ceiling of the tent.  Black. Moving. 
Realizing that in the moments it took to open the door and go in, DOZENS of mosquitoes had swarmed in with us.  How cozy!  Forget bedbugs, people.  Can you imagine sleeping like a sitting target with dozens of mosquitoes in close quarters?  We'd be sucked dry by morning!
So now picture J and I.  Again, like total lunatics, hopping around.  With flapping, flailing arms.  Swatting at tiny black flying flecks in the shadowy lantern light until we had smashed every. last. one.   I'm telling you- many dozens and we squashed them one. by. one.  It was disgusting. Our babies and dogs watched us with awe, unsure whether to be impressed, amused, or concerned.
After the swatting frenzy J and I settled in, worn out, and finally went to sleep in the hot, thick air.
J pulled up the blanket. "This is sooo fun." 

New York Part Two

But we weren't in town just to see the City. We were there to celebrate a very important birthday. 
Of course we had to take the Subway to get there.  
Now. Little One doesn't get that New Yorkers have a responsibility to their collective reputation not to be friendly.  On the Subway, She smiles and flirts shamelessly until She gets someone to break the code of Unfriendly and adore Her.
On the night we were headed to Jaju's birthday dinner, all dressed up, She found a guy on the train to chitchat with.  Of course, She had to show him Her baby doll.  "This mine Baby!" She held it up proudly.
"Uh oh!", the man played along, "She's crying!"
Oh did you think you were teasing Her, Subway Man?  Think you were going to get Her flustered or worried about Baby? Ha.  You don't know Little One.  Little One handles Her business, Man.  Just cause She's not a New Yorker doesn't mean She's not savvy!
Totally unphased, She turned that baby around and made it look Her right in the eye.
"Baby!" She said.  "Baby you cryin'?  Ok baby."
She took Her little right hand, and put in across Her heart.  (what is She, going to solemnly swear Baby to sleep?)
She hooked Her little thumb under Her dress strap. (uh...wait just a....)
She slid the strap from Her shoulder (oh my. I see now)
Yanked it down to Her elbow, exposing a triangle-swath of toddler skin.  (Little One! Wait-)
Oriented Baby just so (Oh too late now)
And jammed its face onto Her nipple.
"Baby, you hungry.  There go."

In New York, Peanuts, as on all mass public transportation, there is an air of slightly grumpy solemnity.  Everyone is coming off a long day at work.  They are crowded next to strangers and everyone stinks a little. The subway car is s a tin can of a slightly dejected stoicism, and New Yorkers have seen it all.  But I tell you.
When Little One popped that baby on Her bare little chest like that, so matter of fact, it was like dropping a stone into still water.
Little ripples emanated from Her, pulsing through the railcar washing back brow wrinkles and cracking set jaws, until laughter went rolling and splashing around the plastic orange seats.
Little One (whom we know has a thing for anything in the applause family) was highly amused by Her sudden stardom, and worked it a little.
Subway Man had tears in his eyes he laughed so hard, "Well hey! Wow! Where didja learn that?"
A dozen eyes fell on Little Miss, in my arms.  And on me, slightly pinker than usual.
Plink.
Splash.
Another ripple went out and the laughter soaked into the floor and went dripping out the cracks in the door.

With our glamor only slightly tarnished, we arrived uptown to celebrate at a fancy-shmancy restaurant.
The guest of honor got lots of love.

Little One had a great time with Her oh-so-cool older cousins.

And Miss loved all the attention from the grown ups.

 Of course, it was so schmancy in there, that I brought a bottle in case Miss got hungry.  And of course She decided that no way in heck was She going to have anything to do with it, because hasn't She been clear that She will only take a bottle from J? And was J with us on that trip? Nnoooooo.  So (TMI ALERT) part of the party was me in the fancy bathroom with my lovely, HIGH NECK dress up around my not-so-fancy-now shoulders, nursing my stubborn baby.  But hey.  We still had a great time.
Thus is life as a mommy.  You can dress up with your sparkly earrings and your high, high heels.  You can go out and eat things you could never pronounce.  But you have to be flexible.
You have to hike up the occasional cocktail dress.  Or maybe walk out of your Manhattan dinner and skip the after-party.  To strap a baby carrier over that cocktail dress, reach down past the heels to grab your toddlers hand, and take them on the subway looking like this:

 Back to your Brooklyn hotel room. For bedtime.