A House Called Awful End

Ok, so this is not like my usual posting, although I've been laughing to myself over 2 things I plan to blog about soon...I just have to wait til enough time has passed...

But I had to tell you: I grabbed this book at the library the other day, along with its 2 sequels. TheBoy was like, "I don't know what to read!" and I was in the 8-12ish section, and the cover looked like fun, so I was like, "Here, try this one." Well today when I was going to blow dry my hair, I wanted something to read for the 4 minutes that it takes; so since TheBoy has yet to pick it up, I grabbed it and started. It took me about as long to read the first chapter as it did to dry my hair, and I LOVE IT!! Already! It is hilarious!! It was compared to Lemony Snicket, which was fun, but different. Philip Ardagh (the brilliant writer) has yet to take himself seriously. For example: Eddie took a seat across from his aunt. "Put that back!" she said, so he did, and sat down across from her. That's not a direct quote, you get the gist. It's so fun already! I wish I had a coupla hours to just read it all, it's delightful! I'll letcha know how it ends...

More life stuff later...

the idiot in delivery room 303

No, I'm not pregnant. I have some friends who are, and that topic always makes me blush for some reason. Okay, it's not that pregnancy in and of itself makes me blush. It's the fact that I'm always reminded of the deliveries of my kids, and that makes me blush. With the exception of one -- RyBread, bless her -- I have plenty to blush about.

Never fear, I won't shock you with all the gory details. I'll just fill you in on the least embarrassing, the twins' delivery. While it's the one that makes me blush the least, it's the one that makes me laugh the most.

One terribly early morning in February, I was awakened by the alarming feeling of my water breaking...actually, I guess it would be more accurate to say that one of my waters was breaking. ...Never mind, let's move on.

Whenever I start this story with my kids, they always say, "What does that feel like?" How do you answer that? ...Uh...wet?

Anyhoo, I remember just kind of yelling, "Oh, oh, oh!"

Dave, who is never actually ready for an emergency in the middle of the night, outdid himself and jumped out of bed, yelling, "WHAT? WHAT?! What's wrong?!"

"My water just broke all over the place," I said, and he let out a burst of air and sighed, "...Finally!"

My thoughts exactly. People like to say a rather absurd thing to a woman carrying twins: "Wow, twins! Two for the price of one!" No. It is not two for the price of one, it is every bit, two for the price of two; and while every pregnancy is difficult in its own right, take each typical difficulty and multiply it by two. In many cases, you could add on doctor-prescribed bed-rest for who knows how long, non-stress tests, twice a week, for at least the last 8 weeks, a constant feeling that your body is being slowly ripped in two, and in my case, extreme itching of the palms of the hands and bottoms of the feet (go figure. But have you ever tried to satisfy an itch on the palm of your hand? It's physically impossible. I seriously thought I might go completely crazy some nights). Now you're getting the gist of carrying twins. So the idea that we were finally actually going through with this whole thing was, indeed, quite a relief.

We called my friend, who came to babysit (or really, just sleep out the rest of the night on my couch, as the bed was no longer an inviting idea to anyone), called my mom to let her get all excited about the next few hours, and headed off to the hospital.

Truthfully, I don't remember most of the details once we got to the hospital. It seemed like checking in took about 72 years, but that can't possibly be right, since their birthday has been recorded on the hospital and state records as the same date my water broke... I do remember how freezing cold I was as they prepped me for a C-section and gave me an IV. Not until I was shivering uncontrollably did someone get me one of those delicious blankets from the warming bins, and stuck a new, warm IV in. I also remember being a little nervous about the spinal anesthesia -- my first 3 kids were delivered without any meds, so that needle going into my back, while I was supposed to be calm and exhaling, was a bit unnerving. I know, Chicken.

I remember that as I was being wheeled into the delivery room, my little silly surgery hat fell down over my eyes. I laid there on the bed helplessly, since, of course, I couldn't move, and said, "Could someone fix my hat?" One of the nurses glanced down at me, and just kept on pushing my little bed. "Ok," I thought. "It's probably not important that I can see right now anyway." A few seconds later, someone pulled my hat back up to my forehead.

Of the actual C-Section, I remember 3 things: Dave almost got kicked out for crossing over the doctor's imaginary (but apparently very real to her) "do not cross" line -- he needed a better view. That was bad, but when he watched them stretch my skin apart with the those metal claws of pain and told me I was going to hurt in the morning, that really ticked them off. Please. if I didn't know I was going to hurt in morning, something was seriously wrong with me.

I remember when they brought Morgs around to show her to me (oh sure, they can cross the little line), I just couldn't believe how skinny she was. SO skinny. "Here's your baby girl!" they said. "Man, she's skinny," I thought. Tender, wasn't I?

Then two minutes later, they pulled out The Boy, and brought him around for me to see. He was obviously shorter than Morgs and was screaming the most pathetic little wide-mouthed sound I'd ever heard. More sentimentality from my groggy brain: "I had a frog," I thought.

And that was it. The next several hours were a blur of half-awake, groggy sleep; the kind where you don't really feel like you're sleeping, and when you are sleeping, you keep dreaming that you can't stay awake. I remember being so tired, but feeling a terrible need to stay awake because...what was it? I'm sure someone brought some sort of food or something in and left it by my bed...at least it seems like that could have happened. A very helpful nurse came in to check on me every so often, and finally told me I needed to remember to breathe. Really? Don't most people just do that automatically? I remember Dave coming in and telling me that The Boy had been having a hard time breathing. Huh. Me, too, apparently.

The days passed; the twins cried; we slipped into a weird new reality of life with five children, ages 5 and under; the twins still cried, I got used to missing twice as much sleep (two for the price of one -- Please!); and did I mention the twins cried? But it was good. We were a big little family, and happy in our sleepy, cry-ey new life.

Okay, I know what you're thinking. That's no big deal, what's there to blush about in that story? It is this: One day, several weeks after I had brought them home, I sat remembering the morning of their birth. I remembered Dave, and The Frog, and the Skinny Thing, and that stupid hat that someone had to push back up for me because my arms were... my arms... they...

There was nothing wrong with my stupid arms! They weren't numb, I could still move them around, even with the IV, they weren't pinned down to the bed or anything! I totally could have pushed up my stupid little hat! No wonder the nurse just kind of blew me off. She was probably thinking, "Push up your own hat, I'm pushing a bed here!"

There. That's my little blusher moment with the Twins. It's really nothing, I know, but I have a strong suspicion that the nurses were calling me "the idiot in room 3" for duration of my stay.

Oh well. I was ticked that they wanted to kick Dave out. They were ticked that they had to push my hat up. We'll call it even and move on.

internet snobbery and other such nonsense...

I have a confession. I do not play nice on the Internet. Well okay, not to be misunderstood, I always give positive feedback on eBay (well at least I did the two times I used it); I almost never type in all-caps in my emails, lest someone mistake happy yelling with angry-e-yelling; I never make people feel dumb when they pass along a billionth-forwarded email with a "Snopes Verified! story about someone's pet giraffe that ate an entire house, and here's the pictures to prove it," and it turns out to be completely bogus on snopes. I never do any of that stuff.

For the record, I rarely leave comments on people's blogs, or play "tag" games of any form online, and certainly never bother with the applications on facebook. Internet snobbery? Probably. But really, I certainly don't expect everyone who reads this flapdoodle to comment on it. Who's really got time to comment on every blog they read?

Where was I?

Oh. The Internet. You should know then, that, at least according to the emails I've received, I don't really love my country, I really don't care about protecting my children, I've cursed myself with tons of bad omens, I have no heart, I've lost my one chance with my big crush, I've offended slews of veterans because I didn't boycott Target, I'm a lame friend, I'm likely responsible for most of the bad things that have happened to my friends, and I've broken at least 27 chain-emails that some kid was supposedly doing for his 4th grade science project.

And all because I don't forward emails. Oh sure, I used to, way back when the Internet was new and it was the first time I'd received some touching story about a lost child and (sniff) knew that I had to forward this one, because what if I was his mother?!!

But then time happened. And I kept getting the same emails about someone trying to outlaw God in schools or some tragic story about someone who desperately needed a miracle and sending this email on would somehow provide that, or someone else who, while putting on lipstick and facing east while standing on one foot, was attacked by a crazed lunatic, just two feet away from her vehicle.

Have I turned into a cynic? I can't say, but who wouldn't become at least a little cynical when their inbox is being flooded with countless messages about how the world is coming to an end because the guy they didn't like was voted in as President; or how a bazillion germs are on my toothbrush because I don't keep it 100 feet away from the nearest toilet; or how lemons in my ice water are covered in e-coli and I should never order "with lemon" again. Come on, life is too short to be pestered with this kind of stuff. Sheesh, we've made it this long, haven't we? Even with the lemons in our ice water or toothbrushes in the cabinet right next to the toilet, and heaven forbid, a Democrat in office.

I got a good one yesterday. It had a link to some guy on YouTube, but the details on that don't really matter. The introduction before the link told the thirsty email masses that the very President of the United States had viewed this video, and had been so disturbed that he called the guy and asked him to a secret meeting at the White House to discuss it. The President "told the White House staff to handle the press and not to talk about the video or the visit."

"That's interesting," the email said.

You're telling me. Anyone else wondering who told about the "secret meeting?"

Help me.

Okay, so I'm a cynic. At least email-ly speaking.

But I've got one word for you: Delete.

It's a beautiful thing.

Pass it on.

a few words on my long absence...

Okay, so was it wrong to miss an entire month and a half without some sort of mention of what in the world was going on at my house?

Here it is, in a couple of deliciously long, run-on sentences.

Long about the beginning of May, my husband's masonry work finally dried up, causing a few dark weeks, made darker by hopeless thoughts, of blah and oh dear and what in the world are we going to do; by June we began survival mode, in the form of selling anything that could be liquidated, buying new, used-paid-for vehicles, and trying to come up with a general plan of what in the world are we going to do next; in the midst of all that, I was called as the Young Women President in our ward (do you ever wonder if the Heavens snicker a bit behind discrete hands?).

Let me be honest. I couldn't even think as far as next Tuesday to get my perspective straight. I had to just wait until next Tuesday came, and come it did, long about mid-June. The darkness left, even though no great, substantial things happened to push it out. It was just hope. Delicious, lovely, hopeful, Hope. We are certainly not out of the woods yet, but we are definitely not alone in the woods, and because of that, life keeps going, and we keep living it. Not just surviving, but living.

Thank goodness for Next Tuesday.

on being sick...

A coupla weeks ago, at the close of our morning rush to get everyone out the door on time, RyBread stumbled to the couch, curled up in mortified pain, and moaned, "I think I'm gonna throw up..."

Twenty minutes later, she did.

Dang. The Barfs. I would change 2897 diapers 17 times each if I never had to deal with throw-up again. Luckily I don't have a particularly sensitive gag reflex, but the Barfs are the one thing to truly try that part of me.

Okay, so really it wasn't so bad; she made the bucket every time. I played my part well, I thought, present for all but one of the barfs, holding her hair back, rubbing her back, and handing her a clean, warm wash cloth when she was all done to clean up the yucks dribbling off her chin. That's a nice mommy, right?

It reminded me, though, of a time when I didn't really make the nice mommy. Shocker. Poor Morgs was the victim this time, and it had been a long day. She had felt terrible all day, with a fever and everything, but she hadn't actually thrown up.

She had languished most of the day up in my room so I could check on her, but I moved her down to the TV at dinner so I could make something for the rest of us to eat. See? I make dinner sometimes.

I assumed, of course, that I was safe sending her down to the brand new couch and the brand new carpet, since she just had a fever and felt yucky in general, right? Silly me. I was minutes from placing dinner on the table when I heard the 5 words that can strike fear into the heart of any mother: "Mom! I'm gonna throw up!!"

What do I do in these brief moments before the inevitable mess? Rush down with a bucket and warm wash cloth in hand, ready to assist and calm the sick child? Pause for a split-second to sympathize with the poor little pre-schooler on the verge of experiencing the yuckiest thing about mortal life? No. Not me.

"Run for the tile, Morgs! Run for the tile!!"

That's right. Save the carpet. Save the couch.

Forget the kid.

All's fair in love and barf.

not-quite mother-of-the-year... okay, not even close...

Mothers Day is fast approaching. I've spent the last several days putting together my ideas that will further cement me into the mortar of sibling rivalry as Mom's Favorite. Despite what my brothers and sisters would tell you, I'm certain I achieved that title years ago, and everything I do now just solidifies that position. Really. Don't bother asking them. What do they know?

I have an incredibly wonderful, beautiful mother. I don't think I realized it half as much when I was still under her constant care as I do now. It's the ironic thing about motherhood: By the time you figure out how completely amazing your mom is, you've moved out and started your own family.

That's what did it of course -- the starting my own family bit. I never really saw the noble character of my mother until I became a mother myself; and one day in the midst of changing diapers, driving carpool, this morning's cocoa pebbles still floating in the soup bowls I need for dinner right now, the endless piles of laundry that never seem to go away no matter how many loads I manage to push through in an hour, the science project gone bad in the dining room, and forgetting to put the tooth fairy money under the pillow -- again, I see clearly the incredible ability, talent, and moxie my mom has. ...WAY more incredible than anything I possess.

Last year for Mother's Day, the graduating high school seniors were asked to stand up in church and give tributes to their mothers. Those were good mothers. We were regaled with wonderful tales of these women; one who never made her child wake up to the sound of an alarm clock, but instead quietly (and I'm sure drippingly lovingly) whispered into her son's ear to bring him into wakefulness each morning. (At my house my kids have a choice of "buzzer" or "shock beep.") Another mother always let her daughter have the last piece of cake. (For my children, that would go something more along the lines of "Mom, can I..?" "BACK OFF! This piece is MINE! I MADE this cake, and so help me, I will EAT the LAST PIECE if I want!") The queen bee of mothers spent hours staying up late waiting for her daughter to come home from a night out, whereupon they would stay up for hours longer talking and laughing together. (My kids, quite frankly, aren't allowed out of the house past 7:30 pm, since I'm lucky if I can keep my eyes open past 8:12. Forget hours of talking and laughing. I'm already LONG gone.)

I can sum up my feelings at the end of that meeting with one word: Huh.

Imagine that. In one hour I realized my place in the Mother's Day Tributes of the future will be somewhere in the "My mom let us eat all the cold cereal we wanted" realm. I'll be forever immortalized as the one who, if nothing else, made dinner two of every seven evenings. I'm not so sure my children will rise up and call me blessed so much as loud. Don't believe me?

Recently Morgs was asked to give a talk in Primary. Her topic? Mothers. Golden. I wrote down several fill-in-the-blank statements for her that, read in succession, would make a beautiful tribute to a glorious mother. They were statements such as, "I love my mom because..." and "My mom teaches me..."

Really, she filled in all the blanks as if I'd coached her. It was perfect. Until she read aloud her answer to "When I'm hungry, my mom..."

Obviously I'm going for "makes me my favorite dinner, with healthy, fresh food from each of the food groups, and sometimes even a heavenly dessert."

Instead, I got, "When I'm hungry, my mom tells me a list of what I can make myself to eat."

...Now that's a good mom.

Looks like the jig's up. I'll never make Mother of the Year now.

Whatever.

Happy Mother's Day anyway.