In case of an emergency, hit me.

So I spent the greater part of my morning in the Insta-care -- Utah's local alternative to the ER. Last evening The Boy managed to fall on his arm wrong. He cried some, but not tons -- that's a good sign, right? His arm was swollen at the elbow, and he had no desire whatsoever to straighten it out, so it wasn't just a little owie. But I, going against my Injuries & Crises history, waited til this morning to take him in. That's a bigger deal than you realize. In my earlier first-aid moments, I'd have rushed him, cradled in my arms, straight into the emergency room, not even bothering with a car. I'd have run him there. On foot. Lots faster than a car. Okay, so there's a little drama in my blood. What can I say?

Don't worry, it was a good call. It turns out nothing was broken, it was probably just "a good sprain," whatever that means. I mean, really, is there such a thing as a good sprain? The very definition of a sprain is

"a violent straining or wrenching of the parts around a joint, without dislocation." (Thank you, dictionary.com.)

Those aren't good words. Violent. Straining. Wrenching. If I'm understanding it correctly, a sprain is the moment right before the break. How's that good?

But I digress. Apparently, I've been known to freak out a bit. Oh, I never felt like I was freaking out. In my head, I was calm and collected, the very image of strength and stability in a time of stress. Ha.

Let us consider a day two years ago -- almost to the day, ironically enough -- when The Boy incurred a similar injury. All of the kids and Dave were in the living room, playing some game that I'm still a little vague on. I know it somehow involved marshmallows and jumping off the back of the wing chair, which of course, sounds really stupid. I mean, duh, let your kids jump off the furniture and someone's bound to break an arm. But since it was "supervised" by dad, how bad could it be?

Well they're all playing and laughing their heads off, when after one particular thump, I heard crying mingled with the laughter -- obviously someone was hurt (bad, by the sound of the crying), and no one had else realized it yet. And then I hear Dave repeating The Boy's name several times and saying, "Just let me look at it." I listened for what I thought was probably 4 or 5 minutes before bursting in to save the day -- plenty of time to let Dave take the lead in this thing. After all, there was no need to go rushing in too soon to come to the rescue.

In all likelihood, I actually waited 4 or 5 seconds. When I came into the living room, The Boy was standing with Dave's hands supporting him a bit. He was still crying and holding his arm, but just as I entered the room, he kind of just slumped over. Dave, of course, still had him, so he carefully lowered him to the floor, where I went directly. I've never seen one of my kids pass out, and I admit, it was a little disheartening. But I mustered my coolness and assessed the situation. Calmly (I thought), I smoothed his hair back and rubbed his cheeks softly as I said his name. His response was to roll his head and eyes a bit. Just as I suspected. Now was my moment to shine. Feeling perfectly cool and in control, I announced to the room in general, "He's in shock!" Dave, of course, is thinking, "Really? Brilliant! Thank heavens you told us!" and the kids all freak out. The oldest girls start crying, the younger girls are asking, "What does that mean? Is he gonna be okay?" And I'm thinking, "Hey, hey, guys. What's the problem? No need to panic."

It wasn't until later that I realized that the kids were actually all fine until I showed up to "diagnose" the situation. Everybody, he's in shock! Well that's helpful. I think they picked up on my freaked out vibes and all hope for a calm situation was out the window. Good thing I was there to give them the cue to panic.

Yeah, that was pretty good (in the good sprain way?), but another time, my oldest, Kam, had her best friend over. It was night-ish, 9 or 10 or so, and the doorbell rang. I answered it to find the best friend's oldest sister. She briefly told me that her dad had blown out his knee playing Church Ball, and they were heading to the emergency room. My job was to have her sister stay here until they could get back. Got it, I said, and headed downstairs to do my duty. Here it comes. Everyone, he's in shock!

"L," I began. Not wanting to forget anything, I paused and then in one breath said, "I don't want to freak you out or anything, but I guess your dad blew out his knee playing basketball and your sister just stopped by to tell me they're on the way to the emergency room and you've gotta stay here til they get back, I'm sure he'll be fine, but it could be pretty late, you know how those knees can be, painful and hard, so just get comfy, you're gonna be here awhile."

She stared at me blankly for a second and then said, "Okay, what?" And then I did it again! Instead of finding some more delicate, less hurried approach to the whole thing, I pretty much just repeated the mindless truth!

And now, the spokeswoman for delicacy, me.

Then there was the time I followed the wails of my RyBread to her room to find her covered from nose to toes in blood. She'd been pulled off her bed and had hit her nose, and I, in the He's in Shock Tradition, announced, "Oh, it's broken for sure!!" Helpful.

There are a thousand more of these stories, one for almost every first aid emergency at my house. I think I should just stick to the band-aid on the finger and a kiss on the owie and leave the diagnoses to the capable hands of my Dave. I'm just glad I'm easing up on the whole thing -- I can tell the freak-outs are lessening with time... at least I hope they are. I know it's not gone completely, though. Last night I asked Dave if it was time to make the announcement. It never was. He never went into shock. ...Now what?

Eeny Meeny Miny Moe

It was Sunday yesterday. I love Sundays. I mean, they're a busy day with church meetings and after-church meetings and big fat yummy dinners. But I love Sundays because it's the one day my kids always end up playing together. All of them. Every Sunday. This is no small thing, of course, because there are 5 of them, between the ages of 7 and 12 -- they're the "my 5" on my Favorite Faves list, and they're delicious fun; but not in the weird-crazy-witch-lady-from-Hansel-&-Gretel delicious fun; more like that "you are so dang fantastic, I could eat you. But I won't. Because you're not food" kind of delicious fun.

So yesterday they were playing "So You Think You Can Dance, Piano-Room Edition," where they each get a turn dancing to a 20-second demo from the digital piano and then get judged on it. I like to watch them when they're not looking, because really, I don't know that any of them can dance. Well, maybe a couple of them can. But the other ones are just trying to imitate moves they've seen real dancers do (not on the actual show, by the way; I don't think any of them have seen it. Not even 5 minutes of an episode. I don't even think they could tell you when it comes on). Sometimes I'll peek in to see arms flailing and feet moving, almost like Elaine from Seinfeld, and think, yeah, that's about how I look when I think I'm dancing. The Boy (my youngest, but only by 2 minutes) will sometimes just hop in place to the beat of the music and call it a dance, and who am I to argue? It's not like I really know. I practically got kicked out of a community ballroom dance class due to my terrible dancing abilities. But that's another entry.

What made me laugh was the "Not It" that officially called everyone to play. "Let's play 'So you think you can dance,' who's gonna be the judge? Not IT!" This, of course, is followed by a unison chorus of "Not ITs," which then begins the battle for who has to be IT. Inevitably, one of the oldest girls will announce who's IT and everyone will go along with it because, well, they're the oldest. If it had been me and my siblings, we would have immediately launched into Eeny Meeny, followed by all of Eeny Meeny's relatives: "My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes..." "Engine, engine, number 9," or of course "Inka Binka bottle of ink." If we were short on time we'd opt for "Bubble gum, bubble gum in a dish," since we could put a limit on the number of pieces you wish for and it would go faster. And of course in that case, we'd finish it with "and you are IT," as opposed to "And you are NOT IT," which would require several more rounds.

Funny, my kids haven't really stepped into the world of Eeny Meeny so much.

So as I stood there rolling out what would later become some exceptionally spectacular rolls for our big yummy Sunday dinner, I thought about all those little kid things that we grow up with and then eventually grow out of. I remembered a day a few years ago as my family walked to the school playground one hot-ish summer evening. Dave and I hung back a bit as we talked and pushed the twins in the stroller; the three older girls had run ahead and their sing-song chanting was our white-noise background music. I watched as Mak would jump and stomp every few feet, almost in rhythm, and it wasn't until a quiet spot in our conversation that I stopped and really listened to the girls -- in absolute shock. "Don't step on a crack or you'll break your mother's back!"

And there was Mak stomping with all her might on every crack she came upon.

What, was she testing it out, trying to find out if my back's really gonna break? I never put much stock in those kinds of things -- you know, "if you swallow gum it'll take 7 years to digest;" "if you sneeze with your eyes open they'll pop right out of your head;" "every time a fly lands on you it's barfing and then eating it's barf." Come on, that's all just a bunch of kid rumors that your mean older brother tells you to keep you up at night.

But suddenly my faith -- or lack of it -- in all kid rumors was being shaken; suddenly I felt differently about all these silly kids-tales. Could it be there's actually truth to this? ...What's that funny tingly feeling at the base of my spine? And my stomach, suddenly there's this rock-kind of feeling right in the pit of my stomach; is that some wad of gum from 1997? And what's with that smallish sticky feeling on my arm? Did some fly just land there and barf and eat it while I wasn't looking?! What is happening??

And then there's Mak. What in the world was possessing her to keep going and stomping so mercilessly like that? Was she feeling a bit of animosity towards me for some parent-inflicted chore I'd put her up to earlier? Or did she just like the feel of the beat: DON'T (jump) step on a CRACK (jump) or you'll BREAK (jump) your mother's BACK (jump)!

Whatever it was, it was too much for me. The back thing, with the breaking, and it's MY back we're talking about... I mean seriously, should we really be tempting fate so brazenly?

I had the sudden urge to run after her, screaming, "Stop!! Please! For the love of all that is good and pure in this world, STOP STOMPING ON THE CRACKS!!" I didn't, but then found myself seriously considering a heart-to-heart with her about it: "You know, Mak, sometimes people really get hurt when you're playing what may seem like a harmless little game."

No, don't be silly, it's just some childish thing she'll grow out of, I assured myself. She doesn't mean anything by it.

And then I blinked, and it had all passed, and she had grown out of it. And I'm standing in my kitchen 5 years later, listening to my kids debate the ITedness of their game while I roll out dough and chant, "My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes. My mother socked your mother right in the nose..."

And dang, I miss it. I miss the little kidishness they're all growing out of. Now when we walk somewhere, Mak doesn't run ahead, but stays with me and grabs my hand in her 11-year-old-let-me-be-your-friend-and-we'll-walk-and-talk-and-laugh-together attitude, then asks how I slept last night.

Pretty good, I say. Except my back's been bothering me for years now...

The view from next tuesday...

So... the title of my blog. What's the deal with that? I seriously spent about 3 weeks contemplating names for this dang thing, and easily another oh, hour or two checking availability on my different ideas. I considered the usual -- you know, something with my name, or something catchy about what I do: "marianne's life," or "life as the super mom -- it's what I do." I could have gone with a clever one that hints at (or maybe screams) my interests: "the mommy-accordion lover- marathoner-snowboarder-mt.everest hiker-scuba diver-and all around great gal blog." Or of course there's just the ever popular and right to the point, "My Blog." They were all very good, very REAL possibilities... Well, except for the accordion-loving mt.everest hiker one... You know, since those interests don't actually belong to me.

I ended up choosing the name a coupla days ago, when for no reason at all, I was wide awake at 3 o'clock in the morning. Maybe it was because my husband's out of town and the bed just isn't the same without him. Maybe it was the fact that both of our Italian Greyhounds (obviously pictured above) honestly believe my bed is their bed and they're just tolerating my presence there but are secretly plotting my removal from that place as they slowly shove me out of it. Whatever the cause, I was wide awake and thinking. Okay, worrying. I spent a good hour fretting about whatever (I won't get into that because it turns out half of my concerns were actually part of a sleepy-funk and not really real concerns), then finally allowed my mind to wander elsewhere for another hour. By about 4:50 I decided I might actually be tired enough to fall back to sleep; but then I realized the rec center opens in 10 minutes, and I could just run over there and get my weights done. So I did.

POINT: Yes, there is one. As I walked into the weight room, I realized that I should completely ignore most thoughts of worry that occur to me between the hours of 11 pm and 5 am. I have to wait until it's actually morning before I freak out about things, because light, you see, has a knack of bringing with it... well, light. Understanding. Reality. Wakefulness -- that one's kind of key. And once I have light, I gain real perspective.

So when I realized I just needed morning perspective (as opposed to the crazy half-awake non-reality), I knew I had found my title. It's my happy reminder to myself that perspective just depends on where you're standing. Don't like your perspective? Try shifting to the right just a bit. Wait for the sun to show up. Or better yet, move to next Tuesday and you'll probably love the view.

And so it begins

Well it's about time I join the world of blogging. I finally succombed to the peer pressure: "Oh, I just posted it on my blog." "So I was bloggin yesterday and..." "Oh, don't you blog?" Blog, blog, blog, blah, blah, blah.


And yet, here I am. Huh. ...Well do with that what you will, and welcome to my life and my musings about it. I doubt this will be as journally as most of my friends' blogs. Well, who knows what it will morph into; for now it will just be a happy collection of my random thoughts, my mindless babblings, my flapdoodle and bosh. I think I already like it.


But I'm going to bed.