Dinosaurs and times-fours

A lack of discernment caused major discombobulation this a.m. I was to collect Nannie after an in-office endoscopy, but when she said the office was in a building across from Walgreen's, I heard Wal-Mart. The kind of panicked running-around that ensued was worthy of It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Pure humor, now that she's safely home. And when finally I saw her sweet, smiling face and heard a good report from the procedure, I remembered to thank God that my mama is with us still.

See, five babies are without their mama now. Karen died of breast cancer a few days ago. She was younger than I and we had mutual friends, but I never got to know her. I understand she was a treasure and her death has saddened me. Geddy lost his mama in June to uterine cancer and we are still missing her and always will. Karen's babies are little and their parents' faith will sustain them, but they are already missing her and always will.

Two good things happened to me yesterday. Geraldine, the free cookie lady at our market, took the time to tell me what fine children I have. I agreed and thanked her. After all, they took the time to help a lady unload her pigeons at the post office and pushed another lady's buggy back into the store for her. Later, a fellow dance mom told me how sweet she thinks I am and how she loves watching me interact with everyone at class. I think I'm just overly chatty, but I surely appreciated the sentiment.

Today is Halloween, from which we are gently extracting our children. We did schoolwork as usual today, except that Nannie was with us and got to help Curly Sue learn her four times tables. We are leaving candy for the neighborhood trick-or-treaters and heading to church ourselves. For lunch, we are eating chicken nuggets in dinosaur shapes. While I'm fairly certain that no part of a real chicken lends itself to T-Rex-ish dimensions, I comfort myself with the knowledge that in this case, it's more about the company than the quality of the food.

Because their mama is still here to eat it with them.

Just in time for Halloween

After more than a year of playing Indiana Jones in the towering bushes that made up our front garden, Geddy and I decided a simpler look was in order. Down came the bushes, up came the roots and so began the quest for reclaiming our yard.

In the woods, Geddy discovered part of an old wall made of beautiful hand-hewn stones. He began carefully digging them out, washing them and placing them just so for a walkway separating the flower beds. On about his third trip into the woods, he burst into the house hollering that he had found bones and no way, no way was he going back in there by himself call my brother Bubby who knows about old stuff...please!

Bubby, who has a keen interest in history and some amateur experience in archaeology, was dispatched and wandered over. Meanwhile, I went online and asked the most smartest persons I know, my girlfriends at Frugal Families and The Well-Trained Mind, who it is that you call when you dig up dead people in your back yard. (The correct answer to that, BTW, is local law enforcement first, coroner second and museum curators third. Curators do not like that order.)

I don't get out much, so this was pure excitement. Was it a Native American burial mound? A family plot? Civil War soldiers? Murder victims?

Turns out, all that was dead was a grotesquely twisted brier.

So we didn't get our 15 minutes of fame, but we also didn't get our yard torn up, eminent-domained or trampled by looky-sees. And our walkway looks very nice.

One shoe short of perfect

The definition of "tidying" is likely to change depending on the one doing the defining. I'm holding on to the hope that one day I'll blossom into a thorough housekeeper, but right now, simply keeping the clutter under control is my daily aspiration.

I sent the children outside with a blanket and a basket of grilled cheese sandwiches, chips, root beer and Pixy Sticks last glorious Sunday afternoon, then set to work inside. I picked up pieces 47-50 of a 50-piece magnetic building set and put them in their proper place. I did the same with three marbles and two pieces of marble run. Stray Legos, doll socks, stickers and a seashell turtle followed.

I changed three toilet tissue rolls with one square remaining, threw away one paper napkin from the table and pushed six books back onto the bookshelf. I straightened a comforter, shot a sock into the hamper and tipped up a sideways toy bin. In the kitchen, I drank the last three drops of juice before setting out a new bottle. I emptied six containers of leftovers which all together would not have equalled a serving.

By this time, the children had gathered up the remains of their picnic and, seeing the house so uncharacteristically tidy, were extra diligent about putting everything away. I asked, were they sure they gotten everything? and was assured they had. I sighed, grabbed a trash bag, headed outside, and spent the next 10 minutes collecting Pixy Stick tube tops from the yard.

Five people and a small dog live in this house, four people and the dog 24 hours a day. That's a fact. Messes are completely made but only partly tidied. That's another fact. But it's a comforting thought that we're all just a misplaced shoe or thorough vacuuming short of perfect.

Monkey's home!

Monkey came home Tuesday night and spent Wednesday watching "Cinderella" surrounded by her brothers and parents. (And Aunt Bucky, too, because I just had to see my sweetie for a few minutes!) Aardvark declared to his mom that he is never leaving home, even when he's grown. Do you think maybe he was happy to be back with his family?

She was supposed to come home with IV antibiotics for two weeks but didn't have to. She can't go back to school or church for two weeks and has to take another six weeks or so of potent oral antibiotics, but...she's home.

God is bigger than a super bug!

"If I Am Missing or Dead" by Janine Latus

Please read this book.

I understood it to be a woman's account of her sister's murder. In truth, the murder is a very small part of the book. What's fascinating and terrible is Janine's long, long road from abusive encounters to abusive relationships to an abusive marriage and its ending just as her sister Amy, trying to ignore her own mistreatment and bad judgment, loses her life.

One reviewer described this book as "unsentimental." It's because of that detachment that the book is one of the most important I've read. You will see yourself in this book, in black or white or a shade of gray. You need to see yourself in this book.

Turning a corner?

Monkey was flown to a children's hospital yesterday. She had lost function in her left lung, the pneumonia was spreading, the fever was high, the infection was bad, the white blood cell count was up...

She had surgery today to debride her lung and insert a chest tube to drain the fluid from her chest cavity. Came through it like the champ she is. She experienced immediate relief and was eating dinner when I talked to her daddy earlier. Perhaps now they can all rest easier. (All God's children say "Amen!")

Aardvark is feeling better and back to being a clown. He has this trick he can do with one eye that's gross but funny, and he's been chasing me around all evening with it. He's sore at me because I'm making him take his antibiotic and a cold/cough medicine, though. So I let him eat two bowls of Boo Berry and three bites of pizza for dinner. I'm the world's best auntie.

Larry, Curly Sue and Moe are their regular sweet selves except that Moe woke up with a very sore throat this morning. Thinking he might have picked up strep, I immediately took him to the doctor but the culture was negative. Must be the stupid goldenrod again.

All six of us walk in an American Cancer Society fundraiser tomorrow in memory of Grammie. She'll have been gone exactly four months. Hard to believe that after that amount of time, you still find yourself picking up the phone to tell her something. Geddy lost another co-worker to cancer a few days ago and got word that another work-related friend has been given six months before cancer takes her, too. So imagine our elation when a dear lady we know was declared in remission from lymphoma last night!

I now intend to drag my tired backside to the bed, from whence I shall watch the Red Sox drub the Indians. Away, away!

Monkey's not better

She's still in the hospital. Doctor is incompetent and there is talk of moving her to a children's hospital. Doctor says she will make sure they never use her practice again if they get a second opinion against her wishes. Nasty woman, big mess.

Her 6 yo brother Aardvark is here -- has been since Saturday -- good as gold but really missing his mom and dad and brother and sister. Baby brother Jackrabbit is at my parents'.

Geddy has a kidney stone that has not yet passed. It was a full weekend.

Pray for Monkey and all who love her if you are so inclined. She has plenty of stuffed animals, cards, balloons and Disney princess lip gloss, but good thoughts are desperately needed.

Digging up bones

I visited the local hospital last evening to see my 4-year-old niece, who has pneumonia. While she slept, her tiny pale face reminded me of a time when my own children were suffering. I was very sorry for my brother and his wife even though I know Monkey will be fine in a few days.

Several years ago we decided to send Larry to public school. Moe was an infant, Curly Sue a toddler, and Larry was trying to learn some kindergarten skills from his extremely distracted mother. From January to May, Larry was the student of Miss Wanda, a veteran teacher who was a blessing upon our family.

As is typically the case with an otherwise ideal situation, there was a problem: Larry caught every virus, bug and germ. Rotavirus made its way through our home three times in five months; a dry, hacking cough wound up being the beginning of his current asthma woes and his nose was dripping, just finished dripping or just about to start dripping for weeks at a time.

Meanwhile, Curly Sue, who had begun the year with a "fever virus" that kept her at 102-105 degrees for six days and alas, had not been spared the rotavirus in any of its rounds, developed daily gushing nosebleeds, which her pediatrician attributed to seasonal allergies. Moe had to be taken to the ER because he couldn't breathe, and his croup was treated with an inhaler.

Two weeks later, armed with enough medication for a week plus some, we headed to our favorite vacation spot. Curly Sue was with my parents, who were collecting my grandmother on the way. Moe had run a fever and awakened with croup the night before, but when I called the pediatrician's office the next morning, a nurse told me that the sea air would be just what he needed -- no reason to bring him into the office.

By the time we arrived at the beach, six hours later, Moe was going into respiratory distress. The urgent care office sent him to the regional hospital, where a shot of potent steroid was not enough to pull his 15-month-old body out of danger. I spent the first night of my vacation in his hospital room.

Early the next morning, a respiratory therapist came in to give him his every-two-hour breathing treatment and he crashed. By the time they got him stabilized, wheels were turning to get him to a children's hospital 50 miles away. Geddy and I spent the next two nights of our vacation in the Ronald McDonald House while Moe was in the PICU. We had to wear masks and gloves to be near him.

Back at the condo, Larry was running a 105-degree fever and Curly Sue was bleeding all over the place -- Nannie and Paw-Paw had forgotten to give her the nose spray she needed for her allergies. Larry was taken to urgent care, where he received an official diagnosis of ear infection (incorrect!).

Moe, improved, was moved out onto the floor so I spent the fourth night of my vacation wrapped around his little body in a stainless steel hospital crib. We left the hospital that day with another armload of medicine and headed back to the condo, where we stayed on the phone with our pediatrician trying to regulate medications and amounts. We had medicine and notepads and timers and clocks to help us remember who got what and when. And we slept.

We got home from our vacation and Geddy started feeling poorly. Then Curly Sue started running a fever. Then Moe started running a fever the day after he finished his antibiotics. Our pediatrician prescribed an antibiotic for Curly Sue, sight unseen, and ordered a chest x-ray for Moe. Geddy took himself to the ER, where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. Moe also had pneumonia; a lung had partially collapsed while he was struggling to breathe. Larry was prescribed an inhaler for his constant cough and officially diagnosed with asthma.

We learned a lot during that time period. Viral croup has the potential to kill a small child, for instance, and that surprises doctors but not their nurses, who (thankfully) primarily are in charge of said child's care. Ambulance crews and transport teams from hospitals are not necessarily sensitive, though they might be competent. It is possible to go without sleep for an entire month. It is possible to not cry during a terrible illness but sob uncontrollably a year later, when a commercial for a children's hospital catches your eye.

And when you see your tiny niece lying in her big hospital bed, it is possible, even though you know she's going to be just fine in a few days, for a lump the size of Miami to impair your ability to speak or breathe for a few minutes, causing a few hot tears to slide down the end of your nose before you can stop them. But in your bedtime prayers -- which you say after you have squeezed your children so hard their eyes bug out of their heads -- it is not possible to thank the good Lord enough for the blessings of life and health that so many do not enjoy.

Must be a disorder

I'm terrified of heights. I'm not just afraid of falling but of being far away from the ground. I become disoriented and panic with a definite sensation of falling even though I'm not actually falling. Like when you dream you're falling and grab for the bed, which of course is solidly underneath your body. I'm certifiably acrophobic.

If I had a physical reaction to spiders -- not just the heaving shudders or feeling like things are crawling on me -- it would make me arachnophobic. Fear of water, fear of strangers, fear of enclosed spaces...you name it, there's a phobia for it.

Lucy: "Maybe you have pantophobia, Charlie Brown."
Charlie Brown: "What's pantophobia?"
Lucy: "The fear of everything."
Charlie Brown: "THAT'S IT!!!"

Larry has an aversion to English peas, tomatoes and some other squishy foods. When he was a tiny boy, he gagged violently at certain smells, sights and touches. In preschool, he didn't want to fingerpaint or make plaster of Paris handprints. He's 11 now and still has no interest in touch tanks or other hands-on experiences. He is just now learning to pat dogs and cats comfortably.

According to some literature, that gives him "tactile issues." I throw that around when it suits me, but the fact is, he just doesn't like squishy or wriggly things. Not foods, not paints, not pets, not sea creatures. If I asked him to pick up the dog's poop, I'd be hosing throw-up out of the yard, too.

When I worked at a newspaper, the editorial staff privately called a fine selection of our local loonies the "C----- Crazies" and kept ourselves and each other abreast of their doings. There was Mary the Bicycle Lady, Boomer the Sports Nut and the guy who talked to, listened to and tried to hide behind street signs, among others. At our first home, a shell-shocked WWII veteran named George frequently left dollar bills in our screen door for reasons known only to him.

No doubt, some of these folks have conditions frequently documented and discussed in numerous medical journals and conferences. Perhaps they are under a doctor's care. Someone who came home "shell-shocked" 50 years ago would now be diagnosed with "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder" and appropriately counseled, medicated and relieved of jury duty.

Years ago people had all the same disorders they have now. They were eccentric rather than diseased back then.

Sister Martha took to the couch at 40 with the vapors. Miss Grumblypants down the street snipped the head off any day lily that wasn't absolutely perfect. Can't Get Right could count tiller's trays at the general store to the penny at a glance. Poor Luther couldn't get out of bed for months after his wife Mona died. Little Charlie-Boy screamed until he fainted if locked in the closet when he was bad.

Early menopause, obsessive-compulsive disorder, autism, depression, claustrophobia. See?

Ahhh, cynicism. Frustrated idealism. Sounds like a disorder to me.

Poke Salad Annie

Never, never consult Wikipedia.

I'm already the queen of useless trivia, so imagine my distress when I went online to look for the correct name of the song -- simply because it's been chasing itself around my head for a few hours -- and found a whole slew of new useless trivia.

Do I need to know that "sallet" is the correct name for "polk" greens? You cook them so they don't kill you. "Salad" isn't cooked. Do I need to imagine Tony Joe White enunciating Polk Sallet Annie? I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning or call my children by their correct names, but I'll probably be able to recall that Jerry Scheff played "rare fuzz bass solos" on Elvis' covers beginning in 1972.

Gators got your granny (chomp, chomp).