G: Little Bill said that big brother's are bossy.
Me: Are you a big brother or a little brother?
G: I'm a big brother.
Me: Are you bossy?
G: (thinking) Um...yeah. I'm a little bossy but not much bossy.
Me: You think?
G: Well. No. I'm a lot bossy.
Me: Yeah, well, you come by it naturally.
Poor kid. He's the firstborn of two firstborns one of which is the daughter of two firstborns. Let's just say that we're working on it. And by we I mean me. And Troy. And Garrett.
*************************************************
I hate wind. I hated when the Santa Ana winds would blow through southern California and I hate when the winds whip through the valley here. I HATE IT. Hate it. If I must be honest it creeps me out. It has something to do with the way it sobbed through the rafters of the house I grew up in. I am always a bit apprehensive that things we store outside will suddenly lift right off the ground and disappear over the fence. I hate how it messes up my hair. I hate how it blows dirt in my face. I hate how it leaves me to wonder if the roof is going to lift right off the house and sail away. Give me a cool breeze on any hot summer day but the rest of the time I can just do without it. And yes, I understand about the pollen and the spores and how you need the wind and blah blah blah but I'm so not a fan. Take today for example. I had loaded both boys into the car and was starting to climb into my seat. The wind whipped through the parking lot and threw me into the car, banging my shoulder in the process. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, it thrashed the car door into my left leg, which was still outside of the car and pinned--at great force--my ankle between the frame of the car and the door. Clearly, however, I didn't react fast enough by yanking my leg into the car because another gust threw the door back open and then slammed it, again, into my unsuspecting ankle (although, really, by that point it should have suspected that something was amiss).
My dog is sitting at the back door. His ears look like he's riding in a car with his head out the window. And Garrett just walked up and said, "Mommy. Did you know that the wind might blow our house down? Then we would have no house left."
My fears exactly, kid. My fears exactly.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Thirteen
13. Thirteen. XIII. Trece. What? And, again, how?
I had to wake you this morning for church. It seems that you missed the memo where you're only thirteen months old and not, actually, thirteen years old. I opened your curtain and then watched and waited for you to stir. You just kept sleeping with your legs tucked up under your torso, your jammy clad bum sticking slightly toward the ceiling. I gently rubbed your back. Finally, you reached your arms out in an exaggerated stretch. With a yawn you closed your eyes tighter and flopped onto your back. Eventually you opened them and, just at the precise moment that they focused and you realized you were back in the land of the living, you looked into my own eyes and grinned a toothy smile. My heart dripped into a giant pile of goo, obviously. The only thing cuter than a groggy Matthew in his jammies is a smiling, groggy Matthew in his jammies.
As for the teeth that belong to that smile, your two bottom ones are still slightly crooked and one of them stands a bit taller than the other. You now have three on top and a fourth is threatening to pop through. You care deeply about your oral hygiene and adore when we brush your teeth. We're still using the finger brush with baby toothpaste and, now that you have five chompers, our digits don't like that particular part of the day. When I carry you into the bathroom, pull open the drawer, and shove that plastic piece onto my finger, you bounce up and down in my arms, flail your body about and squeal in anticipation.
This month you learned how to go down the stairs. This is good because, up until now, you would hastily climb them and then sit at the top and cry. It was as though you had all this ambition to get to the top and then realized that, well, it's a little lonely up there. I'm proud of you. This is a lesson some men take a lifetime to learn. Of course, if your brother happens to be up there you will not exercise your knowledge of how to come down. The two of you grow more and more inseparable with every passing month. Your new favorite thing is to throw yourself at his legs in what can only be described as an attempt to tackle him. You're tough but he's a good two heads taller than you and he barely budges, even after you put your whole heart and soul into taking him down. He laughs. You laugh. He tries to walk. You won't let go. He laughs harder. You cackle. Eventually you let go. He walks away. You run as fast as your stubby little legs will let you go and throw yourself at him again. This happens at least 2,843 times a day and the sound of your two laughs blending into one makes my heart sign contentedly.
You love to read and you have a fairly impressive attention span for a squirmy 13 month old. I can't adequately describe the adorable way that you point to a picture in a book and then quickly flip your wrist and point to yourself. At first I thought you thought you were a bear but then you continued the practice with a dog, a plant, and a car. I recently read you a book with a duck in it and you started pointing to the duck and shouting, "Dut!" Of course, the sheep and the frog on the next page were also duts but whatever. We live in a world where a lot of people believe that the lines between absolute truth and relativism are blurry, at best, so maybe by the time you start school it won't really matter if you call a sheep a duck.
Your use of the word duck is surprising given the fact that you have little language. Don't get me wrong, you talk all the time, you just rarely use words. Your first word, back in the day, was mama. This word has fallen, almost entirely, out of your vocabulary. In fact, when I point to myself and say, mama, you smile coyly and then shout, "DADA!" The other day, however, you wandered into the kitchen where I was washing dishes, stood there for a second, and then yelped, "MOM!" I spun around to see you standing there with your arms up, waiting, somewhat annoyed, for me to pick you up. You also used to call for "ditdit" a hundred times a day but you've gotten so quick on your feet that you don't need to call your brother, you just go find him. You call the dog either Bet! or DA! and you do expect him to come when called. He is your own personal jungle gym. You ride him. You snuggle your face into his fur. You chase him. You attempt, incessantly, to get to his food. Your only other word is banana which you say like this, "NANA!" whenever you want one. And you want one whenever you see one. Grocery shopping is becoming problematic. Whenever you see bananas in someone else's cart you start trying to throw yourself out of the cart and into theirs. Luckily you are strapped in because I firmly believe that you'd catapult yourself right into oncoming carts and manage to consume all of their bananas before they even noticed. Really. You love them that much.
Yesterday, at the grocery store, you were actually not attempting to smuggle bananas out of someone else's cart and into ours. You were, instead, flirting with an eleven-month-old little girl. And when I say flirting I mean it. It was not your average, every day brand of flirting. I've seen you do plenty of that. You'd tuned everyone else out. Your eyes were locked in on her and the two of you were squealing at each other, bouncing up and down in your respective carts, and generally making googly eyes at one another. It led me to run my fingers through your hair and remark, "You're way too young to flirt with girls your own age!" Her mommy and I could do nothing but laugh at the two of you, only mildly concerned that you were making marriage plans in baby talk.
Once again, I just can't believe another month has gone by. I can't believe that you are well on your way to leaving babyhood behind altogether as you barrel toward being a full blown toddler. I love you. I'll love you forever. And, whatever happens, you will always be my precious baby.
I had to wake you this morning for church. It seems that you missed the memo where you're only thirteen months old and not, actually, thirteen years old. I opened your curtain and then watched and waited for you to stir. You just kept sleeping with your legs tucked up under your torso, your jammy clad bum sticking slightly toward the ceiling. I gently rubbed your back. Finally, you reached your arms out in an exaggerated stretch. With a yawn you closed your eyes tighter and flopped onto your back. Eventually you opened them and, just at the precise moment that they focused and you realized you were back in the land of the living, you looked into my own eyes and grinned a toothy smile. My heart dripped into a giant pile of goo, obviously. The only thing cuter than a groggy Matthew in his jammies is a smiling, groggy Matthew in his jammies.
As for the teeth that belong to that smile, your two bottom ones are still slightly crooked and one of them stands a bit taller than the other. You now have three on top and a fourth is threatening to pop through. You care deeply about your oral hygiene and adore when we brush your teeth. We're still using the finger brush with baby toothpaste and, now that you have five chompers, our digits don't like that particular part of the day. When I carry you into the bathroom, pull open the drawer, and shove that plastic piece onto my finger, you bounce up and down in my arms, flail your body about and squeal in anticipation.
This month you learned how to go down the stairs. This is good because, up until now, you would hastily climb them and then sit at the top and cry. It was as though you had all this ambition to get to the top and then realized that, well, it's a little lonely up there. I'm proud of you. This is a lesson some men take a lifetime to learn. Of course, if your brother happens to be up there you will not exercise your knowledge of how to come down. The two of you grow more and more inseparable with every passing month. Your new favorite thing is to throw yourself at his legs in what can only be described as an attempt to tackle him. You're tough but he's a good two heads taller than you and he barely budges, even after you put your whole heart and soul into taking him down. He laughs. You laugh. He tries to walk. You won't let go. He laughs harder. You cackle. Eventually you let go. He walks away. You run as fast as your stubby little legs will let you go and throw yourself at him again. This happens at least 2,843 times a day and the sound of your two laughs blending into one makes my heart sign contentedly.
You love to read and you have a fairly impressive attention span for a squirmy 13 month old. I can't adequately describe the adorable way that you point to a picture in a book and then quickly flip your wrist and point to yourself. At first I thought you thought you were a bear but then you continued the practice with a dog, a plant, and a car. I recently read you a book with a duck in it and you started pointing to the duck and shouting, "Dut!" Of course, the sheep and the frog on the next page were also duts but whatever. We live in a world where a lot of people believe that the lines between absolute truth and relativism are blurry, at best, so maybe by the time you start school it won't really matter if you call a sheep a duck.
Your use of the word duck is surprising given the fact that you have little language. Don't get me wrong, you talk all the time, you just rarely use words. Your first word, back in the day, was mama. This word has fallen, almost entirely, out of your vocabulary. In fact, when I point to myself and say, mama, you smile coyly and then shout, "DADA!" The other day, however, you wandered into the kitchen where I was washing dishes, stood there for a second, and then yelped, "MOM!" I spun around to see you standing there with your arms up, waiting, somewhat annoyed, for me to pick you up. You also used to call for "ditdit" a hundred times a day but you've gotten so quick on your feet that you don't need to call your brother, you just go find him. You call the dog either Bet! or DA! and you do expect him to come when called. He is your own personal jungle gym. You ride him. You snuggle your face into his fur. You chase him. You attempt, incessantly, to get to his food. Your only other word is banana which you say like this, "NANA!" whenever you want one. And you want one whenever you see one. Grocery shopping is becoming problematic. Whenever you see bananas in someone else's cart you start trying to throw yourself out of the cart and into theirs. Luckily you are strapped in because I firmly believe that you'd catapult yourself right into oncoming carts and manage to consume all of their bananas before they even noticed. Really. You love them that much.
Yesterday, at the grocery store, you were actually not attempting to smuggle bananas out of someone else's cart and into ours. You were, instead, flirting with an eleven-month-old little girl. And when I say flirting I mean it. It was not your average, every day brand of flirting. I've seen you do plenty of that. You'd tuned everyone else out. Your eyes were locked in on her and the two of you were squealing at each other, bouncing up and down in your respective carts, and generally making googly eyes at one another. It led me to run my fingers through your hair and remark, "You're way too young to flirt with girls your own age!" Her mommy and I could do nothing but laugh at the two of you, only mildly concerned that you were making marriage plans in baby talk.
Once again, I just can't believe another month has gone by. I can't believe that you are well on your way to leaving babyhood behind altogether as you barrel toward being a full blown toddler. I love you. I'll love you forever. And, whatever happens, you will always be my precious baby.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
My Boys & Their Bible
If ever there was a picture that summed up my reasons for marrying this man, well, this is it. A man who sits in a bean bag chair, pulls his children close, and reads to them out of the Bible is a man who knows his way into my heart. And when I sneak into the room and snap a picture like this I know that right now, right this very minute, life is all I ever could have asked for.Friday, March 26, 2010
Mr. Mashed Potato Head
Matthew enjoyed his dinner tonight. He liked his carrots. He liked his barbecue chicken. But, suffice it to say, the mashed potatoes were his favorite.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Faith Like A Child
Garrett loves to pray. We will usually give him a few things to pray for. For example, when he prays at dinner time we remind him to thank God for the food. We also tell him to include certain requests that we're collectively lifting up to the Lord. But Garrett won't say something like, "Please help me to feel better." No, his prayers are more like this:
Dear Jesus,
Thank you for today. Thank you for this chicken and this tay-toe and this salad and this bread. Thank you that we went to the store. Thank you for me to feel better. Thank you for mommy to get better. Thank you that we go to California sometime soon. And amen.
I absolutely adore that he presents his requests as praises. I know that it's just the way his vocabulary still gets a little jumbled on account of the short three years of life. But, when he does it, it reminds me to have faith like a child. See, it seems like he just knows that God is a God of answered prayers. It's as though he's praising God in advance for what he knows he can do. It's precious. It's inspiring.
It's, perhaps, the way we all should pray.
Dear Jesus,
Thank you for today. Thank you for this chicken and this tay-toe and this salad and this bread. Thank you that we went to the store. Thank you for me to feel better. Thank you for mommy to get better. Thank you that we go to California sometime soon. And amen.
I absolutely adore that he presents his requests as praises. I know that it's just the way his vocabulary still gets a little jumbled on account of the short three years of life. But, when he does it, it reminds me to have faith like a child. See, it seems like he just knows that God is a God of answered prayers. It's as though he's praising God in advance for what he knows he can do. It's precious. It's inspiring.
It's, perhaps, the way we all should pray.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Our Rock Star
Once upon a time The Rock Star's moniker was The Dictator. Then, one day, nearly a year ago, he walked into our bedroom and made the announcement, "I'm a rock star!" It was appropriate given his love for musical instruments, clothing sporting musical instruments, and his craving for attention in general. The name stuck--at least here on my blog. Last night he insisted that we make him a stage. Thankfully, he settled for standing on a chair. I present you with a glimpse into the life of our rock star. Ignore the fact that at one point he picks his nose.
I don't feel too badly about my answer to his question about riding on a rocket ship with instruments being "maybe". Who am I to say that he won't one day work for NASA?
I don't feel too badly about my answer to his question about riding on a rocket ship with instruments being "maybe". Who am I to say that he won't one day work for NASA?
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Brush With Death?
It started with a slightly rattly cough on Thursday. It wasn't bad and it was infrequent. On Friday it was more of the same and I thought to myself, Is it in the throat? Is it in the chest? I can't tell. Sometime, in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I woke up. It felt like someone--or something--was standing on my chest. The pain was excruciating. I tried to suck in a deep breath. Worse. I tried to cough. Forget about it.
Troy had a meeting at our house in the morning and I'd been planning to run errands with the boys so that we weren't all one giant distraction. I managed to get us over to WalMart. As I trudged through the store I thought--on several occasions--that it might be a good idea to sit down for a few minutes and take a little breather. I didn't.
When I got home I took my temperature. It was 100.9 which is high enough for me to feel cruddy. My temperature typically hovers somewhere around 97.3 and I have found that, as an adult, I do not do fevers very well. On top of the raised temperature was the overwhelming feeling that a 300 pound linebacker was standing on my sternum with the goal of breaking me in half. My mommy told me to go to the doctor. "It might be pneumonia" she said.
It was 11:25. Troy's meeting was supposed to be over at noon. I figured I could drive myself to Urgent Care when he was finished. I laid on The Rock Star's bed while the boys played. It was freezing. As the minutes crept by I realized that there was no way I could take myself to Urgent Care. Then, despite my lack of medical expertise, I diagnosed myself with a raging case of Dying. Troy came up the stairs at a little past noon and got the boys ready to go. When they were ready I hoisted myself out of the toddler bed and crept toward the bathroom. I took my temperature. 102.8 is not a good idea. Just let me tell you. I aimed for the car. I made it about fifteen steps before I needed a little rest. Finally I got in the car but I was so violently cold that I sent Troy back in for a blanket.
Troy dropped me off at Urgent Care and took the boys to McDonald's. I waited. 45 minutes later I was called back. Blood Pressure. Oxygen level. Temperature. Throat culture. Have I ever mentioned how very much I loathe and despise throat cultures? My idea of Hell is, like, a never ending throat culture. I hate the taste of the stick in my mouth. I hate feeling like I am going to gag and then, knowing me, vomit on the nurse. I hate the obnoxious tickly feeling of cotton on my uvula. (Side note: I just googled uvula to make sure I was using the correct word and, apparently, the uvula can be pierced. Um. OUCH.) So after the throat culture I waited about twelve minutes for the doctor to come in. He asked me questions. He listened to me. He ordered chest x-rays.
After the x-rays were done I leaned against the wall, partly because I was about to fall over from fatigue and partly because I was trying to catch a peek at the scans over the technician's shoulder. And oh my gosh I thought I had some kind of huge tumor which is probably why they don't want hypochondriacs with no medical training looking at their x-rays in the first place.
I went back to wait some more, all the while thinking, Hopefully that giant tumor looking COUGH thing is just phlegm and the doctor is not going to come back in here with a referral to oncology because I've never smoked a day in my life and that would be so totally lame and I don't really want to die and COUGH oh ow! COUGH man it hurts when I do that and I am so tired and hurry up and get back in here and tell me whether or not I'm about to expire.
He finally came back in as I labored for breath without pain--a futile sort of goal. He explained that I had left lower lobe pneumonia. There would be an injection. Awesome.
The nurse came in sporting an enormous needle. Now, if you've been reading here long enough you know that I am a recovering trypanophobic. I'm pretty much over it. I feel almost no apprehension when I am going to have my blood drawn and only a few seconds of anxiety when I'm going to get a shot. So I took off my jacket. "This one goes in your hip," she stated.
"Oh that's FANTASTIC!" I said, my voice dripping with all the sarcasm my pneumonia ridden self could muster. I thought about running but I knew with my compromised lungs I wouldn't get very far. Plus, my husband had texted me and he and the boys were in the waiting room. I didn't think it would be a very good example for them if mommy went tearing out of there like a lunatic. I've had fertility shots in my hip before (and let's be honest, hip is just the word they say when they mean butt) and they didn't hurt but, in case this one was terrible, I needed to prepare myself. "Just so I know," I started, trying to control my voice so I didn't sound like a total baby, "should I be prepared for this to hurt?" Keep in mind, I thought, my sanity hinges on your answer. I'm a serious flight risk.
"Um," she hesitated. Hesitation with medical personnel, I've learned, is never good. "I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to sting. It, uh, yeah. It hurts. But you'll feel a lot better tomorrow." Why did I ask? Stupid. Stupid Lori. Because, really, when it comes to weighing the horrors of having a 300 pound linebacker on my chest (or other such awful things) with the horrors of painful needles well, I've only very recently decided to go with the needle. I dropped trou. Although, in this case, it was really more of just scooting trou down a smidgen. I bent over the table. She said, "Okay. Here's the pinch. A little burn..."
"Ow." That was me, not her.
She slapped on a band aid. "We're done. You're going to want to rub that."
"Oh. That wasn't bad." I said.
"Really?" She sounded shocked. "I wouldn't want to have to get that shot."
"Maybe I was just expecting it to be so much worse," I said. But even as the words were leaving my mouth I found myself in horrible, excruciating pain. Spreading from the entrance site of the needle into my entire right buttock and down my leg there was an intense and horrific, almost mind numbing pain. I felt like I wasn't thinking straight.
"You need to wait here for ten minutes so that we can make sure you don't have an allergic reaction." She smiled gently, realizing, I'm sure, that I'd spoken much, much too soon.
"My husband and sons are in the waiting room," I managed to squeak out. "Can you send them back here so the boys don't terrorize your waiting room any more?" What I meant, of course, was, Can you please get my husband and my sons because I. Don't. Want. To. Die. Alone.
When they came back I was still standing there with my pants hanging down. I found the task of pulling them up entirely too challenging amidst all the pain and suffering. The only reason I wasn't sobbing was because I knew the three-year-old was coming. They'd told me to keep moving so I alternated between pacing around the small room and bending over the sink making stepping motions. All the while rubbing my butt, of course. It was a sight to behold, I'm sure. And if ever there was a time for me to play the "for better or worse" card, it might have been then. I explained, through clenched teeth, to the concerned little boy, that it was not the needle that had hurt but that the medicine in my bottom was painful. The shot itself, I explained to him, felt like it was licked on by kittens. He's not stupid. He knew I was pulling his leg. I think it did his tender heart good to hear me making jokes. He does not like when his family is hurting. It was also the first time I thought I might live through the whole ordeal. As long as I've got my sense of humor, I thought, I just might pull through. I told Troy I'd rather be giving birth. He reminded me that I'd had an epidural. I think that if I ever get pneumonia again I might ask for an epidural before allowing them to give me Rocephin. If, by the way, I ever learn how to properly pronounce that, I think I might start using it as a curse word.
The doctor came in and asked how I was doing. "This is the best feeling EVER!" I informed him and, honestly, had my children not been there, I might have grabbed him by the collar and screamed, "You did this to me!" as though I were in the throws of labor--sans epidural--and it was somehow his fault. He gave me four prescriptions on top of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad shot and told me that he needed to see me again today.
I was free to go. The problem was that the intense pain had spread down my entire leg and seemed to have affected all the muscles on the right side of my body from my butt down to my ankle. To say that I limped out of the office sort of dragging my leg as I went would be an understatement. When I sat down (ouch!) in the car my leg was hanging out the door. I told my brain to tell my leg to lift itself in but it just wouldn't work. I reached down and hoisted it up and in. At about twenty minutes post shot the pain finally began to come in waves of about two seconds on followed by two seconds off. Up until that point it had been a steady stream of keep all sharp objects away from me or I'm cutting off my tooshie and all surrounding areas because surely it would hurt less than this. As the day went on the pain receded and is now--nearly 24 hours later--located only to a circle, about four inches in diameter, around the spot of the injection.
Troy went and filled my four prescriptions. I took them and then slept for a few hours in the afternoon. I went to bed at 9:00. My fever broke sometime in the middle of the night. I woke up and hauled myself back to the doctor while Troy took the kids to church. I'm feeling much better except for the fact that I am extremely exhausted. Thank goodness I was fever free and the pain in my chest had subsided because, apparently, a repeat injection is often needed and, let's face it, I'm way too big of a baby for that.
Yesterday, Troy asked the doctor if pneumonia typically comes on that fast. He said that it certainly can. And, since stress and fatigue weaken the immune system it's really no wonder I developed pneumonia. The real wonder is probably the fact that I hadn't gotten it before now. Troy then asked how long it lasts. The doctor replied that symptoms can hang on for weeks and I need to make sure I'm resting. I find this especially awesome since, well, I have two rambunctious sons. But for the moment...for the moment...they are at church and I am resting in my bed. Making sure, of course, that my weight is on my left bun.
Troy had a meeting at our house in the morning and I'd been planning to run errands with the boys so that we weren't all one giant distraction. I managed to get us over to WalMart. As I trudged through the store I thought--on several occasions--that it might be a good idea to sit down for a few minutes and take a little breather. I didn't.
When I got home I took my temperature. It was 100.9 which is high enough for me to feel cruddy. My temperature typically hovers somewhere around 97.3 and I have found that, as an adult, I do not do fevers very well. On top of the raised temperature was the overwhelming feeling that a 300 pound linebacker was standing on my sternum with the goal of breaking me in half. My mommy told me to go to the doctor. "It might be pneumonia" she said.
It was 11:25. Troy's meeting was supposed to be over at noon. I figured I could drive myself to Urgent Care when he was finished. I laid on The Rock Star's bed while the boys played. It was freezing. As the minutes crept by I realized that there was no way I could take myself to Urgent Care. Then, despite my lack of medical expertise, I diagnosed myself with a raging case of Dying. Troy came up the stairs at a little past noon and got the boys ready to go. When they were ready I hoisted myself out of the toddler bed and crept toward the bathroom. I took my temperature. 102.8 is not a good idea. Just let me tell you. I aimed for the car. I made it about fifteen steps before I needed a little rest. Finally I got in the car but I was so violently cold that I sent Troy back in for a blanket.
Troy dropped me off at Urgent Care and took the boys to McDonald's. I waited. 45 minutes later I was called back. Blood Pressure. Oxygen level. Temperature. Throat culture. Have I ever mentioned how very much I loathe and despise throat cultures? My idea of Hell is, like, a never ending throat culture. I hate the taste of the stick in my mouth. I hate feeling like I am going to gag and then, knowing me, vomit on the nurse. I hate the obnoxious tickly feeling of cotton on my uvula. (Side note: I just googled uvula to make sure I was using the correct word and, apparently, the uvula can be pierced. Um. OUCH.) So after the throat culture I waited about twelve minutes for the doctor to come in. He asked me questions. He listened to me. He ordered chest x-rays.
After the x-rays were done I leaned against the wall, partly because I was about to fall over from fatigue and partly because I was trying to catch a peek at the scans over the technician's shoulder. And oh my gosh I thought I had some kind of huge tumor which is probably why they don't want hypochondriacs with no medical training looking at their x-rays in the first place.
I went back to wait some more, all the while thinking, Hopefully that giant tumor looking COUGH thing is just phlegm and the doctor is not going to come back in here with a referral to oncology because I've never smoked a day in my life and that would be so totally lame and I don't really want to die and COUGH oh ow! COUGH man it hurts when I do that and I am so tired and hurry up and get back in here and tell me whether or not I'm about to expire.
He finally came back in as I labored for breath without pain--a futile sort of goal. He explained that I had left lower lobe pneumonia. There would be an injection. Awesome.
The nurse came in sporting an enormous needle. Now, if you've been reading here long enough you know that I am a recovering trypanophobic. I'm pretty much over it. I feel almost no apprehension when I am going to have my blood drawn and only a few seconds of anxiety when I'm going to get a shot. So I took off my jacket. "This one goes in your hip," she stated.
"Oh that's FANTASTIC!" I said, my voice dripping with all the sarcasm my pneumonia ridden self could muster. I thought about running but I knew with my compromised lungs I wouldn't get very far. Plus, my husband had texted me and he and the boys were in the waiting room. I didn't think it would be a very good example for them if mommy went tearing out of there like a lunatic. I've had fertility shots in my hip before (and let's be honest, hip is just the word they say when they mean butt) and they didn't hurt but, in case this one was terrible, I needed to prepare myself. "Just so I know," I started, trying to control my voice so I didn't sound like a total baby, "should I be prepared for this to hurt?" Keep in mind, I thought, my sanity hinges on your answer. I'm a serious flight risk.
"Um," she hesitated. Hesitation with medical personnel, I've learned, is never good. "I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to sting. It, uh, yeah. It hurts. But you'll feel a lot better tomorrow." Why did I ask? Stupid. Stupid Lori. Because, really, when it comes to weighing the horrors of having a 300 pound linebacker on my chest (or other such awful things) with the horrors of painful needles well, I've only very recently decided to go with the needle. I dropped trou. Although, in this case, it was really more of just scooting trou down a smidgen. I bent over the table. She said, "Okay. Here's the pinch. A little burn..."
"Ow." That was me, not her.
She slapped on a band aid. "We're done. You're going to want to rub that."
"Oh. That wasn't bad." I said.
"Really?" She sounded shocked. "I wouldn't want to have to get that shot."
"Maybe I was just expecting it to be so much worse," I said. But even as the words were leaving my mouth I found myself in horrible, excruciating pain. Spreading from the entrance site of the needle into my entire right buttock and down my leg there was an intense and horrific, almost mind numbing pain. I felt like I wasn't thinking straight.
"You need to wait here for ten minutes so that we can make sure you don't have an allergic reaction." She smiled gently, realizing, I'm sure, that I'd spoken much, much too soon.
"My husband and sons are in the waiting room," I managed to squeak out. "Can you send them back here so the boys don't terrorize your waiting room any more?" What I meant, of course, was, Can you please get my husband and my sons because I. Don't. Want. To. Die. Alone.
When they came back I was still standing there with my pants hanging down. I found the task of pulling them up entirely too challenging amidst all the pain and suffering. The only reason I wasn't sobbing was because I knew the three-year-old was coming. They'd told me to keep moving so I alternated between pacing around the small room and bending over the sink making stepping motions. All the while rubbing my butt, of course. It was a sight to behold, I'm sure. And if ever there was a time for me to play the "for better or worse" card, it might have been then. I explained, through clenched teeth, to the concerned little boy, that it was not the needle that had hurt but that the medicine in my bottom was painful. The shot itself, I explained to him, felt like it was licked on by kittens. He's not stupid. He knew I was pulling his leg. I think it did his tender heart good to hear me making jokes. He does not like when his family is hurting. It was also the first time I thought I might live through the whole ordeal. As long as I've got my sense of humor, I thought, I just might pull through. I told Troy I'd rather be giving birth. He reminded me that I'd had an epidural. I think that if I ever get pneumonia again I might ask for an epidural before allowing them to give me Rocephin. If, by the way, I ever learn how to properly pronounce that, I think I might start using it as a curse word.
The doctor came in and asked how I was doing. "This is the best feeling EVER!" I informed him and, honestly, had my children not been there, I might have grabbed him by the collar and screamed, "You did this to me!" as though I were in the throws of labor--sans epidural--and it was somehow his fault. He gave me four prescriptions on top of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad shot and told me that he needed to see me again today.
I was free to go. The problem was that the intense pain had spread down my entire leg and seemed to have affected all the muscles on the right side of my body from my butt down to my ankle. To say that I limped out of the office sort of dragging my leg as I went would be an understatement. When I sat down (ouch!) in the car my leg was hanging out the door. I told my brain to tell my leg to lift itself in but it just wouldn't work. I reached down and hoisted it up and in. At about twenty minutes post shot the pain finally began to come in waves of about two seconds on followed by two seconds off. Up until that point it had been a steady stream of keep all sharp objects away from me or I'm cutting off my tooshie and all surrounding areas because surely it would hurt less than this. As the day went on the pain receded and is now--nearly 24 hours later--located only to a circle, about four inches in diameter, around the spot of the injection.
Troy went and filled my four prescriptions. I took them and then slept for a few hours in the afternoon. I went to bed at 9:00. My fever broke sometime in the middle of the night. I woke up and hauled myself back to the doctor while Troy took the kids to church. I'm feeling much better except for the fact that I am extremely exhausted. Thank goodness I was fever free and the pain in my chest had subsided because, apparently, a repeat injection is often needed and, let's face it, I'm way too big of a baby for that.
Yesterday, Troy asked the doctor if pneumonia typically comes on that fast. He said that it certainly can. And, since stress and fatigue weaken the immune system it's really no wonder I developed pneumonia. The real wonder is probably the fact that I hadn't gotten it before now. Troy then asked how long it lasts. The doctor replied that symptoms can hang on for weeks and I need to make sure I'm resting. I find this especially awesome since, well, I have two rambunctious sons. But for the moment...for the moment...they are at church and I am resting in my bed. Making sure, of course, that my weight is on my left bun.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Puddles
Garrett is the best big brother. He's been jealous of Matthew for a total of about two minutes in the last twelve and a half months. He plays with him, helps him, teaches him, adores him. I hope, with all my heart, that one day he will teach his brother how to soak his shoes and pant legs...
I hope that one day the two of them will hold hands and jump in puddles together.
I hope they are able to continue learning from and teaching one another about life, love, and puddles.
Every day before his nap and every night before we put his brother in the crib, he insists on giving him a kiss and a hug. This afternoon I put Matthew down while Garrett was still at the table having lunch. When I came down the stairs he shouted, "Wait, Mommy. I have to give my brother a kiss and a hug." So I trudged up the stairs, went into their room, hoisted Matthew out, and let Garrett give him a kiss and a hug.
Matthew grinned from ear to ear and returned the affection with an open mouth slobber kiss to Garrett's cheek. They are brothers. And every day they warm my heart in the best of ways.
I hope that one day the two of them will hold hands and jump in puddles together.
I hope they are able to continue learning from and teaching one another about life, love, and puddles.
Every day before his nap and every night before we put his brother in the crib, he insists on giving him a kiss and a hug. This afternoon I put Matthew down while Garrett was still at the table having lunch. When I came down the stairs he shouted, "Wait, Mommy. I have to give my brother a kiss and a hug." So I trudged up the stairs, went into their room, hoisted Matthew out, and let Garrett give him a kiss and a hug.
Matthew grinned from ear to ear and returned the affection with an open mouth slobber kiss to Garrett's cheek. They are brothers. And every day they warm my heart in the best of ways.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
What's That Smell?
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Is it just my husband or is a bad nose a characteristic of all men with children of diaper changing age? See, we have a loose "whoever smells it changes it" rule in our house. Generally speaking, this rule is implemented. However, if I have my hands all over dinner and I smell the stink, I will often defer to Troy. Also noteworthy is the fact that Garrett is often the first to smell his brother and alert the authorities. It's a good thing he does this because the image of Garrett trying to change his poopy brother is almost more than I can handle. Now, I'll give credit where credit is due. My husband changes a lot of diapers. A mere fraction of the diapers I change, of course, but he's a hands on diaper changing dad. It was something I made sure of before I walked down the aisle. I would have absolutely no part of a husband turned father who wouldn't change a diaper. To me, few things come across more misogynistic than a dude who thinks it is appropriate to father children and then pass their care--especially their diaper care--exclusively on to his wife. So Troy will totally and completely change diapers. It might be what I love most about him.
But. His nose is seriously lacking. Not only do I get the experience of changing Matthew all day long when Troy is at work, (which I gladly do in exchange for getting to stay home with my boys) I also have the misfortune of having a working nose--something my husband, apparently, does not have. I can walk into aroom another state and smell my son's particular brand of stench. It's an interesting combination of your regular poo smell and a bizarre spicy stink. I can't explain it but it often smells like I've been stuffing him full of Indian food. Is that too much information? Moving right along. Matthew can be tumbling over Troy, climbing on him, and darn near sticking his diaper clad bum right in Troy's face and he will not smell it. I'll walk in and immediately say something like, "Don't you smell that?"
T: What?
Me: Your son's putrid diaper.
T: (sniffing dramatically) You know my nose doesn't work.
Me: (under my breath as I walk up the stairs) Convenient.
Often he'll add in a chivalrous, "I'll do it..." but I'm likely halfway through the whole ordeal by then. This whole situation is made more unfortunate by the fact that we could probably turn his poop into fuel and heat our entire home. It's a good day if there are less than four dirty diapers--a fact he'll be thrilled to find out I blogged about when he's an adolescent.
So. A funny thing happened last night. We had a moment where I smelled a stinky Matthew from across the room while Troy couldn't smell what was right under his nose. I told him I was going to blog about his convenient sense of smell. Later, he left for a study at the church. The Rock Star, Little Buddy and I baked sugar cookies. About an hour after Troy got home I asked, "Did you have a cookie?" The house, mind you, was filled with the heavenly smell of freshly baked cookies. He looked at me with a blank stare, said no, and asked me what I was talking about. The cookies were still on the counter.
He meandered into the kitchen, smiled, and grabbed a cookie. "Do you seriously not smell them?" I questioned.
"I told you my nose doesn't work!"
Well, at least it isn't always a matter of convenience.
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Also...I leave you with an interview with Garrett.
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Is it just my husband or is a bad nose a characteristic of all men with children of diaper changing age? See, we have a loose "whoever smells it changes it" rule in our house. Generally speaking, this rule is implemented. However, if I have my hands all over dinner and I smell the stink, I will often defer to Troy. Also noteworthy is the fact that Garrett is often the first to smell his brother and alert the authorities. It's a good thing he does this because the image of Garrett trying to change his poopy brother is almost more than I can handle. Now, I'll give credit where credit is due. My husband changes a lot of diapers. A mere fraction of the diapers I change, of course, but he's a hands on diaper changing dad. It was something I made sure of before I walked down the aisle. I would have absolutely no part of a husband turned father who wouldn't change a diaper. To me, few things come across more misogynistic than a dude who thinks it is appropriate to father children and then pass their care--especially their diaper care--exclusively on to his wife. So Troy will totally and completely change diapers. It might be what I love most about him.
But. His nose is seriously lacking. Not only do I get the experience of changing Matthew all day long when Troy is at work, (which I gladly do in exchange for getting to stay home with my boys) I also have the misfortune of having a working nose--something my husband, apparently, does not have. I can walk into a
T: What?
Me: Your son's putrid diaper.
T: (sniffing dramatically) You know my nose doesn't work.
Me: (under my breath as I walk up the stairs) Convenient.
Often he'll add in a chivalrous, "I'll do it..." but I'm likely halfway through the whole ordeal by then. This whole situation is made more unfortunate by the fact that we could probably turn his poop into fuel and heat our entire home. It's a good day if there are less than four dirty diapers--a fact he'll be thrilled to find out I blogged about when he's an adolescent.
So. A funny thing happened last night. We had a moment where I smelled a stinky Matthew from across the room while Troy couldn't smell what was right under his nose. I told him I was going to blog about his convenient sense of smell. Later, he left for a study at the church. The Rock Star, Little Buddy and I baked sugar cookies. About an hour after Troy got home I asked, "Did you have a cookie?" The house, mind you, was filled with the heavenly smell of freshly baked cookies. He looked at me with a blank stare, said no, and asked me what I was talking about. The cookies were still on the counter.
He meandered into the kitchen, smiled, and grabbed a cookie. "Do you seriously not smell them?" I questioned.
"I told you my nose doesn't work!"
Well, at least it isn't always a matter of convenience.
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Also...I leave you with an interview with Garrett.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Buzz
Remember to enter the giveaway at Givin' In A Fishbowl.
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The results of my blood work are in. Apparently everything looked fine. So. RLS, maybe. A pinched nerve, maybe. Low vitamin B12, maybe. Stress,maybe. Check.
Yesterday and today it has been a little better. I've only had the urge to answer my foot about 50 times today. This is a huge improvement.
Also, since moving here, a sunny 60 degree day in March feels like heaven. 20 year old me with her flip flops in her hand and her feet in the grass at Point Loma wouldn't even understand what I could possibly be talking about. Eight years is a lot of perspective.
In so many more ways than just the weather.
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The results of my blood work are in. Apparently everything looked fine. So. RLS, maybe. A pinched nerve, maybe. Low vitamin B12, maybe. Stress,
Yesterday and today it has been a little better. I've only had the urge to answer my foot about 50 times today. This is a huge improvement.
Also, since moving here, a sunny 60 degree day in March feels like heaven. 20 year old me with her flip flops in her hand and her feet in the grass at Point Loma wouldn't even understand what I could possibly be talking about. Eight years is a lot of perspective.
In so many more ways than just the weather.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Oh What A Night
Check out my first ever giveaway at Givin' In A Fishbowl!
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Well, if the buzzing is Restless Leg Syndrome I have a prescription for it. I'm not filling it until I get the results of the blood work. Apparently we need to rule out diabetes, liver failure, iron deficiency and a slew of other possibilities first.
Neat.
The Rock Star was mighty disappointed that I didn't actually get needles stuck into my foot. When I assured him that the nurse would be back to stick a needle in my arm he perked right up. As the nurse prepared to draw my blood he wrapped his arms tightly around me and, with a determined look, explained to me that I would be fine. I think he would have continued holding me in his vice grip but I told him I was okay. "Are you sure?" He asked. I promised that I was.
All of this tenderness from the boy who shared my bed last night and seemed quite perturbed that he didn't have it to himself. He's had a terrible cough for almost two weeks now. A week ago the pediatrician said he was not contagious but the cough has lingered. Last night he woke himself up every few minutes in hacking fits. Every time he woke up he came looking for us in a groggy and disoriented state. Eventually, we decided to let him sleep with us. Us quickly turned to me as Troy relocated to the couch after Garrett woke him up out of a dead sleep when he (Garrett) violently flopped on top of him.
My night proceeded like this:
Garrett coughs.
Garrett wakes me up.
Garrett wakes up (kind of).
Garrett flops on top of me and mumbles, "Cuddle me?"
He settles down.
I lay there, fully awake, trying not to concentrate on my vibrating foot.
Somehow, vibrating foot, three-year-old on top of me, and all, I finally fall asleep.
Garrett coughs.
The coughing wakes me up.
Garrett wakes up (kind of).
Garrett sits straight up with a look that says, "Why, in the world, are you holding me?"
Garrett flops down next to me.
His head thuds into mine on the way down.
He sits back up.
"What mommy?" He hisses angrily.
I respond by stroking his hair and settling him back down into the pillows.
He takes approximately eleven minutes to get comfortable.
I start to drift off to sleep.
My foot buzzes.
Garrett kicks me in the stomach.
Garrett coughs.
Garrett throws his body over mine.
Garrett flops off my body.
Garrett tells me to move over.
In this case over=off the bed.
I try to get him comfortable again.
Garrett coughs...
So what we've established here is that Garrett and Mrs. The Rock Star will need separate beds.
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Well, if the buzzing is Restless Leg Syndrome I have a prescription for it. I'm not filling it until I get the results of the blood work. Apparently we need to rule out diabetes, liver failure, iron deficiency and a slew of other possibilities first.
Neat.
The Rock Star was mighty disappointed that I didn't actually get needles stuck into my foot. When I assured him that the nurse would be back to stick a needle in my arm he perked right up. As the nurse prepared to draw my blood he wrapped his arms tightly around me and, with a determined look, explained to me that I would be fine. I think he would have continued holding me in his vice grip but I told him I was okay. "Are you sure?" He asked. I promised that I was.
All of this tenderness from the boy who shared my bed last night and seemed quite perturbed that he didn't have it to himself. He's had a terrible cough for almost two weeks now. A week ago the pediatrician said he was not contagious but the cough has lingered. Last night he woke himself up every few minutes in hacking fits. Every time he woke up he came looking for us in a groggy and disoriented state. Eventually, we decided to let him sleep with us. Us quickly turned to me as Troy relocated to the couch after Garrett woke him up out of a dead sleep when he (Garrett) violently flopped on top of him.
My night proceeded like this:
Garrett coughs.
Garrett wakes me up.
Garrett wakes up (kind of).
Garrett flops on top of me and mumbles, "Cuddle me?"
He settles down.
I lay there, fully awake, trying not to concentrate on my vibrating foot.
Somehow, vibrating foot, three-year-old on top of me, and all, I finally fall asleep.
Garrett coughs.
The coughing wakes me up.
Garrett wakes up (kind of).
Garrett sits straight up with a look that says, "Why, in the world, are you holding me?"
Garrett flops down next to me.
His head thuds into mine on the way down.
He sits back up.
"What mommy?" He hisses angrily.
I respond by stroking his hair and settling him back down into the pillows.
He takes approximately eleven minutes to get comfortable.
I start to drift off to sleep.
My foot buzzes.
Garrett kicks me in the stomach.
Garrett coughs.
Garrett throws his body over mine.
Garrett flops off my body.
Garrett tells me to move over.
In this case over=off the bed.
I try to get him comfortable again.
Garrett coughs...
So what we've established here is that Garrett and Mrs. The Rock Star will need separate beds.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Buzz...
Still buzzing.
The best way I can describe it is that it feels like my phone is on vibrate and I'm standing on it and receiving text after text after text. I made a doctor's appointment for tomorrow because, let's face it, if someone doesn't make this go away soon I'll go absolutely insane and we just can't have that.
G: Mommy, does it hurt wiwwy, wiwwy bad?
Me: No. It doesn't hurt at all. It's just ANNOYING.
G: Do you need a needle to get put in your foot?
Me: If a needle would help then yes, I'm all for jabbing needles into my foot.
This morning it was vibrating every other second for over two hours straight and I seriously considered sawing it off with a butter knife.
Maybe if I did that I could host a giveaway on my other blog. You could enter and be the proud owner of my left foot. Speaking of my "other blog" keep an eye on it...I'll be hosting a real giveaway soon.
The best way I can describe it is that it feels like my phone is on vibrate and I'm standing on it and receiving text after text after text. I made a doctor's appointment for tomorrow because, let's face it, if someone doesn't make this go away soon I'll go absolutely insane and we just can't have that.
G: Mommy, does it hurt wiwwy, wiwwy bad?
Me: No. It doesn't hurt at all. It's just ANNOYING.
G: Do you need a needle to get put in your foot?
Me: If a needle would help then yes, I'm all for jabbing needles into my foot.
This morning it was vibrating every other second for over two hours straight and I seriously considered sawing it off with a butter knife.
Maybe if I did that I could host a giveaway on my other blog. You could enter and be the proud owner of my left foot. Speaking of my "other blog" keep an eye on it...I'll be hosting a real giveaway soon.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Foot Vibrations
My foot is buzzing. At least, that's how I described it to my husband last night after half a day of enduring it. It started yesterday afternoon. I suddenly felt this strange vibrating sensation. I thought my foot had slid causing my sock to rub on my shoe for a brief, vibrating, moment. As I tuned into what was happening I quickly ruled out the sock on shoe action and began thinking that it was occurring with my pulse.
Ehhhhh (that is my attempt at writing a buzzing feeling)! Ehhhhhhhh! Ehhhhhhh! (pause) Ehhhh! Eh. EHHHHHH!
Nope. Not my pulse. Unless, of course, I have an erratic heartbeat that I've never noticed before.
I stood. Ehhhhhhh! I walked. I didn't feel it when I was walking. I stopped. Ehhhhhhh! "What the heck is that?" I was annoyed.
By the time I laid down to work on my Bible study and then fall into blissful and much needed sleep I was beside myself. As long as I kept my foot moving it didn't buzz. Or, at least, I couldn't feel it. When Troy came up I was almost in tears. "It doesn't hurt," I told him, "but it is SO annoying. I'm never going to be able to fall asleep." As I laid there I began to wonder if I would ever sleep again. And then...it stopped. I slept. I woke up. I thought about my foot. No obnoxious buzzing. I stood up. Nothing. I walked into the bathroom.
Ehhhhhh!
NOOOOOO!
And it's been intermittently doing it all. day. long.
One thing is for certain. It is not a twitch. I googled "buzzing foot" and "vibrating foot". I might have a neurological disorder, specifically MS. I might have something wrong with my sciatica. Imight have anxiety. I might need to poop. Seriously. That's what someone said. That advice is actually helpful as it allows me to take "neurological disorder" with a grain of salt. It could be...phantom. Great. That's all I need is to be making up phantom foot buzzing. As though I don't have quite enough going on in my life.
Honestly.
And now, not only is my foot vibrating which is just, well, high times, I also can't stop singing, "Foot, foot, foot, foot vibrations." It's an added bonus, really.
So, give me your best guess. Why, in the world, is my foot vibrating?
Ehhhhh (that is my attempt at writing a buzzing feeling)! Ehhhhhhhh! Ehhhhhhh! (pause) Ehhhh! Eh. EHHHHHH!
Nope. Not my pulse. Unless, of course, I have an erratic heartbeat that I've never noticed before.
I stood. Ehhhhhhh! I walked. I didn't feel it when I was walking. I stopped. Ehhhhhhh! "What the heck is that?" I was annoyed.
By the time I laid down to work on my Bible study and then fall into blissful and much needed sleep I was beside myself. As long as I kept my foot moving it didn't buzz. Or, at least, I couldn't feel it. When Troy came up I was almost in tears. "It doesn't hurt," I told him, "but it is SO annoying. I'm never going to be able to fall asleep." As I laid there I began to wonder if I would ever sleep again. And then...it stopped. I slept. I woke up. I thought about my foot. No obnoxious buzzing. I stood up. Nothing. I walked into the bathroom.
Ehhhhhh!
NOOOOOO!
And it's been intermittently doing it all. day. long.
One thing is for certain. It is not a twitch. I googled "buzzing foot" and "vibrating foot". I might have a neurological disorder, specifically MS. I might have something wrong with my sciatica. I
Honestly.
And now, not only is my foot vibrating which is just, well, high times, I also can't stop singing, "Foot, foot, foot, foot vibrations." It's an added bonus, really.
So, give me your best guess. Why, in the world, is my foot vibrating?
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Swiss Family Robinson
So I discovered the joy of borrowing DVDs from the library. Yesterday, as The Rock Star stared into the resident rats (Justin and Dangerous Beans), I picked out a few DVDs for him. He's never seen Antz so I pulled that one. He's only seen part of Ice Age so I grabbed that one. I also picked up The Swiss Family Robinson. I figured it would bore him to tears but I, on the other hand, love that movie. As I kid I dreamed of being shipwrecked on an island and building a home like theirs. I dreamed of one day marrying Fritz--forget the part about how he's actually 44 years older than me. And I've mentioned before how tragic it is that Disneyland massacred their tree house.
I showed him the three that I had picked out. He examined their covers and declared, "I want to watch this pirate one as soon as we get home." He must have asked me ten times before it was actually quiet time. Finally it was time to put it in. He started crying when they shoot at the sharks, declaring, through tears, "It's not nice to hoot at harks!" He laughed hysterically when they ride the animals near the end of the movie. In short, he loved it. As soon as it was over he asked if he could watch it again right away. I told him no.
But guess what he's watching right now?
So was it really necessary to annihilate their house at Disneyland? Does Tarzan really have anything on The Swiss Family Robinson? And one more thing. Was Mother Robinson not the most paranoid mom ever? I mean, sure, there was a tiger and all sorts of other interesting island dwelling creatures and, well, eventually, pirates, but the woman shrieks her head off at a big lizard and she won't let her son swing in a hammock. And then she screams at her husband. But her men slave and sweat and make her what can only be described as some sort of island castle and she's all, "I...I can't believe it." Then there are hugs all around. I don't know. I feel like people weren't supposed to be so uptight back then.
It's due back in six days. How many times do you think we'll have to watch it before next Thursday?
I showed him the three that I had picked out. He examined their covers and declared, "I want to watch this pirate one as soon as we get home." He must have asked me ten times before it was actually quiet time. Finally it was time to put it in. He started crying when they shoot at the sharks, declaring, through tears, "It's not nice to hoot at harks!" He laughed hysterically when they ride the animals near the end of the movie. In short, he loved it. As soon as it was over he asked if he could watch it again right away. I told him no.
But guess what he's watching right now?
So was it really necessary to annihilate their house at Disneyland? Does Tarzan really have anything on The Swiss Family Robinson? And one more thing. Was Mother Robinson not the most paranoid mom ever? I mean, sure, there was a tiger and all sorts of other interesting island dwelling creatures and, well, eventually, pirates, but the woman shrieks her head off at a big lizard and she won't let her son swing in a hammock. And then she screams at her husband. But her men slave and sweat and make her what can only be described as some sort of island castle and she's all, "I...I can't believe it." Then there are hugs all around. I don't know. I feel like people weren't supposed to be so uptight back then.
It's due back in six days. How many times do you think we'll have to watch it before next Thursday?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Samoas
Coconut is of the devil. Just ask my college roommate. I used to remind her often. It became a thing where she responded, often when it had nothing to do with anything, "That's because you don't like coconut."
Anyway, I used to maintain that belief wholeheartedly. It could just burn in the underworld right along with onions as far as I was concerned. Unlike onions, however, it was the coconut's texture that was at fault.
My college cafeteria made these delicious little macaroon thingymabobers and they were to die for. So, as I popped them like peanuts, I decided that coconut was of the devil in all matters except bite sized macaroons. Even coconut deserved a little gray area. Life is just not always black and white.
My husband was approached by a girl in our church selling Girl Scout cookies. He bought two boxes. Unbeknownst to him, I was approached by a different girl in our church. I bought four boxes. (You can tell which of us has the greater sweet tooth, no?) So, with a total of six boxes in our house we won't be buying cookies for awhile. Troy bought a box of Tagalongs because he knows they are my favorite and he knows I won't buy them because they are a total rip off. You get like three cookies for the same price as several dozen trefoils (which I will always think of as "Scotties"). He also bought a box of Samoas, for himself. I gagged as is often my reaction to things covered in coconut coming into my house. I bought two boxes of Thin Mints, a box of "Scotties" and a box of...Tagalongs. I know. I was horrible. I looked at that little order form and I could not resist the pull of those peanut butter patties. So now we have two boxes of cookies that I can easily consume in one sitting. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm kidding. My mom and I did it once. But the Tagalongs are not the subject of this post.
I just frolicked around in the pantry a bit looking for a small sweet snack. The box of Samoas was open. I was desperate. Also, aside from the desperation, I wondered when, if ever, I'd actually tasted one. I pulled the box down off the shelf. I looked at it. I pondered it. I opened it. I held a coconut covered cookie in my hand. And then I shoved it into my mouth.
WHY HAVE I BEEN MISSING OUT ON THESE FOR ALL THESE YEARS? It was just like those stupid macaroons. You could barely taste the coconut and, if you could get past the texture (I could!) the cookie was amazing. What does this mean for my future? Do I need to reevaluate where coconut comes from? Does it actually come from tropical places and not hell as I previously believed?
And you know what else, I've been cooking with onions more. They still have to be fully cooked for me to appreciate them on any level but what is going on? Are my taste buds changing? Is it old age? I am, after all, only 18 months away from thirty. (Wow. I only just now realized that fact and I do not like it.) Anyway. Protect your Samoas. Someone who's spent a lifetime not knowing what she was missing is on the loose.
Anyway, I used to maintain that belief wholeheartedly. It could just burn in the underworld right along with onions as far as I was concerned. Unlike onions, however, it was the coconut's texture that was at fault.
My college cafeteria made these delicious little macaroon thingymabobers and they were to die for. So, as I popped them like peanuts, I decided that coconut was of the devil in all matters except bite sized macaroons. Even coconut deserved a little gray area. Life is just not always black and white.
My husband was approached by a girl in our church selling Girl Scout cookies. He bought two boxes. Unbeknownst to him, I was approached by a different girl in our church. I bought four boxes. (You can tell which of us has the greater sweet tooth, no?) So, with a total of six boxes in our house we won't be buying cookies for awhile. Troy bought a box of Tagalongs because he knows they are my favorite and he knows I won't buy them because they are a total rip off. You get like three cookies for the same price as several dozen trefoils (which I will always think of as "Scotties"). He also bought a box of Samoas, for himself. I gagged as is often my reaction to things covered in coconut coming into my house. I bought two boxes of Thin Mints, a box of "Scotties" and a box of...Tagalongs. I know. I was horrible. I looked at that little order form and I could not resist the pull of those peanut butter patties. So now we have two boxes of cookies that I can easily consume in one sitting. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm kidding. My mom and I did it once. But the Tagalongs are not the subject of this post.
I just frolicked around in the pantry a bit looking for a small sweet snack. The box of Samoas was open. I was desperate. Also, aside from the desperation, I wondered when, if ever, I'd actually tasted one. I pulled the box down off the shelf. I looked at it. I pondered it. I opened it. I held a coconut covered cookie in my hand. And then I shoved it into my mouth.
WHY HAVE I BEEN MISSING OUT ON THESE FOR ALL THESE YEARS? It was just like those stupid macaroons. You could barely taste the coconut and, if you could get past the texture (I could!) the cookie was amazing. What does this mean for my future? Do I need to reevaluate where coconut comes from? Does it actually come from tropical places and not hell as I previously believed?
And you know what else, I've been cooking with onions more. They still have to be fully cooked for me to appreciate them on any level but what is going on? Are my taste buds changing? Is it old age? I am, after all, only 18 months away from thirty. (Wow. I only just now realized that fact and I do not like it.) Anyway. Protect your Samoas. Someone who's spent a lifetime not knowing what she was missing is on the loose.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Resistance
Last night Troy and I were watching an adult movie. Wait, no, not an adult movie as in--never mind. Forget it. We were just watching a movie that we didn't want our three-year-old to see. We'd put the boys to bed at 9:00 ish when we got home from our ministry meetings. The trouble was, The Rock Star had taken a three hour nap in the afternoon in an attempt to fight off a cold that he has. Seriously. Three hours. I had to wake him at 5:15 to get ready to go to my meeting. So I knew it would be hard for him to fall asleep.
We started our movie which was decidedly not that kind of an adult film. Not long after, we heard a thud. A few moments later Troy paused the movie and crept toward the stairs. Suddenly I heard a quieter thud followed by the pitter-patter of scampering feet all the way back to his bed. We laughed and resumed the movie. It wasn't long before we heard the initial thud again.
T: Should I go lay on his floor?
Me: I don't think he's very tired. He can come lay on the couch with me if he keeps his eyes closed.
T: (looking toward the stairs) Garrett.
G: (quietly) Yes, Daddy?
T: Come here.
He climbed up and snuggled into me.
G: I want to watch the movie.
Me: No.
G: Please?
Me: No. You can either lay here with your eyes shut or you can go back up to bed.
G: Will you come lay with me?
Me: No. You can snuggle with me down here with your eyes closed if you want me.
He was quiet for several minutes. I thought he was asleep. Suddenly he let out a huge, overdramatic (no idea where he gets that kind of behavior from) sigh. "This is not good." I thought maybe he was uncomfortable.
Me: What's not good?
G: I want to watch the movie!
Me: No. You know what your choices are.
G: Fine. I'm going to go to bed.
He said the last part as though he was really sticking it to me. It was like I would somehow be devastated and mortally wounded by his choice. As though my world would end. He knows me so well. I was so very upset that he was going to do WHAT WE WANTED HIM TO IN THE FIRST PLACE. He got up and walked straight to his room. When Troy checked on him five minutes later he was sound asleep.
The whole exchange was so stinkin' cute. And can I just tell you that when it comes to my faith I am perpetually three years old. There are so many times when I resist what God wants over and over and over and complain about WANTING TO WATCH THE MOVIE DARN IT and then finally, finally, I skirt off to bed with a glance up to heaven. "I'm going to bed, God. It's my idea. Isn't it such a good one?" And I imagine he rolls his eyes as he whispers...
Yeah. Remember how that's what I asked you to do in the first place?
Except, well, God probably doesn't roll his eyes.
We started our movie which was decidedly not that kind of an adult film. Not long after, we heard a thud. A few moments later Troy paused the movie and crept toward the stairs. Suddenly I heard a quieter thud followed by the pitter-patter of scampering feet all the way back to his bed. We laughed and resumed the movie. It wasn't long before we heard the initial thud again.
T: Should I go lay on his floor?
Me: I don't think he's very tired. He can come lay on the couch with me if he keeps his eyes closed.
T: (looking toward the stairs) Garrett.
G: (quietly) Yes, Daddy?
T: Come here.
He climbed up and snuggled into me.
G: I want to watch the movie.
Me: No.
G: Please?
Me: No. You can either lay here with your eyes shut or you can go back up to bed.
G: Will you come lay with me?
Me: No. You can snuggle with me down here with your eyes closed if you want me.
He was quiet for several minutes. I thought he was asleep. Suddenly he let out a huge, overdramatic (no idea where he gets that kind of behavior from) sigh. "This is not good." I thought maybe he was uncomfortable.
Me: What's not good?
G: I want to watch the movie!
Me: No. You know what your choices are.
G: Fine. I'm going to go to bed.
He said the last part as though he was really sticking it to me. It was like I would somehow be devastated and mortally wounded by his choice. As though my world would end. He knows me so well. I was so very upset that he was going to do WHAT WE WANTED HIM TO IN THE FIRST PLACE. He got up and walked straight to his room. When Troy checked on him five minutes later he was sound asleep.
The whole exchange was so stinkin' cute. And can I just tell you that when it comes to my faith I am perpetually three years old. There are so many times when I resist what God wants over and over and over and complain about WANTING TO WATCH THE MOVIE DARN IT and then finally, finally, I skirt off to bed with a glance up to heaven. "I'm going to bed, God. It's my idea. Isn't it such a good one?" And I imagine he rolls his eyes as he whispers...
Yeah. Remember how that's what I asked you to do in the first place?
Except, well, God probably doesn't roll his eyes.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Peace
Today's Verse:
John 15:19-21 If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you. Remember the words I spoke to you: 'No servant is greater than his master.' If they persecuted me, they will persecute you also. If they obeyed my teaching, they will obey yours also. They will treat you this way because of my name, for they do not know the One who sent me.
************************************************
The best women's speaker I've ever had the privilege of hearing is Bonnie Floyd. I loved her so much, in fact, that I asked for a set of her CDs for Christmas. The set is in my car and I pop one in on occasion. On the CD featuring her astounding testimony she says the following:
He might as well have said to me, "Choose this day whom you will serve." And I want you to know that I am a firm believer that either you have come to a place in your Christian walk or you will come to a place where there is a Y in the road and you can choose the path of peace or you can choose the path of torment. You see, God created us a people of choice and we have the freewill to choose. And the word of God says that he speaks words of peace and hope and encouragement. Words of fear and torment and despair come straight from the pit of hell...And so you have to choose. Are you gonna take the path of peace and listen to the words that minister to you hope or are you gonna take the path of torment? It's your choice.
So again with the peace stuff. And I want to say, "I get it, God." But do I? I understand the fundamentals of peace, sure, but it is certainly not a topic I've mastered. It is not a topic I get. Even if I got it today, I'm sure I'd need to review it again by tomorrow. But he is working in my life and I am learning.
John 15:19-21 If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you. Remember the words I spoke to you: 'No servant is greater than his master.' If they persecuted me, they will persecute you also. If they obeyed my teaching, they will obey yours also. They will treat you this way because of my name, for they do not know the One who sent me.
************************************************
The best women's speaker I've ever had the privilege of hearing is Bonnie Floyd. I loved her so much, in fact, that I asked for a set of her CDs for Christmas. The set is in my car and I pop one in on occasion. On the CD featuring her astounding testimony she says the following:
He might as well have said to me, "Choose this day whom you will serve." And I want you to know that I am a firm believer that either you have come to a place in your Christian walk or you will come to a place where there is a Y in the road and you can choose the path of peace or you can choose the path of torment. You see, God created us a people of choice and we have the freewill to choose. And the word of God says that he speaks words of peace and hope and encouragement. Words of fear and torment and despair come straight from the pit of hell...And so you have to choose. Are you gonna take the path of peace and listen to the words that minister to you hope or are you gonna take the path of torment? It's your choice.
So again with the peace stuff. And I want to say, "I get it, God." But do I? I understand the fundamentals of peace, sure, but it is certainly not a topic I've mastered. It is not a topic I get. Even if I got it today, I'm sure I'd need to review it again by tomorrow. But he is working in my life and I am learning.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Who Named These Planets Anyway?
Lately, The Rock Star has been obsessed with planets. Every Tuesday and Thursday, on our way to preschool, he asks me to tell him the names of the planets so that he can repeat them after me.
Me: Mercury.
G: Mercree.
Me: Venus.
G: Benus.
Me: Earth.
G: Earf.
Me: Mars.
G: Mars.
Me: Jupiter.
G: Jupiter.
Me: Saturn.
G: Aturn.
Me: Uranus.
G: An Anus.
Me: Neptune.
G: Neptune.
Me: Pluto.
G: Pwooto.
Yeah. Who named that seventh one? Seriously.
Me: Mercury.
G: Mercree.
Me: Venus.
G: Benus.
Me: Earth.
G: Earf.
Me: Mars.
G: Mars.
Me: Jupiter.
G: Jupiter.
Me: Saturn.
G: Aturn.
Me: Uranus.
G: An Anus.
Me: Neptune.
G: Neptune.
Me: Pluto.
G: Pwooto.
Yeah. Who named that seventh one? Seriously.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Last Weekend
Let's just pretend that we hadn't lived here for 27 months before we ever went to The Great Salt Lake. Let's pretend that our experiences with the lake surpassed merely seeing it from the air and driving past it on our way to my favorite lake. It's not that we hadn't tried to go to the lake, it's just that every time we thought about going it rained or snowed or something came up.
Finally, on Friday, we made it to Antelope Island on our way up to Logan for a weekend away. Apparently the island is typically inundated with brine flies but we didn't see a single one. I guess going in the winter is the way to do it. The Rock Star and Little Buddy had their first experience withbison buffalo bison whatever these creatures are.
In my day I've been much closer to one of these animals than I got on this particular afternoon. In Yellowstone, when I was nine, one of them was on the side of the road, about six feet from our car. And a few years ago, at Campus by the Sea on Catalina Island, my brother and I came within about ten feet of one before hightailing it back down the mountain. I decided this picture was good enough. I didn't feel like being gored to death two days before my youngest son's birthday.
Garrett kept insisting that he'd swam in the Salt Lake before. We assured him that he hadn't and he launched into a speech. "Yes. Remember. I jumped in with my Papa and my Uncle Jon was there and it was cold and we went swimming a lot." Not the same lake. "Yes!" No. Have you ever tried arguing with a three-year-old? Lake Tahoe, Salt Lake, what's the difference?
We actually saw some creatures for which the island is named. I went on a little journey to get this picture. A journey through what you ask? Well, I shall show you in just a moment. I stopped to take a picture of my "journey" and apparently The Rock Star asked his father what I was doing. Troy replied, "I bet she's taking a picture of poop."
Ahhh. Does he know me or what? I think what impresses me most is not the fact that he knew I was photographing poo but the fact that he continues to love me anyway. I had to put my foot in this picture just to show the sheer size. And can I just tell you that I had to watch each and every step so that I didn't sink my shoe straight into one of these gems. They were...everywhere.
So it totally looks like both of my children are desperately trying to get away from me. Turns out it was chilly and windy and both of them would look at the camera with frowns. In my attempt to tickle both of them simultaneously we got the above shot. Apparently my children are flight risks.
On Friday night we stayed with our good friends up inStupid Logan. On Saturday we went up to Hardware Ranch to introduce our sons to elk.
I know that isn't an elk. I typically don't get within five feet of these suckers on account of the bad experiences I had 21 years ago but I'm trying to grow up so I don't pass my irrational fear of equines on to my sons. So I pet this one on the nose. And it didn't even try to eat me.
We all piled onto a wagon and took off onto the preserve with our friends. Garrett thinks they are his cousins or his siblings or something.
Garrett and Isaac and, well, a lot of elk.
Allison and Matthew.
Elk. A lot. Of. Elk.
Hungry elk.
Kimmie and Garrett playing in the snow.
We had a great weekend out in God's great creation, introducing our sons to range animals, hanging out with friends, and photographing poop. Especially photographing poop.
Finally, on Friday, we made it to Antelope Island on our way up to Logan for a weekend away. Apparently the island is typically inundated with brine flies but we didn't see a single one. I guess going in the winter is the way to do it. The Rock Star and Little Buddy had their first experience with
In my day I've been much closer to one of these animals than I got on this particular afternoon. In Yellowstone, when I was nine, one of them was on the side of the road, about six feet from our car. And a few years ago, at Campus by the Sea on Catalina Island, my brother and I came within about ten feet of one before hightailing it back down the mountain. I decided this picture was good enough. I didn't feel like being gored to death two days before my youngest son's birthday.
Garrett kept insisting that he'd swam in the Salt Lake before. We assured him that he hadn't and he launched into a speech. "Yes. Remember. I jumped in with my Papa and my Uncle Jon was there and it was cold and we went swimming a lot." Not the same lake. "Yes!" No. Have you ever tried arguing with a three-year-old? Lake Tahoe, Salt Lake, what's the difference?
We actually saw some creatures for which the island is named. I went on a little journey to get this picture. A journey through what you ask? Well, I shall show you in just a moment. I stopped to take a picture of my "journey" and apparently The Rock Star asked his father what I was doing. Troy replied, "I bet she's taking a picture of poop."
Ahhh. Does he know me or what? I think what impresses me most is not the fact that he knew I was photographing poo but the fact that he continues to love me anyway. I had to put my foot in this picture just to show the sheer size. And can I just tell you that I had to watch each and every step so that I didn't sink my shoe straight into one of these gems. They were...everywhere.
So it totally looks like both of my children are desperately trying to get away from me. Turns out it was chilly and windy and both of them would look at the camera with frowns. In my attempt to tickle both of them simultaneously we got the above shot. Apparently my children are flight risks.On Friday night we stayed with our good friends up in
I know that isn't an elk. I typically don't get within five feet of these suckers on account of the bad experiences I had 21 years ago but I'm trying to grow up so I don't pass my irrational fear of equines on to my sons. So I pet this one on the nose. And it didn't even try to eat me.
We all piled onto a wagon and took off onto the preserve with our friends. Garrett thinks they are his cousins or his siblings or something.
Garrett and Isaac and, well, a lot of elk.
Allison and Matthew.
Elk. A lot. Of. Elk.
Hungry elk.
Kimmie and Garrett playing in the snow. We had a great weekend out in God's great creation, introducing our sons to range animals, hanging out with friends, and photographing poop. Especially photographing poop.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
His Laugh
The Rock Star loves to play Wii. We don't have one but when we're in San Diego he has a great time playing with my parents' or my brother's. Mario Kart is a real favorite. He thinks it's hysterical to yank the wheel so that the racer runs into walls or falls off the track. It really is the opportune time to catch his laugh on video. See for yourselves...
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Jehovah-shalom
Be still, my soul, the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide
In every change, He faithful will remain
Be still, my soul, thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
I've heard it's always darkest before dawn. I don't really buy it. I was a competitive swimmer and I spent many a darkened morning driving to practice or to meets. It isn't darkest before dawn. Before dawn there is an odd bluish black tint to the world. The light is trying so hard to infiltrate the darkness.
But boy do I get it on an emotional level. Dawn is coming and it sometimes seems pitch black around here. What that dawn will look like I have no idea. Will it be the dawn of my desire? Will it be the dawn of a door closing? A dawn where I have to turn around and face a different morning than I wanted to...
I don't know. Details are spinning and we're trying hard to move through each day without letting the emotional turmoil get the better of us. For various reasons, we've had a rough couple of days. Imagine my joy when God's word came to me, living and active, once again. Imagine my amazement when he revealed himself as Jehovah-shalom: The Lord is Peace.
Over the summer the Lord took me through a wonderful journey of learning to find joy in the trial. Should I take this new lesson as a hint that maybe I'm on a trek through the fruit of the spirit? This has been a long year. It has been filled with questions and pain and counsel and dreaming and baby steps. While the trial may not bring a definitive end to any of this, it will certainly bring direction. 42 days. There are 42 days left in my life as I've come to know it. And I am in desperate need of my Jehovah-shalom.
"Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us." Romans 5:1-5
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide
In every change, He faithful will remain
Be still, my soul, thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
I've heard it's always darkest before dawn. I don't really buy it. I was a competitive swimmer and I spent many a darkened morning driving to practice or to meets. It isn't darkest before dawn. Before dawn there is an odd bluish black tint to the world. The light is trying so hard to infiltrate the darkness.
But boy do I get it on an emotional level. Dawn is coming and it sometimes seems pitch black around here. What that dawn will look like I have no idea. Will it be the dawn of my desire? Will it be the dawn of a door closing? A dawn where I have to turn around and face a different morning than I wanted to...
I don't know. Details are spinning and we're trying hard to move through each day without letting the emotional turmoil get the better of us. For various reasons, we've had a rough couple of days. Imagine my joy when God's word came to me, living and active, once again. Imagine my amazement when he revealed himself as Jehovah-shalom: The Lord is Peace.
Over the summer the Lord took me through a wonderful journey of learning to find joy in the trial. Should I take this new lesson as a hint that maybe I'm on a trek through the fruit of the spirit? This has been a long year. It has been filled with questions and pain and counsel and dreaming and baby steps. While the trial may not bring a definitive end to any of this, it will certainly bring direction. 42 days. There are 42 days left in my life as I've come to know it. And I am in desperate need of my Jehovah-shalom.
"Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us." Romans 5:1-5
Monday, March 1, 2010
Something New
Head on over to my latest project...a new giveaway and review site. I've just done my first review and you can check it out here.
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