Disney Day 1

We arrive at the airport, where my hand lotion is confiscated by the security dudes that pride themselves in keeping our air safe. The pervasive odor of my Bath & Body Works "cotton blossom" lotion may knock out the crew and bring down the plane, don't you know.

There is a bit of excitement at 30,000 feet elevation when a woman gets ill and faints in the middle of the aisle. They declare a medical emergency and ask for doctors or nurses on board to assist. I respond (thrilled to dust off my nursing skills), as does a chiropractor. He and I assess, and administer and oxygen and first aid. She recovers and all is well. We land without incident in Orlando at 1pm local time. The weather is perfect: sunny and in the mid 70's.

We arrive at our convention hotel, and the boys enjoy a refreshing swim in the spectacular pool with water slide. Then Super Hubs heads to a dinner seminar. Rock Star, Little Squirt and I, exhausted from our 4:30am wake up time, dine at the hotel pizzeria, then go back to our room to relax. Tomorrow we will take on The Magic Kingdom!

Destination Happy

The suitcases are packed and ready to go. A couple of light jackets and backpacks sit by the doorway, travel-ready.

Our animals are mulling about, perhaps discerning that there’s about to be a temporary change in the occupancy of this house:
(The long-haired dachshund): “Oh no! Where are My People going?? Will they take me with them?? Don’t go, My People! Don’t leave me! I miss you already!”
(The cats): “Yahoo! The People are apparently leaving. Go, People. Leave our home fast! It’s been far too long since we’ve had the entire bed to ourselves.”

Tomorrow we have an early-morning flight. Destination: “The Happiest Place on Earth.” We are heading to Disney World! Super Hubs has a conference in Orlando and will be mostly occupied with things of higher education. But the kids and I will frolic our way through the parks, and hopefully enjoy the pools at our hotel, weather-permitting. The forecast calls for high 70s and sunshine. Can you hear me singing, “Halleluia!”??

I will attempt to blog on location, if I am able. (Not to make you jealous. Just to be purely informative.) So good-bye, cold and gray November in Chicago. Hello, Happiest Place on Earth!
“Heigh ho, heigh ho, to Disney World we go……..”

Questionable Quiche

One thing that I insist on, pretty much without exception, is that we have dinner together as a family at least 4 times per week. I aim the bar just that high, and if we eat together more often, I call it us “blessed.”

Last night was a “mandatory attendance dinner”, as Sundays usually are. Because we had all eaten a big breakfast at church, I made lighter fare: a pepper jack cheese quiche, fruit salad and French bread. I love to cook under most circumstances, but was glad I had an especially easy meal to prepare last night. I prefer my Sundays to be fairly relaxed.

I was curled up in an easy chair, on the last chapters of an intriguing mystery, when the stove timer rang, indicating that the quiche was cooked. Drinks were poured, all called to the table, and I began dishing out. Suddenly, the square piece of quiche I had cut flipped over as I attempted to put it on my daughter’s plate, revealing silvery-brown spots on the backside. Puzzled, I cut through several other pieces. It appeared that there were grotesque spots on the bottom of every single piece of quiche! What in Sam Hill was wrong with my quiche??

“Ewwwww, this is disgusting!” was the general consensus. Super Hubs and I looked at each other in dismay. My beautiful meal, completely ruined! What was up with the quiche? We scratched our heads in dismay. A Teflon-leak? A weird dairy chemical reaction? A yet undiscovered fast-growing heat-thriving mold of some sort? What else could it be? Our brains sought a possible answer. Anthrax??? (Just kidding. I only wrote that for reader amusement. So if you are from Homeland Security and reading this, please don’t have your team come breaking down my door wearing Hazmat suits and carrying “Quarantine” signs. My neighbors might become alarmed.)

“Okay, kids,” I called, tossing the quiche and pan into the garbage. “To the minivan! It’s a pizza night!” And all was not lost, as we headed to our favorite pizza restaurant for a fun family evening.

But I sit here today, consumed with the mystery. I have made many a successful quiche in my day. I have used that exact Teflon pan for over two years with nary a problem. I have cooked numerous dinners in my 18-year marriage, all devoid of freakish splotches. So, dear readers, I ask for your input, and enclose a picture for your reference. (Warning: It’s not for the faint of heart.) If you can identify the unholy markings blemishing my quiche’s rear end, please advise. Input from chemists, chefs, biologists, Teflon-pan makers and terrorists welcome and appreciated.

Reality Check

It was Date Night again last night. Yahoo! We met two other couples at a charming little Italian bistro and had a jovial evening, which included a pinot grigio toast to Global Warming. (Here in the Midwest, Global Warming is our Friend.) A good time was had by all, except for the part where I thought I recognized “the young missing mother” from a newspaper story, alive and well and enjoying fettuccine alfredo a few tables over. Apparently I was very wrong, and, again, I apologize for wrestling that poor women to the ground and screaming, “Somebody call the Bolingbook police! I found her ALIVE!” It was…..well, mortifying to all involved. But I swear she looked just like the woman. And there is a $20,000 reward. Never mind. My bad. Let’s blame it on the pinot grigio.

In any case, as I was enjoying the gnocchi with marinara, we got to talking about Reality Television, and how my friends have certain favorite shows they watch. I did not admit it last night, but now I must confess that I am physically incapable of watching Reality TV. I am way too much of a softie, and I cannot bare to watch adults lose, be disappointed, get voted off, be humiliated on national TV. I honestly have to turn the channel. Darn my stinkin' “mush heart!” Their sad faces haunt me, and my co-dependency issues rear their ugly head. I want to take the “losers” home, bake them a pie, and pour encouragement into their broken hearts, and hope into their broken dreams.

When I saw a clip of a young boy on American Idol be verbally throttled by Simon Cowell, the sight of his hurt, confused eyes wrecked me for weeks. I truly cried about him for a couple of days, until I heard that Rosie O’Donnell, bless her kind and generous heart, sent him to Disney World.

I would make the WORST judge on one of those shows. I really would. I’d waffle back and forth: “I like him, but I also like her. I’d actually rather not hurt anyone's feelings. Let’s give them EACH an “A” for effort, gosh darn it! They all did their very best, so let’s just hand everyone a check and call it a night.” Yes, I would be an appallingly bad judge on one of those shows. Which is why I’ve never been asked. (That, and many other reasons.)

What is my point? I have no idea. Perhaps it's one of the following:
A. If ever I watch Reality TV, I must have a jar of Zoloft and a big hunk of something chocolate.
B. Rosie O’Donnell is a nicer person than Simon Cowell.
C. I should never blog after a night of drinking pinot grigio.

Thanks to all who have been so encouraging about my blog, and to those wonderful people that leave comments. It is humbling to discover that people occasionally read my ramblings. Bless you all!

Walking On Air

I’ve had some big doses of “happy” the last two days:
1. The early morning frost has killed off whatever allergen had been causing my chronic sinus headaches. No more nasally voice!
2. I discovered Garnier Fructis Style Sleek & Shine anti-humidity smoothing milk. My Bad Hair Days have been banished to Kingdom Come. This stuff is like Jennifer Aniston’s hair in a bottle. I swear, folks. Try it if humidity is not kind to your tresses.
3. We still have two bags full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups left over from Halloween. Ice cold from the freezer, they are a little glimpse of what food will taste like in Heaven.
4. Relationships. Relationships. Relationships.

I had lunch with a friend yesterday that I’ve known for 9 years. She’s the one of the most encouraging women ever. She speaks my love language, “words of affirmation.” We shared some Tai food and caught up on our busy lives.

Lauree is an incredible listener; so attentive to what I’m saying. When I’m with her, I feel as if I am the most interesting person in the world. (And I’m not. Believe you, me.) She peppers her responses with, “You can do it,” ; “You’re so strong,” ; “You do such a great job.” She told me she thought I looked great; she loved my jeans; she loved my lipstick color. And I believe she really meant it. When I leave her presence, I feel built up, cared about, and valued. I float blissfully away, empowered to tackle any obstacle threatening my self-esteem. Bring it on!! I’ve just had a major dose of Lauree! I wish I could bottle her up and take a daily swig.

And why is she like this? Why is she so darn wonderful? What makes her such a warm, kind, inspiring person that genuinely loves people? I believe it’s because she loves God so much and spends daily time in His Word, mulling over it, following what it says. And I get the fruit of such a beautiful friend!

I left our lunch hoping that I'm the kind of person that makes my friends feel at least half as good as Lauree makes me feel.
“Whatever is in your heart determines what you say.”
(Luke 6:45)

A Potty Training Story

Little Squirt, my baby, is now 5. He’s been a totally lovable handful his entire life, and I could not live without him. I need him like I need air. But he has had those moments, I’m telling you, when he has really tested my limits………

I’m a procrastinator. I prefer to put off until the last possible moment things that I don’t want to do. Which is why I waited to potty-train my last-born until he was well over 3 1/2.

I readily admit that it was a decision born out of sheer laziness on my part. Deplorable laziness. I had been through the potty-training process twice before with my other children, knew the commitment it required, understood the frustration it reaped, and so chose to put it off with Little Squirt as long as I possibly could. I was hoping that if I waited long enough, maybe Little Squirt would just kind of………potty-train himself? Like magic! I had visions that he would wake up one morning with the realization that diapers were totally uncool and only enlarged his posterior. He’d choose to wear his Spiderman undies and keep them dry all day, and then we’d celebrate this milestone together over chocolate milk. It would be a bonding mother/son moment. And that would be the end of that. I’d be retired from potty-training FOREVER!

But that fantasy did not unfold. So I finally succumbed to pressure from my husband and a certain relative, cleared a few days in my schedule, and began. So far, the whole potty-training process had gone really well. More than well. It had been going great! Fabulously great! Clearly, waiting to potty-train my son until he was on the upside of 4 had been THE RIGHT THING TO DO. Little Squirt and I had The Perfect Potty-Training Partnership, I believed. I could write a book on the subject! Provide inspiration and hope to parents everywhere! Little Squirt had kept his underwear dry for two whole days straight and I was very proud of him. He was showing wisdom and self-control, of the potty-training kind, beyond his years. He was obviously brilliant! Or so I thought, until one particular morning.

We got off to an early start that day, when he bellowed for me at 6am. My older two children were off at sleepovers, and my husband had left the house for an early appointment. I drank coffee and read the paper, and then realized, after Little Squirt’s second juice box, that I had better take him to the bathroom. We were a few feet away from our destination when he poured forth a flood the size of Lake Erie. “That’s oookaaay,” I said with feigned cheerfulness. “We’ll just clean it up and try to go sooner next time!” I plunked him onto his plastic potty-seat that lay over the toilet, and told him to “stay put” while I cleaned up the mess. Then I ran to get him a change of clothes.

While I was upstairs, I heard some “thumping noises” coming from the dining room. Knowing that I had left Little Squirt sitting on the toilet with explicit instructions not to move, I curiously went to the top of the stairs and looked down. And there, below me, was a sight to behold. I was dumb-founded. What the ??? My “brilliant” preschooler stood in the middle of the dining room, naked, with his potty-seat hanging around his neck. “It’s stuck, Mommy!” he whimpered as he tried unsuccessfully to pull it off. “Little Squirt, what were you thinking? Why did you put that over your head?” I asked. “I wanted to wear a hat!” came the answer.

Slightly amused and wondering if I should grab my camera to immortalize this moment, I took hold of the potty-seat and tried to bring it up over his head. It wouldn’t budge. I wiggled and jiggled it, trying to move it up at different angles. It wouldn’t move. Not a smidgen. Not an inch. The more I tried to pull it off his head, the more fussing and wriggling he did, and I was afraid I would injure him. The darned thing just wouldn’t come off! It really WOULD NOT go over his head! It appeared to be permanently stuck! Oh. My. Gosh. It was actually possible to get a toilet seat stuck on one’s head! Now I was starting to feel alarmed. How could I get this thing off him? Should I try shaving off his hair? What if the potty-seat was on him FOREVER??!!

“Okay, buddy, let’s just take a little break while I think this one out,” I said with a calmness I wasn’t feeling. I began to search my mind for solutions that didn’t involve extreme pain for him. I twizzled my hair and fretted. Think. Think think think. I twizzled and fretted some more. I thought harder. I played out several scenerios in my head.

First, I thought of calling a neighbor to help me. If I just had one other adult to hold Little Squirt still, I thought, I could try to force the potty-seat over his head. If it went on, then surely it must come off! And neighbors love to help each other, don’t they? That is what bonds community together. A crisis such as this. Yes, calling a neighbor was surely the answer!

And then I imagined my phone call:
“Hi Neighbor! It’s Kelly from down the street…….. Yes, the one that feeds the wild opossum on her porch. I realize it’s only 6:30am on this fine Saturday morning, but I have a bit of a situation with my child………”

No. Noooo. No way. I quickly dismissed that idea. As nice as my neighbors were, I feared that they, you know, might gossip. About my family. In a ridiculing kind of way. And I did not want this foolish antic from my household to be fodder for the neighborhood gossip mill. I usually prefer to keep our foolish antics on the “down low”.

And then I thought about taking Little Squirt to an Emergency Room. An ER would be open at this time. Surely the kind professionals who worked at an ER could deal with a problem such as this! They probably had all kinds of tools and devices that could cut this potty- seat safely off his neck with a minimum of fuss. It would be just another minor problem in their busy day. Yes, that was the solution! But then my imagination wandered some more.

I pictured myself sitting in the ER waiting room for hours with my three-year-old sitting on my lap; potty-seat dangling around his neck like some big, weird appendage. Strangers would gawk and laugh at us. We would be judged and mocked. It could scar us emotionally for days!

And I thought about the ER Doctor, who, with patronizing patience, would tell me (a pediatric nurse and veteran mother of three) the CORRECT way to use a potty-seat: “It goes on the OTHER END of your child, Mrs. M., and I’ll have the nurse come in with a doll to demonstrate the proper technique, just so you know.” And then I thought of handing my husband an enormous ER medical bill, which I was pretty certain Blue Cross would not cover.

No. Absolutely not. The Emergency Room was a very bad idea all around. Way too humiliating. I could not bear it.

I quickly scanned my mind and The Yellow Pages for other possibilities. Who could help with a problem such as this? Whom do I call?……… A locksmith? A beauty salon? A plumber?? Hatmaker??? Think think think. My panic increased and my possible “solutions” began bordering on the ridiculous.

“Pweeze help me, Mommy!” Little Squirt pleaded, bringing me back from my anxious thoughts. “Ok, my child,” I said determinedly, “I will get this potty-seat off you myself if I have to use Daddy’s chain saw!” My adrenaline soared.

And then…….call it Divine Inspiration; call it The Crazy Idea of a Mother Who Was Out Of Other Ideas; call it what you will. My eyes caught sight of a very large jar of Vaseline that was sitting on the bathroom counter. It seemed to glow with all the brightness of the Northern Lights on a clear summer evening. I had a “Halleluiah” moment!!

I grabbed that jar, and told Little Squirt we were going to have some fun. I plastered him all over his hair and neck with the petroleum jelly. Then I grasped my child in a tight hold, mustered up all the strength that I could, and sent off a quick prayer. I pulled and maneuvered….pulled some more and twisted the potty-seat around his neck. Little Squirt stayed miraculously still, God moved in His heaven, all the planets aligned……. and with a loud sucking sound, the potty-seat came over his head.

“Ow! My ears hurt!” Little Squirt screeched, then scurried off to play, his hair sticking up in a greasy, spiky “do”.

I held that potty-seat, slimy with Vaseline, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. And I thought about how smug I’d been about Little Squirt's “success”. And how I would never in my life forget the sight of him: completely nude except for the potty-seat he wore around his neck. And I was reminded about why I deplore potty-training. It’s really never easy. Not ever. Do it early or do it late. No matter. It’s always just difficult. But at least this would make a great story for his baby book.

Nurse Ratched

Butterfly: “Why, why, WHY does Mom make us get a flu shot every year?? None of my friends have to get them!”
Rock Star: “Because she hates us.”
Butterfly: “I can’t stand shots. I’d rather get the flu. I’d rather DIE!”
Rock Star: “Why couldn’t we belong to that religion that is against medical care?”
Butterfly: “I don’t know, but (pointing to the driver’s seat) she’s horrible!”

The above was a conversation between my teenagers yesterday, as I drove our minivan to the doctor’s office for our annual family bonding ritual: “ The Administration of the Influenza Vaccine.” Little Squirt sat oblivious in his car seat. He’s a “live in the moment” kind of guy.

They went on singing my praises all the way to the clinic. Call me Mommy Dearest, but I make my kids get the flu shot every year, because I love them and do not went them to suffer from influenza. I abstain. Not because I fear the shot, but because I would welcome an excuse to spend 3 full days in bed with a box of Kleenex and the remote control, my family waiting on me hand and foot.

We pulled up to the doctor’s office, and I corralled my reluctant children into the waiting room, where they spent another ten minutes wringing their hands in anxiety. Then we were ushered into a room where the nurse lined them up and stuck them. First Butterfly, then Little Squirt, and lastly Rock Star. It was all over in a few short minutes. Two cried and one was stoic. I won’t name names. I gave them sweet-filled treat bags for the ride home, to boost their endorphins and assuage my guilt. Then I told them about Madeline.

I worked as a Pediatric Nurse in an office for 12 years, giving thousands of shots to children of various ages and cooperative levels. On the occasion that I would have an extremely non-compliant or combative child, whom even the parent was unable to control, I would call for “Madeline.”

Madeline was the oldest and most experienced nurse in our pediatric office. She was big of form and personality, with a heart of gold deeply imbedded in a crusty exterior. She took a no-nonsense, “Old School” approach to her nursing skills. She’d march into the patient room with a loud, “What’s going on in here?!!”, move the startled parent out of the way, grab the bewildered child in a bear hug with a stern warning to “Hold still or else!”, and then I’d administer the required shots before they even knew what was happening. I’d leave the room in a fit of giggles, remembering how the child’s fear of the needle was greatly diminished by the terror of their interaction with Madeline. I’m guessing “The Bogey-Man” they dreamed of that night had her face.

I drove my children home, and reassured them that, even with tender deltoid muscles, they’d be able to carry their Trick-or-Treat bags the next evening. I pampered them with ice packs and put a movie on for all of them to watch together. And our ritual was done for the year.