Health Hysteria

[WARNING: This post deals with some gross, albeit not graphic, kiddie health and hygiene issues. If body functions and illness make you squicky, skip this post. If not, read and enjoy. It's a doozy...] Somehow, I think I mysteriously and secretly earned the equivalent of an MD from the moment I pushed my kids out of the womb. That is the only explanation I can think of that has enabled me to deal with all the bodily fluids, cuts, bumps, bruises and other things that my children have managed to expel, ingest, wedge or whatever else they can think to do with this stuff. Today was one of those days that I wonder how I manage to keep my own stomach in check--must have turned to iron over the years. First, let me say that Erin is having her tonsils and adenoids removed tomorrow morning at 7:30. Although surgery is never a great thing for a child (esp. one that's only 3), this procedure is greatly needed and I've been anxious for it to happen. I'm tired of having my daughter mistaken for Darth Vader when she breathes or as a buzzsaw when she sleeps. Poor kid! Big sis Cailyn had it done last year (age 5) and it was like a miracle for her. She slept through the night, is well rested and healthy now. Anyway, Erin decided that the past week was the PERFECT time to start potty training. Yes, the switch flipped and now she's peeing and (mostly) pooping on the toilet. This is great news, as I'm tired of dropping money on diapers and pull ups, but right before surgery? Not the best time to start. Still, she's determined. So, tonight, my mom arrives to help with the kids, as Jon (DH) is out of town for an extended trip. We take the girls to Applebees for dinner. Cailyn's looking pretty tired, but says she's ok. We get into the restaurant and she lays flat on the booth bench. Just as we're all sitting down, she sits up, points to her mouth and mumbles, "Sick." Somehow, I manage to yank her tall, 65 pound body up over the booth, while telling my mom "MOVE!". I rush her to the bathroom, half dragging/half carrying her there, where she almost makes it to the toilet before SPLAT...I won't go into any more details here. The cause? Carsickness... I get Cailyn cleaned up and apologize to the poor schmuck that has to clean up the mess (I did offer to help, btw). Cailyn's feeling all better and settles down next to my mom. Just as my butt hits the bench, a little voice speaks into my ear. "Mommy, I need to go potty. Now." SIGH. Yeah, and by the way, Mom's sitting there with this big grin on her face. Grrr.. So, off I go with Erin. The guy is still cleaning up when I walk in. He tells me it's closed. "Listen, I know my last kid made a mess, but if I promise this one won't puke, can I please have her go? She's training right now." Fortunately, the guy has a sense of humor (or just feels bad for me). For the record, Erin did her thing, got big cheers from all of us and I finally managed to get back to the table, where I needed a real stiff drink, but managed to only order a water with lemon. And, yes, I did manage to eat my dinner, too...Some may not be able to do that after dealing with puke, pee and poop all within a 10 minute timespan, but hey, I'm a mom. If I got grossed out easily, I'd never eat!!!

The River Wild...

Great Falls on Auburn/Lewiston border
Fortunately, there wasn't the severe flooding along the Androscoggin River, but as you can see from the pictures, the river is brimming and pushing its way along aggressively. I've posted 3 pictures of what the river looks like. I've been taking lots of shots lately, of almost anything. My online photography class has been a lot of fun. I still don't understand a lot about the manual settings, but the pictures I took today were some experiments with shutter speeds and aperatures--please don't ask me to explain a lot about these: remember, I'm still learning. It was rather overcast, so the light isn't great, but not bad for still early on in my picture taking history. Sun is out now, so maybe I'll grab some more shots later, before picking up Erin. In the meantime, it's back to cleaning the house. Mom arrives in about 3 hours and I want to make sure I don't give her ammo to criticize! LOL Will post more later...

Raging Rapids...

The rain stops, but water still flows...

Voices from the third floor (first draft)

Thanks to those of you who have recently read/commented on my blog. Glad to have you and hope you stick around. Below you will find the latest chapter draft of my memoir piece. It is a very rough first draft--basically what you read is what I typed with as little correction or revision as possible. As always, I welcome feedback. I'm already thinking that this chapter needs something else--more dialogue or something. But, as I indicated in the piece, many of the actual words aren't clearly recalled--just the emotions behind them. Anyway, thoughts, ideas, suggestions are always welcome. Thanks for reading. ------------------------------------------------------- VOICES FROM THE THIRD FLOOR When I was a girl, I didn’t have a cell phone. Of course, during the 70’s and early 80’s, no one did. There simply wasn’t a need for one. Sure, some people can say it was because times were safer and parents didn’t have to keep a 24 security watch on their children back then. That may be true, to some extent. However, me and my friends who grew up on Tuckahoe Road had something far superior than any hi-tech flip phones that teens, tweens or perhaps even some preschoolers may carry around in their pockets or backpacks. This marvel of technology was able to carry messages across courtyards and even down the street. An opened window transmitted news faster than the speed of light, whether it was shouted from or up to by neighbors, children…hell, strangers probably even passed the word along from time to time. The open window was almost like magic in our apartment complex: it was multi-functional and, yet, so simple to use! There was no programming involved, no annoying ring tones to download--although some of the voices I can’t say much for their ear pleasing qualities—and no numbers to memorize. Our open apartment windows could tell time: “Frankie!” Grandma Hughes would holler from her perch looking directly down to the front end of the court yard. “Time to eat!” They were the first prototypes for ATM’s. Not one of us had to type in a password. “MOM! THE ICE CREAM MAN IS COMING!” were the magic words and money would rain down. All I can say that I was grateful when my parents threw down the paper money rather than the change. Not only did it make finding the cash a lot easier, but it was much gentler when it landed smack in the middle of my forehead, as my eyes followed it through its descent. As far as I was concerned, though, the window’s ability to foretell the future was its greatest power. Whether I was digging in the dirt, riding my bike or just hanging out on the front stoop, whatever I heard from the window would tell me what the end of the day would be like. Ironically, hearing nothing—absolute silence—came as a welcome sign to me. Many days, I prayed that I heard nothing. Other times, though, the voices from my third floor window signaled loud and clear that a long night was ahead. These weren’t voices calling a daughter to dinner or someone having the volume of the television up just a bit too loud. They were voices of anger—of my dad screaming at my mom and her frustrated and bitter returns. To this day, I can’t exactly recall the words that I would fly out the open window. But, truthfully, it really doesn’t matter what precisely was spoken. Even then, it was the volume, the tone and what sounded like an utter lack of love that dug itself into my ears. At first, embarrassment was my reaction. My parents’ arguments seemed to become a form of guilty entertainment for my core group of friends. They would stop whatever game we’d be playing or any other activity going on and just listen. I would watch as their eyes tracked the noise coming from the two open living room windows. A heat would rise within me—first out of shame for being the focus of such gossip fodder, and then out of fear of my friends dropping me like a bad fad. In my mind, I wondered who would want to hang around with a girl with such a weird family. My childhood naiveté didn’t consider the possibility that my friends’ folks fought, too. I’m pretty sure they did; they just had the common sense (and decency) to do it behind closed doors and windows. Eventually, though, the novelty of the Skerritt Scream-a-Thons wore off. My buddies, either out of sympathy for me or just because they bored of them, were able to ignore them after a while. The arguments became a regular fixture in our courtyard. It was easy for my friends to keep walking past the windows. Most times, I would follow right along, chatting and laughing with the rest of the group. But, rarely an occasion would go by that my eyes had to pause, ever so slightly, to acknowledge that these weren’t just voices from a third floor window. It was my life being broadcast to the world. Our dirty laundry hung out for all, not to see, but rather, to hear. At the end of any of these days, I would slowly climb the three flights of stairs leading to my apartment. I already knew what was waiting behind the thick, black metal door. Still, I stood outside of it, looking up at the peep hole and the numbers that identified my home: 3B. I wished I could look inside, so that I could see what was going on, that if what I envisioned in my mind was the reality that awaited me once I opened the door. But, reality could only wait so long. My eyes would close, my hand gripped tightly on the brass knob and I pushed open the door. The aroma of something delicious cooking on the stove would hit me as I entered and for the briefest of moments, I could imagine things were “normal”. “What’s for dinner, Mommy?” “You’ll see,” she’d say as she closed the oven door. “Go get your father. It’s time to eat.” With a hopeful smile, I’d search around the apartment for him. If I found him in the bedroom, it was never a good sign. Still, ever the optimist, I would try… “Hey, Daddy…come on, it’s time to eat!” He sat on the edge of the bed and look out a window that was just a bit too high to get a good view from where he was located. Without turning, he’d snap, “Tell your mother I’m not eating,” Then, he would take a long drink from his beer. “Tell her she killed my appetite…again!” I left silently and sat at the table, waiting for dinner to be put in front of me. Yeah, I should have known from the voices it was going to be a night like that. The voices never lied.