Just Because You're Paranoid Doesn't Mean They Aren't After You

I went to the drugstore early this morning for more provisions.

The woman asked me if she could help and then directed me to aisle 12, where they keep the children's cold medicine.

I crouched in the aisle, blearily reading labels, trying to figure out if I needed "Cold and Congestion,"  "Fever and Cough," "Cough and Cold," "Cough+DM," or the catch-all: "Severe Cold."  And deciding that I probably needed the reading glasses in aisle 7 instead.

The woman came by again.  "Can I help?"

I picked up a box.  "I think this will do it," I said, not at all sure that it would.  I think I have been trying to help Ethan fight this same bug since early December, some sort of zombie virus that keeps resurrecting itself.

She said, "You look like you've been up all night with a sick kid."

Well, okay then.  I smiled weakly and took a little offense. 

Until I caught sight of myself in the car window.

She was being generous.

I looked like I'd been up all night for three straight weeks, with breaks during the day to go to my job at a Siberian work camp.

It was not pretty.  Deathly pale, hair askew, bags as big as jet-puffed marshmallows under and over my eyes, the skin bruised and blackened by yesterday's smudged mascara.  My teeth were coated in thick sleep-slime, and at the corners of my consciousness I could just smell myself.  

Well, okay then.

I have disinfected every surface.  I have wiped down the door handles, the light switches, the desks, the countertops, and the door jams.  I have washed the sheets and the backpacks and every jacket Ethan owns.  I have lathered his boney spine and long, thin feet in essential oils and vapor rub.  I have filled him full of vitamin C, cough suppressants, probiotics, the flu vaccine, fever reducers, and immune system boosters.  I have given him fluids and rest and instructions to wash his hands after every class.  I have run the humidifier, the nebulizer, and the tired path to the drugstore.

But I can't beat it.

Every ten days it shows up again. 

I'm starting to get paranoid.

What am I missing?

I told Savannah I was going to send her to school with a can of Lysol wipes so that she could wipe down the inside and outside of his locker.  And all the handles of the classrooms while she was at it.  She looked at me, horrified.

But I'm desperate.  It's the freaking viral zombie apocalypse.

And apparently, I may already look like one of the walking dead.

Pain Management

Fair warning.  I'm feeling a little cheeky this morning.

I just used a swear word on Instagram, so there you go.  Now I'll probably be banned from Instagram.  Reported as inappropriate.  Don't worry.  It was completely appropriate. 

Did you hear?  It's Friday. 

Just when you thought you couldn't take it any more.  Relief and reprieve.  And not a minute too soon. 

Last night, after a long day of mothering and maiding and parent teacher conferencing and cello lessons and homework and burning up a quarter tank of gas and giving a fireside and not eating dinner til ten o'clock, I was moaning in bed. 

And not the good kind. 

Sometimes I get so tired and frustrated that I can no longer form words.  Swear words or otherwise.  And so I just groan and squall and make primal animal noises.   

It helps. 

My mom used to tell me that it wouldn't help.  That I should just say "hippopotamus" over and over and it would make the pain go away.  But I prefer caterwauling.   

After a few minutes of this, I managed a few words.  "I need some positive feedback," I said. 

"You're doing good," David said with no enthusiasm or conviction.  Like the way he says "We need milk" or "I'm going to mow the lawn." 

Pathetic. 

I protested.  "You didn't even try."   Pause.  "Come on, I need Boss's Day.  I'm the boss of everything and I need a day."

David caught the thread then.  "Ya, isn't that dumb?" he asked, and went on a long discussion about how ridiculous Boss's Day is, my problems forgotten and left on the side of the conversation. 

Ethan has been limping around the last few days.  He scraped his knee at a volleyball game in P.E. and has been using my grandmother's cane around the house.  Yesterday he and Olivia played wall ball on the garage door and he used the cane the entire game.  Not to mention the quart of Neosporin that has been slathered on the wound.  You can't be too careful.

The other kids just roll their eyes.  Ethan's low pain tolerance is legendary.  You should hear him when he has a canker.  On more than one occasion I have considered taking him to the emergency room.  For a canker.  I tell David, "Maybe something's really wrong."  Abscess?  TMJ?  Throat cancer?  David just shakes his head.  But I can only remember the time that Savannah cried for four days after she fell down hard on the sidewalk and I kept telling her to "be happy and put a smile on."  Turns out her arm was broken. 

It's possible that Ethan has shattered his knee cap and I keep making him soldier on--go to school, walk home from the bus stop, play wall ball, take a shower--all with a scraped knee.  Oh, the wails that ensue during the shower scene.  You'd think he was being murdered. 

Every night we listen to his homicide through the walls.  "Maybe something's really wrong," I say.  We're probably going to have to amputate.  David just shakes his head.   He's had lots of experience.  He's married to me after all.  After years of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, he knows when something's really wrong.  And it rarely is.

In the meantime, I say, do what you need to. 

Scream.  Yell.  Bellow.   Use a cane.

It hurts. 

Don't I know it? 

The Last Week of September, By the Numbers

Oh, September, get going already.

It's no secret that September and I have never gotten along.  And this year was worse than usual.  I think it is no coincidence that September starts with the same letters as Satan and sadistic and stupid and sorrow and self-pity and suck.  So there. 

But the last week of September does have a few redeeming qualities, namely that  one, September is almost over, and, two, that a couple of my children were born at the end of it.  And speaking of numbers, here are a few more: 

1.  At 8:30 last Tuesday night, Olivia told me that she needed a poodle skirt for school the next day.  Trouble was, I didn't happen to have two yards of colored felt on hand and at that time of night I didn't have the heart to face Joann's (which is difficult even when you're feeling 100%, let's be honest).  And so I looked through my cupboards and found what I thought was a decent substitute: quilt batting.  Ahem.  Brilliant, I know.  (I blame it on September.  I told you it was stupid.)  I whipped up a poodle skirt with ric rac and everything.  Trouble was, quilt batting is not actually felt and it also does not possess the same qualities as felt, and so it began to stretch apart when she sat.  I could foresee a tragedy of monumental proportions at school the next day when she stood up after Algebra.  Skirt made of batting x school day = Absolute naked.  So I whipped up another one.  Yes, that's right.  2 poodle skirts in 1 night.  The next morning when David dropped her off at school, Olivia noticed that no one else had dressed up.  Zero high-schoolers thought 50's Day was a good idea.  This had not occurred to Olivia, who thinks everything is a good idea.  She asked David to take her home to change.  He wisely (remembering my two-poodle-skirt-effort the night before) encouraged her out of the car.  I got this picture texted to me later.  Luckily, the cutest guy at school also thought 50's Day was a great idea.

2.  Last week we became a three-car family.  I told David that I thought I'd be old when we had three cars.  He just looked at me.  Because...um...we are old.  Apparently.  David loves having a third car almost more than Caleb does because it has eliminated his 5:30 drive to early morning seminary.  As for me, no one ever told me about the abject, all-consuming fear that would become a permanent part of my life once my children started driving themselves around.   

3.  Ethan turns 10 this week and Olivia turns 15.  There will be 1 chocolate cake and 1 lemon pie and 25 candles.  There will be a camping trip with 1 bonfire, 6 sleeping bags, and a billion stars.  And we will watch the waning moon cross the sky and mark another year on earth with these 2 beautiful children.  I will never get over how fast it really goes.

4.  Last week I spent 8 hours in the emergency room with a friend who had an ectopic pregnancy.  My own experience, twelve years ago this September, has been on my mind a lot since then.  I have replayed those days and weeks over in my mind and have been left to simply conclude that the preservation of my life was nothing short of miraculous, Ethan's arrival 2 years later was nothing short of divine intervention, and I have been deeply humbled, once again, by the mercy of God.

5.  For the next two weeks, David is the acting CEO at the hospital, while his boss is out of town.  This has not changed any of our lives in any way, but David has been delighted about it.  I told him he should do a performance evaluation on the vice president (David's current job) and give that guy a raise.

6.  When we moved into this house, I moved the girls into a shared queen bed.  Because of the configuration of the room, there just wasn't room for two twin beds.  Two and a half years later and the queen bed just wasn't working.  The girls were uncomfortable, someone was always on someone else's side of the bed, or someone would steal all the covers in the night, or it was always someone else's turn to the make the bed, and on and on and on.  I was determined to find a solution.  We had a conference.  I got opinions from people smarter than me.  We talked about it.  We googled it.  We called in the acting CEO.  We thought about having Ethan switch rooms, we thought about turning the loft into a bedroom, we thought about repainting, rearranging, and, briefly, even about moving.  (I told you September was stupid.)  Finally I decided to make a really tall headboard and cover an outside door.  This made enough wall space to put in two twin beds.  While I was at it, I made a couple of upholstered bed frames to match.  (I don't know how my mother ever did her job without online tutorials.)   Honestly, I feel about as proud about the whole thing as if I had personally separated conjoined twins. 

7.  Lastly and leastly, after months of waiting, we are all happy that season 4 of The Middle starts tonight.  We've had to get by on months of Food Network and netflixing old BBC crime dramas, and are completely delighted that real television is starting again.   

And with that, I am shaking off the shroud of September.  Come, thou Great October, with your promises of Conference weekend, hot chocolate with salted caramel, a BYU homecoming game, spooky movie marathons, homemade donuts and spicy goulash, fall in the mountains, and a little green face paint.

Only five more days, September.  Your number's up.

The Case Against Eden

David and I were in the temple last night and so this morning the lone and dreary world seemed worse than usual.

"I hate the lone and dreary world," I said from my side of the bed.  "It's lonely.  And dreary." 

David only sighed.  He knew where this was going. 

And so I ranted on my own for a bit and then went to find our children.   

Breakfast, scriptures, lunches, practicing, hair.  In that order.   

And then out the door.  The lone and dreary world was waiting. 

We went to the bus stop.  The world was about to get lonelier and drearier.   

And then Ethan told us that today was international talk-like-a-pirate day and tried out a few sentences littered with 'Black Pearl' and 'golden doubloon' references.  Savannah and I grinned.  When he got out of the car he said, "Love you," in his best piratey brogue.

We laughed out loud and Savannah whispered privately, "That pirate sounds a lot like cookie monster." 

I was filled with pure, unadulterated delight.  And suddenly, getting the lone and dreary world in exchange for the chance at joy and rejoicing in your posterity seemed like the best trade in the world.  It made me wonder if the Serpent mentioned nine-year-old boys in his list of reasons to taste the forbidden fruit.  

I'm thinking it probably sealed the deal. 

My Kingdom for a Canoe

David and I went skinny dipping last night.

It seemed like the right thing to do, given the heat and the haze of the first full week of school. 

I have wept and complained and moaned and wailed.  I have had more than one vivid fantasy about pulling everyone out of public school and packing up the tent and moving to the rainforests of British Columbia.  Maybe we'd even buy a canoe.   You know, to get around.  In an effort to blame someone for the shock and pain of real life, I have given David the stink eye, the evil eye, and the pleading, don't-leave-me-now eye.

All to no avail.  There is no help for it.  We are back to school.  And somehow it seems like the greatest tragedy of my life. 

I keep asking David, "Why are we doing this?" 

And he just looks at me indulgently.  "Come on, Ap.  We want our children to be educated, right?" 

I'm honestly not sure. 

Ethan came home from the first day of school with a stiff upper lip.  By dinner, though, he had dissolved into hiccupy sobs.  The kind that break your heart.  Halfway through his chicken and artichokes he was in my lap, his head buried in my neck.  His two best friends have moved away and both the lunchroom and the playground had been very lonely affairs. The next day I wondered what kind of person sends her nine-year-old boy back to the same fate, armed only with bolstering hugs and whispered words of encouragement.  It seems preposterous.  On every level. 

The other children are transitioning with more grace and ease.  Especially Olivia.  She started high school and somehow managed to find a group of cute senior boys to eat lunch with.   Life has never been better.  At the same dinner table that Ethan sobbed his heart out, Olivia couldn't stop grinning. 

It's overwhelming. 

How am I supposed to nurture and care for all these children given all that emotion?  At any moment, there are wild swings between the happiness or misery of my four children.  And five days in, I'm exhausted.  And heartbroken.  And worried.  And worn thin.  And sick to death of office supply stores.  And so, so tired.  Did I mention I was tired?  I actually had the thought this week that I ought to have my thyroid checked and then I remembered we were just back in school.  And as hard as I'm working, it's still not enough.  I told David that we need none of me from 9:00 to 2:00 and we need four of me from 3:00 to 9:00.  There are some serious staffing issues around here in the late afternoon.

David says, "Come on, Ap.  It's only the first week."  He says this to be encouraging.  Like, give it some time and it will get better.  We'll get used to it somehow.

But I only hear, "It's only the first week," and desperately wonder how I can possibly manage another thirty-eight.  See?  That place in the rainforest sounds awesome. 

This afternoon I am going with Caleb so he can take his driving test for his license.   

Maybe I will tell him to just keep driving, and driving, and driving, until we find the open ocean and a sturdy canoe. 

A Day in the Good Life

My Basis kids, Caleb and Savannah, have the whole week off.  Believe me, they've earned it.  They've done the work of an entire year in just nine weeks.  And then some.

My other two, trudged reluctantly back to school today, as I pumped them full of promises of a couple more days off at the end of the week.

Minus David, we all spent the day yesterday playing round after round of Bang! and eating the weekend leftovers.  This morning Caleb and Savannah slept blessedly late and then we played a few more hands and an opening match of Caleb's new game, Power Grid.  Then we went for a late lunch and a lazy trip through Barnes and Noble, mostly just to browse.  It was a near perfect way to spend the day, and I feel nothing but lucky to have them to myself for the week.  Believe me, I've earned it too.  As amazing as I am, chauffeuring and cheerleading and championing has worn me thin.  It is not to much to say that for the past month, the thought of this glorious week in my future has been the only thing getting me out of bed in the morning.

Tonight my three oldest have gone to the temple.  It's Savannah's first time inside.  When I was ironing Caleb's shirt, I overheard Olivia reassuring Savannah not to worry, that she would show her what to do.  And she will. David is on his way home from surgery committee.  He had a terrible day, but I will cheer him up because I could not have had a better day.  I even managed to wash and fold the laundry in between my turns on the game board.  I was fun and efficient.  A near impossible combination.

This morning as I was sorting laundry and doing dishes and picking up pens and highlighters and General Conference notes, I found a treasure: Ethan's careful summary of each talk.  Succinct little sentences of what he heard.  They were a revelation, sweet and tender and unaffected.  Then under the notes from President Eyring's talk, Ethan had written:

President Henry B. Eyring talked about the temple and how you can't see Jesus Christ inside the temple.

Which probably wasn't quite the message President Eyring wanted to convey.

I smiled.  And wondered if there were any talks that I had misinterpreted as well.  What a job those men have!

Speaking of difficult jobs, mine was a very good one to have on a day like today.

The Stories My Camera Could Tell

We bayed at the full moon, the full moon almost as full as our hearts.

We ate birthday smores.

We waded upriver and tried to float back down.

We played football and chess and Bohnanza in the woods.

We sat around the campfire and told our favorite stories about Ethan.  Mine was about the time the principal called because he had beaten up a third grader. 

Just for the record, it was a glorious weekend in the wilderness. 

Who needs Eden? 

Seven Already

Last night I had Ethan on my lap fresh from his bath.  He smelled delicious.  Soap and skin and childhood.

While he was sitting there, I told him that he almost didn't make it to earth and Savannah said, "Really?  Or are you just making that up?"

Apparently Savannah thinks much of my reality is fiction.  (She may be right.)

I said, "Really,"  and inhaled his damp hair again.

This morning when David kissed me, it was longer than usual, with some slow tenderness thrown in for good measure.  He was remembering.  How close he came to losing me.  How close he came to losing Ethan.  How lucky we are.  How everyday is a miracle.  Oh yeah.

A couple of nights ago, Ethan fell asleep while we were reading.  David carried him to bed and Ethan's legs looked as long as tree limbs sticking out from David's arms.  When did that happen?  His body used to curl.  Now it is straight.  Straight up.  Straight out.  All the time, his bones are going and going, his muscles and cells and brains and skin, all going and going.

Won't you stay? Please?

David put him to bed, and while the earth spun around its axis he grew a little more.

Tonight we will build a huge bonfire and dance around it like banshees and tell the moon how happy we are that this boy was born to us.  And he will crawl in his sleeping bag and look at the stars until he falls asleep and then he will grow all night long.

Among his birthday gifts this year were two chapter books, a chess set, and a large map of the world.

After he left for school I looked at that pile and winced.  Sometimes you can barely get your heart and mind around this thing called motherhood.  I am betrayed by myself at every turn.  I bought those gifts.  As good as packed his bags and stamped his passport, said, "Go!  Go!  Look!  Explore!  Learn!  The whole wide world is yours!"

What I want to do is lock the doors and lose the keys and deny the visa and ground the flights.

Or at the very least, tuck a note in his socks that says, "Go, then.  But please don't go far."

 

Happy birthday, little ninja. 

December Seventh and Ninth

First, the seventh: 

Ethan awoke on Monday morning in tears.  I had let him sleep in and so he had to eat breakfast alone.  Lonely pancakes would make anyone cry.  But this was only the beginning.  He cried about getting his shirt over his head.  He cried about not being able to get his feet in his shoes.  He cried about his itchy socks.  He cried because his thumb was sore and how was he going to write and paste with a sore thumb.  Through his sobs he told me there is lots of pasting in kindergarten. 

I suggested he stay home to let his thumb rest.

I called the school and told them he was sick.

Sick of school.  Sick of the pressures of pasting and cutting.  Sick of the stress of counting and reading and the letter G.  Damn letter G.  Graceful and gregarious, yes, but also grim and grueling, to say nothing of grinding.

The other kids were just as sick, but their thumbs were not as sore as Ethan's and so I made them dress for school.  I gathered them in a circle for prayer and gave a bolstering pep talk where I said things like, "it's just ten more days" and "we can do anything for ten days" and "come on, you'll feel better once you're out the door."

But I knew exactly how they felt.  By that night I told David that I would not be able to go on without some serious incentive.  Which always involves some serious necking.

He listened to me cry about my inadequacies and the unrelenting grip of entropy (both of which would make anyone cry) and my ever-growing list and my broken kitchen faucet and my itchy socks and my sore thumb.  He tried a bolstering talk but I wasn't buying it.  I interrupted him and asked if we could just skip to the kissing. 

And while he was kissing me I listened to the pouring rain outside and wished for a snow day.  Wished I lived in Wisconsin or Michigan or Massachusetts and we were bracing for a big winter storm.  Wished to be socked in, snowed in, with no school and no work and no lists, just a fire and grilled cheese sandwiches and board games all day long.  Just ten more days I told myself.  You can do anything for ten more days. 

And it was enough light and love and resurrection morning to get me through another day.

And now to the ninth:

Today is my mom's birthday.  Even heaven remembered and sent a glorious sunrise.  When I saw it I immediately recognized it as a birthday banner.  And I could see my grandmother's hand in it.  She still has impeccable taste.

We celebrated early this year, as all my brothers and sisters were in town for the Thanksgiving holiday.  We had a surprise party at a restaurant that is really a cooking school and we all cooked dinner together and I learned the proper way to cut up an onion. 

I am posting these pictures as a birthday banner of my own to the woman who taught me everything except how to cut up an onion.   Love you, Mom.

  

[Editor's note:  We missed Emily and Anthony who had to go back north for finals and reading week.  And my camera lens jammed before I got a proper picture of Lisa or Christian or David (I think the back of your heads are lovely by the way) and before I got to take a picture of the end results.  They were delicious.  After dessert I declared I had never eaten a better cookie and we had a thorough "discussion" about the merits of the chocolate chip cookie versus the mexican wedding cookie, which until that evening I was completely unaware had any merits at all.

Whatever.  I'm still thinking about that little bite of powdered sugar heaven.]