The Fit

We had the stomach flu in our house last week. First Middle Boy, then me, then the 4-Year-Old Boy. It was a 48-hour, violent flu. There was pain, moaning, dramatic proclamations— "I'm going to die!" —and lots and lots of laundry.

It began with a call from the school informing me that Middle Boy had been vomiting. The 4-Year-Old Boy and I rushed to the school to rescue Middle Boy. I'm embarrassed to admit that I was a little irritated when I found out that he hadn't even made it to a trash can. He threw up sitting in his chair in Strings Class. He told me he missed his cello, and only hit the bow. I reminded him, lovingly, that he was TEN years old and next time he gets sick at school, he should GET UP and try to hit a receptacle.

Middle Boy was very ill. I was a compassionate mother and nurse, helping him get to the toilet, brushing his teeth for him, wiping his face, feeding him ice chips, and providing bowls and Ziploc bags for security in case he didn't make it to the bathroom.

It finally appeared his stomach was calming. Over the course of four hours, he drank ginger ale and ate a few soda crackers as he watched SpongeBob Squarepants on the couch. I was happy to see color in his cheeks and hear him laugh instead of moan. Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old-Boy were in bed for the night.  Middle Boy said his stomach still hurt a little, but he was ready for bed. I tucked him in, showed him where the security vomit bowl and Ziploc bag were, and told him to come to our room or call us if he needed ANYTHING. His father and I were there to help him! Poor, poor child, I thought.

Five minutes later, as I was climbing into my own bed, Middle Boy appeared in my doorway.

"I threw up."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"In my bed."

"WHAT?"

It was horrible. Chris and I obviously had not communicated well about how much ginger ale or how many soda crackers we were each giving Middle Boy. There were at least two liters of stomach contents all over the bed, the carpet, the wall, the nooks and crannies of the bed frame, beadboard and baseboards...it might have even been on the ceiling fan.

"CHRIIIIIIS! I NEED HELP!"

Chris ran up the stairs.

"He puked again. EVERYWHERE. He needs a shower. He's already dripped to our room and back to his."

Middle Boy looked at me sheepishly, "Sorry, Mom. I thought I was done."

I know he didn't mean to. He was tired, probably very comfortable in his bed, and half asleep when he threw up. But there was something about the brightness of his eyes and the rosiness of his cheeks, that made me think he COULD have gotten up.

I started cleaning the mess and the more I cleaned, the angrier I became. I stomped and slammed as I moved wet linens from room to room and searched for the proper cleaning supplies. I had "sick" fluids running down my arms and on my forehead. I had been SO careful as I cleaned the vomit messes earlier in the day. My fate was sealed.

As I continued to clean, I yelled weird things at Chris and Middle Boy. I rarely use foul language in front of the kids but I said ass and shit and hell and damn and maybe even the Big Daddy of bad words. I barked at Chris about picking up Mary's dog shit. Because, you know, at 10:00 p.m. after your child has puked ALL OVER HIS ROOM, it's important that the dog shit is picked up in the backyard.

I've cleaned up vomit messes more than once. All three of the boys have thrown up in their beds. For many reasons that I clearly see in hindsight, this particular crime scene pushed me over the edge. I had a fit.

Middle Boy went back to bed in a restored room and made wide-eyed promises to hit the toilet or the vomit bowl next time. He was fine that night, although he threw up again the following night. I'm happy to report Middle Boy came into our room and announced that he needed to vomit. Chris did a standing broad jump from our bed, ensuring Middle Boy was escorted to our toilet and properly aimed. No fuss, no muss.

I apologized the next morning to the entire house for my fit. The only one who didn't seem phased was 4-Year-Old Boy, probably because he's an expert fit-thrower.

Please tell me you you've thrown a fit. As an adult. With an audience. While sober.

When A Dog Goes Down and Why I Hate Team Sports

Sitting in the office, my back to the french doors leading to the front yard, I noticed a person running quickly towards our house in the reflection on my computer screen. I turned around and saw a tall man wearing a Snowbird baseball cap taking long, purposeful strides. He resembled James Taylor. I felt safe.

I met him at the front door as he reached for the door bell.

"Do you know who's dog that is?" he asked as he pointed to the too still, cream-colored, fluffy animal lying in the street.

I looked where he was pointing. "OHMYGOD! YES!"

Our neighbor's dog had broken through his electric fence and was hit by a car. The tall man witnessed a white truck hit the dog, throwing the dog several feet. The truck didn't stop.

I called my neighbor and spoke with one of her sons. When her son told me his mother wasn't home, I didn't tell him what had happened to their family pet. The dog was still alive but had clearly been seriously injured.  I called my neighbor on her cell phone several times over the next ten minutes, as I simultaneously fetched a towel, wrapped the dog, and had panicked discussions with the tall man about where I would take the injured animal for help if my neighbor didn't answer.

I finally reached my neighbor and she and her husband were only a moment away. The tall man and I were hunched over the dog when they pulled up in their car. Within a couple of minutes, the dog was on his way to the nearest animal hospital.

I'm not a dog person, mostly because I'm busy and a neat freak, but I have tremendous compassion for animals. We have Mary and I joke about my desire for her to wear underwear [for hygiene purposes]. Chris still claims he plans to make a hat out of her when she passes because he spent $8,000 to save her life one summer.

There's nothing worse than seeing a dog suffer. When our neighbor's dog had been hit, I was numb with fear and panic. I managed to do what needed to be done but my heart was pounding and I felt like I might faint from the overwhelming emotions. I wanted to yell at the tall man, "Help him! Fix him! He's hurting!" I might have actually yelled those things. It's kind of a blur.

It's a good thing I'm not an ER doctor. I'd be no good at that. It's not that I don't want to help—because I do—it's that the intense empathy I experience nearly cripples me. It's also the fear of not knowing precisely what to do. Analysis paralysis. I don't want to do the wrong thing, especially when the stakes are high.

Just like team sports...

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Volleyball terrifies me. I've never learned how to hit the ball without hurting my forearms. I'm the one you don't want on your team because even if the ball comes directly to me, I'll scream to my teammates, "GET IT!" We've declined many invitations to play on a couple's volleyball league. Chris knows better. He's seen me panic in backyard pool volleyball games. I can't handle the pressure.

It's the same with softball. I have vivid memories of playing left field for the Green Eyed Ladies in Winchester, Indiana, when I was a kid. Hated it. The ball would land and roll practically to my feet—I'd look at the right fielder and scream, "GET IT!" I threw like a girl [still do] and struck out every time I was at bat. A couples softball league is also out of the question.

**********

Had the neighbors not been so close to home, I would have managed to get the suffering dog to the animal hospital. My adrenalin kept me moving, although I was spinning a bit, and asking the tall man redundant questions and repeating, "This is terrible. This is terrible. This is really, really terrible." Babbling seems to frequently be my modus operandi .

I spoke with my neighbor and the dog is alive. His condition has been changed from critical to stable. When he returns home, I'm requesting that they up the juice on his electric fence.

I may not be able to be crowned The-Queen-of-Grace-Under-Pressure, but I'm always well-intended. If history repeats itself, I have a shot at being the next Nobel Peace Prize winner.

Be honest...

I like comfortable shoes.  I'm also a typical gal who likes to look pulled together with my own sense of style.  It's a very casual style that I have, but I feel silly if I try to dress like a Junior League-er or keep up with the trendsetters when in reality I'm a quasi-urban-granola meets wanna-be-urban-cowgirl who loves her pearls and a well structured blouse once in a while [maybe that is a bit Junior League-ish].

I don't work outside the home.  Some days I only leave the house to pick up the older boys from school, so it's just 4-year-old boy and me together... all day.  Other days I take kids to music lessons, karate, run errands [not fancy places], and occasionally meet Chris for lunch.  I'm usually puttering around the house and yard [read here], doing the things that most stay-at-home parents do to keep the house running smoothly.

Again, I like comfortable shoes.  I've tried to deviate [read here], but I always return to comfortable.

When I went to Texas a couple of weeks ago for my 25th high school reunion, I packed what I thought were very cute [and comfortable] shoes.  I wore a pair of Dansko Mary Jane's on the plane and changed into a pair of Dansko green strappy sandals, with a heel, when I arrived at my friend Vicki's house because it was hotter than I expected.

As I unpacked, my two friends, Vicki and Betty, were there chatting as we played show-and-tell with clothes, photos and hair drama.  I showed them the shoes I brought and how I planned to incorporate them into my reunion outfits [this was a very casual reunion].

Vicki said, "Those look like something my grandma would wear."

Betty chose her words carefully, "It's just...  well... you look like you stepped out of a Columbia catalog."

I was shocked.  "You don't think these are cute?!  I'm not a Dallas-girl, ya' know.  This is me.  I live in Utah and I schlep kids around all day.  My life is very casual... and sporty."

My friends wouldn't budge so I didn't wear anything Dansko to the reunion functions.  But I wore my comfortable shoes the rest of the time in Texas.

My Dansko collection:

 

They're not that bad.  Are they?

I have cute Non-Dansko shoes too.  A few kitten heels, strappy flats, and a couple pairs of I-Look-Ridiculous-In-These-Because-They're-So-Not-Me-But-My-Husband-Loves-Them high heels.

Maybe it's time for me to change brands of comfortable shoes.  I asked a gal at Anthropologie if she liked the Dansko Mary Jane's I was wearing the other day.  She said she did.  I figured she would because... she works at Anthropologie.  I needed the easy stroke.  She mentioned, politely of course, that I might find some comfortable, but up to date, styles on the Frye website.

I don't know.  Are they that bad?  Be honest.  [Except you, Vicki, Betty, and Dallas-girls.]