Hello gang,
Let me be clear when I state that this will most likely be an extremely long posting that could very well meander like a drunken beetle.
My Grandpa died.
Honestly, I knew one day I would have to write that down because it would be my new reality but I didn't think it would be this soon. Grandpa had, and was dying from, a terminal lung condition called Pulmonary Fibrosis. It was a disease he contracted due to his work with the Atomic Energy Commission earlier in life. Due to the fact that he wound up with a terminal illness from his job, the Department of Labor compensated him somewhat and his medical expenses were not a burden to him.
I do not specifically remember when the family was informed of Grandpa's medical status, but with the confirmation of the condition our lives changed. Grandpa needed to be on oxygen 24 hours a day. Through a nasal cannula he had a constant stream of oxygen of 2 liters helping his deteriorating lungs function as best they could. That was at the beginning of the disease. He could still walk around and partake in his normal activities. However, that began to change rapidly. I have pictures of him sitting on the beach making sand castles with Killian at Okoboji in July of 2009 without oxygen on. I have pictures of Honey on that same beach holding Murdoch. They are both gone now, and looking at that picture a night ago tore my heart to pieces.
As Grandpa's disease progressed it slowly suffocated him. He would turn his oxygen up to 4 liters when he was severely "winded" (asphyxiating, let's call a spade a spade), and need a very long time to recover to a more comfortable state of being. As of Christmas 2010, getting "very winded" happened after moving from inside a car to inside a house 25 feet away. As of spring 2011 walking from his office, with the aid of a wheeled walker, to his recliner 10 feet away it would take approximately 15 minutes of hyperventilating at 4 liters for him to even be able to breathe enough to speak. Before he passed, getting into and out of bed was enough to suck his near useless lungs dry of the precious oxygen his brain so desperately desired. We, most likely, have all experienced "air hunger". Holding your breath for as long as possible swimming underwater, sprinting as hard and as far as you could, etc. The difference is, coming up to the surface and filling your lungs with air or stopping the run made the pounding in your head and chest go away. It made the ever so slight feeling of "I can't breathe!" panic subside. Grandpa never got that reprieve. Even when he cranked his oxygen up as high as it would go and he could stabilize it was still not nearly enough to make him feel like his lungs were full and he could breathe easy. Grandpa's pulmonologist said that whenever he had new students he would make those students place a bag tightly over their heads and keep it on until the panic forced them to take it off. He then told his students to keep that horrid feeling in mind because that is what their patients live with each and every day, and they do not have the luxury of removing their metaphorical bags. After his diagnosis, there never was a "better" for him. He felt worse in January than he did in December, worse in June than in April, worse in the middle of September than the beginning of September.
It was heartbreaking to see what the disease did to Grandpa. He was so full of life. He loved spending every minute he could out in the boat or on the dock fishing, tooling away in his extensive wood shop, working tirelessly at his church on restoration or improvement projects, driving to New York to visit my uncle's family, going to Iowa State athletic events. All of those things were taken from him one by one until he could do no more than go through papers in his office or watch his beloved Fox News and talk about the "assholes in Washington who were doing their damnest to ruin the best country in the world". I proudly learned every swear word I know from my father, and he definitely learned them from his father. Hell yes I swear profusely at times; it's a Thomas family tradition, damnit.
Last year we all got together for Christmas at my parent's house in Minnesota for a big Thomas Family Christmas. Think Griswold's with less zany mishaps and much, much more alcohol. My uncle, aunt, and two cousins flew out from New York and drove Grandpa and Honey up from Ames, Iowa so they could spend the holiday with all of their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The motive behind going to all efforts to get everyone together were simple; we all believed it was to be Grandpa's last Christmas. His fibrosis was unquestionably progressing and we were not at all sure we would have another opportunity to get everyone together in the same place at the same time in his (and Honey's presence). I took lots of pictures of Grandpa with the thought in my head that I most likely would not have another holiday to do so. In reality, since Matt and I now live in Texas and the progression of the disease was unknown and could become very rapid, I didn't know for certain that I would ever see him again since the next planned trip up north was not until July. It was so bittersweet for all of us that Christmas. We were so happy to all be together. Since we live in Texas and Kyle's family lives in New York we had not had an extended family Christmas in many years. But in the back of all of our minds was the reason this holiday was particularly important. It was, most likely, the last.
On our way back to Texas Matt and I stopped at Grandpa and Honey's house to visit for a bit as a little surprise. It was January 1st, 2011. Honey swung the front door open and her smile lit up in pure joy as she invited us in. She was up and moving about, and even got down on the floor to play with the boys. Grandpa did his best to move around the house and be part of everything that was going on, but he clearly wasn't on the physical level he longed to be. After a few hours we said our goodbye's a piled in the car. I remember crying to Matt that I couldn't shake the thought that that visit could be the last I had with a man I loved so much.
As you all know, Honey died in May. Within days of returning to her home after the holiday's her health began to falter and she slowly withered away until her death on May 13th. Grandpa tried with everything he had to be as attentive as possible to Honey in her final weeks and days. They had 24 hour hospice care in their house to help with Honey, and they wound up taking a good deal of care of Grandpa too. He simply didn't have it in him to make her lunch, help her change clothes, or move from her bed to a chair. I don't think I really thought about it then since I was so focused on caring for Honey, but I was watching both of my grandparents die. One more slowly than the other. After we buried Honey we all talked amongst ourselves that we knew in our hearts Grandpa would not want to live for very long without her. She was his world for 59 and a half years, and now she was gone and he was left with an empty house, a failing body, and a broken heart.
In July we took our annual family trip to Okoboji for a week. It was the first year Honey had not been with us, and due to his health, Grandpa was not going to be making the journey for the whole week either. There are no words to describe how it felt to go into their cabin and have them not in there for the first time in my 30 years of life. Where were their voices? Where was Honey's cardigan? Where was Grandpa's wood whittling equipment? And why wasn't there a goddamned TV tuned to Fox fucking News?!?! It was a parallel universe of suck. There's no better way to put it.
Grandpa's neighbors agreed to drive him up to the lakes for a very short stay where he would sleep in a hotel to escape the heat and get all the rest he required. To say it took a great deal of work to execute that plan is a gross understatement. The trip took more out of Grandpa than anyone could have ever expected, and consequently it was very hard on his equally aged neighbors. But he was there, and he had that day and a half with him to go to our favorite restaurant, have a picnic at the cabin, and salvage what joy we could knowing all the while that he would not make it to the lakes again. Our family has talked of that short trip often since it happened, and while popular consensus is that we never should have agreed to let him do it I wouldn't give a split second of that time back. As it turns out, we had little time left with him at all.
At the beginning of August Grandpa bought a condo out at Greenhills in Ames. Greenhills is a place for elderly persons who do not yet need assisted living or long term nursing home care. His condo was completely independent living. He chose to have meals delivered rather than go to the cafeteria, and paid for the wonderful CNA's at Wesley-life (the company whose hospice CNA's cared for Honey) come out to help him with various daily activities. He moved what he wanted from his house to his condo, but kept ownership of the house in the meantime. His plan had been to slowly ready the house for sale sometime late this fall. Greenhills does have a Care Center that will do hospice care and some nursing home care, but it is not a nursing home styled facility. Roughly two weeks after moving into his condo Grandpa began experiencing chest pains and was transported by ambulance to the hospital where testing confirmed he has suffered a mild heart attack. After spending roughly a week inpatient he was discharged on the condition that he stay in the Care Center for at least two weeks before resuming life in his condo.
He was unhappy about being in the Care Center to say the least. He wanted to go back to a more normal life. After some inquiring it was decided that with the aid of the CNA's from Wesley-life he could spend about four hours a day in his condo before returning to the Care Center, and he was happy to have that independent time. During his period of what we, at the time, believed to be convalescence from the heart attack I spoke to my mother almost daily and always inquired as to how Grandpa was feeling physically as well as mentally. She always gave me a full report and then reminded me that he had his phone and I was welcome to call him at any time. I couldn't do it. Numerous times I had virtually the entire number dialed and then would stop myself from hitting the all important send button. I did not want to deal with the reality that he was definitely declining. I didn't want to acknowledge the heart attack, or that he was basically in a nursing facility, or that his disease was progressing rapidly. It hurt to much and I knew I would not be able to get through a call without bursting into tears. So I decided denial was the better route. Get information through a third party while pretending this wasn't really happening. It was the wrong choice, and I will live with the guilt and pain that my own denial and fear prevented me from talking to Grandpa during his final two weeks on Earth. He passed suddenly. Friday night he was up talking and eating dinner with friends, and at 3:10pm Saturday he was gone. He had had enough and wanted to see Honey and go Home. I cannot describe how his loss feels, the grief is still too great.
At the funeral and visitation people were bombarding me with the "He's with God, he's with Jan, he's not in pain anymore" junk that people say because they want to help the grieving person to ease their pain. I understand all of that, and as a Christian I agree with all of those statements. He is in a better place where his is spry and with Honey. But that does nothing currently to assuage my pain over his loss, and if anything I get angrier each time someone tries to silver lining his death with a God-bomb. Did God have to suffocate my grandfather to call him home? Did he have to break my grandfather's heart before he could go to heaven? Did God need to take my father and uncle's parents in only four month's time? Did God need them both to have agonizing deaths where in the end they begged for the mercy of death? Don't tell me how great it is that they are both with God. I already know that in my heart and in my soul. But right now in my purely human emotional self, I am angry. I am angry that people who were so good, and so loved, had to die they way they did and in such a short time. I am angry that people think they can say "They're together, and with God" and that will somehow make me feel better. I am angry that all I have of two of the people I loved most in life are pictures and little mementos. I am angry that the person who poured endless amounts of love into making the most beautiful box to store the memories, pictures, and ashes of my stillborn son is now also dead. I am angry that I will never walk into their house in Ames again. I am angry I never got to dance with my grandfather again. I am angry that we will never go fishing again. I am angry that Honey and I will not be the only two people freezing inside Mrs. Lady's (a restaurant) again. I am angry that they are gone, and that there are not going to be any new memories.
Four months ago I had three grandparents, and they were the same three I had the day I was born. Now I have one.
We were right about needing to get our whole family together for Christmas last year. It was indeed Grandpa's last, though we had no idea it would be Honey's last as well. And it was the very last time the whole Thomas family was together at the same time, in the same place. And please, please don't give me this existential bullshit about how they were there with us in spirit. One day I will be there in my particular stage of grief, but that day is not today.
My musings on wifedom, motherhood, politics, entertainment, the weather, and anything else that strikes my fancy at the time.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
June 18
For the last (nearly) five years June 18 has been a hard, heartbreaking day for me. Our middle son, Lincoln, passed away at birth on June 18, 2006. That year, it happened to be the Sunday of Father's day. In the years since his death my overwhelming sadness was at least tempered with two other happy events that happen on the same day. My in-law's anniversary is June 18, and it is (was) also my Grandma Honey's birthday. This year one of the good things about June 18 is gone.
My grandmother passed away, in her home, after a long illness on Friday, May 13th. I had the fortune of spending the last 10 of her life with her and my grandfather, and attended her in death with the respect that she had earned in life. It was so sad to see how Honey spent her final weeks on Earth. She was just a shell of her real self. I tried to talk to those around me about how much I missed her and how I couldn't believe she was gone, but was met with the typical "she's in a better place", "her suffering is over", "you will see her again" platitudes that are thrown around after a person dies. They are all completely true, especially in her case. However, hearing those sentiments makes me feel like I shouldn't feel so sad and shouldn't grieve her passing so much. But I do. I miss her as she was months or even years ago. And that specific Grandma Honey has been gone for some time. But I long for that time and those memories.
Our family spends a week at Okoboji, Iowa each summer and we have always gone with our grandparents. The memories born of those trips are some of the very best of my entire life. Growing up my brothers and I would spend as much time at the lakes with Grandma and Grandpa as possible, and we are facing the reality that that time is passed. Grandma will not be at the lakes this summer walking around in 92 degree heat with long pants and a hoodie on while carrying her Styrofoam cup of steaming hot coffee. I know that, but knowing it will not make it any easier when we're pulling into Monarch Cove and not seeing her waving us in. There is already a hole in all of our lives now that she is gone, but her absence at the lakes will be a staggering blow. Most definitely, there will be times for the rest of my life where her loss will send fresh pangs of sorrow straight to my heart. Such is the ebb and flow of grief.
No two people grieve alike, and where feelings really wind up getting mixed up or hurt is when one person starts to tell another that they are not grieving properly. If you grieve for too long people are right there to tell you that you really should try to put it past you and move on with your life. The dreaded "Stop dwelling in the past" spiel. If, however, you manage to come through your period of mourning rather quickly people will question whether you truly cared at all in the first place. I read somewhere that a person's feeling of grief is like the tides of the ocean. Sometimes the water is high, other times it is low, but it never goes away.
That is how I feel about my son. He died almost exactly five years ago, and there are days that it feels like yesterday. Matt and I talk about how each time a picture of our family is taken we feel that pang knowing that there should be one other little boy in the photo. When we shop for Christmas presents for our 4 little men, we are sad that there isn't another name on the list. It is sad that he is not here to blow out the candles on his angel cake. We hurt when asked the ages of our boys and we say "6,5, 3, and 2" knowing that there should be a "4" in there too. What hurts both Matt and I the most is when people tell us that while it is sad that he is gone we should just focus on the children we do have. Without a doubt I do not believe anyone says this to intentionally be so insulting or hurtful, but it is. Missing our son does not mean that we are not there for our boys. In the same token, having four other children here with us does not make us miss Link any less, nor should it. Children are not interchangeable. Should we miss him less because he was stillborn? Is it supposed to hurt less that we didn't have him for a week, month, year, ten, twenty years before losing him? He was our child, and parents are not supposed to outlive their children.
I miss my son. I still have dreams where I replay his birth in vivid detail and wake up with arms that feel so empty they physically hurt. There is a hole in my heart that will not be filled until I see him again in Heaven. As I type this, my eyes sting with hot tears and a hard lump forms in my throat because the loss is still at times physically overwhelming.
Typically when parents have one child and are expecting another they wonder or even ask someone who has been there before how your heart can love two children equally. Parents of more than one child immediately respond that your heart makes room for all of your children, whether you have one or ten. Matt and I have the same love for Link as we do for Cooper, Wesley, Killian, and Murdoch. And that is how it should be. Because that love exists, and because he is not here for us to see him walk, ride a bike, steal cookies after dinner, play soccer, learn to drive, bicker with his brothers, go to Prom, graduate college, get married, and have his own children; we grieve.
When I went back to Ames, Iowa to stay with Grandma Honey until her time here was passed my mother handed me a piece of paper that had Honey's handwriting in the top left corner. It said "Give to Katy and Matt some day". The paper had a photocopied poem on it. This is the poem:
June 18 will be a hard day this year.
My grandmother passed away, in her home, after a long illness on Friday, May 13th. I had the fortune of spending the last 10 of her life with her and my grandfather, and attended her in death with the respect that she had earned in life. It was so sad to see how Honey spent her final weeks on Earth. She was just a shell of her real self. I tried to talk to those around me about how much I missed her and how I couldn't believe she was gone, but was met with the typical "she's in a better place", "her suffering is over", "you will see her again" platitudes that are thrown around after a person dies. They are all completely true, especially in her case. However, hearing those sentiments makes me feel like I shouldn't feel so sad and shouldn't grieve her passing so much. But I do. I miss her as she was months or even years ago. And that specific Grandma Honey has been gone for some time. But I long for that time and those memories.
Our family spends a week at Okoboji, Iowa each summer and we have always gone with our grandparents. The memories born of those trips are some of the very best of my entire life. Growing up my brothers and I would spend as much time at the lakes with Grandma and Grandpa as possible, and we are facing the reality that that time is passed. Grandma will not be at the lakes this summer walking around in 92 degree heat with long pants and a hoodie on while carrying her Styrofoam cup of steaming hot coffee. I know that, but knowing it will not make it any easier when we're pulling into Monarch Cove and not seeing her waving us in. There is already a hole in all of our lives now that she is gone, but her absence at the lakes will be a staggering blow. Most definitely, there will be times for the rest of my life where her loss will send fresh pangs of sorrow straight to my heart. Such is the ebb and flow of grief.
No two people grieve alike, and where feelings really wind up getting mixed up or hurt is when one person starts to tell another that they are not grieving properly. If you grieve for too long people are right there to tell you that you really should try to put it past you and move on with your life. The dreaded "Stop dwelling in the past" spiel. If, however, you manage to come through your period of mourning rather quickly people will question whether you truly cared at all in the first place. I read somewhere that a person's feeling of grief is like the tides of the ocean. Sometimes the water is high, other times it is low, but it never goes away.
That is how I feel about my son. He died almost exactly five years ago, and there are days that it feels like yesterday. Matt and I talk about how each time a picture of our family is taken we feel that pang knowing that there should be one other little boy in the photo. When we shop for Christmas presents for our 4 little men, we are sad that there isn't another name on the list. It is sad that he is not here to blow out the candles on his angel cake. We hurt when asked the ages of our boys and we say "6,5, 3, and 2" knowing that there should be a "4" in there too. What hurts both Matt and I the most is when people tell us that while it is sad that he is gone we should just focus on the children we do have. Without a doubt I do not believe anyone says this to intentionally be so insulting or hurtful, but it is. Missing our son does not mean that we are not there for our boys. In the same token, having four other children here with us does not make us miss Link any less, nor should it. Children are not interchangeable. Should we miss him less because he was stillborn? Is it supposed to hurt less that we didn't have him for a week, month, year, ten, twenty years before losing him? He was our child, and parents are not supposed to outlive their children.
I miss my son. I still have dreams where I replay his birth in vivid detail and wake up with arms that feel so empty they physically hurt. There is a hole in my heart that will not be filled until I see him again in Heaven. As I type this, my eyes sting with hot tears and a hard lump forms in my throat because the loss is still at times physically overwhelming.
Typically when parents have one child and are expecting another they wonder or even ask someone who has been there before how your heart can love two children equally. Parents of more than one child immediately respond that your heart makes room for all of your children, whether you have one or ten. Matt and I have the same love for Link as we do for Cooper, Wesley, Killian, and Murdoch. And that is how it should be. Because that love exists, and because he is not here for us to see him walk, ride a bike, steal cookies after dinner, play soccer, learn to drive, bicker with his brothers, go to Prom, graduate college, get married, and have his own children; we grieve.
When I went back to Ames, Iowa to stay with Grandma Honey until her time here was passed my mother handed me a piece of paper that had Honey's handwriting in the top left corner. It said "Give to Katy and Matt some day". The paper had a photocopied poem on it. This is the poem:
Lost Child
I didn't get to know you, darling
-silent witness of love-.
For you I could not knit
soft sweaters, pink,
to match your cheeks
or blue booties
to warm your tiny feet.
I didn't have the chance
to cradle you in my arms
or sing you a lullaby.
The sky is now your cradle
and two stars are your eyes.
When the wind blows,
it will be you
sending me kisses.
The angels will sing to you
and will wrap you
in warm blankets of clouds.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Grandma Honey
Good evening all.
In talking to my cousin Audra I received a very poignant message. She said, "That's the thing about life. No one gets out alive". It's a saying I had not heard before, but it's so true.
My father's mother, my grandma Janet "Honey" Thomas, is entering the last chapter in her Earthly life. Without a doubt it is a miracle of modern medicine that she has lived this long at all. At the age of 79 she has survived far longer than anyone thought she could. She was the first woman in the state of Iowa to undergo a quintuple bypass operation. She had her abdominal aorta virtually taken apart inch by inch, cleaned out, and sewn back together, and those were just the big surgeries. She went through seemingly endless angiograms, cardioversions, IV therapies, etc. etc. etc. After each one the doctors would gather the family around and voice his estimations for how much more time this latest procedure "bought" her. In 1979 she was told 5-10 years.
As her health gradually started to decline in recent years we again started to hear that her luck may have finally run out, and that our time with her was truly limited. But like a Phoenix she would defy the experts educated guesses and return to a more stable state of health. In the summer of 2007 after a morning procedure to return her heart back to a normal rhythm she rapidly decompensated and required emergency hospitalization where she was placed on a ventilator and showed what we all, including the neurologist, saw as signs of heavy brain damage. She was in a medically induced coma and we all thought she was slipping away from us. That night the neurologist told our family that the next morning he would stop her IV medications and that she would most likely pass away shortly thereafter. My father called my uncle in New York and he booked the earliest flight he could get to Iowa. On the way to the airport the next morning my father considered that by the time he picked up his brother and returned to the hospital their mother might already be gone. We were heartbroken. The image of my grandfather gripping the foot of her bed with white knuckles, crying that he wasn't ready to let her go, will stay with me forever.
But the doctors were wrong again, and Honey's will to live overcame. They discontinued her meds, and after a short time she was extubated. By that evening she was sitting up in bed watching TV, talking, and eating her dinner tray. Again, she escaped the grasps of death. Since that incident we knew her options with regards to further medical treatments were growing more and more limited. Still she seemed to chug right along.
2011 has not been a good year for Honey. She began requiring hospitalizations in January for kidney problems. Testing revealed a blockage in her kidney and after proper fluid resuscitation doctors placed a stent in her kidney to help it return to normal function. However, positive effects were short lived. A pattern began to emerge where about every two weeks she would need to return to the hospital for either renal or cardiac issues (or both). It began to look more like her body was finally yielding to the fighting it was engaged in for the past 30 years. As of yesterday we, as a family, learned that there is nothing more medicine can do for her. She is in renal failure. She is suffering from the effects of Congestive Heart Failure. They cannot alleviate the symptoms of one without increasing the problems of the other. The decision has been made for her to receive hospice care, and live out the remainder of her life as comfortable as possible. Hopefully this will be done in the comfort of her own home where she longs to be.
It is so hard to sum up my life with Honey. Whenever I begin to reminisce about a particular memory I find my mind flooded with the images of three more. For starters, I was more than a few years old before I had any idea that her name wasn't really Honey. My older brother and I were the only grandchildren for 6 years and we enjoyed her undivided attention. It was another 6 years after the birth of our younger brother that we had any cousins on my father's side of the family, and living close to our grandparents provided us with ample time to be spoiled rotten by our Grandpa and Honey. I remember a shirt she wore that had a small jar of honey in the area of the breast pocket with the word HONEY written below it, at my young age I assumed she was wearing shirts with her name on them.
Honey always greets my the same way. She flings her arms wide open and with a gigantic smile on her face and exclaims "Katy Darlin'!" That is one of two nicknames she had for me, with the other being Miss Moffett. I love hearing her call me either, it makes me feel so special and so loved.
Honey and I are always cold. While the rest of our family would be sweltering away in shorts and t-shirts, Honey and I were wearing jeans and had our hooded sweatshirts on. The two of us were always checking with each other that we had the proper warm clothing on to go into most restaurants. After swimming in Lake Okoboji I would finally shiver my way out of the water with blue lips, feet, and hands, and Honey would wrap me up like a sausage in a gigantic Hawaii beach towel. I will always remember all of us on the beach lathered in sunscreen and down to our swimsuits while Honey sat in a beach chair covered head to toe, usually with a beach towel around herself for extra warmth. Obviously later in her life her inability to stay warm was a direct result of her declining health. She has always been incredibly tiny, and as the weight began to fall off, her body lost its way to keep herself warm.
My Grandpa and I loved to get up before dawn and head out fishing. No matter how early we rose Honey got up to in order to prepare our breakfast and pack some snacks to have in the boat. Grandpa had a thermos of coffee, and I had one of perfectly mixed hot chocolate. Grandpa had toast with butter, and I had "half and half" toast with butter on one half, peanut butter one the other half. It's certainly not extravagant, but I thought it was fantastic and it meant so much to me that she was always willing to make it. She kept our cabin refrigerator full of frozen mini Snickers, Milky Way bars, Fudgecicles, and hot dogs, and the cupboards always had Little Debbie Bars. Growing up I always thought that was because she wanted her grandkids to have good junk food at the cabin, but I learned she was an unrepentant chocoholic/hot dog addict. And good for her, we should all have such tasty vices!
Our little cabin in Okoboji has a notorious sink. I know that might sounds completely bizarre, but believe me when I say that thing is posessed. Grandpa and I would spend all morning out on the lake trying to catch whatever we could. We would leave markers where we had bites and move around to various bays chatting the day away until we saw Honey sitting on the bench of the end of the dock signaling that it was time to tie up and return for lunch. Grandpa never was one to bait the hook of a grandchild who was pefectly capable of doing it herself, so my fingernails were packed with dirt and worm guts and my hands stunk of the slimiest bluegills and bullhead Okoboji had to offer. She would help me out of the boat and recoil in horror at the sight, and probably smell, of my hands.
"Ick! You get on up there and wash those hands, twice, with hot soapy water. And remember to hold your arms out when you pull the drain plug!"
An odd statement to an outsider for sure. But the sound that drain made as it emptied the basin was mind-blowing, and no one in that cabin doubted for a second that it would suck small children down if given the chance. So I would scrub as much as I could, pull the plug, and dutifully hold my arms out to my sides. Then she would check my work by asking to see my hands and asking if they still smelled like fish. After I passed inspection it was chow time, but Honey certainly was not going to allow a little girl with disgusting hands to eat at the lunch table. Oddly enough this is the same woman who, when I would dip my binky in the sand, would wash it off in the lake and plunk it back in my mouth. I tried telling her I rinsed my hands off in the lake after baiting the hook and releasing a fish, but that wasn't cutting it when it came to eating.
Honey was also a devoted sun-worshiper, and she had a serious unfair advantage considering her natural dark complexion that left her looking completely bronzed even in the dead of an Iowa winter. She and grandpa loved taking trips to various tropical vacations including Puerta Vallarta and Hawaii. I understand she would sit on the beach in Hawaii and chow down on hot dogs, always keeping it classy. She never even tried to pretend that she had anything less than a robust love affair with hot dogs.
Honey makes the most amazing chicken noodle soup, beef and barley soup, fruit salad, and sugar cookies on the planet, hands down, according to everyone in our family. Naturally we the people want to replicate these items. However, obtaining an accurate recipe is completely impossible. Occasionally we come across a recipe card in her handwriting and think we've hit the culinary jackpot. Wrong. What makes her cooking so amazing is the personal tweaks she has made. She'll readily admit to tweaking the recipe, but when asked what exactly she does to change it she gets very vague and starts throwing around words like smidgen and scant. What in the world is a scant amount of butter? Honestly, it's another personality quirk that we used to find slightly aggravating, but in the last several years it just gives us a pause to light-heartedly roll our eyes and chuckle about "This one's a grandma Honey recipe".
Of course a lifetime cannot be summed up in a single blog posting, but I wanted to write something down quickly and this is what jumbled out onto the page. I'm sure more will be added later, but for tonight I wanted something to make the hurt a little less.
Katy
In talking to my cousin Audra I received a very poignant message. She said, "That's the thing about life. No one gets out alive". It's a saying I had not heard before, but it's so true.
My father's mother, my grandma Janet "Honey" Thomas, is entering the last chapter in her Earthly life. Without a doubt it is a miracle of modern medicine that she has lived this long at all. At the age of 79 she has survived far longer than anyone thought she could. She was the first woman in the state of Iowa to undergo a quintuple bypass operation. She had her abdominal aorta virtually taken apart inch by inch, cleaned out, and sewn back together, and those were just the big surgeries. She went through seemingly endless angiograms, cardioversions, IV therapies, etc. etc. etc. After each one the doctors would gather the family around and voice his estimations for how much more time this latest procedure "bought" her. In 1979 she was told 5-10 years.
As her health gradually started to decline in recent years we again started to hear that her luck may have finally run out, and that our time with her was truly limited. But like a Phoenix she would defy the experts educated guesses and return to a more stable state of health. In the summer of 2007 after a morning procedure to return her heart back to a normal rhythm she rapidly decompensated and required emergency hospitalization where she was placed on a ventilator and showed what we all, including the neurologist, saw as signs of heavy brain damage. She was in a medically induced coma and we all thought she was slipping away from us. That night the neurologist told our family that the next morning he would stop her IV medications and that she would most likely pass away shortly thereafter. My father called my uncle in New York and he booked the earliest flight he could get to Iowa. On the way to the airport the next morning my father considered that by the time he picked up his brother and returned to the hospital their mother might already be gone. We were heartbroken. The image of my grandfather gripping the foot of her bed with white knuckles, crying that he wasn't ready to let her go, will stay with me forever.
But the doctors were wrong again, and Honey's will to live overcame. They discontinued her meds, and after a short time she was extubated. By that evening she was sitting up in bed watching TV, talking, and eating her dinner tray. Again, she escaped the grasps of death. Since that incident we knew her options with regards to further medical treatments were growing more and more limited. Still she seemed to chug right along.
2011 has not been a good year for Honey. She began requiring hospitalizations in January for kidney problems. Testing revealed a blockage in her kidney and after proper fluid resuscitation doctors placed a stent in her kidney to help it return to normal function. However, positive effects were short lived. A pattern began to emerge where about every two weeks she would need to return to the hospital for either renal or cardiac issues (or both). It began to look more like her body was finally yielding to the fighting it was engaged in for the past 30 years. As of yesterday we, as a family, learned that there is nothing more medicine can do for her. She is in renal failure. She is suffering from the effects of Congestive Heart Failure. They cannot alleviate the symptoms of one without increasing the problems of the other. The decision has been made for her to receive hospice care, and live out the remainder of her life as comfortable as possible. Hopefully this will be done in the comfort of her own home where she longs to be.
It is so hard to sum up my life with Honey. Whenever I begin to reminisce about a particular memory I find my mind flooded with the images of three more. For starters, I was more than a few years old before I had any idea that her name wasn't really Honey. My older brother and I were the only grandchildren for 6 years and we enjoyed her undivided attention. It was another 6 years after the birth of our younger brother that we had any cousins on my father's side of the family, and living close to our grandparents provided us with ample time to be spoiled rotten by our Grandpa and Honey. I remember a shirt she wore that had a small jar of honey in the area of the breast pocket with the word HONEY written below it, at my young age I assumed she was wearing shirts with her name on them.
Honey always greets my the same way. She flings her arms wide open and with a gigantic smile on her face and exclaims "Katy Darlin'!" That is one of two nicknames she had for me, with the other being Miss Moffett. I love hearing her call me either, it makes me feel so special and so loved.
Honey and I are always cold. While the rest of our family would be sweltering away in shorts and t-shirts, Honey and I were wearing jeans and had our hooded sweatshirts on. The two of us were always checking with each other that we had the proper warm clothing on to go into most restaurants. After swimming in Lake Okoboji I would finally shiver my way out of the water with blue lips, feet, and hands, and Honey would wrap me up like a sausage in a gigantic Hawaii beach towel. I will always remember all of us on the beach lathered in sunscreen and down to our swimsuits while Honey sat in a beach chair covered head to toe, usually with a beach towel around herself for extra warmth. Obviously later in her life her inability to stay warm was a direct result of her declining health. She has always been incredibly tiny, and as the weight began to fall off, her body lost its way to keep herself warm.
My Grandpa and I loved to get up before dawn and head out fishing. No matter how early we rose Honey got up to in order to prepare our breakfast and pack some snacks to have in the boat. Grandpa had a thermos of coffee, and I had one of perfectly mixed hot chocolate. Grandpa had toast with butter, and I had "half and half" toast with butter on one half, peanut butter one the other half. It's certainly not extravagant, but I thought it was fantastic and it meant so much to me that she was always willing to make it. She kept our cabin refrigerator full of frozen mini Snickers, Milky Way bars, Fudgecicles, and hot dogs, and the cupboards always had Little Debbie Bars. Growing up I always thought that was because she wanted her grandkids to have good junk food at the cabin, but I learned she was an unrepentant chocoholic/hot dog addict. And good for her, we should all have such tasty vices!
Our little cabin in Okoboji has a notorious sink. I know that might sounds completely bizarre, but believe me when I say that thing is posessed. Grandpa and I would spend all morning out on the lake trying to catch whatever we could. We would leave markers where we had bites and move around to various bays chatting the day away until we saw Honey sitting on the bench of the end of the dock signaling that it was time to tie up and return for lunch. Grandpa never was one to bait the hook of a grandchild who was pefectly capable of doing it herself, so my fingernails were packed with dirt and worm guts and my hands stunk of the slimiest bluegills and bullhead Okoboji had to offer. She would help me out of the boat and recoil in horror at the sight, and probably smell, of my hands.
"Ick! You get on up there and wash those hands, twice, with hot soapy water. And remember to hold your arms out when you pull the drain plug!"
An odd statement to an outsider for sure. But the sound that drain made as it emptied the basin was mind-blowing, and no one in that cabin doubted for a second that it would suck small children down if given the chance. So I would scrub as much as I could, pull the plug, and dutifully hold my arms out to my sides. Then she would check my work by asking to see my hands and asking if they still smelled like fish. After I passed inspection it was chow time, but Honey certainly was not going to allow a little girl with disgusting hands to eat at the lunch table. Oddly enough this is the same woman who, when I would dip my binky in the sand, would wash it off in the lake and plunk it back in my mouth. I tried telling her I rinsed my hands off in the lake after baiting the hook and releasing a fish, but that wasn't cutting it when it came to eating.
Honey was also a devoted sun-worshiper, and she had a serious unfair advantage considering her natural dark complexion that left her looking completely bronzed even in the dead of an Iowa winter. She and grandpa loved taking trips to various tropical vacations including Puerta Vallarta and Hawaii. I understand she would sit on the beach in Hawaii and chow down on hot dogs, always keeping it classy. She never even tried to pretend that she had anything less than a robust love affair with hot dogs.
Honey makes the most amazing chicken noodle soup, beef and barley soup, fruit salad, and sugar cookies on the planet, hands down, according to everyone in our family. Naturally we the people want to replicate these items. However, obtaining an accurate recipe is completely impossible. Occasionally we come across a recipe card in her handwriting and think we've hit the culinary jackpot. Wrong. What makes her cooking so amazing is the personal tweaks she has made. She'll readily admit to tweaking the recipe, but when asked what exactly she does to change it she gets very vague and starts throwing around words like smidgen and scant. What in the world is a scant amount of butter? Honestly, it's another personality quirk that we used to find slightly aggravating, but in the last several years it just gives us a pause to light-heartedly roll our eyes and chuckle about "This one's a grandma Honey recipe".
Of course a lifetime cannot be summed up in a single blog posting, but I wanted to write something down quickly and this is what jumbled out onto the page. I'm sure more will be added later, but for tonight I wanted something to make the hurt a little less.
Katy
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
What have we become?
Today was not a great day.
On Wednesdays Killian has therapy from 10:30 to 11:30 am in Allen, which is about 20 minutes down the highway from our home. On Wednesdays we get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, take Wesley to preschool at 8:40, go grab a coffee for me and come home for about a half hour before leaving at 9:50 for therapy day. Doc hangs out with me in the waiting room for the hour Killian is gone. I do my best to entertain him and keep him happy but there is only so much time a two year old can be content playing quietly, looking at books, or watching whatever video is playing. Doc, as has been discussed before, is a high intensity individual.
Today however was going pretty well on the Murdoch front. He was doing great...until another mother came in with her two children (one for therapy, one to wait with her). The situation degenerated rapidly. Each week I take a small backpack with Doc's favorite little toys for him to play with. There can't be more than 6-8 toys in there at any given time and anyone who's ever had a two year old knows their attention span is short, and they're big on things being "mine". Hence, I only bring what he can really handle. It is not on me to bring toys for any other children present. This little girl saw things differently. She immediately ran, RAN over to Doc's bag and dove in with both hands. There was no please, no may I, no sweet look, nothing. Wait, I take it back. Whilst sprinting over to us she was angrily growling with her dirty, sticky little fingers bent into claws. No melodrama folks, that was the scene. Doc was understandably afraid and backed off with his hands in front of his face (in a protective manner) yelling "NO!"
Not one to be afraid of a three year old I lightly placed my hands over the girls' hands and told he those were Doc's toys and we were just going to leave them in the bag. She was undaunted. She growled at me and redoubled her efforts to get the toys. Again I removed her hands, closed the bag, and told her those were not hers and we were not getting them out. By this time Doc was crying, scared, and trying to get into my lap. Of course I picked him up and calmed him down. The whole time this girl stood still and SNARLED at us. It was bizarre to say the least. I told her Doc was afraid and did not want to play, so she should go see her mama. She left and went over to the little table and began throwing all of the books as far as she could. That held her attention until Doc got off my lap and went over to get a book for me to read to him. With both hands she shoved my child down as hard as she could, and laughed. When I rose to scoop up my baby she ran behind me to grab the toy bag! I picked up Doc with my left arm, and stopped her with my right. I put the backpack on my back, sat down, and again told her to go to her mama.
Where was her mother during all of this you might ask?
She was a mere ten feet away on the other side of the room happily chatting away on her cell phone about "What a pain in the ass it is to take him to therapy and watch Miss Thing in the waiting room". Quoted people, quoted. Funny since she wasn't watching anyone. Heck it wasn't even interfering with her phone calls! At this point I caught her wandering eye and gave her a look of unmistakable anger and exasperation. She rolled her eyes and made the "this person on the phone keeps talking too much" sign. You know the one, where you snap your hand like the bill of a duck. Seriously, WTF?! Was this really happening?!
A few minutes later she hung up. Her daughter was still terrorizing our side of the waiting room. The mom looks at me and says "She can be a real pill huh. Thanks for watching her for me". I informed her that I was not watching her daughter, I was watching my son. Furthermore, I told her that her daughter had tried to take Doc's toys and pushed him to the ground. She shrugged and stated that kids can be crazy sometimes, and who cares if she wants to play with his toys.
No apology, no embarrassment, no consequence or even stern words to her child. Stunning to say the least.
Luckily their half hour was over and they left. While waiting for Killian's second half hour session to end Doc and I were happily reading books, playing with Bakugon, and watching Madeline. With about 10 minutes left another mother asked me if I was waiting for Doc to go into therapy. I said no, that my older son was having physical and occupational therapy and we were just waiting for him to be done. She inquired as to why Killian needed therapy, and I responded that he had cerebral palsy due to premature birth. Then she hit me with this beauty:
"Oh, cerebral palsy. That's awful. What did you do while you were pregnant that caused it?"
Flabbergasted does not get close to touching how I felt at that moment. How freaking DARE she? What did I do?!
I gave myself shots twice a day for the entire pregnancy to combat a clotting disorder.
I took the anti emetic Zofran every for hours like clockwork so I could stop throwing up long enough to try and eat something.
I got an extra shot every Friday to help fend off premature labor.
I got two extremly painful steroid shots to help mature his lungs.
I spent 11 weeks flat on my back or side on bedrest to try to keep him in as long as possible.
I took procardia every four hours to relax my uterus trying to stop contractions, a medication that dropped my blood pressures to 60-40.
I got three units of blood to combact dangerous anemia.
I spent 29 weeks and 5 days begging God each and every day to let me have this baby. (And the next 57 days in the NICU after that begging God to let him live.)
I still have nightmares where the outcome wasn't so fortunate. If he sleeps too long overnight or at his nap my heart skips a beat.
I simply do not understand some people and the words that come out of their mouths.
Thankfully, right after she dropped that bomb her child's therapist came out to talk about the day's work. The therapist said Olivia did extremely well with all of her tasks and was a joy to have. Olivia's mom then expressed her true concern. She just KNOWS little Olivia needs medication for ADHD, because she has no interest in practicing her violin every day. Her mother went on that even though she was only 3, she was out of control and disobedient. Afterall, her husband had spent $2,000 on that violin plus the cost of the private instructor and it was just ridiculous for Olivia to not be willing to focus and practice an hour a day.
That, that is what was ruining this mother's life currently. That was the source of endless frustration and borderline disappointment in her own daughter. The freaking violin!!!
I gathered up my children and left. This mother would never understand what I go through, as I will never understand what she goes through. I don't know how I feel about anything that happened today. The whole morning was surreal.
It will be interesting to work all of this out at the gym tonight.
Go hug someone.
Kate
On Wednesdays Killian has therapy from 10:30 to 11:30 am in Allen, which is about 20 minutes down the highway from our home. On Wednesdays we get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, take Wesley to preschool at 8:40, go grab a coffee for me and come home for about a half hour before leaving at 9:50 for therapy day. Doc hangs out with me in the waiting room for the hour Killian is gone. I do my best to entertain him and keep him happy but there is only so much time a two year old can be content playing quietly, looking at books, or watching whatever video is playing. Doc, as has been discussed before, is a high intensity individual.
Today however was going pretty well on the Murdoch front. He was doing great...until another mother came in with her two children (one for therapy, one to wait with her). The situation degenerated rapidly. Each week I take a small backpack with Doc's favorite little toys for him to play with. There can't be more than 6-8 toys in there at any given time and anyone who's ever had a two year old knows their attention span is short, and they're big on things being "mine". Hence, I only bring what he can really handle. It is not on me to bring toys for any other children present. This little girl saw things differently. She immediately ran, RAN over to Doc's bag and dove in with both hands. There was no please, no may I, no sweet look, nothing. Wait, I take it back. Whilst sprinting over to us she was angrily growling with her dirty, sticky little fingers bent into claws. No melodrama folks, that was the scene. Doc was understandably afraid and backed off with his hands in front of his face (in a protective manner) yelling "NO!"
Not one to be afraid of a three year old I lightly placed my hands over the girls' hands and told he those were Doc's toys and we were just going to leave them in the bag. She was undaunted. She growled at me and redoubled her efforts to get the toys. Again I removed her hands, closed the bag, and told her those were not hers and we were not getting them out. By this time Doc was crying, scared, and trying to get into my lap. Of course I picked him up and calmed him down. The whole time this girl stood still and SNARLED at us. It was bizarre to say the least. I told her Doc was afraid and did not want to play, so she should go see her mama. She left and went over to the little table and began throwing all of the books as far as she could. That held her attention until Doc got off my lap and went over to get a book for me to read to him. With both hands she shoved my child down as hard as she could, and laughed. When I rose to scoop up my baby she ran behind me to grab the toy bag! I picked up Doc with my left arm, and stopped her with my right. I put the backpack on my back, sat down, and again told her to go to her mama.
Where was her mother during all of this you might ask?
She was a mere ten feet away on the other side of the room happily chatting away on her cell phone about "What a pain in the ass it is to take him to therapy and watch Miss Thing in the waiting room". Quoted people, quoted. Funny since she wasn't watching anyone. Heck it wasn't even interfering with her phone calls! At this point I caught her wandering eye and gave her a look of unmistakable anger and exasperation. She rolled her eyes and made the "this person on the phone keeps talking too much" sign. You know the one, where you snap your hand like the bill of a duck. Seriously, WTF?! Was this really happening?!
A few minutes later she hung up. Her daughter was still terrorizing our side of the waiting room. The mom looks at me and says "She can be a real pill huh. Thanks for watching her for me". I informed her that I was not watching her daughter, I was watching my son. Furthermore, I told her that her daughter had tried to take Doc's toys and pushed him to the ground. She shrugged and stated that kids can be crazy sometimes, and who cares if she wants to play with his toys.
No apology, no embarrassment, no consequence or even stern words to her child. Stunning to say the least.
Luckily their half hour was over and they left. While waiting for Killian's second half hour session to end Doc and I were happily reading books, playing with Bakugon, and watching Madeline. With about 10 minutes left another mother asked me if I was waiting for Doc to go into therapy. I said no, that my older son was having physical and occupational therapy and we were just waiting for him to be done. She inquired as to why Killian needed therapy, and I responded that he had cerebral palsy due to premature birth. Then she hit me with this beauty:
"Oh, cerebral palsy. That's awful. What did you do while you were pregnant that caused it?"
Flabbergasted does not get close to touching how I felt at that moment. How freaking DARE she? What did I do?!
I gave myself shots twice a day for the entire pregnancy to combat a clotting disorder.
I took the anti emetic Zofran every for hours like clockwork so I could stop throwing up long enough to try and eat something.
I got an extra shot every Friday to help fend off premature labor.
I got two extremly painful steroid shots to help mature his lungs.
I spent 11 weeks flat on my back or side on bedrest to try to keep him in as long as possible.
I took procardia every four hours to relax my uterus trying to stop contractions, a medication that dropped my blood pressures to 60-40.
I got three units of blood to combact dangerous anemia.
I spent 29 weeks and 5 days begging God each and every day to let me have this baby. (And the next 57 days in the NICU after that begging God to let him live.)
I still have nightmares where the outcome wasn't so fortunate. If he sleeps too long overnight or at his nap my heart skips a beat.
I simply do not understand some people and the words that come out of their mouths.
Thankfully, right after she dropped that bomb her child's therapist came out to talk about the day's work. The therapist said Olivia did extremely well with all of her tasks and was a joy to have. Olivia's mom then expressed her true concern. She just KNOWS little Olivia needs medication for ADHD, because she has no interest in practicing her violin every day. Her mother went on that even though she was only 3, she was out of control and disobedient. Afterall, her husband had spent $2,000 on that violin plus the cost of the private instructor and it was just ridiculous for Olivia to not be willing to focus and practice an hour a day.
That, that is what was ruining this mother's life currently. That was the source of endless frustration and borderline disappointment in her own daughter. The freaking violin!!!
I gathered up my children and left. This mother would never understand what I go through, as I will never understand what she goes through. I don't know how I feel about anything that happened today. The whole morning was surreal.
It will be interesting to work all of this out at the gym tonight.
Go hug someone.
Kate
Friday, January 21, 2011
Inside the Circus
Howdy.
As I was sitting here, staring blankly at my laptop, wondering what to write about tonight a multitude of ideas came to mind rapidly. However, each was just as rapidly dismissed when I decided I didn't have enough to fill a post without having to think about it too much. And thinking isn't very high on my list right now.
Back in the before time, in the long long ago, before Matt and I had children we were absolutely horrible at remembering to eat. The whole three meals a day was a complete joke. Honestly, I cannot eat for a few hours after I get up without getting a horrible stomach ache so breakfast is a non-starter. While in college I would generally set an alarm 20 minutes before my first class so I had about 10 minutes to get dressed and 10 minutes to walk to class. The only nice thing, literally the ONLY nice thing, about the college I went to was the fact that the small campus meant it never took more than 10 minutes to walk to class. There are those who love it, but as far as I am concerned if South Dakota State University and Brookings, South Dakota were vaporized tonight it would suit me just fine.
I'll take that a step further and say I could do without all of South Dakota. What about Mt. Rushmore you say? Been there, boring as crap. The Black Hills! Been there, the forests in northern Minnesota are better. The Badlands!!! Been there, UGH!!!!!!!!!!! Now, you may very well love South Dakota and that's just super, really to each their own. But I got out and am never going back.
But I digress. Meals...
Anyway, during the day Matt and I would pretty much fend for ourselves whilst in college. Matt would graciously eat whatever the student union was offering without thought of what exactly he was eating. He even went for the chicken cordon bleu. (It tasted, according to our friend Anemic Dave, like "bleh") I would usually get a coffee to serve as all my intake during the day. We'd go back to our apartment and diligently go about homework, chit chat, and watching TV. Around midnight one of us would exclaim "Did we eat dinner tonight?" Then we'd both sigh and whine about it being time to eat again, and boil some spaghetti, scramble some eggs, or order a pizza. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing you could really count on was that we would have our nightly bowl of popcorn before bed.
Really our methods of eating did not change until our oldest son was ready to eat solid foods. Afterall, until that point he was just eating bottles whenever he got hungry and that did not require us to think about mealtimes at all. However, on the night that little Cooper turned six months old we decided it was going to start being all about the breakfast, lunch, and dinner in our house. I remember my parents telling me that when my older brother, Garth, turned six months old their pediatrician told them to take their son home and feed him whatever they were eating. For example, he said if my parents were having beer and pizza, so should the baby. Man, who doesn't miss the 70's?
Keeping true to form Matt and I ordered pizza that night. We looked at our beloved mini Matt and decided to go for it. He didn't have any teeth, but we figured what the hell. More or less we wanted to see how he'd react to having a solid piece of food in his mouth. I tore off the smallest piece of soft chewy crust and boldly went where no food had gone before. Results? He freaking loved it! Those deep brown eyes lit up and he was hooked. From there there was no looking back.
None of our children had any tolerance for baby food. Thank goodness for that too because those bizarre jars of various puree made my stomach churn. We always figured if it worked for the first one it would work for the others. All of our children got teeth very late, well over a year old. But that never stopped them from eating anything. In fact, Wesley could gum his way through an Iowa chop like a seasoned pro.
We fell into a routine with meals easily. True, I did not join the kids eating breakfast but they had it every day. Lunch and dinner always had at least one protein and one fruit, with veggies mixed in as best we could stand. (For real though, vegetables pretty much suck) We would all gather around the table for family dinners to discuss our day, plan our night, think about tomorrow, and remember yesterday. That was before we had a dinner table with 4 children aged 6 and under.
Call to mind if you can a painting by that idealistic bastard Norman Rockwell. Take a second to gasp at my referring to Mr. Rockwell as a bastard and stay with me. Can you think of another popular artist whose works are universally used to describe how unrealistic life is? How many times have you or someone you know said "It was as un-Norman Rockwell as you could get". When families are driving all over the country to get together for the holidays people are constantly saying "We've got this whole Norman Rockwell idea going, and it's never like that". Everyone knows the ideas the paintings evoke, but universally they are used in conversation to illustrate personal shortcomings. So ha, I stick with the bastard label.
We have not had anything remotely resembling a quiet sit down dinner in over 2 years. Now rather than having everyone pleasantly seated at the table ready and waiting for me to bring the food over I am standing at the stove top in a t shirt and pajama pants (maybe not, maybe it was a day where I had time to change into real clothes, but probably not) fixing up whatever the slimmest majority agreed to eat that night. Considering we do not eat corn dogs, macaroni and cheese, or french fries every night there are always extremely unhappy parties. An attempt is always made to placate the masses with reassurance that "Dinner is just about ready! You are not having a pop tart right now!!!" Finally someone stumbles through the kitchen just in time to see me putting the finishing touch on whatever the least objectionable meal of the day is and calls to the others
"EAT!!!! TIME TO EAT!!!!"
The house fills with the ravenous shrieks of 4 hungry boys who suddenly descend upon the dining room like hyenas to a fresh carcass. I'm sure that oil paint soaked jerk would depict the older boys pulling out chairs for the younger boys, pushing their chairs back in, and assuming their seats with their little hands folded in their little laps and little smiles on their little cherubic faces.
Ha!
Begin the pushing, shoving, yelling, crying about who does and does not want to sit by who. Who wants what color plate (thanks a lot IKEA children's dinnerware. I have 4 boys and they all want the freaking hot pink plate), who wanted milk though they demanded apple juice two minutes earlier, blah blah blah. Usually either Matt or I snaps out a quick "Sit down, be quiet, and wait for your food!" The courses are placed on the table and we're ready to dig in. Or something...
By the time we are done getting condiments you would never assume went with the main course, refills on milk, juice, water, extra napkins, extra forks, a second pink plate to appease the Murdoch contingent, a handful of paper towels to erase the evidence of the great milk rejection by the vengeful Killian, shooing the dogs outside, pushing chairs back in of those who are slowly pushing themselves further and further from the table, getting drinks for Matt and I, and cutting up food into safely edible bites for the younger boys, the older boys are done. And when they're done that's all folks. They are not staying for pleasant banter. The little boys devour their meals and also quickly ask to be excused. Then, with the hurricane style wake left in the path of 4 hungry boys surrounding us, Matt and I are left alone for approximately 3 to 5 minutes to eat our cold dinners.
Yay!
It's exhausting to say the least. And no matter how much they shovel into their mouths for dinner they are asking for a snack in 30 minutes tops. Hooray for family dinner! But darn it all we do it every night and will continue to do so. And no matter how crazy it gets, no matter how many pounds of pasta I wind up making when they're teenagers, no matter how many kitchen chairs get broken in the melee of choosing spots or how many gallons of milk are spilt it will be my favorite time of day because that is my family and we're as real as you can get. And I have the satisfaction of knowing that one day they will all be out on their own and Matt and I will be back to realizing at midnight that we have forgotten once again to eat dinner.
Kiss my ass Norman Rockwell, you wish your family could be like mine.
As I was sitting here, staring blankly at my laptop, wondering what to write about tonight a multitude of ideas came to mind rapidly. However, each was just as rapidly dismissed when I decided I didn't have enough to fill a post without having to think about it too much. And thinking isn't very high on my list right now.
Back in the before time, in the long long ago, before Matt and I had children we were absolutely horrible at remembering to eat. The whole three meals a day was a complete joke. Honestly, I cannot eat for a few hours after I get up without getting a horrible stomach ache so breakfast is a non-starter. While in college I would generally set an alarm 20 minutes before my first class so I had about 10 minutes to get dressed and 10 minutes to walk to class. The only nice thing, literally the ONLY nice thing, about the college I went to was the fact that the small campus meant it never took more than 10 minutes to walk to class. There are those who love it, but as far as I am concerned if South Dakota State University and Brookings, South Dakota were vaporized tonight it would suit me just fine.
I'll take that a step further and say I could do without all of South Dakota. What about Mt. Rushmore you say? Been there, boring as crap. The Black Hills! Been there, the forests in northern Minnesota are better. The Badlands!!! Been there, UGH!!!!!!!!!!! Now, you may very well love South Dakota and that's just super, really to each their own. But I got out and am never going back.
But I digress. Meals...
Anyway, during the day Matt and I would pretty much fend for ourselves whilst in college. Matt would graciously eat whatever the student union was offering without thought of what exactly he was eating. He even went for the chicken cordon bleu. (It tasted, according to our friend Anemic Dave, like "bleh") I would usually get a coffee to serve as all my intake during the day. We'd go back to our apartment and diligently go about homework, chit chat, and watching TV. Around midnight one of us would exclaim "Did we eat dinner tonight?" Then we'd both sigh and whine about it being time to eat again, and boil some spaghetti, scramble some eggs, or order a pizza. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing you could really count on was that we would have our nightly bowl of popcorn before bed.
Really our methods of eating did not change until our oldest son was ready to eat solid foods. Afterall, until that point he was just eating bottles whenever he got hungry and that did not require us to think about mealtimes at all. However, on the night that little Cooper turned six months old we decided it was going to start being all about the breakfast, lunch, and dinner in our house. I remember my parents telling me that when my older brother, Garth, turned six months old their pediatrician told them to take their son home and feed him whatever they were eating. For example, he said if my parents were having beer and pizza, so should the baby. Man, who doesn't miss the 70's?
Keeping true to form Matt and I ordered pizza that night. We looked at our beloved mini Matt and decided to go for it. He didn't have any teeth, but we figured what the hell. More or less we wanted to see how he'd react to having a solid piece of food in his mouth. I tore off the smallest piece of soft chewy crust and boldly went where no food had gone before. Results? He freaking loved it! Those deep brown eyes lit up and he was hooked. From there there was no looking back.
None of our children had any tolerance for baby food. Thank goodness for that too because those bizarre jars of various puree made my stomach churn. We always figured if it worked for the first one it would work for the others. All of our children got teeth very late, well over a year old. But that never stopped them from eating anything. In fact, Wesley could gum his way through an Iowa chop like a seasoned pro.
We fell into a routine with meals easily. True, I did not join the kids eating breakfast but they had it every day. Lunch and dinner always had at least one protein and one fruit, with veggies mixed in as best we could stand. (For real though, vegetables pretty much suck) We would all gather around the table for family dinners to discuss our day, plan our night, think about tomorrow, and remember yesterday. That was before we had a dinner table with 4 children aged 6 and under.
Call to mind if you can a painting by that idealistic bastard Norman Rockwell. Take a second to gasp at my referring to Mr. Rockwell as a bastard and stay with me. Can you think of another popular artist whose works are universally used to describe how unrealistic life is? How many times have you or someone you know said "It was as un-Norman Rockwell as you could get". When families are driving all over the country to get together for the holidays people are constantly saying "We've got this whole Norman Rockwell idea going, and it's never like that". Everyone knows the ideas the paintings evoke, but universally they are used in conversation to illustrate personal shortcomings. So ha, I stick with the bastard label.
We have not had anything remotely resembling a quiet sit down dinner in over 2 years. Now rather than having everyone pleasantly seated at the table ready and waiting for me to bring the food over I am standing at the stove top in a t shirt and pajama pants (maybe not, maybe it was a day where I had time to change into real clothes, but probably not) fixing up whatever the slimmest majority agreed to eat that night. Considering we do not eat corn dogs, macaroni and cheese, or french fries every night there are always extremely unhappy parties. An attempt is always made to placate the masses with reassurance that "Dinner is just about ready! You are not having a pop tart right now!!!" Finally someone stumbles through the kitchen just in time to see me putting the finishing touch on whatever the least objectionable meal of the day is and calls to the others
"EAT!!!! TIME TO EAT!!!!"
The house fills with the ravenous shrieks of 4 hungry boys who suddenly descend upon the dining room like hyenas to a fresh carcass. I'm sure that oil paint soaked jerk would depict the older boys pulling out chairs for the younger boys, pushing their chairs back in, and assuming their seats with their little hands folded in their little laps and little smiles on their little cherubic faces.
Ha!
Begin the pushing, shoving, yelling, crying about who does and does not want to sit by who. Who wants what color plate (thanks a lot IKEA children's dinnerware. I have 4 boys and they all want the freaking hot pink plate), who wanted milk though they demanded apple juice two minutes earlier, blah blah blah. Usually either Matt or I snaps out a quick "Sit down, be quiet, and wait for your food!" The courses are placed on the table and we're ready to dig in. Or something...
By the time we are done getting condiments you would never assume went with the main course, refills on milk, juice, water, extra napkins, extra forks, a second pink plate to appease the Murdoch contingent, a handful of paper towels to erase the evidence of the great milk rejection by the vengeful Killian, shooing the dogs outside, pushing chairs back in of those who are slowly pushing themselves further and further from the table, getting drinks for Matt and I, and cutting up food into safely edible bites for the younger boys, the older boys are done. And when they're done that's all folks. They are not staying for pleasant banter. The little boys devour their meals and also quickly ask to be excused. Then, with the hurricane style wake left in the path of 4 hungry boys surrounding us, Matt and I are left alone for approximately 3 to 5 minutes to eat our cold dinners.
Yay!
It's exhausting to say the least. And no matter how much they shovel into their mouths for dinner they are asking for a snack in 30 minutes tops. Hooray for family dinner! But darn it all we do it every night and will continue to do so. And no matter how crazy it gets, no matter how many pounds of pasta I wind up making when they're teenagers, no matter how many kitchen chairs get broken in the melee of choosing spots or how many gallons of milk are spilt it will be my favorite time of day because that is my family and we're as real as you can get. And I have the satisfaction of knowing that one day they will all be out on their own and Matt and I will be back to realizing at midnight that we have forgotten once again to eat dinner.
Kiss my ass Norman Rockwell, you wish your family could be like mine.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Take the Long way Home
Happy 2011 everyone! Enjoy it, because John Cusak was in this riveting documentary about a year ago which laid out, in extreme detail, that our 2012 won't be so hot.
Our Spitzner family Christmas was pretty exciting this year. We loaded up my trusty mom-mobile and dove headfirst into the great American road trip. Since our relocation to the great state of Texas our plan was that we would drive home for visits twice a year. Two weeks over Christmas, and two weeks in July for family vacations. I understand that may not seem like a lot, but there are only so many times we can put our sanity etc. on the line and drive 14 hours straight with 4 little kids in the car. We thought a lot about what the "best" way to take the trip would be and settled on a straight drive overnight. Our boys travel and sleep extremely well in the car and my virtually crippling insomnia makes it easy to stay up all night driving. The plan was for me to take a long nap in the afternoon on the day we were leaving to be well rested for the late late shift. We left our place right around 5pm Tuesday, December 21. Our older boys had their nintendo DS systems, and we had about 100 DVD's for the little boys to watch.
Honestly, the trip up went without a single hitch. We fed our progeny the very best Long John Silver's had to offer in the bustling metropolis of Durant, Oklahoma (extra crumbs for mommy, don't judge me). On we went. The plan was that if we needed to stop for the night we would do so in Kansas City, Missouri and split the trip over two days. Honestly, neither Matt or I wanted to do that since it would only guarantee that we would get to a hotel around 1am only to wake the boys up, make beds for them to sleep in, hope to get them back to sleep with whatever bribery, threats, and random shenanigans it would take, pray for a few hours of sleep for ourselves, and most assuredly be up at the ass-crack of dawn with cranky kids who would demand to know why we were not at Nana & Papa's house yet, and then undertake another 6 hours in the car. The idea made us shudder.
Thankfully it did not come to that, and I was passing through KC at 1am I merely chuckled and waved a single finger in the air in defiance of a brain's need for sleep. At 4:30 am we stopped for gas in my old hometown of Ames, Iowa. My mother's side of the family is notorious for their insane hours of waking to start the day, and honestly if it was even a half hour later I would have been knocking on the door of my great aunt, grandmother, aunt, or first cousin once removed, demanding coffee and scrambled eggs for me and my posse.
It was definitely what one would call cold in Ames too, about 18 degrees. When we left Texas the evening before it was 85 degrees and we were dressed for that weather without thinking about the extremely different climate to the north. Only one other car was at that gas station at that unholy time of day, but they were taken aback by Matt's shorts and my sheer blouse. But really what do people want from us? We're Texans now! We had to find the one box from the move that we had not unpacked to find coats, hats, mittens, boots, snowpants, etc.
Ames is a mere three hours from our destination in Lakeville, so we figured we were home free. I'm telling you people, that last 20 minutes was KILLER! I was back in the passenger seat doing the head bob dance and Matt was little better in the drivers seat. We dropped off the kids at his parents' house and passed out for the rest of the morning,
The rest of Christmas went just according to schedule. No really, we had a schedule. Matt used his ninja engineer abilities and undying love of all things Microsoft Excel to create a holiday spreadsheet that he emailed to all parties involved the week before our visit. After using it, I think it was great. We had family time and even carved out time for ourselves to spend time with friends and attend a truly fabulous cousins' night with 13 other cohorts from Matt's family. We even had a mascot for the night, my new friend Slippery Sal a.k.a Dillo the stuffed armadillo.
What started to become clear during our 10 day stay was that Matt and I were losing the battle on sleep. Cousins' night didn't end until after 3am, but seriously who turns down some questionably sober Egyptian Ratkiller or endless rounds of MEEP?!?!?! Side note to Shaun, you did totally long MEEP me even though I was right next to you at least once. But it's cool, man.
The trip was to conclude with our triumphant return to Texas January 1st (into the 2nd, overnight again). Mom and dad hosted a New Year's Eve shindig at their house which ended around 1:30 or 2am and then BAM it was time for a nice long sleep. We left the house right at noon, stopped in Ames again to spend a few hours with my extended family while eating the best cheese balls in the world (Thank you Hickory Park), and set our for another night traversing the entire central hunk of this great nation. Surprisingly there were many more cars on the road on the trip back as opposed to the complete dead zone on the way up. We rolled back into our casa at 7:30 am Sunday Morning, January 2nd. The sun was new and the air was fresh, and I found the whole scene positively sickening.
Seriously, I freaking HATE morning. Especially anything I consider to be early morning (before 8-9am). There are people who will yammer on about the beauty of the sunrise and the soul filling crispness of the dawn, but they are liars at best and pod people at worst. Please don't tell me how splendid 6am is, I don't believe you! I could say the same thing about 2am, but I don't because then you'll call me all sorts of names and my ego is terribly fragile, just ask the countless pitiful contenders I have destroyed year in and year out in my Fantasy Football League.
Overall the trip went about as well as could be expected. That is not to say we're in a big hurry to do it again. Matt and I both expressed huge relief that we don't have to repeat the madness until July. It is interesting to note that ever since we moved here new acquaintances and old friends have repeatedly told me that I will probably miss winter. WRONG. The snow was very pretty for about 4 hours, then it was just cold and dreary.
I do not miss needing to warm the car up for 20 minutes before leaving. I do not miss having to bundle the children up to go out. I do not miss stepping in huge puddles of slush in parking lots soaking my feet with muddy, freezing water. I do not miss the overly dry air that makes my hair stand on end like one of those weird electricity orbs at the science museum. I do not miss being nice and warm in a movie theatre for 2 hours, then sitting in a sub zero car that doesn't get warm until you're pulling into your driveway or even worse, pumping out that dastardly lukewarm air that comes out of the vents when the needle finally creeps off C and you think it's raring to go. I do not miss having to exit the car on the driver's side because the snowbank is too high and too close to the road to even open the door on the passenger side. Nope, not missing winter. I think it was pretty obvious that I was not a fan of the season as my mother in law seemed to be on a loop of "Kate is never going to want to move back here now". She might be right, but I am one to never say never. I spent 29 years in the upper midwest, and those tendencies are sure to stick around. And as I pointed out to Matt, it's not that I can't handle winter. It's just that with living here I don't have to and that is just perfect for me.
Seacrest, Out.
Our Spitzner family Christmas was pretty exciting this year. We loaded up my trusty mom-mobile and dove headfirst into the great American road trip. Since our relocation to the great state of Texas our plan was that we would drive home for visits twice a year. Two weeks over Christmas, and two weeks in July for family vacations. I understand that may not seem like a lot, but there are only so many times we can put our sanity etc. on the line and drive 14 hours straight with 4 little kids in the car. We thought a lot about what the "best" way to take the trip would be and settled on a straight drive overnight. Our boys travel and sleep extremely well in the car and my virtually crippling insomnia makes it easy to stay up all night driving. The plan was for me to take a long nap in the afternoon on the day we were leaving to be well rested for the late late shift. We left our place right around 5pm Tuesday, December 21. Our older boys had their nintendo DS systems, and we had about 100 DVD's for the little boys to watch.
Honestly, the trip up went without a single hitch. We fed our progeny the very best Long John Silver's had to offer in the bustling metropolis of Durant, Oklahoma (extra crumbs for mommy, don't judge me). On we went. The plan was that if we needed to stop for the night we would do so in Kansas City, Missouri and split the trip over two days. Honestly, neither Matt or I wanted to do that since it would only guarantee that we would get to a hotel around 1am only to wake the boys up, make beds for them to sleep in, hope to get them back to sleep with whatever bribery, threats, and random shenanigans it would take, pray for a few hours of sleep for ourselves, and most assuredly be up at the ass-crack of dawn with cranky kids who would demand to know why we were not at Nana & Papa's house yet, and then undertake another 6 hours in the car. The idea made us shudder.
Thankfully it did not come to that, and I was passing through KC at 1am I merely chuckled and waved a single finger in the air in defiance of a brain's need for sleep. At 4:30 am we stopped for gas in my old hometown of Ames, Iowa. My mother's side of the family is notorious for their insane hours of waking to start the day, and honestly if it was even a half hour later I would have been knocking on the door of my great aunt, grandmother, aunt, or first cousin once removed, demanding coffee and scrambled eggs for me and my posse.
It was definitely what one would call cold in Ames too, about 18 degrees. When we left Texas the evening before it was 85 degrees and we were dressed for that weather without thinking about the extremely different climate to the north. Only one other car was at that gas station at that unholy time of day, but they were taken aback by Matt's shorts and my sheer blouse. But really what do people want from us? We're Texans now! We had to find the one box from the move that we had not unpacked to find coats, hats, mittens, boots, snowpants, etc.
Ames is a mere three hours from our destination in Lakeville, so we figured we were home free. I'm telling you people, that last 20 minutes was KILLER! I was back in the passenger seat doing the head bob dance and Matt was little better in the drivers seat. We dropped off the kids at his parents' house and passed out for the rest of the morning,
The rest of Christmas went just according to schedule. No really, we had a schedule. Matt used his ninja engineer abilities and undying love of all things Microsoft Excel to create a holiday spreadsheet that he emailed to all parties involved the week before our visit. After using it, I think it was great. We had family time and even carved out time for ourselves to spend time with friends and attend a truly fabulous cousins' night with 13 other cohorts from Matt's family. We even had a mascot for the night, my new friend Slippery Sal a.k.a Dillo the stuffed armadillo.
What started to become clear during our 10 day stay was that Matt and I were losing the battle on sleep. Cousins' night didn't end until after 3am, but seriously who turns down some questionably sober Egyptian Ratkiller or endless rounds of MEEP?!?!?! Side note to Shaun, you did totally long MEEP me even though I was right next to you at least once. But it's cool, man.
The trip was to conclude with our triumphant return to Texas January 1st (into the 2nd, overnight again). Mom and dad hosted a New Year's Eve shindig at their house which ended around 1:30 or 2am and then BAM it was time for a nice long sleep. We left the house right at noon, stopped in Ames again to spend a few hours with my extended family while eating the best cheese balls in the world (Thank you Hickory Park), and set our for another night traversing the entire central hunk of this great nation. Surprisingly there were many more cars on the road on the trip back as opposed to the complete dead zone on the way up. We rolled back into our casa at 7:30 am Sunday Morning, January 2nd. The sun was new and the air was fresh, and I found the whole scene positively sickening.
Seriously, I freaking HATE morning. Especially anything I consider to be early morning (before 8-9am). There are people who will yammer on about the beauty of the sunrise and the soul filling crispness of the dawn, but they are liars at best and pod people at worst. Please don't tell me how splendid 6am is, I don't believe you! I could say the same thing about 2am, but I don't because then you'll call me all sorts of names and my ego is terribly fragile, just ask the countless pitiful contenders I have destroyed year in and year out in my Fantasy Football League.
Overall the trip went about as well as could be expected. That is not to say we're in a big hurry to do it again. Matt and I both expressed huge relief that we don't have to repeat the madness until July. It is interesting to note that ever since we moved here new acquaintances and old friends have repeatedly told me that I will probably miss winter. WRONG. The snow was very pretty for about 4 hours, then it was just cold and dreary.
I do not miss needing to warm the car up for 20 minutes before leaving. I do not miss having to bundle the children up to go out. I do not miss stepping in huge puddles of slush in parking lots soaking my feet with muddy, freezing water. I do not miss the overly dry air that makes my hair stand on end like one of those weird electricity orbs at the science museum. I do not miss being nice and warm in a movie theatre for 2 hours, then sitting in a sub zero car that doesn't get warm until you're pulling into your driveway or even worse, pumping out that dastardly lukewarm air that comes out of the vents when the needle finally creeps off C and you think it's raring to go. I do not miss having to exit the car on the driver's side because the snowbank is too high and too close to the road to even open the door on the passenger side. Nope, not missing winter. I think it was pretty obvious that I was not a fan of the season as my mother in law seemed to be on a loop of "Kate is never going to want to move back here now". She might be right, but I am one to never say never. I spent 29 years in the upper midwest, and those tendencies are sure to stick around. And as I pointed out to Matt, it's not that I can't handle winter. It's just that with living here I don't have to and that is just perfect for me.
Seacrest, Out.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Alas poor terrarium, we hardly knew ye.
After our family moved to Texas I of course assumed the children would find a bevy of new interests, hobbies, etc to go along with the new environment. I was hoping for fun things, innocent things, harmless things, cute things. Here they would be able to ride bikes year round, swim in November, hike around in the woods on our property. All of those options sounded great to me. For the most part I have not been hesitant to embrace the boys' new interests, with one giant exception. Wesley, my sweet five year old, loves bugs. Seriously, he just freaking loves every single one.
We moved here at the very beginning of August with Wesley's birthday occuring 4 weeks later on September 5th. He was having a blast from the word go assisting me with getting our drowned insects out of the pool every afternoon. In true bug collector fashion we took an empty egg carton for him to keep his most prized specimens. It reminded Matt and I very much of the bug collections we had to make the summer before starting 7th grade.
Oh by the way, I maintain Matt blatantly cheated on this assignment. Rather than chase down God's most fragile and disgusting creatures in the woods or basements or garages like the rest of us, he had friends and family retrieve ornamental, outlandish, A+++ (psshh, overachiever) bugs. No fair! If there is to be any justice with regards to the valedictorian in training's bug collection is in the fact that his teacher lost it (after grading it of course. He probably would have burned the school to the ground otherwise for daring to deny his achievement in making other adults do his summer school work). Anyway...
After running around our two acres of grasshopper and caterpillar infested property in 120 degree heat rounding up what most of us step on with his bare hands (or run from, in my case) and depositing them into an old aquarium we decided he needed the proper tools of the trade. Mind you, while he was dodging fire ant hills and sweating his little brains out, the rest of us were watching from our inner tubes in the pool with mixed expressions of shock, horror, confusion, and general icky-ness. Each afternoon Wesley would put on his swimming suit and say today he was going to cool off with us. And each day he would jump in once only to get out and begin wranglin'.
For his birthday Matt went out and purchased a huge bug net, a small wire mesh bug tube with a strap to sling over your shoulder during the hunt, and the best gift of all...a plastic insect/reptile terrarium. It was 4 inches by 6 inches of pure plexiglass perfection. It was the alpha and omega for Wesley. He spent every available moment of each day filling, emptying, and refilling that beloved terrarium with anything and everything he could scoop up with his gigantic net. In true hunter gatherer fashion he would head out and collect until his portable container threatened to burt at the seams, transfer the contents into his holding tank, and head out into the wilderness all over again. Before long we began to notice a huge presence of praying mantises and those too stayed with us for a day and maybe a night before rejoining their brethren with tales of being kidnapped, placed in a box, and stared at by a giant.
The mantises gave us the opportunity to see the food chain in action within the insect realm, as those fascinating creature can devour grasshoppers in the blink of an eye. I wondered how Wesley would take to catching bugs for the purpose of feeding bigger bugs, but he loved feeding the mantises. In truth even I really enjoyed watching those grasshoppers bite it big time. Take that! All those nasty things do is give me bad dreams about swarms devouring me whole, or even worse standing between me and the door back into the house (safely away from THEM). If only there were more mantises I thought. Wait, no. I only thought that until early one morning when Wesley came upstairs to wake me by saying "I brought my mantis inside". I was uneasy considering we had a concrete rule about the terrarium never coming indoors. I asked where and he said in the toy room. After going downstairs I expected to walk into the toy room and see the terrarium perched on the couch next to his cup of milk and brown sugar pop tart.
Imagine my surprise when I opened the door only to be face to face with a mantis, sans enclosure, chilling out on the arm of the sofa. Yes he was next to the milk and pop tart, but I was soooo past seeing anything cute about the situation at this point. Naturally I screamed and rapidly closed the door with Wesley and his new best friend on the other side. I told my young, innocent son through the door to put that bloodthirsty killer back in its pen and immediately take it back outside. Crisis solved.
A while later Matt's sister Kelly came to visit us for a long weekend all the way from New York. To the surprise of no one he proudly showed Auntie Kelly his tools of the trade. She ohhhed and ahhed with proper enthusiasm and awe of her little nephew's source of absolute joy. Little did she know she would find herself drawn into the lie and cover-up of a lifetime over that sweet little boys most prized possession.
One afternoon during her stay we went to run out for paint to start a beautiful mural for the big boys' room. I was backing up my pimped out mom-mobile and couldn't quite swing the beast around in one swift motion. No, I had to pull forward a bit, then reverse again, and finally drive out. It was during the first pull forward for 3 feet that disaster struck. Kelly and I both heard the crack, or shatter, whatever your pleasure. We stopped the car and she hopped out to survey the damage. With her lips in a frown and her eyes in full sad puppy dog mode she announced the sum of all fears: It was the terrarium.
Dear lord baby Jesus, NO! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I was going to lose my mommy badge for running over the only thing he truly loved.
Panic mode ensued. Considering it was the very end of September our chances of finding an identical replacement was slim at best. Catching bugs is generally not an activity retail stores prepare for going into late fall or early winter. Target was out, in fact the young man we asked seemed utterly befuddled by our query. There was only one other place that could possibly spare us the heart wrenching fate of watching those baby blues burst with and endless stream of hot, agonized tears.
Help me Wal-Mart, you're my only hope.
We, or maybe just I, resisted the urge to behold the unyielding awesomeness that is people you can see at wal-mart and kept our eyes on the prize. Behold, there it was! Like the shrubbery in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, we accomplished our mission after laying our eyes on the best piece of plastic $.08 can make (and sell for $5.99). Like giddy school girls we returned to the house and inserted the new terrarium seamlessly into the life of the old one, and disposed of the ghastly remains.
And they all lived happily ever after.
We moved here at the very beginning of August with Wesley's birthday occuring 4 weeks later on September 5th. He was having a blast from the word go assisting me with getting our drowned insects out of the pool every afternoon. In true bug collector fashion we took an empty egg carton for him to keep his most prized specimens. It reminded Matt and I very much of the bug collections we had to make the summer before starting 7th grade.
Oh by the way, I maintain Matt blatantly cheated on this assignment. Rather than chase down God's most fragile and disgusting creatures in the woods or basements or garages like the rest of us, he had friends and family retrieve ornamental, outlandish, A+++ (psshh, overachiever) bugs. No fair! If there is to be any justice with regards to the valedictorian in training's bug collection is in the fact that his teacher lost it (after grading it of course. He probably would have burned the school to the ground otherwise for daring to deny his achievement in making other adults do his summer school work). Anyway...
After running around our two acres of grasshopper and caterpillar infested property in 120 degree heat rounding up what most of us step on with his bare hands (or run from, in my case) and depositing them into an old aquarium we decided he needed the proper tools of the trade. Mind you, while he was dodging fire ant hills and sweating his little brains out, the rest of us were watching from our inner tubes in the pool with mixed expressions of shock, horror, confusion, and general icky-ness. Each afternoon Wesley would put on his swimming suit and say today he was going to cool off with us. And each day he would jump in once only to get out and begin wranglin'.
For his birthday Matt went out and purchased a huge bug net, a small wire mesh bug tube with a strap to sling over your shoulder during the hunt, and the best gift of all...a plastic insect/reptile terrarium. It was 4 inches by 6 inches of pure plexiglass perfection. It was the alpha and omega for Wesley. He spent every available moment of each day filling, emptying, and refilling that beloved terrarium with anything and everything he could scoop up with his gigantic net. In true hunter gatherer fashion he would head out and collect until his portable container threatened to burt at the seams, transfer the contents into his holding tank, and head out into the wilderness all over again. Before long we began to notice a huge presence of praying mantises and those too stayed with us for a day and maybe a night before rejoining their brethren with tales of being kidnapped, placed in a box, and stared at by a giant.
The mantises gave us the opportunity to see the food chain in action within the insect realm, as those fascinating creature can devour grasshoppers in the blink of an eye. I wondered how Wesley would take to catching bugs for the purpose of feeding bigger bugs, but he loved feeding the mantises. In truth even I really enjoyed watching those grasshoppers bite it big time. Take that! All those nasty things do is give me bad dreams about swarms devouring me whole, or even worse standing between me and the door back into the house (safely away from THEM). If only there were more mantises I thought. Wait, no. I only thought that until early one morning when Wesley came upstairs to wake me by saying "I brought my mantis inside". I was uneasy considering we had a concrete rule about the terrarium never coming indoors. I asked where and he said in the toy room. After going downstairs I expected to walk into the toy room and see the terrarium perched on the couch next to his cup of milk and brown sugar pop tart.
Imagine my surprise when I opened the door only to be face to face with a mantis, sans enclosure, chilling out on the arm of the sofa. Yes he was next to the milk and pop tart, but I was soooo past seeing anything cute about the situation at this point. Naturally I screamed and rapidly closed the door with Wesley and his new best friend on the other side. I told my young, innocent son through the door to put that bloodthirsty killer back in its pen and immediately take it back outside. Crisis solved.
A while later Matt's sister Kelly came to visit us for a long weekend all the way from New York. To the surprise of no one he proudly showed Auntie Kelly his tools of the trade. She ohhhed and ahhed with proper enthusiasm and awe of her little nephew's source of absolute joy. Little did she know she would find herself drawn into the lie and cover-up of a lifetime over that sweet little boys most prized possession.
One afternoon during her stay we went to run out for paint to start a beautiful mural for the big boys' room. I was backing up my pimped out mom-mobile and couldn't quite swing the beast around in one swift motion. No, I had to pull forward a bit, then reverse again, and finally drive out. It was during the first pull forward for 3 feet that disaster struck. Kelly and I both heard the crack, or shatter, whatever your pleasure. We stopped the car and she hopped out to survey the damage. With her lips in a frown and her eyes in full sad puppy dog mode she announced the sum of all fears: It was the terrarium.
Dear lord baby Jesus, NO! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I was going to lose my mommy badge for running over the only thing he truly loved.
Panic mode ensued. Considering it was the very end of September our chances of finding an identical replacement was slim at best. Catching bugs is generally not an activity retail stores prepare for going into late fall or early winter. Target was out, in fact the young man we asked seemed utterly befuddled by our query. There was only one other place that could possibly spare us the heart wrenching fate of watching those baby blues burst with and endless stream of hot, agonized tears.
Help me Wal-Mart, you're my only hope.
We, or maybe just I, resisted the urge to behold the unyielding awesomeness that is people you can see at wal-mart and kept our eyes on the prize. Behold, there it was! Like the shrubbery in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, we accomplished our mission after laying our eyes on the best piece of plastic $.08 can make (and sell for $5.99). Like giddy school girls we returned to the house and inserted the new terrarium seamlessly into the life of the old one, and disposed of the ghastly remains.
And they all lived happily ever after.
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