Sick Days of Old

We're two weeks into February, and someone in my family has been sick since February 1st.  First my daughter, then my daughter AND my son, then my son AND me, and now just my husband. (I think.  I still have a sore throat, but I'm choosing to ignore it.) 

We've had fevers, we've had some pukes.  We've had stuffy noses and we've had runny noses. We've had Vicks VapoRub slathered on our chests and the bottom of our feet.  We've taken children's Tylenol, children's ibuprofen, and entirely too much DayQuil and NyQuil.

You know one of the things I miss most about childhood? The "sick days" of old. 

Now I'll give my husband some credit, he did make a medicine run (that included some caffeine to help me stay awake to parent) after work one day.  But his job includes crazy overnight hours that have him sleeping most of the day and working most of the night.  So I've been mostly solo for these recent "sickness adventures."  

I just miss being able to lie on the couch, cover up with a blanket and doze in front of the television.  (When I inadvertently tried that last week, my son woke me up by sneezing in my face. Ugh.) 

For me, sick days growing up always equaled 7-Up, Townhouse Crackers, and Dimetapp.  I still like two of those three things; I can't really stomach anything grape-flavored anymore.  I guess I just miss being a kid and having someone else take care of me.  No matter how crappy I felt, being wrapped up in a blanket on the living room couch in front of the TV felt like a safe place.  No matter what else was happening in the world.

Case in point, I have a very vivid memory of being home sick from school on April 19, 1995.  How on Earth can I remember that?  Because it was the day of the Oklahoma City bombing.   I can remember my Dad encouraging me to watch TV with him in the middle of my "medicine head fog" because he said this was big news that was going to be talked about for a long time.  Of course, he was right.  Now, at only 11 years old, I had no idea what was happening.  But it felt important, and I felt important to be watching it.

I wonder what sort of "sick day" memories my kids are going to have.  

My daughter seems to like Ginger Ale and Club Crackers better than 7-Up and Townhouse, so maybe those will be part of her future "sick day nostalgia."  When he's older, I plan to remind my son how hard he laughed whenever I would blow my nose... and how he would try to grab my handkerchief and emulate the silly foghorn-like sound.  

And while I hope they each have their own pleasant "sick day memories" - fingers crossed we can take a break from making any new ones for a while.  

The Swerve

I recently finished Michelle Obama's memoir "Becoming." My favorite parts of her book had absolutely nothing to do with politics.  What I loved was getting a "behind the scenes" look at a few moments of her life.  I cried when she wrote about losing her best friend to cancer at age 26.  I chuckled as she recounted the tale of Malia's prom date coming to pick her up at the White House, or the time she tried to go outside without getting permission from the Secret Service first and had agents chasing her down the hall. 

My biggest takeaway?  The fact that she credits Barack with teaching her how to "swerve."

I wish I was better at swerving.

Like Michelle Obama, I would describe myself as a "box checker." 

✔ Get good grades.
✔ Go to college... keep getting good grades.
✔ Graduate, get a job.
✔ Get married.
✔ Have a baby... have another one.

There has been very little risk-taking in my life.  Very little swerving.  In fact, swerving makes me want to vomit.

If you asked my husband about his dreams, he would either tell you they involve opening a food truck/restaurant or buying a semi-truck and starting his own company.  And as much as I love him, both of those dreams make me want to puke.  Don't most restaurants fail in the first year? And I think I read somewhere that a commercial truck can easily consume more than $70,000 of diesel fuel a YEAR.  Between that and equipment maintenance - how long would it take to actually start *making* money?

See... NO risk-taking bones in my body.  That being said, there have been some "swerves" in my life that I didn't see coming.

If you had told 16-year-old me that I was going to be the first one in my group of friends to get married and have a baby, I would have laughed in your face.  If you had told me that I was going to be a stay-at-home mom TWO separate times, I would have been shocked. (The first time was only for a few months, this time... well... we're roughly on day 1197.)  "High school senior" me thought she was going to go to journalism school, become a reporter, and work for the Chicago Tribune.  That didn't happen.

I'd be lying if I said all these swerves have been met with graceful acceptance.  But I try to keep telling myself that just because the plans change, it doesn't mean that life is flying off the rails.

And while it's probably pretty unlikely that it will lead to you spending 8 years living in the White House, maybe if you allow yourself to lean into the "swerve"... you'll be lucky enough to have an amazing experience that "box-checking you" couldn't even imagine. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

Taking Turns in a Crisis

In my corner of the world - this month has felt like never-ending snow, ice, and record-breaking cold temperatures.  While I was outside cleaning off/digging our vehicles out of the snow the other day, I had a flashback to the most unforgettable time I dug a car out after a snowstorm.

It was Christmas Eve during my senior year of high school. My Dad, my sister, and I were cleaning off cars and shuffling them around in our driveway.  I remember that we started with my car - a little white GEO Metro with a manual transmission.

I don't remember why we started with that one.  Could have been because it was the smallest, could have been because I had to get up early and go to work the day after Christmas and I wanted to make *sure* it got done.  All I know is that it was cleaned off, and it was at the end of the driveway closest to the street.

Dad was messing around with my Grandpa's old brown pickup truck that was parked at our house.  My knowledge of the inner-working of cars is limited to where you put the washer fluid and the transmission fluid, so I have no idea what was wrong with it. What I do know is that Dad was standing there with the hood open, and he finally got it running.

And that's when we heard him shout that he was hurt and he needed a towel.  NOW!

This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy.  I don't remember who ran inside, grabbed the towel, and yelled at Mom that we were headed to the emergency room.  I don't remember Dad telling us what happened or even who *decided* we were going to the ER.  What I do remember is that the only car ready to go was my GEO, the only one who could drive a stick (that wasn't bleeding profusely) was me, and the roads were covered with ice and snow.

I think it's important to note that we only lived a little over a mile from an emergency room.  This trip should have taken like 3 minutes... max.  But I kept killing the engine.  (In case you've never driven a stick, "killing it" is what happens when you let off the clutch without giving the car enough gas. The car lurches, then dies, then you have to restart it.) Not to mention I kept sliding backwards down the icy hills when I stopped at the stop signs, and I was crying so much that I could hardly see.

My sister stayed pretty silent from the backseat, and my Dad kept murmuring encouraging things and reminding me to breathe while holding his towel-covered hand tight against his chest.  We eventually made it to the hospital, and I pulled right up to the door.  My sister helped Dad out of the car and took him inside - while I continued to sob and look for a place to park.

I found a spot, and headed inside still taking those shuddering breaths that always seem to happen when I'm trying to make myself stop crying. The sight of my sister weeping in the waiting area was enough to make MY tears go away completely.

In case you were wondering, things turned out fine for my Dad.  He ended up having surgery to repair the ends of his fingers that were injured when his glove was pulled into one of the rotating belts inside the truck.  While a couple of his fingers are a bit shorter than they used to be, he still has enough of a middle finger to use when the occasion arises. 

Joking aside, even 18 years later I'm still fascinated at the idea of how my sister and I "took turns" crying during this mini-crisis.  I was nearly hyperventilating trying to drive us to the hospital, and she was calm.  Stoic even.  Then the second we got Dad inside and the medical professionals took him away, she crumbled.  And it took her falling apart to calm me down.

People have written endlessly about the things that humans *really* need in life beyond food and shelter.  Someone to love, something to look forward to, connection, vitality... the list is infinite.  But I'd like to argue that everyone needs someone to "take turns" with them during all of life's major and minor crises.  So find the people that will stay calm when you're completely panicking (and forget how to drive in the snow)... and remember to soothe them when they need it.

Still Conducting

When I was a junior in high school, I became the Drum Major of my school's marching band.  In case you weren't lucky enough to be a "band geek" - this position (also sometimes called a Field Commander) is essentially in charge of keeping the tempo for the ensemble while they are playing/marching.  Some drum majors use a whistle or a baton, but I just used my hands to clap "commands" and conduct the music.

I have no idea if I was a good Drum Major.

Conducting a Memorial Day performance at the local cemetery in May 2001.

Unlike my predecessor, I never won any "Outstanding Drum Major" awards for my precision or style.  I'm pretty sure I was MORE concerned with the fact that I was wearing a short jacket with white pants and giving a clear view of my butt to the Friday night football crowd than I *ever* was with making sure I was giving cues in a clear and concise way.

I also know I had a habit of jumping around a bit on the podium when I was standing up in front of the field.  Thank goodness for some friends in the pit who would signal to me when my toes were hanging over the edge.  But honestly, if I had fallen off... I think that the band would have been able to keep on playing and marching without me up there waving my arms.  It's hard to imagine anyone watching/hearing our field show and exclaiming - "Wow!  What an amazing conductor!"  If I was doing my job right, the sounds our band was putting out into the world should have been getting all the glory.       

I realized today that I'm still doing that sort of behind-the-scenes "conducting."

When it comes to my 7-year-old daughter, my husband is clearly her favorite parent.  And while I'll be the first to tell you that he is an excellent father, what she doesn't know is that many of things that make him "super cool" in her eyes... were actually orchestrated by her "boring old Mom."

That time he was out running errands and surprised her by borrowing a couple of movies that she'd been dying to see from the library?  That was me sending him a text message asking him to swing by before he came home.

That Christmas present he gave her that earned him a giant smile and a hug around the neck?  Yeah... that's what I told him to buy.

Those times when her little brother is driving her crazy and Daddy suggests that *just* the two of them go on an adventure to Target or to a trampoline park? You guessed it - that's my doing too.

I'd say there is almost a zero percent chance that my daughter will ever see me direct a marching band.  But I'm still "conducting" - whether she knows it or not.

Toddler-Like Forgiveness

My 2-year-old could teach me a thing or two about forgiveness.

I do TONS of horrible stuff to him. I attempt to comb out his tangled hair after his bath. I make him sit still so I can trim his fingernails. I tell him it's time to change his stinky diaper when he is obviously in the middle of playing something very important. I make him settle down for naps/bedtime when he isn't ready. And WORST of all - I occasionally have to leave him (in tears) with someone else for a while.

And he forgives me for all of these things. And really quickly, I might add. Sometimes there's some pouting, but he usually comes around within like 5 to 10 minutes. And those times when he's really worked up at having to be left behind with someone else for a few hours? The next time I see him... he's all grins and excited shouts and hugs.

The times I offend him the MOST are the times that he forgives me in the BIGGEST way.

Whoa.

When do we lose that as adults? Granted, there are probably some really wonderful, selfless adults out there. People who constantly turn the other cheek... people who always smile and love their neighbor with open arms... people like Mother Teresa. (But she's been dead for what? 20 some years?) I'm willing to bet that the rest of us could probably use some more "toddler like" forgiveness in our lives. And maybe we should start with ourselves.

A friend of mine was recently posting online about how she caught her 1-year-old son watching her do push-ups... and then she saw him attempting his own. And this observation made her more fully aware of how he really is a little sponge. She went on to say, "I so need to live a better life with these little eyes watching. Makes me feel guilty for all my shortcomings." I immediately replied with something encouraging about how much love I know she has for her sons... and how she shouldn't forget to love herself too.

But maybe what she really needs to do is FORGIVE herself. I know there are things I need to forgive myself for. Those silly things from years past that keep you up in the middle of the night, robbing you of sleep while you replay ways that you could have handled them differently. Regrets you have about not making time for the right things (or the right people) at certain moments of your life. Being ashamed about choosing a nap or mindless Facebook scrolling over something else on your to-do list that was infinitely more important.

I can remember my mother once telling me to try to put "things on yardstick." I think she meant that if you back up, and look at the moments of your life as marks on a yard stick, you might see how something might not be a big deal in the grand scheme of things. Everything is just a little mark. Life changing days, like the birth of your first child or little things... like sighing as you pick up the Legos for the four-hundredth time - they are all little marks. And YOU can decide which marks have significance.

Forgive yourself for some of the "little marks" you aren't proud of. If my toddler can do that in 10 minutes, maybe you could do it in the next 24 hours.

Memorable Moments at the Movies

It was the Monday after Thanksgiving 2018, and I took my 7-year-old daughter to a showing of "Ralph Breaks the Internet" right after school. I already knew that the movie theater was this kid's happy place, but this trip ended up being extra special.

We were the only two in the theater.

Not only did we loudly talk and make jokes throughout the showing, she got up and danced around the empty theater during the credits. I mean, ran up and down the aisles shaking her "groove thing" to "Zero" by Imagine Dragons.

And then as we were walking out, she said, "I'm gonna tell them this is the best time I've ever had in this theater." And she did. Bless that teenage concession stand employee that listened to her speech and smiled at me over the top of her head.

I think this is the first time I've fiercely hoped my daughter would remember a moment for the rest of her life.

But the more I thought about it, I realized that it wasn't my first "memorable moment" at the movies.

It's the summer of 1999, and I'm with a large group of friends heading to the movies.  We've driven 20 miles to see the new releases playing at the Capri V Theatre in downtown Ottumwa, Iowa.  More specifically, we're here to see "The Blair Witch Project."

Now I can't remember all of the people in our group, but I do remember that I was the last person in line to buy a ticket and Jessica was right in front of me.  Jess and I were both 16 at the time. There were two people selling tickets, and when Jess got up to the counter, one of the employees asked her how old she was.

Let me reiterate that.  They didn't ask to see her ID, they just asked her how old she was. 

And as I heard her say 16, my heart sank.  "Blair Witch" was rated R, and now they weren't going to sell her a ticket.  All of our friends ahead of us in line (some only 16, some older) already had their tickets, and to be perfectly honest, I was pissed off.

She told the cashier that she'd like a ticket to see "Bowfinger" instead.  I gritted my teeth and bought my own ticket to "Bowfinger" so Jess wouldn't have to go to the movies alone.   In case you don't remember that film, it's a PG-13 comedy starring Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy.  I'd like to tell you more of the plot, but I honestly don't remember. I was way too angry to actually pay attention.  I do remember how Jess kept forcing herself to laugh too hard at the jokes and looking over at me in the dark as if she was trying to "will" me to enjoy myself.

It wasn't going to happen.  I was way too angry at her for "ruining" my evening.

I was angry for her automatic honesty.

Which, nearly 20 years later, seems crazy.  I was mad at my best friend for telling the truth.

I recently read a book by Gretchen Rubin were she writes that "what you do every day matters more than what you do once in a while." And while it's hard to believe that Jessica Eakins was completely truthful every single day, I do know that she was truthful MORE than once in a while.  If there is an underlying theme in all my memories of Jess, it's that she was an honest friend that never set out to hurt anyone's feelings... but often told people what they needed to hear.

The Capri V Theatre closed a year after Jess died.  And I can't remember the last movie I saw at that location, and I honestly can't remember the last movie I saw with Jess.  I often wonder if this moment - this "life lesson" at the movies - would even be burned in my memory at all if Jess hadn't died less than five years later.  But it is.

So strive to be honest... more than once in a while.  Even if you end up forcing someone else to watch "Bowfinger."

Compare and Contrast

I was the first person from my close group of high school girlfriends to get married and have a baby.

And even though I'd already planned a wedding and had a little girl, when my three friends all got married within the same 10 month span... and then were all pregnant/had their own daughters within the same 7 month span... I felt incredibly left out.  Chalk it up to left over high school insecurities, but I just felt excluded somehow.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm pregnant again.  This time, a couple of my friends are also pregnant and we end up having our babies in February, March, and April of the same year.  "Yes!" I remember thinking.  "Now I get to go through this process again... right alongside someone else. This is going to be great!"

Remember that old expression, "Be careful what you wish for?"

Because of the opportunity to watch these other two kids grow up alongside my son, it has become sort of second nature to compare and contrast their development.  To be honest, this has been both a blessing and a curse.

After reading a social media post, I started thinking that maybe MY son should be talking because HERS was.  After spending time ignoring those gut feelings and (continually) reminding myself that "comparison is the thief of joy" - we decided to have our son evaluated.  Turns out he has expressive receptive language disorder.  And while it doesn't always feel like it, reading that post that ultimately pushed us to have him diagnosed was a blessing.

Enter the "curse" aspect.

We are taking steps to help our son.  He sees two different sets of therapists, we have a communication board in our home, and so on.  But I can't seem to stop comparing where he is right now with where he SHOULD be.  Things are progressing slow and steady, and I know in my heart that all forward progress should be celebrated.  But lately it feels impossible to stop worrying about the future.  When are these sounds going to turn into real words?  How is he going to learn to read?  Will he be able to keep up with kids his age?  Why am I worried about Kindergarten when I should be worried about how he can't even say his own name?

Now, back to those darn social media posts.  Watching children younger than him hit the milestones that he hasn't yet is heartbreaking.  There isn't any other way to describe it.  I wish I could turn off the compare and contrast aspect of my brain, but I can't.  I wish I could stop comparing his development to his older sister, but it's so hard.  I wish I could just say the right things and do the right things and "fix" him, but it doesn't work like that.

All I can do is love him for who he is at this moment in time.  No comparing.  No contrasting.  No conditions.  And some days, that's much easier said than done.