May Have to Watch This One More Closely....

Hi! I have a post over at Eat Sleep Write today.  Some days I think I'm going out to live life instead of sitting by the computer inventing stories from what happens, and then something like this happens....Hint: Never leave your pizza unattended.

One Week Later...

First, thank you Dan, (that wasn't static by the way, I really did mean to say you are an awesome brother).  Of course it's all due in part to my superior example as your older sister.

To everyone who has left comments sans "What an informative and interesting take on a very relevant subject..." by generic viagra, thanks for the well wishes. 

Anna Maria is very sweet and her features finely chiseled.  She is the smallest non-premie I've had and we all keep marveling over how tiny she is; and are enjoying the snow days and the deliberate slowness of the world that a new baby and six to eight inches of wet snow demand.

My mom corrected my memory; it was Saint Joseph's, not Saint Luke's --Saint Luke's is where Will was born. 

Every time I go to the hospital, I get to retell my whole health life story and it brings me more stories.   For those who aren't privy to my past, I was a 2 lb 11 onz baby myself back in 1966.  Every once in a while, I go to the grocery store and try to pick out a chicken to see just how small that was.   The intubation tubes back then were brittle by comparison with modern plastic catheters.  This was before medicine had that wonderful steroid that helps open the lungs and assist premies to breathe without undue stress upon birth.  The catheter came out at some point and in the haste of trying to re-stabilize me, the tubing probably broke my right vocal cord bone, dislocating it and leaving me with half the airway of a normal 2 lb 11 onz baby.  Think Swizzle stick for a snorkeling tube and you get an idea of how much air was getting to my lungs.  

The anestsisiologist present at my birth had taken to me and asked every medical professional, even flying to Boston to consult at Children's instead of going to a scheduled conference to determine what to do because I was retracting.   The decision was unanimous.  "Trache."   and so I was.   You know the part about staying in the hospital now until I was almost six months.   The tracheotomy stayed for 8 years.   I really never thought about it much until after it was taken away, you can't know what you never experienced so I never gave it much mind, it simply was.  

But there were effects left to linger from that experience, I learned to fish early because I couldn't swim.  I think I still love fishing more than swimming for that reason.   I remember the first week after I got rid of the tracheotomy riding my bike against orders from the doctor.  I know the bike felt faster and that I've never quite felt that flying freedom I experienced that day.   I have a larger scar on my neck because of it, but the memory of that moment is bigger.

But you start telling this story and there is always so much more than can be explained by a single blog entry or even a slew...because there's the fact that we went to a charismatic retreat when I was six and the participants prayed for my neck to be healed and that weekend was the first time my  mom was ever able to plug my trache up and have me not instantly turn blue.

Aparently I watched tv for a few minutes before deciding to go out and ride my bike.  My mom watched as I rode fearing I would collapse.  I didn't. Two years later, my dad took me to James Avery (Tx silversmith) after the surgery to get rid of the trache. I picked out a silver dove decending. He bought my mom a gold sand dollar pendant.  It has the date the trache was removed engraved on the back.  

To this day, I don't feel right if I'm not wearing my dove and I feel the closest affinity to the Holy Spirit.  It is like a wedding ring to my neck.

And all these little stories merge and reveal deeper patterns that one cannot see when one is in the process of being woven into other people's lives, they indicate the deeper tapestry envisioned by God when He loved each of us into existence.  As an amature weaver, I can only see some of the threads, but I know I've got to hold on to the 12 here and all the family and friends I've been given.

So when I told my brother "God is not Random," it was because my first nurse asked me about my Catholicism as she waited patiently for her boyfriend of five years who was also waiting for her, to find a new job so they could marry and he could provide for their family if they were blessed with children.  Having had a six year courtship myself, I knew how hard this is and then she peeled open, about how people don't understand but I could see the great beauty and gift she was revealing by her sacrifice and his, both showing great courage in a world that does not know the value of "waiting in joyful hope." It struck me as God's humor to give me a nurse living the theme we'd chosen for this year when I was feeling impatient about delivery.  

There is more, always more..there was another mother and two other nurses...will write more of it tomorrow.

You Really Do Need What You Learn in Pre-K

“You are making that up.” I said as I kept serving dinner.


But my daughter insisted, “I saw it!” as she dug through the backpacks and bags that were supposed to be neatly stashed in the cubbies.

“You’re telling me she sneezed.” I repeated incredulously.

My four year old daughter (the sneezer) nodded her head violently in agreement. “And the meatball went flying.” She drew a rainbow arc in the air with her finger. My older daughter cut in, “and it landed but we don’t know where. So now I’m looking for it so we won’t find ants.”

“You’re saying that after being served a plate of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, she lost her poor meatball because she sneezed?”

I wasn’t buying. There was just no way. No way this happened. I ordered them to the table.

“But the ants.” My daughter protested.

I looked at the decidedly meatball and sauce free floor. “If there are ants attracted to a meatball and it’s on the floor, if they find it, we’ll be able to follow them to find it.” I explained, “Now sit.”

Dinner proceeded as planned, with the occasional requests for seconds, requests for something else, and complaints that the meal included a vegetable. When we were finished, Paul (the almost 2 year old) was all covered in sauce. Whisking him to the showers, I asked the oldest three to clean up.

They cleared the table and pulled back the chairs and under Paul’s highchair, was the meatball gone awol. My daughter brought the saucy thing to me as evidence, in truthful triumph. What could I say except….”If you eat spaghetti….all covered in cheese…..hold onto your meatballs….and don’t ever sneeze.”

Monkey Bars

It was a beautiful spring like gift of a Sunday in January twelve years ago. Being only four weeks postpartum, I felt flabby and in desperate need to get out there and exercise. My husband agreed that we should go to a park. We packed the three kids, a picnic, a diaper bag, a blanket, a bicycle, a tricycle and the pram in the two cars. Both the Saturn and the Tempo were brimming with stuff. The park was a mile away.

Will got on his bike. Bonnie got on her trike. We put Marta in her stroller and the new “big” family began its journey around the jogging track. Now on this trail, there were fitness stations. At one, you did arm curls, another, pushups. I decided to firm my form; this would be part of the work out. Things were going splendidly. Even Will and Bonnie decided to do the sit ups with me, or at least hold my feet and count. I felt like such an inclusive all together happening Mom. My kids were counting. I was exercising. We were all out in the fresh air. Raising three kids would be a piece of cake. This felt wonderful, glorious.


Then, I came to the monkey bars. “Sher, I don’t think you should do those.” My husband counseled. I married this man for his prudence, but lacking that quality, I said something like, “Oh stop worrying! I can do it.” and swung into action. I got through four. Then I fell hard on my knee. I couldn’t stand. I started to black out. My husband had to leave me crumpled in a heap with a concerned onlooker and her very big sniffy dog while he ferried the three children back to one of the cars, flagged down a soccer coach to watch them and then return. He then carried back the bike and the trike. We were parked at the very other end of the jogging trail from the monkey bars. I had attempted to stand twice more and failed.


Lifting me up in his arms, my husband carried me across the entire soccer field saying, “Please don’t be really hurt. Please don’t be really hurt. And if you’re really hurt, I’m really mad at you.” and loaded me in the car with the kids. He drove the one car with all of us home, put the baby and toddler in their cribs for naps and turned on the TV for our oldest. He gave me two Advil and a diet coke and walked back to the park for the other car. He’s a very patient man.


The next day, the doctors drained my knee and gave me a brace for my leg so the ligaments that were torn could heal. I had to crawl down the stairs of our town home for the next two weeks with my infant in a pouch on my chest. We didn’t go back to that park again ever.


So when we went to the park for softball practice yesterday, there was an old fashioned non regulatory playground. They dove right into it but I said even as my children coveted those compelling metal ladders that go nowhere; “Don’t go on the monkey bars, they’re too high.” And naturally, one of my children did not listen. She did have the wits not to state, “I can do it.” to my face.


She’s fine, a bit of a sprain in her right hand but I’ll say it now;


“Do not go on the monkey bars.”

What is He expecting?

My five year old son John got in the car yesterday after school and announced, "It's ten days to my birthday.  Have you gone shopping yet? Is the house prepared?" 

The Unsecret Formula for Surviving Life's Mishaps

Yesterday, my son was sky high. He texted me about getting a 94 on his German test. His father and I were both very pleased.

My husband took the train to New York last night. As a result, this morning, my son had gallantly offered to take the bus. He left the house at 6:00 a.m. calling me 15 minutes later as the 90 bus had passed him by.  My son explained that the driver pretended he wasn't at the stop and even felt him hitting the side but kept going. "The guy even gave me eye contact through the mirror!" He was understandably, upset. I told him to come home and I'd drive him.

While I was getting everyone else ready, he came in and updated his Facebook about the incident. Getting in the car, I pointed out that maybe, that wasn't the wisest choice of actions at 6:30.

We started on the road, it was crowded. We saw the offending bus. His father called and after listening sympathetically, said well, "Happy about the 94, sorry about the 90." "That's not funny." my son said. "Not today." and after a moment, "Maybe tomorrow."

It was at this point, I revealed my secret formula, "Suffering + Time =Humor."

He said,"I'll take my humor without the suffering, thanks. I can make up jokes. I have a great immagination. I don't need the pain as inspiration."

We were quiet for a few minutes, then his phone indicated a text message.

He made a face. "I hate text chain mails. I always kill chains. I don't care if it ruins my businesses for the next thirty years! This one, by hitting delete, I've lost out on true love." He explained.

"So that explains your bad luck this morning."
"I guess it does."

"You know, your true love is on that bus."
"Well, one things's for sure, it wasn't the bus driver."*

"See? That didn't take long."

*Mental note: may have to subcontract blog out to son more.