Brush Your Teeth--Carefully!

I have inadvertently created an urban legend: the Tale of the Blood Spewing Toothbrush! I expect that this tale will be all over our neighborhood by the end of tomorrow's school day. But that's okay because the end result will be that the children of our town will learn to both fear and respect their toothbrushes.

You see, I was talking to my friend, Emily, on the phone today and I simply asked, "How are you doing?"
She said, "Oh fine, except I was up late worrying about my friend."
"What happened to your friend?"
"She was getting her kids ready for bed and her 2 year old got her toothbrush stuck in her throat and she had to take her to the ER because when she finally pulled it out, blood was squirting out of her mouth."
I'm sure my gasp was heard 'round the world. "What?! How in the world did that happen?"
Emily quite calmly explained that the tot had fallen while brushing her teeth and the toothbrush got jammed in her throat. The mother had to take her to ER to make sure that she hadn't punctured an artery or something.

Now here's a true dilemma. I think I've heard that one should not remove an object that has impaled a body because of the gushing blood problem. The object serves as a kind of plug. But, what if that object could also cause you to choke? I can only imagine the terrible choice between air and blood. The mother in this story instinctively chose air (and let's face it, probably didn't think that the toothbrush had gone through the back of the throat), but she second guessed herself when she saw the blood. To make matters worse, the poor woman is 8 months pregnant and her husband was away on a business trip. All I can say is he owes mommy a night out when he gets back.

After I got over the shocking reality of the Tale of the Blood Spewing Toothbrush, I began to realize the potential power of this story if retold carefully to my unsuspecting children. Just last week my mother was reminding me of the time I asked why the lady in the store had only a few black teeth and my mother had said, "Because she didn't brush them." You can bet my brushing improved from that day forward. If I've only learned one thing from my dear sweet Army-trained mother, it is that fear has its uses.

Perhaps my mother's greatest attempt at using scare-shock tactics to encourage good behavior happened one day while my sister and I were passing the time in church. We were about five years old and tended to suffer terrible giggling fits in quiet places. My mother had asked us to be quiet, but we were unable to control ourselves. There comes a time in the Catholic Mass when the priest is blessing the Host and the wine. As part of the ritual he raises up each one of these symbols and a bell is rung. Up goes the host and there go the bells: jing-a-ling-a-ling... jing-a-ling. If the bell ringer is feeling particularly celebrant, he rings the bell longer than he should. Since my sister and I were short and could barely see over the pew, we had not yet figured out the identity of the bell-ringer. So, we turned to our mother--knower of most things-- to solve the mystery.

"Mommy, who is ringing those bells?" She very matter-of-factly turned to us with squinted, determined eyes as if she was about to swat a fly, and said, "Jesus Christ is ringing those bells and if you don't sit up and be quiet, he's going to jump down from that cross and slap you across the face."

I wish I was joking. We stared at her, shocked by the news that Jesus could hop off the cross. We stared at Jesus. We expected him to glare at us the way our mother did. The bells stopped ringing and we didn't utter another sound. But, I did have a lot to think about. Jesus did not look like he was in any condition to discipline me. But, he is Jesus so I imagined he could do anything. I spent the next 30 minutes avoiding my sister's gaze and seeing if I could detect any signs of movement in Jesus's fingers, toes, or eyelids. I thought about how embarrassing it would be if Jesus had to single me out and ask me to be quiet during His Mass. I think I was 7 before I figured out that the alter boy rings the bells.

So, here I was today thinking about the toothbrush story and how I could use it. We've been having a little trouble with silliness and goofing off at bed time. Certain people in this house don't want to focus on their bedtime procedures. Well, you know what happens to little children who goof off while brushing their teeth, don't you......

We picked up Chris after work for a family Target run. While my audience was captive in the car, I said, "Oh my God! Guess what Emily told me today?" I began to retell the tale of the disobedient child who ran amok with her toothbrush in her mouth and got it stuck in her throat. I carefully explained that when the mother pulled it out blood squirted everywhere and the child had to be rushed to the hospital to before she bled out. Everyone is fine now, but that just goes to show you that when your mommy and daddy tell you to stop goofing off and brush your teeth, you should probably do it, unless you want to die a horrible bloody death.

Mary said, "I don't like that story."
Garrett said, "You mean about how that little girl was running around and fell down and then choked on her toothbrush and had blood squirting everywhere?"
Mary added, "Yeah, about how she didn't listen to her mommy and daddy and died."

SUCCESS!

Perhaps you think I'm cruel. You have not had my week of rowdy bedtimes. And guess what? Jesus gave me a sign that I did the right thing because after Target we all went to Burger King and saw a lady with terrible black teeth and Mary asked, "What's wrong with that lady's teeth?" And of course I said, "She didn't brush her teeth every day. Don't point."

Divine

I have been reading a book to Garrett and Mary with the word divine in it. A little girl tastes her father's pasta sauce and says that it is divine. When I first read the word Garrett asked, "What does that mean? Divine?" I said, "Well, in this sentence it means that the pasta sauce is really, really good." The next day I was reading the story again and when I read the sentence, "Mmmm...mmm, divine!" Garrett asked again, "What does that word mean?" Mary chimed in and said, "It means really, really good, remember?" Garrett said, "Oh yeah."

It was bugging me that I didn't completely define divine the night before so I said, "Well, it means even more than that. It means that it's so good it comes from God." Garrett wrinkled his eyebrows in thought and said, "Like, OH MY GOD! That's so good!?" I said, "No, like God created it--God in Heaven."

Garrett thought some more. "You know what I think would be divine? A BIG, HUGE cup of hot chocolate that I could swim in. And I could float on a big marshmallow and sip chocolate from a straw. And then I could put on my goggles and go swimming and dive for chocolate chips and eat them too."

Wow, that really would be divine! Incidentally, since I haven't kept up with blogging I will tell you that our little Miss Moo has an incredible memory. It doesn't surprise me that she would remember my definition of divine word for word. Later, as I was laying with her she said something clever and told her, "You know what, Mary? You are really smart." She looked at me with a big grin and said, "K-Mart smart!" I asked her, "Where did you hear that?" She said, "From that man on the television and he's carrying a lot of presents from a store and he says, "Smart. K-Mart smart. I like the sound of that."

Young Love

This morning Garrett and I walked to school with Isabela who, as usual, had a lot to say. She started telling us about her baby brother and how fussy he's being this morning. Garrett was jumping up and down behind her, dying to share his morning report. Isabela said, "Garrett, it's not polite to interrupt. I'm telling you about Santiago!"

"Garrett has big news to share with you," I said.

"Well, I'm almost finished, and then he can speak." She told us about all the food Santiago was refusing this morning.

"Can I go now?" Garrett asked, and then started in without an answer. "LOOK! Isabela, I lost my tooth!" Garrett gave her a big grin so that she could see the space where his tooth once was.

"Oh, huh. I have a very wiggly tooth, Garrett!"

"Isabela," I shamefully interrupted, "When Garrett's tooth came out, he jumped up and down and said, 'Now I can have a tooth necklace.' What do you think of that?" There is a little girl in our neighborhood, Natalia, who wears a necklace, made by her grandmother, that features her first lost tooth. It hangs on a fine gold chain, like precious jewelry. I am deeply disturbed by this, but the kids think it's great.

"Well, I don't want a tooth necklace, but if Garrett does, he'll have to go to Spain to get one. I've been to Spain and France and I can speak 3 languages like my daddy. BONJOUR!"

I like to encourage Isabela. "Oh, that's really cool. Do you know what Oui means?"

"No."

"That means yes in French. So if I ask you, 'Are you a very smart girl?' you can say, 'Oui!' Now, how did Natalia get a tooth necklace? Did she go all the way to Spain?"

"Natiala is Spanish and they took her tooth to Spain and brought it back and now she can have it for 100 years." Oh wow, and pass it down to her children, no doubt.

Isabela was ready to move on from the tooth discussion. She said, "I have 4 boyfriends and so does Natalia and Garrett is not one of them."

Garrett interjected, "I'm not one of them?"

I'm sure this was disturbing news to Garrett, who thinks of himself as belonging to Isabela. "Who are they?"

"Well, I have a Spanish boyfriend, and Robert, and I guess Garrett's the fourth."

"Garrett, did you hear that? You'll have to get in line! But, Isabela, who is the first boyfriend? And I thought you said Garrett didn't make the list."

"Well, now I can't remember the first, so I guess there's only three, but Garrett is still the fourth." She must be saving #1's space.

"And who are Natalia's boyfriends?"

"I told you they are the same! I have 3 and Natalia has 3."

"Yes, but who are they?"

"THE SAME! A Spanish boyfriend, Robert, and Garrett."

"Garrett, did you know you have a second girlfriend?"

Garrett shrugged and blushed. "No."

"If you get one more, you'll have as many as Isabela."

All this talk of love makes me laugh. Last Saturday I took Garrett to a birthday party and one of the mothers told me that her daughter just loves Garrett. When she plays the "Who are you going to marry" game, Garrett is always on the list. I hate to tell her, but there may be a waiting list. Let's not forget Olivia, who I hear tells her kindergarten class across town that Garrett is her boyfriend and she's going to marry him.

Whether or not Isabela is going to be Garrett's wife remains to be seen, but she is busy prepping him. He is already being trained to wait for her to finish speaking before he speaks. When they were about 3 years old, she taught him how to slow dance to classical Beatles music. She even put a sport coat on him for the occasion. And, most notably of all, she has taught him how to spoon. Yes, that's right: spoon.

One day they were having a play date and had disappeared for a few minutes. I honestly dont' know what I was doing while they were off on their own. They put their heads over the top of the stairs and said, "We learned how to do something cool and we want to show Mary."

"Mary is sleeping," I told them, "But, you can show me."

"Okay, c'mon Garrett!" Isabela and Garrett sprinted off to an unknown location. I followed their footsteps and giggles and then I found them, laying perfectly still on Garrett's bed, spooning. Garrett was behind Isabela, with his head behind her head, his hand around her waist, and his knees tucked into hers. I didn't know whether to laugh or scream.

"Uh, what are you doing?" I asked, ignoring the obvious.

"We're laying down like married people. This is how they do it. I showed Garrett how and he's a really good learner." Garrett looked proud.

Oh dear, God, please tell me that's all of you've learned, I thought. "I see." I struggled for words. To freak out, or not to freak out?

Isabela continued, "Yes, they lay down like this and the man hugs the woman like Garrett is doing now. Good job, Garrett. When Garrett and I are teenagers, we can be boyfriend-girlfriend, but we won't be married, and but we can watch movies like this."

"Okay, well, we don't have to learn those thing yet. You're a long way from being teenagers or married people. Let's go downstairs and have a snack. Who wants to play Disney Bingo?"

They sprung from the bed, "I DO!"

So, you can see that Isabela is way ahead of.... well, everyone. Garrett is like this little love sponge, and wants to know how he's supposed to express himself to people. He seems to have decided that he wants his kisses to come from girls, and not boys. Last week Chris asked to kiss him good night and he said, "No, daddy because you're a boy and I want girls to kiss me." Chris was crushed. I think they agreed on a hug. Garrett is clearly working out some rules for how he wants to express his love. Maybe he can give Isabela his tooth necklace as a symbol of his devotion to her. She can wear it around school like some kind of varsity jacket. I wonder what boyfriends 1, 2, and 3 will think of that.

All I can say is that losing a tooth is all of Garrett's manhood that I can stomach right now.

You're Cool, But I'm More Cool

This is an actual conversation that Mary and Garrett had today when I picked up Mary from school. Garrett was in the car because he was home with his pink eye affliction. Mary was wearing her rainbow sweater with the hood up.

Garrett: Hi Mary.
Mary: Oh, Hi Garrett! Do you have a pirate patch?
Garrett: Yes, this is my pirate eye patch, but you can't wear it for you might get sick.
Mary: Ok. It's cool.
Garrett: Did you have a good day at school, Mary?
Mary: Yes. (Pause).... My head is a rainbow.
Garrett: Sure is.

Mary is not one to be outdone by a cool eye patch. Garrett is not one to care.

Pink Eye, Come on Down!

Welcome to everyone's favorite winter game show Catch That Illness! where you can win fabulous prizes such as Days Off of School, Your Favorite Comfort Food, and Hours of Television and Computer Games. If you win our final round in which you must infect everyone in your family and drain your mother of all energy, you'll win Endless Sympathy and the Right To Do Whatever you Want While Your Mother Recovers. Yes, in one fun filled season of illness, you can win all these prizes and more.

We'll start our show with a suspenseful round of Ambiguous Symptoms. Each member of your family will display symptoms that may or may not require medical attention. When you can name that illness, hit your buzzer. You'll earn a co-pay for each illness that you correctly identify.

The winner of this round will be asked a bonus question about a random set of symptoms: Do you need to go to the doctor? Depending on your answer, you'll move on to Pay The Doctor or Raid the Drugstore. In Pay The Doctor, you may or may not receive verification that you are sick or contagious, but you'll pay the doctor anyway. You have to play this round until you know what you have or run out of money. If after Paying the Doctor 3 times, you still do not have a diagnosis, and are still sick, then you'll have to play the penalty round: Diapers That Reek. In Diapers That Reek we'll show you disgusting diapers that must be evaluated and identified as Normal Disgusting Duds or Unusual Nastiness Indicative of Disease.

Then you'll play our final round of Spread It Around! We'll give you a bag of infections items, such as tissues, pillow cases, sneezed-on artifacts, and parcels of puke. You will lodge these balls of bedlam at your team members while they race to get ready for school. If you can infect each and every member of your family before they can get out the door, thereby keeping them home, you'll win the game! Good luck and let's get sick!

Seriously, I'm so done with the illnesses. We've all had the flu, Miss Moo and Chris have had allergy induced bronchitis, Chris has been coughing since November, Miss Moo's nose is on a constant drip setting, Chris has a new sinus infection and Pleurisy (which I'm still trying to understand as it sounds more like a board game than a lung problem). We have stocked the bathroom with inhalers, nebulizers, antibiotics, narcotic pain killers, steroids, over the counter cold remedies, a lifetime supply of tissue and throat lozenges. And I could probably fill Lake Michigan with all the water I've poured into the humidifiers.

I. Hate. Winter. Furthermore, I don't trust Winter. Winter and his BFF Illness are bad guests that don't know when to leave. Just when you think they're on their way out--the sun shines and the snow melts--they hit you again! Turns out the sudden change in weather was a recipe for a fever and diarrhea. The symptoms descend upon you just as the wind chill hits -20 so that you can take your child to the doctor looking like a Titanic survivor. There will soon be a shortage of chickens thanks to all the chicken soup I'm dishing out. You better get yours now because Winter strikes again.

Last night I tucked Garrett into his bed and he said, "Mommy, my eye hurts."

I said, "Your eye hurts? Let me see." Garrett opened his eye wide and there was nothing there that I could see. "That's a good eye. It just needs a rest."

Then Garrett really opened his eyes wide. "Arrest! I don't want to be arrested."

"No, not arrest. I mean A REST. It needs to sleep. That's a tired eye. I bet it won't hurt in the morning." The innocent child believed me. Heck, I believed myself.

After a fitful sleep last night--thanks to Mary sneaking in my bed just after I fell asleep and Chris coughing half the night--I went through the usual morning routine. We all buzzed around doing our part to get out the door on time. It wasn't until I had filled my coffee mug that I really got a good look at Garrett. His eye was puffy, bloodshot, and oozing, with icky crusty stuff cemented to his three-foot-long eyelashes. It was a bit shocking. "What happened to your eye?"

Garrett was unconcerned. "Oh, mommy, that's just my eye that needs to sleep."

"Good Lord, that eye needs more than sleep." I tried to get the crusties off with a warm wash cloth, but dried puss stuff is much more stubborn than it looks. I looked up at Chris, exasperated by yet another pox on our house. "I think that's Pink Eye. And if it is, he can't go to school."

Chris took a long sip of his coffee and rolled his own sleepy eyes. "I'll Google it." My own mommy search engine--Moogle!-- knew that Garrett was headed for the doctor. Chris came back down the stairs with his report. "It's highly contagious. He definitely needs to go to the doctor. He can't be around people for at least 24 hours. I saw pictures. That looks like it." Moogle is faster. I was already washing my hands before he hit the stairs. And I was cursing the Gods. Why couldn't Garrett get pink eye on Friday when he has "administrative inservice" day off of school? Or next Monday when he is home for President's Day? Nooooo, he has to be quarantined today, on my Monday.

So, we went to the doctor. He stood about 10 feet away from Garrett and washed his hands with nuclear soap. He gave me the really bad news: I have to wash everything that Garrett has touched, slept on, or winked at. We trotted off to the pharmacy for the antibiotic drops where Garrett begged me for an eye patch. The eye patch and the drops only cost seven bucks. This is our cheapest illness of the season! I feel like a winner! That is until Mary gets it and we have to shell out another co-pay and buy more drops. Come to think of it, my eyes are a wee bit itchy. Pink eye x 4 = $80. I swear to you, I could have taken a trip to Paris with all the money we've put down for health care this winter.

I wonder what is the next contestant on Catch That Illness. I'm going to put my money on head lice. Whatever it is, I'm on the lookout for ambiguous symptoms, diapers that reek, and the like. For now, all I can do is dodge the germs. So far I've been safe, except for that flu. Thanks for joining us, now it's time for Wash Everything You Own.

Birthday Woman, Can You Save Us?

I detest planning birthday celebrations. I always think I have enough time to plan and then I get distracted and time very stubbornly does not stand still while I take care of the usual things and then it's "Oh crud, Garrett's birthday is in two days."

I blame my failure to plan my child's birthday party on the following conditions that are, of course, not (entirely) under my control.

1) Garrett's birthday is in January; that's much too close to Christmas. I'm still tired from Christmas. In fact, I think I still have to put some dishes away from Christmas dinner. And I need a full year before I can see another toy come into the house. I am suffering from TPTSD--a rare condition in which one looks around and can see only toys and then starts to flip out. Flipping out might involve suddenly donating everything you own to Good Will or spending $500 on various storage containers in an effort to make the toys more invisible. People with TPTSD are also known to rise from a dead sleep and scream, "I'm a grown up! I'm a grown up! Where are my things?!" Unless we have a Mommy Dearest style birthday party in which Garrett is only allowed to keep one gift lest he be spoiled rotten, a birthday party and it's associated loot is sure to send me over the edge.

2) There is no good place to have a fun filled party for boys in January. Boys are meant to run around and chase each other with sticks and other weapons while wearing capes. My house is not Gotham City, therefore it would be crazy to have an indoor party here. I don't belong to a country club, children's museum, or the like. I don't think the library will allow pizza. It is far too cold to take the party outside. There have been times when I've thought, "We can just have the party here... we'll just order pizza... it will be fine.... " But then I come back to reality and remember that I live in a Craftsman style bungalow, not a Chuck-E-Cheese. Hey, how about a party at Chuck-E-Cheese? (Fade to a dream sequence of having party at Chuck E Cheese: Children laughing and screaming violently, cold pizza, never-enough tokens, ding ding ding ding ding ding ding! Pow Pow Pow! Germs. A giant mouse in a hat.) Slap yourself. Fade back. Take two aspirin for the virtual pain.

3) Parties require party gear and acquiring it is not part of my skill set. I don't know the first thing about renting a bounce house or hiring a magician or clown. I admit that I could learn how to do this--and perhaps offer up my experience to the Yellow Pages Ad committee--but after much consideration I arrive at the next point.

4) In these crazy economic times, who wants to spend $350 for a bounce house? Actually, it would have to be a Bounce Igloo. I don't even feel good about having a party that requires bringing a gift. I admire those people who have a party in which Junior requests that you donate a book to the school library in lieu of a gift, but I'll bet Junior thinks that's the worst birthday he's ever had when he goes to bed that night. This is childhood, not a book mobile. (I feel so guilty for thinking that, I'll probably donate 10 books to the school with the next Scholastic order from that comes crammed in Garrett's backpack).

5) Finally, the biggest problem with advance birthday planning is that we all have the Pox and it wouldn't be fair to spread our diseases to well-meaning children and their families. Maybe it's not the Pox, and maybe it's just Chris that has it, but it's something bad and he has enough of it to cause a nuclear breakdown of our entire family system. This cursed, unidentifiable illness is something that makes you cough until you rupture your internal organs; something that causes fluid to build up in places that fluid is not meant to be, such as the lining of your lungs; something that requires your wife to refill humidifier tanks 5 times a day and shovel snow every other minute; something that prohibits your wife from saying, "Can you bring down the laundry?" or "Can you take the kids to school?" I can honestly say that this beast robbed me of my right to live 12 months of this year because it single-handedly took January!

I ask you: How am I supposed to organize a party for 6 year old boys under these circumstances? And even if I did organize it, how am I supposed to manage this group of scurvy pirates on my own? I'm not going to volunteer to walk the plank!

Wouldn't it be great if, like the police chief of Gotham City, I could send a signal from my roof and light up the night sky with a birthday symbol, perhaps a giant cupcake, summoning a super hero that fights Birthday Stress? Where is Birthday Woman when you need her? I can see it now. Darling Chris is sick in bed with humidifier mist swirling all around him. I kneel at his bedside and say, "Woe is me. Garrett's birthday is in just two days and you show no signs of recovery. I've waited too long to plan and now we are doomed. Our son will have no fond memories of his 6th birthday. He will grow up to be an evil villain who hates us. Who can save us now?"

Chris sputters and blows his nose. He's disabled, but not brain dead, and masterminds a brilliant plan. "Go to the roof, send out the signal of distress to Birthday Woman. She's the only one who can help us now." Since I've been shoveling snow for days, I consider the obvious. "But, darling, it's freezing out there. What if Birthday Woman freezes when she responds to our call? What will all the privileged children with Spring, Summer, and Fall birthdays do?" Chris reminds me that if Birthday Woman can shoot flames from her fingertips (a handy superpower for lighting candles), she can surely arrive warm and unharmed.

I climb to the roof and nearly kill myself on the ice, but that doesn't stop me. I will myself forward because I will do anything to get out of planning a child's birthday party. I hit the signal and behold a giant cupcake lights up the sky. Within minutes Birthday Woman arrives and she is even more magnificent than I imagined.

Flames shoot from the soles of her multicolored snow boots as she jets to the roof. Streamers flow from her hair and her super suit is made out of Mylar. She has a flaming cupcake on her torso. "Birthday Woman, thank God you're here. Garrett's birthday is in two days and I haven't sent out invitations, or ordered a cake, or rented a hall, or bought him a gift. My husband is ill. My daughter messes up the house faster than I can clean it. Can you help us?"

Birthday Woman's response is quick and decisive! "There is no time to lose," she says, "A six-year-old's broken heart is at stake." She whistles and summons her assistant, the Eager Eagle, and magically produces invitations that Eager Eagle will drop in children's mailboxes throughout the neighborhood. She scoops me off the roof and returns me to the warm house. She pumps Chris with Vicodin and hands him a mop. She tells me to relax and save my energy for the party. I sit comfortably in the living room, propped with pillows and drinking a Mai Tai as I watch Birthday Woman shoot party decorations from her wrists. Helium baloons and ribbon are sprung from her supersuit Spidey style. Suddenly, the Eager Eagle returns with a bag of gifts from Target and Best Buy. With super fast Karate style motions, Birthday Woman wraps the gifts in Birthday Woman Gift Wrap and once again shoots ribbon from her wrists to put on the finishing touches. She stands with her feet wide and her hands on her hips and activates her Cupcake Communication System with a simple command. A small screen emerges from her cupcake torso. "Birthday Woman to Party Pad. Come in Party Pad."

A robotic voice emerges from her screen. "Party Pad standing by. Proceed."

"Party Pad, we need 4 pizzas to arrive at 12:00 Saturday. Two pepperoni, two cheese. Also, one Batman Birthday cake, six candles."

"Refreshments?"

"Affirmative. Apple juice all around, and Mimosas and Bloody Mary's for parental units."

"Do you require Party Pad Entertainment, Birthday Woman?"

"Affirmative. Send the Dueling Pirates and Mr. Magic. And hurry!" Birthday woman turns to me and refreshes my drink. "My work is done here. I'm getting a signal to help another family in birthday distress in Nebraska. The Party Pad will take over from here."

"Thank you Birthday Woman! But, I have one question. How will I keep my daughter from destructing the incredible work you've done here? Once she sees these ribbons and balloons, she'll devour them like a tree monkey on crack."

"Not to worry. Everything you see here is only visible to the Adult Eye. When the clock strikes 12 on Garrett's birthday, it will be visible to children too. The Party Pad People will look like ordinary people. But, at Bedtime Saturday night, all of this will disappear. There will be no clean up. You must make sure the party ends with your child's bedtime."

"Thank you, Birthday Woman. We'll never forget you."

Yes, Birthday Woman would take care of everything. Then she'd blast off into the sky, snow boots aflame, and leave me to take all the credit. Other mommies in a 1 mile radius would ask themselves, "How does she do it? And so soon after Christmas!"

But that didn't happen. There was no Birthday Woman. No Healed and Helping Hubby. No Dueling Pirates or Mr. Magic. But there was a Batman cake and presents. Some friends of ours invited us over for chili. With no other birthday plan in place, we said, "Sure, we'll bring dessert." Garrett didn't really know the difference between a formal party and a night of chili. He got to play with a Wii, so he was happy. We sang happy birthday, he selected the part of the Bat Cake that he wanted, he ate with glee. We've been opening presents Hanukkah style--one a day. The TPTSD is under control for now. I ordered Garrett about 7 books from the Scholastic order form.

Today the snow is melting and Chris is about the same. The sunshine is giving me a great idea: I can plan a super cool end-of-the-year party for Garrett's class. I have 4 months to plan. Plenty of time!

The .5K

By .5 K, I mean half a mile. But maybe a K is not a mile. I have trouble with concepts like these, despite the fact that I can do complex statistical analyses. That is, I used to. If you showed me an SPSS file now, I might run from the room screaming and demand that an exorcism be performed on my house to expel those demons from the past. (Those of you who don't know what SPSS is, good for you. You're one of lucky ones.)

There are only two statistical problems that concern me now: what is the probability that I can leave my house in the morning in a good mood? And what is the probability that I can pick up Garrett from school and feel like a sane person when I arrive home?

Like any statistical problem, we must identify the factors. Let us first consider the probability of leaving the house in a good mood. On a typical school morning, Chris and I may or may not wake up on time. After dragging ourselves out of the bed, which we have probably only occupied for 5 hours given our night owl nature, we both beg Garrett, who is already up playing on his computer, to put on his clothes. He may or may not be willing to dress, but eventually he complies. I get in the shower while Chris packs Garrett's lunch and makes his breakfast.

At some point in my bathroom ritual, I am sucked into a vortex of thought involving a) the dream I had last night, b) a compelling secret with which I have been entrusted, c) what I need to accomplish that day, d) a review of my past ambitions and whether or not they were worth it, e) a contemplation of gratitude for all the amazing blessings in my life, f) a brief rough draft of an obituary for someone I love should they drop dead today, g) a momentary reflection on my age and whether or not I should have more children, g-a) if thought "g" is a yes, have more children, then musings follow of the charming personality of this future child who loves me with his whole heart and cares for me until I die on my 100th birthday; g-b) if thought "g" is no, you'd be insane to have more children, then musings follow about how all that free time that I have because I am not raising children is used to write my New York Times Best Selling novel. Hm... what is this book about....

Oh, crap! It's 7:30. Dear, sweet Chris (a.k.a., one of the blessings) has done his job (lunch packed, children fed and dressed), and here I am cocooned in my towel of thought. I dress, I dry my hair, I shout from the bathroom door, "Garrett, are your shoes on?" He yells back, "NO! I'm playing my game." I yell back, "It's not time to play games! It's time to put on your shoes." I finally emerge from the bathroom and see that Garrett is dressed for a warm spring day, which is fine, except that it's a balmy 3 degrees outside. And lest you think I'm a total failure, I did set out his warm clothes with him the night before.

Garrett redresses. I finish dressing and accessorize. I beg Garrett to put on his gloves, coat, and hat, and get his backpack and lunch. I fill my travel mug with coffee. I learn that Garrett is playing with an action figure. I say, "Garrett! Put. On. Your. Coat." I find my cell phone (in case one of us gets hit by a car or loses a shoe down a sewage drain on the way to school) and put on my own scarf, hat, gloves, and "warmest coat" from the Gap catalog. I have to ask Garrett again to get it together. Sometimes he is really focused and does all of this without the reminders and prodding. But usually, he's lost in Garrett fantasy land, much like I was in the bathroom.

We yell bye bye to daddy and Mary and head out the door. I tell Garrett to be careful of the ice. He deliberately steps on it. I can read his mind... "Hm... dangerous ice... I'd like to know what that feels like under my Spiderman snow boot... I'll just step on it slightly... uh oh...." I remind him, "Garrett, sweetheart, the ice is slippery don't step on it." We finally make it out of the driveway, and round the corner in the direction of Isabela's house--our first .10 mile marker. With a few reminders to not walk on people's ice laden retaining walls, and to walk forward with purpose as if our feet were shooting arrows, we arrive at the school in time for the first bell. Our cheeks are frozen, our spirits high, and my coffee cold. We see the other parents and kids and greet each other with that eerie, yet delightful, Leal School optimism: Good morning! Isn't it a great day?

Mood check: Good. But sometimes it is not good. Sometimes I have PMS and the whole glove/hat/coat thing can make me breathe fire. Sometimes I'm so tired and pre-maturely overwhelmed with the demands of the day that I feel the cranky-meter take off like a rocket. Sometimes I don't have time to make my coffee. Sometimes it is insanely cold and we are too frozen to do anything but whimper. (Ironically, it is times like these that I appear my nicest because I am cheering Garrett on: Hang in there, baby! We're almost there. I can see the school now! Oh, it's going to be warm and toasty inside. Aren't you glad you're not mommy? Mommy still has to walk home!") Underneath my visible breath I am asking myself, "What in carnation brought me to this tundra? The only cold I was ever meant to experience is Pacific fog." On the walk home, I go back over the gratitude thing and imagine that my best selling book will allow me to take a book tour to warm places.

This is my .5K--my own daily marathon. It takes training. It takes resolve. It takes positive thinking. It takes a fine cup of coffee and the support of the other school-bound travelers. We have our own check points and dreams of reaching the finish line. Oh yes, we are champions every time we round the bend and see the crossing guard smiling and waving us forward. The kids forget how cold they are and hug their friends. The mommies and daddies raise their coffee mugs to each other and know that we all raced to get here, and even when we were inside our own houses, we were united in our mission.

The end of the school day is another matter entirely. At 2:45 one is not thinking about the promises that the day holds. One is shocked that the day is half over. There are no meditative showers to inspire thought and synthesize the meaning of life. The coffee is reheated in the microwave. Despite your high hopes, the weather is not warmer. In fact, it might be a little colder. Perhaps the wind has picked up. And most notably, for me, there is Mary.

Mary who refuses to change her diaper despite the fact that it's full of poop. Mary who does not want to be roused from her princess-blanketed couch. Mary who will only leave the house if she is permitted to bring her baby in its toy stroller with rickety wheels or her shopping cart. Mary who insists on dressing like a rainbow and won't wear her coat because it is not a rainbow. Mary who must stop and investigate every tree, bush, stick, and snow pile on the way to the school, and who insists that I carry the stroller/cart over the patches of ice. Mary whose nose starts to run all over her face, but shrieks at the sign of a tissue. This child of God who tells me she loves me at least 4 times each day, and whom I make pots upon pots of chicken soup because it is her favorite, turns on me like a Judas. She knows I am distressed about making it to the school on time. It only strengthens her resolve to dawdle. She tortures me on purpose.

If you don't believe me, I have witnesses. All those supportive fellow .5K-ers from the morning walk can tell you that I am a different person for the afternoon walk and that Mary is the reason. Just ask my friend who has helped me to carry the doll stroller home. Just ask my other friend who I often had to tell to "go on without us... it's too cold." Save yourselves! Query the crossing gaurd if you must--she'll tell you that my son is in the middle of the street, while my daughter is 30 feet behind us selecting a stick. If you prefer evidence to testimony, just follow the serpentine trail of snot to know that Mary has chosen to take the indirect path. Sometimes I think I should be looking for the 666 marking under her hair.

Of course, by the time we make it home, shed the the winter gear, kick off the boots, and have a good stretch, we're back to the default mentality: love, peace, and treats. It's cookies and hot chocolate all around--Garrett's with mini marshmallows and Mary's without. By the time the cups are emptied and the tummies are patted, the Hell walk is a distant memory. Mary and Garrett trot off to play together and I have a long moment to myself--sometimes with a fresh cup of coffee. It is a blessing all unto itself.