Blame the Mayans

I remember fourth grade like last week.  Because, it was. Only this time, I’m 36 with 2 kids, a job, a husband, a house to clean, and bills to pay while I cook dinner and try to figure out what exactly the Mayans did for us.  By the way, it was calendars - they had calendars, and they watched the sun move to see what time it was and knew a lot about math.  So, the Mayans are to blame, really, for the rows of days we live by, filling the squares with this and that, and taking kids here and there according to what the square says.  

They’re back in school - Glory to God in the Highest, and blessed are the poor in spirit all at the same time.  I’ll openly admit that I rejoiced on day one.  The reasons are many.  I had completely had it with watching them lounge in front of Disney channel with ratty hair and too short shorts.  I was tired of hearing the pantry door slam 20 times an hour before dinner, and very tired of the “everyday is Saturday.” mantra.  But, one hot day in August, those kind people in the public schools opened their doors to stimulate my children’s brains and bring back the order.  I am grateful.

However, the shift from nomadic life to blue collar worker comes as a bit of a shock.  I’m stirring dinner with one hand and calling out spelling words while making sure that the one has been appropriately borrowed.  We are full-on, full-speed, knee-deep into school, schedules, and calendars.  And, about every other day, Kate still asks, “do we have to go to school this day?”  There are things I have not missed - the folders, the papers, 2 sets of sign up sheets, please signs and returns, and please reads, and don’t forgets.  It all came back to me on the first Tuesday when I saw those green folders.  The anxiety over the stacks to sift through - to keep, to toss, and the unsure pile.  I undoubtably will toss a keeper so the unsure pile just grows.  It’s so confusing.  There’s the signing - one needs papers signed, both need agenda books signed, one needs conduct signed or my kid will do the walk of shame to sign the book and advertise the mom fail of the night.  

Then it’s on to the first grade spelling.  Mercy.  As soon as I laid eyes on the “challenge list” the first time I knew we were in trouble.  I tried to find common ground in the rules of grammar with no avail.  “Take” has a “k” but “picnic” and “attic” have “c’s,” and “blonde” has an “e” on the end because it just does.  We’ve done all the computer games, mock spelling tests, write the words 3 times each, and she STILL spells them how she wants to every single time.  Spelling with Kate is a lot like Groundhog Day.  Next, I sit down with a math worksheet and a boy and try to help figure out how many ways other than the right way you can get the answer to 4 times 6.  After a quick glance at the “suggested” websites to enrich learning, it’s time for multiplication timed drills, study guides, and we head to bed for the 20 minutes of required reading.  No wonder so many schools are failing.  

When the lights are out, I clean out the backpacks for anything I missed and to make room for the next day’s paper piles and find treasures like these...

"Bracelets are fun to put on and other jewelry."

And this one:

Apparently, they were were making safety posters.  Note that the box is not checked with approval by the teacher.  Later that night, she said, "Never cross the street without an adult....hmmm, I should have used that one.  It's way better than never jump on your mom."

This child is definitely beating her own drum.  She is also a self-appointed expert on the countries of Africa and India.  “Did you know that Rumanda has a lot of people?  It is a city in Africa.  There are lots of nice things there.  The people there have jobs and they are happy.”  All of this information is coming from the pages of Tina Fey’s book while I’m standing in a store return line.  She swears she speaks 3 languages.   

There’s this conversation:

“I can speak other languages.”

me:  “Really?  What do you speak?”

“I know African and Indian.”

me:  “Oh, is that right?  Where did you learn those?”

“Well, you know, I’m from another planet than you.” 

me:  “Really?  What planet are you from?”

“Well, I’m from Africa, then I moved to India but I got tired of that so I moved to Nashville and now I live in Germantown.”  

“Interesting.”

And, the boy - so many growing pains in fourth grade.  He’s no where close to grown or responsible but it’s the age where you realize that he’s closer to middle school than kindergarten and you are torn between doing it all for him and letting him figure it out.  It’s semi-painful to watch the turmoil but you realize it will be more painful later if you don’t let him flounder a little now.  So, you start having real and honest conversations about choosing friends, things in life that aren’t fair, and how adults sometimes act like children.  On the one hand, you are thrilled when logical decisions and observations come out of his mouth but on the other, you want to be sitting on the couch with his chubby legs wrapped over yours naming the trains in the Thomas the Train catalog.  

As happy as I was to know they were back in school with friends, structure, and brain stimulation, I will admit to being a tiny bit sad on the first day when I went upstairs to make their beds and pick up toys.  The sheets were still warm from their interrupted sleep and Kate’s dollhouse had furniture spilling out on the carpet lawn from their “picnic” from the day before.  Bailey’s legos were on the floor and my iPad was on the Sports Authority website.  I just left it.  Because, a few short hours they would return, with all new information about who they sit next to and who they didn’t see all summer, who had a weird haircut, and what color shoes everybody had on.  And, I would realize all over again that it really is a gift to watch them grow and change and to know that by the end of the year one will read well and the other will be writing short stories and doing long division.  Both will see their friends every day without me having to arrange it, she will continue to so her own thing, and he will automatically take on the responsibility of looking out for her, and she will be both thrilled and annoyed that he tells her what to do.  

If you are me, you give yourself a high five each time you walk your kids to a new school grade and count your blessings as you count the steps into the building.  You remember when those lanky legs could barely be seen between the shorts and the ankle socks and when that mouth that’s sounding out new words was holding a pacifier.  You choke up when you see your daughter march down the hall to audition for the school play because you know she’s got more confidence than you ever did, and when you son gets an award because someone besides you thinks he’s terrific.  You call out spelling words for the 10th time this week and dig deep into the culture of the Mayans,walls of plant cells, and common core, because you made it to first grade and fourth grade, one more time.  

My favorite "kindergarten ready" picture

First day. 2011.  The magic was over in kindergarten.  He's terrified, and she's carrying a baby doll.  

 First grade Bailey and first grade Kate.  Note the stark contrast in my children. 

First day, 2010. 

She insists on a backpack to walk him in and can hardly wait 2 more years for this.  

First day, 2014.  

He is making sure she looks ok to be seen with him and she's trying to get ahead of him.  

2014

Just after they've left - the remnants of homework, paper signage, breakfast, baseball practice, and my keys that I won't be able to find later.  

for the Carport Queen

For my entire life, I remember having what my mom referred to as a "carport sale."  It is now referred to as a garage sale, I assume because here in suburbia we all have garages that close up over our cars and back in Mississippi, we had a carport that was open to wave at the neighbors.  This is certainly better in my opinion as much of my young life involved time spent under a carport - eating watermelon, shelling peas (watching other people shell peas), swinging (because good carports have swings), talking, and listening to it rain in a fold out lawn chair, something my daddy considers as sacred as a national holiday.   I learned very early to appreciate this activity. 

But, at my house, the carport was used several times a year for a sale.  And, people I'm going to tell you that my mama knew how to do it.  My parents even built a carport onto the house that I grew up in because it didn't come with one.  It had an attic above it and she would climb those pull down stairs 2 or 3 times a year and drag out whatever in the world she had down to that carport to sell.  My daddy would tie twine along the sides of the posts of the carport for a clothing rack and there she'd go.  She had plywood boards over boxes for tables, a sharpie, and a roll of masking tape and we'd go to town pricing stuff.  She'd send daddy to McDonalds because cooking was out of the question and she couldn't leave "the sale."  Sometimes my little 10 year old self would be left to watch "the sale" while she went inside for a minute and I'd get worried that I would have to start naming prices, especially when it was stuff my daddy had pulled out like vehicles, riding mowers, or old tires.  We'd have random people trying on clothes in our house, stuffing their feet into shoes that were way too small, and the whole time my mama was telling them how great they looked in so-and-so, and how they really needed to buy the navy blue one too.  And they did.  If they asked how much something was, she said, "oh, a dollar," or "I'll take a dollar," or "how 'bout a dollar."  And, at the end of the day, the woman would have several hundred dollars and what was left, she'd send my brother back up those pull down stairs to save for the next "sale."  

Today I had my own sale in my garage with a couple of friends and ironically it happened to coincide with Carport Sale Queen's birthday.   I pulled stuff down from the attic, stickered it, hauled it, displayed it, moved it, priced it, and moved it some more.  I found myself arguing about $3 for candlesticks with some old man in a Mercedes.  Guess that's how he got it.  At the end of the day, I still don't hold a candle to her but I did make a little money and other people had to haul off my junk.  The city kept taking our sign so we had to alternate people sitting down at the end of the street holding up the sign - we figured it was harder to move people.  Dang codes.  We got lots of compliments on creativity and some people stopped just because of our sign models, one which was my husband.  The difference in me and my mama is that at the end of the day I had Stephen haul it all to Goodwill because I'm not taking it back up to save for another "sale." Carport Queen, you can have that one.  I'm one and done.

The kids an I celebrated the rest of mom's birthday with our balloon send off.  I started this tradition a few years ago as a way to help hang onto memories and talk about things she liked.  Kate was really into birthdays, and parties, so perfect.  Birthdays are happy, birthdays have balloons, birthdays have parties.  I like to keep it simple.  We've really enjoyed this and it's something the kids are starting to look forward to.  The first year was the beach, because we happened to be there and because she LOVED the beach.  Last year, I let Bailey pick and he picked the baseball field where he played Coach Pitch because we all know she would have been at all the games she could.  Perfect.  And, well this year, we had a plan but it got a bit derailed after the "sale" but I think it turned out perfectly.  They picked their Uncle Ed's who has a fantastic yard full of treasures and a pool.  It was 97 degrees.  These kids are brilliant.  

They picked red balloons this year in honor of Nana's favorite color.  It never fails that every year the ladies at Kroger ask if we're having a party and I tell them, "well, yes we are."  We actually managed to make it to the said destination without popping or losing one this year.  We were looking for the perfect spot when I spotted the big ole chicken.  No doubt that was it.  My mama loved a chicken.  She decorated her farmhouse with rooster lamps, canisters, and other Southern farm apparel.  They were tasteful chickens, and really who doesn't love a good old egg laying bird.  She even had a Vera Bradley bag in a chicken pattern that she kept important papers, medicine, catalogs, that she needed to carry with her.  Reference was made to "my chicken bag" whenever I asked where some so-and-so was.  With that big chicken as our backdrop, they sent off those birthday balloons.  Well, sort of.  One kind of got stuck in the tree and a hummingbird tried to eat it.  Nobody freaked out so I figured we'd all come a long way.  I'm sure a big gust of wind will eventually send it on its way.  

After all, somebody's always late to the party.   

Mom's 60th birthday 2008.
Notice that she's nowhere near or interested in the cake, yet completely delighted in
holding Kate and watching her grandsons blow out her candles. Also, note the rooster lamp
directly behind her head.
She was never late to the party. 

Since I'm late to the blogging party, I included our last 2 years of videos too.  This is where I realize how big my kids are.  Look at their itty bitty legs barely sticking out of those shorts on the first one!  

Bless the nest

Earlier this week I spent four hours in the dark.  Life was going along just great.  Disney channel blaring, clothes in the washer, dishwasher running, leftover chicken in the oven, 2 out of 4 using the wi-fi, lights ablaze all over the house.  The wind blows and the lights go out.  Shoot. 
My people freak out.  The dog vibrates, the kids look at the radar on my iPhone.  The questions start. “What will we do if it doesn’t come back on?”  “We can’t even watch TV!”  “What will we eat?” “There’s nothing to do!”  This was in the first 30 seconds.  
I see the wind start blowing, Stephen and I lower the umbrella and then watch the wind blow our 20 trees.  I stand at the door fielding the questions but my mind goes to the mama bird and her nest in my fern in my backyard.  I remember that she flew out when we walked outside.  To occupy his mind I tell Bailey to keep an eye on the fern and our baby birds as it sways back and forth like a pendulum on the arbor.  I wonder if I should intervene and take it off the hanger or just leave it alone.  I imagine how silly I would look out there holding a fern steady in the middle of a storm and think of how my mom always said not to interfere with nature so I let it swing.  I wonder if the mama is in it and if she’s gripping her little bird feet tight to the nest she had built or if she is watching from the fence and hoping her nest would sustain the rocking so those egg babies don’t roll out.  I think about how I’m certain I’m the only one thinking about baby bird eggs right now.  
We all pack up in the car to go to a restaurant across town where they have lights and warm food.  We see friends and all talk about how they too had to go out because of no power.  Tragic.  We return home with our bellies full and our house dark.  Stephen gets on his iPhone with 3G.  I light candles, get a flashlight and sit down with my stack of magazines.  Glorious.  No laundry - can‘t do it, can’t even see it.  I read an article on Sheryl Crow surviving cancer and living with a brain tumor, 3 broken engagements, 2 adoptions, a bunch of Grammys, a ranch with hired people to call and check on her kids at school during a storm, and how she is thriving at 52.  I read about her lumpectomy and radiation and think, “wow, I had a lot of cancer, wonder what the article would say if I was her.”  I write that article in my head.  
I take my flashlight and give my girl a bath in the dark and think of how brilliant she is for asking for her headlamp because she “doesn’t like to carry stuff.”  I dig in the junk drawer for triple-A batteries because I’m that prepared.  This buys me another article because her brother who secretly thinks she’s ingenious is now borrowing her light and looking through his dark room for his so he can build legos.  
He resorts to playing a game on the iPad that’s still got a charge and she crawls in my lap and asks why I’m not scared.  I tell her, “It’s just a storm.”  I borrow the headlamp and pick up a decorating magazine, enjoying the flicker and scent of beach, lemon zest, and leftover Christmas cinnamon, and freshly shampooed hair.  It’s still dark, I’m still sitting, she’s asleep but jerks when it thunders so I keep holding.   
And, just like that, the lights come on.  It’s all like I left it 4 hours ago.  The TV flashes on, the toys are in the floor, the dishes are in the sink and the clothes aren’t dry.  I’m sad.  Truly sad.  I remember how it was 30 seconds ago when it was dark and I didn’t have to make excuses for sitting and reading a magazine with a borrowed headlamp. 
I check Facebook because that’s the best way to snap myself back into technology and see that people in the neighborhood are taking a poll to see if other people were in the dark and talking about whether their food in the fridge might spoil.  I hear sighs of relief from upstairs so thankful that the lights are on so they can go to bed for Pete’s sake.  I blow out the candles, turn on the dryer, clean up the kitchen, make coffee for the next day to come on the automatic timer. 
I think of how good we have it.  How God tries to show us by turning of the lights so we can only see His path, sometimes dimly lit and sometimes smelling like last Christmas.  How he makes our nest strong enough to withstand the rocking from the storm.  How He teaches us as mothers to grip our babies with our tiny bird fingers but when we don’t make it there in time, He teaches us to wait patiently and watch from the fence so we can watch Him work in the storm.  I think about my storms.  I think about how He’s held the nest steady and how the sides are built just perfectly high enough to protect my 3 eggs from the rocking and let me watch from the fence.  I thank Him.

I pray for another power outage.

   

Same God that moves mountains

I saw folders...

I had a moment this week in Target.  As I was walking through the isle looking for more citronella candles, I saw a beautiful thing - colored folders.  Oh, yes.  And markers, and paper, and a completely empty isle of shelving waiting for more.  Be still my heart.  The end is near.  By now, we’ve been through at least 12 boxes of popsicles, kept our kids up way too late, slapped at 458 mosquitos, and caught at least 138 lightening bugs to stuff into a jar to suffocate. Parts of it are wonderful and parts of it I find longing for a sweater.  I started off strong, plastering my rules on the fridge, checking out books from the library, but I’ve wavered.  I have found myself making the beds more than them, and the books got returned unread.  In the absence of structure, schedules, and routine, I am just putty.  God bless the homeschool moms. 

The summer is actually going pretty well. We turn on the sprinklers to simulate a pool and water the grass and there has been some talk of sleeping outdoors in a tent.  The tent got set up by Stephen in order to justify his nomination for Father-of-the-Year, but the actual sleeping part has yet to come to fruition.  I don’t camp.  I don’t like tents, or hard ground, random bug screeches, and when my bed is 10 feet away, it seems downright silly.  I did condone the dragging of the sleeping materials outside and then hung out in the tent for 20 minutes in the dark until it was decided that the lack of lighting and electronic devices weren’t really worth it.  Father-of-the-Year rested in his bed while I waited this thing out in the dark backyard.  I guess he was worn slap out from setting it up.  Kate was the disappointed one.  It’s not surprising since I’m certain that it’s only a matter of time before she’s hugging trees and running barefoot through the fields of clover.

There was the incident of the free popsicle campaign where my firstborn apparently advertised to the neighborhood that he was giving them away and the freezer and fridge got left open all day.  Full of food.  And popsicles.  In the heat.  There was a grape and food flavored drippy mess coming out of my freezer by 5:00.  After I peeled myself off of the ceiling and spent a couple of hours with a water hose, rain boots, and a garbage bag, I now have a very clean, but very empty freezer.  Bailey was standing there during my fit of rage so he got recruited to help with dumping.  I think he was scared.  This was day #2.  I started searching for more camps.  He revised the rules.  

Queen Elsa - points for the blue heels

I’ve gotten to spend a little extra time with my kids due to the impeccable timing of the ole NJ, but it’s not at all a bad thing.  I’ve gotten the opportunity to observe and reflect on lots of things - like how grown up they are compared to last year.  They dress themselves.  He wears some form of athletic gear - gym shorts and florescent graphic t-shirt that says something like, “EAT MY LUNCH” with colored socks to his knees that cost more than his shoes and a flat-bill baseball cap.  Looks like mismatch day is everyday.  She alternates between a cute dress, swimsuit, and orphan style depending on the mood.  And the shoes.  One day it was leopard print high-tops with a sweet little white dress.  Whatever.  I’m losing control.  He spends most of his time researching the sport of baseball on the internet, watching YouTube videos of replays and comparing prices for the best accessories.  She choreographs routines to prepare for her career as Queen Elsa of Arendelle.  Then, there's the food choices.  Boy wonder is done with the kids meals, out with the chicken nuggets.  He chose a turkey, bacon, avocado sandwich for lunch and makes requests like the Melting Pot and Macaroni Grill for lunch.  Yeah, right.  

Future motivational speakers

They sort of like each other, but sort of don’t want anyone to know.  I’ve caught them in bed watching a movie together, playing games on the iPad, playing in the pool together, and selling lemonade together. There’s an occasional moment of unforced sharing with no ulterior motive. I took them to the pet store for dog food and this happened: 

Note the victory fist

He bought it with his own money for her “birthday.”  Her name is Suzy.  I am definitely putty.  They can be harmonious but in 5 seconds start pinching and flailing their arms at each other.  I used to do this trick to my brother - where you move your arms real fast so he has a hard time finding way to hit you.  But mine both do it, at the same time, in a store until one does the old duck and pinch move and there is yelling or tears.  Or, they play the copycat game in the car, my favorite.  Good times.   

Sometime during the NJ, my husband sold our old but very reliable truck and bought this :

He really loves the past.  Like, high-school loves the past.  This is what goes down when I get put to sleep and doped up for a couple of days.  I have plastic surgery and he goes topless.  He installed him a new set of speakers and one of those radios that we all had in our cars back in the day because no factory radio was good enough - the kind where the face comes off so no one steals it.  This was in the first 20 minutes he owned it.  He washed it and waxed it and shined it.  We ride around town listening to tunes from the "Jeep play list" which consists of high-school music, with the top off, doors off, and our youngest in a booster seat.  I’ve caught her leaning her head out with her tongue hanging out like a dog.  And I can’t drive it.  I never learned how to drive a 5-speed.  I tried a couple of times but two kids in the back yelling, “give it gas!” and “off the clutch too fast!”  is not conducive to learning. So, I currently enjoy being driven around by others, listening to tunes, while the wind blows my hair into a ratty tangled mess that I will condition later.  

One day, we crossed over the border into the great state and picked blueberries.  As I pulled up into the farm, I realized once again that I have become my mother.  I remember her dragging us to pick blueberries in the blazing Mississippi heat, telling us how fun this would be and how great whatever blueberry creation she made would be.  I remember hours of picking and my bucket never filled up as I nearly melted in the heat.  Pure torture.  She talked about it my whole life.  I knew we were in trouble when the summer job teen dropped us off in the golf cart at the far end of the row and said, “Pick the whole bush and walk back up there when you’re done.”  I quickly realized I’m raising pansies.  They complained about the heat, asked for shade, then Bailey had a fake baseball game with the blueberries which then turned into practicing catching them in their mouths.  There was lots of eating and about a cup each in their bucket by the time I filled mine up.  At one point, Bailey asked me if we were slaves.  Seriously.  The kid is funny but lazy.  His sister finally punched him and said, “just pick or she won’t let us leave!”  In spite of all of this, I found it very peaceful - birds chirping, nature, sun-warmed berries that you pluck off the bush and let explode in your mouth, and a brother and sister that will hopefully drag their own kids to do the same when they are grown.  I got them ice cream as a consolation prize.  

I wonder what they will remember from the summer.  I have tried to think of my own memories and most of them involve time - with my grandmothers, family, cousins, friends.  For them, I seriously doubt it will be the baseball camp or inventors camp, hopefully VBS, but probably not pottery camp except for the ceramic bird to remind her one day when she’s 36 and dusting underneath it.  It certainly won’t be the hundreds of dollars we forked over for to various people and organizations in our city, but maybe they’ll call and thank us when they write their own checks.  I bet it will be their daddy driving them to get ice cream in a new really used Jeep, baseball with neighborhood kids, first sleepovers, crashing other people’s pools, berry picking, popsicles, lightening bugs, catching  frogs, watching baby birds grow, riding scooters in the streets even after the lights come on, and being generally carefree.  I’m sure it won’t be how their mommy made them make their beds, read books, and organize their legos by color because they don't remember that now.  

Oh the public schools are calling.  I can hear them.  They scream of schedules and routines, bedtimes, and brushed teeth.  I miss you, schools.  And teachers of the first and fourth grades, I know that you are not feeling me here, but I promise to have my two shiny and sparkly on the first day so that you will love them instantly and the tight grip you had to release on your summer break will be a tiny bit worth it.  And, when you ask them what they did this summer and they answer, “My mommy got a nose job and my daddy got a jeep,” you won’t judge.  This has been stated so I’m sure it will be again.  

For now, I will relish in the last couple of hours I have spent with my little sidekick in our pajamas watching Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue.  And, I will giggle at the text I just got and the memories I know my son is making with his cousin, Henry, as they are trying to train cats to walk on a leash at my brother’s house this very moment.  Cat camp is good camp.  I will certainly make the next 25 days worthwhile.  But, who’s counting?  

our pool

Ode to surgery

After plastic surgery,  we went topless.

So, I’ve made a list of observations this week in honor of my first plastic surgery and outpatient surgery experience and thought I thought I’d share my top 10:

10.   There is but one goal in the outpatient surgery center - to get you out as fast as possible.  It is not about comfort, people.  It is about turnaround.  Are you breathing?  Can you lift your eyelids?  Please walk to the bathroom and change your clothes.  The car is outside.  

9.  You will be asked if you have any questions no less than 42 times the morning of surgery.  You don’t have any questions because you don’t know what to ask.  There is an explanation of what so-and-so doctor/nurse is going to do followed by, “Do you have any questions?”  It is confusing.  Should I ask a question or is this rhetorical?  I have been asked so many times that I’m wishing I came with a list.  Am I missing something here?  Is this the time to be sarcastic?  It’s my nature, but I’m still trying to get that gold star.  

8.  You will not know or remember the kind people who spend those 5-10 minutes with you prior to surgery.  As a medical professional, I personally enjoy the connections I make with people.  I find it so odd that these people spend their days meeting and greeting half dressed, half-asleep people in shower caps.  They are probably very under-appreciated for their efforts because no one can remember their faces or names, yet they help keep you alive and comfortable for a good 2 hours of your life.  Enclosed in my discharge papers was a card with autographs of all the people who came in contact with me so I can write their names on the survey that I will get in the mail.  Nice touch. I will.  They deserve to be recognized for their heroic efforts.  

7.  You will have no idea what medications you’ve been given but it will darn sure take a long time to wear off.  After 6 hours I was still a loopy loopster and Kate was yelling at me for falling asleep on the floor while playing polly pockets with her.  

6.  There is a list of instructions that you will be given to follow which in spite of all the times you were asked if you had any questions and didn’t, you and your husband will not be exactly clear on what you can and cannot do.  For example, when leaning down to get a trash bag out of the cabinet, your husband will yell freakishly at you because of some brief recollection about not bending over. 

5.  “Swelling peaks at day 3” does not mean that it starts at day 3.  It means that there for darn sure will be swelling on day 3 and maybe after that it will begin to slowly diminish to the point where your nostrils are similar in size and the bridge of your nose gains definition.  Prior to that, there will be throbbing pain from the sinus cavity to the tip of your nose.  Maybe this was when I was supposed to ask the questions.  I was thinking that I should have been more inquisitive about the details of the “cheek lift” and the cutting and pulling of the skin from my ear to put on my nose.  Yes, I do hear much better out of my nose now.  

4.  I am not as good at wound care on myself as on other people.  I used to do burn care and I’ve seen dozens of skin grafts.  I never loved it but found it intriguing - the healing process, the dressing changes, making it look pretty, until this experience.  The magic is gone.  I am totally unintrigued.  Sutures around and through the nose, then some more pulling on the ear are not cool.  I get queasy looking at it, touching it, and because the nose happens to be smack dab in the middle of my face, it is somewhat consuming of my thoughts, especially with the twitching shooting sensations that I assume are from damaged nerves and whatnot.  
It’s like this: 
I need to do laundry. 
MY NOSE.  
“Mommy I’m hungry.  Can I have lunch?” Yes, what would you like?  
MYNOSEMYNOSE
Is that a booger?  
NOIT”STHESTITCHESINMYNOSEMYNOSEMYNOSE
Is my nose running?
MYNOSEMYNOSE 
I hope I don’t sneeze...
something is pinching
IT’SMYNOSE
My earring is pulling, I’ll take it out. 
Wait, that’s my ear stitches.  Shoot...

3.  Tape is sticky.  I always hated tape on the face.  Especially on little people with tubes in their noses.  I felt so sorry for them and in hospitals sometimes they put socks on their hands to keep them from pulling the tubes out.  They just want the tape off!  I flat out hated it.  Guess what?  It is bad and evil.  I still hate it.  It is itchy, especially when it’s 93 degrees.  It makes the already pulling skin crawl.  I spent 24 minutes trying to remove tape residue in order to replace the tape.  The good news is it’s almost the exact color of my skin so people don’t notice.  In a dark room.  

2.  There is good news.  Some of the stitches will probably come out this week.  This results in less tape, the ability to accessorize - I get my earrings back, and less pulling.  One more step forward for the beautification committee.  It is a relatively short amount of discomfort in comparison to the magnitude of what I could endure, already have endured, and what others endure.  Inconvenient, annoying, uncomfortable, yes.  Permanent damage - hopefully minimal.  I have told 5 new medical people my story this week and once they lifted their chins off of the floor, they may have walked away with at least a tiny glimpse of the magnitude of God’s miracles.  It is also estimated that about 100 of you will read this, laugh, and maybe pass it to your friends to prove my insanity which will only serve me better the next time we act a little crazy around here.  And, when it’s all said and done, I may look 27 on my 37th birthday from all this skin pulling - you will all be jealous. 

1.  Lastly, I consider myself pretty comfortable in my skin, metaphorically and otherwise.  This has not come easily or without a price.  It has been a long process of swallowing my insecurities or airing them out in the wide open public or whichever the situation calls for.  I have discovered that there are days that I’m not going to look that good but in order to function in the world, I have to be in the world.  And, besides that, someone is going to tell me out of courtesy that I look good.  I love those people.  So, day 2, I ripped off the bandage from my ear and aired out the stitches and paraded myself in straight-up public with the bandage on my nose.  I find myself analyzing other people’s thoughts, watching for double-takes, and staring back.  It’s just a band-aid, people.  What this has made me appreciate and be more aware of is 2 things:  

1.  I have spent 14 years of my life with differently-abled and sometimes differently looking people.  I love them.  I love who they are and I want the world to love them like I do and like their families do.  People are curious, people are ignorant to who you are as a person, or who someone is different from you actually is, people are human.  People have no idea what any of us have been through or are going through at any moment.  This has been a gentle reminder and public service announcement I have no idea what people are going through at any moment so I have no right to judge and have even more incentive to empower the families that I know that they do not owe the world an explanation.  

2.  My own children are watching.  They are watching to see how I react to people, how comfortable I am.  If it’s no big deal to me, it’s really not to them. They are impressionable little sponges.  Here’s a few quotes:

• Man honks at me at a red light. Kate yells, “Hey, quit honking at my mommy!  She has stitches in her face!”
• Kate is on Facetime with her BFF from school (um, yeah, this happened), “My mommy can come get you for a playdate as soon as she’s finished with her stitches.”  I explain to said child’s caregiver that statement.
• Doorbell rings, just finished removing the tape adhesive and I answer it, full out uncovered stitches, hair wet, wound in my nose.  Bailey: “You really need to cover that up before you answer the door.”
• “Mommy, I really don’t like your ear or your nose.”  Neither do I, Kate. Thanks.
• Kate breaks off toenail and says, “It doesn’t hurt.  I’m just like my mommy and if I’m going to be brave like my mommy, then I’ll just have to get in the bathtub.”
• Yesterday.  “Mommy, your ear really doesn’t look all that bad.”  Thanks, Bailey.

I’ve been given a small opportunity to show them how I deal with different, how to accept people’s differences, and how to react or un-react.  I shall use it as best as I know how.  

It’s just a band-aid.  

I leave you with this very lame tribute to my experience:

Ode to Outpatient Surgery

by, Kimberly Jessop

We’re all here early

No food or drink

That means no coffee

Too hard to think

About signing the papers for directives, consent, next of kin,

oops, I just stole your pen.

You owe us this much and sign the HIPPA,

Could I please have a sippa?

Wear comfortable clothes

No earrings, no make-up, bed-head galore,

PJs and sweatpants?

She really should have worn more...

EVERYTHING off. Gown opens in back.

Follow directions and no one gets hurt,

Gripper socks on.

 You won’t need your shirt.

Possessions in bag, 

you can climb onto the bed

under the warm paper blanket

shower cap on your head.

Let’s review history, 

You don’t have much, right?  

More than you’d think-

Do we have all night?  

There’s a stick in the arm

Everyone’s in a hurry

A syringe full of drugs

You took my glasses so it’s blurry...

A cold OR 

then out like a light

woke up to strange lady 

Did I sleep here last night?  

She hands me a bag 

of my worldly goods

Stand up and walk.

 

If I could see, then I would...

“A gold star!” she exclaims.

For what? I am thinking 

I have tape all over my face 

And I feel like I’ve been drinking.

Car is waiting outside

For them to shove you in

Thank goodness for him - 

My next of kin.

Into the car

I leave in a haze 

Home to sleep it off 

for the next couple of days.

Yes, surgery’s over 

I’ll check this one DONE

Another scar to prove

This battle I’ve won.  

Sassy number six...

Dear Kate, 
It’s been six years since I first laid my eyes on your sweet face.  Tiny and fierce.  That part has not changed.  Your big eyes hardly ever closed.  You instantly had our hearts.  You always had a plan and before you could talk, we spent most of our time trying to figure it out.  Even now, we usually don’t find out until after the fact.  You are always happy, and always ready for a party.  You have joined your daddy as co-chairperson of the hospitality committee and together you make sure that everybody is happy and has a good time.  You are a bona fide monkey - you can climb anything and you teeter on the edge of everything.  You are the first to say thank-you and regardless of how terrible I think I’ve been at being your mommy that day, you tell me how much you love me and that I’m the best mommy ever and the best cooker ever especially when it’s cocoa krispies or chicken nuggets.

You were certainly God’s gift in a time when He knew I needed you most.  I prayed that your Nana would see my children, and oh yeah God, if you could make this last one a girl, that would be great too.  And He did.  A precious girl named appropriately after my mother.  I sent your daddy to the store for a gallon of pink paint for your room.  Your daddy and I fought over naming you but in the end I won, and he knew that he didn’t stand a chance.  I love introducing you as Martha Kate because I know that so much of her is in you.  

I sometimes feel guilty because I had so many distractions when you were little in taking care of Nana and then taking care of myself, but now I know that it only makes me treasure the time I spend with you even more.  Even though you don't remember, you helped comfort me from so many unpleasant things. You went with me every morning to see Nana before she went to heaven - and even when you were that little, you knew to kiss her gently.  I wanted you to soak up as much of her as you could, and I needed your company too.  I tell you that I think your favorite place on earth is my lap.  I love how you sit in it, fall asleep in it, and reach your arms up to be held even at 6.  And I hold you.  I think that’s why God has kept you little for so long - so I can hold you and make up for the times when I couldn’t.  

At 6 years old you have developed quite a sense of fashion, a love for music, love for dancing, an imagination that is bigger than the sky, and a heart that is bigger than your body.  You don’t command an audience but if I happen to catch one of your theatrical performances for the latest Disney soundtrack or one of your daddy’s 80’s songs, I’m sure to be mesmerized by your confidence in your dance moves, your passionate expressions, and your ability to stay in tune with every word.  (As I write, I’m listening to you video yourself singing Happy Birthday to yourself complete with ‘cha-cha-cha”).  You have determined that red cowboy boots go with everything.  I’m almost convinced that you’re right.  You love jewelry - especially the kind that sparkles and love to wear it and pick it out for me to wear.  I let you because I used to do this too.  And, you LOVE high heels.  We were in the grocery store parking lot the other day, I was hurrying you as usual, and you stopped dead in your tracks and said, “Listen, mommy! I love that sound!  Do you hear it?”  I didn’t so I asked what sound and you said, “high heels!”  There was a lady across the parking wearing heels.  You have taught me to slow down and sometimes stop to appreciate the little things in life.  

You love the outside.  When you were a baby you would be screaming your tiny little head off and then I would walk outside and you would instantly stop - wide-eyed and looking at the trees.  We spent the first 6 weeks of your life in the backyard swing.  Maybe that’s why you like to swing so high now - or maybe because it is the closest to flying that you can imagine.  You love to play and dream up elaborate stories for your toys - they have such a fantastic life.  The Polly Pockets and the Lalaloopsies get to go to school with the Playmobil people, live in castles with Rapunzel, swim in hotel pools with Barbie, and have picnics with Strawberry Shortcake.  It drives me crazy that you mix them all but I also know that the beautiful thing about your personality is that you don’t see boundaries or limitations.  Everybody and everything should get along.  You are certain that cookies and candy are a food group and if they were you’d be considered a great eater.  You love to draw and make cards - you make me one at least every week and one for anyone else that needs one.  Now that you can read and write, they are even better! 

At 6 years old, you are decisive, opinionated, and not easily persuaded.  It takes you point five seconds to decide if you like something and you don't ever look back.  I hope this is how you always are.  And, believe me, there’s no forcing you into it, unless I want to pay.  You don’t really care what people think and if anyone dares to say anything about how your boots don’t match, you look at them like they have two heads and somehow make them believe that THEY in fact were wrong for wearing sandals. 

You are my helper and I’m learning to let you help because you’re getting really good at it.  You like to help me plant flowers and pick them out and I know this is how I learned to love plants, because I helped my mother too.  You just learned how to pull the plants out gently and love when it rains because you know they will grow.  You love to help me cook, windex my windows, pass out the plates, and help with my painting projects.  You even figured out how to wrap birthday presents in the car on the way to the party, a skill you will find useful for many years to come.  When I need something done quickly, I ask you because you can get it done before the boys in the house can think about it. 

Yes ma’am you are quite a girl - 33 pounds of sunshine.  Full speed, all day, all the time, until you crash.  You bring people into your world and they have a hard time saying no.  This will serve you well too.  We all love you so much - even your brother, though he looks grossed out and doesn’t always act like it.  I”m proud of who you are - confident, creative, and self-sufficient - and more proud of who you will become.  
Happy birthday, Martha Kate Jessop!  I love you so much!

Mommy