Losing my cool

Here's some good news: Caleb's abdominal x-ray yesterday was clear, meaning that there are no more staples in his intestines. Which implies that there were at one point staples in his intestines. Which is true, because last Sunday he ate a bunch of them in an episode my sister now refers to as "Staplegate."

You know what's scary? Having your toddler smile at you and show you a mouth full of shiny and silver and very sharp staples.

You know what's scarier? Completely freaking out about it.

Which I promptly did. I could only imagine horrible consequences to what happened, but didn't want to imagine that any of those things could happen to my baby. Somewhere between those conflicting impulses, my brain short-circuited. (Ask the older boys. They will probably confirm lots of yelling and perhaps some crying on my part.) My husband, from out of town of course, had to ask the right questions and gather the right information and tell me to take our son to the emergency room.

Which I should have known. I used to be an ICU nurse. I used to thrive on emergencies.

I worked in an ICU with inconceivably ill patients, patients on ventilators and continuous dialysis and with EEG machines and invasive heart monitors and sometimes invasive brain monitors. I managed emergencies daily. Several times a day, even. The mantra of any good ICU nurse is, "What is the worst thing that could happen to my patient today, and how will I respond?" That's how I thought. That's how I handled crises that verged on tragedy.

And tragedy was commonplace. Cardiac arrest. Patients who just stopped breathing. Or pulled out their life-saving breathing tubes. Or bled out. Or had near-fatal seizures. Those things were, sadly, routine. Once I had to take down a psychotic patient who was attempting to stab me with a syringe full of his HIV-positive blood. Another time I had to confront a patient's mother who shot up meth at her son's bedside, right in front of me. And so on and so forth.

Through it all I learned to be cool. Quiet. Deliberate. I was an adrenaline junkie, but I was very controlled. And I was good at it. Because I let my imagination run wild and was prepared for the worst possible scenario at any given moment.

But now I have lost my cool. I cannot be a mother the same way I was an ICU nurse. "What's the worst thing that could happen?" This is a question I cannot allow myself, as a mother. The worst is unthinkable. But it is a question that is always roiling beneath the surface. I wake up in the night and wonder if the baby is breathing. When the kids go outside to play I hope nobody gets abducted. When they ride in someone else's car, I fear a fatal car accident. (It's a bit humbling to admit these terrifying instincts. Please tell me I'm not alone.)

But I cannot allow these doubts to become conscious thoughts. Not the least because I do not want to overparent and raise my children in a paranoid bubble. But also because I've become superstitious: if I give words to those thoughts, they might come true. I might actually make them happen by thinking them. I know that's irrational. But I still think it.

So when Caleb ate staples (and the x-ray at the ER proved that he did), the ICU nurse in me knew what to worry about: GI bleed. Bowel perforation. Sepsis. But the mother in me could not think those things. I was stuck between knowing and absolutely not wanting to know, and I panicked.

All is well now. Caleb's good. I figured out where he got the staples and have addressed that (let's just say an older brother thinks the stapler is really interesting). And after a glorious week of examining dirty diapers and worrying about his every hiccup or whine, I'm fine. I'm thinking I need to work on my emergency protocol, but still: we're all okay.

So, if anyone wants to nominate me for Mother of the Year now, that'd be great. Just don't all speak up at once. That would just be embarrassing.

Tough stuff

"You know, I'm thinking about getting some piercings," Jensen announced at the dinner table on Saturday.

Specifically, he was thinking about his eyebrow, his nose, and his lip. And maybe his tongue.

He's seven. And, ever the optimist, he looked hopefully from Jeff to me.

This was easy, obvious. No. You can't [pierce, tattoo, smoke, swear, fill in the blank] until you're old enough to understand the consequences. Easy. And he accepted our answer without protest.

"That's okay. Maybe when I'm a teenager," he said, giving us a few years' reprieve.

He won't accept "no" so easily when he's seventeen.

Already, the questions are getting tougher. Some are philosophical, some are (um) mechanical, some are moral. Some are yes/no questions. Some require reference materials. But regardless of their nature, the things he thinks about are becoming more challenging, and he's thinking more critically about our answers. Gone are the days of, "How come my hair is curly?" or "Why is the grass green?"

Now it's this:

"Is God a person?"

"What is sexual maturity?"

And, sickeningly, after a recent local gang bust, when all the suspects' photos were published on the front page of the newspaper, "Why do so many people in gangs have brown skin?"

Our approach to the Big Questions has always been to give as much honest information as he seems to be ready for, to be open to further questions, to try to communicate our moral convictions. And to be honest when we don't know the answers.

It's worked. So far. But I'm not naive. His growing mind and his growing conscience are going to start pushing us more.

Truthfully, I think most of what we teach him will be passive, will occur in day-to-day life rather than in some grand pronouncements. But I like the Big Questions. I like the gray areas. I like having to resist the temptation to answer questions with overly simplistic black and white answers. There are times when black and white applies, of course. No hurting other people. No stealing. No piercings on a seven-year-old. Some things are wrong, and some things are right. But a lot of things are somewhere in between, and he's starting to venture into the gray.

And the questions are going to keep getting tougher. The innocence is ending. There are times when I'm not sure I'm up to the challenge, or if I will be in the years to come.

So, I'm looking for some input. What is the hardest question your growing kids have asked? How did you respond?

Not about the shoes

I told a lie last week. But some are forgivable, right? Santa Claus, Tooth Fairy, claiming to not know what happened to the rest of the Junior Mints…. Sometimes being a grown-up means you have to not tell the truth. It’s a complicated world. (I will hunt you down and do terrible things to you if you tell my children I said that, by the way.)

Anyway, my birthday was Saturday, and I desperately wanted two things: Madden ’09 (shut up) and a pair of faux-fur leopard-print clogs. I don’t know what it says about me that those were the two things I wanted most in the world; you can judge that for yourselves.

Jeff took the boys shopping while I was freezing my ass off (aka "vacationing") in Minnesota last week. We talked on Skype (is there a verb form of Skype? “We Skyped”?) on Tuesday morning. Evan’s getting better, but he’s not a real pro at the whole secret-keeping bit yet. So he promptly blurted out, “We went shopping yesterday and got you Madden ’09!” Which promptly inspired Jensen to attempt to clobber Evan. Which promptly inspired Evan to cry hysterically.

Which promptly inspired me to lie. I knew exactly what Evan had said. But without missing a beat I lied. “I didn’t understand you Evan. The sound wasn’t very good. Jensen, why are you so mad? I didn’t hear what Evan said.” It worked: Jensen was placated and Evan’s tears dried and Jeff tried not to laugh.

So Evan spilled the Madden beans. Jeff spilled the clog beans. These shoes were driving me nuts, and I was on the verge of just buying them. “Operation Leopard Print is complete,” he told me, afraid that I would get them myself. (Very tricky little code he used, eh? He’s clever like that.)

On Saturday morning, my gifts were on the table. Jensen had wrapped them himself (in carefully-chosen Christmas paper) with his brand-new Swiss army knife. Visions of arterial lacerations aside, I was very proud of him. He was proud of him.

Both boys jumped and danced and could not wait for me to open my gifts. Their excitement was bubbling over, and I couldn’t resist whipping them into a frenzy. “I wonder what’s in those boxes?” I asked. “What did you guys get me?” And every time I asked they collapsed in giggles.

I tortured them for as long as I thought advisable. (I didn't want anyone to either wet his pants or start crying or both.) Then I opened my gifts.

Guess what I got? Madden ’09 and a very cool pair of Danish leopard-print clogs. Great gifts. No surprises.

Saturday may have been the official Best Birthday Ever, and not because I got what I asked for. The boys’ happiness was better than any surprise they could have purchased. And I’m not lying at all.

...and you can't make me

If I make a resolution not to make a New Year's resolution, have I failed already?

I guess today I'm supposed to make some sort of resolutions. I've never made a New Year's resolution in my life. The usual suspects don't apply. I'm so old and dull that I don't remember the last cigarette I had. If I lose any more weight my husband's going to commit me to an eating disorders program. I can't stay up late enough to drink too much. Don't get me wrong: it's not that I don't think I could use some improvement. Hardly. I just don't necessarily think a resolution made out of sentimentality and obligation is going to help in that department. I'm way too far gone for that sort of intervention.

Anyway. That's going to change this year.

I've thought about it for weeks now. And I'm ready to resolve. Here is my self-improvement promise for 2009:

I hereby solemnly swear that I will not read

a single paragraph of the Twilight series.

Sounds pretty simple, right? Don't be deceived. With this ubiquitous pop-culture cotton candy, it's going to be harder than it seems.

I know this from experience. I did the same thing with Forest Gump. I can't explain. I'm really not a movie snob, or a book snob. But I got so tired of people telling me that I "had" to see that damn movie that I put up a wall. I refused. Call me a petty rebel. No, I did not "have" to see it.

And I still haven't.

But I haven't entirely escaped it. Tom Hanks, a lot of walking, some historical traveling, something about "Mama." I could probably tell the story. Even with some serious effort, I couldn't entirely avoid the narrative.

Now, "Twilight." Vampires, right? Edward, and Bella? Is that it? About 17 books? A movie with some guy who's supposed to be smoldering but really doesn't strike me as being terribly attractive?

This isn't going to be easy. I've already gathered that I am the last mommy blogger on the continent who has not read these books. (Please correct me if I'm wrong; I'd love to not be alone in this.) My sister even threatened to read them.

I will not.

And that is my very first New Year's resolution. Probably this won't make me a better person. But I guess it does prove that three kids and marriage (not entirely in that order) and my failed attempts at Donna Reed-ism haven't completely changed me. The piercings are gone, but I can still rebel. Just a little.

Update: The day I posted this I read about PBN's "2009-- Year of the Mom" campaign at Motherhood Uncensored, which poses the question, "What are you doing to prioritize yourself this year?" And even though my post started out as a bit of a joke, this is exactly what I want accomplish: to learn to stay true to myself as I struggle to find my own way amidst my roles as mom, wife, sister, daughter, "housewife" (which makes me laugh), and whatever else it is that I claim to be. Yeah, I'm a little bit of a rebel. I have been since I was a kid. (I'm a very well-behaved rebel, but still....) And if boycotting "Twilight" helps me hold on to that and aids me on my journey, then I will have grown a little this year.

Put away the hate

You know what we do today: we choose.

Spirits are running high (myself included). That's great: that's how it should be. Get out there, cheer for your candidate, (more importantly) vote for your candidate, tell the world how you feel. It's become a bit tedious of late, and the campaign has seemed to last far too long, but for the first time I can remember in a presidential election, the air is sizzling. Awesome.

You know what we need to do tomorrow? Put away the hate.

Tomorrow (or tonight, depending on how sleep-deprived you are and how late you can stay up, so you where I fall) we'll know. Tomorrow it will be time to put away the spiteful accusations and underhanded dealings and the ludicrous hyperbole. It won't be easy; lots of things have been said, fires of fear and uncertainty have been stoked relentlessly. It won't necessarily be easy to extinguish those flames, but we really must.

You don't need to abandon your principles. By all means, hold your convictions. I just happen to feel very strongly that we should all hold fairness and respect as part of those convictions. Dissent plays an important role in politics. Unfortunately it's sometimes difficult to negotiate the line between dissent and disrespect. As happens every campaign, negotiation of that line has failed miserably. It's fair to say that "civility" has melted a bit in the heat of campaign rhetoric. Please help me reclaim it.

Today it is our responsibility to vote.

Tomorrow it is our responsibility to give congratulations and respect to the winner, to pour a big bucket of decency on the hateful embers of this long campaign.

My poor husband's hair

Jeff got a haircut. Contrary to what you may think, this is post-worthy, because he only does it about twice a year. If that.

He has Lyle-Lovett-hair. It's as tall as it is long. Curly. Black (at least the part that isn't gray). Kind of wiry. You can also call him Kramer if you want. Anyway, his hair was pretty long/tall when he left on Tuesday. When he returned it was way short. I call it his Repulican 'do.

He may never get it cut again, based on our responses:

Jensen: (snort) Actually, Dad, that looks kind of ridiculous.

Me: Dude, you're getting whitewalls.

Evan (it took him several hours to notice): Daddy, your hair is kind of different. Jeff: What's different about it? Evan: It's kind of... flat. Jeff: Why do you suppose that is? Evan: I don't know... you washed it?

Poor Jeff.

How Christopher Columbus ruined Christmas

First, an explanation: I am, by nature, a procrastinator. Mostly reformed, now that I'm an adult. I totally plead the Fifth regarding my college years-- all eight of them (two degrees, remember?!)-- but that's a different story and involves several irritated landlords and uptight professors so let's talk about that another day. Can't dwell on that. But I do tend to revert to my "I'll-do-it-tomorrow" ways when I get stressed.

Next, an excuse: I've been very stressed this year. Again, I'll spare you the details, which are (astoundingly!) simultaneously boring and insomnia-producing. Just stressful.

The logical, and correct, conclusion is that I've been putting off a few things lately. Nothing that's going to land me in small-claims court or cause the kids' teachers to call social services. My life isn't that exciting. Neither are the things I've been procrastinating.

For instance: we moved, what, five and a half months ago? Sounds about right. And I was being super-responsible about it. I had change-of-address cards all ready to mail within about two weeks of our move. I just needed stamps, so I dutifully placed the cards in a neat stack on the corner of the desk. In May.

They're still there.

Without stamps.

It's October.

Oh, but this morning, I decided to take that bull by the horns. I was going to slap stamps on those babies and get them in the mail. That was my one goal for the day. Woo-hoo! Go me!!!

(My motivation, by the way? Easy: Christmas is only about two months away. And I love getting Christmas cards. How am I going to get lots and lots of Christmas cards if people can't find me?)

I got those kids loaded in the car and made a special trip to the post office. 100% of the kids cried during the trip, and Evan got carsick, but I was not to be deterred. Give me stamps or give me death!

Hey, guess what today is? Columbus Day.

And for some stupid reason that only the federal government understands, the friggin' post office is closed today. Don't get me started.

No stamps. Change of address cards remain on the desk. Motivation has all but evaporated. I probably won't get any Christmas cards this year, either.