life on the safe side

 

It started with an email I received from a friend, dear E.  We got to know each other through our blogs five years ago.  And this weekend she wrote to me about her son and his diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes.  I felt her pain and fear in the words she wrote, the camaraderie built of shared concern for our little ones.  Then these words, about the cliff we walk every day, "I think of that fine line between safe and unsafe often.  Sometimes living there, on that precipice is too much.  The knowing exactly how close the other side is can make you crazy.  But then I put up a wall and say this is how life is here, on the safe side, and it is fine."

It's a haunting image, one that is too exact in describing our life, to ignore.

Life on the safe side still has zoos, zoos with wonderful staff who meet you at the penguin exhibit because it's your first trip back after a very terrible day.  Your daughter wears pink princess gloves and worries her fingers over yours as she watches the penguins eat at their morning roll call.  The zoo employee gives your children stuffed penguins, one big and one small.  Trinidad is the zoo employee's name.  He makes small talk with your husband as you ask questions about the animals.  The safe side has penguins who torpedo into the water, their sleek bodies a study in aerodynamics.  After a time, Trinidad motions over to a wooden fence, opens a gate leading behind the penguin unit.  He introduces your family to John, the penguin keeper.  Everything smells like fish and your daughter asks you, "There aren't peanuts here, are there?"

You walk around the office, the kitchen, the small cavity behind the penguin habitat where nesting pairs of penguins sleep with their eggs (John says November, and you make a note to come back at that time).  You find out that these penguins have names like Margarita and Mojito, Rocky and Carmelita.  And there is a moment when you don't think about wiping a table down or whether or not someone has a granola bar hiding in their pocket.  This is when the safe side gives you a rare gift: John the penguin keeper reaches into the exhibit and comes back with a little penguin creature named Cortez.  Cortez is small, a juvenile penguin that John says is one of the gentlest he's ever come across.  He invites your daughter to pet Cortez and feel his feathers.  They are lighter than the softest spun cotton.

Our trip back to the zoo was scary.  It was really hard for Alice.  She was manic in her worry over what she might touch.  But so it goes with life on the safe side.  Sometimes you have to try to ignore the terrible danger outside of the door.

I can't say enough good things about the zoo.  They were wonderful.  A docent toured us through several exhibits.  Alice even got to see her precious elephants.  Trinidad gave us extra emergency numbers to keep on hand when we are there, should the unthinkable happen again.  We were more lucky than I can ever say - there is only one engine company that knows the zoo so well to be able to navigate the ten gate entrances, the three different addresses, the numerous turns and secret hideaways.  How lucky we were to happen to get that engine company.  They arrived in seven minutes.

You see miracles like that on the safe side, when you are looking for them.  Tender mercies that make your close calls evidence of a loving God.

You also feel kindness on the safe side.  People from the outer darkness who show up at the door of your small shelter with baskets of their carefully crafted love.  Names I want to just say here because without them I would have been so terribly alone: Alexa and Karen and Angela; women who jumped to our aid without a second thought.  The nurse at Children's Hospital that climbed up next to Alice in bed and held her hand while I went outside to call Chip.  The paramedic who came back to check on Alice a few hours after dropping her off.  Trinidad at the zoo, who spent far more time with our small family than I'm sure he had space for.  John the penguin keeper.  I've never seen a penguin hug a human being before.  He must be a very special person.  I haven't known how to say thank you and have it mean as much as I need.

And there are all of you dear dear people - those that we've known for years and others for mere weeks.  Those that we've never met.  People who have reached out to our family to offer support and love.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  You have reminded me that I still have something to say in this space called The Creamery.

Life on the safe side can be isolating.  It can feel like you're hunkered down hiding beneath the table while a lifelong storm rages, threatening walls that are thin as tissue paper.  But sometimes the storm subsides and the sunlight streams through those paper walls, making everything golden.  Sometimes life on the safe side is more lovely because you know how precious it all is.

Here is a snapshot from the zoo last week, one I've carefully filed in my mind: Alice with her fingers tangled in Cortez's downy feathers.  Her face a poem of joy and vibrancy.  She's thrown back her head a little, mouth open, exclaiming to Chip, "I can't believe it!  I can't believe it!"

Sometimes I can't believe it: life on the safe side, as hard as it is, is also life on the sweet side. 

  

a letter to alice: of peanuts and elephants and brave friends

Dear Alice,

This letter to you is one so personal I feel like I'm scraping myself raw in the telling.  But in the last several days I haven't been able to shake the need to write it down, to capture it here for you so you'll know exactly the why and the how and the where.  Today you are five and a half.  You are precocious and smart and breathtakingly beautiful.  You are sensitive and kind and just a little bit devious (in the most delicious way).  You use words like fierce and extremely and amazing.  You rub your nose until there's a little line right above the snubby part.  Your eyes are the color of the ocean on our shores: sometimes a deep grey-blue and sometimes a translucent green.  You love to draw, collecting bits of color on your fingers and arms.  You are drawn to all things sparkly and shiny.  Today you are five and a half and the memories you form are only half-baked, roughly remembered snippets of things that actually happened swirled with images of things that never were to be. 

I write this letter to you because you won't always be five and a half.  One day you're going to look back on this memory and wonder what is real and what is colored by your five and a half year old self.

This is what happened.  We planned a trip to the zoo with friends.  Thursday night you were such a turd.  The honest truth: you were bratty and crabby and wanted to do everything except get ready for bed.  With your dad out of town on business, you pushed me until I was ready to break.  With one hand on your little brother, I stood at your bedroom door and told you we simply weren't going to the zoo tomorrow.  No way, no how.  I spit out the words--- you don't deserve a trip to the zoo.

I watched your face crumble and the tears fall.  "Please!  Please!  Please!  Please let me go to the zoo!  I promise to make better choices!"  As you stood there begging me, my resolve softened.  I told you we'd see how the rest of the evening went and we'd talk about it again at bedtime.  So it was.  You turned around, helped out, and by the time you were climbing into bed we made plans for the next day.

After all, I thought, we were meeting friends there.  We'd said we'd be there.  Friends had committed to packed lunches that didn't contain peanuts and tree nuts because of your allergies.

So the next morning we got dressed and ate breakfast.  While you and Max watched Curious George, I packed snacks and lunches.

The ride down was smooth.  We parked the car and put Max in the stroller, made our way to the entrance.  There was Alexa and her little boy Will.  We talked while waiting for Karen and her kids.  My phone rang - it was Angela, on her way with Wesley and Laurel.  They'd be late, so we should head in without them.  You were excited but so cold in the early Fall air.  I told you to jump up and down, shake your hands and arms.  Karen's boy David was there by then - he's your age and your good friend.  We walked into the zoo with the two of you out front, running toward the penguins.

Alexa and I let the little boys run around on the wooden walkway as our group slowly progressed by birds and gorillas, beautiful colobus monkeys with long fluffy white tails.  When he asked me about it, I assured David we'd see elephants, great big ones.  You jumped in at this point, "You get to see them WAY UP CLOSE!  They are GINORMOUS!"

You've always been one who loves to graze on snacks.  You hate to sit down to a big lunch, you want to grab your food in your hand and run.  So that's what we did: you walked with David until you'd circle back to me, asking for a new snack.  Goldfish, pretzels, apple slices.  By the time we reached the children's play area you had gone through three bags. 

In our family we've learned to say "safe" when we're talking about your allergies.  We wipe tables to make them safe.  We read ingredients and call companies to see what foods are safe.  We carry Epi-Pens to keep you safe.  We wash hands and watch with wary eyes to ensure that you are safe.  Happy and healthy are a close second and third--- our lives are about safe, it seems.  We do all of this to keep you from anaphylaxis, when your body senses that you've touched or ingested a peanut or tree nut protein and subsequently revolts, a flood of histamine causing your airways to swell shut until you stop breathing.

We have a zoo membership.  We've been there a dozen times without a single problem, bringing our lunch and steering clear of public eating areas.  We'd never before gone into the large indoor children's play area but I read the sign on the door - NO FOOD ALLOWED, and felt confident that you'd be alright.

And so it was, as you climbed indoor mountains and raced from one end of the building to the other with David.  I kept Max close in a smaller contained area for toddlers.  Angela joined us at this point, letting her two kids loose.  We breathed sighs of relief letting all of you blow off steam.

Overhead they announced music time - come get instruments to play along with the music piped through the sound system.  This was when I noticed that you weren't wearing shoes, your bare feet flashing white skin as you grabbed a music shaker.  I called to you, please get your shoes on, Alice.  Karen handed your shoes to you, and you sat down right there on the carpet to put them on.  That's when you told me that you couldn't do it - your fingers hurt.  It's the first time I looked at your hands and saw the swelling.  Your fingers were white and tight, the skin stretched to capacity.  Each finger was as fat as a breakfast sausage.  I remember thinking about hot dogs.

Here is your face: eyes screwed up in pain, head swiveling back to look at your friends.  And here is my mind: flashing in an instant, a neon red warning sign of danger.  This was edema, I thought.  Swelling of the tissues.  Fingers and hands, is it anywhere else?  What can we do?  I said a silent prayer.

I already had wipes in hand, scrubbing your fingers and hands, wiping up your arms.  I scrubbed your feet and toes, looking for the allergen and thinking, Maybe it's something I can see.  Of course it wasn't.

This was when you noticed my quiet concern, the rising note of panic in my voice as I asked you about your mouth, your face.  "Do you feel any tingling?  Can you swallow?  How does your throat feel?"  You started to cry a little, telling me that you felt funny.  My fingers, my hands, you said.  My mouth, too.

I knew what was happening but it was different than I'd imagined.  In my head, I had thought it would be a clear cut case.  You might be coughing and asking for my help.  Instead we sat on the carpet.  I pulled the Epi Pen from our bag and told you we needed to use it.  You cried now, real hard tears.  Your voice kept catching as you begged me no, to not do it.  I tried to be reassuring.  I told you it's what we'd trained for.  But it was hard for me to say the words.  I whispered, "Alice, this is important.  It's what we need to do."  By now Alexa was holding Max and keeping him calm.  Karen came up - she must have understood what was happening.  She said she'd hold you.  And that's what she did.  She wrapped you in her arms as tight as she could, holding you down, holding you snug.  You struggled and cried.  Karen kept telling you how brave you were, what a brave, brave girl.  I tried to move fast, raised the Epi-Pen in the air and slammed it down quick into your thigh with a small click.  Now the count of 10, slow through breaths and hands that could barely hold the injector: 1..... 2..... 3..... 4..... 5..... 6..... 7..... 8..... 9..... 10.....  As I pulled it out, Angela was there - asking what we needed.  "911," I said to her.  "Call 911." 

And Karen was still murmuring in your ear, our brave girl Alice. 

My fingers were shaking so much, I couldn't get the packets of Benedryl pills open.  This is the second step of dealing with an allergic reaction.  I remember saying another prayer that I could be calm for you, that I could be in charge.  I stabbed my fingers with the plastic pill packets over and over.  I called out to Alexa, "I might need you to open this, I can't get my fingers to work."  And then a stillness came, and with it the knowledge that I was surrounded with friends who cared about you, people who could help us through.

I talked quietly with you as you chewed the Benedryl tablets.  When I pulled you into my lap I tried not to cry.  A deep breath and questions about how you were doing.  Your breathing stayed steady as we waited for the ambulance.  I marked the time in my mind, making a mental note if we didn't see the ambulance in 10 minutes we'd need to Epi-Pen again.

And as I tried to keep you calm, I looked around at the concerned faces.  Angela moved outside to wait for the paramedics.  Karen took my keys from me and said they'd get our car home for us.  Alexa said she'd take Max home with her and Will, keep him for as long as needed.  I pulled things from our bag to hand over to these wonderful women and felt the load of worry lighten: my only concern was for you.  I remember thinking about how people must wonder why this doesn't look like something on TV or in movies.  With shaky voice you told Karen, "It didn't even hurt as much as I thought it would.  I'm proud of myself."

By then the paramedics were there, asking questions and bringing you oxygen.  They listened to your breathing, took blood pressure and other vitals, took notes on what I'd done.  There was a firefighter named Nick who pulled you into his lap there on the floor.  He gave you a sticker that matched his badge.  "There," he said, "now you're a firefighter just like me."  They told me we should take you in to the ER for further help.

As Nick carried you out the door, I looked back at Angela.  Tears streamed down her face and she grabbed my hand.  "I love you!" she said.

So it goes.  We rode in the ambulance, lights and sirens.  Your face was white and pinched, eyes wide in fear.  The paramedic gave you a white teddy bear to hold as she monitored your breathing which, thank God, remained steady and strong.

They kept you in the ER for five hours.  They gave you medicine and let you watch movies.  You drank apple juice and asked for gold fish.  The doctors complimented your yellow dress and pigtails, they wanted to talk with you.  You made them laugh.  They told you you were so brave and smart.

They told me I did exactly the right thing.  I acted fast and didn't hesitate.  They told me I stopped what could have been catastrophic anaphylaxis.

Your dad raced from Boise, Idaho to Seattle, Washington in a matter of hours - yelling at TSA agents and airline employees until he could be by your side.  He held you in his arms until both of you were gasping for air.

That night I held you so close, our cheeks touching.  I apologized that we never saw the elephants.  I promised I'd always do everything I could to keep you safe. 

I think about the fable of elephants-- giant, hulking, creatures who can be brought to their knees by a tiny mouse.  Mice can get into any space.  Creepy, too small to keep track of. 

Studies have been done to see if it's true, and the findings point to no.  However, elephants are cautious creatures.  Their gargantuan size belies their careful nature.  These creatures are Kings of the jungle with no natural enemies, but they don't take chances that they don't have to.

We are not elephants, though I am trying to teach you and Max about fear.  We can't be afraid of something so tiny as a peanut, something so innocuous as an almond.  Fear would have us locked in our house.  But we must be cautious.  We try to do what we can to be smart.  I think an elephant is like that.  No self-respecting one would walk into fire.  This is why we wipe every table, wash hands, ask about ingredients.  We speak carefully to friends and neighbors and strangers alike.  We ask about ingredients and never accept the easier answer if it isn't also the right one.

Alice, you are so brave.  You are so strong.  You sat in the ambulance and told me through tears how you didn't want to have this happen to you.  But never once did you scream or thrash out.  You are the bravest person I know, little girl.  And you're only five and a half.  The doctors told me how lucky we were that it wasn't more serious.  We acted quickly and decisively.  Good job, mom, is what they said.  And you'll never know the tears I cried when you couldn't see, how my heart broke over and over to watch your little body put up with so much.  You'll never know how frustrated I get with people who use words like paranoid and over-protective.  People who say these things are no big deal, you carry an Epi-Pen...aren't those supposed to take care of the problem?  I've told you we do these things to keep you safe.  What I've always known, and what Friday proves to me, is we do these things to keep you alive. 

We are headed back to the zoo tomorrow.  We are facing the fear - but you will be wearing gloves this time.  I've talked to you about always wearing your shoes in public places.  Your dad is going with us as bodyguard and moral support.  But we have no idea what happened.  We will probably never know what happened.  I can guess that you touched an allergen - a protein left behind by some child with a sticky hand, but we can't be sure.  In the end, the takeaway is this: vigilance, preparedness.  Try to be safe.  Let's be like elephants, tomorrow and every day. 

I love you more than air,
Your Mama

my excuse for not getting anything done

Because really, when there are children this delicious to smoosh on, how one be expected to blog?

now with bow tie

After Max's frightening visit to the hospital in April, I felt compelled to flee the state with kids in tow.  Don't ask me for details of the solo-parenting flights to Salt Lake (a frightening blur), but the memories I'm left with are these---

A month of reveling in familial goodness
A month of my parents mugging on Alice and Max
A month of playing with cousins and visiting with our nearest and dear
A month of checking in with our dear Winston, checking on his amazing recovery
A month of fun and backyard play

And also this, Max's blessing day, with every single one of my siblings in attendance.  All of the cousins except for one (we greatly missed Taylor).

I was the perfect reason for Max to don infant formal wear.  He was very dapper.

It felt like we were swimming in an ocean of love.  We can't thank mom and dad enough for opening their home to us.  And the hugest of thanks to Kimmie, Steve, Curtis and their families for everything. 

I do so love this group of crazy people.

not about the bow tie

I think it is unnatural to think that there is such a thing as a blue-sky, white-clouded happy childhood for anybody.  Childhood is a very, very tricky business of surviving it.  Because if one thing goes wrong or anything goes wrong, and usually something goes wrong, then you are comprised as a human being.  You're going to trip over that for a good part of your life.  -Maurice Sendak

I'll tell you what - I'm tired of feeling like the very sky is falling down around me, raining bits of blue-gray ceiling tiles onto my head.  I'm tired of worrying that I'll look up and find a hole way up there through which a yawning void of nothing threatens to invade.  I'm tired of feeling a clench in my stomach each time I anticipate anything that requires movement.  I'm tired of worrying over the when and the how.

Yesterday afternoon Max slept in his carrier (fresh from a trip to Target) while Alice brought me fistfuls of plastic food.  She made hamburgers and sandwiches and ice cream cones.  Fruit and eggs and maple syrup (for the hamburger, of course).  She ran to me with delight in her eyes and a smile on her face for the sheer joy of seeing me looking back at her.

Maurice Sendak passed away on Tuesday.  I'm sure you all know that, and maybe some of you don't agree with his politics.  And maybe some of you don't even like his books (Where the Wild Things Are, Little Bear, etc.).  But the man had a distinct sense of the side of childhood we don't often acknowledge - and I love him for that.  Because as I'm thinking so hard about the childhood I'm crafting for my own two little people - worrying over their naps and dirty diapers and developmental needs, I often forget how truly messy childhood really is.  And how messy, naturally so, parenthood is.  I try for perfection and really that isn't the best way to serve my little people.  They need the mess.  They need the bumps and bruises.  Because no matter what I do, those things are going to come for them anyway.

So here's to giving our children imperfection and revelling in it.  And here's to Mr. Sendak.  He will be missed.

I don't believe in children.  I don't believe in childhood.  I don't believe that there's a demarcation.  'Oh you mustn't tell them that.  You mustn't tell them that.'  You tell them anything you want.  Just tell them if it's true.  If it's true you tell them.  -Maurice Sendak

the mix

Chip made a list of songs for me.  Songs for the hospital, for those grueling hours of hoped-for labor and a starburst moment when Max would join us in the here and now--- changing our lives in the irrevocable way children do.

The plans we made and the things that happened are tied together in my mind in a cloudy mix of memory and wishes.

I listened to that mix in the hospital, but not in the way I envisioned.  In the hazy blue-gray of predawn I talked quietly to a tiny baby laying in solid weight on my chest.  The sounds of Chip's music filling our dark room.

And now in the weeks since his entrance, I've listened to that mix thinking about the way we plan to have our lives unfold versus the way the days fling forward in a carpet before us: messy, unkempt, sometimes painful, sometimes so sweet my teeth ache--- but always always always surprising.

a funny thing happened on the way to returning to full blog activity

...okay, more than one funny thing.

There was this,

a tried-and-true FOUR-YEAR-OLD (Saturday was her birthday and she is so grown up).



And this:

Chip got a new job.  A good job that makes him HAPPY, which is such a good thing because it makes me happy.  But the downside is that it has him traveling again (cue universal laughter).  So to recap: I am happy.  And also very nervous (as you can imagine).


And this,

this belly - this baby - this this this HUGENESS, which is still a round reminder (no baby yet).  And I'm perfectly happy about that, if you believe it.  I'd like him to hold on for a couple of weeks, actually.  Just give me a couple of weeks to finish putting his room together, to finish washing his clothes, to paint a couple of shelves, to actually sew him some swaddle blankets (cut out but as of yet, not a single stitch), and to pack a darn bag for the hospital.


And this, which is hard to explain without putting it into context.  For the last two and a half years I've been working in the children's organization at our church (it's called Primary).  I've been the secretary and the first counselor, always behind the scenes, happily in the supporting role.  I've let someone else make the big decisions and call the shots (LOVE YOU AMANDA).  And then, about five weeks ago, my Bishop asked me to be president (cue even more universal laughter).  That was my first reaction, actually: I laughed.  Then I looked at Chip.  And I looked at Alice.  And I looked at the growing belly.  Then I said yes.

It's been a busy month.

But I'm excited to be here with you, and I promise I'm hanging in for the long term, come what may.  Tune in the rest of the week for pictures of some of the things that I have actually been able to get done (fun and crafty and cute things).

butterflies in her hair

There is no fooling you people, is there?  Monday's post starred dear sweet Alice as a party goer wearing a pee pee teepee, that ever-strange and hopefully useful baby boy accessory.

I found a pattern to make some, and with the fabulous Wandering Nana as my seamstress (everyone needs a friend like her), we've been in pee pee teepee production.

Also on the docket of pre-baby necessities:
- cute swaddle blankets
- pacifier clips
- curtains for the little buddy's room

Four weeks from yesterday, gulp.  There is a whole bunch of stuff that I need to tell you.  Like, a WHOLE bunch.  But for now, I am thinking of how Alice insisted that she "decorate" my hair two nights ago, and proceeded to put little butterfly-shaped buttons in my hair.  I forgot about them until a few hours later when I went to get ready for bed and took my hair out of its ponytail.  A little shower of butterflies fell down at my feet.  These are the small things to enjoy.  Anything new with you?

And this: if you had four weeks before your 2nd baby was due, what would you DO exactly?  (I'm not BORED, for heaven's sake, just wondering how you'd choose to spend your time.)  Give me your best advice.

a monday morning riddle for the interwebz

Well hello there.  Happy President's Day and Monday and everything wrapped up together.

For your special reading and viewing pleasure, I pose this riddle for you.

Here is a picture of Alice hosting an impromptu birthday party for someone.  Perhaps herself.  As you can see, she has bedecked her party-goers' heads with "party hats".  I say "party hats" because they most assuredly AREN'T party hats.

They are something quite the opposite.

Any guesses as to what they are (or will be)?

snow business

Arctic cold and it seeps into your bones, drives you indoors and makes it so you don't want to go out.  Maybe ever again.

But the weather folks are saying that this is supposed to start to melt and slush sometime today.

Fingers crossed, because I'm not sure I can stand the many clothing changes Alice requires for outdoor adventures.

just in time for christmas

I need your help.

Everything I've ever heard about a child giving up their nap goes like this:
- The child has a hard time sleeping during the day
- The child drives their parent crazy with the NO SLEEPING during the day
which eventually leads to
- The child no longer naps during the day

That is not what is happening at my house.

What is happening at my house is this:
- The child (Alice) sleeps perfectly well during the day
- The child (Alice) takes lovely two-hour naps during the day and I am able to get some stuff done and reset for the late afternoon slog
But...
- The child (Alice) has a HORRIBLE time falling asleep at night
- The child (Alice) drives her parents crazy with the number of times she requests bathroom / water / back scratches / toe nail clippings until an unearthly hour of the night


We've tried everything we could think of to explain what's happening, and the one I keep coming back to is that this weird behavior is her way of giving up her afternoon nap.  That if she didn't take that lovely luxurious blissful 2-hour nap during the day, she'd put that sleep into the evening hours instead.

But I'm not 100% on this theory.  And quite frankly, I don't want to be right.  I want to be WRONG.  I want her to do BOTH: sleep well during the day AND the night.  Maybe I'm hoping for too much, since she'll be four in March and most of her friends have stopped napping.  But tell me what you think, and give me your best advice.  And if this really is her way of giving up the nap, how do I still maintain that little bit of daytime peace?

visiting a famous person

My parents are flying in this afternoon for a pre-Christmas visit.  I don't know if Alice is more excited about Grammy and Grampy coming or Christmas. 

A note about the skirt Alice is sporting in this picture: it's her Christmas skirt and you'll be seeing more of it.  Plus it's fluffy and sparkly and has red AND pink, so basically I knew she'd love it.  And she does.  Which is nice for me, because we've hit the age of Let's Assert Our Clothing Independence. 

what might have been

I would have liked to name her Alba.  Or Violet (if I could have ever convinced Chip).  She would have had the deepest darkest chocolate chip eyes, and glossy chestnut hair to match.  She would have idolized her older sister, wearing her shoes and tripping over her hair ribbons.  My girls - that's what I would have called them, and each time my heart would have melted to welcome such softness, such femaninity into our home.  I would have relived Alice's babyhood, watching another sweet girlchild inhabit Alice's clothes - but with every new dimple and smile, discovered a world of differences between them.

The journey of motherhood has hammered home this lesson: that with every turn of the road, you leave behind another possibility of what you imagine.  When you have a boy instead of a girl, when you have a c-section instead of the other, when you bottle feed---- hundreds of little things that close down the What Might Have Been to tell the story of What Is.

This is not to say that I am sorry for anything that has happened to give us this moment.  Every small detail of our lives is how it should be - and for how it's going to be, I'm willing to be surprised.

where I've been

In bed.
At home.
In the living room, watching mindless television.
Attempting sleep.
To the doctor.
To the pharmacy.
In Alice's room at her bedside.
Trying to help her cope.
Wiping lots and lots and lots (and lots) of bogies.
Sitting on the floor with Alice on my lap as she takes in a breathing treatment.
Reading books to a sick girl.
Stumbling around the house like a zombie.
Blowing, blowing, blowing my nose.
In silence, ears blocked.
Coughing until my ribs ache.
Climbing the walls.
In a sleep-deprived glaze.
Watching Chip sacrifice time and energy and much-needed shut eye for his family (bless that man).

And finally, finally, finally---- watching this from the other side, feeling better, feeling hopeful, feeling like I can once again join the living.  As is little Alice, while she's a few days behind me, she's sleeping quiet again - and actually sleeping with a depth and comfort that I haven't seen in days and days.

See you tomorrow for The Creamery's annual Thankful post. 

holding on to what's important

Alice has lately been exclaiming.  Her chosen exclamation is this, shouted at the top of her three-and-three-quarter-year-old lungs: OH MY GOODNESS OH MY SOUL.

It makes me laugh.

She makes me laugh alot, except when she is busy exploring her three-and-three-quarter-year-old self and she switches from charming imp to BEASTLY TYRANT.

If you have ever spent vast amounts of time with a three-and-three-quarter-year-old, then you know exactly what I mean.  And if you haven't, I'm not sure there is anything I can tell you in preparation except that you should be afraid, be very afraid.

We've been wondering and worrying over it.  And every time I let my focus shrink to the size of just my living room, I get really concerned.  Because when I'm just looking at my own personal preschooler, the view is nothing less than terrifying.  I worry that she is going to be stuck in this impatient, freaked-out, overwrought, tantrummy place forever.  That I'll be talking her out from under a table when she's eighteen and her date has just offered to help her with her calculus homework.

A three-and-three-quarter-year-old is vicious rocket fuel and the sweetest clover honey.  She is lightening that will arc and burn without regard and then a few seconds later, cool to something so unfathomably wonderful and precious.  There are days when the whiplash is so bad, I wonder if I'll ever recover.

When I let my view widen onto the world of three-and-three-quarter-year-olds, I settle down a little.  People who know tell me that this is something of a challenging age, and that if we hold on - if we are consistent - if we do our best to teach her to do the right thing and treat people with respect - that she'll pull out of this and become a functioning member of society.  Or something like that.  What's the equivalent of a four-year-old functioning member of society?

In the meantime, I try to remember OH MY GOODNESS OH MY SOUL as much as I can.  Especially when she's absolutely losing her cool because I told her we didn't have any Kix cereal.  Or when Chip tells her he can't sing the ABC song in Elmo's voice for the 40th time in a row.  Or when it's the end of the world, to a three-and-three-quarter-year-old.

Oh my goodness oh my soul, indeed.

a brief message from olivia

Olivia says that Halloween was a blast - even with her parents swapping out the dangerous nut-laden candy for Tootsie Rolls.

She would like to know how you fared with your Halloween festivities, and if anyone else's ears tended to flop over their eyes a little bit?

And lastly, she would like to suggest that you tune in to The Creamery tomorrow for a bit of News.  Because besides a fabulous Halloween, Monday was also the day when the Whimsy family found out the gender of the little Polly creature.  And on Wednesday, Whimsy herself will reveal the findings here, along with various details of personal reactions from Chip and Alice.  Would anyone care to hazard a guess for Boy or Girl?

celebrating chip's birthday in three easy steps

Step 1: A cake of requested frosting color.

(No really - this is what he wanted.)

Step 2: A cake of requested cake color.

(No really really - this is exactly what he wanted.)

Step 3: Enjoy.

rule of life #67: be a pig for halloween at least once

Oh, I do love this girl.  Especially when she wears me out.

that I might not ruin her

It's like that, sometimes: the only thing you can say, the one thing you can hope for with fervent whispers under your breath.

Because to hope that you'll inspire greatness is way too far above the mark - especially when you worry too much, when you push too far, when you try too hard to do and say the be the right thing.

So this is what you're left with: a mantra to just not do it so wrong that any of her inherent wonder is scuttled into nothingness.

A prayer to just avoid a complete implosion of self.

Yes, exactly that, please.

floating

It's a new bath pasttime for Alice: the creation of flotation devices for her tiny buddies (as the group of them are known).

I've seen a water-skiing Donald.

And a Goofy suspended upside down into the bath: some kind of new preschool water torture?  I have no idea what he did wrong.

I think I've taken turns feeling like each one of them in recent weeks.

Where are you right now?  On top of your game, or deeply under water?