Tickets, Please

 

There was no way we could say no.

We’d been watching the carnival go up all week. From their bedroom windows, my kids could almost touch the lights blinking the next street over. By Thursday night, when it finally opened, we could smell the deep fried, fire-charred midway food from our backyard. Even through our closed windows we could hear the delighted, terrified screams of the kids strapped in to rides that threatened to fling them in to outer space.

On Saturday, we caved.

Walking over near dusk, we purchased each of the kids an unlimited ride pass, hoping they’d get there fill for the year. Kiddie rides and merry-go-rounds, fun houses and Ferris wheels and rides with names like “the tornado”, all were on the agenda. The husband and I circled the grounds over and over, trailing behind them as they waited in lines and spun themselves silly and then did it all again.

The joy the kids wore was contagious. Even my teen was giddy. Watching their faces from below the platforms, their giggles and squeals, brought out my giggles and squeals. I was content.

Then my husband invited me to ride a single ride, just me and him.

I used to love carnivals. Even now, I am a huge roller-coaster fan. But I no longer have the stomach for anything that goes in a circle, not clockwise, not counter clockwise. Even something as mild as the carousel makes me want to vomit.

But the invitation was hard to refuse, especially after he’d already shelled out the dough for our tickets, five dollars per.

The ride he suggested was by far the loudest on the entire lot, blaring AC/DC songs at unbearable volumes while it spun riders backwards on an angled track, flinging companions violently against each other inside each vinyl upholstered car.

I opted instead for something that resembled a hammer and involved double harnesses. Being more tolerant of upside down movement versus spinning movement, I figured this at least would keep the nausea at bay.

We stepped up to the ride and glanced at the lit up contraption. It was hardly daunting, but as we scanned the area, we realized we were, by a large margin, the oldest people in line. We were surrounded by chattering teenagers with no concept of personal space. Young girls in tight fitting clothes nudged us with their bony elbows, simultaneously babbling as they scanned the crowds for boys, periodically erupting in to shrieks.

Trapped in a sea of adolescent bodies, acne and spandex, I felt grossly out of place. The husband and I exchanged eye-rolls. Repeatedly. Possibly the attendant thought we were having strokes, because as he secured us in to place, he gave us a concerned once-over then shrugged. He may have also chuckled to himself.

Fastened safely to our seats, I felt more at ease. The temperature was a blustery 50, we were away from the crowds and the ride was starting. My age was irrelevant. As the pendulum began to swing, it put us perpendicular to the dusty fairground then swung us up so we were staring at a clear night sky. Two more swings and we over, the world suddenly inverted as we were suspended upside down for two seconds, three. Then around again, the entire world careening by in a flash before ending again with us feet-up, gravity tugging as I was pulled against my harness. It was no more than a couple of seconds, but I had this perfect, blissful moment where my mind was clear and I was conscious of just me, dangling there in the dark and enjoying the stupid thrill and simply being happy to be alive. It seemed a wonderful gift.

Then it was over. The ride coming to an end as it slowly rocked us back in to an upright seated position.

The problem was in the slowing, in the stopping. Suddenly I was flooded with the antithesis of whatever fantastic feeling I was soaking in not two seconds earlier.

The opposite of thrill ride euphoria was a cold sweat. Also, not so much nausea as a feeling that my digestive system was imploding.

I felt like I needed an exorcism, my insides a tangled knotted mess. Smile gone, feeling ever so stupid for even attempting such a ludicrous thing, I stumbled off, looking for a clearing, needing more air than the universe was currently offering. I didn’t want to smell carnival meat and batter-dipped foulness, I wanted just one clean breeze so my intestines to stop writhing like a sack of vipers.

I walked, I inhaled, I ground my teeth together in an effort to keep from further humiliating myself while my husband followed behind, also not entirely okay.

We managed not to hurl, but the nausea lingered well in to the night.

Apparently rides like these are built exclusively for teenagers who are resilient and equipped with well cushioned brains that have a high tolerance for being scrambled.

Next time I’m looking for euphoria, I will probably settle for a nice, stationary park bench.

Sounds thrilling, no?

I Went to Blogher and All I Brought You Was This Stupid Post

It wasn’t the flying I was afraid of, just the leaving. The anticipation almost killed me. I’d known for months I was going to NYC, yet I left all my shopping literally until the last minute, even as we drove to the airport I had to stop for something as obvious as luggage tags.

Part of my apprehension was that my identity, tied in so closely with my full time mom role, seemed impossible to extract. I was worried that perhaps it had shriveled up sometime after the delivery of my fourth baby, so that without my “Mommy” crutch I was just like that deflated post partum belly I had to tuck in to my granny panties for months after the birth.

My anxiety that early Thursday morning was a living, breathing entity. It was also contagious. On the drive to the airport, my seven year old threw up in to a plastic Target bag. This had to be a sign, I thought to myself, although what exactly it was pointing to, I couldn’t say. Vomit is open to interpretation. Had we been T-boned by an 18 wheeler, I might have had to relinquish my conference pass, but a little puke was mostly just inconvenient since I still had a flight to catch.

At the security check-in, I kissed the kids and husband good-bye through barely contained tears and shuffled my way barefoot through the metal detector.

Soon after that, I was fine. I was alone at an airport, waiting for my first ever flight and I was absolutely fine.

Getting on the plane. Taking off. Looking down at the ocean beneath us, then at nothing but atmosphere. I felt good. Flying was spectacular actually, while at the same time being completely ordinary. Watching TV, sitting among a group of detached strangers, listening to the hum of whatever propelled us, it was kind of like riding the bus, except it smelled better and they gave us snack food. Being suspended in midair didn’t bother me. Not a bit.

The whole experience of being in New York at Blogher was so many things I don’t know that I can really come up with a single coherent post about the experience. I’ve been struggling with the words for days. I don’t want to bog the internets down with a four day play by play. Surely by now everyone at Blogher along with their computer savvy Grannies have probably posted in graphic detail about being there. I don’t expect I have anything new to add, so I’ll pepper you with some of my impressions and hope I covered everything. I had about a million thoughts during those four buzzing days and an abundance of notebooks in which to jot them down, but of course I didn’t, so most of them have been lost to the ether, this is what was left behind.

• New York city smells. Not bad, necessarily, but walking down the streets of Manhattan, the wealth of competing odors was a little overwhelming. Meaty, roasting street foods mixed with exhaust and sweat and urine and garbage. One minute my appetite was intrigued, then I’d turn a corner and almost immediately want to wretch. I kind of loved it. Nausea and all.
  
• Having everything within walking distance was pretty amazing, the pace of the foot traffic, the teeming people. Initially it’s exciting. I knew my teenager would love it there and I told her as much, but by day four my calves hurt and I was sick of humanity (nothing personal) and crowded elevators. Seriously. I don’t want to see another elevator for at least a year. I’ll take the stairs…as long as something isn’t on like the 42^nd floor. I don’t hate elevators that much.
  
• I love my kids. I do. With every ounce of my being. But being without them for four days was bliss. I spend a majority of my waking moments herding children who bombard me with questions and requests. It’s my job, which I embrace with gusto (sort of). But holy mackerel jeezus, having only myself to worry about as I woke, showered, walked and ate in peace. PEACE? Was a life altering experience. Not that I’m going to pack my conveniently wheeled luggage and disappear again anytime soon, but some alone time does a psyche good, people. It really does.
  
• Being social is HARD. Probably not for everyone, but for me it was emotionally taxing. I loved meeting all the lovely women whose blogs I frequent and some which I didn’t. But by the end of the weekend I just kind of wanted to be somewhere where someone loved me best of all.
  
• Swag…Oh the rivers of swag. I walked in to this experience believing I was indifferent to the free wares being showered upon the conference attendees. I was wrong. Going in to the Mom Select expo at the Warwick hotel and receiving that first Webkinz was like becoming infected with a fever. That plush giraffe was gateway swag. After that I couldn’t get enough. We spent an entire day hoarding products, filling our recyclable bags, emptying them in our hotel room, then going back for more. We NEEDED more. How have I existed for so long without Play-doh scented cologne!? GAH! That purple Firefox tee is the epitome of cool, I will wear it ALL the time. Of course I need a travel cereal/milk container! I travel all the time, don’t I? I eat cereal, DON’T I?! The abundance of useless useful junk stuff actually had to be packed in boxes and shipped to ourselves via UPS because it would not fit in our luggage. We totally needed a swag intervention.
  
• I was also reminded over the course of the weekend that a party girl I am not. Dark rooms, crowded with rhythmically swaying bodies and loud music are decidedly not my thing. At some point during one of the late night celebrations, we retired to a dimly lit corner to assemble on the carpet and watch from the fringes. It was a little too much like being at a middle school dance for my taste and I bordered on sheer panic, but a slice of cake and a quick exit aided in me not completely losing my shit…The view from the carpet, you ask?

• The Good – Irish bartenders, Angelo’s Pizza, Bagels and Beans, MOMA, PB&J filled unicorn cakes, complimentary pedicures, creating condom wrapper jewelry, watching scantily clad women get flung off mechanical bulls.
  
• The Bad – pinky toe blisters, hotel pillows, closed subway lines, hobos that charge $$ for photos, unstable floor lamps, locked public restrooms.
  
• The Jury is Still Out On – taxi cabs, Matisse, airport restaurants, street meat.
  
• Some of the charming ladies I was lucky enough to make the acquaintance of: Keely, Jenni, Becky, Gretchen
  
• The delightful gals I clung to like a life raft: Andrea, Anne
  
• My supremely awesome roommate, conference partner, and wing-woman extraordinaire, who lived for making people uncomfortable at feminine hygiene displays: Casey
  

Would I do it again? Definitely. But it might take me a whole other year just to catch up on my sleep deficit.

Yawn.

Way to make me feel old, Blogher.

Kindly Leave Your Unpredictable Three-Year-Old at the Door

Thursdays afternoons are arts and crafts at our local library.

I started bringing the kids because the scheduling is really convenient. At 3:30 it gives me time to feed them all lunch, drop my oldest off at summer school, then kill some time before I have to pick her up again. It is air conditioned and gives me a reason to pry the kids away from the television and each other’s throats in order to create some glorious art. The librarian who leads the activity is young and enthusiastic and she knows all of the kids’ names by heart. Materials are provided, the kids all have a good time and afterward every participant is brought up in front of the group for an ooh-and-ahh session followed by a photo.

It’s as good as free activities get without complimentary snacks.

Because my youngest is three and generally needs assistance with projects requiring coordination and prolonged focus, I hovered nearby the first couple of times to guide him and keep him from getting glue in his eyebrows. He ignored me for the most part, covering everything in reach with brown squiggles and regaling the older kids with tales of his legendary Spiderman battles.

Other parents lingered on the fringes as well, either chatting or directing their kids as I was.

The smart moms though, scurried off to read far away from the creative bustle or better yet, logged in to the library PCs that lined the far wall.

It slowly dawned on me that I had an untapped resource at my disposal – an eleven year old daughter. Sitting there, breezing effortlessly through the activities generally geared toward the younger kids, even the librarian could see that she had more to offer. She was quickly drafted to assist the budding artists and manage their crayon supply, a job she excelled at.

If she could successfully help a roomful of small people, surely she could help her youngest brother stick some buttons on construction paper. Surely she could keep him from popping one of his own eyeballs out with the safety scissors. Surely.

So on our most recent visit, I sat them all together and delegated responsibility.

“You, help your brother, okay?”

“You, ask your sister if you need help, okay?”

“OKAY?”

Then I made my way to the computer terminals, set my phone on silent and attempted to catch up on my widely ignored blogging duties. I was dizzy with the prospect of uninterrupted writing. In the middle of the day, no less, when the possibility of exhaustion doubling my vision was still at least six hours away.

I logged on and sat back, smug and grinning and mentally high-fiving my own ingenuity. I would be here every Thursday, perhaps I’d bring my laptop next time and sit in the back, immersed while the din of active school kids faded in to the distant borders of my perception.

Except my mom brain isn’t exactly wired that way.

As the librarian explained the day’s activities to a mostly silent audience, my three-year-old’s voice cut clearly through her speech, overtaking her soothing tones with its shrill timbre.

“Who here knows what soccer is, boys and girls?”

“AND THEN I HIT HIM WITH MY WEBS LIKE THIS THWIP THWIP THWAP”

“And what body part do we use to play soccer?”

“HAHAHA WHEN I FIGHT LIKE THIS BAMBAMBAM”

“So after we color the sheet, we’re going to decorate our hacky sack balls with the markers.”

“AFTER I SHOOT MY WEB THEN I HIT HIM IN THE NUTS”

I watched him wide eyed, trying to gesture to my oblivious daughter to quiet him down a bit. The librarian glanced at me and smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said, walking over to me, “he’s fine, he’s having fun.”

I tried to relax the muscles bunched in my shoulders and turned back to the monitor.

Five minutes in.

“WAAAAAAAAAAH!”

When I ventured a look, he was already barreling toward me.

“WAAAAAAAAAAH! MY SISTER IS BEING MEAN TO ME!”

Sigh.

Pat, pat, console, console. “But, you’re not supposed to draw on the other children’s paper, honey.”

“Don’t you want to color your ball?” the librarian asked, coaxing him with the fabric bean bag.

Sniffle, sniffle. “Yes.”

Three minutes later.

“WAAAAAAAAAAH! I DON’T WANT TO COLOR MY BALL! I WANT MOOOOOOOM!”

Frakk!

While other moms either smiled tightly or avoided eye contact altogether, he scampered up in to my lap and buried his face in my chest.

“I WANT TO GO HOME! I AM TIRED! I WANT TO GO TO SLEEP! WAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Oh. The. Drama.

Pat, pat, console, console.

“Stop crying, honey. We’re not leaving yet. Let’s find something else to do.”

Still sobbing, he turned to face the monitor.

“I WANT TO PLAY ON THE COMPUTER!”

The kids who hadn’t lost their minds were tossing their painted balls in to a decorated cardboard box.

“Don’t you want to play with the kids? Don’t you want to throw your ball?”

“NOOOOOOO!”

My threshold for wailing and public humiliation isn’t very high.

Which is how I spent the remainder of my afternoon playing computer games at the library with a manic three-year-old vibrating in my lap, instead of completely ignoring the existence of my own children like I’d initially planned.

I’m thinking maybe next time I’ll bring my MP3 player…and maybe leave my own kids at home and drive to a library in another state.

A Bloggy Play Date, a Wardrobe Malfunction, and a Rain Check

Holly and I had been meaning to meet up for months. We’re only a county apart and our boys are the same age, so it seemed the logical progression of a bloggy friendship.

We chose a nearby county park that sported a water playground in addition to the dry, mulchy kind, even though we were undecided as far as which type we were going to unleash our offspring upon. While I wasn’t thrilled about wedging myself in to last year’s swimsuit, I was able to acknowledge the fact that the climate of late almost dictated a chlorinated water setting.

It has been hot. HOT. Steamy even. Like a world sauna.

By the time I pulled in to the parking lot at 10:30, I knew I wasn’t going to survive the out of doors without routinely dousing myself in chilly water. That they had a waterslide for preschoolers was a bonus, I was perfectly prepared to just stand under a shower nozzle in my street clothes.

Luckily I brought a bathing suit.

After introductions were made and enthusiastic boy hugs swapped, we ushered everyone in to the ladies room to change. I dressed my three year old quickly while managing to keep his bare feet from making contact with the bathroom tile, then proceeded to cram slip into my tankini.

As I squeezed my arms and head through the shoulder straps, I heard a distinct snap and the sound of something plastic hitting the floor. I looked down to see a markedly familiar ring that had been split in half. I pulled my top the rest of the way down and noticed something was off. My left strap had flopped back over my shoulder leaving my front coverage oddly asymmetrical. The ring had been an integral part of my bathing suit, joining the back straps to the bust. It was the part that kept me from frightening young children and being banned from schools and playgrounds.

Crap. Double crap.

The minutes stretched on as my decrepit brain struggled to find a solution. Leaving didn’t seem like a viable answer, neither did standing by the water’s edge sweating while everyone else in our party splashed mockingly in my general direction. The straps weren’t long enough to tie one to the other, but they did have eyelets I could use to string them together. A shoelace might work. Maybe there was something useful in my purse.

Gum? No.

Pen? No.

Keys? Aha.

Not the keys specifically, but what they were joined together with…

I actually high fived myself in the stall.

If there hadn’t been a fidgety three year old next to me repeatedly flushing the toilet, I’m pretty sure I could’ve used the remaining contents of my purse to assemble a thermonuclear device.

Of course, Holly was impressed.

We celebrated by going down the waterslides and chasing down our children who kept wandering out of our sight line. Fun was had by all, until of course the lightning alarm went off, at which time we were given the option of leaving, or taking shelter under a palm tree or beach umbrella.

All signs pointed to “Go”. Including the boys, all three of which had reached their fun limit and were dipping dangerously in to the tired and hungry category, which everyone knows is only a blink away from the tantrum and give mom a migraine territory.

Nature knew what it was doing, almost striking us down with high powered electrical charges.

And we got free passes to come back.

You know, after I purchase a new bathing suit of course…

Sometimes We Take Nature Walks

Generally I’ve found nature tends to stay the hell away from us.

Usually there’s shrieking, whining, complaining and tomfoolery, which wildlife will avoid as a rule, unless there are rabies involved, in which case we would be the ones backing away from the disheveled raccoon that was a little too enthusiastic in wanting to cuddle.

When we embarked on this nature trail, which was not so much a nature trail as a sodden path through the bushes not very far removed from the street and traffic, we were kind of hopeful we’d see something alive.

Not so much.

There were fish at some point. Turtles. And a couple of people riding ponies, but even they were reluctant to come close.

If there had been dinosaurs anywhere in the vicinity, I think they would’ve eaten us just to get some peace and quiet.

So instead of observing wildlife, we broke sticks and squished berries and squealed and pointed out dragon flies before each and every child began to complain about how far we’d walked and how their legs hurt and how thirsty, parched even, they were. They were barely surviving, crumpling at various stages, needing to be carried and not capable of walking another. Single. Step.

Of course, everyone perked when we told them we’d be going out for milkshakes.

Who wouldn’t?

Cawcaw and Other Bird Sounds Also Random Tuesday Thoughts

• Curse you Daylight Savings, curse you. You will rue the day (or night) not sure which seems more appropriate…

• Seriously, stop messing with my head. I don’t appreciate thinking I’ve got an abundance of time left to fix dinner only to come to the bleak realization it is really almost time to put the kids to bed.

• Also, walking out of the house when it’s still dark makes me angry.

• Although, as an alternative, I think we should lobby to have more hours added to the current clock. My schedule could use a little breathing room.

• My son turned seven this weekend and to celebrate we took him to Jungle Island, which years ago was just Parrot Jungle. As I remember it, the highlight of the outing used to be the parrots pedaling itty bitty bicycles. (Riveting, I know.) Now they’ve incorporated a host of other performing wildlife to keep the kids entertained and justify charging you $30 for admission. Luckily we had coupons from the elementary school to cover two of the kids and I lied about the youngest, so he could still get in for free, because really, a three year old shouldn’t be charged $24 to get in anywhere, considering he’s not even going to remember this entire trip six weeks down the line. In your face, Parrot Jungle Island.

• Two favorites from our excursion:

The Cassowary, which looks like a giant chicken but is as tall as a person, has thick dinosaur feet, and swallows entire apples for a talent. They’ve also been known to kill people with their powerful legs and murderous talons, or so the trainers said, but those guys will say anything for applause.

Behold the Sausage Tree…

• Okay so it looks more like a corndog tree, but that doesn’t make it any less amusing.

• I also had a weird confrontation with a macaw. There is one stretch inside the park where parrots are  perched on both sides of the path. Not caged, just perched. The idea is that people will buy bird food from the strategically placed gumball machines and hand feed them. Some of the birds are NOT hungry. They do NOT want to be approached and will produce a series of off-putting shrieking sounds whenever you come near them with your food filled hand outstretched. I’d cautiously come close to this one yellow and blue bird, who seemed receptive. We glanced at each other, I smiled coyly and held up a bit of food pinched between my thumb and index finger. He reached down and seemed to miss, grazing my thumb with his beak. Clumsy bird. So I grabbed another multicolored food bit and held it up to him. This time he went straight for the meaty ball of my thumb and gave it a nice, sharp bite. I dropped the food again and glared at the bird. At which point the bird said, “Hello!” Then laughed. Like a person.

• I’m still trying to figure out if the bird was flirting with me or trying to pick a fight.

• What? That bird was out to get me. Sometimes paranoid people are right.

—–

Only the paranoid survive, you know. They’re usually the people with the most ammunition.

When Reality & Blogging Collide

The idea to meet in Fort Myers had been tossed around for months before we finally settled on a date.

My husband was more than a little apprehensive.

“You’re driving across the state by yourself to meet up with people you don’t even know?!”

Surely he envisioned me broken down along I-75, set upon by a combination of hungry gators, axe murderers, and the encroaching darkness of the Everglades.

I, on the other hand, was anxious for a slew of other reasons, few of which involved me ending up dead in a ditch. I was bringing mace, after all.

Being clever in writing, after hours of strategic editing and repeated consults with a thesaurus, was one thing, packing my neuroses in a car, driving 125 miles, and trying to sustain intelligent conversation with other adults in a casual setting, was something else entirely.

Would I smile too much? Would I laugh too loud? Would I accidentally transpose pecker for pepper like I did that time when I was ordering at the Subway? The awkward possibilities were endless.

Sure we were all cool ladies, but what if our cool factors adversely affected the rotational pull of our witty banter so that our otherwise hilarious reflections were somehow sucked into a bottomless vortex where all we could do was “ahem” and steal glances at our watches while time. barely. eked. by.

I decided to go in spite of this.

Mostly because the lure of finally meeting Casey and Sprite’s Keeper was an opportunity worth wiggling out of my comfort zone for. Abandoning my brood for an entire day was also quite an incentive.

I’m so glad I went. And not just because of Red Robin’s Jamaican Jerk’d Chicken Burger…although I’ll admit I would’ve driven the distance just to eat one (or twenty) of these. Grilled pineapple. I’ll leave it at that.

Luckily we were spared the initial awkwardness of in-person meetings and moved right in to French fries while we chatted and giggled, occasionally venturing in to guffaw territory. For those of you not aware, profanity is a great ice-breaker and Casey schooled us on 750 clever ways to use the F word to your advantage. She is exactly what I expected – honest, blunt, and completely pee-in-your-pants hilarious…and not just in her observations of a certain “GPS” device that may or may not have been purchased in an “adult” type facility.

We also bowled.

And mostly sucked, although I was fascinated with the bowling alley itself. Wood paneling prevailed, along with ball returns that looked a little bit like toilets. The folks that ran it were incredibly nice, but it almost seemed like we were intruding on their homey establishment where they appeared to know all the other bowlers by first name.

We were quite the presence, with our violent ball hurling and buzz inducing foul line crossing.

After our less than stellar bowling scores, we opted for a little comfort in the form of sugary goodness.

It was hard to settle on just one item. They had ice-cream, caramel apples, and all sorts of decadent chocolate dipped concoctions that should be illegal. Really, chocolate dipped twinkies seem a little over the top, but what do I know. I opted for cake batter ice-cream with chocolate chips and chunks of actual cake.

It was good. Gooder than I can say out loud without embarassing myself. But Casey said it well enough.

And we got to meet the infamous Sprite, who was infinitely cuter in person than she is in photographs.

We sat for three hours at Kilwin’s, chatting, and entertaining the employees so much they felt obligated to gift us a complimentary caramel, white-chocolate dipped, cinnamon sugar sprinkled apple.

Sprite’s Keeper was, by the way, a tremendous hostess and tour guide, and quite possibly one of the genuinely sweetest people I’ve ever met. She was such a good sport and even shooed her husband and daughter away just to hang with us for a couple more hours.

The time just slipped by as we lapsed frequently into conversations about our kids, and potty training, and blogging. And our kids. It was surprising how often talk circled back to the mostly absent offspring that dominate our lives and dictate how we spend our precious little free time.

It was just so easy sitting and eating and enjoying the company. If I didn’t live so far, I’m pretty sure I’d make a general nuisance of myself, camping out on either of their doorsteps and begging them to have coffee with me on a regular basis.

You got off easy, ladies. You got off easy.

Why PMS and Social Functions Don’t Mix

Thursday evening was my daughter’s 5th grade commencement ceremony, a much anticipated event that signaled the end of childhood and the beginning of…er…a later stage of childhood.

In any case, it was a big deal. A semi-formal event that necessitated an early dismissal from school so that she could adequately prepare for the occasion which required she be there prior to the 6 p.m. start time printed on our embossed tickets.  Most of her friends were out getting their hair professionally styled and their nails expertly manicured, luxuries I couldn’t really justify considering she’s only ten and she’s still got seven more years of schooling to go before she actually “graduates” from something.

Still, those little details were enough to ignite a panic in the pit of my stomach. That and PMS and whatever preexisting social anxiety issues I might have. What the heck was I going to wear? What the heck was I expected to wear? Would I be over-dressed? Under-dressed? Cross-dressed?

These things weighed heavily on my mind, which of course rendered me incapable of making any kind of sound fashion judgment. I spent a good hour yanking articles of clothing willy-nilly out of my closet as I snapped at the children, and the husband, and the dogs, while in various states of dishevelment and undress before finally resigning myself to a pair of slacks and a button down blouse.

My daughter’s hair I restrained in a side-swept half pony tail in those last fevered minutes before we rushed out the door, panicked that we wouldn’t make it there in time.

We arrived with five minutes to spare.

As I delivered my daughter to the area where all the students were congregating it started to dawn on me that my idiotic anxieties were grossly misplaced. Around me parents were attired in a wide array of garments ranging from the casual to the elegant to the flamboyant to the ridiculous.

Here’s a few observations I made:

• Animal prints and spandex go together like peanut-butter and jelly. Unlike PB&J however, they do not have that same universal appeal.

• Just because it has sequins on it, does not make it fancy.

• Wearing a sequined halter does not excuse the fact that your butt-crack is exposed.

• Skin tight white pants are a woman’s not so subtle way of telling the family standing behind her that she’s not wearing any panties.

The ceremony itself didn’t start until 7 p.m. A full hour after we arrived. Without dinner. Because like an imbecile I bypassed nutrition in favor of pressed pants and the only “snacks” I’d thought to pack were chewing gum and Chapstick. It’s hard enough to get a two year old to sit through a movie in a crowded theater. Try getting that same two year old to sit through the Academy Awards. I think I’d rather give myself a lobotomy.

Sometime after my teen’s iPod looped around the second time she looked over at me and said, “This is taking forever.”

My husband leaned over to her and said, “Forever was 45 minutes ago.”

We were still there 30 minutes later when one of the 5th grade students was delivering a 15 minutes speech thanking all the teachers individually, along with the counselors, administration, janitorial staff, and cafeteria workers. All of whom deserve accolades, I’m sure, just not at 9:30 pm after we’d all been sitting for upwards of three hours. But that’s just me…

It was my daughter, however, who was the star of the evening, bringing home two gigantic trophies and a medal.

My two year old was also very eager to join in the applause, since it was the only time he didn’t get shusshed.

One more off to middle school. Sigh. Here we go again.

The Sight of His Own Blood – Spin Cycle

All my kids do it, turn minor injuries in to life threatening emergencies. Stubbed toes are lauded with open mouthed wails, bumps with crumpled faces and inconsolable sobs.

The best example of these exaggerated reactions came a couple of years ago. My six year old son was four at the time and we’d embarked on a harmless trip of mini-golf, designed to entertain the tribe and kill some time on a Saturday. It was also a sponsored event that featured free bagels and orange juice. Win-win.

We were making the rounds on one of the courses and my husband and I were marveling at how well everyone was behaving considering they were all in possession of long and potentially dangerous sticks. The bold signs denouncing sword play with the clubs told us this was a common occurrence.

Somewhere around hole 16 it happened. My son stumbled and fell hard on the concrete. We quickly scooped him up and brushed him off. “It’s okay, you’re fine. Just keep playing.” Not a single tear had been shed, our efficient nonchalance had the desired effect. He wandered off to the next hole, golf club in hand, without another whimper.

Crisis averted.

Until my son caught sight of his elbow after his sister remarked, “Oh my God, you’re bleeding!”

Cue the dramatic music.

My son ran toward us, his mouth opened wide and emitting a sound that was part police siren, part guttural caveman hoot. “Blood, blood, blood.”

“It’s just a scrape,” we said, examining the the injury. “We’ll put a band-aid on it. It’s fine.”

Still the wails continued as we tried to calm him down. We wiped away the tiny droplets of blood as he cried, his eyes wild and disconnected.

“I don’t feel so good,” he said. His lips were pale, his skin ashen. “I have to lie down.” He sat on the concrete and got completely horizontal, laying on the hot walkway like he’d been shot.

“Honey, get up.” I scooped up his limp body as my husband darted to the van where I’d left the first aid kit. Our golf game abandoned, we wandered over to the nearest bench and sat him down. His skin was cold and clammy, his complexion sickly.

“Baby, are you alright?” Two seconds later he threw up his breakfast, right at my feet. I managed to dodge the spillage as I packed him up yet again and moved to another less conspicuous bench where we couldn’t be fingered out for abandoning the remnants of his little mishap.

By the time my husband returned with a band-aid and an antiseptic wipe, my son’s eyes were rolling up in to the back of his head – he was going to faint. Off went the husband again to get some OJ as I tapped my son gently on the cheeks. Now it was my turn to freak out, my baby was going in to shock over a scraped elbow and he looked like death warmed over, as the rest of the kids stood around looking more annoyed than concerned.

Luckily the OJ did the trick. The color returned to my son’s cheeks, the offending scrape was hidden from view and all was right with the world. Until about an hour later when we tried to stop for lunch. I’ll spare you the details of that little adventure, suffice to say there was fecal matter involved and a public restroom setting and more wipies than I could ever possibly carry.

Sorry, Burger King.

Apparently the sight of his own blood adversely affects my son’s digestive processes. I suppose him entering the medical field is out of the question. Better that we discovered this now than after years of costly med school bills.

—–

For more mole hills disguised as mountains, visit Sprite Keeper’s Spin Cycle. It’s HUGE! Enormous! Really. Go.

Sea Mammals and Migraines

I took the two Motrin right as the first sea lion slithered his way on to the stage. It was the very first show on our itinerary, we’d only been at the park for fifteen minutes, but I’d chaperoned enough field trips to know how the day would play out, especially in the blazing sunshine with 21 barely contained Kindergarteners in our charge.

While my six year old applauded Salty and his Reef Rangers, I was hoping the preemptive ibuprofen dosage would ward off the migraine destined to settle in. Already I’d spent 40 minutes in an un-air-conditioned bus, sharing a narrow bench seat with three small boys, one of whom talked non-stop for the entire ride. Non. Stop.

“My mom lets me watch Snakes on a Plane. I want to be a gangster some day so I can wear my hat sideways. My dad wants me to be a doctor. But I want to be a pizza guy and a mime. I really like pizza and I’m really good at being a mime.”

Insert child pretending to be trapped in a box here.

Did I mention only half of my rear end  fit on the seat? The other half dangled precariously in the air as I tried unsuccessfully to procure even a single coveted inch, while Mr. Mouth gabbed at me about nothing in particular.

“I’ve been on an airplane before. I brought my wallet so I could buy a souvenir. My pants don’t have any pockets. My sister be’s mean to me sometimes. Once I couldn’t breathe cause I was sick, I sounded like this…”

Insert child gasping for air and clutching his throat here.

After the sea lions we power walked over to the second show (dolphins) and I could feel that first tinge of a headache muscling its way in. The teacher, who is a sweetheart and coincidentally an organizational nightmare, had decided to skip out on the picnic lunch and just have the kids eat during the dolphin exhibit to save time. 21 five and six year olds, unwrapping their Lunchables and losing said wrappers willy nilly after listening to a shpiel on how garbage pollutes and kills our reefs.

By the time we made it through the bathroom break, the water playground stop, and the killer whale show, my brain was twitching. Veins were throbbing, possibly one of my eye balls had fallen out due to pressure.

The kids had a great time though and I did enjoy my son’s company, even though our one on one time was limited. Every time he willingly grabbed on to my hand and held it as we scurried along, turned my heart in to a warm little puddle right in my chest cavity.

And we were only a little late coming back to school.

Eventually I came home, rested my eyes, and had some coffee, the migraine had receded and all was right with the world.

Except for that mime kid, he worries me a little.

Here are some photos to show it wasn’t all agony.