Behind

We are in a season of which other experienced moms have warned. It is when days fly by quicker than the law should allow, schedules are fuller than the reasonable should permit, and children growing faster than surely the Almighty intended.

Changes of all sorts have happened quickly –a new teenager, another in middle school, and an eight year old with continued flair for the dramatic. Additionally, I have taken a part time consulting position that requires a little travel as well as a writing project conducted during early morning hours that can only be seen as ungodly.  

A further change worthy of note is this:  my eyelids have begun to fall. I’ve been watching for new wrinkles, examining the folds of my neck for unwelcomed creases, and placing voodoo curses on the parentheses marks between my eyes. Who knew that aging kryptonite would be my weary eyebrows, dropping its hold on delicate skin like a twitchy wide receiver losing grip on a touchdown  ball?

My eyelids have fallen, and they cannot get back up.

Ours is a household in perpetual motion, one that requires intentionality, detailed calendars and an absurd amount of coffee just to keep pace. However, what I have learned over the past few months is that there is not enough intravenous caffeinated fluids to prevent the inevitable from happening, the unavoidable from taking place, the inescapable from occurring right before my droopy eyes:

I am behind.

Behind in blog entries, household duties, in empty photo albums that mock my very existence.  Behind in daily interactions with friends, in connections with siblings, in that lunch date just for laughs and frivolity. I am behind in thank you notes, in a well-stocked pantry, and in laundry that overflows to the street.

I am behind.

It happens. And when it does, it causes paralysis in the present because of all the junk involved as it pertains to your behind. (Not intended as a shout out to J-Lo.) I recognize these circumstances because this is not my first domestic rodeo where I find myself bucked about in the air and tossed haphazardly to the ground. 

What I know from experience is this: when you find yourself behind, begin again right where you are. Even if it means from where you lay on the ground.

Start with the friend you haven’t called in three months, the Bible unopened for longer than you would like to admit, the conversation that begins with asking forgiveness. The small group you always wanted to join, the encouraging note you would like to write, or the appointment you have avoided with your doctor, dentist, pastor or manicurist.

 Don’t let that which is undone behind determine how you will proceed  forward. Begin again right where you are.

"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."    
                                                                  - Theodore Roosevelt


And  this is where we are:

Chase is doing well. He has regained about 90% of his mobility....

...while maintaining 100% of his quick wit. 

                                                    

Picking up food from a busy restaurant in toboggan and rat tail wig is just an ordinary day for him.

Chandler is in his first year at middle school and doing well.

We have also discovered that he may just give Justin Bieber a run for his money:

(The annoying percussion courtesy of his dad)

(The video will only remain up as long as it goes unnoticed by Chandler.)

Mary Mac continues to bring us joy.

She plans to provide the Barbie Head some competition as well.

(The picture will only remain up as long as it goes unnoticed by Mary Mac.)

As for the two of us, we are doing great. I still try to get him to fire me  from working at his medical practice. He still pretends that I am not exceptionally  inept. It works.

Stand Out

It was a rushed, chaotic morning.

Not only was it the last day of school, but also the long awaited graduating ceremony for our son’s fourth  grade class. Before you roll your eyes, or click the mean little red box in the right hand corner, please allow a moment of contrition, of true transparency from one scattered human being to a very capable another.

I get it.

Really.

I understand that end of year celebrations are a little much, and are appropriate grounds for moms to pop all kind of sedatives on their way to Kroger for the third time in one day to retrieve last minute cupcakes, mini cans of cokes or gift cards for the teacher you didn’t remember until it woke you in a panic in the middle of the night.

The last week of school entails parties, ceremonies, and final classroom productions, all crammed in together in such a way that guarantees you will indeed take your child home for the summer. School escapism lasts for at least six blissful days, sleeping late and lounging until noon in pajamas, and then summer reality hits when one of your offspring says the two words that can cause a mom’s head to spin into orbit:  “I’m bored.”  This is immediately echoed by the others who depend on you for fun and frivolity which causes you to grab the nearest phone, dial respective administrators and demand summer school programs.

We found ourselves a little out of sorts on the last day of school. Gathering teacher gifts, class party snacks and all manner of recording devices, I had little time to address the grooming and nutritional needs of my children. Instructing all three to choose something on their own out of closets, drawers, hampers or the kitchen pantry, I hurriedly loaded the car down with all of the mandatory last school day essentials.

Chandler, our graduating ten year old, had to wear Sunday church clothes for the ceremony that morning.  He chose appropriately, sporting long madras pants and white oxford shirt, looking so fantastically handsome that I had to pause and hug his soon to be fifth grade neck.

We pulled out of the driveway and I glanced in the rearview mirror to peer at the three children who had grown at record pace.  So big, so tall, so independent – as evidenced by the pop tarts and sprites each had chosen for breakfast.  Clearly, and thankfully, guidance was still needed by yours truly.

Chandler was the first to be dropped off for school. “I love you!” I called to him as he exited the car to walk with some of his well-dressed buddies. “I’ll see you in a few hours for graduation!”  It was then that I noticed that the group of boys that surrounded him were all wearing khaki pants.  

Oh, no. Yet another parental miscue that would cause embarrassment for my child.

After dropping off my other two children, I called a few friends to inquire about the dress code for graduation.  Sure enough - girls were to wear dresses and the  boys to wear dress shirts and KHAKI PANTS. Chandler was going to have to walk across the school stage wearing a pattern in sea blue madras among a wave of slacks the color of sand. He was going to stand out, be set apart from the norm, and I was going to cringe and feel horrible  because of my subpar parenting.

Fantastic.

I drove home to change from my carpool line uniform which includes bedhead, bedroom shoes and a runaway bosom. I also ironed a pair of khaki pants to take with me to the ceremony. My plan was to slip into Chandler’s classroom right before graduation was to begin so that he could rightfully fit in with his peers and I could sit in the audience without feeling so stinking inept.

When I arrived to his classroom, the students were on a final bathroom break, but I was able to hand the pants to the teacher. “If you don’t mind,” I said to sweet Mrs. Anthony, “could you please have Chandler change into these khakis before the ceremony? I wouldn’t want him to stand out or feel embarrassed about looking differently.”

“I don’t think he minds one bit,” responded Mrs. Anthony. “But I will certainly give him time to change.”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, I walked to the gymnasium to join my husband for the ceremony just minutes away. Another mommy disaster avoided. Good for me.

Soon the sounds of “Pomp and Circumstance” could be heard, and a processional of fourth graders entered the gym.  I hid watery eyes behind the lens of the camera, waiting to capture my son’s entrance, and suddenly there he was….

…in sea blue madras pants.

Chandler had not changed.  It apparently did not bother him in the least to look different than the others. 

Certificates were given, handshakes exchanged , and then the award ceremony began. Name after name was called, and as I clapped for each child honored, I was distracted by  thoughts of my son – how much he had matured, how confident he had become, how securely he was finding his own way – when the final accolade was announced.

It was the Spirit of Life Award,  a recognition to be given to a student in honor of a beloved teacher who had taught at the school for twenty nine years. Her adult son and granddaughter described the award to those in attendance.

“It is our pleasure to give this award in honor of the student who best exemplifies, through attitude and action both inside and outside the classroom, the highest spirit for life, for learning, and unselfishness to others. This year’s award goes to Chandler.”

And smiling as broadly as his face would allow, our sweet ten year old walked joyfully across that stage, head held high in those crazy, sea blue madras pants.

Chandler evidently knew something I didn’t quite get that morning. Standing out, being set apart, appearing different  is a  good thing.

A very, very good thing.

                                          "Why fit in, when you were born to stand out?"

                                                                    - Dr. Seuss

Christ Is Risen

He is risen indeed! Hope your Easter is full of joy!

Rotten - Part Three

(Due to excessive words routinely and joyfully used by yours truly, I have divided the following account into three parts. You may want to read part two before continuing to suffer through the wordiness in part three. The little red box in the right-hand corner is always available for your convenience.)

Tonsillectomy recovery was not going well for Chandler. Because of pain, he was unable to swallow liquids. Because of projected hypochondria, I was convinced he was moments away from the evils of dehydration. While it had been less than 24 hours, I picked up the phone to call my husband’s office.

That’s when I saw this outside of my son’s bedroom window.



I blinked my eyes twice, hoping to remove the sight that looked like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie starring a worn-out, dramatic prone parent.



Typically, one can expect to see one or two buzzards meandering about in the sky when the demise of an animal has occurred. They have a good sense of smell and are able to smell the dead they focus upon from great heights. (Thanks Wikipedia.)



The issue immediately at hand was twofold. First, the large quantity of vultures directly outside of my son’s window would suggest that a dead carcass buffet was available to all in my front yard. Looking closely at our lawn recently shredded into Bermuda slaw by winter sledding, I could not locate an animal of any kind – dead or sickly - that might attract such a large gathering.

Secondly, Chandler was the only ill entity within the radius of the flock of gore eating birds and that meant.....

I quickly dialed the phone to my husband’s office and asked a nurse to retrieve him from an exam room (Sorry Mr. Patient. An imminent attack by vultures supersedes your strep throat. Hope you feel better soon!)

Skipping pleasantries, I relayed the emergent situation to John, who held the phone at a safe distance from his ear so that the shrillness of my voice didn’t shatter his eardrums into a million pieces.

“Chandler won’t swallow, and he’s in pain, and there’s vomit currently all over me, and I’m pretty certain he is dangerously dehydrated which the doctor warned us about and you know what that will lead to, well,of course you do because you were a graduate of medical school and all, but I think it is really serious now because there are a hundred buzzards outside of his bedroom window who any minute may eat the flesh right off of his bones.”

BIG BREATH.

“Are you going to come home or should I call an ambulance?”

Long silence.

Even more silence.

“Well, before you call the ambulance citing buzzards and dehydration as your emergency, let me take a look at him in a few moments after I finish up with my patient,” John responded in the calm doctor voice that always has the potential to cause my head to spin off of my body.

“Okay. But I’m telling you that it’s really serious. Did I mention that he can’t swallow? At all? And you really need to consider these buzzards....” I countered, trying to imitate the calmness in my husband’s voice but audibly failing because of the high decibels warbling from my mouth. The dogs in my neighborhood were the only ones who could correctly identify the serene nature of my sound.

John made it home soon after our conversation to assess Chandler’s condition. He did not think that our son was dehydrated. He did not think that the the buzzards would eat him. And he did not think it necessary to summon emergency vehicles. Filling a syringe with water, he was able to convince our son to swallow a little bit at a time, which we slowly increased throughout the remainder of the day.

It took nine days for Chandler to fully recover from surgery.

I may never.

Which is what these vultures know, as they still periodically hang out out in the trees of our front yard, waiting for the day when dramatics, hysteria and projected hypochondria finally cause the spontaneous demise of yours truly.

Rotten - Part Two

(Due to excessive words routinely and joyfully used by yours truly, I have divided the following account into three parts. You may want to read part one before continuing to suffer through the wordiness in part two. The little red box in the right-hand corner is always available to use at any time.)

Some things in life have the potential to bring a mom to the very edge of insanity: A child’s laundry hamper overflowing with clothes that are CLEAN because it was the easier choice over the hanger beckoning in the closet. A carpool line that moves so slowly that one is able to witness the actual growth process of grey hair in the rear view mirror. A monkey fit thrown by a three year old at church, in the main entrance, on the floor and in front of the preacher.

Then there are those moments that not only push you to a teetering position on the edge of insanity, but catapult you deep into the valley known as Lunacy. Recently, I made myself at home in this cavernous space for a good seventy-two hours, wearing out my welcome in such a manner that even the insane residing with me in Crazy Canyon would not allow continued co-habitation.

A child in pain brings me to my knees. I lose all sensibility and rational thought which is then replaced with pure panic. I want to urgently minimize it, impulsively fix it, or irrationally inject myself with it.

Our physician warned us of the pain Chandler would experience after the combined tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. However, he told us that dispensing the pain medication at regular intervals and continued hydration throughout the course of recovery would greatly help in alleviating the discomfort. It was imperative, he firmly told us, that dehydration not occur during the healing process.

After returning home from the hospital, we settled our nine year old into his bed. I fluffed his pillows, placed a water bottle on the nearby desk and watched him fall asleep as his body recuperated from the surgery. Every hour or so, Chandler would awaken and groggily take a few sips of the water I offered before returning to sleep.

This schedule continued for the remainder of the day and throughout the night as the combination of anesthesia and pain medicine given at the hospital provided drowsiness and relief.

Early the following morning, Chandler woke up as a mime. Soreness of throat prevented speech, but from wide eyes and emphatic hand gestures, I was able to surmise that it was time for the pain medicine prescribed.

I am quick like that.

I gave him a dose, which took a little bit of effort as it was difficult to swallow, and then my sweet, obedient child flat out refused to take a sip of water. Mr. Mime placed both hands over his mouth and violently shook his head back and forth like a Labrador drying off from a swim.

The doctor’s echoes warning of the evilness of dehydration rang in my ears and I could feel the panic rising. Chandler hadn’t eaten the day before, and drank very little, and OH NO, WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO IF HE BECAME DEHYDRATED?

An hour passed, and I tried again to get Chandler to drink a little water. This time he looked at me with the stink eye and aggressively pushed the glass away from him. My tenderhearted son, the one who is kind to all and loves his mama, had turned into the devil. He had the red eyes to prove it.

A third attempt a little while later found him kicking the air in my direction. The Mime had added karate to his collection of wayward communication skills and not even Mr. Miyagi would be able to get near him with a cup of water. Chandler looked pale and his skin seemed to shrivel right before my eyes from obvious lack of fluids.

Thirty minutes later, I made another attempt. As I slowly neared him in a defensive stance prepared to intercept a hand sword collar-bone chop, Chandler weakly sat up, turned in my direction, and threw up all over me.

I could have moved in time to avoid the spew of vomit but maternal instinct overrode maternal sense. I held out my hands, in cup like fashion, in an attempt to CATCH THE CONTENTS OF MY CHILD’S STOMACH.

What is it in a mom’s DNA that releases a reflex quicker than that of the feline variety to catch vomit? I don’t feel compelled to catch the throw up belonging to my husband, or that of my best friend. But gagging that involves a child of mine? I turn into an all-star center fielder who will dive across a room to trap regurgitated pop tarts in the palm of my hands.

The pain Chandler must have felt when becoming sick all over me made me weak in the knees. If the vomiting continued, then this would mean that even if I caught my little mime in a weak moment and convinced him to swallow, he wouldn’t be able to keep any of it down. OH NO, WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO IF HE BECAME DEHYDRATED?

It was clear I was in the beginning stages of working myself into a “tizzy” (Southern word for an adult hissy fit or tantrum; also a state of confusion or anxiety), so I picked up the phone to call my husband at work. Surely, sound counsel would calm my fears.

And that’s when I saw the swarm of buzzards outside of Chandler’s window.

Rotten

Chronic strep throat and sinus infections led our pediatrician to the conclusion that our nine-year-old son, Chandler, should have his tonsils and adenoids surgically removed. (As opposed to the thought had by yours truly that magically wishing them away or clicking my heels together three times would somehow prevent a visit to the operating room.)

A consultation with an ENT (ears, nose and throat) doctor confirmed that the procedure was necessary and a surgery date was scheduled. A week after Christmas and a week before school resumed, we felt confident that the timing of the tonsillectomy would allow an ample recovery period. It ended up however, that physical healing for my son took longer than anticipated and mental recuperation for me is still somewhat suspect.

The day of surgery went well for Chandler. He was calm during the pre-op rituals, rolling his eyes appropriately when I asked if the “happy medicine” given to him could be shared with his legal guardian. The nurse did not really think that I was funny, which is fine, because I really was not joking.




As the medicine took effect, I watched my son drift in and out of goofy joy land, that wistful place I would like to visit when the loads of laundry in my home threaten rightful sanity. Chandler stared with fascination at the ceiling tiles above him, only to then turn his attention to the magic and wonder of the bed rails:



Every once in a while his focus would find me long enough to inquire why my eyeballs were so close together:



or how it came to be that I was the only mom with two noses:




When it was time for surgery, the nurses wheeled my son away and I felt a sob escape from that sacred place familiar to all moms. The place created uniquely for a child the moment they are born, that opening that will leave your heart vulnerable for all remaining days. I stood in the hallway, fighting for composure and losing badly, until I spotted a nurse I knew pretty well. Surely she had some random sedatives to spare......

(Oh, I kid.)

I sat in the waiting room pretending to read the book in my lap but totally eavesdropping on the captivating conversation happening behind me. There was an argument occurring between a husband and wife about whether time permitted a smoke break outside. In summary, the woman’s point was that while she hadn’t had a cigarette since her morning coffee and really needed one or four, she was afraid that she would smell like smoke when the doctor called them from the waiting room. And she didn’t want said doctor to know that she smoked. To which the husband responded, “But you do. So why you fakin’ it? Let’s go smoke.”

My name was finally called and a nurse led me to a small waiting room outside of the operating room. The doctor came in shortly after, removed his face mask, looked me squarely in the eyes, and said, “Those tonsils were rotten.” A simple, direct diagnosis if I ever heard one. I thanked the physician and he led me to my son.

Chandler was wheeled into a recovery room, sectioned off by movable curtains that allow for patient privacy. I sat in the small area with Chandler as I waited for his anesthesia to wear off, thankful that the surgery was a success and free of complications. I closed my eyes in the quietness of the space and prayed, grateful to God for keeping my sweet child safe. A sudden, loud sound interrupted my thanksgiving.

It was a familiar sound, but one out of place. Surely, I misheard.

The sound erupted again, but louder, accurately confirming what I initially identified. A man recovering next to us, separated by only a thin barrier of cloth, was burping. Note the plural form of the word as it was done with repetition and considerable volume.

(As a sidenote, the current Guinness world record for loudest burp is 107.1 decibels, which is louder than a chainsaw at a distance of 1 metre. Thank you Wikipedia.

In addition, Wikipedia notes “Belching in front of people in public places tends to be received in a manner similar to flatulence”. I wholeheartedly concur.)

Every ten seconds or so, the man would release a lingering belch, followed by his companion telling him to “let it all out” so he would feel better. I began to wonder if the man recovering had been anesthetized with a carbonated drink.

Clearly, the patient was uncomfortable, which made two of us. Mercifully, after a fifteen minute chorus of varying lengths of eructation (thanks again, Wikipedia), the burping man and his companion left the recovery area.

Chandler slowly came out of his anesthesia, a little disoriented and in some pain. The worst is behind us, I remember thinking, as I carefully helped him into our car. I could not have known that the next nine days would be so trying, that in my mental instability, I would begin to wish for the presence of the belching patient if only as a distraction.....

Vomitpalooza 2010

The abundant joy one experiences in motherhood is immeasurable. It is a privilege and a gift to love all aspects and qualities of your wonderful, remarkable child.

But vomiting is not one of them.

This past week, the stomach bug hit the school my children attend. Cooties rained down on the heads of elementary school students, creating a storm of nausea in homes across our town only remedied by barfing.

Two of my three offspring fell victim to this virus. My oldest, Chase, escaped infection, mainly because I made him gargle with Purell hand sanitizer. We also locked him in a padded room for three days, which seemed to help our cause.

(Oh, I kid. He totally locked himself in his room in a voluntary manner. Halloween candy, ESPN center and thoughts of spending the $25 he won for the middle school costume contest kept him occupied until sounds of the puking ceased.)

I have been a parent now for twelve years and feel confident in saying that out of all of the viruses that have struck our home, this one was straight from the devil. Evidence supported by the manner in which my son, Chandler’s head spun around twice when trying to rid his nine year old body of the evil bug.

Chandler is a laid back, tenderhearted child who exudes kindness. He is mild mannered and obedient and loving to all. But somehow, the stomach bug transformed our easygoing child into a blonde-headed version of Damien.

Beginning at two o’clock in the morning, Chandler vomited every forty-five minutes, yelling, spitting and hissing incoherently as I held his head over a bucket with one hand and a crucifix with the other. This continued through the night until the sickness slowed enough so that we could exorcise him with large doses of Pepto Bismol.

Within twelve hours, Chandler was back to normal, a picture of health and sweetness that made me forget the evilness that had infiltrated his body. Particularly comforting was that after scanning his entire person, a birthmark of three numbers could not be found.

But we’re making him gargle Holy Water, just in case.

Friday Night Lights

The head football coach of the school my children attend conducted football camps over the summer. Both of my boys participated in a session and loved it. They came home with t-shirts and DVD’s highlighting the previous varsity season, as well as newly gained respect for the intensity necessary for the sport. Chandler received a bonus from camp – a Friday Night Lights invitation with the coach on the night of October 15th – his ninth birthday.

This date was set back in June when Coach A learned that Chandler would celebrate a birthday on the same date as the high school homecoming game. Not only did he issue the kind invitation, but he remembered the offer almost four months later as he detailed instructions about the night in an email to my husband.

On Friday night, we dropped Chandler off in front of the locker rooms where the coach was waiting. Timidly, he walked through the doors and into a well-muscled room where there were only a few familiar faces. He gawked at shoulder pad wearing boys who looked like giants compared to his own small stature. He closely examined the rituals of the quarterback, who shared not only the same birthday date but also big brothers with the same name. He witnessed pre-game preparation, spirited pep talk, lining up of the players, all moments bigger and more surreal than he could have imagined.



But the big moment was this.



Running onto the field among the black pants and spiked cleats, through the smoke and the tunnel, through the chants of the cheerleaders and the cheers from the crowd, that nine year old little boy in his mind was as big as the players that towered over him, as proud of the team as though he were an integral part.



My heart swelled as I watched my fellow puff out his undeveloped chest, pumping skinny little arms as he ran among the giants, my eyes stinging behind the camera lens as I followed the pure adolescent boy joy that unfolded before me.




I found myself drawn to the unfiltered happiness, that maternal magnet pulling me along after my offspring. I looked up from behind the camera, surprised to find that I was on the sidelines with the team. The coaches, the players, a nine-year-old boy and me.





“Mom, it’s not your birthday!” hissed my six-year-old daughter from behind the fence where I was standing. “GET OFF THE FIELD! IT’S EMBARRASSING!”

Still discombobulated about exactly how I ended up on the sidelines, I looked around in confusion. Should I pretend that I am the team photographer instead of mommy paparazzi directed by quivering womb? Maybe I could pass as the team medic if the heeled boots and sassy pocketbook hadn’t blown possible cover.

I finally caught the eye of my husband, standing next to our appalled daughter. With an imperative nod of his head to the right, I correctly interpreted the directive to remove myself from the sidelines and off the field. STAT.


Chandler experienced a night under Friday Night lights that he will long remember. The coaches, the players, the cheerleaders, the band, and the crowd contributed to the memories of a nine year old boy who celebrated a birthday like no other.

Despite his tag-along mom, with apron strings still strongly attached to the purple and white jersey.

Nine Is Fine

Chandler is nine years old today. Typically, I melodramatically pontificate about how desperately I want the calendar pages to stop flipping or how I need for the days that rush by too fast to slow way down. Usually I whine about how I’m not ready to accept that another year has rapidly passed me by even though there was never a moment I wasn’t looking. Customarily, I whimper about the innate urge I have to curl up in the corner of my son’s bedroom and stare at him as he sleeps so I don’t MISS ONE MINUTE of the time I am given.

But I’m not going to do any of that.




I’m not going to be dramatic today about the impatience of Mr. Time and his hurriedness with the clock. I’m not going to ramble on about the memories that flood me of Chandler as an infant when that orthodontic smile awakens and realizes that this is the day he becomes nine. And I’m not going to open the albums that remind me of his chubby legs as a toddler, or the toothless grin as a preschooler, all the while listening to sad music that provides proper background for the ugly cry.

No, I’m not going to do any of that.



I will be happy about the progression of another birthday because he is. For his sake, not mine, I will celebrate the number of years that creeps towards the maternal kryptonite known as independence even though it has the power to bring me to my knees. I will join in wholeheartedly on all of the fanfare, knowing that his joy brings about my own.

I’m not going to be melodramatic about his birthday this year.



I’m not going to be dramatic.




I’m not.




Well, maybe just a little.


Happy birthday, sweet boy. You bring us so much joy.

Love,
Your melodramatic, but well-intentioned mom.

Happy Easter

Easter Joy:

Macaroni and Cheese Induced Coma

Sometimes words really are unnecessary.

Sometimes,if you choose to use said words, they can do you more harm than good.

This is one of those times.



This preservative-loving child of mine brings me untold joy.

It’s Raining Teeth – Hallelujah

For a short while, they were not able to chew. Preservative-filled favorites like Oreo cookies, Lucky Charms and Cheeots were reluctantly traded in for geriatric delights like chocolate pudding, cinnamon oatmeal and flavored jello infused with unidentifiable fruit.

Already, the dietary demands dictated by adult braces eradicates any food that makes a crunching sound for yours truly, leaving me with items that can be only “gummed” and then swallowed for digestion.

Even though Chase and Chandler both unwillingly participate in the joys of all things orthodontic, they both have managed to continue eating the foods strictly prohibited by Dr.V and his ever-watchful staff. Successfully, my children bite into forbidden favorites like Doritos and Cheese Nips, maneuvering each morsel around the metal like the moms who manically wheel grocery carts around store corners when late for carpool.

I am not nearly as brave. The idea of snapping off a bracket in my mouth or causing a wire to dangle in the most unsightly of manners is enough to keep me away from the chip basket in the pantry and the waiting room at the orthodontist’s office overflowing with snickering adolescents.



This week, however, the nutritional tables have turned on two of our children. Chandler, whose entire oral cavity is encased with expanders on the top and the bottom of his mouth, as well as entrapped by an unfortunate contraption that reminds me of Silence With The Lambs, lost the final two baby teeth of the incisor family.



(Because he has become an “old pro” when it comes to losing teeth, Chandler independently wrapped up his little bundle of calcium and phosphorus in a paper towel, and then secured it safely in a ziploc bag. For most of the day, he carried his treasure around in his back pocket.

Somehow, the ziploc bag ended up next to our fireplace later that night. Unknowingly, my husband threw the bag into the blaze where we were all gathered. Stunned, three small children looked at my husband in horror, and the wailing began.

Chandler cried, my husband was heartbroken and the tooth fairies all over our land had a moment of silence.



It was not one of the finer moments in our household.)

Mary Mac was the next child to report two of her teeth missing. One fell out while she slept – she must have been dreaming about nachos – and the other at school.




Because it was a new feeling for her, Mary Mac maintained that eating could not occur. For at least one meal, she refused to chew, stating dramatically, “It huurrrrttttss. And if I eat, all of my other teeth are going to come out too!”

Clearly, we are a family with numerous dental issues.

As expected, Chandler and Mary Mac both overcame their tooth deficiencies and managed to heroically re-learn the art of consuming a package of Oreos in its entirety.

I just watched them with bitterness, and a little bit of longing, as I gummed yet another spoonful of Jello filled with sad, little pieces of fruit.

Christmas Day Artillery

Christmas was a little unusual for our family this year as compared to those in year's past.

The delighted expressions that accompany the first discovery of a transformed living room was the same.


The joy of discovering a new item Santa brought the night before was unchanged.





And the thrill of receiving something unsuspected was fantastically similar.






But this.....



....this was definitely different.





Overnight, it seemed, our humble and nonviolent abode transformed into an artillery-filled compound. (Except for the fact that we are not located in deep caverns of the mountains, or protected by barb wired fencing or snarling attack dogs. Unless of course you count the ferociousness of the intimidating animal below.)



Everywhere one looked, weaponry could be found. I didn’t support the requests made to Santa for the air soft guns that give such a positive impression of our peace loving family. Lacking the Y chromosome that considers it fun to don camouflage and too tight goggles, all for the sole purpose of pulling a trigger that expels hundreds of tiny plastic pellets at inanimate objects or unsuspecting siblings, I couldn’t possibly relate to how this might be considered entertaining.

Santa informed me that I was very wrong.

To the jolly man's credit, hours have been spent outside playing with these new guns.



The law has only been called once on my little Southern snipers - a phone call made by Mary Mac when one of her brothers threatened to use her American Doll for target practice.

(However, I did hear that the Homeland Security Advisory System in our neighborhood had increased to Level Orange.)

A few hours of unarmed normalcy returned the day after Christmas for visiting family members. Battle tactics and combative strategy were put on a welcomed pause to open presents from Nana, Curt and JJ. It was a nice break from the guns and the pellets and the war games I don't understand. For a while, peace again reigned in our home.

That is, until this great photo was taken of Mary Mac and her Nana.



I think the compliant smiles in the picture may have had something to do with Chase slowly opening the flap of his coat revealing the soft air hand gun tucked into his pants, and slyly saying, "Smile, or I'll shoot."

Merry Christmas, everybody.