Dropping Hints.

A sure sign that you've been too sick
to cook for way too long?
Your kids start playing drive-thru.

It's O.K. to smile.

Today is the tenth anniversary of the September 11th attacks.

It's a big deal, and I know I should probably write something about the loss of innocent lives that day, the sacrifices made by people trying to save others...

Those are important, and we should always, always remember those things. Not just on the anniversary.

But today...today I don't feel like revisiting the horror and sorrow of that day. I'm reminded of it every day that my husband is in Afghanistan fighting the war that was precipitated by this day ten years ago.

So today I'm going to share a story that always makes me laugh, and is as big a part of my September 11th memories as watching the horror unfold on TV.

(Originally posted September 12th, 2008)

Ben, Booze and Benadryl

Ben, 4 months before the booze incident

I've had several e-mails since yesterday asking if it's true that I got Ben drunk.

Yes, it's true--but I had a really good reason!!

In September 2001 we were living in Germany. I decided to take Ben, who was 2, and fly to New Hampshire to visit my family. Our flight was 2 legs: Paris to London and then London to Boston.

Ben slept for the one hour Paris to London flight, but then started acting up while we waited for our flight in Heathrow airport. So...I slipped him a Benadryl. It normally knocks kids out. I even had a doctor recommend it.

An hour into our 4 hour trans-atlantic flight, Ben starts going crazy. Squirming, kicking, screaming, crying...Nothing I did calmed him down. I walked with him, held him, you name it. He just became more and more agitated. A kind family in front of us, who were getting the brunt of his fit, offered him things to play with and eat. He was not having it. People around us were offering to pay money to be moved up to first class to escape him. They were yelling at me to calm him down and make him be quiet--you know, because I was enjoying having him like that.

By the second hour I was crying as much as Ben.

The flight attendant came over at one point and said--to a two year old, mind you--"You need to sit and mind your manners now. It's time for high tea and we're tired of this nonsense." (The effect is better if you read that in a snooty British accent).


About thirty minutes before we landed, one of the pilots came back. He informed me that my return ticket would be honored, but that in the future I would be banned from British Airways. Banned!!!

We finally landed in Boston, getting dirty looks and fingers pointed at us as we waited for our luggage.

I told my mother, a nurse, about what happened and she told me that sometimes Benadryl makes kids feel like their skin is crawling rather than making them sleepy.

Now she tells me.

While we were visiting, September 11th happened. I couldn't bear the thought of a repeat performance on the way home, especially with everyone nervous and edgy after the attacks. I was pretty certain his behavior was a result of the Benadryl, but I couldn't be positive.

So, my mother suggested we get him good and liquored up.

We bought a fruit flavored wine cooler (which has a pretty low alcohol content) and mixed half of it with Hawaiian Punch in his sippy cup. I had him drink it at the airport.

That kid slept not only from Boston to London, but all the way to Paris and during the 2 hour car ride from Paris to our house in Germany.

Sometimes a mother's got to do what a mother's got to do.

*If you try this yourself and something goes wrong, I am not liable and you're an idiot for getting harebrained ideas about drugging your kids from a blog.

I guess I'm a free range helicopter pilot.

So, yesterday I got a call from Ben's math teacher. She wanted to let me know that she had changed a math test grade from 65 to 97.

I asked her why she would do such a thing.

She said that when she asked Ben why he did so poorly on the test, he said it was because he had traded his calculator for Pokemon cards. She wanted him to have the opportunity to take the test with a calculator, and when he did, he got a 97.

I knew about the Pokemon card/calculator trade already. He's had extra chores to pay off the $20 I spent on it, and the other $20 I'll have to pay to replace it.

Anyway, I told her he deserved the 65. He's twelve and a half and has an IQ higher than Hitler. He knows his calculator is required for class and needed for the tests. If he's going to be dumb enough to trade it for Pokemon cards, then he needs to suffer the consequences of his stupidity.

And she argued with me! She thought it was only fair to give him the 97, since he clearly knows how to do the work--he just needed the calculator for the complex equations. And I reiterated that it was only fair that he get the 65, because every other kid in that class remembered to bring their calculator. Heck, one even gave up his Pokemon card collection to make sure he had one. He needs to get the 65.

Ultimately, it's the teacher's decision. I'm sure he'll get the 97, and I'm sure it will reinforce that he can be an asshat and get away with it.

What was particularly ironic about the whole thing was that the same day this took place, numerous friends posted a link to this article. It's worth the click to read it, but the gist of it is, good teachers are leaving the profession because parents are jack-wagons who won't allow them to do their jobs. It talks a lot about parents fighting teachers for higher grades for their kid, or making excuses when their kid doesn't do their work.

I can guarantee you I'm not one of those parents.

I hear a lot about helicopter parenting and free range parenting. I don't feel that I fall into either of those categories.

On the one hand, I don't ever try to protect my kids from consequences they deserve. Do I like it when they feel bad or get a bad grade? Of course not. But I also don't want them to grow up to be the kind of person who whines that they got a ticket when they knowingly parked illegally.

I don't want them to think for one second that mom and dad will bail them out of jail. I want them to know that mom and dad will still love them no matter what, and will visit them regularly at the penitentiary, but they will sit in jail until they've paid their debt to society for whatever it is they've done.

Consequences for stupid choices are hard. The sooner they learn that, the better.

Consequences for smart choices are awesome. The sooner they learn that, the better.

On the other hand, they will be in booster seats until the recommended age/height/weight. They will wear bike helmets. They will wash their hands often, and brush their teeth daily. They will not eat junk instead of dinner.

They will not ride their bikes out of my sight until I know for sure they won't get in a stranger's car. They will not play inside a friend's house if I haven't met the parents and know that parents are home.

I will not let my 5 year old use the stove or a knife without my help.

When they were babies, I put them to sleep on their sides and didn't put bedding or toys in their cribs.

I didn't eat soft cheeses even though I lived in Europe for my first pregnancy.

I hear people go on all the time about how they never wore a seat belt or a bike helmet. How they weren't put in a car seat as a baby. How their mother smoked a pack a day and washed it down with a six pack of beer when she was pregnant. How they ate lead paint chips for snack every day and look--they survived.

Just because you survived doesn't make those things safe or O.K. It just means natural selection had bigger fish to fry that week.

Yes, most of us survived those things. Our parents didn't know any better and we got lucky. But too many didn't survive them, and it's sad because it could have been prevented had people known. Of course we can't completely protect our kids from harm and injury, but I'm certainly going to do all I can.

So, I don't know what you'd call me. I don't know where on the spectrum between helicopter and free range I fit in.

All I do know is that my honor student can kick your honor student's ass, but they'll be grounded for a week if they do.


(Ooh! Speaking of school, The Oatmeal had this today. Read it right now! (There's some swearing, so beware if swearing offends you.))

I don't understand it either.

Apparently last Tuesday was my three year blogiversary. I didn't even realize it until my statistics provider sent me a congratulatory e-mail.



In the e-mail, they listed the number one most viewed post on this site over the past three years.



I've had 21,372,568 page views as of five minutes ago, and a full 6,186,489 have been of this particular post. Before I clicked the link to see which post it was, I had a few ideas about which it would be. None of them were this one.



I still don't understand why it's number one, but here you go. Apparently you like it. A lot.



Now, go have some fish for dinner. It's brain food, you know.





(Originally posted August 10, 2009)

Taking care of business *Edited*.

Did you know I thought you spelled business buisness up until about a year ago? I did. Sad, I know.



Anyway, I need to take care of a little business, but if you stick it out and keep reading, there's a tale from Wal-Mart at the end.



Business Item #1:



*Based on e-mail response, it apparently wasn't clear that this item of business should be read with a heavy dose of sarcasm. SARCASM, people!!*



It has been brought to my attention that several people have been offended because my friends and I refer to ourselves as The Fat Frumpy Five (FFF). First of all, really? Really? Why on Earth do you care? Is it because of the terms fat and frumpy or is it because we said "five," making it appear we're some uber-exclusive club?









Here's the deal: We are fat and frumpy. Maybe we're not always fat or always frumpy, but I'm sure even supermodels have days when they feel fat and/or frumpy. We choose to embrace our inner fat frumpiness. Get over it.



If it's because of the Five aspect, I'd like to remind all the offended parties that we only became a fivesome because we were never invited to take part in the other girls' reindeer games. The only difference between our "clique" and your "cliques" is that we gave ours a name and didn't pretend it didn't exist. Don't be jealous of our creativity.



However, in the interest of keeping the peace, The FFF has decided that we will change our name, eliminating the elitist "five" from our nomenclature. Henceforth we shall be known as The BFFs. Big. Fat. Frumpies.



Is that better?



Business Item #2:



As today is our first day of school, I'd like to remind you that Ashbellum began at 4:00. I hope you're not working!



Business Item #3:



Bad Girl's book club, right here, Saturday the 15th. We're reading The Rapture of Canaan by Sheri Reynolds.



O.K., and now for the promised Wal-Mart story.

Click on this for a larger view. It's worth it.

I was in line today and the woman in front of me was chatting up the cashier. I'm basing this solely on memory, but it's as close to word for word as I can get.



"Hoo boy, it's going to be hot today. I was going to go down and fish in the pond by Joseph's Creek, but I don't know. Maybe we'll just go to Red Lobster. I got me a coupon in the mail. I need me some fish. I'm taking a GED class and fish is brain food. Ain't no lie. I been eatin' fish for two weeks and my test scores went up. Brain food, fish is. That's why them Japanese are so smart. Daddy don't like it much, but since he ain't got no teeth he can't eat red meat. Sos I make him eat the fish. I'm the one doin' the cookin' , sos he eats the fish or he goes hungry. Sometimes I'll fry him up a pork chop and put it in the blender with some gravy. It makes it like mulch, but he ain't got no teeth and he loves them pork chops. I tell him the fat will just kill him faster. Maybe that's why he wants it. Fish, now. Fish is good for the heart, too. That's why them Japanese live so long. They're smart and live longer than roaches. It's because of the fish, I'm tellin' ya."



I LIVE HERE.



*****

(Note: I no longer live there. And one of the few things I miss is the free entertainment of a rural Georgia Wal-Mart. Also, I've gotten some e-mails over the years complaining that I'm making fun of the way Southern black people speak. For the record, fish lady was white. That's just how a lot of Southerners speak. I'm not sure why people think it's racial. The further South you get, and the further from a major city, the less grammatically correct the spoken language, regardless of skin color. I mean, isn't it kind of racist that you assumed it was a black person?)

Could be hormones, could just be that you're a jerk.

So, I've had a bad couple of days, internets. I should warn you upfront that this is pretty much just going to be a premenstrual pity party.



I feel kind of picked on this week. Like the kid at school whose friends suddenly turn on them and start stealing their lunch money and giving them wedgies. Except that instead of school it's Facebook. And instead of wedgies it's judge-y private messages.



I know. I'm going to be that person who whines about people being mean to them on Facebook. It's O.K. if you want to leave now.



First, I commented on a friend's picture. The comment was mildly insulting, but it was a joke. It's just how it goes--I insult her, she says something to make me feel sexually uncomfortable and it all works out in the end. She knows I'd give her one of my kids' kidneys if she needed one (What? I need mine). But a well-meaning mutual friend messaged me and chastised me for being cruel and questioned why this person remained my friend.



Which then made me question if my friend really did know I was kidding. Sometimes I can be really oblivious. If this random person who doesn't really talk to either of us thinks I'm mean, maybe I am. So I asked. She knew I was kidding. It was all fine. And then she made me feel sexually uncomfortable again. (Not really, but I'm sure it's coming.) (That's what she said.) (Sorry.)



But I stayed annoyed about it. I was annoyed that this person stuck her nose in my business, but more annoyed that I let it make me doubt myself.



Then yesterday I posted about an incident with Ben. The incident doesn't matter. It wasn't a huge deal--I just wanted to know if my reaction was warranted. Through the course of the comments I said something that was apparently akin to sacrificing puppies in a pagan ritual.



I came home from running errands to find several messages from people telling me I was a bad, bad person. I don't love God and I'm selfish and really, I shouldn't be allowed to breathe their air.



You should probably know that this was about cleaning a church bathroom. So, yeah. Not helping to clean the public bathrooms once a month is right up there with, I don't know...murder or not liking Jell-O.



(And there's no need to comment on church bathroom cleaning policies. It's not about that. I was just making a point about how trivial a thing it was that caused so many mean spirited messages.)



The thing with Facebook is that these are friends. I don't randomly friend people for the sake of friending them. In fact, I almost never send friend requests (so if you've gotten one from me, consider yourself special because it meant I liked you enough to put aside my social anxiety and fear of rejection to send the request. Usually I just sit back and hope people send me a request).



I get nasty e-mails ALL THE TIME from this blog, but they rarely bother me. They're strangers, and more often than not, they're commenting on something I cared about two years ago but that they just barely found and read.



But the messages I got on Facebook were from people I know. People I kind of like. So it sucked a lot more.



And I know that people think it's better to send a private message when they have an issue with you. Normally I might agree. But sometimes I wish people would air their grievances publicly in the comments so that everyone else could see what jack-wagons they are.



Oh, and as the final cherry on top of the self esteem crushing sundae Facebook has been this week, I discovered that several family members have un-friended me. I went to send one a message to ask about a recipe and discovered we were no longer friends. I know sometimes Facebook does weird things and it could have been unintentional. But then I noticed that that whole branch of my family tree had un-friended me. Nice. I know who's off the Christmas card list this year. Sucks to be them, because my Christmas cards are going to be awesome this year.



I should wrap this up with some sort of resolution to stay of Facebook or how I'm not going to let jerks on my friend list get me down, but...no. I wasn't really going anywhere with this.



I just wanted to vent. Sorry.







(That's what he said!)

No, I'm a unicorn.

Have you guys seen this yet? It's been on several news outlets this morning.



It's exactly how pretty much every conversation I have with my kids (and certain Mormons) goes.







And I've decided that's going to be my standard answer when people ask me if I'm something from now on.



"Are you an Army wife?"

No, I'm a unicorn.



"Are you Liam's mom?"

No. I'm a unicorn.



"Are you coming to dinner?"

No, I'm a unicorn.



Au revoir.

Still a story worth telling.

(This was originally written and posted on this date last year. I think it's still a story that should be told, so here it is again--with a couple of minor changes to reflect another miraculous birthday.)

Six Seven years ago I was lying in a hot, airless hospital room in Germany, nine months pregnant with a baby I was told I would never be able to conceive. My blood pressure was steadily rising, and since I was full term, the German doctors decided it was time for a C-section.



I was wheeled off somewhere to be prepped for surgery. And shaved. There's nothing quite like a large German nurse wielding a Bic razor on your nether regions in a dark room deep in the bowels of a German hospital.



Finally I was brought to the operating room and Liam was born.



But I didn't get to see him. They stopped next to me with him for about three seconds--just long enough to touch his leg. Then he was whisked away to a different room. I assumed it was just how Germans did things.



And a few minutes later they called Will in to another room. After that it's all a little foggy. I've been told that Will came back in and told me that Liam was having trouble breathing (the understatement of the century). And apparently I freaked out, so the anesthesiologist sedated me. Heavily.



I don't remember anything after that. The next thing I do remember is being in another dark room on my hospital bed. Someone must have told me what was wrong with Liam because I was hysterical, but I don't remember when that took place or who told me. But I knew that he might die, and they wouldn't let me see him.



I begged and begged Will to make them let me see him. He asked, but I wanted him to insist. And I was mad that he wouldn't insist.



And then I was told that Liam would be transferred to the cardiac unit in another hospital, in another city, in a few hours. And they still wouldn't let me see him.



I hadn't seen him, and they were taking him away, and there was a very good chance that he could die.



I alternated between being near catatonic and not wanting to see or talk to anyone, and screaming that Will had to make them let me see him.



Finally they gave in and wheeled my hospital bed to the NICU just a few minutes before they transported him to the other hospital.





He spent a week at that hospital, getting just enough oxygen to not be brain damaged. The surgeons there had a plan to fix him, they told us, but he would probably require a heart transplant at some point.



Unbeknownst to us, one of the German surgeons confided in the American cardiologist who was working with us, that the surgical team didn't think he'd make it out of surgery alive. So, the American doctor made some calls and found a surgeon in Philadelphia who thought he might be able to do something, and if it worked he probably wouldn't need a heart transplant in the future.



So, we were hastily put on a med-evac flight with soldiers wounded in Iraq and flown to Washington DC. We stayed one night at Walter Reed Army Medical Center while we waited for a bed to open up in Philadelphia. During that night, some lab work came back abnormal and they discovered that in addition to his heart defects, he only had one kidney and it was deformed. Luckily, it's fairly common and not usually troublesome.



The next day Liam and I flew in a helicopter to Philadelphia and Will and Ben took the train. We set up camp at the Ronald McDonald House, and a team of surgeons met to decide what they were going to do.



A few days later they operated and it was a success. Sort of.



They had re-routed everything in his heart and replaced his faulty vessels with donor vessels, but his oxygen was still too low. They discovered that one of the stitches from the surgery had ripped a new hole in the septum of his heart. So, that meant open heart surgery number two, where the hole was repaired with a Dacron patch.



This time, complete success.



A week later we went home.



We were told he'd need another surgery by one year to replace the donor vessels. They came from cadavers, so they wouldn't grow with him.



A year came and went. Then two. Then three. And four. And five. And today he's six seven, and still hasn't needed another surgery. It's coming, though. We can't avoid it forever. But to make it to six seven on the replacement parts put in at one week old is rather miraculous, according to all the cardiologists he's had.







The fact that just two years before he was born, a Japanese cardiac surgeon developed a surgery that could correct a defect with the level of complications that Liam's had is also pretty miraculous. And then add to that the fact that the surgery had only been done four times ever, and that one of the only two surgeons in the world to have performed it just happened to be working at the children's hospital in Philadelphia where Liam's case was sent for a second opinion.



So, today we overlooked the fact that he's on the verge of getting expelled from first grade, because he's here.



Every birthday is a little miracle.

Tonight Last year on his birthday he used some birthday birthday money to buy himself a new heart--Iron Man's heart. You know, just in case.

(Update: This year he decided to hoard his money.)





Age Seven: Still a super hero.