Things You Don't Expect to be Included in Potty Training

This morning I got out of the shower. Jasper was sitting on his little potty next to the big one. He had pulled the lid up on the big potty (the seat was down) and had put his arm on the seat and was resting his head on his arm.

"Ew, don't lay your head on the seat!" I said.

He sat up and looked at me, and repeated, "Ew, don't lick the seat!"

What? I'd looked away at this point and looked back at him just in time to see him lean down and lick the seat, and then look back up and me and laugh, with shining bright eyes.

"LOL FUNNY!?!?"

No, kid. That is not funny. Now get away from the potty so I can puke. EW.

-3yrs, 3mos.

Colonoscopy/Botox Surgery Live Blog. This is happening, people.

So I have to have a super embarrassing surgery.  I’m getting Botox. In my butt.  In my anal sphincter, to be precise.  I can get into details if you’d like, but we all know you wouldn’t like.  The short version is that I’m literally a tight-ass and together with my IBS it’s causing problems, so I’m getting Botox injected to help it relax just a little. I’m praying it’s not enough to cause problems of another sort. Oh, and a colonoscopy while he’s down there, just for fun. I thought I’d do a sort of live-blog of my prep and surgery in case anyone else has to go through this and is terrified of what awaits.  I’ve been polling my friends, and I’ve heard both “it’s not a big deal” and “I wanted to kill myself,” so here we are. I’ll be completely out for the surgery since apparently Botox needles hurt like crazy, so my very sweet colorectal surgeon said I needed to be asleep. Bonus points for not being able to say ridiculous drugged-up things during my colonoscopy. By the way, I have a problem with talking about bowel movements and can only call it poop or farting if I’m talking about it with my child, so this is mostly an exercise in openness and not being embarrassed. And using words like poop. And fart.

My toddler is out of state for the week, visiting his dads, so I am going to be able to poop in peace the evening beforehand, when my entire system needs flushed. I had to move the surgery once because I hadn’t consulted my wife and it turned out that she had scheduled workers to come into our basement that day/evening before, but she would be gone. So I would be the contact person for that, as well as having to deal with a toddler, as well as “the cleanse.” Nope. I moved it to the week my son would be gone, and then later they tried to move the surgery to the following week because of a surgical room conflict, but I went into bear-mode and explained that they would, in fact, FIGURE. IT. OUT. And call me back.   So they did. And now instead of an early morning surgery, I will be having it sometime around noonish.  Here we go!

T-Minus 2… I don’t know how that works.  The day before the day before the surgery.

No Fun, Ever

I’m eating anything that can’t run away from me, trying to build up my blood sugar…. Who am I kidding? The prospect of not being able to eat anything for a day and a half is terrifying. I’m eating like I’ll never eat again. Chips? Check. Tacos? Yes, please. Soda? In the name of blood sugar, of course. Cherry cheesecake? DOWN THE HATCH. At this point I remembered something about not eating red foods, and dug out my pre-surgery paper. Sure enough, no red foods, but I have a couple hours until it’s clear liquid diet time. At midnight I am supposed to switch over. Sounds like time for candy, to me.

The day before the surgery.

I wake up hungry. This is not a good sign. My wife gets to sleep in, as it is Columbus Day and her school still celebrates it. I lie in bed contemplating how badly I really need this surgery, then sigh and take a shower. I consider shaving, and then decide I’ll save that for tomorrow morning so I’m extra fresh for them. I take my regular pills with some unsweetened almond milk and feel like a badass for breaking the rules. I head to work, and once there with my rumbly stomach I reach for my Cabinet-O-Goodies so many times that I eventually make myself a sign and stick it on my keyboard.

NO FOOD

I have Poop #1 of the day at work thanks to the one private bathroom in the building. It’s painful and there’s bleeding, so I’ve already started the day off nicely. This pain, nonexistent when I haven’t pooped in a day or so, will stick around for hours and hours after a bowel movement, especially if I’m sitting down. With the extreme amount of pooping coming my way, I know I’m in for a GREAT EVENING.  I leave for the store at noon.

At the store, I stop by the pharmacy to pick up my Miralax/Dulcolax duo that the office said they called in for me, and hold up a line of people while my hot young male pharmacist guy runs around looking for it. After a big to-do about it being on the shelf and getting it for me in which they had to open up another line, he gets out a bag from behind the counter that he’d previously pulled out when I told him my name.

“Well what’s that, then?” I ask him, pointing to the bag.

“Uh….” he says, checking the label. “Polyethylene Glycol.” 

“What the hell is that?” I question, sighing.

“Um, I’m… actually not sure,” he admits, and checks the system.  Super inspiring.  “Oh, it’s the pharmacy version of the Miralax I just got you. It’s cheaper.”

“I’ll take the cheaper one, thanks,” I say.  Duh. 

“Do you want me to go get the Dulcolax?” he asks, helpfully.

I sigh again. “No, help these people behind me. I’ll just figure it out myself.”

Unfortunately, all it said on my instruction sheet was “4 tablets Dulcolax.” It did not say whether this needed to be the “gentle overnight” version, or the box with four suppository tablets for “fast relief” that worked within 15 minutes to 1 hour. Given that I was supposed to take these tablets after everything “ran clear,” I eventually went with the gentle overnight version. No need to force more diarrhea than was necessary. One of the nurses from the office called to let me know that my Botox was approved by the insurance (nothing like last minute approvals), and she also confirmed that I’d chosen the right laxative. Whew!

I picked up the other items on my list, and a few others that occurred to me while at the store. I pushed my cart up to a checkout aisle with a nice older lady behind the counter. She smiled kindly as she beeped across: 

• My new soft-cushiony toilet seat
• Four soups and cereal for my recovery meals
• Two packs of lime Jell-O (Why the hell does nearly every Jell-O out there include red dye? There was red, orange, purple, and blue in one big pack. Thanks, but I don’t want them to think I’m dying, so I’ll stick with the more expensive individual packs)
• Two large candles
• A six pack of 7up
• Four 32oz Gatorades
• Two jars of bouillon
• Dulcolax
• Hemorrhoid pads
• Extra strength, fast relief Tylenol

I had already paid for my pharmaceutical Miralax, so she didn't have to handle that one. The checkout woman had clearly had this procedure done before, judging by the rueful smile she gave me as she said, “Have a nice day….”

My Loot

1:25pm – I put away the cereal and take one bite, because I’m a badass, as previously stated, and Don’t Feed The Bears rules don’t apply to me.

1:30pm – I install my very first toilet seat. Our old one had a crack in the seat, and I need some fresh cushion for the evening’s activities.

2:00pm – I eat my first Jell-O cup. If this were college and that had been a shot, I’d be drunk by now.

2:15pm – My wife comes home from her hair appointment and gently asks me how I’m doing. I admit I haven’t started yet because I’m scared. I contemplate making some broth.

2:30pm – This Chicken and Herbs broth is freaking amazing. I think I might be able to handle a liquid diet, minus the laxatives. Well. Maybe for like a couple days.

2:35pm – You know what would be delicious with this broth? Chicken. Noodles. Crackers. Something to bite.  *sigh* Okay I really have to start this laxative stuff soon.  Ish. Soonish. By 3:30 at the latest. I know they said 2pm, but that was before my surgery was rescheduled for four hours later. I want to feel full as long as possible.

2:38pm – I start watching the CW TV show Beauty and the Beast, from the beginning.

2:40pm – This show has an amazing soundtrack.

2:42pm – This show is fascinating.

2:43pm – Not a big fan of the line, “Does she have a husband? Boyfriend? Lesbian lover?”  Why not just say “Does she have a husband? Boyfriend? Wife? Girlfriend?”  Ugh.

2:45pm – I light one of my new candles. I might be stalling.

2:57pm – The elixir has been mixed. My wife comes home and asks me if I needed any Depends undies for the following day, and I smack my forehead. She is amazing and offers to pick some up for me tonight.

3:00pm – I drink my first 8 ounces. That wasn’t so bad! Pretty tasty, with my cherry frost Gatorade! (The clear/white kind, remember.) My wife reminds me to put on some comfy, easily removed clothing. I set a timer for the next drink. I go pee to make some room for all this yummy laxative juice.

3:15pm – Okay, here goes round 2. Nothing is happening yet.

3:30pm – Round 3. Still delicious. Still no poo.

3:39pm – Feeling kind of farty. But not really. Like that feeling you get when you know you’re going to be farty soon.

3:45pm – Here goes 4! Still nothing happening, I think to myself, and then suddenly I race to the bathroom. SURPRISE! POOP TIME! Except for the surprise part, it wasn’t too bad. The drink stuff is half gone now.

4:00pm – Fifth drink down, three to go. Feeling okay. Now I’m worried about surprise poop though. You know, we’re potty training my toddler and a few times we just put the potty out in the living room in front of the television. For just a few split second I consider moving the television into the bathroom…

4:11pm – I can’t tell if I have to pee REALLY BADLY or I’m about to poop.

4:13pm – Both. I feel like this would be a lot more enjoyable if I didn’t already have a really severe anal fissure. There is no cramping or pain as far as the colon goes. Just some discomfort for me at the booty.

4:15pm – Here we are on drink six. Okay this is getting tedious. I am starting to be concerned that I won’t like Gatorade after this…

4:30pm – Nothing much to say. Watching Poldark now, which I’m really enjoying. Aidan Turner is fun to watch. Just had my seventh drink. One to go!

4:38pm – Uh oh. TO THE BATHROOM!

4:45pm – THE LAST OF IT!!!  Oh crud.  Not the last of it. There is still one more to go.

5:00pm – And that’s it! Well, until the Dulcolax at 6pm. TMI here. Well, really this whole post is TMI… So I had to poop again, with that incredibly urgent feeling. TMI ahead: It’s really a strange feeling to poop so much liquid and with so much force that it feels like you’re peeing… but not. Not at all painful. Just a lot of liquid.

5:25pm – THEY FOUND COPPER IN THE MINE!!!  Uh... that is not a euphemism, and might be a spoiler if anyone reading this is actually watching Poldark.

5:28pm – To the toilet again. This is my fifth bathroom trip since starting this. The liquid is nearly clear now.  It’s so weird, to feel this super urgent need to poop, go with force, and then immediately be done.  Normally when I have diarrhea I’m on the toilet for far too long. Now it’s almost faster than just going pee.  Here’s a question – how did they determine exactly how much laxative was needed to get a person to the finish line? Who tested that?

5:52pm – Bathroom trip #6. I’m starting to get hungry again. Maybe some more broth? Or Jell-O? The possibilities are endless. I must say, I could definitely have done this with my three year old here. I’ve been in the bathroom a lot, but no more than any other night when I have diarrhea and he’s here and I’m dealing with it on my own. And really, this time I’m not cramping and feeling nauseated, so this is actually better. I am feeling a bit tired, though.

6:16pm – On the toilet again, just for a bit. I was supposed to take that Dulcolax fifteen minutes ago, but I got distracted by facebook and writing bad poetry on a lark.  And damn am I tired. I could fall asleep right now. It’s only 6:30… should I? I feel like maybe I should “eat” something before I do that. Maybe I could lick a marshmallow or something?

6:35pm – I finally took the Dulcolax. I rewarded myself with another hot cup of broth, and a Jell-O for dinner. Both of them! Living large, people!  Side note: my bowels are kind of cramping now, but not like normal… like they’re suddenly dehydrated? I don’t know how to explain it, but it hurts. I might go for some Tylenol in a short while.

6:47pm – Bathroom again. I just want to go to bed. Waaaaahhh.

7:03pm – Uh oh, toddler wants to Skype. Fast bathroom break just in case.

7:04pm – That was a very good idea.

7:23pm – Four books read over Skype later, my spirits are up and I think it’s time for some more broth!!  I’ll try beef this time, since it JUST occurred to me that I picked out “chicken and herbs” and there are… um… herbs in it, and they specifically said “no pulp” so I probably wasn’t supposed to drink broth with floating spices… Whoops.  It was delicious, though.

Broth Is Amazing

7:34pm – Distracted by facebook again. Why isn’t anyone here to microwave me some broth??

7:35pm – Bathroom.

7:40pm – Making more broth. Fairly certain that the bag of Salted Caramel Peanuts sitting on top of the pie safe just solicited me, and then taunted me when I staunchly refused. I consider sneaking some of them into the hospital for an aftercare snack.

8:00pm – Toilet, toilet, sitting on the toiiiiiiiiiiilet

8:40pm – Mmmm this candle smells good.  As I run past it to go to the bathroom.

8:46pm – I’m really cold. I think I’ll cuddle up with a book in a blanket. I wonder if being cold has anything to do with losing all the food keeping me warm from my insides out?

8:57pm – Broke out the hemorrhoid pads during this bathroom trip.  Can I just remind all the women out there to keep that away from your cootchie? Because witch hazel on the cootchie feels about what I imagine wiping yourself with hot wing sauce would feel like.

9:30pm – Things are slowing down pretty well now. Everything is clear coming out, and there isn’t much sense of urgency now. This is what, toilet trip #14? Whew. I should probably reward myself for this bravery with some Jell-O. 

9:35pm – Does rainbow sherbet count as a “clear liquid?” Asking for a friend. A very hungry friend.

10:45pm – With no further toilet trips and barely able to keep my eyes open, I’m using the bathroom and going to bed. I think the worst is over.

The day of the surgery.

12:10am – I just woke up to use the bathroom in a most urgent way. Also, I noticed that it wasn’t clear anymore. I hope that’s normal and it’s not a problem for them during the surgery tomorrow!

3:50am – Ugh. Still having diarrhea and now it’s the kind where I don’t feel good. Intestinal nausea? I keep feeling like I’m going to have to go more, and generally “don’t feel good.”

7:50am – I wake up for good and use the toilet and there is only pee. I feel totally fine, and not even really very hungry. I’ve lost 2lbs since beginning this “cleanse.”

8:35am – I am getting really nervous. The last time I went under general anesthesia was twenty years ago when I got 5 teeth pulled for my braces. Back then I didn’t know the risks, really. Now I’m all, “Say your goodbyes!” I text my friend to make sure of the time she’s picking me up to take me in, and she reassures me, and I get a couple of messages from other friends wishing me well.

8:42am – The wife turns on SportsCenter. I secretly consider canceling everything and just staying home and watching Netflix or reading in the bedroom.

9:05am – I gather my clothes to take a shower. I’m going about all of this like it’s a funeral, moping and choosing dark solids. I’ll be showing up in various shades of gray. I suddenly remember that I have to take my rings off (or they'll take them or tape them down) and I get sadder.

My Ring Holder

9:38am – Body clean. Check. Shaved. Check. Wearing comfy neutral-colored clothing because that’s my safe space. Check.  Ooh, I should paint my nails…

10:25am – Okay, I’ve emailed my professor to let her know that I may or may not be able to attend my online class tonight at 5:30pm.  I’ve done my forum post for the day.  I haven’t painted my nails. My friend will be here in fifteen minutes. I’m freaking out a little.

10:34am – I’m not panic sweating, YOU’RE panic sweating!!!!  I reapply deodorant. I have to pee, but am waiting to do it because I know they’re going to make me take a urine pregnancy test when I get there, even though I haven’t been with a man in eleven years, and the last contact I had with semen was in November of 2011 when I got pregnant. On purpose.

10:40am – My friend arrives to pick me up, since my wife has to be at the house to meet the construction workers who arrive just as we need to leave. I have just panic-applied fingernail polish to my hands, and she catches me waving them around like a crazy person. She drives me to the hospital.

10:56am – Check in. I feel like the sexiest colonoscopy patient ever, with the rest of the people in the waiting room being 65+.

11:16am – My professor emails me back. “I do remember you emailing about this, and I appreciate you keeping me apprised of developments. Please know that I do not expect you to be in class on the same day you are having any kind of surgery, let alone one that requires general anesthesia.” Challenge accepted. See you at 5:30pm.

11:50ish am – Head back to the Pre-Op with a nurse person. She tells me, speaking roughly 426 words a minute, to strip down completely naked except for my socks. (Like a bad porn flick?) She gives me booties to wear over the socks, a gown to wear, and a gown-robe for privacy. And a urine specimen cup. I have to go pee, thankfully, and so I can fill the cup with my non-pregnant pee.

12:10ish pm – The anesthesiologist comes in to talk to me, and explains how the anesthesia will go. I would fall asleep quickly and wake up quickly with no real side effects, since I wouldn’t be intubated. “It’s an easy way to go,” he says. I start laughing and ask him to please rephrase that, as I’m already a bit nervous. He apologizes and laughs along with me.

12:30ish pm – I am hooked up to an IV and a blood pressure cuff and given the thing with controls to the TV in my waiting area, as well as buttons for “Sad” and “Potty” and what appears to be “Winged Nun” according to the pictures. They bring my friend back and she talks me down from my “I’m leaving” ledge. She also snickers through my super embarrassing answers to the questions they ask me, promises they’ll never hit facebook, and offers to let me attend her next gynecological appointment for revenge chuckles.

12:50pm – Time to head back! They kick my friend out, pull back the curtain, and wheel me down the hall into an OR, where my anesthesiologist is NOT THE SAME GUY. Larry informs me that the doctor I spoke to was the HEAD anesthesiologist and that is totally different. Well okay then, Larry. Take me to Funkytown.

1:00pm – I’m so drunk. The room is spinning, but it’s spinning UP. Everything is going from the floor to the ceiling. That is totally weird. So is going from sober to drunk in like 1 minute.  They can’t find my surgeon but they know he’s around. They discuss texting him or calling, and decide on texting. I have no problem staying mildly drunk, so I kind of hope he takes a while.

1:05pm – My surgeon arrives and seems annoyed with me, and asks me questions about if I’m having diarrhea. He’s Brazilian so I can’t figure out if it’s his accent or my drunkenness, but I’m like, “I’m not pooping right now, but I certainly did last night…” They all laughed at that, so tension is relieved.  I get the impression he wants me to understand why I am there and getting a colonoscopy, so I parrot back the information he quoted to me during our first appointment, about how I self-diagnosed myself with IBS and that was not okay and he needed to check me out. “Right,” he says.  I zonk out.

Like This

2:00pm – I am back in the pre-op area, which is now post-op. My butt hurts, but no worse than it has been after a bowel movement in the last six months. I’m still a bit drunk so I’m asking questions and re-asking them a few moments later.  I am not farting at all, which is excellent news. Everything I read about colonoscopies said I would be farting a ton.

2:05pm – My surgeon says something about it going fine and he’ll see me in two weeks for my follow-up appointment and then he’s gone, if he was ever there at all. Maybe a nurse said this. I am helped into a chair and given some water to drink. Sweet, sweet, sweet water. I cry because I wanted my surgeon to stay and chat with me about what was happening, and I feel like everything is happening too fast and I don’t understand what’s going on.

2:10pm – My friend comes back to be with me, and moments later my wife does too. They chat while I get naked and dress again, locker-room style, pulling on my undies underneath my robe, etc. My friend informs me that her eleven-year-old daughter has the same sports bra as me. Although I suspect mine, being three years old, is a bit nastier than her kid’s.

2:15pm – My friend and my wife argue about who’s going to take me home (who has the easier car to get in and out of), and finally my friend with the mini-van wins.

2:30pm – I get into the house, still sucking on my water. Wife arrives just after we do, and my friend unlocks the house with her key. I get the mail and show her my newly arrived credit card with a picture on it that she took. We say goodbye to my friend and she goes home, and I head to the kitchen, where I promptly shove a chocolate chip cookie and a handful of salted caramel peanuts into my mouth before my wife can stop me.

2:35pm – There are workers putting wall anchors into our basement, and there is intermittent jackhammering going on, as well as ridiculously loud country music playing. Thank goodness I didn’t expect to be napping.

2:45pm – I’m on my second bowl of cheddar broccoli soup and halfway through a package of peanut butter and jelly crackers, and my wife has promised me that I get to have Jimmy Johns for dinner if I am good and don’t throw up anything I’ve just shoved into my mouth. I assure her that I am a champ and can keep it down. She also fills my now-empty water cup with 7up, which I have determined I like a lot better than either Sprite or Sierra Mist.

3:00pm – I am now constantly peeing. Thanks, IV and new liquids.

4:26pm – The anesthesia has pretty much entirely worn off. I don’t know that I would go driving right now, but I suspect if I did I’d be okay.

4:50pm – Okay, I probably shouldn't have eaten so fast.  The diarrhea is back. Luckily, now I can take some immodium... Back to life as normal, I guess. Class starts in 25 minutes!

Overall, this was a pretty decent experience. I think that if I had to do it again, I would. My only hesitation would be making sure someone could be with me at the hospital, and probably making sure there weren’t too many people at the house with me the evening before.  If you have to get one done and are worried about the experience, I would say don’t be.  I don’t believe for regular colonoscopies you get put all the way out like that, but even so I don’t think it’s probably too terrible. Everyone was really nice and it was not too traumatic at all.

7.5/10, would Colonoscopy again.

The Best Chicken/Vegetarian Salad Evaaaaaaar.

Raise your hand if you think chicken salad is delicious, but way too hard to figure out how to make at home. Raise your hand if you secretly love chicken salad but you're a vegetarian and don't want to eat it (see note at bottom). Raise your hand if you made something requiring cubed chicken but you have leftovers and have no idea what to do with them.

Put your hand back down and print off this recipe and go to the store.


Ingredients:
1/2 can garbanzo beans (chickpeas), drained and rinsed
2-3 stalks celery, rinsed and chopped
1/2 small/medium white onion, chopped
1 cup red grapes
1/2 cup-1 cup chicken, cubed and cooked
1 tablespoon mayonnaise
1 tablespoon miracle whip
1 teaspoon honey mustard
1 teaspoon dijon mustard
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon dried dill weed
salt and pepper to taste

Tools needed: 
Food processor (not necessary, but makes things easier)
Large bowl
Mixing spoon
Cutting board
Knife

Serves: About eight sandwiches

Directions:
1. Drain and rinse chickpeas. Shell them if you're feeling fancy, but it's not necessary. It just tastes smoother.
2. Add 1/2 can of chickpeas, the celery, onion, chicken, and grapes into your food processor.
3. Pulse mix until well chopped. Do NOT create paste. This should still be chunky.
4. Empty food processor into large mixing bowl.
5. Add mayonnaise, miracle whip (this can be simply one or the other if you prefer), and the rest of the ingredients. Mix well.
6. Serve. Refrigerate leftovers.

Notes: Best served in pita bread. To make vegetarian, skip the chicken and boost the chickpeas.

School Pictures (and why I care so much)

Every year when I was growing up, there was a big build-up to School Picture Day.  What would we wear? How would our hair look? Would it be a good picture, or completely terrible? We'd wake up that morning and our mom would fuss over us, making sure that we looked as good as she could possibly manage, regardless of the haircut we'd chosen or the ridiculous style trends of the time.  She almost always vetoed t-shirts, and absolutely nothing with words on it. That was NOT acceptable. She would hairspray my hair (a big deal) and I would try to move as little as possible all day until the picture was taken. Then we'd wait weeks to see how we'd managed, and only if they were truly awful did we get retakes done. This was the only formal picture we had taken all year. Once every few years we might get a formal whole-family portrait done, but those instances were few and far between, and usually were only done when our church wanted to do a new directory. They were far too expensive to have done on a regular basis. Sure, we had plenty of informal pictures taken, and those showed our real personality. Those pictures were for the frames around the house, and for the photo albums. But each child had their own special binder full of school pictures, just for them. It was a chronological progression of cuteness to awkwardness to almost-adulthood, and upon graduation, we had them all displayed in a picture frame at the graduation party, a reminder of each of the years we'd studied and worked to get that point.

My grandfather enjoyed photography. My mother enjoys photography. I enjoy photography. It's a thing. It's a thing that we each grew up loving and doing as a hobby, though I have been able to turn it into a side business venture (currently on hold while I'm in graduate school). I have taken tens of thousands of pictures of my son over the last two years, and many of them have been worthy of framing. None, however, compare to the plain, dressed up, ridiculous-faced school pictures he's gotten taken at daycare. They don't compare, because there is no comparison. One style of pictures, to me, is NOT equal to another style of pictures. It's not that those photos are any better (more often they're worse) or more deserving of being framed. It's the tradition behind them. You're taken from your class to the picture chair or X on the floor. You're forced, under bright lights, to smile at a camera and a photographer you've never seen before. You wait for weeks to find out how they turned out, and more than likely wish you hadn't looked at them. It's a rite of passage.

This year, I bought Jasper a dress shirt just for his pictures. I carefully watched for the Picture Day announcement, and delightedly prepared him that morning. I took a back-up polo shirt to daycare and put it in his locker "just in case." I fully expected him to be scared or unhappy and take a terrible picture, and was actually looking forward to that a bit. That evening, sure enough, they said he'd cried for his pictures. Oh well, I thought. There are always retakes, and who knows? Maybe I'll just order some crying pictures anyway.  The next day, I sent him to school in a hand-me-down "I [heart] Mommy" t-shirt. That evening, when I picked him up, his teacher told me that they got him to smile really well that morning.  WHAT? Apparently, unlike every other year I've ever experienced school pictures, including his last two years of daycare, they had TWO days of pictures and because he'd cried for the first day, they took him down the second day to try to get a better one. No, they hadn't put him in the back-up polo shirt I'd left in his locker.

If you know me, you know that I try to be pretty care-free, but I get exceedingly controlling about some things. Pictures are one of those things. School pictures are one of those things. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. There was supposed to be a collared shirt, and I was supposed to know it was happening, and he wasn't supposed to be wearing a t-shirt, let alone one with words on it, let alone one insinuating that he preferred one parent over his other three! That's right. He has a Mommy, a Mama (me), a Daddy, and a Dada.  How could I give his dads an 8x10 for their wall of Jasper wearing a t-shirt saying "I [heart] Mommy"? I know I'd be annoyed if they had taken him to get pictures done when he visited them, and they handed me an 8x10 of him wearing a shirt saying "I [heart] Daddy". This coparenting thing is hard sometimes, but we try especially hard to be considerate of each other's feelings that way.

So I got Jasper's pictures back today. He sure did smile great in that t-shirt.  In fact, if he'd been wearing almost any other t-shirt, I would have probably said, "Meh, it'll be a funny story someday" and let it go without retakes. His smile was that great. But with everything combined (not being told about it, not using the back-up polo in his locker, having an I [heart] Mommy shirt) I kind of emotionally lost myself. I didn't cause a scene or anything, but I have been unable to concentrate on anything else. People think I'm overreacting, and maybe I am. But I know myself, and I know this would bother me every single time I thought about it, and every single time I went through his pictures. This isn't how School Pictures were supposed to go. It didn't happen the right way!

I recognize that I'm too controlling.  But that's who I am.  I am a controlling person, and sometimes about extremely minor things. Yes, I am able to see the Big Picture in life.  Does this picture matter in the long run? Does this matter to my son's health and happiness? No. In fact, he probably would be mortified to know that it's this big of a deal to me. Does my wife care about it? No. Do his dads care? I don't know, I haven't talked to them, but I suspect they'd feel it was annoying, but a silly mistake. That's the big picture. For someone with anxiety though, it's the little picture things that help us keep our shit together.  The house is a complete mess. That's okay, because I have organized my ebook folders, and I made order in this small way.  Laundry hasn't been done in forever. That's okay, because I know where all of my pairs of shoes are, and they are all in the same place.

You can't love me if you don't know me, and you can't know me without knowing that I must have control over a lot of the little things in my life to feel at peace.  School pictures are one of those little things.  It might seem silly or trivial to you, but to me they represent my childhood, and I have to get it right for Jasper's. He doesn't have to be smiling (I've got plenty of those), but they have to be done in the correct way. If you can recognize that this is important to me, and support me in my ridiculousness, then you probably love me a whole lot.

A friend told me today when I was complaining about this to her, "You don't have to explain. We all have things we think are important that others see as silly or trivial." That was the first sigh of relief I took all morning. I'm sure that she didn't really agree with or understand my feelings, but she let me know that it's okay to feel one way, when everyone else thinks you should probably feel another way. And that was exactly what I needed to hear.

The Reason Margaritas Were Invented

As every parent knows, there are certain rites of passage that each child (and his or her parents) goes through – some good, some bad. The first diaper change, the first smile, the first roll-over, the first crawl, the first steps. The first time out of the carseat and into the front of the shopping cart. This brings me to the little-thought-of rite of passage my son and I experienced on Sunday. The first shopping trip out of a cart. Oh, he’d been in stores without being in a cart before, but usually it was just to the flower counter and back outside, or inside a small store like the Dollar Tree for a card. No wait. I think I used the carts in there too…Anyway.  Sunday we went to both Farm King and Hy-Vee without using carts.  While I wouldn’t say it was a mistake, I will say it was an experience I don’t care to repeat, as much as I know I have to.

First we went to Farm King to pick up a roll of wire to fix my 1930s metal porch glider.  Now, I’m not stupid, but sending me to the store to pick up a certain (yet unknown) gauge of wire is like sending your four-year-old to the store to pick up a new memory card for your camera. I can do it, but I don’t know where in the store to go for it, and I don’t know the specifics of what I need. So I walked into Farm King, holding my toddler by the hand, and turned left, toward Customer Service and the tools.

Jasper dashed off to the card aisle.

I retrieved him, and guided him into the main aisle, deciding to just ask at Customer Service where I might find wire. Jasper stuck out his hand and discovered the taffy candy display was VERY crunchy sounding and VERY colorful.  I gently disengaged his hand and prodded him along to the Customer Service desk.  Once there, I sat him on the desk with my body pressed against his knees and lower legs, to prevent him from standing up and tap-dancing next to the register. I spoke to the very kind and helpful representative, who called a worker from Hardware to come and look at this ancient wire I had.  Apparently this worker was supposed to go on his lunch ten minutes ago, and when he said something about 12.5 gauge wire in a 10lb bundle, my eyes glazed over – and he was not amused. I regretfully had to interrupt him and tell him that I understood nothing of what he said, and that he had my permission to talk to me like I was a child to explain it.  I said that I needed about 20ft of wire “the size of this one,” as I held up the piece from my glider.  He almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes and told me that 10lbs would hold a hell of a lot more than 20ft.  I explained that I knew that, and I was just letting him know that as long as the wire matched and it held At Least 20ft, I wanted it.  He grunted and shuffled off to Hardware to get it. In the meantime, my son was quite through sitting still. I put him on the floor to move his legs around a little. However, he assumed that I meant he was now free to explore the store. By the time the man from Hardware returned, I’d already saved a display of sunglasses, and run almost to the front doors to catch Jasper as he made a run to escape. I profusely thanked both the man and woman as I paid for the wire, explaining it was my son’s first time out of the cart, then sighed my relief as Jasper and I escaped the store on purpose.

Now I had to go to the grocery store. All I needed was a bundle of cilantro (Walmart was out the day before) and some orange ginger sauce (which Walmart hasn’t carried for a while, but I really desperately wanted to make some stir-fry). I didn’t need a cart for that. He was just bored in Farm King, but in the grocery store we’d be walking a lot. On Wednesday I’d picked up Jasper’s (one week older) buddy from daycare and stopped at County Market on the way home. I didn’t use a cart with him, and he was a responsible little angel, following me around the store with the air of an eight-year old. If he could do it, that meant that Jasper was probably at about the same skill level.

How bad could it be?

He calmly walked into the store with me, and I asked him if he’d like to push the tiny green toddler-sized shopping cart. He pushed it once and then walked away from it, so I opted to just walk with him and carry a basket. He did very well as we walked to the produce section. I congratulated myself on my well-behaved child. Then, as I stood unbelievingly in front of the empty spot where cilantro should have been, trying to think how on earth I could rescue dinner without it, he tried to steal a lemon.  And salad dressing. And tried to start an avalanche of cucumbers. Well crap. I decided we’d have stir-fry for dinner instead, and grabbed his hand to guide him past the cookies to search for the aisle with the Asian food.

Son of a gun, they didn’t have my darned orange ginger sauce. They had two types of ginger teriyaki, but I wanted the orange ginger. Jasper was getting antsy, so I set the basket on the floor so he could play with it while I chose from the sauces available.  And by play with it, apparently I meant “fill it up with anything in reach.” In went a huge bag of chow mein noodles (which we didn’t need). Well that was satisfying. He turned to the shelf and grabbed a can. Then he threw it into the basket as though he were warming up for his first pitching gig in the major leagues. I gasped and checked the can for dents (none) and then put it and the noodles back on the shelf. “No no, Baby, we don’t need those. Gentle hands.” He ran away down the aisle and I had to go get him and carry him back, apologizing to the sweet older woman next to me for bothering her, saying that I was disappointed I couldn’t find the orange ginger sauce.  She replied in a thick accent with a question about the sauces available, but I didn’t get a chance to answer her as Jasper was squirming to get away from my arms, which must have been excreting a toxic substance and causing him pain, and I hustled down the aisle to prevent him from kicking her.

Well darnit I didn’t want to leave empty-handed, so I took my toddler to peruse the salad dressings, in hopes they’d have something I could use instead.  He shot into the aisle with his left hand outstretched, heading for the pickle jars. Most parents can understand my sense of terror at this action. I ran after him, grabbing his flailing hand just before he swept an entire row of glass jars of dill pickles onto the floor. The sigh of relief at avoiding this catastrophe was probably louder than it should have been. I guided him to the salad dressings, where he went limp and rag-dolled onto the floor. I left him there and picked up two dressings that might work for dinner. Once I’d put them in the basket, I picked him up and asked him to follow me. He cheerfully did. We made it halfway down the aisle, and he fell down. I’m pretty sure it was on purpose. He laughed, and then caressed the cold hard floor like a drunk in the bathroom after a long night of partying. I sighed again and said, “Come on, let’s go!”

He did The Worm.

Now, I realize that I can’t expect my toddler to behave like an angel his first time out of the cart, but I think it’s acceptable to at least hope he’d refrain from terrible dance moves from the 70s. I took Jasper’s hand and helped him up, then walked him to the soda aisle, stopping every six feet or so, so that he could fall to the floor and touch it. I don’t drink much soda, but after this shopping trip, I figured I deserved a six-pack of Sprite.  By the time I put it in my basket with the two bottles of gourmet salad dressing, Jasper had made a fast break for the checkout lanes – or at least in their direction. I sincerely doubt he was looking to hold a place in line for me. This lengthy run was suspiciously done without falling even once, so it’s clear that his shoes weren’t the problem here.  I ran after him and caught him before he collided with anyone’s cart, saving him from permanent grate lines on his face.

Holding Jasper’s hand, I aimed for a nearly-empty checkout lane. He fell down. I picked him up. He broke away from me and overshot the lane, so that I had to run after him again. When I turned back to the checkout lane, a woman with a full cart was waiting for me to get in front of her.  She motioned me to go ahead of her, and I said thank you.  Gone are the days of politely declining and insisting the other person go first, regardless of how many items I’ve got. Now it’s a ruthless race to get ahead of anyone with more than one item. After I said thank you, though, Jasper fell down again. And again. And again. And again. I finally apologized to her and explained that it was his first time out of the cart, and told her that maybe she should just go ahead and go in front of me. Her face brightened with understanding.  “No,” she said. “I’ve been there. Please go first.”  I wanted to cry with gratitude. Not from being able to go first, but because this well-dressed, perfectly coiffed, pleasant woman wasn’t judging me for my inability to corral my son, or my mismatched, grilled-cheese-covered outfit and flip flops, or my previously tight bun having unwound and frayed around my face, hanging down my back, or the sweat I’d broken out into after chasing him all over the store. This woman knew what I was going through, and she wasn’t judging me. Well, maybe she was, but she was doing a great job of being polite and pretending she wasn’t, anyway.

I put down my basket and picked up my 40+lb son. As he struggled against me, I gently nudged the basket with my feet the remaining distance into the lane – about four feet. He was wiggling out of my arms, so I put him down and picked the items out of the basket and put them on the conveyor belt. Meanwhile, the checkout lane next to us was empty, so Jasper had plenty of room to run in circles. He made a run for it once or twice while I was trying to get my debit card out of my purse that was magically still on my shoulder, but I caught him. A minute and a half later we were on our way out of the store, toddler in my arms.  He struggled again and I asked him if he wanted to walk. He lunged for the floor and I put him down so that I wouldn’t be the mom who dropped her baby on his head at the grocery store. I took his hand, and he held it like a perfect little gentleman all the way to the car. Except for when we were going across the crosswalk, where he rag-dolled on me twice as a car waited for us and I had visions of dropping my purse and my bag of groceries and scooping him up out of the path of danger.

When we got home, I put him to bed for a nap and got my mug of leftover margarita out of the freezer, chopping at it with a spoon. When my wife came in from her own casual and relaxing trip to Walmart, she asked me how my trip went.  I glared at her and took a spoonful of my iced deliciousness. “Next time it’s your turn.”

Pride is a nasty thing.

I should know. I wouldn’t admit it to you yesterday, but I pride myself on my listening skills. I listen to what my loved ones are saying, and I make the appropriate responses. They’re heartfelt, don’t get me wrong. But I pride myself on really understanding them.

I just had a phone call that really blew me away. Someone very special to me had to repeat something she’s been telling me for a long time, something I always “heard” before. But this time she spelled it out, and I really understood. And I felt like a jackass, because all this time I thought I was such a good listener and I just couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Maybe the problem is that I don’t actually hear what people are saying to me. I know I do this with Wife all the time. I don’t tell her things, because I’ve already told BFF or other friends, and I just assume I’ve told her. I know this really bugs her, but I’ve never actually done anything proactive about it.

Well you know what? I’m starting over. I’m going to start listening—really listening. Take notes if I have to. Because pride really does go before a fall, and I just fell really hard. And if I want to pick myself back up again, I need to pay some serious attention to what people are saying to me.

I Dream of You, You Know

I dream of you, you know
I dream of your eyes
I dream of the skies
You'll see when you play in the snow

I dream of the things we'll do
I dream of your laughs
I dream of the paths
We'll explore and create some brand new

I dream of your little hands
I dream of your nose
I dream of your toes
Oh I've got so many plans

I dream of the day you'll be here
I dream of your face
I dream of the place
It's becoming ever so clear

I dream of you daily, my sweet
I dream of my child
So wild and beguiled
The darling I can't wait to meet