First Family Camping Trip

Note: Click on pictures if you'd like to see them larger.

Everybody in the semi-rural Midwest goes camping at some point. Some go more than others. It's a rite of passage, really, if you live anywhere outside of major cities. Over the last twelve years, Julie and I kept saying that we wanted to go camping, but we clearly didn't want to go badly enough to make it happen. Then our little man came along, and ain't nobody wants to go camping with a 2yr old. Now that he's nearly four, however, it seemed like the appropriate time to introduce him to this national pasttime.

   

We began with books, subtly mentioning the topic, and discussing how FUN it was to sleep in a tent and cook over a campfire. We started telling our friends we were going to do it, and looking at local campgrounds. Then for Mothers' Day Julie and I gave each other expensive camping stuff - a fancy tent and a double sleeping bag. Now we'd guilted ourselves into HAVING to do it. If we chickened out, everyone would know. So we picked a date - Memorial Day Weekend - and started picking up supplies. Suddenly, the forecast was predicting rain. What!? Everyone knows it can't rain over three day weekends! After a lot of wishy-washy beating around the bush, we sadly planned to go to the Discovery Depot Children's Museum in Galesburg instead.  Saturday evening it rained nearby and when the wind picked up and the skies got dark we patted ourselves on the back for making such a responsible decision.

Sunday dawned with bright sunshine and a text message from my friend: "Going to camp? No rain in the forecast today or tomorrow."  Crap.  No, we'd made our choice. I responded, "We're going to Galesburg today and camping in the yard this evening."  We were going to "camp," just not off our property.  Best of both worlds! Then Julie called the campgrounds. Apparently it was going to be $60 to tent-camp, and there weren't many spots open. She told me to make the decision, so I said that we'd stick to our much cheaper Galesburg plan.  Just a few minutes later, she told me that she was overruling me and we were going camping. WELL, OKAY THEN.  We hurried to get everything together, eat lunch, and get out there. We still didn't make it until 2:30pm, an hour after we'd planned to be there.

Pretending we're not terrified

Boy this place was busy. Every spot was taken, and even spots I hadn't realized were spots were taken. I'd never been out there during a busy weekend before, and had no idea it could even be that full. It did not look like fun, it looked like a family-friendly Woodstock. Jasper was missing his nap, it was hot and muggy, our car was packed full, and we didn't even know if we'd have a spot to camp. We pulled into the host camper spot, and Julie knocked on the door. And waited. And knocked. And waited. Finally she pulled out her phone and called them. It turns out that the host campers were busy with a golf cart parade and we needed to wait patiently for them to return. No. Lie.

My golf cart is more festive than your golf cart

They finally came back and asked us if we wanted electricity or not. We said, "Sure" (gotta plug those phones in, amirite?) and they took us (we followed their fancy golf cart) to the sunniest spot in the park. It was completely out in the open, no trees at all, surrounded by campers, and looked to be roughly the temperature of the surface of the sun. "There's a plug over there by that camper you can plug into," they said, pointing over to another campsite.  We decided we didn't need electricity after all. We said as much, and they told us they'd show us another spot. This spot was also awful, and they were pointing out more electrical outlets in other camper's spots.  With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I assured them that I was incredibly grateful for their thoughtfulness in trying to find us an outlet, but we really didn't need one after all, and could we pretty please have a spot with shade for our ginger boy? Oh, of course, they reassured us. They understood.  "Wasn't there a guy who just left on the dam?" they asked each other.  Oh. No.

We headed out of the camping area. As in, no more camping people. Just boats, water, and the dam ahead of us.  They were legit going to make us camp on the dam.  Suddenly, they pulled up in front of a hidden camping site. It was the only camping spot on this side of the lake, secluded, a bit hard to get to, and PERFECT.   We said we'd take it.  With Jasper asleep in the back, we unloaded as much as we could and then Julie drove off to pay for the site and pick up some firewood.  "Get that up while I'm gone!" Julie shouted as she headed off, pointing to the 8-person tent we'd never set up before.

L. O. L. 

Did I mention that I hadn't gone camping in 23 years, and for her it had been more like 3+ decades? This was a recipe for failure.  Well, I gave it a shot, and nearly gave myself heatstroke in the process.  This is as far as I got before she returned, shocked I'd even attempted it:

Jasper didn't think much of my efforts.

Oh my God she expects me to sleep in that?

Luckily, we worked better together. Jasper chipped in as well after seeing what it would look like if I were left to do it all by myself.

Thug Life

Jasper was pumped to try out his Paw Patrol camping gear

We sat down to congratulate ourselves on managing to get the tent up without having to call in the authorities, and relax for a moment.  I asked Julie how much the site ended up costing, and she sheepishly admitted that she had misheard the host camper on the phone and it was apparently only twelve dollars for the site.  Not sixty.  My poor, deaf wife... When we realized it was close to 5pm and Jasper hadn't eaten anything all day but a grilled cheese and some loose cereal, we thought maybe it was time to unwrap the new camping gear and cook something besides nacho chips for the kid.

Do you know how many marshmallows this thing could hold?

Now, Julie had been telling me for several days about this AMAZING treat she'd seen online.  Apparently if you get some pie filling and stick it between a couple pieces of bread and then toast that over a campfire, it tastes JUST LIKE PIE.  Well, of course we had to try it. After we finished our hot dogs, Julie got out the brand new can opener and opened up the cans of pie filling. She got apple, and I got cherry. We debated putting butter on the outside of the bread but decided that would taste too much like grilled cheese, so we went plain.

Step 1:  Fill the bread

Step 2: Cook it like a pro

Step 3. Admire toasted "pie"

Mine wasn't terribly attractive

Julie's was fantastic looking

Step 4: Consider filling

Step 5: Reaction face

How the heck am I going to put this into MyFitnessPal?

This is her "Meh" face

Verdict: Meh.  It didn't taste like pie, it tasted like pie filling on toast.  Those cooker things would have made bitchin' grilled cheeses though. We were looking forward to lunch the next day.

With dinner under our belts and no electronics to distract us, we set about enjoying the peace and quiet. Julie and Jasper played a little Tee Ball, and I went around taking some pictures of the campsite.

Finally Julie left to go give our cats their medicine, and pick up a few things we'd forgotten (pillows, toothbrush, etc.) I peed in the woods and then took Jasper on a walk.  We saw some geese, played "Going on a Bear Hunt" a few times, and generally spent the next few hours hanging out and having fun.

If I make this face enough she'll stop making me pose

Finally it was time to settle down and head to bed. 

Jasper was so tired he conked out on his own after reading a few books, and eschewed the s'mores we offered to make. If he'd been a teenager and in town we would have assumed he was attempting to sneak out, but as it was he was just really tuckered out and excited to use his Paw Patrol stuff.

If only every night's bedtime were this easy

Julie and I spent a few hours chatting and eating s'mores - at this point all notions of diets were out the door - and enjoying each other's company. It's been a while since we just sat down and chatted, and it was nice to have that quiet time to ourselves. We congratulated ourselves on our procrastination, as if we'd arrived earlier and on time we never would have managed to get the sweetest spot in the campground.  Hooray for dumb luck! Also, can you request camping spots? We want that one EVERY TIME.  And we do want to go back. It was so nice.

Well. I mean.  Until we woke up to thunder (Julie insisted it was "a jet" - for 20 minutes) and a kid who'd gone above and beyond the bedwetting call. Once I got Jasper awake I got him completely naked and then put into a new shirt. Before I even considered putting pants on him I walked him outside to pee. He didn't want to wake up, he didn't want to get changed, and he REALLY didn't want to go outside to pee in the bushes.  He demonstrated his annoyance at me by swinging around and peeing on my bare feet. Thanks kid. I'll get you back someday, just you wait.

We packed up as fast as we could, but still ended up getting pretty wet.  We were really disappointed, as we'd been looking forward to a camp breakfast and grilled cheeses for lunch. Still, we'd done a lot of packing up the night before in order to secure the campsite from any critters, and it didn't take as long as it could have. 

Bungee cord gathering in the rain (AKA Karma for peeing on Mama)

"No rain in the forecast" ;)

Naturally, as soon as we had fully packed up and backed the car out to head home, it started clearing up. By the time we were leaving the park, it was sunny again. Like, brilliantly sunny, gorgeous, would have been fine if we'd been staying another night, perfect.  Oh well.

Not even out of the park limits yet

We got home and unpacked, then got the stuff out to make a great brunch. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, milk, and juice! Jasper even finally tried bacon for the first time, and he really loved it. He also loved the bath he needed after such a wild adventure. Mama and Mommy couldn't wait to take their own baths, either... we needed ours almost as badly! Check out Mama's curly hair after that rain!

Julie and I had set some stuff out in the sun to dry up, and after brunch we put up the tent so it could dry out. Jasper discovered we'd put the tent up, and suddenly couldn't wait for naptime. He evidently thought we were going to allow him to chill out in the back yard for his nap while we stayed inside.  In a few years, I'm sure we'll be perfectly happy to do that, but I doubt he'll be as happy to take naps! Luckily, he's got his very own tent to use, and we set it up in his room for his nap.

What a great time, even though it rained!

Before Camping

After Camping

Thanks, Spring Lake Park, for being a wonderful place to make memories of our very first camping trip as a family! We'll be back!!!

P.S. Check out Jasper's thoughts on the trip here.

Feeling Panicky

New things scare me. They scare the pants off of me. In fact, I usually just avoid new things so that I don't have to worry about losing my pants in public. Sometimes, however, those things are necessary. Like actually giving birth to the baby I got myself pregnant with.  Apparently once it's in there, it has to come out one way or another... The pants really did come off in public that time...Anyway, I digress.  Three years ago I started thinking about graduate school. My employer offers this amazing benefit of 6hrs of in-state tuition EVERY semester.  That's incredible. At first I didn't avail myself of this opportunity because I had no desire to be back in school.  I needed to focus on just having a "real job" for a while.  Then I was focused on having a baby. After I finally started sleeping again after the baby arrived (a year later), I realized that I'd actually fallen in love with librarianship and I really wanted to be an official one. I wanted to be able to say I was a librarian without getting the stink-eye from people who had the real degrees. And there was a way to get a (nearly) free degree.  I would be stupid not to take them up on it.

So I applied, got accepted, and then had to go through with it. Two and a half years ago, in January of 2014, I left my baby for the very first time ever and spent a week with strangers in what my program calls "boot camp."  And oh boy, was it. There was an incident at the end that I kind of hope I'll have forgotten about in another decade or two that involved hysterical crying in front of the entire cohort after my final quiz essay got deleted right in front of me, two minutes before the time was up... I was fairly sure there were bets on whether or not I'd be quitting the program. I was sure thinking about it myself. But that was after staying up all night long to finish a paper (turned it in at 5:45am!), and I decided to give myself at least a semester to see if I could handle it.  And I could.

In fact, this program turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life.  Only taking two classes a semester allowed me to really focus on each class and give them the attention they deserved. I turned in every assignment (with only a few extensions), and after that darned boot camp class gave me a B+, I got straight As (even a few A+s), leaving me with an overall GPA of 3.98.  I am incredibly proud of myself.  I accomplished this feat while working full time, parenting a toddler every moment I wasn't working, and often on my own as my wife works several jobs to make ends meet and is usually gone in the evenings and weekends, especially in the fall. On the other hand, now my kid knows how to play on a computer better than I did at the age of 15. Hey, cheaper than the babysitter we used to have to get on my school nights. By the end of this program we had a real routine down pat.

Now, however, I am facing a new challenge. Graduation.  I'm terrified.  It was scary enough in high school, with people holding my hand at every turn, and a practice session.  In college, it was pretty horrifying, but at least I was familiar with the campus and had sat through a couple previous ceremonies for friends.  Now, though, I have to travel three hours to the campus, pick up my cap and gown from a building I've never been to (in person, I sure as hell stalked that place on google maps and with pictures and building blueprints), assemble at another place I've never been to, and then yet another place.

This is a three day event for me.

• Tomorrow we'll drop our son off at daycare where he'll wait to be picked up by one of his dads for the weekend. We'll drive to our hotel that is half an hour away from the city (because when I booked six months in advance everything within a half hour radius was booked solid), then drive to the city to pick up my cap and gown.  Then back to the hotel to steam it and finish freaking out for the evening. 
• Saturday we'll wake up excruciatingly early and drive to .... some... parking spot.... on a super crowded campus... and join the thousands of people who will be there to see their undergraduate, graduate, or doctoral candidate student graduate.  This place is so big that I won't walk that day. I'll just stand up in a big fat group of my friends. My poor wife will likely be sitting alone in this stadium.  Then we're free for the rest of the day, hopefully to meet up with friends for lunch or dinner, and probably to do some tourist-y type graduation pictures. 
• Sunday we have to do it all over again, except on a smaller scale. This one will be my program's convocation. This one I'll be walking in. This is the one that will make me feel like I've really graduated, I think. Then we'll probably have lunch and head back home to pick up our son where he'll have been dropped off at our friend's house.  Then I will be able to relax.

Did I mention it's all going to be on live feed?  If I fall down, ERRYBODY'S GONNA KNOW. I have to go through with this. I have to do it. When it's over I'll be so glad I did it.  But holy crap am I scared.  I took today off to basically clean my house and calm myself down so I'm not rushing around having a panic attack tomorrow. Ha. Who am I kidding? That's exactly what's going to happen anyway. Send me a kind thought if you have a moment this weekend.  Or, if you want to watch me fall on my face, here are the links to the graduation ceremonies:

Part 1: Saturday, May 14th at 9:30am (Campuswide ceremony, I will be standing up with my fellow graduates in a large group, 2hrs)

Part 2: Sunday, May 15th at 9:30am (Smaller ceremony in which I will cross the stage, 1.5hrs)

P.S. I'll be wearing a dress so my pants can't be scared off of me.

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.”