Swim Lessons (Part Deux)

After recovering from Duck-gate, I recognize it was a poor initial decision on my part. It’s always hard to calculate the entertainment value for children vs. community mental health . My formula needs adjusting. Luckily the children know, for the most part, that the toys from school, the library, and pool do not belong to them.

But it does explain the flotilla of ducks at home.

Mercifully, it is about time for Andrew’s lesson. You would think Adeline is tired out, because her lesson is basically like a step above drowning. This is not the instructor’s fault. We have all but superglued Adeline’s hands to the wall. Yet she has this sense of invincibility. Always has. ‘I’m surprised they haven’t up-charged me for the number of times the instructor has to fish her out.

Adeline is changed into dry clothing. The parents know to avoid the locker rooms, so we’re relatively contained there. As a self-perseveration tactic I have officially designated the swim lesson as an acceptable alternative to a bath. So we’re down one hurdle. This goes for their towels and swim gear, they go straight in the dryer. They’re a bit starchy after a week, but not unusable.

We emerge from the locker room and I unceremoniously put Julia in the baby jail. It’s dimensions are not overly restrictive, after all. She has a good two inches on each side. I have to run back and forth with different pairs of goggles for Andrew. I don’t remember getting the luxury of goggles when I learned how to swim. Mini-millennials these days.

It’s approximately five minutes after Adeline has used the toilet that she says she has to go to the bathroom. We do not make it. It is not a minor affair. The underwear are not salvageable. I’m grateful that her potty training has advanced as quickly as she had, because that child is going to Pre-K next year if I have to change the requirement myself.

I always start to question to enroll them in extracurricular activities. I’m the parent who is tasked with bringing them to soccer and swimming, so it’s self-induced torture. I think I rationalize that they’ll be so worn out that they will simply fall into their beds, but these activities seem to serve as a warm-up.

It’s not that I wasn’t prepared. I had little bags full of healthy snacks for them to consume en-route, pre-opened. I’ve got the baby bag and miraculously have not forgotten a phone or wallet. Or child. This time.

Sine we’re coming from school, I have the swim bag with folded towels and suits. I have the spelling list laminated with the very best intention of testing him on the words at some point. Frankly, I think Kindergarten homework is a little overrated. It’s less indicative of the child’s skill set and more a test of a parents willingness to laboriously have the child use the word in a sentence, for example. Unless two kids go unattended for a significant period of time, the homework sometimes is not prioritized. It stings a little, as a former educator.

But it’s taken about what, three months of training to have the children bring their backpacks in and get them on a table or somewhere visible. Say, not dropped behind the car where I will inevitably run over them in the morning.  I pick my battles.

I always wonder how the children will remember these activities; will they remember the pleasure of learning new athletic and interpersonal time with an attentive, loving mother? Or do the children feel pressured to compete a lesson with a well-intentioned by very frazzled and over-caffeinated mother?

Out of suspicion, I have already arranged and paid for the kids’ first two years of therapy.

Swim Lessons (Part 1 of 2)

My children have to learn to swim.

We live in Florida, so this might be a requirement if our lovely governor Ron DeSantis would focus more on families and less on making himself look like an idiot. But swim lessons are offered nearby, the prices are affordable, and my children absolutely love it.

Here’s the thing: Adeline’s lesson is at 5:30 and Andrew’s is at 6:30. Given that they’re a half-hour, that leaves half an hour to kill time. With three kids. At a pool. It’s bad enough during the swim lessons because I still have two kids to entertain. I would just give them my phone to watch Peppa Pig, but I have lost too many electronics to assumptions that small children can be trusted with them.

Here’s yesterday: I pick the children up, which involves picking Andrew up from his after-school program and Adeline and Julia up from daycare. Doesn’t sound too tough. After all, everything is in a 6-mile radius. Except it is Snowbird Season, meaning we have all the retirees relocate from a variety of cold-weather states to Florida. So I leave my house at 4:30 and get to the swim lesson 45 minutes later. Many of my best friends reside in Minnesota, but frankly I wish they would just mandate that all native Minnesotans were restricted to weekend visits.

And yes, I realize my husband is a native Minnesotan. Why do you ask?

So the only way I’ve managed to handle three kids at the pool is to bring out the baby cage. It’s an endeavor just to get inside the building: I’m carrying a baby backpack, the swim bag, a 1-year-old, and a magnitude of snacks in a hopeful (and futile) effort to distract the children.

Adeline goes first, I bust out the baby cage, and Andrew decides to get in it with Julia. No problem. Except Julia had gotten Andrew’s discarded peanut butter crackers and the two of them have managed to trample the crackers. There is now a 1-inch layer of pulverized sticky peanut butter cracker dust coating the bottom of the baby cage.

I apologize now if anyone at the pool had a kid with a peanut allergy. Medical expenses will be covered. If you have insurance, because we sure as heck don’t have the expendable cash.

Then the dreaded half-hour between lessons. We wood go outside, but the only “outside” is a parking lot and busy road.  Not that I’m not tempted, and I know any parent has been there at some point. I feel you. I decide to take a “walk” around the pool. I follow the kids on several laps around during which the kids manage to do minimal damage to the aquatic physical therapy equipment.

Which is impressive, because they are poor designed to look like toys.

Then we get the bin. One of the children opens it to discover the squeaky floaty ducks that they use in lessons. Unwisely, I permitted the children to play with the temporarily. Somehow, they all master making the ducks squeak loudly—I don’t think I had the hand strength until age 13. Parents have either gotten used to Hurricane Larson and are pointedly watching their children swim, or are staring wide-eyed.

First-timers, you’re welcome for the free entertainment.

My Kingdom for a Tow Rope

I’m so over Christmas vacation.

Chris is out of town again, and the kids are out of school, which means they were separated from professionals and placed in the loving but underequipped hands of their mother. And I had to take a day off of work, which is my one respite from the 24/7 supervisory duties of motherhood. Andrew did have camp, so I toted him off to Bradenton.

At this point, Adeline complains of ear pain. I remember a childhood filled with ear infections so severe that my eardrums would burst and the doctors contemplated putting tubes in my ears. Trying to circumvent this fate with Adeline, I end up googling Urgent Cares near my location, somewhere in Bradenton (having no sense of direction, I trust Google Maps entirely, and could have been in Georgia for all I know. I blame this geographical ignorance on the ear infections). I pull up to an Urgent Care only to see a note on the door that they are only accepting patients with appointments. I went to the website to make an appointment, and see the first one is in the afternoon. It’s 8:30 in the morning at this point.

I could’ve gotten in earlier with an audiologist.

I call her pediatrician and luckily we’re able to be seen in a half hour. I get her back to our neighborhood (thanks to Google Maps. Of course, if they told me to drive into the ocean, I would likely comply) and into the pediatrician. She looks in the ears and tells us it’s just fluid, and while it’s uncomfortable, it’s not infected. On the way out, I ask the schedulers when Julia is due next, now that she’s past her first year. It is precisely then that I learn that she has not had her one-year-old check-up. I figure she appears health enough and maybe we’ll just take her in when she’s 5 or something, but naturally and improbably, they have an opening in the afternoon. I could hardly turn it down. Florida doesn’t care about LGBTQIA rights or immigrants, but what if they have a law about prompt baby appointments?

Adeline has always colored out of the lines. This was accomplished with me literally at the same table, drawing with her. Either speaks to my inattention or her talent.

It is after this appointment that things really go downhill. Deciding at the last minute to pick up a few items at Aldi’s, I do a U-turn, driving slightly into the grass.

And get stuck.

Like, wheels churning up chunks of dirt and muddy water. We’d had days of rain after (literally) the driest summer on record. Meaning that the patches of grass were actually swamps. And I was stranded in one with two small children in the back. In a state with alligators. Luckily, we were right across from an oil-change place. However, shockingly, they only do oil change and do not generally rescue stranded minivans. Unless I had a tow rope on me. (Sure, let me just reach into my pocket . . . )

I unbuckle and get the kids out of their car seats while I text everyone I can think of for a darn tow rope (I could have happily gone my entire life without knowing what this was). Turns out I’m not the only one ill-equipped for extricating myself from a mud pit. The kids are roaming around in the vehicle, contentedly enjoying the unusual circumstances and distracted mother.

Long story short, we also happened to be marooned about 5 minutes from Ali, my sponsor. I text her, and she scoops us up and brings us to her house. Adeline has lunch there while Julia eats everything in sight and starts hungrily eyeing the cat. Meanwhile, I had the presence of mind to call AAA and jog back to the car, leaving the kids in Ali’s capable hands. (I’m not going to lie, I contemplated leaving them there until spring break). Ttruck arrives with a polite driver who somehow refrains from eying me judgmentally. Luckily, he DOES have tow rope and he tugs us out of the mud.

Adeline and Julia handled the whole situation like champs.

Meanwhile, I realized I need 24/7 supervision now.

I turn my back for two seconds and Baby Julia gets a (play) knife. Of all the 283 toy kitchen supplies, she lands on this one.

Things I Don’t Miss about Alcoholism

First, this is probably the most important blog post I’ve written. I should also probably apologize to my mother in advance for the sensitive and personal subject nature. However, I cannot emphasize how strongly I feel that talking about substance use and recovery is the only way to overcome the debilitating stigma of addiction. Secrets keep us sick and shame flourishes in the shadows.

1. Ignition Interlock: Gone are the days of surreptitiously ducking down and blowing into a temperamental device to start my car. And the monthly “recalibrations,” which sounds like a necessary mechanical procedure but is really just the process of downloading the data to the state of Minnesota. Really, really expensive data. And sitting in the waiting area nonchalantly reading “Dirt Bikes Today” or something while others in the waiting area eye you judgmentally.
2. Disastrous holidays:  I have a friend who crashed into the Christmas tree, effectively smashing the ornaments and gifts. My shenanigans were limited to reprehensible behaviors such as vitriolic diatribes directed at loved ones. Conveniently, I remember none of it. My family was not so fortunate. And if there was no liquor to be found at holiday events, there was always Vanilla extract or mouthwash. If you’re scratching you’re head, congratulations, you’re not an alcoholic. Those things are pure alcohol. And yes, chugging one  is as disgusting as it sounds. But when you’re going through horrible (and deadly) withdrawals—nauseous and shaking like a leaf—you will do anything to make it stop.
3. Rotating liquor stores: I don’t miss the liquor store rotation. Oh, every alcoholic has done it. You can’t go to the same liquor store several days in a row, so you have several in a rotation. You grab enough vodka to fill a small swimming pool (or about 1.5 days’ worth), explaining, “Oh, we’re having a party and those people can really drink” as though the underpaid clerks are deeply invested in your drinking habits. Yes, party of one. That said, alcohol is a little harder to avoid here in Florida. I mean, it’s in gas stations. The supermarket. It’s as ubiquitous as hand sanitizers during COVID.
4. Sneaking out: Suffice it to say, back in the day if there was liquor in Fort Knox when we lived in Kentucky, there would be a security breach. I am the human equivalent of a truffle pig. I have climbed out windows and walked to convenience stores. I have done a three-mile hike in sub-zero temperatures. I have consistently found impeccably hidden liquor secured by loving (but out-maneuvered) family members. This is not boastful. That was desperation and the sheer cruel magnetic pull of the substance.
5. Law enforcement: There is a saying. “I’m allergic to alcohol. When I drink, I break out in handcuffs.” That would be funny if it did not accurately depict the end result of a sip of alcohol for mel. Now, I’m someone who is utterly deferential to authority figures and obnoxiously law-abiding. I drive five miles under the speed limit (thankfully, like 80% of Floridians). I dutifully file my tax returns (OK, I let Chris do it). But, like the recovery literature says, we end up in “jails, institutions, and death.” I’ve checked two of those boxes and I think I’ll pass on the third.
6. Withdrawal seizures in an Albuquerque airport, followed by a medication-induced coma for ten days. Hypothetically speaking.
7. Making excuses: While granted, I got to polish my creativity skills, I don’t miss having to come up with elaborate excuses to try to excuse outlandish behavior. And given I was a blackout drinker, I can’t even imagine some of the crazier moments I’ve had. As I’ve mentioned, I had the luxury of forgetting. Unfortunately, loved ones want to believe almost anything is true other than an addiction. Even a brain tumor, which my mother ended up researching as a plausible explanation for my behavior.
8. Isolation: For the longest time, I thought I was an anti-social person. Turns out that I just had an anti-social disease. One of the biggest surprises in sobriety was learning that I enjoy being around other people. I look forward to AA meetings and coffee dates and community events. And not just because it gets me away from the ankle-biters. I enjoy weddings and airports for the people and not merely the liquor. I have friends with names other than “gin” and “Smirnoff”. I’ve had a few of what I consider to be “good friends” in the more advanced stages of my addiction—two to be exact—but how close were they when they had no idea I was drinking vodka out of a liquor bottle while writing graduate papers in the campus library? And they were social workers.
9. Losing myself: enough said, really. Nothing has been more satisfying in sobriety than rebuilding relationships, rediscovering interests and passions, feeling as though finally my actions (mostly) align with my values. Even better, having lived through an addiction (somehow), done a lot of therapeutic self-reflection, and worked the steps of AA, I feel as though I’m a better human being than I was had I never been to Hell and back. I do believe there is such a thing as a dry drunk, and I’ve had to replace the alcohol with healthy coping strategies. This has made me more spiritual and well-rounded than I was previously, not to mention the empathy I have for people with this chronic and progressive disease. I have a new career now, in addition to being a social worker. I went back for a degree in Addiction Counseling, and I’ve found a career that is so extraordinarily fulfilling that I can’t imagine doing anything different.
10. Shame/Guilt: Never mind, I’m a mother. Plenty of guilt still. Not shame though. Guilt is where we feel as though we’ve done something bad, which can be helpful and motivating because when our behaviors diverge from our morals, it’s an incentive to do better. Shame is insidious though; rather than “I did something bad” it’s “I AM bad.” Addiction blurs the line and we internalize the behaviors to the point they’re inextricable from our character. Of course, even though I acted badly in my addiction, I don’t believe I was ever a bad person. As fallible creatures, we do the best we can with the skills we have available to us at the time. And the sad fact is, substances work until they don’t. We control the substance until it controls us.

I won’t go further into the lurid details of my drinking. After all, I need some good stuff left to hopefully turn into a book one day. Something which “normies” would likely consider a scandalous work of fiction and all of us addicts would call “a typical Tuesday night.”

Siri is on Sabbatical

In kid news, Elf on the Shelf is the best idea ever. This takes it up a whole notch from “Santa’s watching from afar.” My children tend to deal in the concrete. I read them the book, emphasizing the elf-reports-back-EVERY-night aspect. We named her Sparkles. She reappears in a different spot each morning, which has the additional benefit of getting Andrew out of bed. I’ve added a twist in that she has the capability of sending presents back if they’re too cantankerous (of course, being a softie she usually returns them after a day or so). Andrew is VERY into it. I was basically interrogated on the intricacies of the elf surveillance enterprise.

Andrew, Adeline, and I decorated the tree. Then Julia meticulously undecorated the bottom half. Since the other kids are short, that leaves only an ornament-ed middle section. I swear, I am so ready for a fully decorated tree.

I cannot take credit for this next part. Andrew has discovered the Siri feature on the tablet. And apparently, she’s a lot more entertaining than his mama, because he will have full conversations with her. The other night he was speaking with her in his bed (don’t judge me, I’m by myself 90% of the time with three kids six and under). I grabbed my to-do list (by now about the length of Anna Karenina) and took notes on the back of it.

Andrew (activates Siri): What’s your name?

Siri: Siri

Andrew: Hello Siri.

Siri: I’m here.

Andrew: I know, I just said “Hello”.

Andrew (activates Siri)

Siri: Hello, how can I assist you?

Andrew: I don’t speak Spanish.

Siri: Hola, Andrew.

Andrew: Siri, I said I don’t speak Spanish.

Siri: Well then how can I assist you?

Andrew: I don’t want to go to sleep.

Andrew (activates Siri): I don’t want to go to sleep.

Andrew: Why are you not talking?

Siri: I didn’t catch that.

Andrew: Yes, you did.

Siri (finally showing signs of frustration): How can I assist you?

Andrew: I’ll see you tomorrow.

Andrew (activates Siri, who by now is pretending she doesn’t hear him): What out for bumblebees.

Siri: Trying searching the App store.

Andrew (indignantly): I can’t shop there by myself!

Andrew (activating Siri): It’s Christmas today. [It’s not.] Santa dropped off my presents and my mommy wrapped them. [This part is true. I told him Santa is a modern and frugal individual who shopped Amazon on Black Friday and let mommy wrap the presents.]

Siri: [no answer . . . I silently thank her for not blowing Mommy-Santa-Helper’s cover]

Andrew (activating Siri): [starts counting to 100].

Siri (either not impressed or not comprehending): I don’t have legs.

Andrew (alarmed): You need to get some.

Siri: [silent, clearly sensing this is not going her way]

Andrew: [launches into a side-by-side story] Oh, why did you stop talking?

Siri: [silent, trying desperately to uninstall herself].

Seriously, I could not make this up.

I think Siri is still busy tabulating her therapy bill.

Saturday Soccer Shenanigans

This past Saturday was the first week of youth soccer. “Youth” being a stretch because they’re 3-6 year olds and “soccer” being generous because the only semblance to soccer was the presence of a ball in the vicinity. As I was telling a fellow parent, watching these little munchkins, you wonder how there are any players at the professional level.

That said, the theatrics, tears, and manipulative antics are probably about the same.

Frankly, it was a miracle we even made it to the practice field. First, there was another bug fiasco, which involved me trying to catch a bug and release it humanely while the kids attempt to help by scurrying all around in a state of faux terror, causing the bug to further resist capture as it tries to decide the worse fate: the dreaded container or three young children. I’m always amazed that bugs don’t just have a heart attack on the spot. I AM nearly 100% certain that any that are captured and released never venture into the house again.

They’re probably in Timbuktu writing little bug memoirs about their brush with death.

And sweet baby Julia has developed a mischievous streak. First, I hear a crash in the bathroom and upon investigation discover that despite being a foot tall and 20 lbs, she has managed to dislodge the shower curtain rod. THEN she managed to knock over my coffee. Twice. Once all over the laundry that I’m trying to sort and fold. Granted, that was my fault because the coffee (thankfully always tepid by the time I get to it) was within her reach. But it will take her about .3 seconds to teleport herself from the opposite end of the house to whatever unattended coffee mug or sharp object captures her attention.

She’s fearless, too. I was horrified when Chris mentioned that he had put Julia on the trampoline with the other kids bouncing; I was envisioning her catapulting over the net necessitating a fire station rescue from tree branches. But I put her on there out of curiosity, and gosh darn if she did not have the time of her life. Her new favorite game (replacing watching mama fetch toys she’s dropped) is crawling over to the closure with a plaintive expression, and when I dash to the rescue, she scampers to the other edge of the trampoline. Halfway into her escape, she’ll turn around and proffer a snaggle-toothed grin.

And the turkey, oh, the turkey. It’s bad enough that Andrew has homework in Kindergarten because that translates to “Mama has homework.” But I’ve come to terms with that, and I DO know the alphabet, after all. I can handle double-digit numbers. (Though forget high school, the kid’s SOL when he gets in upper elementary grades when it comes to math.) But then came the turkey.

The assignment was to “disguise” a turkey so it doesn’t get eaten for Thanksgiving. Meaning we’re gathering leaves, cutting up clothes, finding construction paper. Then I have the brilliant idea to use my craft feathers. Oh, and turns out we don’t have any Elmer’s glue in the house, so we’re left with superglue. Yep.

So by the end of the project, Adeline’s crying because one of her socks got turned into a turkey limb, it looked like a bird exploded in the house, and there was enough superglue around that a hurricane wouldn’t have budged an object. If Julia had touched a wall, she’d still be there now. But let me tell you, that turkey is not in any danger of being mistaken for dinner.

That said, there are going to be a lot of confused little children at the Thanksgiving dinner table.

Florida Fall Fun

Halloween in Florida is a little different than in Minnesota. And no, not just fifty degrees warmer (though it was that, too).s

First of all, the costumes. In northern Minnesota, you either get a costume that’s comprised of a down coat, or you end up wearing your down coat over the costume. For instance, my to-go costume of a black cat was super easy: I just drew whiskers on my face and wore my day-to-day ankle-long black down coat. And of course, there it’s too cold to actually walk from house to house, so trick-or-treating is conducted in parking lots with cars pulled around in a circle. Competitions such as “how many trunks can I get to before frostbite really sets in?” ensue.

Andrew was a Paw Patrol character, meaning the other two kids were Paw Patrol characters. Adeline just wants to be whatever Andrew is, and Julia well . . . she doesn’t quite get a vote. For her, I ordered a spotted leotard and red bow and voila, we had Marshall (the dalmatian firefighter). The boy across the street was Rocky, another Paw Patrol character so my neighbor and I practically had a litter of puppies between us.

The decorations are on another level. Our neighbors had a fake graveyard with a mini fence, a garage door cover of a spooky background, strobe lights, and life-size demon and witch figures that made noises. They started decorating late summer. I kid you not. Some of the more subtle lawns featured witches’ feet and skeleton limbs staked into the ground. Spider webs stretched over an entire lawn. Huge blow-up canvas pumpkin balloons and ghosts, complete with wind machines just because gigantic motionless squash were so 2022.

Andrew wanted me to decorate, but after sizing up the competition I chucked my one puny orange lantern in the trash and told him to enjoy the neighbors’ display. (Cut to aforementioned little children running around the cul-de-sac with disembodied limbs before I dashed in to intervene). One house about a block away boasted a broken-down car with fog emanating from beneath, severed dummies strewn around, bloodied sheets, and scary-looking baby dolls pasted to all upright surfaces. It was disturbing.

I have to say, our neighborhood was the place to be. All 47 young people in Florida were there in costumes, going up driveways to delighted elderly couples proffering candy. Apparently other communities were a little more sedate. But my children collected enough sweets to stock a candy store. Adeline, who struggles with the concept of moderation (no judgement, I can relate) was practically buzzing from the sugar.

I made the assumption that Chris hadn’t thought of a costume, so I took the opportunity to purchase a couples’ outfit. Of course, last Halloween I was nine months pregnant with two kids on my own, so I considered this to be karma. We were the Queen and King of hearts, big squares. A few cards short of  . . . ok no more puns. It could have gone worse for Chris, I had been eyeing a skimpy toga set.

Even daycare got in on the Halloween action and did crafts and sent the kids home with paper bags of donated candy. Prior to Tuesday, we’d gotten a message from the daycare asking if any parents wanted their children to only consume treats with all-natural dye. I envy the parent who has enough spare time to create meals with artificial dye free-food. It reminds me of having my first child and being determined to puree my own baby food. I lasted about 30 seconds.

My kids may be heavily preserved, but at least I have my sanity.

Squish-able Critters & Kids

I have discovered an unexpectedly efficient trick to induce the children to minimize the amount of food that seems to be perpetually layering the table and floor. Seriously, the average meal that a child might be expected to consume seems to multiply exponentially rather than disappear into tummies. Especially cereal. You pour a small portion into the bowl, and half an hour later the table is a pool of milk and grains. 

Then came the spider. We arrived home from somewhere and encountered an enormous spider contentedly occupying a tile in the kitchen. This was not a tiny shy spider that scurries away. This spider meant business. He was all but unloading his little spider belonging from the U-Haul.We were momentarily paralyzed as this critter and my family eyed each other warily. I was not even going to try to do the cup-over-the-bug trick. I would have needed a barrel. 

The only solution was to quietly exit stage left and give the spider his space. Now look, give me a snake, no problem. Rodents I can handle. My husband has been threatening for years that my goldfish-in-bed preference might lead to mice, and I remain unfazed. But spiders are my Achilles heel. The kids saw how frightened I was; and that’s when I sensed an opportunity. I warned that food left around, crumbs, spills, invited a host of spiders and bugs. 

You could eat off my floors now. 

I try to write down the hilarious things my kids say, which is difficult because #1, I don’t carry a pen and notebook and #2, they usually occur when I’m trying to physically drag Adeline off a swing or dashing or trying to keep track of two non-swimmers while hanging onto a turtle float containing a amused baby. Speaking of Julia, probably about 75% of my time is spent trying to do chores and finish up notes while making sure that Julia doesn’t get stepped on. “Don’t squish Julia” is a common refrain around our house, not just from me, but from our very conscientious six-year-old Andrew. 

A funny comment from Andrew, “Adeline broke my brain.” Well, while Adeline has probably broken everything not made from a substance as durable as a diamond, I doubt Adeline could even achieve that feat. That said, I do admit that I metaphorically feel that Adeline has broken my brain. 

Definitely my sanity.

An ongoing discussion in our household is what animal we are. As I consider the oddity of that statement now, I realize I don’t know how that started. Adeline does insist that Julia is a tiger, possibly because of her baby growls. At one point I suggested that Julia was a mouse. Adeline contemplated this, then said very seriously, “But if Julia was a mouse, she’d be eaten by Max.” Frankly, I’m surprised how the kids know who Max cat is, considering he literally emerges from under the couch when I return from dropping the kids off at school, and scampers back under the minute they walk through the door. I guarantee you that at this rate, Julia will never know we have a three-legged cat. 

He’s probably worried he’d get squished.

Summer Daze

There are many reasons not to take small children to a pool, or on any kind of excursion whatsoever. Frankly, I’m having a hard time remembering why I take them out of the house in the first place. That’s why stores deliver. However, last weekend I foolishly accepted a friend’s invitation to take the kids to her community swimming pool. I should have remembered that she has the luxury of these lapses in judgment because she has only one child. A sedate (sedated?) one.

Although we left the house the first time in the morning, by the time we actually managed to make it on the road we were running out of daylight. You can be as prepared as if you’re taking a covered wagon across the frontier and still manage to forget 95% of all essentials for the trip. We turned around once because I forgot sunscreen, which was admittedly an oversight on my part. Then we turned around again because Adeline wanted her green water cup rather than the pink. Again because I’d forgotten to put Julia in a Baby swim diaper (never did find them, the normal one would have to suffice). Again because Andrew had forgot a toy car; it was not among the 387 he had piled in the car. 

I swear, they will be pulling matchbox cars out of my vehicle long after I’m dead and gone. 

We finally made it to my friend’s community, fortunately only a few miles away. I have to say, it’s nice to be an invited guest and not technically trespassing (in the even one might have scouted out all nearby communities in the area that had pool gates with malfunctioning key card machines). Not that I would know what that’s like. Because in the case that one happens to find the perfect pool, there’s the whole charade of memorizing a local residential street and house number were anyone to inquire where the hooligans who had invaded their quiet pool lived. 

Hypothetically speaking, that is.

Of course, once there, the kids had a blast. There were only a few hiccups. For instance, we were all enjoying a light rain that drove all of the other patrons away. (Okay, they may have started scattering once they saw our noisy caravan trooping in). Until I realized that I was too distracted to realize that our towels were also enjoying the summer rain. And less resembled towels than soggy piles of mushy fabric.

Another hiccup: rather than do what normal kids do and just pee in the pool, they had to be responsible and demand bathroom breaks. Independently of each other. Every five minutes. And there is nothing more difficult than undressing and dressing squirming children in wet bathing suits. I have found the one substance on earthy more difficult to remove than sharpies from walls or gum from a kid’s hair.

As far as sharing pool toys . . . well, that’s a nonstarter. Adeline’s favorite float is whichever one her siblings are playing which at the moment. And Adeline is neither shy nor subtle.

And to revisit the diaper situation? Turns they’re not so functional in the water after all. So a good half hour was spent fishing nearly-dissolved spongy tissue out of the pool. They will be finding bits of diaper washing up on coastlines around the world for years to come. So Baby Julia wore one of Adeline’s, which came nearly up to her armpits. Of course, Julia, being Julia, just floated contentedly in her little turtle, perhaps passing silent baby judgment on the brouhaha around her.

Leaving a pool is nearly as grand a production as getting ready. Trying to extricate one child from a pool is not challenging. Coordinating three small children getting out of the water is no easy feat. Especially now that Andrew has mastered jumping in by himself (oh, to think that it was so charming the first few times). Then one has to gather the numerous plastic toys which have somehow scattered across the entire pool and deck due to the jets, other children, El Nino. 

All in all, the kids had a fantastic time and there were no casualties. That said, it took about a week for me to fully regain my strength (my sanity is long gone; that ship has sailed.)

Naturally, we’ll be back next weekend.

Comments from the Peanut Gallery

I have started to realize that vast amounts of blog fodder are to be discovered among the nuggets of Andrew’s conversation to and from DayCare. Not that he wouldn’t be unknowingly hilarious in his speech were he say, to set up a soapbox in our living room. Unfortunately, and for reasons I cannot fathom, he doesn’t seem to be amenable to chatting with his mother when he’s not a captive audience pinioned to the seat of a moving vehicle. 

Sure, I could try to engage him more. But that would involve physically prying his grubby little paws from from the computer or a toy wheel or an inappropriate projectile. I have discovered the mom hack of unplugging the computer or flipping a fuse switch and blaming the selective, room specific power outages on Florida hurricanes. “Well Andrew, this one was a special storm that likes sun and blue sky.”

At times, depending on what each mother may be projecting onto a comment from her own (at times admittedly) unsavory experiences, they can invite a different type of inward response. Andrew, perhaps like most young children, is enamored with police cars and fire trucks. We were passing the scene of a fender bender when he announced, “I want to ride in a police car.” Oh, honey. May you never have the dubious distinction of being on the wrong side of the ineffective plastic screen like your mother. May you instead fight the crime of social injustices and act as a conduit to the greater good, like your beloved Chase in Paw Patrol. 

During a different conversation pertaining to vehicles and seat belts (notice a theme?), he pointed out that the side-by-side in Minnesota had seat belts.  I argued that seat belts don’t matter if certain parental figures don’t enforce their use. To which he matter-of-factly declared, “Daddy doesn’t crash.”

Touché. 

IN MY DEFENSE . . . the roads were very icy and it was dark-ish! See, this is how kids can keep you on your A-game . . . I will be on my deathbed and he will undoubtedly bring up the one time (ok, two) I forgot my wallet during a shopping trip. He and Chris got stuck in the mud on the side-by-side when he was maybe two and that child STILL brings it up. He won’t remember to Velcro his shoe, but he can give you a play-by-play of events that happened when I believed we were in our grace period as new parents. Kids are not supposed to retain memories of parental mistakes before age 12, right?

Next story . . . for some context, Andrew’s furry companion has been a little stuffed Bull aptly named Ferdinand (or “Ferdie”). Adeline has “Nana” (a doll) and a polar bear “Daddy Bear”. After deciding Julia needed a companion, Andrew indicated that he wanted to replace his Ferdie with one of the shiny, unclaimed stuffed animals. Despite wanting to keep the status quo because I’ve grown fond of Ferdie, I finally agreed. Feeling slightly like a madam, I arrayed the stash of stuffed animals for him to make his selection. After considering his options he reached his conclusion: “I’ll take Nana.”

Uh oh. 

Luckily the Larson household managed to avoid World War III. Something distracted the kids, Andrew forgot about switching animals, baby Julia remains friendless, and Adeline is still in possession of the coveted Nana. I get to hang on to the two backup Ferdies I have.

Which overall is for the best. Besides, I don’t know how well boys and dolls go over here. 

Maybe as long as she’s not a trans doll. 

Musings from a Little Lost Sheep

Since I was a little verbose and wasn’t able to concisely describe Church last post, this is Part Deux. 

You know you’re going to receive an unconventional sort of spiritual experience when you are handed earplugs upon entry. Of course, this is after you’ve finally dropped the children off along with the personal phone number of their physicians and dentists, gotten lost in the massive facility for a good half hour, and hung out in their restrooms for the better part of an hour because they’re just so darn comfy. Reminiscent of a lavish Texas country club. 

By the way, if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with the missing hand lotions. Must be a miscount. 

The main sanctuary looked like a band concert, with a full band set on stage, complete with a clear drum screen extending nearly up to the curtains. Multiple enormous television monitors extended across and on either side of the stage. Theater-level stage lights illuminated the state (they later flashed colors blindingly around the hall when the band was playing. Optometrists must be making a bundle out here). The technology didn’t end there. There was a barcode on the back of the chair that you could scan with your phone to download the church’s app. I started looking around for the teleporter. 

The music truly was deafening. And it lasted more than half the service. Literally. I checked my watch at some point, and by the time the band had performed about five songs, it was already past 10:30. 

There was no live pastor that day. Apparently the behemoth we were attending was only one “campus” of approximately 10 around this area. Congregants spoke of his in-person appearances in rhapsodic hushed tones. I imagined him entering in a deus ex machina style with attendees keeling over in exultation. So we ended up watching the strangest sermon I’ve ever seen. 

The first part consisted of him telling the congregation–with dubious humility–that while he’s not a great guitar player, he’s been practicing. So he proceeds to play “You are My Sunshine”. I’m also positive that he did not tie this back to anything Bible oriented; it reminded me of when a little kid plays the one song they know, like “Chopsticks”. Then he drags out a mirror and starts explaining how our identity has been tarnished and as he’s talking he’s throwing glitter at the mirror, glue, shaving cream, paint, automobile parts. The next act is cleaning it off to denote reclaiming our identity, although they must have missed the requisite practice because the end result was horribly smeared. Maybe indicating that we discover our identity only to find out we’re all a hot mess? The message got a little muddled, no pun intended. 

Several other points of the sermon: that our moral standards are in decay (much enthusiastic applause at this pronouncement). I’m thinking, “Uh oh, by these standards exhibit #1 of ‘moral decay’ standing right here.” And note to self, do not say anything remotely political because clearly I’m on the wrong side of that one. 

Another statement, “We represent Jesus here.” Whoa, well that is fairly presumptuous.” Sure, like Jesus. Except, oh yeah, the commitment to the poor. The loving others as thyself (which last time I checked didn’t mean marginalizing, disenfranchising, or simply shooting them.) 

And for agnostics like me, according to the pastor, I’m apparently a “sheep without a shepherd.” First of all, I don’t know if it was intended to be a compliment because to be a sheep with a shepherd wouldn’t that mean I would be compliantly obedient? While I got the impression that the congregation LOVES meeting a little lost sheep to guide into the light, they might hightail it because I would most likely be a cantankerous and obnoxious little ewe. 

Plus my hearing is basically shot now.

Community (Concert) Church

Our Sunday mornings have been appropriated by a mega church. That’s right, I have been subjecting innocent Baby Julia to an Evangelical mega church service in conservative Florida. DeSantis would be proud.

I cannot convey the size of this church. It is a production in and of itself to park. You have a virtual maze of cones, which oddly makes me feel like a rat. There are parking guides looking as professional and stately as the airport ground plane parking conductors. They wave their little batons so insistently that I fear what may happen to me if I go rogue and park where I see fit. Not to worry; once you get out of the car (parked several hundred kilometers away due to parking lot saturation) a golf cart sweeps down on you with alarming alacrity to escort you to the destination. Sheriff deputies outside of their flashing cars line the entrance, trying to efficiently guide traffic out of the area while the poor civilian drivers who just want to drive past the road are stopped indefinitely. Perhaps as a penalty for not being appropriately attending the church, those pagans.  

Oh, and then the kid’s area. They have so many children that they don’t divide children into a few age groups, they literally have a room for each year of age. A room specifically devoted to one-year olds, one for two year olds, one for three year olds, etc. For the older kids, there is a HUGE indoor playground fashioned after the McDonalds model, with towering indoor climbing areas and twisting slides. Air hockey and ping pong tables are situated all around the massive equipment. It makes fancy Discovery Point Daycare look like a ragtag enterprise.

To enroll the children for that day, you must spend about 15 minutes on an iPad that a volunteer unexpectedly thrusts into your hand. The information requested is nothing short of a Level II background check. After the initial visit, it’s easier, as they have everything on you from your most embarrassing childhood memory to your credit history. A sticker is produced for each child and for the adult in order to pick of the kiddo. Presumably because parents either don’t recognize their children or decide to abscond with a more well-behaved child. A volunteer mistakenly informed me that if I lost the sticker, I’d have difficulty obtaining the child following the service.

TOTALLY inadvertently I “lost” the ticket.

I assume the kids are still at church, and I’ve had quite the relaxing rest of the weekend.

There is a coffee bar located in the middle of the gigantic entry way. You have to virtually squeeze through the multitude of conversing congregates to get to my caffeine fix. Multiple coffee stations with a variety of sweeteners, creamers, cup sizes. A coffee station like that though is the fastest way to an agnostic’s heart. Can you say “Amen”?

And then the stage. It’s built like a concert hall, with a full band (including a percussion section enclosed in a see-through sound enhancing barricade, electric guitars, a keyboardist. Three enormous screens are placed across the stage area, broadcasting either the lyrics of the song or livestreaming from the main campus. Yes, there are nine church locations apparently, and our Parrish one is presumably one of the humbler ones.

I just realized I have only described the experience of entering the church and consider this an entry to be continued . . .

This is a REAL picture of one of the main campuses.

The Case for Stay-cations

Baby Julia is going to be a world traveler in May, which means she’ll need a passport. Incidentally, Andrew needed a new one too because children’s passports are valid for all of four days. The forms are easy enough to complete, but I faced a much more formidable task: obtaining photos of a baby and a five year old who has an inexplicable aversion to my trying to take his picture. 

By the time I’d gotten the kids up, diapered, dressed, fed, redressed, and shod, I was almost ready to call it a day and go back home. But Baby Julia Future Traveler Extraordinaire needed her passport, so off we went. My choice of venue was a CVS, which I think almost picked itself up off its foundation and moved to Wisconsin when it saw us coming. The employee who drew the short straw was maybe 18 years old and looked like a deer in headlights when he saw our caravan bearing down on him. 

It may have been a diversionary tactic, but he told us the camera for photos wasn’t working. When I persisted, he admitted that I could take the pictures on my phone and after a process that requires a Ph.D in Computer Science, transfer them to the CVS system. Meanwhile, as I’m coralling Andrew and Julia, Adeline is eyeing the tantalizing rows of merchandise just begging to be mangled by a two year old. More on that later. 

I’d learned from Adeline’s passport debacle that I needed a white blanket on which to position the baby. (Personally, I think my suggestion of duct-taping them to the white pull-down screen would have been equally effective, but there you go). Prepared, I unfurled the huge white bedsheet from my bag, spread it in an aisle to the amusement of gawking onlookers (should’ve charged a spectator fee) and maneuvered Julia onto it. I think we only knocked over a few seniors in the process. 

Baby Julia was NOT amused. And babies are NOT subtle criers. She screwed up her little face and let everyone east of the Mississippi know she was being photographed against her will when she had clearly not eaten in weeks and needed to be fed. Andrew was much more amenable, although he insisted on being photographed with Ferdie, his little bull stuffed animal, and a dump truck toy which was the sidekick du jour. I have to say, Ferdie was quite the camera hog. But Andrew stood there happily with his arms full and gave a radiant smile. 

Sighing with relief (both me and the poor CVS employee, who was probably regretting missing the college application deadline) we attempted to download the photos. It turns out, however, that the CVS passport photo editor has criteria that are meticulous and specific beyong belief. 

Either that or a nasty sense of humor. 

First, it rejected Julia’s photo because she was crying. Back to the blanket. With few options to induce her to NOT cry (at this point she had crescendoed to wails), I was reduced to the desperate and commical faces and movements that parents usually reserve for the privacy of the home. Finally we got a photo that the tyrannical machine would accept. 

Julia was dialing the Department of Family Services by this point to report me for child cruelty. 

Surely Andrew’s was a spectacular success, right? No, apparently you can’t smile in passport photos. You have to glare into the camera with just the amount of malice. A snarl probably doesn’t hurt. Adeline could’ve sneared with the best of them, but happy Andrew almost had to be caught unaware to get an unsmiling shot. 

As the photos are finally uploaded, I turn around to see that Adeline has pulled Every. Single. Gift. Card. Off. The. Rack. And somehow still found time to locate the Cadbury Eggs and start eating them, foil and all. It was too late to hide the evidence, as she looked like she’d face-planted in a mud puddle. $247 dollars later for the passport photos and damaged merchandise, we emerged from the store. 

I’m happy to report that the employee has handed in his resignation and is now pre-med at Florida State.

Ducks ‘N Dogs

Andrew has just turned five, which has not been a one-day affair (as one might imagine) but has instead lasted for about the last six months. Well that might be a slight exaggeration, but I would say we’ve been hearing about it ad nauseam for about the last month and a half. The one greatest desire of his past four years, it seems, has been to turn five. And to have a Paw Patrol cake.

Mostly the Paw Patrol cake. As far as little kids are concerned, I think the worst blights of human existence could be cured by some cake covered in sugar cartoon characters.

Adeline’s birthday had gone virtually unnoticed a week earlier, ostensibly to be celebrated at the same time as Andrew’s the following week. But let’s be honest, the joys of birthdays are somewhat lost on two-year-olds. A gift for Adeline is a tricky thing as well. She generally doesn’t display an interest unless it’s something her brother is playing with, and then it’s the best thing since sliced bread. Of course, Andrew seems to operate under much the same principle. A toy could be sitting enticingly in the middle of the living room and it will be unceremoniously ignored until the minute the other child expresses an interest. And then it’s World War III.

I have to digress to a different kid event that I thought might be an interesting weekend diversion. Colorfully and alliteratively called the Duck Drop Derby, it’s a fundraiser for the Boys’ and Girls’ Club of Grand Rapids. One purchases a raffle ticket that corresponds (theoretically) to a numbered rubber duck that is then one of thousands to be dumped off a bridge into the Mississippi River. In a less-environmentally-friendly version of Pooh Sticks, the fastest and slowest ducks are fished out and “win.” Perhaps as a result of decades of flummoxed beach goers scratching their heads over the mysterious appearance of a multitude of floating bath toys in the Gulf of Mexico, the ducks are now haphazardly captured by a strategically placed net (maybe not a great optic, though, a little too reminiscent of Big Oil spills).

Errant ducks are chased down by disgruntled kayakers who presumably got lost on the way to the Boundary Waters or are beleaguered spouses of the fundraisers.

This all seems relatively straightforward, right? I mean, this being an annual fundraiser having been advertised for most of the summer, it should not be hard to give some money to the organization.

You would not believe how difficult it was to get a darn duck. From the posters, it appeared like local businesses and even random individuals were all but falling over themselves to sell Duck Derby tickets. But there was no booth outside the grocery store. The Historical Society said they’d been selling them at one point, but couldn’t offer me any more information. The Boys’ and Girls’ Club said they could not take any information over the phone. The sporting goods store had never heard of the event and the clerk looked so skeptical as to actually doubt the existence of ducks period, real or rubber.

Long (tedious) story short, I had to all but tackle one of the organizers the morning OF the Derby and accost her as she was getting out of her car to start setting up. Obviously, at this point it was entirely the principle of the thing and the motivating factor behind my perseverance was more annoyance at sunk costs than supporting a truly admirable organization.

I’m sure everyone will be shocked to learn that we did not win the duck race. In fact, my ticket was probably gleefully shredded by the organizers; some karmic retribution for irrational, fanatical ticket chasing. Duck hunting without a license, maybe.   

Back to the birthday party, though. Given our distance from town and my not knowing any other parents (and Andrew not expressing a desire to have playmates over) his party was attended by adults; a couple of neighbors and one of my coworkers.

But that was OK with him. He had a Paw Patrol cake.

A postscript to this birthday event. After months of enduring inquiries about when he was going to turn five, after hearing about this cake which (relatively speaking) was going to be the highlight of his young existence, after coordinating the festivities and hosting the party, the darling little ingrate asks me seriously, “Mommy, when am I going to be six?”

Round Trip

I recently traveled to Italy for my sister’s wedding. It was incredibly challenging to bear the audacious request that we travel to the gorgeous countryside of Tuscany, but I somehow managed to endure the burden with minimal complaint. I had originally intended on bringing the children, but in the end decided that dragging two small children under the age of five to Italy for an event that just by nature is not particularly kid-friendly would not have been in anyone’s best interest.

Knowing Adeline, might’ve even caused an international incident. I figured Italians’ fondness and tolerance for children’s antics—however expansive—must have some limitations.

So Mama got to jet off for an unencumbered travel adventure and Chris got to enjoy some quality time with family as well. Just of the slightly less glamorous variety.

The wedding festivities could fill pages, so I’ll start with some anecdotes that illustrate the mercurial nature of the airline industry.  First of all, I thought I might not even make it out of Hibbing, Minnesota. In hindsight, it’s quite possible that the ticket agent (slash baggage handler slash flight attendant slash TSA agent slash back-up pilot) of the tiny airport had never encountered a traveler going out of country. Whatever the reason, she was woefully uninformed of any and all travel procedures that I potentially would be encountering. First, she said I could not check my bag through to Rome. This was not entirely unexpected, because sometimes they want you to pick up your luggage prior to going through customs. But I was disappointed, because I’d accomplished the impressive feat of stuffing all of my tents (I mean maternity outfits) into a carry-on that I was hoping to check all the way through to the final destination. But I was told I would have to pick them up in Atlanta, which was doubly astounding because I wasn’t even traveling through Atlanta. Finally the more seasoned employee at the airport (probably the custodian or just a passing taxi driver) assured her that I would be able to check my bag all the way through. Despite the fact that this exchange had not exactly inspired confidence, my little carry on made it safely to Italy.

The more nerve-wracking moment occurred when she informed me that I’d need my US vaccination card in order to be allowed into Italy. This was surprising because from my experience in the Azores, the Europeans viewed these flimsy and inconsistent documents with not a small amount of skepticism. In the grand hierarchy of paper products I think they rank slightly above toilet paper. However, I thought I’d done plenty of research in the ever-changing landscape of COVID travel restrictions and that the latest word was that these weren’t necessary. Besides, the strains I’d been vaccinated against were multiple strata removed from the current offenders, making the effectiveness of my inoculations dubious. Bottom line, I didn’t have it with me, and I’m mentally calculating the time frame necessary to procure it while envisioning my vacation dissolving in front of my eyes. Amid the rapidly changing COVID policies, even my protestations echoed hollowly in my ears. Long story short, she was mistaken on this somewhat important point as well. I was able to board the plane and head to Italy without further incident. On an aside, I had a twelve-hour layover in the Minneapolis, so had there been such a COVID policy in effect, it likely would have expired by the time I got there. Or I might have contracted and recovered from the virus prior to boarding my final plane.

One last airplane story. Since I stayed overnight in Minneapolis, I had my carry on with me on the plane. Under the absurd notion that someone 6 ½ months pregnant should probably lift huge items into overhead bins located about the altitude of cumulous clouds, I asked a flight attendant to help me. Once again, the assumption being that flight attendants help with this sort of thing. Not so; I was curtly informed that it was against the flight attendants union regulations to lift luggage into overhead bins.  The flight attendant then enlisted an unfortunate fellow passenger located near me to do the thankless task. When I voiced my outrage to Chris, he said it was probably in European flight attendants’ contracts because they were incurring injuries. Which is understandable, I suppose, but I’m just thinking about the lawsuits—or at least very unappealing PR—if I’d had some catastrophic injury. Shoot, if insurance companies want to call pregnancy a disability and make me buy short-term disability insurance to get any kind of maternity leave compensation, I should be able to get a few perks out of this “infirmity”. Especially given my advanced maternal age. I might have broken a hip.

Maybe I could have done the orthopedic rehabilitation and had the baby in a single hospital stay.

Mama on a Mission

I traveled for the first time in four years without any children. Chris has been going down monthly to get the Florida house ready for us, and I decided that it was about my turn. I would like to dispel two misconceptions, perpetuated by well-meaning individuals who have presumably never been around children. Chis warned me that going down to Florida was not a vacation. After all, it entailed travel and some household chores like having the plumber come to fix a leaking sink and choosing carpets. 

At the time, I kind of smiled and assured Chris that no, I’m sure that the brutal task of opening the front door for paid professionals amounts to way more work than working full time while keeping two small children alive, looking after five animals, and keeping the house running . . . while pregnant. I could have wrestled alligators and it would have still seemed like a walk in the park. Of course, upon reflection . . . 

No, I can’t even pretend. WAY easier. 

Other moms postulated that I would be feeling like I was forgetting something, a nagging suspicion that I was supposed to be running a kid to school or getting them ready for a bath. After all, I had not traveled unencumbered by diaper bags, snacks, toys, and little children in almost five years. But this, too, proved to be either an exaggeration or a fallacy. I had no panicked moments in airports where I worried that I’d misplaced Adeline. If for no other reason than she has an impressive death grip on my hair/clothes/nose at any given time. More like leisurely hours reading my book over coffee (as opposed to spilling my coffee over hapless fellow passengers while fishing Adeline out of luggage bins).

My neighbor at the AirBnb.

My point with this is not that I don’t cherish my children, but that I can function independently from them without being racked by crippling guilt. Maybe I should do this more often. Like, monthly.

(Audible panicked gasp from Chris, somewhere in Minnesota.)

The only snafu occurred during my return trip. For reasons unknown, all flights from Tampa to Minneapolis were canceled on Sunday. (“It’s snowing there” volunteered the counter attendant unhelpfully. Ok lady, eight months out of the year that might be plausible, but it was almost June, after all). So it’s 5 AM, I’ve driven an hour to the airport and surrendered my rental car and Airbnb. 

I ended up electing to stay at a Ramada inn near the airport for convenience, despite no flights out until the following day and a 3 PM check in time at the hotel. And let me tell you . . . either COVID had really done a bigger number than I thought on the hospitality industry or the Ramada has gone downhill. First I could not get into my room to save my life. The first key cards did not work at all, and I had several instances where I thought I locked myself out of the room because the replacement cards would not work from time to time. That or the door lock was testing me to ascertain how truly determined I was to get in my room. 

The room was a little shabby, with drab fixtures and cracks in the walls and bathroom counters. But two important fixtures–the wifi and coffee maker–worked, and I’m not picky. The next morning, though, I had a nasty shock when there was absolutely no hot water. Only my knowledge that I’d be spending countless hours in airports in close proximity with other humans prodded me into cleanliness. 

You’re welcome, fellow travelers. 

Long story short, I survived the shower and subsequent interminable flight back. Kids and cats were unscathed and seemingly unperturbed by my absence. Chris was happy to have me back (and was slightly more appreciative, I like to think.)

One last comment about Florida: the fact that a lot of people retire there is further confirmation that this is the perfect location for me. I have the cold weather tolerance of a tropical lizard, and I’m a very slow, cautious driver. I’m not particularly partial to children who are not my own. I like coffee and crocheting and reading and crosswords and TV. I’ve clearly inherited the early-hearing-loss gene. I don’t drink or use recreational drugs. 

So next time we go, I’ll start scouting out daycare options for the kids. 

And retirement communities for me.

Back to Lazy Sundays

Always looking for ways to keep the kids busy on weekends in the winter, I have been taking them to a local church on Sundays. Plus, one of my closest friends goes there, so she and I end up chatting in the toddler room for most of the service. Not that this is a deliberate avoidance of the service or a gratuitous use of a playroom. No, the kids are legitimately bonkers after about 15 minutes, and there’s an audible collective sigh of relief when I scoop them up, retrieve the toys from the rafters, and wrangle them into the room. 

There was a point when I would let them roam around the entryway; it’s a very small building and the vestibule is just a narrow entryway. But then the female half of the pastor couple gently informed me that she would prefer if I could keep them in sight, as there had been a toddler snatching somewhere in the country at some previous point in time. I get the liability aspect, but I wanted to ask, “Uh, have you met Adeline?” Her ilk was clearly the inspiration for O. Henry’s “The Ransom of Red Chief.” 

Ten minutes with that child and the would-be kidnappers would be begging me to accept huge sums of money for the opportunity to return her. 

I say that with love, of course. But let’s be honest, she would give any kidnapper second thoughts. They should use her in rehabilitative sessions with criminals. They would forever renounce kidnapping and turn to careers as productive citizens. Likely not in childcare. 

Photo: The after-dinner destruction zone photo was too graphic for print. Epic parent fail #14.

I haven’t been back there in awhile after my last experience in the toddler room, where I was subjected to another mother and child. Her child was great. This foster mother made me question the CPS placement agencies. I can’t remember the last time I have had such a visceral averse reaction to the companionship of a person. 

First, she talked incessantly about herself and her family. I could tell you the brand of sheets they use at home. She and her husband are apparently fill-in pastors after leaving (being kicked out of?) their last congregation. I know all about her likes, dislikes, where they grew up/worked/traveled to (spoiler alert: all in Minnesota). Her kids’ food preferences. Bowel movements. 

I just kept thinking, her poor congregation. Pastors generally embody the compassionate active listener, the comforting presence embracing wounded souls. Every once in a while I would manage to sneak in a comment that would seemingly invite more conversation and questions, such as, “Oh, your parents live far away in Hibbing? I can understand, my parents live in the Azores, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.” 

And nothing. Not a blink, not a hesitation or quizzical stare, not even a polite question. She would just bulldoze on through another series of self-indulgent revelations. 

And she hates everything. She hates baby changing tables. She hates mothers who make their own baby food. She hates store-bought baby food. She hates diaper genies. I mean, “I hate diaper genies” said no mother EVER. Pretty much anything pertaining to children she despises. I can only wonder what her sermons were about. Maybe take the 10 Commandments with a grain of salt but beware of the pervasive evils of onesies? 

It was exhausting. I don’t even remember how I managed to escape that day or what excuse I mumbled on my way out. I may have even forgotten one of the kids in my haste.

Suffice it to say I have not been back in awhile. And I still subscribe to the Cult of Diaper Genies.

Not in my Job Description

The calendar may claim it’s April, but the calendar has clearly never met Minnesota. Over the past week we got nearly a foot of snow and this lovely phenomenon called “Wintry Mix” which consists of the very worst of everything that might ever fall from the sky. Sleet, snow, freezing rain, hail. Minnesotans always complaint about the weather, which has always made me feel somewhat less wimpy, but as I was telling Chris the other day, there is something you can do about it. In addiction we always say that there is no such thing as a geographical cure, meaning you can change your environment, but unfortunately the mental health woes come with. 

You know what a change in geography CAN cure? Living in a part of the country that makes anything outdoors untenable for more than six months a year. I was thinking back to the last time I took the kids out for a walk, bundled up to within an inch of their lives. I think it was October. 

The worst part about the weather is it means that little missiles of energy have nowhere to go for most of the year. I’ve given up on instructing the kids to “use the inside voice” because considering they probably don’t remember going outside, this phrase is virtually meaningless. Andrew has almost literally worn a path in the carpet running back and forth.

On a different, somewhat somber note, we are down a guinea pig. My descriptions of the guinea pigs have not always been the most gracious, and I realized that it’s not that I necessarily don’t like the critters per se; they’ve just come to embody some resentments that still (if I’m being honest) rankle a little to this day. 

1. Chris has at some point decided that the piggies are delicate little creatures that must have the top-of-the-line food and equipment. Their cage takes up about 97% of our living room, which is one of the main reasons Andrew has about two square feet in which to ambulate. 
2. Chris has decided that guinea pigs always need a companion, which means why he keeps replacing one the minute one dies. So we’ve had a different combination of guinea pigs for about the last ten years. I’ve tried to point out the indefinite situation he’s creating, and sometimes I suspect he might be swapping them out even more frequently then I realize. I thought it was a little suspicious that a couple have lasted like three times the normal lifespans. I think I may have been duped like little children are when goldfish are just surreptitiously replaced with new ones upon expiring.
3. They eat better than we do. Chris specially orders something called Timothy hay, which I really don’t think is even a real thing, it’s just a myth perpetuated by specialty stores to take advantage of pet owners. This stuff is so expensive and difficult to procure that I suspect it’s probably illegal in certain states. 

Long story short, one of the piggies has been acting a little sick, losing fur and weight. Granted, she is about 37, and they’re only supposed to live like 3-6 years. I’m headed out the door on a Friday morning having gotten both kiddos up, fed, dressed, teeth brushes, etc.) Chris is headed back to his apartment in Brainerd later that day for work for the next four days (wives and children do not need companionship as much as guinea pigs, apparently) and he nonchalantly says, “So, I don’t think Cinnamon is going to make it through the weekend, just so you know.”

Wait, what? I’m looking at him incredulously hoping he has a contingency plan to bring her with him, because I certainly do not feel equipped to deal with work, kids, the household, chores, groceries, and now this. 

So the rest of the day I’m in a tizzy. I’m trying to think about how to try to explain death to a four-year-old who can hardly put his socks on, and oh my god, what if they’re cannibals and I come back to a guinea pig crime scene? On top of it, since it’s been below freezing for over six months now, there’s not exactly any way to bury an animal. 

Which leaves the freezer. 

No, it’s not ideal, and yes it’s something right out of a bad joke or horror movie, but there are limited options here. 

Might thwart burglars though. Especially if they decide to grab an ice cream after working up an appetite burgling. That would be a nasty shock. 

At the very least, Chris might not leave the burden on me next time. 

Long story short, Chris did end up taking Cinnamon to the vet, where she was put down very humanely, although in a much less dramatic fashion. 

I swear, if there’s another guinea pig when I get home, we might find Chris in the freezer.

Toddlers and Trampolines

I have another Toddler post, so if that’s not your cup of tea, this is the time to escape. And let me know where you go, because I’m often looking for kid-proof hiding places. For instance, last Friday Adeline bought a house. Well, that’s not entirely true, although not outside the realm of possibility. The other day, I get a call from our real estate agent. Adeline had somehow gotten ahold of the landline detachable unit and proceeded to call Dee. I suspect she pressed “redial”, though for all I know the little rascal had Googled and then secretly dialed her personal cell. Our agent told us that Adeline babbled to her for a good 5 minutes and was very self-assured. So Adeline is confident, if not something of a conversation monopolizer.

Good to know.

Yes, I think there’s enough evidence to support the theory that Adeline is utterly fearless. We went to a trampoline park for the first time the other week, which is virtually a warehouse of connected trampolines, foam pits, balance apparatus, a climbing wall, and an incomprehensible number of germs and contagious illnesses. That last part is an assumption on my part, but I know that my kiddos likely contributed to the germ count. (Sorry).

There were funky rubber socks, bright lights, loud music, kids yelling.

Parents self-medicating.

Even Andrew was a little trepidatious in the new, chaotic environment. And he wasn’t the only one. There were other kids who were a little nervous as well, circling the equipment, gauging the fun-to-risk ratio. Being the protective older brother, he would often run interference if he saw teens barreling towards Adeline. (Of course, far from being grateful, she always looked slightly disappointed after rescue efforts).

Even parents hung on sidelines, probably reflecting on their insurance plan coverage. (Should’ve gone with the lower deductible).

Right away, Adeline decided she wanted in on the action. Particularly on the trampoline, where I had to snatch her up several times before a big kid bounced her into the stratosphere. I was envisioning a toddler projectile and subsequently being banned for life. I think Children’s Protective Services frowns on this sort of thing, so I decided not to leave the little toot up to her own devices. She clambered up a ladder suspending a beam over a foam pit, and she was bound and determined to launch herself off into the foam squares. I still have nightmares involving a drag net being employed to fish the baby out. Much like you have to empty ice bins if a piece of glass gets in.

Drat! Foiled again!

You would think that bouncing around for two hours would effectively wear them out, and for the most part it did. Naturally, they did muster up enough energy to cling to the rails and force us to literally pry them away from the activity center. It was successful, I think, in that both the kiddos and the trampoline park emerged unscathed. Goodness knows we had to sign enough waivers to be allowed to jump. I swear, I have never read such a list of horrific, slightly fascinating, ways to expire. I have to concede that the facility’s lawyers have very active imaginations. By the time you get to the end of the paperwork, you really don’t care if you’re signing over a child or left kidney, you’re just ready to be done. 

All and all, worth the expense and effort. If just for the rubber socks.

A “Tail” of ReFURbishing

I have lived with the infamous squirrel tail incident since I was a third grader. In fact, I think it merits the name “Tail-gate”, though the squirrel was definitely not enjoying the party. After hearing another story today, I feel vindicated in my efforts to recycle a part of an animal who definitely would not be using it in the future.

The story, which has been delightedly repeated by various family members over the years, is as follows: while driving home in Austin, TX, we came across a squirrel on the losing end of a vehicle run-in (run-over?). Being the conscientious environmentalist I was (or just your garden-variety weird child) I wanted to cut off the tail to use for a hat. In my defense, we’d just driven out to California and seen multiple coon-skin cap variations.

Despite my persuasive arguments about cutting out the middleman and up-cycling the poor critter, my parents resolutely kept driving. It is quite possible—given my personality even back then—that I was somewhat . . . persistent. More likely, I was insufferable. For an inordinate amount of time. Years, according to my parents.

In group, one of the clients shared a story about her daughter’s encounter with a fox. This story follows the same initial trajectory, where a poor animal ended up in the road. The client’s daughter realized that the critter did not need its tail anymore and that she might be able to re-purpose it. Unlike my parents, her mother climbed out of the vehicle and tried to sever the tail with some scissors (either she’s very accommodating, or this incident is a contributing factor to her current residential stay). Turns out, children’s safety scissors are not very effective slicing tools. But instead of abandoning the effort (and then teasing her daughter for years, ahem), this devoted individual tosses the whole flattened fox into the vehicle to finish the project at home. No baking muffins or coloring for this dynamic mother-daughter duo.

The story lost some of its shock value after this point, so I don’t remember exactly how the tail was refurbished. They must have managed to detach the tail, though the precise surgical mechanism escapes me. I don’t think it was stuck on the business end of a hat, which is a lost opportunity in my mind. Something about how the scent was used to train a dog or tease a dog or something to that effect.

Although I kept a straight face during this rendition, I secretly felt vindicated. Technical difficulties and unappetizing nature of chopping up animals aside, I was astounded that my childhood request was not as odd as it seemed. The fact that there would be two very strange little children with a proclivity for roadkill tails strikes me as implausible.

I’m not exactly what the lesson from this story is. Maybe to drive VERY fast past inanimate creatures in case your child gets any ideas. Or to carry hedge shears in the trunk for easier dismemberment.

Enjoy that fluffy little tail now, fella.

Grub Flub

The little ones continue to be a source of entertainment, consternation, and general craziness. If I were reimbursed for the amount of time I spend cleaning up messes, prying choking hazards and sharp pens out of tiny palms, and trying to rationalize with a four-year-old, I’d be a very rich woman.

Adeline has discovered that it is inexplicably fun to throw her food off of her high chair. I like to think she’s testing the theory of gravity, but invariably she ends up testing mom’s patience. The other day I look over and all of the carefully rinsed raspberries are littering the floor. Many were smooshed and the kitchen resembled a crime scene. Adeline was naturally thrilled.

Apparently I’m a slow learner. Because the next day I have the brilliant idea of serving macaroni and cheese.

We all know where this is going.

To my credit, Adeline usually loves mac & cheese and inhales it almost before it hits her tray. The rest is smeared thickly across her face and in her hair in a way that makes me think she does not have a career as a makeup artist. But that’s easy enough, you just hose her down after she eats.

This time, I return after a few minutes to find the entire bowl of macaroni and cheese is strewn across the floor. Her throwing arm is impressive, given the area of floor she managed to cover. After this incident, I seriously considered putting trash bags or a tarp under her high chair because even after painstakingly scraping up the sticky pasta, I ended up picking gummy macaroni off my socks for the next couple of days.

She a curious one. She has demonstrated admirable efficiency when it comes to dispatching the yogurt pouches. So I get complacent and give her one to eat in the car. The car seat must have interfered with her hand-eye coordination because the yogurt ended up all. over. the. back. seat.

That was a rough night. Because later I made microwave popcorn. Or rather, I burned it beyond all possible recognition. I put it in and forgot about it until the smoke alarm went off. Despite sub-0 temperatures, I opened all of the windows and doors. But that bag kept spewing thick smoke until I finally made my way over to it (dodging macaroni) and tossed the whole sucker outside. I got up on the chair and pushed the button on it, which did no good. Maybe the button is supposed to do something else, but why put a goddam button on a smoke alarm if it doesn’t shut it off? So I had to wait until the smoke completely subsided and the alarm finally ended (or maybe it took my hammer threats seriously). To Adeline and Andrew, this whole commotion was even more entertaining than throwing the contents of one’s carefully prepared (ok, microwaved) dinner onto the floor.

New ‘dos and Parenting Don’ts

This past week has been a little rough on the kid front. Adeline’s classroom was closed again, quarantined for 10 days. Ostensibly because a kiddo looked at someone who had a slight cough, meaning they are potentially a little superspreader-bastion-of-contagion. Meant she was stuck at home with one parent or the other, reminding Chris and I that childcare workers are the underpaid, un-sung heroes of modern society and brainstorming ways to venerate our providers and keep them as happy as possible.

To top it off, the kiddoes have had a nasty stomach virus. Andrew was a puddle of escaped bodily fluids on Monday, so I stayed home with him then. Of course, he bounced back so impressively he was a virtual paragon of energetic resilience. I got the same bug on Thursday and could barely make it off the couch. My bounce was less . . . pronounced . . . and it was more a fatigued shuffle back to work the next day. Then Adeline got the bug over the weekend. Suffice it to say not a lot of photos from the past week will be photo-book material. I don’t mind cleaning up after my own kids, but I don’t think I have the abdominal fortitude to be a preschool teacher.

I missed Andrew’s first swim lesson of the winter the other day because I was recovering from the bug and simply forgot. That, and I had wanted to get Andrew’s hair cut for a while and scheduled it for Saturday morning. He was getting so grown out that I was forgetting what he looked like. When a four-year-old’s hair is getting so grown out and unkempt that even he was begging for a haircut . . . it was getting pretty desperate. He could also be partial to the treats he gets afterwards (smart hair stylists!), so if I notice he starts wanting a trim every other week, I’ll be suspicious. Way more effective than my sneak attacks with scissors when he’s distracted at meal times. Fewer injuries, as well.

Speaking of Andrew, he’s very impressed with mommy’s new vehicle. He was talking about the car the other day and he pointed out, “Mommy crashes and then Mommy gets a new car.” Which is not exactly untrue, per se, but not exactly the message I was intending to impart. I don’t want him to extrapolate this lesson to apply to toys, so I’ll be vigilant if I notice toys starting to sustain unreasonable wear and tear. He has become surprisingly safety-conscious, however. Heaven forbid I take one of my hands off the wheel, or I immediately face a verbal barrage from the backseat. Given how Chris drives, I don’t know how he makes it back without having to scrape Andrew off the ceiling. Then again, Daddy hasn’t crashed a car (though he may want to, it’s how we get new ones, after all.)

Even in swim lessons, the instructor has to pull Andrew into the water to facilitate his jumping in. I have the feeling Adeline is not going to be quite as circumspect. It’s all I can do to keep her from flinging herself headfirst into Andrew’s bath. Adeline absolutely idolizes Andrew, so it’s all the poor little guy can do to get some privacy. If Adeline’s barred entry (naptime, for instance), I have to sequester her in a different area so she’s not bombarding the door yelling “An-Drew . . . An-Drew.” I think she prides herself on being the official naptime-liberator, trying to rescue children everywhere from tyrannical Nap Dictators.

So far (and it’s only Monday, knock on wood) the YMCA hasn’t been closed down due to a positive case. If this variant keeps spreading, I’m just going to take a page out of the old “Chicken Pox Party” handbook where I try to get them infected at the same time just to get it out of the way. If we all have to be quarantined for 10 days, it would preferably be at the same time, as opposed to taking 30 days out. I’m sure that’s not exactly a recommended parenting hack, but the old “What to expect when . . . “ literature doesn’t exactly cut it today. Of course, I like to think I’ve allowed them to crawl around and eat enough dirt to have sufficiently strong immune systems.  

A Commercial Christmas

I was listening to NPR this morning when the broadcaster broke in with an excited Presidential announcement. The leader of the free world then bold reassurance about the country’s handling of . . . the Christmas shopping season. Now, I’m a proponent of timeliness myself, but I’m willing to even accept delivery up until Epiphany. Anything present arriving later should obviously be considered criminal, but I can take Epiphany.

Is it just me, or is Biden setting the bar a little low? No judgment, it just seems like there might be slightly more pressing matters, such as the elephant in the room. What’s next, are we going to create a focus group on the pressing national issue of re-gifting? (On record, I cannot confirm nor deny that I may engage in this practice.)

I get that that consumers spending money is one measure of economic growth. But considering the new variant of the DEADLY GLOBAL PANDEMIC it seems a tad ironic. I can only imagine the prime ministers, world leaders, and health ministers shaking their heads over our tragic inability to prioritize. If I’m a casual citizen political, I would infer that a) the pandemic must not be a concern, so who has time for boosters? and b) everyone else will spend the money on gifts after hearing this report, so I don’t need to (sorry family, no Christmas presents.)

Or maybe I’m being too hard on him . . . maybe he just missed the security/health/economic crisis briefing . . .

 . . . for the last two years. Ok, never mind. Or maybe this is reverse psychology. Americans can be so independent-minded; maybe this should have been the vaccine tactic all along.

“Citizens of America, whatever you do, don’t get vaccinated! The world cannot handle this level of civic responsibility! Ignorance is the true COVID eliminator!”

On another topic, NPR also sagely informed me that the loons in Minnesota are struggling due to fewer lakes and lake shores. Clearly, this newscaster has never been to Minnesota, because I can assure you we’re doing quite well on the lake front, no pun intended. Like, I shrugged with a little extra enthusiasm the other day and almost fell into an adjoining lake. The lake that adjoins the lake that has a tributary to our lake. We have plenty of lakes for the loons. 10,000 of them, to be exact. Or 10,000-ish.

I do take a little solace—loon crisis aside—that Minnesotans may be some of the sole survivors of climate change. When everywhere else gets a little (or a lot) toasty before being submerged underwater due to the melting Arctic areas, Minnesotans will perhaps be enjoying mild temperatures situated comfortably in the middle of the North American continent.  

I would be remiss not to share the thought process that followed the invitation that was kindly sent to us regarding a wedding. When I clicked on the Save-the-Date, I was able to RSVP, but strangely the number would not click up past 2 guests. Obviously, I’M going to Italy for Sarah’s wedding, and well, we can’t leave the kids alone (sorry, Chris). And a young kid is hard to travel with solo.

So we’re looking at me and a cat. I’ll get back to you later on which one. Right now Zoe outweighs the suitcase maximum, so it might be Max.

Ok, there seems to have been a minor change. On the RSVP it now looks like four people are coming. Hmmm. It’s much easier when you can blame your sister for not inviting everyone. So, I suppose now there will be four of us traveling together. Good, it was so hard to figure out which cat to bring.

“High” Jinks

My one-year old is driving me absolutely crazy. She has just started pulling up and engaging in supported standing, otherwise known as “mom toture”. She has enthusiastically discovered that she can now get her paws into absolutely everything and is literally at a new level, height-wise and destruction-wise. What I had thought was a baby-proof environment is instead a mine-field of dangerous objects. 

For instance, my little table where I do beading is equipped with a needle and scissors and Adeline doesn’t just reach for them. No, she instantly upended the table, and zoomed toward all things sharp. She has even discovered she can open my little plastic drawers of my materials. It’s like she’s aiming to end up a baby porcupine in the emergency room being de-quilled. So the beading has been shelved. Though shelves are next on her agenda, I suspect. 

I will have to invest in padlocks, I think.  Forget those plastic baby latches. We’re going military-grade hardware. This kid is something else.

Another thing that I don’t remember anyone telling me before I had kids: you can’t sit down anymore. Well, techinically you can sit down all you want, but anything that is in reaching distance of the new two-legged terror is now fair game. Now that Adeline can reach, suddenly everything I do has become a lot more interesting. I could be doing the New York Times crossword and Adeline would want a piece of it. 

Another story: she also has been kicked out of KidZone at the YMCA. Twice. And they deal with toddler tantrums on a daily basis. 

I should have known better when I walked in and saw that the Saturday staff was comprised of two terrified pre-teens. When I passed Adeline off to the boy, he held her awkwardly and said apologetically, “Sorry, I don’t know anything about babies.” Uh oh. 

I should have rescued him at that moment, but my selfishness got the better of me, and I left her and ducked into the pool to swim laps. I had the nagging suspicion that something may have been transpiring as I was blissfully underwater, but I figured the lifeguard would let me know if they were yelling for backup or emergency assistance in KidZone.  

When I got out, however, I was informed that they had indeed called for me to report to Ground Zero. I was reassured that in my absence, the staff was surely able to deal with the situation. I nodded and secretly thought, “Have you MET my kid?”

I resignedly dashed to KidZone and was met by a disheveled, wild-eyed preteen girl who was holding a screaming Adeline. For the second week in a row, she had hollered non-stop since I left, despite the copious amounts of milk, baby biscuits, and food pouches I’d left. So to preserve the sanity of the Grand Rapids teen population, I think that is the last time I will visit on the weekend. 

On the flip side, that’s pretty effective birth control.

 

• 

A Case of Mistaken Utility

Since I cannot seem to write a coherent post about Minnesota that does not involve deer (or Arctic temperatures, but that topic seems a little more germane, doesn’t it) I’ve got another one for the archives. To be fair, this topic is deer hunting, something I know absolutely nothing about. Then again, my self-imposed bar for knowledge of a subject or topic prior to writing about it is  . . . somewhat low, so I’m still doing OK on that front. Knocking it out of the park, in some instances, particularly if I’ve even read a book on the subject at hand. Or read a magazine article. Or glimpsed it on a TV program. 

Maybe I want to work on my delivery when pitching to potential editors. 

Now, I come from a distinguished line of deer hunters who started chasing after critters at the dawn of human evolution. Any person over a certain age on my father’s side of the family has participated in gun-hunting (as opposed to bow-hunting, which seems a little more fair. Not that fairness is usually the objective here.) And that age is three.

Just kidding. More like five.

Given my somewhat colorful life and experiences, I should probably stop saying, “I know it seems extraordinary, but I’m not exaggerating.” Certain areas and topics are probably watered down in my depictions, now that I think of it, for either relatability or to avoid alerting the authorities.

There is one often-related account that illustrates a memorable collision involving my delicate sensibilities and the  . . . reality of Texas deer hunting.

I was visiting my aunt, uncle, and cousins in Gatesville and was being treated to a nature documentary featuring one of my cousins. On the screen, a picturesque forest is featured, replete with sun-dappled canopy and trilling bird calls. Bambi bounds majestically into the camera focus and, just as I’m marinating in the exquisite wildlife montage, you hear a thunderous echo. As the birds go silent and Babmi collapses in a graceless heap, I’m processing that this has taken a very dark and unexpected turn. 

Not to ruin anyone’s naive worldview, but Bambi did not have low-blood sugar, it was not a car backfiring, and venison does not grow in gardens. It’s hard to recall my response, but I tend to be expressive, so suffice it to say it was hugely entertaining for the cousins. (To be transparent about my conflicting opinions, it is highly probable that I had just voraciously gobbled up a healthy portion of my Granny’s venison sausage. But I’m not sure if the origin of this deliciousness was disclosed to me as a young child. All the better, I suppose, I got a good half-decade of guilt-free cuisine). 

Anyway, all of that is to preface my solution to a question I’ve been puzzling over. For months now, I’ve been mystified as to why they’ve been selling what seems like an obscene amount of porta-potties at sporting-goods stores. I thought everyone just had small bladders like me.

• 

Am I the only one who sees it?

The Struggle is Real

There are certain moment in parenting where you realize how even the toughest days at work are easier than taking care of little ones. And I’ve worked as a middle school teacher, social worker, and alcohol and drug counselor. But give me an adult with paranoid schizophrenia or a cranky toddler, and it’s not even a contest. You know where I’m going with this.

This morning, it was an arduous undertaking to use the toilet. Not to get inappropriately explicit, but I had to use the . . . washroom. By now, Adeline is up and ready to continue taking over the world. And as I mention constantly, she is particularly interested in places that we are determined to keep her away from. In this instance, kitty litter. Or, as she likely sees it, a baby sandbox. 

So with my pants half down, I’m frantically trying to drag a large container in front of the doorway to the litter boxes, block the lower cabinets that are filled with glassware (baby catnip), and find toys to entertain her so she doesn’t wake her brother. 

I finally had to stick her in her pack ‘n play (baby jail) while I took a shower, and when her howls woke Andrew, I tried to convince myself that sleep is overrated. Toddlers behave fantastically when they are sleep deprived, right?

Meals are an odyssey unto themselves. (Odysseus dear, you think you had it rough? Try taking a toddler or baby with you while traveling and then tell us about it.) Now that Adeline is eating solids, she tends to want to eat all of the particularly messy options. And by “eat” I mean “smear all over her face.” Toes too; nothing is spared. Fresh new baby clothes are particularly attractive targets. 

• 

What isn’t dropped on the floor tends to get in the seat of the high chair. When you pick her up afterwards, she practically rains baby food from her backside. I literally hose her high chair off when she’s finished. And I’m not exaggerating. This is a disaster that simply transcends the capability of sinks. Nope, I literally haul that sucker outside, turn on the sprayer attached to the hose, and get my exercise for the day. 

Now I understand why people get dogs when they have small children. Our cats are too old and lazy to be interested in eating dropped leftovers. Besides, they are so . . . rotund . . . that our floor seems to be developing sinkholes in their preferred napping areas. Good lord, if they started eating her messes, they would shortly require their own zip codes. 

One last point to make. Look, I know my child is small for her age (by a few pounds, nothing serious) but the sizing of baby clothes is absolutely ridiculous. Shouldn’t there be an agency to regulate these things, like the Food and Drug Administration? We were given some 12-month onesies (she’ll be one tomorrow) and when I pulled them out of the gift box, I realized that I could probably fit into them comfortably. These leotards would be buttoning at her feet instead of her diaper. 

• 

Though we could maybe use the extra fabric to store leftover food.

Water Torture

Bath time has become a bit of a battle in our household. Not because Andrew dreads his baths. On the contrary, that kid takes to water like a duck (good thing, or he’d have a tough time between mom the swimmer and living in the land of 10,000 lakes). But the bath, like with every other toddler activity, has joined the ranks of power struggles. And the bath is generally taken as a precursor to bed, which is definitely not a preferred activity. Andrew would offer to pick crumbs off the floor if it meant delaying the dreaded torture of naps and bedtime. 

Fun in the lake with no bedtime in sight. All is good in Andrew’s world.

If I could allow him to get to age thirteen without baths I would probably be amenable to it (plus, it would keep girls away. If cooties ever go out of style.) After all, the inside of my car is not going to stay sullied by itself. But after an afternoon of vigorous toddler play at his daycare, he is dirty to the point I have to scrape him off to ensure I don’t take the wrong kiddo home. 

Now, the dressing routine afterwards is optional. I wish I were kidding, but I’m not. When Andrew started putting up a fight about getting dressed in a diaper and pajamas, I said “OK”, deliberately refolded the clothes, turned off the light, and walked out. Thus far, my cavalier approach to his clothing, formerly believed to be a critical component of functioning, has sufficiently shocked him into compliance. 

But I can’t be similarly permissive with baths, so I’ve devised some alternate bathing strategies. 

Oh good lord, I just know googled alternate bath ideas to supplement my methods, and all of the “tips and tricks” involved extended art projects to add to the bath or DIY craftsy techniques that must be created beforehand by parents (presumably more spunky and less exhausted than I) to subsequently be used to entice the recalcitrant child to bathe. Yeah, not so interested.

Oh, here’s one: Ocean Jello Bath. This site suggests that the family spends the day reading about the ocean, visiting the aquarium, and then giving the kid a bath in jello. Wouldn’t you have to wash them after that? And then presumably scrub the bathroom, which would likely have red dye ground into every conceivable surface? This person has clearly never had children. Or ever been around a real one. I could see this maybe working if you push the child into the starfish pond at the aquarium, thus killing two birds (or sea critters) with one stone. And then forgetting about the jello bath idea altogether. That might work. 

One suspects that the overachieving mothers spend more time writing about these things than actually making the organic-self-tinted-DIY bath bombs. Especially since those sound suspiciously like something that could be turned into a projectile. 

Wow, that was judgmental of me. Especially because I’m writing now when the kids are . . . shoot, where are those munchkins? I know they were around this morning sometime. They’ll turn up. 

Probably in the mud pit.

What the heck, maybe I’ll go make some organic biodegradable bath salts.

Best Friends Forever

There is one relationship that has been cultivated to a level of trust, mutual respect, and deep kinship that has surpassed all others. Including Adeline and grandparents (she’s cute, but man is that kid stinky) and Chris and me (we’re married. That means we don’t have to work on it any more, right?)

That would be the bond developing between Little Ferdie and Big Ferdie. 

• 

Fortuitously, a giant black bull is staked in one of the pastures en route to the Queijaria. Andrew has seen plenty of cows, but this is a vision of his Ferdinand incarnate. During our near-daily walks, we have the opportunity to visit with him. You know, discuss local politics and all. (“Dude, that heifer! Check out her bell.”)

They are now bosom bovine buddies.   

We’ve had a few scares. Big Ferdie is rotated around pastures, and when he’s not visible you’re left uncomfortably recalling the hamburger dinner the night before. That would be a very awkward full circle. But so far he’s turned up (as opposed to be grilled out.) Most recently, much to Big Ferdie’s (imagined) consternation, he’s been stuck in the young bull’s enclosure. Presumably to babysit or provide male role model-ship. Heaven knows the jovenes’ joyrides have been out of control lately. 

Or maybe to give some very pertinent advice. “You know, if those matador people come after you, go for the flowers. Works every time.” He must be fountain of knowledge, and by all accounts he’s a flower-y storyteller. Must be the culture’s tradition of (fl)oral history. Ok, I’ll stop.

This morning when we walked by, he was lying completely prone, head down and everything, in a way that large animals rarely recline. I swear, I thought he was a goner. I was afraid he’d been done in by the young guns or they’d slipped their sitter a sedative. Little Ferdie was frantic, as he dramatically expressed and demonstrated through Andrew.

Thankfully, we saw an ear twitch and on our walk home we noticed he was back in fine form and bullying the young bucks at the trough. Inferiority complex, anyone? Overcompensation? (Thes also my general sentiments when I see human bullies or even people in trucks with ridiculously huge wheels and the like.)

The beautiful thing is, he truly does seem like the Ferdinand from the storybook. He appears utterly peaceful (admittedly, this hypothesis is untested). At one juncture he even had a bird residing on his head (I kid you not. Of course I didn’t have my phone/camera.) Presumably, an (uninjured/undead) human rotates him around the pastures. And it goes without saying that this is pretty close to an idyllic existence, lounging in fields, enjoying the view, enjoying an adult beverage (Cow’s Light is his preference. Ok, coulda been Coors’.)

One myth to clear up: bulls do not get angry when they see the color red. Not ours, at any rate. 

Big Ferdie is quite color connoisseur and is partial to vermillion hues. 

Ferdinand Fan

There are few items more valuable to a parent than a comfort toy or blanket, a preferred stuffed animal. From the day my younger sister commandeered two of her own animals (where is their loyalty, right??) the moments commenced where we would have to drive significant distances to retrieve the critters. In their defense, I would’ve run too. But that said, I can appreciate their value.

Andrew’s companion is Ferdinand, a little plush bull that accompanied the classic children’s book. Full disclosure, Andrew did not so much intentionally choose Ferdie as I “misplaced” his initial choice, a cartoon-ish dog that made all sorts of obnoxious sounds (critical design flaw.)

Since Ferdinand must be treated as the royalty he is (and it’s in my best interest to have Andrew’s hands occupied) I bought a little doll stroller here on the island. The only color available at the little shop was hot pink, which is why Ferdie travels in style á la Marie Kay exec. Chris was originally not on board with this purchase, so being the dutiful wife that I am, I meekly accepted my husband’s verdict. 

Sort of …. 

The day after he left for the states, we marched our little tails back to the store and bought the stroller, which has become one of the best purchases of the year. Andrew would willingly travel to the dentist if it meant that he was able to to bring Ferdie. And he is remarkably careful and fastidious in his stroller role (roll?). I mean, Adeline would be lucky (and maybe a little more comfortable at times) if I were as meticulous when pushing her. When we pass a car on the little winding roads, he will loudly exclaim “CAR!” and come to such an abrupt halt that Ferdie nearly faceplants into the bordering rock walls. I would like to think he is just conscientious with traffic or wants to keep his mother (and sandwich maker) safe, but let’s be real. 

In a stroke of brilliance (I have my moments. Or I read it in a blog and followed suit, which is infinitely more likely) I decided to search Amazon to see if I could buy a replacement Ferdie in the potentially catastrophic even that our current Ferdie leaves us. (Though he won’t be squished in traffic, I’ll tell you that). I found him (her? Tough to tell. S/he is a bit gender ambiguous) and ordered it. Then, of course, it got stuck in storage and will be there for the foreseeable future. So I ordered another one. And now my anxious mind starts whirring and in my neuroses I’m tempted to get several backups in case of . . . I don’t know, really. They all simultaneously get taken out by a string of unprecedented and particularly calamitous natural disasters?

This is where I have to check myself or we will soon have a herd. A bevvy of bulls.

There’s also the risk that Andrew will come across Ferdie #15 and start to wonder about the authenticity of the one currently in his possession. Make him start carrying identification or something.

Incidentally, to follow up let my husband Chris be unfairly judged, he has seen the photos and made no mention of the accessory. He is a smart man.

Nap Wars (Hint, Mom: 0)

Is there any single aspect more challenging with children (particularly while traveling) than naps? Or, more accurately, lack thereof? For me, naptime is particularly important because it is literally the only time when I have a moment to myself to accomplish things that are easier without the little munchkins, which is to say EVERY thing. 

Andrew used to be easy. SO easy. I’d point him in the direction of a soft surface during the general nap time hour, and he’d be out. Sofa in a sunlit area? No problem. I think the garage floor had sufficed in times past when I was working on a project. (Not really. Not because he wouldn’t have slept there, but I can’t think of anything I would have been capable of accomplishing in a garage. Certainly nothing car related.)

Now he doesn’t want to sleep because (understandably) there are so many more interesting things he could be doing. Namely, saying “No” to everything and throwing tantrums because he read somewhere it’s what any self-respecting three year old should be doing. And he seems to have suddenly developed the hearing of a bat. I could be approaching the general floor of the house, silently, and his little echolocation radar will go off. If it weren’t so frustrating, it would be impressive.

One trick I’ve been using here on the island is having him help me put his stuffed animal Ferdinand (“Ferdie”) down for a nap with him. Of course, it took him a hot minute to realize that this was yet another parenting hack that could be turned into a nap-delaying tactic. For instance, now Ferdie’s naptime ritual involves virtually everything short of a full body exfoliation. Let me tell you, his plush fur has never looked better.

Since it takes me forty-five minutes to commute to town in Minnesota (twice a day), Adeline has gotten used to napping in the car. To the exclusion of anywhere else, it seems. She will literally be falling asleep in her food, doing an impressive high chair face-plant, and yet if anyone has the audacity to move her to a more comfortable location, you would think we were engaging in baby torture (in her defense, maybe that IS her perception. Her life experiences are still limited, after all.) I have to say, we have all been amazed at her ability to function without naps, with is a distinction that I’m having trouble appreciating by this point. 

To assist the princess with her somnolence, my parents have procured not only a baby jail (I mean Pack ‘n Play) but this gorgeous Azorean bassinet. Naturally, she has unequivocally refused to sleep in either of these. I swear, we got within a hundred feet of those, and her little nap detection sense went off.

A technique that has worked with some limited success involves driving until she falls asleep and then bringing her car seat into the room. This buys us about 10 minutes once the movement stops, half of which is spent finagling the car seat through the house and into the impeccably darkened room. While doing potentially irreparable damage to various phalanges. (Who needs toes? I’ll take a napping baby, thanks.)

At that point, you realize that the one essential item you need that very minute has been left in the room. Or your cell phone, which has been switched to silent at the expense of missing every critical call, has suddenly and inexplicably turned its volume on. And somehow switched to the most obnoxious ringtone possible, the one called something like “Waking a baby in a millisecond.” 

After all, naps are overrated and we all want our children to be awakened easily and abruptly (said no mom EVER).

Tourada

I’m enjoying another quiet afternoon of reflection at the local queijaria (kids safely ensconsed with grandparents at home, naturally). Not that I don’t have calm, languid afternoons with a one and three year old, because what is quieter and more peaceful than that? With enough duct tape (for them) and earplugs (for me) it’s amazing how prolific one can be.

Back to the bullfights. Since I have a tendency to go off on tangents, I like to focus on a few highlights when I journal. Aside from the inherent drama that comes from men, women, and horses in an enclosed arena with a 1,000 angry animal, this Tourada was epic. In a Portuguese bullfight, the bull is given a retaliatory moment that consists of him plowing down unarmed men on foot as they attempt to bring him to a halt with only the weight of their bodies. This sounds like something Texas might subject prisoners to (and likely is) but the opportunity to go out with a blaze of gory (I mean glory) is instead a coveted position. The team of forcados trains throughout the year for the esteemed honor of engaging in sanctioned (unpaid) insanity. I tell you what, these Portuguese guys are probably looking at newly reimbursed college athletes about now and saying, “Waiiiit a second . . . “

Since the positioning on the bull’s head and horns during the finale is critical, as one might imagine, it is not unusual for this to take several passes before the bull is finally captured during the pega da cara. Meaning after the failed attempt and subsequent scattering, the team regroups and tries again. And again. This is an example of when the decisions of the officiant are particularly vital, as dangerously injured forcados or a lame bull would be occasions to abort the attempts. After all, heaven forbid anything remotely hazardous transpire.

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The third bull of the fight apparently was a little pissed off, understandably, and was taking his anger out on the sorely undermatched forcados. After several missed catches and two men dragged back over the barricades by their comrades, the pass was called to a halt. The team, however, refused to heed to ruling of the official, who is by now emphatically waving his hands should there be any ambiguity. The crowd is hollering at the team, the trumpeter is desperately playing the musical version of “Get the hell out of Dodge”, the lead forcado is attempting to plead their case to let them finish, and the bull is (presumably) gleefully plotting out his next dramatic run. Had I been the rest of the team I would have invited Mr. Macho to have at it alone, but the exhausted team kept lining up behind their insane leader (not unlike . . . nope, won’t go there.)

The officials are gesticulating to the police located throughout the stands, imploring them to halt the proceedings, and the police are shrugging helplessly as if to say, “Well, I would, but the thing is, there’s kind of a bull in there.” At this point I realized the flaw in the system, because once you’ve identified the few crazy individuals who will get in the ring with a bull, your options are limited, right? Heck, I’M certainly not volunteering.

Long story short, after a spectacularly bad pega, the lead individual is booted from the arena (to return a hot second later) but notably does not get invited to do the triumphant parade.

Incidentally, I’ve truthfully opined that our more cautious Andrew would never feel inclined to join a team of forcados, but (terrifyingly) I think our feisty little Adeline might feel the allure. Which is what the extra duct tape is for. 

Boots and Burgers

In a rare excursion sans children, my father and I attended a Portuguese bullfight. I recognize that these are controversial, and understandably so. That said, I implore people to acknowledge the cultural context as well as explore individual choices and habits that involve animal welfare that may not be as visible. For instance, eating meat. I have been known to chow down on a good steak just like the next person. I can tell myself that I’m doing my civic duty by supporting the farmers and ranchers in the United States, but more likely I’m just enjoying my dinner. Ok, full transparency, I’m probably not enjoying my dinner but inhaling it while feeding the baby and retrieving Andrew from nearby scuffles. 

In Portuguese bullfights, they do not kill the bull in the ring because it’s illegal to kill any animal in public. I thought that afterwards the bull gets to enjoy margaritas by the pool while mixing with adoring heifers, but turns out that they are so dangerous after the interaction that they end up at the Big Ranch in the Sky. But still, to me that is preferable to suffering through congested cattle barns before turning into a Big Mac.

I can’t necessarily justify cultural practices, and I’d have my life’s work cut out for me if I did. I just don’t want to be hypocritical in my own choices. I have to share an example from my family. I have a sister (to protect her privacy, we’ll call her “Memily”) who decided that she was going to be vegetarian for humanitarian reasons and would harangue loved ones for indulging in habits that supported barbaric practices. Her arguments may have held more weight had she not been carrying a Portuguese leather shoulder bag and wearing tall boots made from some sort of material that had been very much alive at one point. And horseback riding in leather saddles wearing leather chaps. And still eating fish which had probably not volunteered themselves selflessly for human consumption. (Unless they were at a stressful extended family reunion, perhaps. “Take me now, PLEASE.”

Trust me, I don’t support the inhumane conditions of animal facilities, and I have been accused of single-handedly trying to take care of stray animals by surreptitiously adopting them all (Chris, don’t look in the basement). But I have to be aware of the contradictions in my own attitudes. With people who get a little preachy while indulging in contradictory behaviors (love you, “Memily”!) I’m kinda like “Dude, pick a side. Go all in or leave me alone.” My sister, incidentally, is no longer a vegetarian. Although I do have respect for those who truly change their lives substantially to fully support their causes. They are stronger folks than I. 

Well, shocker, I got so long winded on my (maybe somewhat defensive?) introduction to the tourada that I didn’t even get into the meat of it. (Sorry, that was a bad one). I will expound on this topic the next time I get another opportunity to write. I’ve got to run now though, this hamburger is not going to eat itself. 

Kids ‘n Cats

Amid the various adventures, the kiddos continue to find ways to amuse themselves during the more mundane tasks and household hours. And by “amuse” I mostly mean “terrorize the cats.” 

Actually, after the initial shock of seeing their place at the center of my parent’s universe overturned and their little furry selves cruelly displaced, two of the cats have adjusted magnificently. (Pedro and Paulo, brothers, virtually identical. That’s not confusing at all.) These two have realized that while it is conveniently not too difficult to escape from little humans under three feet tall, and they are appallingly messy and stinky, they come with a few benefits and not a small amount of entertainment.  

Adeline is enamored with the cats. Part of the allure is that they (wisely) remain enticingly out of grasp, which (they’ve deduced with babies) is not far. Meanwhile, from their strategic vantage points, they can observe the amusement below. She so desperately wants to pet a cat, which to the dismay of all parties involved, means burying two grubby little hands into their fur and clinging with all her might. She’s surprisingly strong, and having been personally poked and grabbed, I can commiserate with the cats. 

Meanwhile, the cats are enamored with her stroller. The stroller has been there for two years, but the moment another critter expressed interest for it, they have suddenly decided it was meant exclusively for them. Paulo has commandeered the canopy top, while Pedro lounges in the seat. Yes, this is precisely like the jealousy that emerges when one child suddenly becomes possessive of another’s playthings. As I’ve mentioned to my parents, this is the dynamic that is cultivated when the grandkids are across the ocean and the cats become just a tad bit spoiled.  

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The highchair is another feature that has become exponentially more interesting to the cats. They have taught Adeline a delightful new trick, which is called “drop Cheerios and other delicacies over the side.” To her credit, this results in prime entertainment, much like circling sharks being fed chum for incredulous tourists. Charlie, the dog (being a little less subtle) tends to just eat food directly off her face, but cats are much more sophisticated, after all. 

The cats are equally fascinated with Andrew. The most recent game involves Andrew throwing the ball against the outside of the house while the cats gaze, transfixed, from the inside of the screen, their little heads pinging back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. Andrew is likewise thrilled, and a convenient little feedback loop is perpetuated. 

The only cat who seems to be adversely affected by the baby invasion is Maria. The poor thing is so terrified of the children that she does not emerge from the bedroom while they are awake. I can be prone to exaggeration, but I have been here three weeks and have not seen her present with them even from a distance. (Maria, no judgement here, girl. I feel like that sometimes.) When the kids are safely locked in their respective closets for the night she will tentatively venture out.  (Kidding. About the venturing out part.)

The other evening I brought Adeline back out of our room after nursing her, and Maria (who had at last shakily slipped out) nearly jumped through the roof. I had to all but scrape her off the ceiling. I see a lot of Kitty Prozac in her future.

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Serreta Adventure

One of our first excursions was a hike in the inland area of Serreta. I won’t even try to translate that because I apparently overestimated my Portuguese ability when I attempted our town’s name (according to Mother, local Portuguese language expert). I did retroactively double check, and I still maintain that I spelled it correctly. That or the city sign is incorrectly spelled, which is not an impossibility. It is located across from the town pub, after all. 

The walk wasn’t exactly an “adventure”, but to our three-year-old son Andrew, everything is an adventure, including hanging the laundry on the clothesline. An accurate term translation for his use of the word adventure, as it pertains to everything involving him (or any other small fry) may be closer to “debacle” or “mishap” or “future therapy topic”. Now that I think about it, I wish I were this easily entertained. (Oh, wait. I am. Refer to previous posts about my undying passion for “The Bachelor” and other can’t-miss quality entertainment.)

We had to take two cars, since we numbered six (seven including the dog). While the seat belt rules are more relaxed, the cars are smaller, so we still had to take two, despite strapping Andrew to the roof. 

Just kidding. With Baby Adeline in the trunk, Andrew fit in the backseat just fine. 

I was slightly intimidated when we pulled into the parking spot and the other hikers were equipped with more gear than endurance athletes. They were stretching enthusiastically while sipping from their wearable Camelbaks and munching energy bars. 

Now, I’m all for being prepared, but mathematically there’s only so far you can go on an island that is roughly fourteen by twelve miles. Even with my complete lack of direction, I would likely find a water source before I would expire. 

For better or worse, I’ve traversed most of the area. My friends and I did the rounds of the summer festas, although during those weekends we were probably chemically comprised of 95% ethanol. So our collective memories are a bit sketchy. We were the precedent to clean energy cars, from a fuel/energy perspective.

Then when we weren’t running sprints through sand or being otherwise tortured by sports coaches, we were enduring comparable excursions euphemistically referred to as “family walks.” Yes, sometimes we would pass bone fragments, but we’d assumed those were cow relics, not bones from soccer players past. 

Some highlights from the walk: 

1. The poisoned water fountain: On the hike there is an old fountain that theoretically poisoned anyone who drank from it. Clearly it’s not truly poisonous, or the secret wouldn’t be out. If I had that sucker in my backyard, I would’ve taken that knowledge to my grave. Sayonara, annoying neighbor. Or don’t like your spouse but want to save on attorneys’ fees? Just saying. 
2. Little rock ruins: Along the way were the remnants of walls and houses that had presumably been built to corral livestock and grow crops. With the canopy of draping, tentacled trees, there is a spooky shadow to parts of the trail. In one of the path nooks, we passed a house that looked eerily like Hansel and Gretel’s ill-fated destination. (I may or may not have facetiously yelled to curious tourists “Back AWAY from the oven!” and “Whatever you do, DON’T bake the cookies”).

I apologize for not having more of a list, but at about that point I nearly expired from exhaustion and had to be rescued by one of the endurance athletes.

Decidedly UN-poisoned fountain. Just ask my very much alive husband.

Tourist Attraction

My parents live in a village named Cinco Ribeiras, which means “Five Rivers.” I was almost going to say that it is aptly named, but upon reflection I’m hard pressed to think of where the rivers are. There’s a little creek bed heading up to the Queijaria (cheese factory/cafe) but I don’t recall seeing any water in it. That said, it is a picturesque name, and after a while you get tired of naming towns “Atlantic” or “Oceanside”. Gets confusing.

The town’s local swimming area is located at the base and what it lacks in sand it makes up for in concrete. Literally; the island creates swimming spots by landscaping the volcanic rocks so that it’s more easily accessible. The locals were tired of scraping tourists off the rocks, likely. When I went to high school here ten years ago (OK, twenty) they only had several of these spots. Now, they’re equipped with lifeguards and holes for umbrellas and recycling containers. The lifeguards post the flag colors according to the weather conditions. That and how wet they feel like getting. Life gets a little slow here and snatching struggling swimmers is a cheap form of entertainment. Exercise, too, when you think about it. Maybe I should adopt a similar policy while lifeguarding at the Y. (Don’t tell my boss B. I said that). 

While I’m working on my sunburn at the swimming spot, I like to people-watch. My mother has a hilarious story from one of her excursions. So, the Portuguese are slightly more prudish in their swimming attire than, say, the French and other Europeans. Northern Europeans are easy to spot because of the Speedos, and Brazilian tourists would probably be arrested on the spot for indecent exposure. Little kids can get away with less Lycra, but adult naughty bits are covered, for the most part.

On this particular day, my mother was watching a Portuguese couple with two little kids (surreptitiously, one hopes. But it is Mother, so we can’t be sure). Next to the family, an elderly Italian couple was arriving and shedding outerwear. And . . . kept shedding. Until they were entirely, unabashedly, unselfconsciously naked. Wrinkly bits proudly aired as they prepared to bask in the Azorean rain (I mean, sun. Maybe.) The Portuguese children, unused to such exposure, were openly gawking at their very eccentric, very ancient, very nude neighbors. The parents were (unsuccessfully) trying to distract the children so as not to be overly intrusive (“Look, water! A rock!”) I can only speculate that the Italians were completely unfazed.

There is a certain comfort derived from living in a small town on a small island. Given that we are the only Americans living permanently in the area, and my parents are well accepted for their general non-combativeness, our oddities are rather visible For instance, when I’m puffing rather alarmingly up the hills on my jog, the farmers who I encounter are likely to know who I am. And who the little blond hovering ankle biters are. And know my personal history and social media passwords. Ok, maybe the village isn’t that small. Today, for example, I was jumping rope on our porch in my sports bra, alternately chasing after Andrew and Charlie (the dog) and stifling obscenities, and no passersby blinked an eye. Or they’re making fun of us on their own respective blogs.

Not the actual swimming area, but I forgot to take a picture. This is a fancier one on Sao Miguel. Just like them to one-up us.

Cat Tales

It’s surreal to realize that this is Dinah’s last day with us. Grief has been coming unsolicited in waves, as it is wont to do. I still laugh, live life, feed the babies, swim my laps, appear for my lifeguarding shifts. I still have the tendency to rely on my coping mechanism of distraction, busily working on beading, reading, exercising, writing, running errands. The tears come in the still moments when the heavy cloud of sadness descends and engulfs. There is fear of the grief itself, a not-entirely-unwarranted concern that the depressed moments will lead to a terrifying dark permanence. I talk about Dinah to Chris, to my sponsor, to my friends here. I can be vulnerable with them and confident in their comfort. My therapist’s expensive yet experienced and expert ear is available. 

But as with my alcoholism, I’ve greatly appreciated the levity that accompanies difficult circumstances. I can smile at memorable cat moments, and there have been many in the sixteen years I’ve shared with Dinah. And if you think for one moment that I own her, you would be sadly mistaken. Chris and I exist in a position of unquestionable servitude to our feline cohabitants. We provide their food, water, treats, and attention upon request. We are noisily jolted out of our routine if the food dish runs low or a door needs to be opened. The cats sprawl lazily on our bed while Chris and I gingerly curl around their prone shapes so as not to disturb them. We would lose much of our purpose in life if our animals suddenly ceased their demands. 

Back to Dinah, she has occasionally been nominally referred to as “The Jungle Cat.” This moniker originated after I had the brilliant idea of training her to walk on a leash. I’d been inspired by reports of Siamese cats responding well to leashes and obediently walking alongside their owners. To say the least, my vision did not translate well into reality. Apparently Dinah had missed the memo about cats being leashed-trained. She howled as she was wrangled into the complicated halter-style garment. Not only would she not walk, but she stubbornly refused to even move and looked at us with a mixture of baleful uncertainty and homicidal intent. My dad was present for her introduction to the wild jungle of a Texas front yard. Given her reluctance to ambulate in the leash contraption, we placed her in the grass and then situated her in the crook of a tree. Our excitement over our new Jungle Cat was somewhat diminished by her loud protests and spiteful glares. We eventually (rather meekly) escorted her back inside and released her from the offensive leash. Since then, although she has never demonstrated an interest in the outdoors, we have joked about Dinah the Jungle Cat. 

Another humorous memory: Chris and I were taking Dinah to the vet for her shots. The cat carrier had been sitting menacingly in the corner awaiting its feline prisoner. Chris ushered Dinah into the carrier while I gathered the requisite paperwork. He commented on the weight of the carrier as he lifted it into the car. We were well on the way when we noticed that the angry meows were somewhat dissonant. In fact, there were almost two tonal variations to her protestations. I looked back and saw four eyes staring back at me. There was half a spider in the backseat. Just kidding, we had somehow acquired an extra cat in the carrier during the loading process. Sure enough, Zoe had somehow sneaked into the kennel and was an unwitting passenger to the torturous vet visit. We figured, shoot, while we have them both might as well get them both cared for, so poor Zoe was subjected to a round of shots as well. 

There is some context to that story. From the very beginning, Zoe has been utterly devoted to Dinah. Inexplicably, despite being adopted with her sister, she was attached to Dinah and treated her with a reverence that was admirable. She followed her everywhere and curled up next to her to sleep. Dinah would occasionally get annoyed and snap in her direction, upon which Zoe would look terribly crushed and recalcitrant. Zoe is now ten, and this relationship has endured in this fashion over the last decade. Dinah would often put on a show of being annoyed by this servitude and attention, but it was clear that she very much enjoyed having her little minion as a constant companion. Dinah will be dearly missed by the kitten crew as well.

Speaking of Zoe, there was a funny moment the other day. Chris had apparently bought a bottle of catnip and had left it on the floor. Zoe is clearly in the percentile of cats that responds to catnip with an addict-like intensity  (no judgment here, been there done that). So the poor thing is all but glued to this bottle while Adeline (who had previously been unsuccessfully crawling after the cats) is ecstatically grabbing fistfulls of fur and squealing with delight. Poor Zoe looked utterly conflicted as she endured Adeline’s attention to stay attached to this catnip. Of course, I snatched Adeline up and she went back to chasing the other cats, who had prioritized escape over herbal tinctures. 

And those are just a few treasures from my trove of cat tales and animal anecdotes.

My Dear Dinah

I love cats. I am unapolegetically, unreservedly, unashamedly a crazy cat lady. If I did not have poor long-suffering husband Chris, I would undoubtedly be featured on the show “Hoarders” being overrun with cats. Luckily, his practically has prevailed and my feline collection has been curtailed at five. Well, four and three-quarters because one is missing a leg. And one doesn’t have a tail, so let’s call it four-and-a-half. In my defense, they were all strays that I adopted to prevent less-than-ideal demises in rural Texas. In two cases, they would have ended up as target practice. I wish that were an exaggeration or an unfair stereotypical expression, or merely an excuse I made up to explain my two furry additions, but that is the truth. My first cat that I adopted as an adult (numerically by years, probably not maturity-wise) was Dinah. 

Dinah is now sixteen and despite growing noticbly older and slower, has endured the years and various moves with aplomb. This past week, however, I noticed she was not even eating the wet food that she was getting three times per day. Long story short, the only place we could take her in the post-COVID overbooked-vet world was Duluth, two hours away. They did not have the ability to run certain tests, so Chris ended up driving her FOUR HOURS south to the Twin Cities. Where we learned she has a terminal cancer that will take her from us (I’m tearing up now even as I write this. My cavalier tone is a thin veneer, a feeble defense mechanism. But shoot, humor beats drinking myself into oblivion, which was my coping method for an unconscionable number of years.)

Even with intensive and aggressive treatment, we would only be able to prolong her life several months; the care would ultimately be palliative and likely painful. So when we take her to our local vet next Thursday, it will be our last moments with her on Earth. I don’t want her to pass alone and scared with our family possibly on vacation in the summer. No, she deserves to be surrounded by her loving parents and human siblings. But I don’t want to perseverate on the tragedy, I want to share some treasured memories she has given us. 

My roommate Becca and I were inspired to adopt a cat sophomore year (unfathomably, in retrospect. We were still living in the campus dorms. Cats were not on the list of approved dormitory decor. The boys on our floor had gone through a phase of buying Beta fish which they then proceeded to accidentally kill or neglect. Which is slightly impressive considering Beta fish are remarkably resilient. It still makes me slighly nervous to realize that some of them are now responsible for actual little human lives, but we can only hope they’ve read the user manuals a little closer.) But anyway, we wanted a cat and started scouting out local Humane Societies. Let me tell you, it is inexplicably difficult to adopt a pet from those places. Or it was back in 2006. We would have had to undergo background checks and complete courses and pet ownership educaton that was probably comparable to a master’s degree. Considering our address was our university dormitory room, it was grudgingly acknowledged that we would not be getting approval from the pet adoption Powers that Be. 

Somehow we ended up at a Wildlife Refuge that cared for abandoned tigers and raccoons and other wild critters. Turns out that baby wolves and tigers don’t stay tiny and cute forever but grow up to be very LARGE wild animal with voracious appetites. And humans tend to be a favorite menu item. And naturally the only thing to do then is turn them LOOSE in populated areas where there is a virtual plethora of tasty humans. Crazy, I know, but it clearly happens frequently enough to necessitate these wild animal sanctuaries. So that’s how we acquired Dinah the tiger. No, just kidding. The owner had rescued a litter of kittens and was trying to find homes for them. Becca and I probably seemed like reasonable owner candidates, particularly as we MAY have omitted the small detail that we lived in a single dorm room.  

Believe it or not, the living situation did not turn out to be particularly problematic. We were already members of CAT (Cat Alliance Trinity, an on-campus organization that promoted a catch-neuter/spay-release program for the strays that prowled the campus dining areas. Incidentally, a guy friend jokingly created the Cat Alliance Defiance group, which was not greatly appreciated and not nearly as humorous as he believed). Point being, we kept cat food in our room for our campus cat feeding duties, which (as only we knew) extended to our indoor kitty as well. Admittedly, the RAs were hardly oblivious to our contraband, and if they ever did room checks, they would loudly announce that if anything was against policy, it should be quickly relocated to the bathroom. 

There was one memorable time when we truly were terrifed of being exposed, and that was during a fire drill. During these, we had to congregate on the lawns with our doors open so the rooms could be quickly checked for any remaining occupants. We did not want to risk Dinah escaping, so I frantically looked around and snatched an empty duffel bag. If word of our ward had been let out of the bag, metaphorically speaking, the cat was now quite literally back in. 

So there I am, in the midst of congregating college students, trying to surreptitiously maneuver a bag that was oscillating and making angry and distinctly non-human protestations. Luckily, there were enough college students milling around and abiding by the “it’s five o’clock somewhere” lifestyle to distract from the bag that appeared to be attacking me. It reminded me of National Lampoon’s European vacation, where a family member shakes a package that meows and eyes roll as its evident that a great aunt has packaged her cat again.

There are more stories that I want to share in her honor, a tribute to a life well lived and the human lives that she has touched.

Trash or Treasure?

I am a creature who seems to exist perpetually in a state of guilt; even if I haven’t done anything particularly nefarious recently (these incidents are fewer now, thanks to sobriety. Funny, the correlation between my drinking as an alcoholic and certain . . . misadventures) I’m feeling guilty about something I haven’t done, or haven’t done well enough. I recognize that I don’t have a monopoly on the mom/wife/daughter/sister guilt market, of course. But one thing that I do not feel particularly guilty about is my preference for bad TV shows. I wish I could say my reality TV was limited to arguably talent-based options such as Project Runway and Top Chef. But I admit that I have never met a Bravo series that I have not become unequivocally obsessed with. These gems include Shahs of Sunset, Real Housewives, and Married to Medicine (to name a few). You know, classy, sophisticated television masterpieces.

The etiology of this preference is up for debate, but I have my theories. While we were privileged children who didn’t want for material things, we were exposed to inhumane conditions in one arena: television. In that we didn’t own one. Ever. And not because we lived in foreign countries or couldn’t afford one or anything like that. No, we were systematically, intentionally deprived of this childhood fixture because my parents were English teachers who (metaphorically or literally, we could never quite be sure) tossed the TV out when I was born. And thus began years of entertainment deficiencies which forced us to engage in imaginative dress-up shows, art projects, and nature excursions. It also explains why I abhor cartoons and animated films unless they were the old-school Captain Planet or Looney Tunes variety, which we would watch covertly while at Grandparents’ or friends’ houses. 

One notable exception occurred every two years when the Olympics were in session. We would go to the local on-base recreation/supplies center and rent a tiny, barely functional TV set the size of a shoebox. In fact, we may have accidentally taken home a shoe box by mistake and it probably functioned comparably. Naturally, the commentary would be in a different language (Portuguese or Italian, say, because we could only pick up local channels) but we were transfixed nonetheless. We particularly enjoyed the figure skating and gymnastics, and to this day it feels somewhat of a luxury to watch these sports with English narration. And on a screen bigger than a thimble. Grandparents’ houses in the summer were another bastion of forbidden pursuits as we watched TV and ate verboten sugary cereal. Come to think of it, we probably alternated between sugar highs and a mute transfixed TV state. 

Since we didn’t have television at home, it became somewhat of a novelty. I can’t imagine we were incredibly popular playmates because our preferred activity was uavailing ourselves of this coveted device. Did we want to ride ponies or play in the bouncy castle? Not a chance, if the television was on. It could have been a rerun of a PBS author interview, and I would’ve been front row with popcorn.

Besides, aren’t there those strong recommendations from the American Pediatric Association that TVs should be used as babysitters at every possible opportunity? Yes, I’m certain that was the empirical finding. (JUST kidding. Although I don’t flatter myself that I’m as tirelessly cheery and entertaining as some of those program. My litles ones, I have to give them credit, will make an effort to humor my goofy antics while surreptitiously glancing around me to fixate on nearby electronics.  

Although I was geniuiely upset that my parents did not at least give us the option of sabotaging our prefrontal coretexes. After all, this is America, if I want to watch mindless drivel, that’s my perogative. I believe its one ofthe orinigal rights immortalized in the Constituion. You know that one thing that got people through the mind-numbing activities of enless sewing and cleaning was Real Housewives of the FrontierI featuring females of shamefully inferior citizenship status yet exceptional capacity for dramatic blow-ups and catty confrontations. 

If anthing, I could argue what I believe is a structurally sound case for these shows by pointing out that they are unsurpassed and exceptional case studies of sociological and anthropological interpersonal relations. And I would be irresponsible as a social worker to not avail myself of these pivotal learning opportunities.

Sadly, I did not cultivate these arguments until years after navigating a treacherous TV-less childhood. To think, I could have been a child prodigy if not faced with this deprivation.

“It’s Just a Flesh Wound”

(British bicyclist, Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail)

As a parent of pre-verbal children, it’s difficult to estimate exactly how serious an injury is. Something I realized early is that the child often assesses the parents’ facial expressions in order to gauge severity. The impulse is to rush over and comfort, but that seems to indicate to the child that they are in imminent danger. As a result, I’ve adopted seemingly callous responses, like “Up you go!” and “Children bounce” in the aftermath of a crash and tears. I don’t want to be overly dismissive, of course. In our family, complaining was frowned upon and we were encouraged to view our problem in relation to the greater tragedies in the world. For some reason, the comparison always seemed to involve women in impoverished countries giving birth in fields. You fall off a horse or break a bone or develop septic shock and you’re hesitant to report the injury because you’ll hear “Alison, women in some countries have been giving birth in fields for millions of years. You’re ok.” 

The irony is, when I gave birth, I wanted to be heavily medicated. No all-natural, heroic birthing endeavors for me. Nope, knock me out and wake me up when it’s over. Throw in whatever kind of drugs you have in there. That was not an experience I particularly cared to remember, which I realize may be somewhat unusual in the modern birthing communities. Shoot, you’ve got the little rascal for the next 18 years, I don’t feel as though I want to re-live and remember the intense pain of the birth often. Or ever. Call me unsentimental. But gosh darn it, both kiddos were born so quickly that the doctors literally did not have time to administer medications, not to mention an epidural.  

But I digress. No, I’m just thinking of some of the differences in parental reactions to child accidents. If Andrew has so much of a scratch, the YMCA staff will dutifully and cautiously admit, “Ms. Larson, it seems that Andrew has this tiny, miniscule scratch and we attended to it immediately.” So after viewing the little mark with a high-powered microscope (or was that a piece of dust) they brace themselves for my frantic reaction. Of course, I’m like, “Shoot, if my kid’s not bleeding out and is somewhat in one piece, I’m happy.” I mean, he’s three. Toddlers are composed of scratches and bruises as far as I’m concerned; it’s par for the course. They get scraped up. Sorry, I’m all out of bubble wrap. In fact, if he’s not banged up a little, I question the activity level of the facility. I want to say, “Look, I’m not going to sue y’all, so unless there’s a medical emergency, you really don’t have to call me about a scrape.” I mean, am I wrong for thinking that It’s normal for kids to bite and kick and scratch a bit on their way to becoming conscientious, socially capable adults? It’s how they learn, right? Part of me is slightly tempted to dissolve in hysterics and dramatically proclaim that I’m devastated by the scratch and that Andrew will now require decades of restorative medical care (and therapy for the mental anguish).  

Paradoxically, while I’m slightly wimpy with bugs and spiders, I’m remarkably stoic when it comes to physical pain and generally frightening situations. I broke my toe kicking a concrete stair during a barefoot soccer match, and my proximal humerus in my right arm. In fact, the bone was broken and then “displaced” several inches, or ground up against the upper section. I was carrying on, thinking I’d strained the rotator cuff, and then casually mentioned to Chris that evening that I didn’t seem to be able to move it at all. An orthopedic surgery later, I’m left with a metal plate and screws. I’ve fallen off horses numerous times, mostly because I would ride the ones who had the unfortunate tendency to bolt or buck. Heights don’t bother me in the slightest, and I gleefully jumped out of the plane during my first skydiving excursion. This is not to say I’m particularly brave, but I’m not entirely lacking in the courage department.  

Perhaps the most illustrative example, though, is evident when watching horseback riding lessons with little children. At the stable on the island where we rode, little Portuguese and American children took lessons. If a Portuguese child fell off, the parent . . . well, first, the Portuguese parent wouldn’t likely be in the stable. The parent would be off at the bar having some drinks or have slipped off to run errands. But had the parent been in the vicinity when the child is tossed, possibly landing on his or her head or in some other fairly precarious manner, it would be essentially a non-event, with the child scrambling back on the horse. Meanwhile, if an American child delicately slid off, his or her parent (who would be glued to the stands, possibly writing drafts of the child’s eventual entrance essay to Harvard) would descend from the stands in hysterics and demand that the child be given something easier to ride. A bale of hay, maybe.  

Of course, it might never be recommended to let your child gallop off sans a saddle and helmet on a flighty mare that had been purchased three days prior (true story & my first concussion) but the moral to this convoluted post is that being overprotective is not necessarily helpful. And more importantly, it sounds like a lot of work. 

Water Safety 101: Leave Kids at Home

A few weekends ago, Chris and I took the kiddos into the pool at the YMCA, where they splashed and just had a terrific time. Chris now works weekends, so I had the brilliant idea of taking the kids to the pool by myself. I figured it wouldn’t be too difficult to manage both of them, and if I lose track of one for a while, well, that’s what the lifeguards are for. In hindsight, I cringe at the naïve expectation of order and smooth sailing.  

My mismanagement was evident early. I had dropped the kids off at Kid Zone while I swam laps. In an effort at preparedness, I had them all dressed in swim diapers and swimsuits. My reasoning was that swim diapers would be supremely effective given that they’re expected to withstand even the rigors of swimming.  

I was wrong. Counter-intuitively, swim diapers are not equipped to handle pee. I found this out when I picked up the kids and they were soaked. Abashedly, I apologized to the day care personnel, who had to deal with two soggy malcontents. The morning improved from there, briefly, when the kids had a blast in the water.  

Then it was time to go and my three-year-old followed me obediently into the dressing room… said no mother EVER. Apparently, I’d momentarily forgotten that 1) I was dealing with a toddler and 2) I was outnumbered. So I’m out of the water, holding Adeline, and imploring Andrew to get out of the pool while the lifeguards watched with amusement. Since this is my place of work, I tried to use quiet threats while not alarming anyone in a facility filled with mandated reporters. Now, I’m not averse to calmly carrying him out of there, but I had a baby in my arms, and it’s generally frowned upon to leave an infant unattended near a large body of water.  

I had ill-advisedly used the ladies’ locker room as opposed to the family one because I thought this would provide greater comfort. Now I know why family locker rooms exist; it’s not for the convenience of the parents, but rather to shield the general, well-behaved public from the hot mess express that ensues when kids are cruelly wrenched from fun activities.  

It’s about the time when I’m naked in the shower with the screaming Andrew when Adeline realizes she has not been nourished for an entire 30 minutes, which is extremely unacceptable, and she clearly believed she was about to expire on the spot. So while demure elderly women watch aghast, I set the screaming baby down on the floor (there may have been a towel down, my mental protective mechanisms rendered some of the details a little hazy) while I forcibly dress a howling Andrew. We exited soon afterwards, and I assume I was dressed appropriately because I was not arrested for indecent exposure.  

The irony is that I went in with all the confidence of a smooth experience despite accumulating evidence to the contrary. In the end, I had to reflect if it was more of a positive or negative experience for the children, and if—perhaps in a moment of amnesiac insanity—we go swimming again, I will apply my mental notes. For the first time taking the kids swimming alone it wasn’t terrible, and this is fairly common behavior at crowded pools, lakes, and waterparks. But in a more . . . mature (geriatric) setting where the patrons have an expectation of peace and quiet during their golden years, I felt a little conspicuous. All in all, our next excursion will likely be somewhere remote where screaming children will not be disruptive. Antarctica maybe.  

My Heroic Spider Vanquisher

I start thinking my life is relatively full and varied until I examine the recent topics of my posts. Conservatively speaking, about 95% deal with diapers, tantrums, cold weather, bugs, and deer. Today, in contrast, I will be writing about neuroplasticity and existential nihilism.  

No, not really. That would be my self in my alternate universe pondering universal ideologies before more mundane issues dominated my life. The matter at hand is, nonetheless, of vital importance and highlights efforts in a very underappreciated field of expertise. I will preface this by saying that my husband Chris, long-suffering spouse of twelve (or thirteen? Eleven-ish?) years plays many roles in our lives. Provider, co-parent, confidante, supporter. Though it may not feature prominently on his resume, the role of bug killer/disposer cannot be understated.  

To provide context: upon entering the bathroom the other morning, I encountered a spider of gargantuan proportions. Yes, I’m aware that the smaller spiders tend to be more deadly and supposedly there are no poisonous spiders in Minnesota. Make no mistake, though, this spider was unquestionably lethal and its menacing stance was matched only by nefarious intentions. Knowing that it is my duty as a mother to protect the innocent children nearby I did the only sensible thing and got the hell out of there. I figured that while this may not technically resolve the issue, there was chance that the spider would have scampered off and I could pretend it magnanimously packed up and moved out of town.  

This approach appeared successful until I jumped in the shower—now undressed and therefore possessing even fewer defenses—and was confronted with the same spider (although a bigger, meaner version, if possible.) A few feeble attempts to direct the spray to wash the spider down the drain failed and—faced with a soggy-yet-very-much-alive critter—I abandoned all efforts at cleanliness and fled the scene.  

This is where it gets tricky. In a stand-off to claim territory, the spider would win, no question. But I would like to use that shower at some point. Yet I cannot bring myself to kill the spider (more on this later) so it remained there for another day or two. I assumed it would remain there indefinitely, although I was too squeamish to actually confirm this.  

Enter Chris with all of his extensive, undisputed talents at removing eight-legged threats. After minimal eye-rolling, he dutifully followed my directive to remove the spider from the house without harming it. To be honest, it might be squished in a tissue somewhere or may have gone to the Great Toilet Bowl in the Sky, but I like to think it is living happily outdoors somewhere, brimming with gratitude for a second lease on life. And what some may view as cowardice on my part, I consider evolutionary gifts of avoiding harmful predators. I may be descended from wimps and avoiders, but at least my ancestors survived to produce (cautious) offspring. 

To my point earlier, I readily admit that I can be hypocritical when it comes to not doing the dirty work. You’re not going to find me hunting or fishing, but I will happily chow down on meat once it does not resemble the cute, breathing critter. I’m kind of the epitome of being removed from the consumption process, eschewing the work while enjoying the fruits of others’ labors. Donating to animal charities and moving snapping turtles out of the road (true story) while eating chicken nuggets. Arguably modern chicken nuggets contain mostly artificial ingredients and chemicals and whatever, but the 5% real meat probably came from very sad, factory-bred, mistreated chickens.  For the most part, I operate under the delusion that the animal graciously offered its life and then was transformed magically into little packaged grocery products. 

That said, I would rather eat happy animals, but even that becomes more negotiable when higher prices are introduced. I swear, in my next life I’m coming back as a factory turkey. Or as an ant on the receiving end of a troubled five-year-old armed with a magnifying glass. 

A Peace/Piece of Mind

I should give a reader warning, or at least an advisory, as the content contains a somewhat mature topic. Of course, given its authorship, the term “maturity” may be questionable. That said, if anyone continues to perceive me as the ultimate paragon of virtue . . . well, first, I’m impressed with your level of loyalty/denial/naivete. Frankly, it bruises my ego a bit to write about some of the grittier experiences and expose my flawed self. But I have allowed shame and guilt to impede my life and hamper my actions in the past and that has not historically not ended well. The one thing worse than wallowing in these depressive emotions? Adding a few liters of hard liquor. More power to people who can handle their intoxicants responsibly, but that has not been my story.  

Finding my strength and voice despite (because of) my faults and leading with my vulnerability is essential. You know, studies have found that happiness is inversely proportional to the amount of time spend on Facebook. I think that’s an example of “comparing your insides to other people’s outsides) as we’re erroneously assuming that our lives are inferior to the beaming families of acquaintances. All of that comparing and self-flagellation is exhausting and not particularly helpful. Luckily my laziness in posting pictures and maintaining relationships virtually has allowed me to avoid the whole excessive-online-presence situation. I don’t think Baby Adeline has even been introduced to my online community. That is all a long-winded way of expressing my gratitude for not having been sucked into the cult of online perfectionism.  

The irony is that, despite my checkered alcohol past, I have been medically prescribed certain controlled substances.  I have been issued a medical marijuana card, which is somewhat unfortunate because I don’t have a favorable memory of cannabis. The last time I dabbled in marijuana was almost twenty years ago as an undergraduate student. I remember feeling cotton-mouthed and dry-eyed and perceptibly irritated that everyone else seemed to be having more fun than me. So I have access to the one substance that I did not find “self-medicated” me satisfactorily. The second medication I was referred for is ketamine. Which is a sedative and anesthetic commonly found in veterinarian’s offices and surgical centers. So a medical professional is giving me access to a horse tranquilizer. Even more shockingly, they are aware of my alcohol use disorder. One might suspect I have bamboozled this poor physician, but a ketamine derivative has been found to be effective for treating a number of mental illnesses (anxiety, depression, PTSD, substance use disorders). Besides, our furry friends have been treated with antidepressants for years; it’s only fair that we get some their drugs! 

One gets the sense that these medications have become more accessible because of politics. For instance, cannabis prohibition was favored (arguably) by racists because it had the “benefit” of incarcerating large numbers of people of color. (The book The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexanders examines this phenomenon of mass incarceration; I should hurry to add that I was being facetious earlier—I am not a fan of racist legislation and criminalizing small amounts of certain substances). And then wealthy white men realized that they sort of liked smoking pot and suddenly the medical perspectives were accepted, legitimacy restored, and the substance was decriminalized. Maybe I’m being cynical, but legislation doesn’t automatically follow science absent other, less admirable, factors. Same with ketamine; white people probably discovered they kind of liked this drug and did not particularly enjoy jail time. So now it is being venerated for its medicinal properties. A few more influential individuals get on board and it’ll probably be covered by insurance.  

The procedure itself is not frightening. It feels exactly like waking up from a surgery a little dreamy and groggy. In fact, since ketamine is often used as anesthesia, that’s essentially the same dissociative feeling. My fear is not the (minimal) possibility of side effects but that it not may not be particularly effective for me. So I try to “manage my expectations” by not anticipating radical change. Even if it does end up treating my anxiety, say, this is not an instantaneous transformation. The drug (like other pharmaceuticals) encourages brain growth which then continues through the months. Still, irrationally, I might blame myself for any lack result and feel I’ve failed them. 

The entire visit is less than one hour, spent reclining in a lounge chair with an eye mask and listening to music. A little part of me thinks that this restful environment would be worth the time and money. Any positive result is an additional benefit. Although after several evenings with the children, Chris may need to undergo the treatment himself.  Take

Vexations and Vaccinations

I can proudly assert that I am one step closer to being fully vaccinated. I can count myself among the Minnesotans who have had at least one shot, with the next scheduled out three weeks. It was a remarkably smooth process, which shouldn’t have surprised me. Minnesotans are nothing if not efficient. I was in and out in less time than it takes me to choose a breakfast cereal. And that includes the mandated fifteen minute post-vaccine wait period. If you haven’t expired during the fifteen minutes, you’re herded out the door with a follow-up appointment card.

Inexplicably, there has been an issue with people getting their first vaccine and then not appearing for the second dose. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense to me if it’s intentional; it’s like going through a (minimally) arduous procedure and not reaping any of the benefits. If you were cautious or hesitant about the safety of the vaccine, then your ongoing existence would have quelled the most stringent fears.

I try to live as non-judgmentally as I can, but I have to admit that I’m flummoxed by the vaccine hesitancy. If not only for my own bodily self-preservation, I would want to be protected just so I didn’t infect a more susceptible individual. Given how the United States (and a few other countries) have snapped up the available vaccine doses, it almost embarrasses me that more people are not availing themselves of this (free) opportunity. Many countries, despite at-risk populations and high transmission rates, cannot procure enough of the medications. This is a limited resource and I would have all but trample my brethren in order to get my dose. Sorry kids, this is a put-my-oxygen-mask-on-first type of situation. I’ll be darned if one precious dose of medication is wasted because I did not act in my own self interest and the greater good. My father, who is 71 and a survivor of a triple bypass, was only one day ahead of me in getting his vaccine. And he was in a priority category in Portugal. I almost want to apologize to other countries for our sense of entitlement and irresponsibility. I think that’s what bothers me the most; people certainly have the autonomy to make their own decisions about health care, but when there are potentially deadly results to others, that changes the equation.

Since this post has taken on a somewhat whiny tone, I might as well add to my litany of complaints. One of my pet peeves is lateness. And that includes my own. I feel it signals a disrespect to the other individuals affected; as in “I value your schedule so little that I don’t bother to prioritize time management.” And I admit that my punctuality borders on obsession and neuroses. I get disproportionately anxious if I am running late for an event that involves other people. I also think that being timely takes minimal effort if a modicum of planning is involved. I have two little children and live 45 minutes from town, and I don’t grant myself leniency in this department. Of course, there are extenuating circumstances (see: any one of numerous blog posts about deer and their unfortunate predilection for large moving vehicles).

There’s a specific situation in mind that provides background for the bee in my bonnet. For lifeguarding shifts, we’re supposed to show up fifteen minutes early to relieve the previous guard and complete any pre-shift work. Showing up at the intended time—while not preferable—is understandable, especially if the guard is arriving from another engagement. But to show up week after week late for a shift (legitimately late, that is) is aggravating. The lifeguard in question not only saunters in late, but proceeds to dawdle (what is he doing back there? Writing the next great American novel?? Solving the climate crisis?) It is utterly irrelevant what commitments I have that would suffer from this tardiness. After all, that TV won’t watch itself.

Lions and Tigers and . . . Bugs, Oh My!

There is nothing that makes one slightly less nostalgic about a former home state is returning for a visit during a massive bug infestation. The state in question is Texas and the plague that had descended upon this bastion of enviable weather were caterpillars. More specifically, caterpillars that lay in wait, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting Yankee. I maybe be overstating their capacity for movement slightly. More accurately (but no less terrifying, in my opinion) they dangled by invisible threads from trees. With an uncanny ability to prefer face-level heights. I’m not entirely sure what they were called, but the local media described them as harmful only to trees. Of course, that’s how the first human shark encounter probably transpired, as well. “Oh look, here’s a harmless little fish . . . Aaagghhhh!” I have not made it to age thirty-six by approaching creepy critters with a cavalier attitude.

It is hard to impart exactly how frightening these caterpillars are, because (admittedly) they’re tiny and have no discernible method to attack humans. Walking through a tree-filled yard, however, is reminiscent of passing through those beaded curtains, spastically slapping and swatting the offending bugs. There really is nothing as alarming as feeling something wiggling down your collar and the subsequent frantic removal of garments.

I didn’t used to be this squeamish about caterpillars. I have many a fond memory of hoarding hairy caterpillars in plastic Tupperware containers, much to our mother’s consternation. This behavior is somewhat baffling in hindsight. There was never a dearth of animals in our household, from cats to hamsters. We even rode horses, and it’s hard to be more impressive than that. Yet we would delight in smuggling the little (reluctant) stowaways into our rooms, decorating their plastic homes with a flair and effort comparable to the home-design shows on now. Never mind that the homes didn’t quite possess adequate nutrition, given the high mortality rate. Some likely escaped. In fact, the descendants of our erstwhile “pets” likely still roam the confines of the property. There was one frightening interval when it was speculated that this particular caterpillar was in fact a very pernicious and poisonous variety. Either that myth was debunked or my parents just figured that if we were still alive and kicking they clearly weren’t that deadly. Or maybe they just upped our life insurance, I’m not entirely sure.

Now that I’m an adult I harbor a slight twinge of guilt over the inhumane conditions we subjected our captives to. Not that the plastic was particularly less hospitable than the concrete stairs and driveways we plucked them from. But one consequence of our ingenious hiding places was a tendency to not recollect exactly where we’d stashed them. Which had the unfortunate effect of turning our sanctuaries of repose into little insect burial grounds. Of course, that would have been preferable to ending up as a cat treat, come to think of it.

I complain about the Minnesota cold, but there is something to be said for a climate so inhospitable that furry insects steer clear.  

San Antonio, Here We (Finally) Come

I should have anticpated difficulty traveling to Texas because Chris and I were traveling with a toddler and an infant. Frankly, I think that’s considered torture in some cultures. I don’t know how single parents do it; at least with Chris we can divide and conquer (and re-evaluate our desire for more children.

We had booked a flight out of Hibbing at 6:30, which was our first mistake. The only thing more cantankerous than a toddler is a sleep-deprived, hungry child. Accompanied by two tired, cranky adults. So Chris and I pack with military precision and load the bags into the car, along with a two strollers, a car seat, activities for the children, and the kitchen sink. Had we crashed and been forced to survive on a desert island, we would be in good shape. We take two cars since Mother will be flying back with us and I arrived first. We unload all of the baggage near the entrance while dissuading Andrew from his “I want to run around in the road just to terrify my parents” game.

We finally enter the lobby, already fatigued and not relishing the idea of hours with the children in airports until we can foist them onto unsuspecting grandparents. We may have exaggerated how well-behaved and calm lest our guest invitation be rescinded. We wrangle the car seat and base into the carrier bag and I maneuver Adeline into her Baby Bjorn. We walk past the large stuffed bear (taxidermists must make a killing in northern Minnesota; dead animals often adorn the walls of restaurants, local businesses, and even homes. It is a dangerous proposition to be a furry critter in our neck of the woods.)

We cosy up to the ticket counter, with its glorious ability to unburden us of a few bags. (Though not children; trust me, we’ve tried). There, the ticket agent unceremoniously informs us that the flight departs at 6:10 AM and we have missed our half-our window. We will have to reschedule our flights.

Although it was indisputeably our fault, it does seem excessively strict given that we accounted for about one third of the scheduled passengers. In fact, the passengers and airport personnel together wouldn’t have filled a schoolbus. This is hardly a hub of international terrorism and we were as innocuous a family as you could get. With two young children, we are never going to be inconspicuous. But they have protocol and we decidedly were not adhering to it.

Hysterics and tantrums followed. And that was just the adults. We had little option other than to drive the 30 miles home and return for a later flights. Suffice it to say we probably weren’t the most pleasant travelers, but we arrived in one piece. Well, I left my Kindle somewhere, which is traumatic in its own right given my dependence. So now I’m on, like Kindle number fifteen. But that’s another matter.

Little What’s-Her-Name

As much as I have refused to cede this point to my younger sisters, there is a certain privilege afforded to the oldest. Having a second child has led me to recognize modifications we’ve made to raising children. Certain things that were thrilling with Andrew “LOOOOOOK, HONEY! Andrew just sneezed!” are slightly less exciting. Milestones become something you try to remember at the doctor’s office “Hmmm, I think she may have started crawling at some point. In the last sixth months, certainly” as opposed to a celebratory occasion. I had specific aspirations that I was motivated to accomplish with Andrew that seem less critical now (from “I have to record his first use of consonants!” to “Heck, if she’s talking by three, we’re good.”)

Here are three changes I’ve noticed:

Photographs: I’m still unsure if my siblings are actually related to me, because as far as I’m concerned, they materialized when I was three and then six. Incoming missiles, they consumed massive amounts of toys and attention. Either they just weren’t that interesting, or my parents had been exhausted by the sheer number of photographs they’d taken the first three years. My parents (as I’ve mentioned before) did not even stop taking pictures long enough to pry me off the cat food dish. (To be fair, I was a constant food bowl visitor.) It makes me wonder what current ailments I could attribute to massive amounts ingested cat food. I’m trying to be diligent with Adeline; because of how ubiquitous smart phones are, it will be difficult to sell her the “We ran out of film” excuse.

Baby Handprint Kit: In theory, this sounded like a terrific idea: What better way to capture successive years than to create an annual plaster cast of their hand? Answer: ANYTHING. Anything would be better! Do not be lulled into a false sense of security by the promises of “Simple” and “Easy” on the packages. One year the plaster/water solution ended up scattered across our kitchen as though a Minnesota blizzard had moved indoors. And we didn’t even get a workable handprint because Andrew had the audacity to keep moving, as babies are wont to do. One year we went to exhaustive lengths to procure the perfect handprint (we’d discovered tranquilizers by this time) only to have it erased because I’d failed to account for the fact that the 100% humidity of the island prevents anything from drying.

This last one has been transformed from a traumatic memory to one of hilarity now that several years have passed. The Baby Nutribullet (also called “Baby Bullet”, unfortunate nomenclature if you ask me) did not survive the first few uses. In theory, a parents can quickly and easily make baby food directly from food and therefore free of preservatives or arsenic or whatever the latest cancer-causing agent is. In practice, there are an unsustainable number of steps involved (from preparing the original substance to canning it at the end). If you’re easily bored, or, say, the parent of an infant, time allows only enough food be prepared to constitute a single serving. Doing this numerous times in a day makes me exhausted even just remembering it. There are other time-consuming and frustrating moments involved: for instance, tediously thawing a serving only to have the baby refuse to ingest a drop (which happens in the case of approximately 99% of foods.)

Of course, I have to take responsibility for being  a gullible consumer who neglected to do her research (or perhaps ignored the pleas of other moms who gallantly tried to prevent needless mom suffering.) My message now is this: it’s too late for me! But save yourselves!

I’m Taking the Bus

This has been a strange Easter week, so the fact that our house is not adorned with about five pounds of Easter egg confetti (worst idea ever) seems fitting. It started with my car dying. It has this unfortunate habit of burning through oil and then simply dying every time I come to a full stop. Or half stop. Or even think about stopping. I’m sure there’s a fancy technical automotive term for what’s happening with my car, but for all intents and purposes, it just stops functioning. I have to then put it in park and (usually after a series of uncoordinated jerky sputter-starts) manage to start it again, shift into drive, and drive out of the five-car pile-up that I’ve created. Luckily my car is so covered in mud that the license plate is illegible, so it is doubtful I would ever be tracked down. This is not an exaggeration.

As you can imagine, this makes already arduous driving that much more terrifying. Because maneuvering a 2,000 pound vehicle around turns on ice-covered terrain dodging deer with death wishes is not challenging enough. But one of the few things I enjoy less than operating a car that is trying to kill me is taking it to a dealership. Invariably they will track me down inside the dealership and present me with three very complicated-sounding options in a language other than English. This is delivered in a very ominous tone and one has the feeling that one of the options is likely mortal peril. But gosh darn if I’M going to look like the female who doesn’t understand mechanical terminology, so I go with the option that sounds vaguely familiar (transmission or brake pedals or something) and confidently assert my decision. For all I know I’m agreeing to buy a bedazzled windshield wiper or contribute to someone’s 401K.

So after numerous digital assessments and mechanic conferences and dealership inquiries and a more comprehensive history than my mental health diagnostic exam, it is determined that the oil is burning off at a faster rate than is normal. Which is what I told them coming in. Still unknown is where the oil is going. I’m somewhat alarmed that my oil is inexplicably disappearing, but the individuals at the shop seem unconcerned. Apparently this is not entirely uncommon and there are about fifteen trillion ways the oil could be burning off. All of which—strangely enough—is not comforting. After filling the oil with at least half of our national reserve my vehicle is pronounced operable. Long story short, this is a malfunctioning something or other on Honda CRVs and we can either overhaul the entire engine system or just keep filling the oil often. Adeline and I voted new car, but looks like I’m just gong to end up running that little thing into the ground.

I cannot help but to reflect on another frustrating moment for me. I collected Adeline from kid zone and she decides –about where the Walgreens is—that she is being summarily tortured  and must eat immediately lest she expire on the spot. So I lumber into McDonalds for another infusion of coffee. Now, anyone with a baby knows that preparation is critical to a mission’s success (mission being defined as “keeping the baby alive from Point A to Point B.”) So I have my shoulder bag, a cache of baby toys, my winter coat, and an extra blanket to cover while I nurse.

So I’ve finally managed to slouch inside. I set Adeline et al. down at an unmarked, table, After ordering a coffee and a vanilla ice cream cone (guilty pleasure) I continue to set up the baby’s elaborate array and take her out for nursing. Blanket perfectly positioned, modesty entirely intact. So then the manager (whomI ordered the food from, and was presumably aware of our presence) informs us that there is no indoor dining and I cannot stay. This means I have to stuff her back in the baby torture chamber of a car seat, gather the fifteen baby toys that appear to have migrated to other corners of their own volition, and place breast in an upright and locked position (oh wait, that’s for planes).

This story really doesn’t have a point other than that is was inconvenient to be informed of this protocol after I’d unpacked enough materials to practically supply an expedition. It is kind of funny; I feel as though I’m moving into various establishments. Whether it’s the coffeeshop or gym or therapy or work, I all but set up a camping tent. Baby food, computer, phone, blanket, chew toys, journal. After awhile, when cute baby becomes cranky baby, nearby patrons begin to uncomfortably shift and look annoyed, I know it’s time for us to pack up and move out.

Today: blocks. Tomorrow: Hadron Collider

Dear Departed . . .

For some reason, I was reminded of the Toby incident when I dropped Andrew off at school. The other day we had an email from the school. In an extremely somber tone, the letter informed us that beloved Toby had passed away. I was shocked that someone’s death was expressed in somewhat of a cavalier fashion. Perhaps this was a treasured friend of Andrew. I felt unprepared to explain the gravity and permanence of death. And the poor parents; I couldn’t imagine what they were going through. Then it occurred to me that Toby may have been a teacher or long-time worker, and integral part of the YMCA community.

I took a closer look at the email and realized I’d missed the small detail that Toby was a gecko. You would think they could lead with that, right??!! I’d practically organized a funeral service by the time I digested his animal status. Not that losing a pet is not tragic in and of itself, of course. The first time I remember seeing my parents cry is when our kitty Joe was run over in Italy. I want to say we lost more than one cat to that road, which aside from being tragic, does not reflect well on Italians’ driving skills. Unless they were aiming for them, in which case they are legendary.

Still aware that Andrew might be somehow traumatized or deeply affected by the loss, I asked him directly if he knew Toby and how he was feeling. He either was unacquainted with the critter, or not particularly enamored with him, because he had virtually no reaction. A few days later, a new flyer appeared announcing the arrival of “Buddy”.  I thought it was a little abrupt of a transition, although it’s very possible that Toby was maybe more a nuisance than an asset. I just had a horrible thought: have they checked Toby’s food content? Had Toby been particularly aggressive towards anyone? Maybe made fun of someone’s weight? Peed on someone’s backpack? Have the security cameras been checked? Do we need to implement arduous interrogation techniques?

Toby’s demise is reminiscent of some other dear departed pets. Although our family purported to take great care of our pets, in retrospect we seemed to go through hamsters like Sherman through Atlanta. And for whatever reason, they tended to meet rather gruesome ends. Suffice it to say that one involved a cat and left mis sister and I scarred for life. I’m sure our pictures are on posters somewhere warning staff and hamsters alike of our track record.  A hamster probably sees us coming and commits hari-kari.

The most memorable pet moment comes from a high school friend, who would regale us with the tale of the goldfish. As though as angsty teenagers we were not morbid enough. So she has this goldfish in a respectable uncovered aquarium. After a family trip, she returns to an empty fishbowl. She recognized that—while Goldie was a particularly intelligent fish—he was not likely to have wandered off. Then she looks at the wall behind the fishbowl. And there is Goldie, stuck and completely dry and crispy. Apparently it was doing its sole talent of leaping briefly out of the water. Goldie may have gotten too arrogant or complacent and misjudged his trajectory. This would be a brilliant Aesop’s fable because I’m sure we could extrapolate the lesson. You have to feel for the fish; it’s unlikely he was going to live a very long life as is was, and then he makes that regrettable last leap. Maybe his last memory is not “Oh crap” but instead “I’m freeeeeeee” (splat). And such is the fate of some our beloved pets.

Poisonestra

Are the medications out there getting more terrifying, or is it just me? It seems like every time you turn on the TV, there’s an ad for a new medication with a laundry list of horrific side effects. Are pharmaceutical companies in collusion with major hospitals and ERs? Or have we gotten so sick that we’ll accept possible death as an acceptable risk? Here is my interpretation of a new medication we’ll call Poisonestra. 

This medication causes an increased risk of a major cardiovascular event. It is recommended that you do not take this medication if you are more than 10 miles from a hospital. In fact, due to the high risk of heart attacks and strokes, you might want to camp out in the parking lot. Or just check in now.

Tell your healthcare provider right away if you experience difficulty breathing. In the likely event that you stop breathing, it is beneficial to be fluent in sign language. Really, breathing is overrated anyway. 

Do not use Poisonestra if you are pregnant or plan to become pregnant. If you have ever been pregnant, you are advised not to take this medication. Any association with pregnancy is discouraged. If you have any family members who are pregnant, have ever seen a pregnant person, or are reading a novel with a pregnant protagonist, stop taking this medication. 

Do not use if you have lived in certain parts of the country such as Ohio or Mississippi where fungal infections might be more common. It is recommended that you canvas your neighborhood in case any individuals have ever lived in or visited these areas. Just to be on the safe side, avoid this medication if you have visited a state that begins with “O” or “M.”

Do not drink grapefruit juice or eat citrus products while taking Poisonestra. Liquids in general are thought to be contraindicated so it is advised to avoid drinking any fluids at all. Do not go out in the rain, take a shower, or come within 10 feet of a sink. 

Keep out of reach of children. If your child’s name starts with an “A” and ends with “deline” you will need to take additional precautions. Preferably, do not keep the medication inside the house. Entombing the medication in Fort Knox may be an acceptable option in this case. With extra security.

Most common side effects: low white blood cell count, migraines, bacterial skin infection, shingles, vomiting, flu, mouth and throat pain. Often all at once. 

Tell your doctor if you have any worsening medical problems such as seizures or confusion. Only if your seizures get worse, occasional grand mal seizures are expected. If you are confused, never mind, because you likely won’t have the presence of mind to seek help. Many individuals hire full time caregivers while taking this medication. MIght want to start buying lottery tickets now.

Do not take if you are allergic to any of the ingredients. Only 94% of people have developed severe allergic reactions that required hospitalization. 

Store between 70 and 71 degrees Fahrenheit. Variation from this temperature may result in immediate death. Ensure that the medication gets 2.5 hours of sun per day. Optimal humidity is 23%. 

Poisonestra’s investors include several Supreme Court judges. This is not in violation of the nonexistent Code of Ethics. But good luck suing us.