With A Shake Of Her Hair
One woman’s brush with reality
by Summer L. Heacock
To my Mommy, and my Lola.
My Fountain of Knowledge, and my Fountain of Youth.
I am in awe of the things you teach me every single second of every single day.
Chapter 1
Green cup. The green cup. Where the hell has the green cup gone? How is it scientifically possible that this cup has disappeared from this Earthly realm overnight, with not so much as a fingerprint or a ransom note left in its now-empty assigned seat in the cabinet? This cup is so beloved by my son that he simply refuses to partake in breakfast with the rest of us until it is found, filled with orange juice, and then placed firmly in his increasingly impatient grasp. Even more perplexing is how has this cup had become the lynch pin in my morning, deciding whether or not I am to complete breakfast for these two children and get them packed contentedly into the family ride with minimal fuss and/or muss- or will it all come crashing down in an epic display of screaming children, declarations of ruined lives, and Mommy Guilt?
“Mommeeeeeeee?” a tiny masculine voice pierces the kitchen. “Where is my gween cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup?!”
His tolerance for a green cup-free morning is wearing dangerously thin, and I sense that I have mere moments before Morning Meltdown officially begins. Ohmygoodgoshdarnandhell. Think, woman, THINK! I washed it last night. It was in the dishwasher, which I unloaded this morning, but recall no cup of the aforementioned hue. Did the dishwasher eat it? This might sound crazy, but rest assured that my dryer has done this repeatedly to our family’s socks.
Focus.
Wait. The husband was up and about this morning… perhaps he grabbed the cup! Yes! This makes more sense than the hungry appliance. I check the sink- no cup. I scan the counters with laser precision- no cup. Crap. Oliver is starting to bounce, ever so slightly. Soon will come the cry, the ear piercing cry, followed immediately by the jumping up and down. Abby looks over from her scrambled eggs. She can sense the panic in my eyes. Far too observant for a five year old if you ask me. If I don’t work fast, the panic will spread- mob mentality and all. I give her a calming smile, and patented Mommy-head-tilt, that clearly signals that I of course have this all under control. Now eat your eggs, Sweetheart.
Darn it. What has Derek done with his son’s cherished cup? What kind of a father would torture his child so? Or his wife for that matter, the evil bastard.
While my brain is doing an internal Google-type search for all the places this cursed chalice could be hiding, I am distracted by a familiar soft brushing against my ankle.
“Hi, Murph.” I sigh. Sweet kitty. My pal. So loyal, so loving, so content to drink from anything, no color coordination needed.
That’s it! Murphy! You fluffy tailed genius!
I scurry over to the laundry room door, fling it open much too desperately, snatch the bag of cat food off the shelf and thrust my hand inside, digging around in a fever pitch like a child on a quest for the trinket in the cereal box. My hand catches something amongst the salmon-y, crunchy bits. With baited breath, I remove my hand…
Success!!!
My prince of a husband must have grabbed the cup and used it to scoop out cat food before he went to work! Just a gem of a man, and I would never think otherwise.
With cup in hand, I glide from the laundry room with my chest puffed up and head held high, and know that I am the Mommy. The protector of all things. I have not let my child down. I have saved his day. He will now enjoy vitamin enriched, pulpy goodness from the Preschoolers Holy Grail. I am a hero. I look upon the child whose day I have rescued, whose innocence I have preserved with the quick thinking and natural skill that comes with the territory. I await the bestowal of accolades.
“Ewwww! Mommy!! It has yucky cat food cwumblies on it!”
Um. Where are the accolades? The “You’re the best Mommy, ever!” comments? The, uh, thank you’s?
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Ollie?”
“I want the wed cup, pwease.”
Well. Crap.
* * *
I love my life. I love my life.
“Mmmooooooooooooooooom! Ollie is picking his nose!!”
I love my children. I love my children.
“Mmmooooooooooooooooom!! He is trying to wipe it on me!”
I love, um, something.
“MMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!! He got his boogers on my coat!! MOMMMMY!!! BOOGERS!!! EWWWWWW!”
I love….
Eh. Screw it.
“Oliver Donahue! You stop wiping boogies on your sister! That is yucky! Boogies go on Kleenex, not on sisters! You stop wiping boogies on your sister RIGHT NOOOOW!!!”
It is a proud moment in every woman’s life when she has to give a lecture on the proper protocol of booger removal and disposal. I certainly pity those who are child-less. I mean, what do they talk about in their cars every day? Politics? World events? Pssssh! Boring. You haven’t lived until you start your morning with boogers.
I wonder if eight in the morning is too early to start drinking?
We are loaded in the car, and heading off to school, Abigail to kindergarten and Ollie to preschool. An epic adventure that I dare to run, five days a week, without fail. I recall, ever so vaguely, the days in which I would decide to leave the house, and then do just that. Leave the house. Pausing only briefly to make sure I had on my person some form of money and a driver’s license. Now, if the house is to be left, there is a stampede of tiny person’s running about in a well-choreographed flourish that serves as an amazing distraction from the hundred little things that simply must be packed into my Mommy Carry-All, for should we leave the house without them, doom would certainly befall us all. There are juice boxes to be collected, snacks to be placed in baggies, equally so to avoid the “Her baggie has more crackers than my baggie!” conversation. Baby wipes that while I do not technically have a baby in my possession, I have learned that once children are in the picture, a parent is never to be without a steady supply of those handy little moist towelettes. Bandages for the inevitable boo-boo’s that come at the oddest and most unlikely times. I swear, if I took these two to a pillow factory, they would come out with a cut finger and a scraped knee. There must be hand sanitizer. There must be sunscreen. There must be a cell phone that is loaded with every emergency number, ever. There must be a selection of toys should the twelve blocks to the school prove to be simply too long a trek and further distraction is needed. There must be variety of CD’s in case Radio Disney insists on playing an unacceptable song during the commute. And most importantly, there must be the trusty roll of duct tape, just in case the little buggers drive me insane and I need a moment of reprieve.
Wait. What?
We venture forth. I could drive this in my sleep. Some mornings, I fear I may have to. I glide down the road, whizzing through town, passing every familiar sight for the seven hundredth time, wondering why it is taking so long for the auto makers to create a car with auto-pilot. Surely this invention would be more useful than the feature that lights up annoyingly to inform me that my rear hatch is ajar. It would be less irritating if it would say that the hatch was merely open, but the uppityness of the “ajar” gets to me. Why can’t it tell me something more helpful, such as there is a cop with a radar gun hiding behind that bush?
As I arrive at Abby’s school and take my position in the drop off line, Abby and Oliver begin throwing Cheerio’s from their baggies at each other and giggling about the trajectories at which the O’s bounce off of the others head. I want to care enough to stop them, but the fact that they are relatively silent and content overrules my desire to have a cereal free car interior.
I loathe the drop off line. An enormous line of vehicles, filled with antsy children and exhausted parents, in which we all sit motionless waiting to release our kids into the confines of their school. We are herded like cattle by Leonard, the traffic guard here who took the job as an attempt to stay active after his official retirement from his career in accounting. When he started out here, he had the face of a friendly old man, pleased to be surrounded by our adorable little angels in the mornings. After being honked at by one too many mommies in a mad rush, Leonard now looks to be plotting our demises while grumbling under his breath as make our way through. Eventually, we will move inch by tiny inch, until we are in the designated drop off location where the doors fly open and the tots race out. Then we are given the waving arm from Leonard to carry on, which with his surly demeanor comes off more like “Get the hell out of the way now before I throw a traffic cone at you.”
It is not at all frustrating that the wait in the drop off line takes longer than the actual drive to the school, and I find it hard not to nod off while we wait. Once I am guided into the proper spot in front of the school walkway, I have to snap to it to, run around the car and get Abs out of her child seat, before running back to the driver’s side and taking off, lest I take too much time and incur the wrath of Leonard, or worse, one of the other perpetually annoyed parents behind me who have better things to do than wait for my slow butt.
Just as I am hoisting Abby onto the pavement and securing her backpack to her tiny shoulders, I hear a startled gasp of a mother behind me, followed by an unpleasant thud. I turn to find the source of the commotion and see that Leonard, adorned in his blindingly bright orange safety vest, is lying motionless on the ground.
My first thought is that perhaps his incessant impatience for the lot of us had peeved off a parent enough to slug him, but even a mommy on a rampage wouldn’t punch a little old man. Would they?
“What happened?” the gasping mother shrieks beside me.
“He just grabbed his chest,” a woman in front of me hollers, trying to divert her son’s attention from an overly still Leonard on the sidewalk. ”Then he fell over!”
I watch as an air of madness ensues. Children are crying, parents are panicking, and yet not one person thinks to tend to the situation of the man at the root of it all.
It has been my experience that in crisis situations, there are those that become frantic messes, and the select few that manage to pull it all together long enough to help. I would normally consider myself one who becomes a blubbering mess, or at the very least, a comatose observer, incapable of tearing my eyes away long enough to form any sort of rational thought, but I look around and see that the roles of the hysterical bystanders have all been filled.
Somehow convincing my feet to move, I order Abby to wait by the car with her brother and make my way through the crowd to Leonard, who remains immobile.
“Okay,” I inhale sharply as I prepare to handle the increasingly frightening scenario. ”You, call 911,” I say and point to a wide eyed woman across from me.
As she wordlessly pulls out her cell phone to do as she was told, I turn my attention to Leonard. It has been years since I have taken any sort of CPR training, and I rack my brain to remember the basics.
I roll him from his side and onto his back, reaching up to try and find a pulse with my fingers pressed under his neck.
Seeing him lie here, so still and lifeless, the memories of his crotchety behavior vanish. The muscles on his face no longer hold his features into a permanent scowl, but have relaxed into the face of that kind old man I met here so many months ago. Someone who intended to do nice things, but like so many of the rest of us, lost that focus along the way. Leonard is a good man, and I refuse to let him go out like this, here on the dirty pavement, clad in a neon orange vest.
Unable to feel a pulse from Leonard, I can feel the adrenaline rushing through my own veins, and I know that I need to act now. Remembering what I can, I carefully lean up to tilt his head backwards slightly, hoping to open his airway as much as possible. I use the pads of my fingers to try and locate the correct place on his chest, before I carefully position the heel of my right hand onto his sternum, and placing my left hand on top, I begin compressions.
Everyone is silent around me, save for the sounds of those who are crying, both child and adult alike, but I can’t pay attention to that right now. No, I must count, I must focus.
...27, 28, 29, 30!
Alright, thirty pushes into his chest, now to breathe.
I try to picture the various diagrams I have seen in the past as to the proper way to do this. If I don’t keep his head tilted properly, the air won’t reach his lungs. Use one hand to pinch his nose, and the other to hold his chin in position.
I certainly never pictured spending my morning like this with Leonard. Before when I had seen people on television giving CPR, I had always wondered with a laugh if things like bad breath, or lack of kissing desirability would be a deterrent when attempting to save another person’s life. Perhaps a person who was unfortunate looking, or one that had consumed one too many onions at lunch would go untreated? Seeing as how Lenny here isn’t my idea of a hot make-out partner, and that his breath has a Maalox-y essence to it isn’t stopping me, I am thinking that looks and hygiene amount to very little in these instances.
I quickly blow three breaths into his mouth, pleased to see his chest rising with each burst.
I can hear the sirens making their way towards the school, and I silently ask Leonard to work with me just for a few more moments. I feel my lucidity slipping away when I wonder if they will be able to make it up to us without the traffic guard to assist them?
“Come on, Leonard,” I whisper as I return to my compressions.
I don’t know if I am helping at all, for all I know I am making things worse, but I have to at least try. I keep thumping away, determined to keep his heart beating until the paramedics arrive. How long has it been since he dropped? Two minutes? Three hours? Either response seems perfectly tangible.
I finish the second set of compressions, and carefully begin breathing into him again. I am about to blast the third shot of oxygen, when I feel air whoosh by my face as Leonard sucks in a short, but deep breath.
“Leonard?” I practically wail.
I see the ambulance pulling in front of the line of cars, and the medics begin running our way. As they do, Leonard begins to cough.
“Leonard!” I yell, and feel I am about to have a heart attack of my very own.
Myself and everyone around me have been collectively holding our breath, but as his chest continues to rise and fall on its own, and his eyelids begin to flutter open, the crowd erupts with cheers.
The first EMT makes his way to where we are on the sidewalk and begins asking questions that I am unable to answer. I sit, completely dumbfounded as I watch them poke and prod the man I had just been toiling with, who is now looking around and coughing out words and questions of his own.
Someone grabs me by the arm and starts pulling me up off the ground. Once on my feet, hands come out of nowhere, patting me on the back, shaking my hands, waving wildly in front of me as I try to make sense out of what has just occurred.
The screams of happiness and applause continues as I am led, stupefied, back to where Abby stands by Oliver, still strapped into his safety seat, and they are both clapping and beaming at their mother.
“Mommy!” she trills in her most excited voice, “You are a hero, mommy!”
People have begun to honk the horns of their cars in elation as Leonard manages to sit up on his own as they wheel a stretcher over to him. I cannot form a functional sentence, even a complete word, as the reality of the last five minutes sinks in.
“Mommy?” Abby speaks, but is drowned out by the horns behind us.
I have saved a man’s life, and my child thinks I am a hero. The enthusiastic cries from the people around me keep my brain from being able to process everything as it is happening, and my attention is pulled towards Leonard as he lies on the stretcher now.
With as big a smile as he can muster, the little old man gives me a thumbs up.
“Mommy?”
The sound of the honking cars and cheering bystanders grows louder still and I –
“Mommy!”
“What Abby?” I answer finally.
“You are blocking Randy’s mommy,” Abby informs me.
I look behind me and sure enough, there sits Randy’s mother, Dina, sitting in her Buick, and waving her fists at me wildly.
The horns continue to blare, and I turn back to face Leonard.
Who is now standing in front of my car angrily waving his flag, and yelling in my direction.
Sitting in my car, I come out of my haze and realize that it is now my turn to unload Abby, and I am holding up the line. I prepare to bolt from the car to unstrap her from her seat, but she interrupts me.
“S’okay mommy,” she mutters. ”I am out, but will you unlock the door?” Even my child is annoyed with me. ”Randy’s mommy looks really mad at you.”
“Sorry, honey!” I try to smile as she leaps out of the car. ”I love you, have a good day at school!” I call after her, but the door shuts before I can finish.
I am mortified as I put the car back into drive and try to make my way around the perfectly healthy Leonard, whose face is still in its grumpy position. Grumpier now, it seems. ”Last time I save your life, jerk,” I grumble.
I shake my hair, trying to rid myself of the remnants of my daydream. No amazing lifesaving moments for me. No adoration from my parenting peers. Not even close.
Back on the main road now, I turn towards Oliver’s preschool, and sigh as I settle back into my robotic morning routine.
Chapter 2
Back at home after depositing Ollie at his preschool, I kick my shoes off at the door and realize that I had been in such a rush that I forgot to put socks on, and collapse in a heap on the couch in a tragic morning ritual. I always try to calm and center myself by taking a long, slow deep, breath. The first breath doesn’t work, so I’ll try a second. I get pissed off by the third, and go to make another pot of coffee. Today, I am reflecting on my momentary glimpse into my possible life as a spy. Nice. Yesterday, I looked into the back seat and my children, who were at a heightened state of… what shall I call it? Spunkiness. That is a good word for it…. so I looked back, and they had been replaced by two chimps. Like, two chimps strapped into their child safety seats…slapping things, picking fleas off each other- but thank goodness I snapped out of it as soon as they started flinging poo. A week ago, we were all in a parade as I had been crowned Woman of the Year. Actually, the official title was Woman-Of-The-Year-Who-Is-A-So-So-Cook-And-Mediocre-Housekeeper-But-Whose-Kids-Always-Have-Clean-Underwear.
I get bored– clearly. As much as I have tried to fight it, I have fallen into a dreadful rut with everything around me. My husband knows what days we will have chicken, and what nights we will have our weekly no-frills sex- Thursday and Sunday, respectively. My children know that Wednesdays are “Find The Yucky Stuff In Your Room And Get It Out” day. And I literally know how every single second of every single day will go. When I lay in bed at night, I think forward to what the next day will entail, in hopes of being prepared, and by the time the next morning gets started, I am already bored of it. Even the drama of the Green Cup this morning was somewhat prophesied. Because of this, I find myself running frequently on auto-pilot, and began my trips to Fantasy-ville after I almost fell asleep one morning driving the kids to school.
Call me crazy, but anything that keeps the urge to turn all my beverages Irish at bay is a win/win.
I used to be rather spontaneous, and dare I say it... Fun. Back in college, when I was known as Ellie as opposed to Mommy, I went to parties and spoke with honest to goodness, living, breathing, human beings! That is how I met Derek actually. Ah, imagine the days when we didn’t know everything about each other, including preferred nose blowing techniques. (Him? Three blows, in short succession. Yeah.) Back then he was a very sexy, but very unaware of it, computer geek, and I was that girl that liked to go to parties and laugh at all of the drunken people… but get enough Corona’s in me, and I would be dancing on the table. Okay, that was only once. And only for one song. And I threw up. Never got invited back to that house... The point is that I used to know how to have something that resembled fun, and those days seem very far away…at least the fun part does.
Don’t get me wrong, we have fun now and it is wonderful, but it is a very different kind of fun. Like, taking the kids to a water park, or seeing the dolphin show at the zoo. No drunken college night could ever out-fun the look on Ollie’s face as he got splashed, head to toe wet, by a dolphin during a super flip. He was not as amused.
I am not complaining necessarily. I do love my life, and I am lucky to have it. I know that. That is not to say that it wouldn’t be nice to have a drop of random unpredictability thrown in every once in a while. Something innocent to spice things up.
Maybe we should get that penguin Abigail has been begging for. I bet that would be interesting.
Clearly, I am delirious from lack of coffee.
I pick myself up, and search for filters. I have three hours before I have to head out and pick Oliver up from school. Today, I am granted a bit of a break as Abby will be brought home at precisely 5:15 by Rebecca Monroe, who carts Abby and her daughter Bridgett from Kindergarten to dance class, and then home. She and I trade weeks. A bit of a welcome break every other Thursday. Thanks to this break, I only have to make one trip out this afternoon, instead of the usual quest that involves getting Oliver and either returning home, or running errands until it is time to go back and pick up Abby at 2:45. In these three hours, I must try and squeeze in all the things that I can’t, or would rather not, do with a three and a half year old nipping at my ankles. These things include, but are certainly not limited to: showering, paper work, gynecological appointments, and ritualistic animal sacrifice. I’d do that last bit with the kiddies, but Ollie has a hard time handling the spears. Blood makes them slippery.
Coffee started, I head upstairs to take my shower, the one relaxing and fantastically blissful part of my day. I started taking them after dropping the kids off, as bathing is considerably more enjoyable when you don’t have one child trying to pull the curtain back to ask you where their other shoe is, or have the other create that frightening silence that makes every mother’s blood run cold, since a silent child is a child up to no damn good. Despite my best efforts to throw a towel around me, and keep the shampoo from permanently blinding me, I never get there in time, and after the last episode that involved nail polish, tampons, and our brand new flat screen and DVD player, I have decided that a stinky mom is at the very least a watchful mom.
Hey, if they step out of line, I can always threaten them with a time out to be spent in the luxurious confines of my un-showered armpit.
The hot water is divine. The body wash is, um, sudsy. I take a well-earned moment, and lean my head against the contrastingly cool wall of the shower, let the hot water run down my neck and back, and try that deep breath thing again. I am powerless against the engulfing steam, and succumb to the mellowness of the moment.
Instantly, I snap out of it and realize that I have an actual day to get to, and a schedule that begs to be followed, but never is kept.
Out of the shower, I fly about my bathroom in a fan dance of lotions, potions, makeup brushes, and flat irons, and emerge shiny-haired and perfectly painted into the bedroom amid a cloud of steam, looking as though I have walked off the set of a fabulous shampoo commercial.
Of course that is not true. I hop out of the shower, rub a towel over and run a brush through my hair before throwing it, still wet, into a pony tail. As for makeup, well, let’s just say, most of the stuff I own is still in its original factory packaging. Most of them well beyond their date of usability.
I head for our closet, trying to avoid the mirror, should my naked body be reflected, it might shatter. And I can’t handle seven years of bad luck. I just can’t.
I stare at the clothes in my closet. There are some nice items hanging in there, begging to be worn, to be taken somewhere that they will be appreciated. Well ya know what? We all want that! So shut the hell up, you whiny bastards.
As I stand there, inexplicably insulting my clothes, my hand grazes my stomach, my finger passing over my stretch mark. I look down, and study it lovingly. I am so proud of my one mark. It started when I was pregnant with Abby, and while carrying Oliver, it grew even more. I always thought it was so funny to have this one deep, very long mark, but not a single stretch mark anywhere else. Gently running my finger up and down my treasured scar, now nearly invisible having faded with time to a silvery pink, I feel my heart flutter as I remember how Derek would lay in bed with me during both pregnancies and talk to my belly, softly running his fingers over this very same mark that was literally growing bigger every day. He said he did that because he thought that since the skin was all stretched out that sound could travel through it easier and the babies could hear him better. Every time he did it they would give him a kick. After they were born, I was embarrassed by the ugly, red, squiggly deformity that was adorning my belly, until one day, Derek caught me frowning at it in a mirror. Hugging me from behind, he once again caressed the line with his finger, and declared that I should be proud of it, that he was, and that it was my battle scar. The sincerity in his voice was staggering in the moment, and I never again looked at my single stretch mark with anything but deep rooted pride. I fell so hard in love with him that day, all over again. It was a good day.
Recharged by the memory, I pull a pair of jeans off the hanger. Usually, I abandon the notion of wearing an actual outfit, and head for sweats and other forms of stretchy pants, but not today. Today, I am going to wear jeans. And maybe a fun strappy top!
Easy honey, one step at a time.
I pull the jeans on, only slightly shocked that they actually fit, and head to the dresser and pull out one of many trusty worn in sweatshirts. My standard Mommy/Housewife uniform.
Eh, at least I sauced it up today with jeans!
Heading downstairs, I look at my daily list. I live off of lists; otherwise I would lose my mind. Derek has tried numerous times to convert me to the world of Palm Pilots, PDA’s and other various forms of electronic organizational devices, much to my chagrin. I joke that I married him so I would never have to worry about anything electronic again. Call me old fashioned, but I’ll stick to a pen and paper, thank you. Today’s list is manageable- not overly crammed as is the case some days. There is chicken to be defrosted, a few bills to pay and mail, and laundry to be done. Of course the list grows as the day goes on with things that pop up, and I do have all the usual house cleaning things that after months of transferring the same damn things over to each daily list, I figured I could at least remember those. Not a lot of complicated things here- vacuum this, scrub that, dust here, mop there. Blah, blah, blah.
I head to the freezer and pull out a hunk of frozen chicken breasts that later tonight will become ranch chicken fingers, a favorite among the kids. I am including my husband in that category, by the way. Before I can even set it on the counter, the phone rings.
I furrow my brow as I walk ever so cautiously towards the receiver. I stare at that cordless menace like it is a rattle snake, coiled and ready to snap with each eardrum piercing ring. Derek only uses e-mail, or calls my cell phone, so it can’t be him. No, it will be something bad, or something annoying. Another mother demanding that I contribute to another God forsaken bake sale, or fundraiser. A telemarketer perhaps, regaling me with tales of lower long distance rates, or free satellite dishes. Once, I was informed that I had won a trip to somewhere tropical… Hawaii I think. I was thrilled and the man talked me through it, had me squealing with excitement until he told me that the trip would be available to me only if I were to purchase a time share in the area for very affordable low monthly payments. I believe he should be shot. The bastard clearly toyed with my emotions.
I reach the phone, and push the button that will surely link me with a kink in my day, and say hello.
“Mrs. Eleanor Donahue?” The voice on the other end asks.
“This is she.” I reply warily.
“This is Mrs.Trager. I am the director at Wentworth Academy, your son Oliver Donahue’s preschool.” I love how she announces all these things like I haven’t spoken to her a million times, or I don’t remember the name of my son’s school, or that perhaps the little lad’s first and last names have escaped me.
“I am calling to inform you that your son has been complaining of a stomachache for the last hour or so, and we feel that his complaints warrant being removed from class today.” She continues.
God. Why does she talk like that? We live in a suburb outside of freaking Chicago, not in the Royal Kingdom of Illinois.
“I’ll be right there; will you tell him that I will be right there?” I sigh.
“Certainly, Mrs. Donahue.” She closes, “Thank you for your time.”
Why, oh why, did we insist on enrolling our child at Stick Up Their Ass Academy? Sure, it is the best school in this part of the state, but I mean really, some things aren’t worth the cost of being able to speak three languages before Kindergarten.
I turn off the coffee maker, looking sadly at the java that will be cold by the time I get back, give my frozen chicken a loving pat, and grab my keys and purse as I head back out the door.
I survive the drive, explosions and super spy-free, and head into Ollie’s school. Every time I am forced into this building, I feel out of place. I don’t know the alphabet in French. I can’t recite the Declaration of Independence in its entirety. I do not hold my pinky high when I drink my beverages. No my friends, I always get sauce on my shirt when I eat spaghetti. I stumble every time I wear high heels. And I have been known to pick my nose on occasion. I feel they can sense my inadequacy...
I make my way through the halls, until I see the familiar Director’s office sign, and push open the mahogany door to see my little Ollie, sitting pale faced in a chair next to Charlotte, the Director’s Assistant. A very sweet woman in her fifties, with hair so blond it is almost white, and completely natural I might add. She always wears this red lipstick that is so bright it borders on neon. Normally, this would not be considered flattering on, well, anyone, but she pulls it off quite well. She is a very kind person, and a much needed contrast to the harsh, overly formal manner that is presented by Mrs. Trager.
Thank goodness she isn’t in here... I hate to admit it, but she scares me a little bit. Like, I am always afraid she will make me put gum on the end of my nose or something.
I head over to Oliver who stands to greet me, and I kneel down in front of him.
“How ya feelin’ buddy?” I ask softly. He doesn’t answer, but hangs his head and rubs his hand over his stomach. I look up to Charlotte for the down low.
“He started complaining that his tummy was hurting a while ago, and he got more and more sluggish, so we brought him up here to rest, and he asked for his mommy, and that is when we called you.” She informs. “He has no fever, but does feel rather clammy, the poor boy!”
“Aw, honey, is your tummy bothering you?” I ask, rubbing his arm. “Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
“No.” is his weak voiced response.
Good. I can handle a lot of things, bloody noses, snot rockets, gaping flesh wounds, but vomit is really pushing my tolerance level.
“Mommy?”
“Yes Ollie-Bear?”
“My tummy hurts.”
Chapter 3
I want to say that little episode is the most horrifying thing that will ever happen to me, but I have been around the block enough to know that something, someday, will out do it in the grand contest of “Things That Turn My Hair Gray”. That withstanding, it was a God-awful experience. How could so much poop explode from someone so tiny? I mean, really… it was like his body weight in dung. A two person clean up, obviously…or so I thought, until I saw Charlotte backing towards the door. I may or may not have lost my cool at that point.
“Where do you think you are going?!” I calmly inquired. Or shrieked. Whichever.
“I, um, I have to, uh, check on the other kids!” she stuttered desperately.
“No! We both saw it happen, we are in this together!” I hiss. “You cannot leave me here alone, or I swear to everything good in this world that I will wrap up those little sneakers down there and give them to you for Christmas!” I may have sounded insane. “So unless you want a little poo with your Yule, you will help me!”
I have already very much begun the process of trying to repress the memory of the actual clean up. There were diaper wipes, there were garbage bags, there was a little boy who seemed to think the whole ordeal was funny and wanted to run poopily around that overly prim office covered from his ‘tocks to his toes. Ever try to catch a diarrhea covered 3 and a half year old? Come on. I dare you.
That afternoon, after an extremely fast run into a grocery store praying to any deity that would listen to please let us make it out of the store with no more explosions, I armed myself with Pedialyte, bananas, and applesauce in hopes of rounding out the components of the B.R.A.T. diet, and then we headed home. A quick call to his pediatrician armed us with the always useful knowledge that “Oh, yeah. That’s going around.” Gee. Thanks for clearing that up.
Poor little fella. He was feeling fine between the episodes, only to come about looking like the most pitiful thing you have ever seen right before the dash to the bathroom.
The rest of my evening was spent trying to keep my little sick man wrangled away from the rest of the family, so as to keep the bug from further “going around”. While I wrestled with Ollie to eat the bland fantastic-ness of dry toast and bananas, and begged him to drink what seemed like gallons of water and other fluids, Derek abandoned the concept of cooking the chicken I had laid out, and instead ordered a pizza for him and Abby. Once Ollie caught wind of that I was treated to a never ending influx of “WHY CAN’T I HAVE PIZZA TOOOOOOOOO!! NOT FAIR!!!” For a sickie, he was able to reach a surprisingly high decibel. Attempting to be a kind mommy and trying not to torture him any further, I opted out of my own cheesy, delicious slice, so as not to eat in front of him. I was however, slightly resentful of my husband who was oblivious to my suffering and never offered to come in and take over so I could grab a bite. Is it wrong that I hoped he burnt the roof of his mouth on the hot, bubbly cheese?
I was thrilled that by the time he was tucked into bed, we had gone three hours without a potty dash, so I was feeling successful. And exhausted. And quite hungry. I was less than pleased to find not even a cold slice of that cursed pizza waiting for me.
“Oh, honey, I am sorry!” Was my husband’s half-hearted reply, spoken while not once glancing away from the television, “Would you like me to go get you something?”
“No, you jackass, I want you to go back in time and not be such an inconsiderate asshole and offer to have spent even a freaking hour with him so I could eat some dinner of my own, have a few moments to breathe or at the very least, pee in peace!” I screamed and dumped a cup of water on his head.
“No, I’m fine.” That is what I actually said… grumbled more accurately, as I half-heartedly searched the cabinets for Cup O’ Ramen, and plotted smothering him in his sleep.
As we tucked ourselves into bed, much later than I would have liked, Derek leaned over and just as I puckered my lips to receive my hard earned kiss, he stopped, and said those words that every woman in the world wants to hear while in the arms of a man.
“Oh, did you wash my jeans? Tomorrow is casual Friday, and I really need them.”
“They are still in the washing machine.” I whimper. “I can go transfer them if you need them.”
“Oh. Well. Never mind then.” He plants a quick peck on my no longer puckered lips, and rolls over. “It’s no big deal. You don’t have to get up.”
We are not done. I know we are not. Come on buddy. Spit it out. Be a man!! Rip it off like a Band-Aid!!
“It’s just, you know, I didn’t have them last week either because you forgot to wash them.” He says with an audible pout. “But, you know, really, it’s no big deal.”
Wait for it...
“Maybe you can get them done by next week?” He yawns. “But really. No big deal.”
Great. He went and got guilt all over my comfy pajamas.
With a hefty sigh, I fling off my covers, and set off downstairs to place the Jeans of Misfortune in the dryer… and consider which pillow to use for the smothering.
The next morning, Ollie woke up full force, and after numerous inquests from me as to whether or not he really, really, really felt all better and wanted to go to school, I said a prayer, crossed myself, and got him ready. It kills me how fast kids get over illnesses. Man, to have that kind of resiliency again. You know, as a little kid, when you fall down, you just pick yourself up and keep going on with whatever it was you were doing, not even caring that anyone saw you take the spill. As an adult on the other hand, when you fall, you fall hard. You don’t get right back up, and you have that moment when you are genuinely concerned that you might have just broken a hip. If you are lucky enough to eventually peel yourself off the floor, you walk with a limp for a few days.
After depositing my tots at their appropriate educational facilities, I drive with no enthusiasm to the mall. This mall used to be normal and full of regular people and JC Penny’s…now it is ripe with overly tanned and insanely blond women, and designer shops that I am certain I am not legally allowed to set foot in at the risk of lowering the value of their clienteles’ shopping experience. Of course, what I really would like to do is grab them by their perfectly highlighted hair, and shove complex carbohydrates down their throats… and I would, too, but I keep eating the carbs before I am able to get a firm grip in the sinewy little suckers.
Who knows. Perhaps it is that they label themselves stay-at-home mothers, all the while utilizing the services of full time nannies, cleaning services and the fact that their ovens have never even been plugged in. Or it could be the fact that I am insanely jealous and wish that I didn’t have to battle frozen chicken and clogged vacuum cleaners, all the while wishing that the hardest part of my day was deciding on a polish color as I am getting my mani-pedi. I could live with that kind of stress. I really could.
I am in quite the cranky mood at the thought of having to navigate my way through the Freudian corridors, past Cinnabon and Starbucks and other tasty treats that I fight the urge to nosh. I am already twice the size of most of the women I pass, I don’t need to give them ammo for the verbal bashing/dietary plan that I imagine they all give me. May I take this moment to inquire who the hell chooses to go shopping in stilettos? I’ll take my insanely comfortable sneakers, thank you very much.
I can’t believe all this craziness, this incredible blow to the ego, all self-inflicted I should add, that has all come about for the sole purpose of picking up a new suitable pair of shoes to replace the ones ruined in yesterdays’ poopy assault. I must find another suitable pair to go with Oliver’s little khaki ensemble that he is to wear to school. I still shake my head at the idea of a quasi-uniform for the post-toddler set. Whatever happened to jeans with holes in the knees, and T-shirts with various cartoon characters adorning them? Instead, I must suit my child up in mini Dockers, teeny golf shirts, and itty bitty mock Italian loafers. Of course, I would be willing to bet serious cash that several of those kids are wearing the actual Italian loafers, which to me is just ridiculous. They will outgrow them in like a week, and I think they cost more than my car payment… but hey, if that gets you going, by all means…
I am feeling particularly grumpy today. I am trying to chalk it up to lack of sleep, which makes that Starbucks three stores away seem particularly inviting. The one seven stores away is just too damn far.
I enter the bourgeois shoe store, cursing myself for caring enough to come here and not just abandoning the status quo to hit up the local Target, but instead fight the urge to turn and flee in a panicked flash, and head off for the Little Gentlemen’s section.
It’s funny that there is literally a wall of black and brown dress shoes for the small footed fellows, and while I think they are trying to pass each of those off as a different style, I have a suspicion that they are all the same flippin’ shoe, just positioned at slightly different angles…or it could be the fact that the wall has become a giant blurry mess. I want to go home and take a nap.
Approached by the clerk, I select a shoe off the Wall of Whatever and announce Ollie’s size, silently begging the young man to put some giddy-up in his step so that I can crawl back to my car in peace. I lean against a shoe rack, and suddenly my stomach lurches. Oh God. I am about to toss my toast on a display of glittery ballet flats. I hold my breath, and look around to see if, just in case I do let it fly, no one would be there to witness it.
As if on cue, the shoe guy comes back with the box containing Ollie’s shoes. Braving gravity, I lift my arm that I had been using to brace myself and take the box, giving him a worthy smile. While he thought that smile meant “Thank you for your time,” in actuality it meant “How hard do you think it will be to clean my breakfast out of those wing tips?” He smiles, but does not move away. We give each other a strange stare down before he finally offers, “Is there something else I can get you ma’am?”
“No thank you,” I say in an appropriately strangled voice. “Just looking.”
As he scurries off- Hey! Wait a minute, was that an eye roll? Screw it. I am too ill to care. Fine, roll your eyes, you little bastard. Soon, there will be puke all over your dandy displays. Then we’ll see who’s laughing! Although to be honest, I doubt I would laugh, because… let’s face it, it would be gross.
Then, by the grace of God, as quickly as the urge to hurl hit me, it was gone. I take in a deep breath, and pull my shoulders back. Whew! Dodged a nasty bullet there! Maybe I ate something weird last night... oh yeah, ramen noodles. This once again reminds me to plot revenge on Derek.
I sashay up to the register to ring up my bounty, and as I wait for the woman in front of me to finish up, I hear an ever so subtle gurgle. Um. Did that come from me? The woman in front of me turns, and I feel that she is wondering the same thing. I feel nothing, and hear no other gurgley-type noises, so I smile and study the tiny rack of shoelaces in front of me.
Oh crap. There it is again. This time even the cashier looks at me. I am planning to throw out a witty remark, but before I can open my mouth, I am suddenly burning up, and sweating. I feel the color drain rapidly out of my face, and it is clear by the faces of the women staring at me that I am not hiding any of this. Sweet lordy, what is happening to me?
Oh. No.
The gurgle returns, and I am now painfully aware that the stomach lurch didn’t disappear, but instead made its way downward. Yes, my friends, I am about to behold a phenomenon that takes place in the land that lies below vomit. I am filled with horrifying dread that right here, right in the checkout line of this over-priced footwear shop, I am about to repeat Oliver’s event from yesterday. Now available in Adult Size!!
“Are you all right?” The woman at the register asks. The other shopper looks more afraid than concerned, and I swear she is clutching her purse tighter.
“Oh, yes, I am fine!” I lie, “Thank you so much for asking!”
They continue ringing up the other woman’s purchases, and I am tossing it around in my head to abandon the shoes and head for the hills. No, I think I can make it. I must. I don’t want to have to come back tomorrow. Surely I can hold it until I get home. Yes. That is my plan.
OMIGOD, why is she taking so long ringing up those shoes!?!? Not a lot of complication here!!! Key in the price, and move the hell along!!
Finally, she signs her blasted credit card receipt and I nix the desire to push her bony, Prada-clad ass out of my way.
I have one pair of shoes. Why is this taking so long? I have stumbled upon the world’s slowest cashier. That’s it. I must be on some sort of snail-paced reality show meant to torture unsuspecting customers with digestive issues. Hardy-har-har.
I ignore her judgment-filled and confused looks, and the second I get my name on that receipt, I yank my bag out of her hands and tear out of that store, nearly knocking down a properly dressed elderly woman. I am feeling lucky that she didn’t hit me with her cane, and I know at that moment, that there will be no making it home. We are in full, total meltdown here. Sirens should be going off. People could get hurt.
Bathrooms. Must find bathrooms. Where the bloody frick is that “You Are Here” sign that plagues every mall in America?!
I am becoming desperate. I am in pain… I am very concerned that I am not going to make it, but take a moment to admire the fact that at least I could buy another pair of pants to wear home! I mean, I’m in a mall!
I see the sign, the beautiful sign, that indicates that my salvation is a door away, and head for it in a dead sprint. I fling open the door to see...
A LINE!!! Are you fucking kidding me with this?!
I take my place, clench my butt cheeks, and pray silently. I am sweating, I am pale, and I am bouncing around in a little dance that has given the woman next to me the impression that I must be waiting to get into a stall to shoot up. Man, there are a lot of women in here. I swear the first one I sense dawdling in a stall is going to have to stay in there with me when I let go.
Finally my turn arrives, and I am crestfallen to see that my stall is the one located next to the door. What have I done that karma would be punishing me so? I have to have this happen with a line of preppy women standing three feet away?
I am in too much pain to care enough to wait, so I bolt inside, slide the little lock thing, and start clawing at the button on my pants.
Okay, I am down, I am ready. I am, to be quite honest…scared.
Literally within seconds, it starts. I am truly horrified by the aquatic symphony that emits from my little area, and shocked by the acoustics the porcelain creates and how the enclosed area combined with the tile seems to amplify all these oh, so pleasant sounds. I am in utter turmoil now, and I gratefully clutch the handicap rails along the walls, bracing myself. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming, and I notice the increasing number of feet gathering on the other side of the door.
People can hear the sounds. How could they not? I would be blessed if the people outside the bathroom don’t hear. I have gone far beyond the unspoken rule of allotted time given to a person in a public restroom, and I continue the panic as everything I have ever eaten, ever, comes rushing out of my body.
After a few continuous moments of this, the actual content seems to run out and I am treated to what can only be described as intestinal dry- heaves. The most pleasant of sensations, I assure you.
Finally, mercifully, I am done, although still in considerable pain. I am now left to wonder if the world would be suddenly kind enough to open itself up and swallow me whole to save me the trauma of having to open up that door and face the women on the other side. I wait for a second, giving the world ample opportunity to help a gal out, and it becomes clear my pleas will go unanswered.
In a futile attempt to straighten myself, realizing that even in my top form, I still wouldn’t be able to come out looking up to their standards, I clutch my tiny shopping bag, slide the lock open, and saunter out head held high. There is silence. I count eight women, all frozen in place, all sixteen of their eyes burning into me. They don’t even attempt to look away, which would be the humane thing to do. No, they continue to stare. My legs try and betray my cool exterior and pull towards the door, but my need to grasp a shred of dignity prevails. Continuing the facade that is my confidence, I glide towards the sinks and begin to wash my hands. The next woman in line inches cautiously towards my freshly vacated stall, and in a move that will haunt me till the end of my days, actually gasps, loudly, and backs away from the door waving her hand in front of her face, assuming her position back in line.
I am angry and I am mortified, but instead I choose to try and lighten the mood.
“At least I warmed up the seat for ya!” I announce to the appalled women.
Oh my gosh, there is no way I just said that out loud. No, this whole thing has not happened, I assure myself, and I give my hair a shake to rid myself of this dreadful hallucination. Um. There are still women staring at me. I shake a little harder.
Oh shit.
I accept that I am in fact stuck in a reality that is cruel and inescapable. And so, with my shoes in hand and my tail between my legs, I ignore the glares that inform me that they are going to campaign for public restrooms to be divided into a class system, and push open the door. I die a little inside as I hear the disgust and laughter erupt as it closes slowly behind me.
I dash for the exit, and make a solemn oath to the Cosmos that even though it is a full forty minutes further away, the mall on the other side of the city is now the only mall that my presence will ever grace, ever, till the end of time.
Chapter 4
Here I lay once again, admiring my son’s resiliency at having bounced back in what seemed like mere hours from the bug that grabbed on to him the other day. I, on the other hand, am not so resilient. In fact, I am collapsed here on the bathroom floor, face stuck to the cold tile, curled up in a pathetic little ball and clad in a pair of jammies that have long since passed their expiration date. It has been two days since the Intestinal Explosion Heard Round the World, but I am still experiencing thunderous aftershocks, and have found it far easier to lay here in my dismal puddle than to make the trip from the bed to the pot over and over. Eating even the smallest nibble of food seems to set in motion a scenario that I have lovingly envisioned as a jet powered log ride through my digestive tract, so I gave up after the first twenty-four hours. This is also a reason for the floor dwelling, as the trek back and forth from bed to bathroom was using the very few calories my body had left to cling to.
Derek was surprisingly helpful the first night, and set off in expert husband/father mode, coming home early from work on Friday to wrangle the children from their various locations. He even managed to cook dinner! Okay, so it was scrambled eggs and toast, but the kids ate it, and he was extremely proud, so it worked for me. Not that I was even aware of any of this until after the fact, as I was all but glued to a toilet seat the whole evening. Saturday, when we were woken up by the children at a time in which God himself would hit the snooze, and when I started getting the predictable grunt and nudge with his elbow at which point I usually sigh and head off to start the children’s day half-conscious as he sleeps in, I attempted to explain that I was still sick and the children couldn’t be anywhere near me, but made it halfway through the sentence when I was overcome once more with the evil demon that had a hold of my lower half, and ran from the room.