' mind. Stuff like finding post-its written to myself from myself. I hold it close and examine it; I am baffled.
I look closer, think harder, trying to decipher the meaning.
Then, I get it. Oh, right, it says "
Of course that's what it means! Doesn't everyone need a post-it-note on their desk, reminding them to gargle when they have a sore throat?
Speaking of Google, my dear Internet search engine, would you agree it's almost like the 21st century crystal ball? A fortune teller in her brightly colored G-O-O-G-L-E lettering that sometimes morphs into random holiday or event themed lettering? Yesterday when Chris' neck was "out" or well, basically he couldn't move, I of course, Googled "stiff neck" like any good wife would do then proceeded to convince him that he had meningitis. You often hear, "don't get on the Internet, don't look it up, don't Google it." But what do we do? We Google it. It's ludicrous and yet it provides that immediate gratification. Of dangerous knowledge.
I am forever indebted to Google, as that is pretty much what led us to Louie's diagnosis. Sometimes, you big old Internet, you scare us pale. Nevertheless, you are loved. Just today I Googled "how to get poop out of carpet". Ace has had an ugly diaper rash so I thought it would be a good idea for him to air his chubby bum out on his way upstairs to the bath. He stops on the second step and as you probably have guessed, yes, he pooped. Any tips on removing poop stains from carpet would be greatly appreciated.
Poor Ace. He's had a rough time the past week. He was sick with a high fever, stomach stuff and sore throat. Better now but whiny and clingy yet clumsy and fearless. Not a great combo. Among the list of recent physical injuries: he pulled a side table over onto himself where Chris pulled him out from it and the red lamp that was piled on top it the table. The next day I heard a scream, THE scream that says "Don't pause, don't walk, get in here NOW!" scream. He had pulled a heavy dresser over. I found him beneath drawers and clothes and um...well...the whole dresser; this one scared me...with momentary thoughts of calling 911, but after a 45 second crying bit, off he went to explore more furniture. Then later, he tried to get in the tub while I was rinsing it out and ending up bonking the top of his head. He also drove his push toy straight out of the kitchen, rolled down three steps and landed on the concrete garage floor. I guess you're all probably wondering where I was. Well, I wasn't far. I was in close, close proximity. I promise. I hadn't run up the street to watch American Idol or anything, which isn't on right now anyway. These things, these accidents happen freaky fast. But at the same time slow....waiiiiitttt, noooooooooooo! Also, for some reason, Louie has a bruise around his eye. You know, you just know, that someone is suspecting abuse with all these facial bumps and bruises on BOTH children.
Ace has this obsession with putting things around his neck - pictured above with pink belt around neck. Oh yeah, and another picture of him "talking on his belt - or to him, at that moment, his phone. Anything is a phone these days. Which makes me think Chris and I talk on the phone way too much. Anyway, he doesn't wrap the stuff around his neck. He just carries it on his neck. A belt. A cord. A piece of yarn. A small blanket. A tie. A shirt. If it can go around his neck, then that's where it will go. Last night Ace got a rug-type burns on the back of his neck when trying to get one of those play telephones where the phone part connects by a string to the base, from around his neck. Chris asks me, "
Is this normal?" I increduosly reply, "
I don't know! How would I know? I am as new to this as you are. Do you think he might have 'put-things-around-neck' syndrome?" Anyone, anyone? Is this normal? I know nothing about normal. Especially when it comes to kids and "normal". Maybe this just means he's going to be really into wearing ties and scarves when he's older? Already accessorizing! Already a trendsetter for toddlers. Or do I call my pediatrician?
"Um, yes, hello, I am calling because my son wears things around his neck and is in constant danger of choking." I often feel like a first time mom. What do the moms' of typical kids worry about?What are the big concerns? What are the games you're supposed to be playing with them. Because all I do is teach him all the "therapy goals": put puzzle together independently, stack rings or blocks, point at items in a book, shape sorters. Because I'm used to worrying about everything from kidneys to calcium to heart to words.
In a state of baffling aberration, I forgot about something big. Really big. My child. We have our pack and play set up in Louie's room with a bunch of those balls like you see in ball pits; the balls are great for giving Louie sensory input. So, one night at bedtime I turn on Louie's music and sound machine, shut the blinds, turn off the light...you know, creating bedtime atmosphere. I put Louie in his "ball pit" with a book to relax by fading daylight before getting in bed.
In the meantime, I ran to do something in my room. Then Chris calls me so I go downstairs to see what he wants. We eat dinner. We clean up. Mess around in the garage. Talk about our ten-year plan (ha!), argued about politics, you know, your typical evening at home. An hour or so later we went upstairs and heard Louie's shout. It wasn't a cry. He was M-A-D mad. He'd been in his ball pit the entire time; no longer fading daylight. Just complete darkness. For an hour or more! We don't have monitors because they are all broken and we didn't think we needed one right now. We thought we could hear them from downstairs. Apparently not. We also didn't expect I would leave Louie trapped in a ball pit (he can't climb out yet).
I'm sure, if he could talk, he would have said something like, come on mom, I like the balls and all but an hour in the dark, with only one book that I can't even see? No thank you! What the blog were you thinking? Put me in my appropriate sleeping area and don't let the door hit you on the way out!
This is really getting to be a long post. Maybe stop here and pick back up later.
The past few days I've been demolition gardening, for lack of a better name. The house we moved into had been vacant for about 6 months when we moved in so everything was overgrown. Demo gardening is about the most cathartic experience I've had in a long, long time.
One can take some fiercely pent up aggression out while demolition gardening (we'll call it D.G.). I highly recommend it. It sounds somewhat like torture. First, choose the hottest part of the day, because that's when your kids are sleeping. Don't forget your iPod, water, sheers, clippers, shovel, rope tree trimmer, rake, paper bags. And as you pull weeds and dig up plants with roots as long as Christmas lights you may enjoy cursing either the person who planted the random, ugly plant or the plant itself if you think it grew there spontaneously. Curse some more at the gnome (okay so there was no gnome but there may as well have been one), the bunny statues, plaques that say "Chipmunk Crossing" or "Mother's Garden" found beneath the overgrowth. Please, if you have these in your yard, I understand and respect that. They're just not for me. Right now. At this moment in my life. I may grow to love them one day which is why I am not throwing them away. Just saving them for the right moment when I feel I might need a 4 foot bunny in my yard. In the meantime, I sincerely, sincerely hope that chipmunks do cross your sidewalk and it brings you pleasure and joy.
D.G. gets the adrenaline going and it's no longer bothersome that sweat is burning my eyes. Then mulch. Here's a (un)helpful hint. Put your mulch as far, and I mean, as far away as possible from the site in which you are working. So then you can heave those 1.5 CU (42L) (??) bags over your shoulder about 12 times. Back and forth. Back and forth. Yell at the weeds some more. Get angry with the former owners, the people you've never met (but are probably the nicest people ever and here I am advocating cursing them!), who didn't plan this out better. Get as mad as you want. Sweat it all out! It's my new favorite type of gardening, if I must garden.
I bet the neighbors thought I was a hired gardener; mulching at the speed of light, (kids, might, huff, wake...up, any, can't breathe, minute, huff), pulling weeds with vigor. Tough enough to stand the midday heat. Tough enough to put my broken self back together. Yep, pretty sure people thought I was a professional landscaper. Not really but just let me hang on to that, okay? Some kind of strange end of summer, sweating, physical labor healing, I suppose.
My friend brought up brokenness the other day. I will generalize by saying that there is probably some brokenness present in all of us. Some breaks are deep, wide and hollow. Some are just cracks. The choices we have been given are to put the pieces back together or accept it for it's new shape. My last few blogs, maybe all of my blogs for that matter, have evidenced my brokenness. It's okay to break because we can usually put ourselves back together again. With time. And then the next time it happens, maybe we'll remember where the pieces go.
As I was going out to do some more D.G., a random thought came to mind. The words
All is Well. A scripture? No. A song? Yes! Later, I Googled; the good ole' master information giver. The real title is
It is Well with My Soul by Horatio
Spafford, a hymn he wrote after a number of tragic events occurred in his life, including the loss of 4 of his children. I suppose this could sound strange, especially after writing about all my rage with the demo gardening. But after I read it, as I wiped a piece of mulch out of my eye, I decided it is well with my soul. For today, it is well. I felt a peace among the dead weeds, the
unkempt landscape; the promise of new growth next spring.
When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like a sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
- Horatio Spafford
