Crib Notes

In PICU, after some sleep

2012-02-02T02:34:00.002-06:00

Ok, I've finally had some sleep, so I can probably be a bit more coherent.

Sierra, when she was two, under went a procedure called angioplasty - you hear about it a lot for older folks with hardening of the arteries. Basically they needed to widen the area near her pulmonary valve and to do so they insert a ballon inside the catheter, inflate it, basically stretching that area.

There's a good article with a great diagram here on all the anatomy around her kind of heart: http://med.umich.edu/Mott/congenital/services/patient_con_pul.html

About an hour and a half into her procedure, they called us into the viewing room of the cath lab. On the screen was her heart, the dark thread of the catheter on the screen. They'd squirt dye and you could suddenly see the moving heart, Sierra's mighty heart, clearly on the screen. The pulmonary artery, The one marked as 1 on the image in the above article, kinked in severely, like a tight corset around a rotund woman.

This is what they think is causing one side of her heart to over develop, the muscle to build up because it's having to work too hard.

A bulky heart muscle, particularly bulky on one side, is a terrible thing, it's what used to kill tetralogy patients. The muscle gets too big and eventually fails.

We left the room stunned, because if angioplasty fails, then we were in for valve replacements, and that means a lifetime of replacements.

But so far the news is good. It looks like it worked, just as it did when she was two, after our first miracle.

I'm here with her, grateful, grateful.

It will be so nice to get back to normal - or at least as close as we get to it.

In PICU, resting

2012-02-01T20:26:00.002-06:00

Sierra is resting finally, having been pretty achy for the last two hours.

We had a rollercoaster day today, first good news - the wacky vein didn't seem to be a problem. But there was a whole differ problem, a severe narrowing by the pulmonary valve.

The problem is the pressure against that valve was 75% too high. Very long story short, the doctor ballooned it and he is cautiously optimistic.

I'm as tired as she is, going to crash. Just wanted to get an update out

Thank you for the prayers. Depending on the word we get tomorrow, it looks good.

Almost home.

Through the prelims

2012-01-31T21:58:00.003-06:00

Today we got through the prelims : blood work, x-rays, EKG. It was over fast and wonderfully uneventful.

The family all made it in. I have a terrific family. I have to fight my desire to curl up in a tight ball around my girl and just be alone. At times all the attention is simply exhausting, I feel like a terrible host at the worst theme party ever. The tiniest things - making beds, getting drinks, dealing with food or such overwhelm me.

But I do need my support system because the wind blows hard.

Tomorrow we go in. Sierra says she's not scared, has her courage at the ready. I'm not scared either either, just a little worn around the edges.

Maybe more than the edges.

Mighty Heart the night before

2012-01-30T19:46:00.003-06:00

It's raining, that long draping curtain of rain that lays over the sky in a billowing arc, the horizon disappearing in the folds of gray.

Seems like perfect weather for this night, seems each time we've had a big medical procedure it's rained. I appreciate the emotional symmetry of rain, it allows me to sink into thought. A wide blue sky would seem like a contradiction, or worse, maybe like what was happening here was being ignored.

Silly to see the world this way. And yet the rain falls, the clouds bow their heads and reminds me we are all in this together.

Our bags are packed, we're ready to go, as the song goes. Sierra is in good spirits, Adam and I are weary, Mireya is excited with all the company.

I'm just tired. I'm looking forward to a nice long sleep. On Friday.

I'll be updating here. Thanks for thinking of us.

Sierra In Hospital Next Week

2012-01-29T08:49:00.004-06:00

Everything is set. We go in for X-rays and such on Tuesday, spend the night at the Ronald McDonald House (every time I buy french fries at McDonalds I remember the first time we stayed at the House in San Antonio). Wednesday we head over to the hospital.

Sierra is late in the line up and isn't allowed to eat from midnight on. She'll be there over night.

Family is all coming in, over a dozen people will be there, which is crazy, because it's not like this is the Big Thing, if the Big Thing even happens.

But I'm very glad they are all coming anyway.

I know, I know. This procedure isn't big or dangerous, yet I feel raw anyway. Inside her chest is the mystery that they will probe, then reveal what lies ahead for her, for us.

----

On the positive side of things, Sierra's vertigo is improving and the doctor has said not to worry about any of the scarier things often linked to severe vertigo.

"It will resolve," he said to me, looking me in the eyes in that way doctors do when they are both emphatic and comforting.

Resolve. Yes, I thought. Everything does, in the end, resolve.

Update on Sierra or how vertigo is driving me crazy

2011-12-27T20:08:00.003-06:00

The date for Sierra's test has come and gone, thanks to her extreme attack of vertigo. In case I haven't mentioned it to you (I've lost track of who I sent a note out too), she had an extreme attack of vertigo, to the point that she couldn't walk. At. All.

We tried numerous treatments, but nothing worked. Finally they put her on steroids and it was mostly gone in three days, but now it seems to be coming back a little bit. Vertigo is notoriously hard to get rid of, sometimes taking just a week or two, but sometimes attacks linger for months.

The doctor wants to do an MRI. I want to try some alternatives first. She's already had a CT scan which exposed her to the equivalent radiation of 50 x-rays. Sue me if I want to try alternatives.

I spoke to someone who talked about the US medical emphasis on expensive diagnostics that preceed general treatments, even relatively low risk treatments. It's interesting and not something I put much stock in before this experience. But now I wonder about the logic. When symptoms say you have a cold, they don't scan your bone marrow for luekemia. The fact that steroids worked indicates inflamation is a factor. Anti-inflammatories should help then.

Anyway, with all that I cancelled the test. We agreed that we couldn't handle that stress. She was walking the Friday before and we just wanted to be normal after two weeks of having our daughter basically an invalid.

Now they want to do the test in January, but I'm going to request we push it to February. Remember, they won't be able to do anything about this until the Summer anyway. What is the point of rushing?

I am calling tomorrow. We'll see what they say.

Thanks to everyone who has kept us in your prayers. Sierra is walking and somewhat normal (she is 13, afterall, one must be realistic). I'm hoping we can get through this relatively intact.

My very best to you and yours...

Heart Cath Date Set

2011-11-29T10:02:00.003-06:00

Sierra's date for her cath procedure has been set (you can read about the procedure here).

We are praying that the wacky wrong way vein is just a teeny tiny coffee stirrer size one that we can just forget about.

If you are focusing prayers, then the magic number is 1.4. The Qp/Qs ratio they are looking for has to be under 1.5 (if you want to understand more about these ratios and what it's about you can read here or here).

The date for the procedure has been set for December 21st. There will be some things we have to do the day before and she may have to spend the night.

...

She's getting scared. I've talked her through it, put on my strongest face, acknowledged her fears, explained how it works and how this test is easy, very routine. She leans into my words and I hold her there, a rock against the winds that blow around us.

...

I have been doing really well, until yesterday. Then it hit me, when the nurse described the pre-test, the visit early in the morning, the waiting we'd have, it hit me like a freight train.

I feel ridiculously childish, all I can think is I don't want this to be happening, that I don't want to go through this again, I don't want to, I don't want to.

I broke down, and suddenly it was 1999 and I was holding her in the hospital the night before the surgery, the first surgery, as lost as a bird blown off course by a hurricane.

...

December 21st. I'll keep you updated and will live blog here on that date...

Thankful for the little things

2011-11-27T22:03:00.002-06:00

The best thing about having kids is you find a whole different and bizarre number of things to be thankful for.

Clearly, like everyone, I’m profoundly thankful for friends and family and community. But there are all these little things that only kids bring to mind.

I'm thankful for my youngest daughter at last outgrowing tick tack toe, since it's been tough to feign enthusiasm for the game for a few years. We have moved on to hangman, which is much more fun now that she can spell. Previously in kindergarten it was tough to play hangman since letters were largely decorative and I was certainly “hung” many times by a random letter Y.

I'm thankful for the resale shop, without whom I'd be tempted to horde all my girls old holiday dresses. Instead I keep one or two (okay, three) for sentimental reasons, then pass on a dress fit for another princess.

I'm thankful for the resale shop because apparently I'm growing weeds here, both of whom outgrow clothes at a pace no reasonable budget can deal with.

I'm thankful for the high pitch squeals ringing out all over the house (inside voice? What inside voice?). Sometimes they hit notes that cause the dogs to howl. Sure these squeals would send many people diving under the table, but I love them because I recognize a good time when I hear it.

I'm thankful for the company of exhausted mom friends who I both marvel at and commiserate with. I never would have met them were it not for our children. Just when I think I can’t possibly get one more thing done, I’ll run into a mom who has figured out a short cut for me to try.

I'm thankful for sneakers that light up because they are way too fun to watch as my daughter runs down the hall, literally aglow.

I'm thankful for a car full of carolers because it's wonderful to sing with your daughters even if you really don't want to sing the twelve days of Christmas AGAIN.

I’m thankful for pepperoni and goldfish, a Prosapio snack staple which I don’t eat, but my daughters would wither away if I didn’t keep them in reach.

And most surprisingly, I’m thankful for the collapse at the end of the day where I realize that life is ridiculously full, and that tomorrow I’ll have energy for more.

Happy holidays to you and yours!

Dresses

2009-12-07T00:17:00.003-06:00

This weekend it was time for Christmas dress shopping.

Even Sierra, who is nowhere near the fashionista that her sister is, was excited to head out for our shopping trip. Usually she hates shopping. But after I bought her two outfits that she couldn’t even get over her shoulders, she realized she needed to make an effort.

Plus there is something about the Christmas dress. It’s where we get to go all out. Velvet. Lace. Fake fur. Sparkles. Dresses that flare out when you spin.

After making some preliminary selections we headed into the large dressing room. Mireya, who is seven and has inherited the glamour gene and raised it to the power of Prada, selected six stunning outfits. This was going to be a problem because for Mireya, picking just one is impossible and a guaranteed tear generator.

“But how can I choose?” she whined.

“Well, you just have to lay out your options and think of the what’s good about each one, then pick the one that has the most good parts.” Now who could argue with that logic?

Mireya.

“They are exactly the same! They have exactly the same good parts!”

Sierra, on the other hand, was having a completely different problem. Nothing fit. No wonder nothing I was buying her fit. She was no longer in the kid department at all.

When in the world did that happen? Sure, she’s wearing my shoes, but I thought I had another couple of years before she was going to be swiping things from my closet.

So, after easing Mireya’s misery of having to select only one dress with the promise of Christmas shoes, we were off to the other end of the store for Sierra.

Much like Sierra’s transition two years ago to the woman’s shoe sizes, moving over to the juniors section at age 11 doesn’t just mean bigger price tags, it also means a totally different kind of Christmas dress. A Vegas show girl kind of dress. And that’s putting it mildly.

Frankly I’m not prepared to have my little girl dress like she’s doing two shows nightly with a matinee on Sunday. Our new goal became finding something that was both festive and restrained.

Talk about a tough fashion combo.

Eventually we found a dress that worked. It looks beautiful, even though there are no sparkles, velvet, or fake fur.

Maybe they’ll make a comeback in the juniors department in 2010.

Thanksgiving’s Culinary Sweepstakes

2009-11-26T12:54:00.002-06:00

Cooking is not one of my better skills.

I mean, I can follow a recipe, sure, just like I can put gas in my car. But I always said, before I had children, that the only reason this house had a kitchen was because it was required by code.

So it is with some dread that I stare into the cranberry stained face of the mega-cooking holiday throw down of Thanksgiving.

Let’s face it. This is not a holiday that brings out the best in the cooking challenged. Take a look at my cooking repertoire these days as a harried mom on the go.

My specialty these days is mac and cheese. Boil pasta. Add cheese. Done.
We’ve been celebrating the return of the Hot Dog, previously a banned food, which has regained popularity with the princess of picky eating.
Broccoli, steamed. It’s the only green the thing the aforementioned princess will eat. So it’s become a staple.
And I do make a mean pancake. With cinnamon. Available on Sundays ONLY.

Unfortunately my comfort level with this repertoire was challenged when some check out person snuck in a rather large, coupon/cooking magazine into my grocery bag. It had a festive cover and I foolishly started to page through it.

It all looks so good. And easy! It all says it’s EASY in big red letters so you know it’s true. Then it’ll have an ingredient list that goes for two pages. But the pictures look so warm and inviting, I immediately imagine the memories possible with these incredible meals.

Then, coming to my senses by the dinging of the microwave, I recall how wonderful mashed potatoes taste from the box if you add some garlic salt. And Voila! Garlic Potatoes A La Prosapio!

Fortunately I have finally gotten wise enough to know that our Thanksgiving memories will be less about dozens of creative side dishes and more about how many times Daddy had to run to the store for something we SHOULD have right here in the cabinet somewhere.

And how many times the smoke alarm went off.

And how the green beans got buried in overabundance of cream of mushroom soup and look more like anemic earthworms, which is not really helpful when you are trying to make a perfect Thanksgiving memory here.

But it will all make you laugh so hard you almost spew your stuffing.

Instead we’ll be thankful that every year, we manage to get stuffed – with great memories, no matter what’s on the table.

Amusing sign in Austin

2009-11-20T22:53:00.000-06:00

Seen at Ruta Maya. Well, no WONDER he's choking.

Fly me to the Moon

2009-11-18T22:19:00.004-06:00

Vacationing with children, I’ve always said, is not the correct phrase. It’s hazardous cargo shipping.

I was reminded of this when I read recently about a mom who was kicked off a Southwest flight with her unhappy toddler. Seriously. The pilot actually turned the plane around and went back to the gate to kick them off. Talk about a temper tantrum.

The only good part of that story is now she can actually tell the kid that if he isn’t quiet that Southwest Airlines will kick him off the plane – and he’ll believe her.

It reminded me of the time Mireya complained about her ears popping on the plane and swore she’d never fly again. I swore she’d never fly again too.

We’ve all been there. A friend described sitting in the plane with her son when the classic melt down began (fortunately they were airborne and the airline was forced to not throw its own temper tantrum). Tired of traveling and responding to a bit of a sugar rush, he began to crash, ugly.

And refused to sit down as the plane was preparing to land.

Now, at home we all have the tools to deal with this. You can place your child some place secure, walk a safe distance away, and allow the meltdown to run its course. Most importantly, there are no witnesses should you decide to have your own, quiet meltdown with a large bowl of chocolate ice cream and headphones.

On a plane, you are trapped. Along with 200 close, personal friends, who are also trapped and ready to kill you lest you ever consider traveling with your little bundle of raw emotional rage ever again. Not to mention there is very little you can bribe your child with on an airplane. Face it, those little plastic airline wings get you nowhere these days.

My friend ended up apologizing and most of the passengers averted their eyes as they ran for the exits once the plane landed.

We recently returned from a flight and I was struck that I now have children who are of traveling age. We can now go places and I can assure other passengers that they can sit next to us without fear of torture - other than a story about how we used to have 17 mice because we couldn’t figure out which one was a boy mouse.

Which beats the heck out of toddlers with sugar crashes any day.

Next post - useful travel tips from a mom that flies way too much.

Super Mommy!

2009-11-04T02:40:00.001-06:00

Usually I’m the one tapped for story telling in the car. But recently I got a real treat.

Sierra has been telling stories of adventurous dogs an their intrepid trainer (who bear a remarkable resemblance to her dog Dyno and herself, except for their ability to fly) for years. So it’s not surprising that her sister decided to start her own story line.

We were in the car alone, which allowed her to step out on stage on her own. “Do you want to hear a story?”

Relieved that I was not being called on to be imaginative while negotiating traffic I responded with great enthusiasm. “Yes! Yes!”

“Do you want to hear the story about Super Mommy?”

“Definitely. I definitely want to hear about Super Mommy.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. This is the story about how Super Mommy got her powers.”

“Oooo. I need to hear about that. Maybe I can get some super powers.”

“Once upon a time, when Super Mommy was just Mommy she ate a salad that had poison.”

“Oh dear,” I said, a bit worried we were off to a bad start, although at least Mommy was having a healthy last meal. “Poison?” Had there been a little too much in the news about food safety lately?

“Yes. Poison. And the poison gave Mommy her super powers. The fairies put in the poison and that was how she got the power to fly. And that’s just one power!”

“I think you mean potion.”

“No, it was poison.”

I decided against the vocabulary lesson, intrigued by the possibilities of fairies sprinkling flying powder in my Caesar salad. “Okay. What other powers did Super Mommy get?”

She ticked them off on her fingers. “She’s faster than a cheetah. She can hear really good. She can be invisible.”

Yes, but can she find matching socks from the every growing pile of clean but still piled laundry, butter and precisely cut a waffle into precisely one inch squares, sign 17 separate permission slips with tiny typing, AND get the dishes into the dishwasher in two minutes flat so we aren’t late for school otherwise everyone loses their Lone Star Yellow perfect attendance Star and won’t let you forget it until High School if even then?

Super Mommy went on to save the world from evil cats all the way home.

I don’t know about you, but I feel safer knowing she’s out there. Maybe she can come by and help me sort socks.

Amusing photo seen on vacation...

2009-11-03T22:33:00.001-06:00

I *knew* that's what they were called.

Halloween left overs

2009-11-01T21:45:00.002-06:00

two snow leopards, a banana and judo dog.

Yep. It's a Prosapio Halloween.

A Halloween Prisoner.

Fifth Grade RULES

2009-11-01T21:38:00.002-06:00

There is nothing better than being in 5^th grade. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.

First of all, unlike MY fifth grade when I was a kid, Sierra’s fifth grade is top of the elementary food chain. Fifth graders are the final class at the school, literally rising above all others.

Fifth graders get to roam the halls every hour because they change classrooms throughout the day. They have a home room, which is incredibly high school like and therefore really cool.

(Of course last year when we discussed this whole switching teacher thing, Sierra was mortified. More than one teacher? No! Too scary! Now she’s loving it. Turns out only little kids have one teacher. Who knew?)

Fifth graders get JOBS. Really cool jobs like the news team or being on the marshals, which entails working in the office and running school errands. Being a marshal is huge, like getting on the Supreme Court. Which makes me think the principal is channeling Tom Sawyer.

Then there are the Stars. Kids earn stars for three things: grades, behavior, and perfect attendance. Ah, the ever elusive “perfect attendance.”

It’s why Sierra never, ever wants to miss school. This is a marked change from last year’s weekly feigning-illness, clinging-to-door frame approach to school attendance. I thought it was just genetic in our family. Being a sickly child I never had perfect attendance, and Dad… well, let’s just say he considered a great deal of school to be optional.

Sure, I’m glad she’s shooting for the goal, but we have to be realistic around here. First of all there’s the swine flu.

The swine flu protocols at schools these days are such that if your child shows up at the nurses’ office with one of the four symptoms, like “a headache,” they hose them down with disinfectant, wrap them in plastic, sterilize their desks, and call you from a secure line to pick them up in a vacuum chamber.

Okay, it’s not that bad. Probably they skip the sterilization and just wipe down the desk.

And given that my daughters merely have to hear someone sneeze over the phone to become feverish, Sierra’s chances for perfect attendance are nil.

Add to that we foolishly planned a family trip during the school year for various complex reasons.

Little did I know, no one needs a break from fifth grade.

Nobody. Nadien. Niemand.

Why bulletin board marketing is not a good idea...

2009-10-23T22:39:00.000-05:00

Yea. People. Check your flyers often.

Halloween - where is thy theme?

2009-10-20T22:26:00.003-05:00

The preparations for Halloween are progressing at a breakneck pace around here. Usually we work a family wide costume theme.

Last year was sort of a Green Meets Halloween. Mireya, who is not big on the scary side of Halloween, was a bat.

A FRUIT bat.

She demonstrated her fruit bat tendencies by having me dress as a bowl of fruit. Then she’d periodically nip at a grape. Sierra went as Mother Nature, which consisted of a green dress, wild headdress and a fake fur collar. Even the dog went as a flower.

Dad went as our escort, declining to dress up. Nothing has quite equaled his year when he was a box of tomatoes.

Now THAT was a costume. If you’ve never walked around Sattler in a modified refrigerator box with the word “tomato” written all over it, you haven’t experienced a true Prosapio Halloween.

A few years before that, the girls were Dalmatians and I was Cruella de Ville. My hair was half white for the rest of the week at work, which goes to show just how far we’ll take a theme.

Then there was the year Mireya was born and she was a pile of leaves in a stroller. We called her Russell.

I’d like to point out that with the exception of the pile of leaves (a onsie with leaves hot glued all over it) I’ve had little to do with the theme every year. Even the box of tomatoes was Sierra’s idea.

But this year relying on the creativity of my daughters is not working out too well. Whether it’s a sign of the times, a result of the tweenager in the house, or just a year ending in an “e”, we are not working a theme.

Sierra and her best friend Cami are going as bananas. Mireya is going as a snow leopard, in honor of her favorite stuffed animal for the last three years. Short of going as the Internet, I can’t figure out how to tie those things together in a theme.

(And how would you dress as the Internet anyway? Several hundred of post it notes with web addresses pinned to your shirt? Dress as a giant computer mouse?)

Fortunately, I’ve got a few weeks. And there’s always the possibility that Mireya will change her mind and want to be a grocery bag.

Now THAT costume I can handle (pun intended).

Goodbye Cricket

2009-10-09T23:31:00.002-05:00

Well, I’m sad to report that Cricket, our green anole, has gone to the big terrarium in the sky.

In case you’ve missed the Cricket saga, this was the lizard who jumped on the hood of our truck and who inexplicably refused to hop in the grass when I offered escape. Instead he took one look in our truck two years ago and leaped inside to the delight of the kids.

I was, of course, horrified that now we had a pet that required live bugs for dinner.

Cricket survived the demise of not one, but TWO pet stores in the area (so now I had to drive 20 miles for BUGS). He also survived the best efforts of our cat at assassination, and at least two accidental falls.

He was often carted off to the bathroom for tub time and every now and then I’d hear a scream and know that he had almost jumped out – or onto Mireya. Sierra, our oldest, taught him to jump through a pony tail holder, Mireya slowly got to the point where he could crawl on her arm without a total meltdown.

This was a green anole that loved to be petted, he’d close his eyes if you rubbed his head. And although we toyed with the idea of releasing him many times, he never seemed interested in leaving. We worried about him being too much of a target in a world that wouldn’t really appreciate his poetic nature.

But when he stopped hunting crickets last week and stopped ducking from the water droplets, we knew the time was coming. We tried to make him comfortable in the sun. We petted him and he lifted his head to the touch, closing his eyes like always.

We got back from a brief trip and he was gone, his body half brown as if he was just in the middle of a final color change.

We found a box and filled it with cotton balls and tissue. We stood around a small hole where we set him and remembered all the funny stories. The time he jumped from my arm to my shirt and I shouted “He’s jumped! Where did he go?” and everybody was laughing, pointing at my shoulder where he hung on for dear life while I whirled around looking for him. Then there was the time he got tangled in Daddy’s hair. The time we snuck him into a restaurant because we wanted him to have an adventure.

What an adventure he was. Rest in Peace, Cricket.

Sparkly Diamonds and Micro Economics

2009-09-24T10:55:00.001-05:00

It’s amazing what I don’t know.

Fortunately I have two very good teachers at home who are forever expanding my horizons.

For example, Mireya recently has learned that eyelid trick. You remember the one. Usually a third grade boy would do it, flipping his eyelid out to show the really gross red part. Of course Mireya is only in second grade, which would make her some what advanced in ‘gross eye lid.’

Certainly not what I was going for with all those classical CDs during my pregnancy, but what can you do?

She also showed me how you can get “sparkly diamonds” in your eyes.

“Squeeze your eyes shut really tight, mommy.”

“Like this?” I shut my eyes, looking for sparklies.

“Harder,” she says. “Or you can put your fingers on them like this.”

After I remove her fingers from practically gouging out my eyes I say “Oh, those sparkly diamonds.”

I also learned a great deal about the economy from my daughters. Sierra was teaching Mireya all about “making a living” using ice cubes from an ice chest.

“First you get a job. And you get money.” She poured ice into Mireya’s cup.

“Oooh!” said Mireya, already planning a shoe shopping spree, I could tell.

“But,” said Sierra with a sigh. “You lose your job.”

“What? Why?” asked Mireya, suddenly facing a shoeless future.

“You don’t know. These things happen,” said Sierra, fifth grade economist and philosopher. “So you move to Houston. That costs money.” She removed ice from Mireya’s cup.

Mireya regarded her cup with some dismay. “But it’s a good job, right?”

“Right. But you lose that one too.” Sensing that too many job related tragedies could lead to an end of game moment, Sierra found Mireya an even better job, one she apparently could hold on to.

In fact, Mireya and her ice cup managed to go on to not only have a career and family, but sent her own kids to college. And eventually the dark day came when she had to pay for her own funeral.

“But that’s okay, because now it’s the kids’ turn, right?” observed Mireya, her cup nearly empty.

An excellent point, I thought. It was enough to bring sparkly diamonds to my eyes.

Sisters in Science

2009-09-22T11:08:00.000-05:00

Since we adopted a green anole lizard that leaped onto the hood of our truck , it’s brought out the inner biologists in our daughters.

They have each started a notebook with copious notes about our lizard, Cricket.

The notes read like this:

Observation #1: Turns colors.

Observation #2: Licks leaves.

Observation # 3: Calm.

Observation #4: Still calm.

Observation #5: Very still.

Lizard observation time is usually accompanied by shouts of “How to you spell CALMEST?” and “Look, he’s turning brown!”

I’m fairly certain that Cricket at this point is the single most observed lizard in the Hill Country.

I’m all for science, but I have to admit that after a while it’s a little tough to continue to greet these observations with ongoing enthusiasm. After the 15^th shout about the shade of brown the lizard is changing into, I’m pretty much out of encouragement.

How did Einstein’s mom do it? I can just see little Al Einstein, going on and on about time and how it’s all relative. Did his mother think to herself – “Fine, fine, but don’t you think it’s TIME to pick up your socks, hmmm?”

I can just hear Isaac Newton’s mom calling to her son from across the yard. “Isaac! What are you doing under that tree? You want an apple to conk you on your head or something? Go out and get some exercise for goodness sake!”

Galileo’s mom probably stayed up all night waiting for her son to come inside. “You expect me to believe you just looked at the stars all night? Honestly, you act like you’re the center of the universe or something.”

Surely Marie Curie’s mom was a little irritated about all the test tubes all over. “What are you saving all of these for? Some of these things are glowing! Are you reading in bed again?”

I wonder - did Jane Goodall’s mother ever bite her tongue when she was about to say “Monkeys? Enough monkeys! Where are my grandchildren?”

Probably not. I’m sure these mommies of science’s greatest minds just smiled at their precocious children as they typed up their research papers and washed out test tubes.

With that in mind, I’ll fill the digital camera with batteries, and sharpen the pencils and buy a few more notebooks. Because that lizard’s likely to turn brown again any minute.

By the way, the photo above is Mommy Marie Curie and the kiddo on the right, Irene Curie ALSO won the Nobel prize.

Fun. I can do fun. Really. Okay. Maybe not.

2009-09-19T20:54:00.001-05:00

"Are you the fun parent?"

The neighbor's child, the one that always asks the pointed questions around here, was in my living room, asking me the one question I never wanted to answer.

But, like a smart lawyer who knows the answers to every question before asking them, she knew the truth.

No. I am not the fun parent. Daddy is the fun parent.

How did this happen? I had such plans. When I was in high school, I always figured I would be the coolest mom ever. Even my friends, as I got into my twenties, said "Boy, you are going to be a really fun mom."

And in that wonderfully blissful assumption of youth I thought, "Darn straight, I am."

As I grew up I had all the requisite background for being the fun parent. I was once a professional clown. I could twist balloons into dogs or giraffes (dogs with longer necks) or bunnies (dogs with longer ears). I remembered countless knock-knock jokes.

I even, at one time, collected comic books and could name all the members of the X-men – classic and new. My nephews were in awe.

I can't even blame it on being the stay at home parent who has to lay down the law, because for a time I was the after 6 pm parent and I STILL was not the fun parent.

Don't get me wrong. I have my moments. There was the night where we had sports caster bath time where every action in the bathtub was described in detail by the mommy-play-by-play announcer. And let's not forget opera day where we sang all our conversations in big, high voices (which went on for two hours before Daddy begged for mercy).

Yet motherhood has brought out the In-Charge-Marge in me. I confuse productivity with play. We must finish our rice painting! Let's color ALL the macaroni!

I plan complex outdoor activities when really all anyone seems to want to do is run screaming from the tickle monster. For four hours.

And I don't want to watch a movie 700 times so I can recite every line by heart. (Except for the Princess Bride. I love that movie.) Instead want all movies to teach something, anything. The capital of Uganda. The habitat needs of salamanders. The names of all the planets in the solar system.

I am so not fun.

Now that I've faced it, I find myself sneaking in fun. Last week it was green pancakes. Then there was a brief moment of pirouettes in the parking lot.

If I can't be the fun parent, I can at least have my moments.

The Call of the Crustacean

2009-09-17T20:43:00.001-05:00

I was tempted by a lobster a few weeks ago.

The grocery store was having a huge sale on lobster. I love lobster, but like so many things in life I prefer to have it already … indistinguishable as a life form. Yes, I’m one of those people who’s squeamish about killing things.

Harsher, perhaps more honest, people would call me a hypocrite since I will eat living things but opt for the emotional distance that comes from having it wrapped in cling wrap and Styrofoam with a nicely typed label.

The reality is that we live our life around here with out ever having to cut the head off anything and then have it running around like… well, you know. And I just don’t like being the hand of fate that reaches down and says, “That one is dinner! Bwaaa ha ha ha!”

Still, I was tempted. After all, a sale is a sale. I was this close to picking up a lobster. I walked over to the lobsters’ wading pool, where there were little cartoon shellfish decorating it in a sort of odd ironic twist. The lobsters were crawling around enthusiastically, their little rubber band claws up in the air as if they were asking to be selected for dinner with the Prosapios.

Then I thought of Caspian.

Caspian is a snail. I imagine I’m not the first mom to be horrified to find a snail crawling on my daughters lunch only to learn that it is not only an invited guest, but has already been named and has appropriated a large plastic Tupperware container as his castle.

So there was snail, aka Caspian, crawling along the plate, his slimy antennae moving in and out of his head and I thought, this is getting out of control. We already have a reptile, rodents, a feline, canines… and now something without a spine. What’s next?

It would be Larry the lobster if I carried one of those things home. There’s not a chance I’d get him in a pot. Then I’d lose a bathtub, not to mention probably a tip of a toe if he ever escaped.

Wisely, for once, I waved goodbye to the pool of lobsters. Hopefully a few will be back in the tank where we can visit them like animals in a sort of culinary zoo.

And I’d keep all my toes intact.

Baskets. Why did it have to be baskets.

2009-09-14T20:51:00.002-05:00

The Ever Filled Basket

We live in an era where laundry is as easy to do as it’s ever been. No more rocks, no more icy streams, no more making soap from animal fat.

Now if we could just get the laundry out of the basket.

In our house, the gravitational pull of the laundry basket is so strong that it draws in every item of clothing, no matter what its condition.

Here’s what happens: Laundry is done. Items are folded and baskets of items are distributed to the individuals who, theoretically, will wear them.

The items rest in the basket, awaiting transportation to one of six drawers, which are about eight inches away from said basket.

The items wait.

And wait.

Then, somehow, an item that is not clean gets placed on top of the clean items. It’s usually a sock. When discovered, great consternation breaks out and the offending sock is exiled to the dirty basket, most often without its mate which is under the bed at this point, cowering in fear of the rinse cycle (where most socks meet their doom).

Half the clean items in the basket then make the move of eight inches and are put away in drawers when the individual is threatened with banishment. The other half of the clean items remain behind in the basket, part of the negotiated settlement given the late hour and the amount of homework remaining.

Then after piano practice, sign ups for volleyball, and a mad rush for school, more dirty items end up in the previously clean basket. Time passes. The cry rises for clean socks and t-shirts.

All of which creates the following questions I’d love to get a few answers to:

How long does it take for dirty clothes to permeate the clean clothes? Is it a matter of weight, percentage of basket volume, or does it depend on the type of dirt on the dirty clothes?
Are the items at the bottom most layer of the basket still, technically, clean?
If you can shake off the fuzz, is that good enough?
If you’re just going outside to jump on a trampoline or swing on the swingset, can you wear items that your mother swore she was throwing out the next time she saw them?
And, lastly, when an individual clearly fails to place items in his or her drawer, should they then be called a basket case?

Let me know. I’ll be in the laundry room, trying to find my jeans.

Pop go the eardrums

2009-09-06T22:30:00.000-05:00

I just booked our family vacation (which we are taking in October because we are so weird and love driving the school crazy) and it reminded me of this episode.

Come Fly With Me… Or Not…

Along with two thirds of North America, we took our last trip of the summer two years ago in an airplane.

I enjoy travel, love planes, and am a big fan of vacation. However, traveling for 2.5 hours in a plane with precisely 1.5 hours worth of entertainment for a five year old is excruciating.

I’ve been thrown from a horse, fallen from a cliff, and been hit by a car. All of which I would gladly go through again as long as you promise not to put me back on a plane with that girl again.

It always starts out great. There’s the excitement about being in the airport. The fascination with the disappearance of the luggage. Mireya was even pretty impressed with the security measures, especially the removal of shoes.

Lift off was uneventful, and she dutifully chewed her gum as we rose into the sky. Then I made the big mistake. I talked about how ears “pop” when we go higher in the sky and when we go lower.

Like so many things you tell your children, you don’t realize how they translate your words in their brain. Often times it can take weeks before you realize your child thinks you are literally struggling against ropes at the office because you’ve said you didn’t call back right away because you were all tied up.

So, as our collective nerves frayed and we’d worked through all available puzzle books and reading material, it was time to descend. I handed out the gum.

She looked at me with horror. “I don’t want my ears to pop!”

“But they’ll feel better…”

“I like them the way they are!”

“What?”

“I don’t want them to pop out!”

“No, no, honey, they don’t pop out, they just sort of stretch…”

“Nooooo!”

I just have a way with words. It’s a gift. Sure enough, her ears took a good long time to “pop” (which always hurts worse) and the minute we landed Mireya was on the phone with Daddy.

“I’m never going on an airplane again,” she said into the phone, scowling at me, the woman who just tried to deform her cute little ears.

All I could say to that was a hearty “amen.”

When hammers fly

2009-09-05T22:19:00.000-05:00

This is from 2 years ago when our school just barely opened on time... (picture is not from our school, but it felt like that at the time...)

School Opens, Thank Goodness

At last week’s open house I saw one look on almost every parent’s face. A look I recognized because I’d seen it in my own face that morning.

Relief.

Since our school had been under construction, construction that had been delayed by the wettest summer in recent memory, suddenly it seemed possible that there would be no school for our children.

I’m sure the district had some sort of plan, that they would have figured out something. But for a time there we all had the same thought running through our heads.

What if there is no school?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my rookie years of parenting it’s the thrill of that first week in school. The quiet house. The hours upon hours of time suddenly regained. The sense that indeed you had another name other than Mommy and most of the world did not need you for your ability to managing all issues around bodily functions.

So it was with a sense of true horror that I considered the possibility that our school might not be ready. Like a sprinter who is suddenly thrown into a one mile race you begin feel cramps of panic before you even get called to the line.

Could we survive another week of Summer vacation?

Every year at our house the end of Summer vacation culminates in a huge collection of birthday parties since everyone has one but me in the weeks leading up to the start of school. So it’s quite a send off. Huge waterslides. Birthday cakes with cookies on top. Enough presents to last us through three Christmases. Food, drink and merriment that comes not once, not twice but for three weekends running.

Let me tell you, I sure as heck didn’t have an encore.

So, on Thursday last week, as I walked out of the open house with enough paperwork to impress even the IRS, I shared my excitement with one of the teachers.

“Boy am I glad they made it and the schools going to open.”

She smiled at me and said, “You know, everybody’s been saying that.”

I bet.

I'm completely embarrassed

2009-09-04T12:22:00.003-05:00

My kids are attending a school that refuses to air the president's address.

I'm so furious I can't even see straight.

They aired George Bush. They aired Reagan. But they won't air Obama.

I live and send my children to a school that is that racist, that cowardly, that pathetic.

I don't even know how to deal with this, other than take my children out of school for the address. Which I will on Tuesday.

This is an address to our children by the President of the United States on the value of education. I can't believe I live in an area with such chicken shit "leaders." Clearly the third graders are not in class. They are in the superintendent's office.

Here's their letter.

Appalled? Send an email.

Two thumbs sideways

2009-09-03T22:01:00.002-05:00

There’s nothing quite as torturous as having an 11 year old and a 7 year old describe a movie.

I had just managed to miss watching the “movie on TV” version of one of my girls’ favorite TV shows (it’s amazing what you can pull off with adequate advanced warning). It’s one of those shows with hopelessly inept parents and clever, if a bit goofy, children. You know, just like 99% of all kids’ programming.

Anyway, when I arrived home from my vital grocery store mission, which coincidentally took exactly 90 minutes, the children felt terrible that I had missed the ENTIRE movie. No matter how I assured them that I was fine and certainly there would be another opportunity to see the movie, or one with an identical plot, they insisted on telling me about it.

“So you know Alex?” said Mireya, our youngest. “She was in this place…”

“Don’t start there, start at the beginning,” insisted Sierra.

“The beginning? Like before the show?” Mireya looked confused.

“Let me tell her. So they make this wish,” started Sierra.

“Oh! Tell her about the rocks!” Mireya shouted

“I will. So she makes a wish…”

Already, I was lost. Bad sign. “She? Who’s she?”

Mireya suddenly started laughing. “It’s so funny!”

“What’s funny? The wish?” I asked.

“No, later with Justin.” She laughed again and Sierra started laughing too.

I laughed awkwardly, having no clue what was funny. “Okay, I’m confused. Who’s Justin?”

“Her brother,” said Sierra, still giggling. “And then they go to that place…”

Mireya jumped up. “Are you going to tell her about the parrot?”

“The one that turns into the girl later? Oh, yeah. But that’s at the end.”

I fought the urge to drop my head into my hands. “Maybe you can just tell me how it ends.”

Sierra shrugged. “Okay. The guy has the parrot, and he’s telling them where to go when… no, wait, did I tell you about the guy?”

Mireya jumped up from her seat, striking a pose. “I like Alex. Mommy, do you think I’m like Alex? I think I’m like her.”

“Her? Alex is a her?”

Sierra rolls her eyes. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“I think that’s the problem.”

I still have no idea what the movie was about. But I learned my lesson. Next time it will be less painful to just watch the movie.

Popcorn, anyone?

The Cranky Voice of Experience

2009-08-26T23:31:00.000-05:00

The bad thing about experience is that most of your illusions are gone.

For example, right now we are very organized for the first week of school. So organized that a little tiny voice in my head began to suggest that somehow we have been transformed into a well-oiled, school-on-time, backpacks-set-out-the-night-before, paperwork-completed machine.

But the cranky voice of experience knows better. In fact by the time you read this, the cranky voice will be shouting “I told you so” as I run back to the house four times for lunch boxes, paperwork, books, and probably, shoes.

I have tried all kinds of things to get us to stay on the organized track.

Lists. I have so many lists that I have a box around here somewhere with ones I’m not sure I can throw away.

Organizers. There’s one on my phone, one on my computer, one on my desk (somewhere), and one in my purse. Unfortunately none of them talk to one another, nor are they remotely organized in the same way. My phone is still reminding me of appointments I no longer have to go to and my computer has refused to let me enter anything until I tell it I’ve gotten at least one of the other 47 things done.

Teamwork. After all, being organized shouldn’t be one person’s job, particularly the least capable person, right? I mean, why should I be in charge? Surely in the wide range of personalities around here there is somebody better suited to the Herculean task of the school year. Unfortunately, being unorganized is apparently either genetic or contagious.

Training. I’ve had an offer to go to another time management class. But when? Who has time?

Prayer. While this has been effective in nearly every other area of my life, asking for divine intervention has yet to have much of an impact on finding socks at 7:15 am.

So, I’m left with the cranky voice in my head telling me that what we’ve started tonight – clean children, clothes picked out, 20 pages of paperwork completed (no kidding) - that none of it will last. Within a matter of days, we’ll be running around the house in a mad scramble, pencils unsharpened, shoes missing, and lunch consisting of crackers and cheese in a plastic grocery bag.

In the end, according to experience, the key is to laugh about it.

Teacher, How Do I LOVE Thee?

2009-08-23T23:35:00.003-05:00

In honor of the first day of school, a reprint of a favorite of mine...

School has started!

On behalf of every mother who has spent all Summer covering her children with sun screen, washed every single towels in the house practically every day and wept every night after observing what happens to the house when children are home all day, I just want to say to every teacher out there:

I love you.

No, seriously. I love you. It's not like. "Like" is for baby sitters and substitutes. This is all out get-the-heart-shaped-boxes-of-chocolates LOVE.

Why do I love thee? With apologies to Ms. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, let me count the ways:

I love you for teaching my children how to add when I can't get them to put two socks in the laundry basket. Which is why their socks won't match in a week. Just a heads up.

I love you for teaching my children how to write their names when I spend the last few months believing they didn't even know their names – unless I used all three of them. (You know: "Sierra Paloma Prosapio! Come over here and put this shirt in that laundry basket." "Mireya Brisa Prosapio! Is this your toy embedded in my foot?")

I love you for showing me that my children are capable of sitting AND eating at the same time. Would you take a photo for me? I'd just like to see what it looks like.

I love you for somehow keeping my children relatively clean without having to resort to a garden hose.

I love you for taking my children for HOURS so when they come home I have had time to miss them and cherish them. And get to yoga class.

I love you for helping them when they are confused, smiling at them when they do well, and fighting the desire to banish them when they begin to drive you crazy.

I love you for teaching my children that lines are part of life, so the next time we are at the movies my child won't cut in front of 30 other people yelling "me first!"

I love you for facing crazy parents (of which I will be one) because when our children come home upset and we immediately ask for a teacher conference to find out how to keep our child from crying—ever.

And most of all, I love you for choosing to teach children, even though we don't pay you enough – not nearly enough and when I am Queen, teachers will be paid their weight in gold. Weekly.

So, to Mrs. Jarica, Mrs. Buxkemper, and all the teachers out there, when Friday rolls around on this first hectic week of school, I want you to feel it.

Feel the love.

Ready, Aim, SCHOOL!

2009-08-19T17:26:00.002-05:00

School starts next week and we’re ready.

Well, no, we’re not, but it feels nice to pretend that we are.

We do have all our school supplies. Everyone has clothes that fit them THIS week. We even have shoes.

There’s a set of lunch boxes, backpacks, and pencil cases packed and ready for action.

We had the last party of the year, complete with sleepover (at which there was very little sleep).

We are even on tap to get the final hair cut out of the way next week.

It’s almost like I’m getting the hang of things after 11 years. What’s next – matching socks?

Whoa. Let’s not get crazy.

Still, I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to wake everyone up early. Or get them to bed early.

I’m not ready to give up all my summer lines like “let’s grab a movie” or “why is the dog blue?” or “did someone spill soda? Again?” or “where are all the towels?”

I’m not ready to serve breakfast before 10 am and dinner before 9 pm.

I’m not ready for the paperwork, homework, and calendar work of the school year.

Even though it’s been a brutal summer, and there’s not a single blade of grass that has survived in our yard, and the smell of sunscreen in completely and utterly embedded in the furniture, I still want summer to linger. The fact is that everyone in the house is ready for school to start, everyone but me.

I want two more weeks of late night movies on a Tuesday and running around in Pjs all day for fun. More painting the dogs unnatural colors. More wet cats. More…summer.

But school waits for no mom. Open house is tomorrow, Friday we’ll think of five things we still need to do, Saturday we’ll get at least three of those done and Sunday the kids will be so excited that it’ll be a wonder that anyone gets to sleep on time.

Monday morning we’ll be lined up, rushing out of the house to get there on time, the smell of sharpened pencils, shampoo, and grilled cheese in the air.

And finally, at home, there will be towels.

When Cats Meow…

2009-08-15T08:20:00.000-05:00

You don’t have to be a parent for long to realize that prolonged silence is always a bad sign.

The problem is that it’s often so welcome that you don’t snap that you should immediately put down that book you actually read two pages of, get up and run over to the area where your children are and be prepared to: hose them down with soap and water; rescue them from the top of something that not even the lizard would climb; or phone the insurance company nurse.

Again.

This was one of those times.

We were upstairs and I was experiencing some pride in my children. I had told them to “entertain themselves.”

What was I thinking?

The problem is that we are at that point in the summer where the first words in the morning are “I’m bored” followed quickly by “I don’t know what to do” and the ever popular “Mommy, what are you doing?”

Remarkably, they are reluctant to take on any of the 500 chores available to alleviate boredom.

Apparently no one is THAT bored.

It was the day I had banned television after a marathon of cartoons had my daughter quoting Sponge Bob with reverence usually reserved for Thomas Jefferson. Sure, it had been a struggle, but they seemed to be managing. Then I realized that it had gotten quiet. I tried to ignore my mounting sense of doom.

Then I heard a door downstairs close. Next came the sound of running water. This was pretty remarkable since washing hands is right up there with any one of the 500 chores. But miracles happen, right?

Have I mentioned that it’s very dangerous to be an optimist in our family?

A few minutes passed, then I heard a forlorn meow. Very forlorn. As in “abandon hope all ye cats who enter here.”

I closed my eyes and thought about how resilient our cat is, a requirement of every Prosapio pet. Surely they wouldn’t be…

Then there was a shout.

“No! Don’t open the door!”

“But it’s scarwee!”

The knob rattled and there was another shout. I could hear the door open.

“Why did you open the door!?”

“I was scarwed!”

A few seconds later, the cat was up the stairs, shaking copious amounts of water off her legs and glaring at me. After a few more half-hearted shakes she gave me that look that begged the question:

“How many more days until school starts?”

Queen of School Supplies

2009-08-13T08:08:00.002-05:00

When I am queen of the universe (I’m sure my paperwork will arrive any day now), one of the first things I’m going to do is fix the school supply thing.

When I am queen, shopping for school supplies will no longer be the all day march through aisle after aisle, store after store, like a deranged scavenger hunt. There will be no more looking for two days for map pencils. Or blue, green, yellow, red AND purple folders. But not just plain folders in these specific colors – folders with brads AND pockets in these specific colors.

I have to tell you, in my day, school supplies were limited to the basics: writing implements of either ink or lead and a tablet. That’s it.

Now school supply lists are like some kids’ Christmas lists. Red pens? 150 Sanitary Wipes? Sharpies with fine points? We don’t even allow our kids play with Sharpies at home ever since they started to paint the dogs, fine point or not!

So, it goes without saying that I have a few ideas on how to improve the entire school supply system.

Yes, when I’m queen the following rules will be in place:

1. Map pencils will be called by their proper names – colored pencils (thanks to the teacher in aisle 12 who helped me avoid a total meltdown looking for map pencils, which I assumed were attached to some sort of road maps).

2. If all the store has with brads and pockets is yellow folders, then the class will just deal with having yellow folders. That’s what the half dozen sharpies are for, right? Just write RED at the top. Problem solved.

3. School supplies are limited to the school supply aisle only. Tissue paper and cleaning supplies are to be moved into the school supply aisle for four weeks leading up to school.

4. More items will be available in pink. With glitter where possible.

5. All major stores are to get their school supply list early and stock what’s ON THE LIST ONLY. If anyone needs 64 crayons, drop me a line.

6. Better yet, stores will be required to prepackage all the basics materials in a ready made box you can just pick up at the back of the store. Then all parents’ have to contend with is a pencil box and insulated lunch sack, in pink, covered in glitter.

Ah, it will be so good to be queen.

Living in the hick... er, hills

2009-08-08T00:20:00.000-05:00

I wrote this when we first moved back to the Texas Hick... Hill Country.

Having moved back to the lake from a brief tour of duty in the city, certain things stand out.

For example, I noticed a big change in the types of birds we spot regularly. In the city, our number one bird was the pigeon, gray feathered eating machines swooping down for popcorn and crackers at every opportunity.

Now it's the turkey vulture. There's a bird you don't want swooping down on for a snack.

I'll be the first to admit that vultures soaring is pretty majestic, but I do feel the need to move more overtly when they appear to be circling us as we are hanging out on the playground.

Move along, boys. Still alive and kicking down here.

There's the sign on the bait fridge at the grocery store that says "Live bait. Do not eat."

I don't know about you, but it concerns me that someone felt it was actually necessary to explain that you are not to eat live worms. Because it's not bad enough that there are live, chilled worms by the checkout and ice machine, there are people who apparently mistake them for sushi.

Maybe it stems from being a tourist area. It certainly impact our neighborhood retailers. At every convenience store there's an impressive display of items designed solely for the cooling, carting and consumption of the number one beverage -- beer.

At our corner store I can find koozies with witty remarks, ice chests that have better wheels than half the cars in the parking lot, floating coolers, and the occasional drink tube hat complete with dual straws. Now there is a fashion statement. I tell you Milan has NOTHING on us.

Speaking of fashion, it really is all about the shoes. It took me a while but I've adapted and somewhat embraced the idea of flip-flops as formal wear. I have my own pair of flip-flops in the garage, waiting to be put into service any day now. More importantly, I've learned not to look down anymore lest I get an eyeful of what only a podiatrist could love.

It's a week into the season and out here we celebrate a whole different set of nature's subtle signals that summer is in full swing. The roar of every neighborhood boat, blowing out a few gallons of lake water. The deer drinking out of kiddie pools. The tie-dye shirts on the side of the road, flapping in the 100 degree breeze.

To think, the only sign we used to have in the city of summer was that all the school zone signs had stopped blinking.

Ice cold worms, beer through straws and circling vultures – I tell you, there is no place like home.

Spin test

2009-08-05T23:52:00.003-05:00

The best part os shopping with a seven year old is that every dress requires a spin test.

The results.

(when you're 10 no spin is required. but the scarves are cool.)

Aging ungracefully. Damn it.

2009-08-03T19:20:00.001-05:00

Something terrible happened in my kitchen. Usually a place of safety and predictability, something absolutely horrible happened.

I couldn’t read the soup can. I needed to see if this soup required the addition of a can of water and out of nowhere the letters disappeared into a fuzz ball.

I was not ready for this development. I mean, sure, I’d noticed it was getting tougher to read some things. I’d get some cheaters I’d bought primarily as a fashion accessory and read the fine print – named precisely because it’s hard to read, right?

But this was a can of SOUP. A can that wasn’t particularly small or covered in fine print.

Right at that moment I realized something.

I’m getting old.

Okay, not old. Older. After all, it’ll take a while to actually get there, right?

Ha.

I always imagined that I’d grow old gracefully, accepting my gray hair and wrinkles as they came along. I’d celebrate each one as a badge of honor, experience manifested on my body in a natural way.

It’s amazing how delusional you can be in your 20s.

The “aging gracefully” bit lasted about a year. To be fair I was going gray a little early, but I was no more accepting of the crow’s feet and wrinkles when they had to gall to show up.

Out came the hair dye, magic lotions, and virtually any other product with the words “age” and “defying” in the description.

I went from the “graceful plan” to the “kicking and screaming plan,” complete with hands gripping the doorframe.

I suppose it came as a shock because we do have such young children. Our life is filled with kid pursuits, with soccer balls, trampolines, swings, slides and toys with much assembly required.

You feel young with little kids around, at least until something rolls under the couch. Or you have to read the instructions to assemble some toy. Or you think all the music they listen to is awful.

So I pulled out my fashionable cheaters (which my daughter loves to wear, ironically), and read that no water was required for the soup.

Now I have to carry these things around with me. Half the time I forget my earrings – how am I going to remember these things? Isn’t memory the next to go?

At least I think that’s what they say…

Yikes!

Where the rubber meets the brain

2009-08-01T17:29:00.003-05:00

Bingo!

There’s nothing like a road trip to bring out the best and worst in a family.

We recently took a long road trip north of Dallas, and pretty soon not even the most entertaining movie was enough.

Tempers were fraying like old t-shirts, the sisters had turned on each other, and we contemplated the fines involved with abandoning the car on the side of the road.

But, since it was 100 degrees, escape wasn’t really possible. Plus I married one of those “we-don’t-stop-till-we-get-there” guys, who clearly ignores all the advice from AAA to get out and stretch every now and then.

It’s a good thing I’ve got a strong bladder.

So we decided to start a game of highway bingo.

Okay, I decided to start a game of highway bingo.

At first there was great resistance, even disdain, for the entire idea by everyone in the car. Still I know these people. These are my people. They just needed a task.

Sierra, slumped so low I wasn’t sure her spine was still intact, flatly refused to play at all. I gave her a card anyway. Then, after a sullen 15 miles, she asked for a new card, having already found everything.

That was it. It was GAME ON. I couldn’t create cards fast enough. Sierra was blowing through every single one, thanks to a flexible interpretation of “car.” Mireya refused to compromise on her card one iota, insisting that a suburban was neither a truck nor a car. This drove her more flexible sister completely nuts, which led to a brief bingo time out for all involved.

In the front seat we had a tougher card to try to play and were going for a bingo “blackout.” We did great until we got to brown horse.

It’s amazing how many colors horses come in and how many of those aren’t brown.

Eventually we found everything – cell towers, black cows, green cars, eighteen wheelers pulling empty trailers, the letter x on a license plate. Sure, there were some tough ones. “Road kill” was inexplicably difficult, and “police cars” were pretty scarce. But by the time we pulled into the garage, we were playing one big car-wide game of highway bingo, screaming at the top of our lungs every time we found something.

And let me tell you, when you’re screaming “RED HORSE! RED HORSE!” it’s definitely time to get out of the car.

Fashion Takes a Holiday

2009-07-21T23:40:00.000-05:00

(in honor of summer re-runs, here's one of my favorites)

We’ve had a rash of fashion melt downs lately. It always happens like this:

We should have left five minutes ago for the store/doctor/movie. Everyone is ready, and was ready 10 minutes ago. Then Mireya says she’ll be right back.

Never, never let her go back in the house. I know this. But somehow she’s like an eel and before I click the seatbelt around her she’s running in for one last thing. Which always involves a wardrobe change.

She’s five and already she’s staring in her drawer in horror and saying “I don’t have anything to wear!”

I used to get involved in the selection process only to be firmly rebuked. And, to be fair, for good reason. My fashion sense is restricted to jeans and travel related t-shirts. Still, I’M dressed when it’s time to go.

Besides, there’s plenty to wear. I can’t even close Mireya’s drawers half the time. Fifty percent of our laundry items are hers due to the three outfit a day rule. I end up standing in the doorway to her room about to pull my hair out, thinking “who are you?” and “are we related?”

The last time this happened I had to physically carry her out of her room while she screamed her head off and I grabbed what I thought was a perfectly rational fashion choice for her to get dressed in once we arrived the gift store.

She stomped into Miss Mellie’s store, took one look at Miss Mellie and said “I did not want to wear this. I hate these pants.”

Miss Mellie gave me an arched eyebrow and I shrugged in my Grand Tetons t-shirt.

So it was a bit of an eye opener when we were at the family reunion and I was telling this story to the gathered moms. Everyone laughed and was sympathetic with my side. Except for my aunt and my own mother.

“I know just how she feels,” my aunt said, adjusting a beautiful earring. “The same thing happens to me all the time.”

There it was. The gene. This intense fashion gene was passed through undiluted from my aunt, whom I’ve called the Mexican Martha Stewart, and my mother, who wears heels to the hardware store.

Fine. Next time we’re in front of the overflowing drawer of “no clothes to wear,” I’m calling them on the cell phone. Maybe they’ll be able to talk her into wearing something. Anything.

After all, I can’t have her wearing the wrong pants again. She may disown me.

Can I Take Your Order Please?

2009-07-17T23:30:00.000-05:00

I don’t know if it’s because it’s been 100 degrees for so long or because of the whole spirit of summer, or because there’s just been a breakdown in discipline around here.

Whatever the reason, it was time to put my foot down.

We used to eat like a normal family. Someone would cook. People would eat. Everyone would scatter, trying to get away with not helping with the dishes. Someone would slip up and end up to their elbows in plates, whining about how they have to do EVERYTHING around here.

Pretty normal. Then, somewhere along the way, somebody stopped eating hot dogs. Someone else stopped eating pizza. Chicken was on the no way list. Only two people would even pronounce the word fish. Macaroni and cheese became the only food for one person.

We had entered the short order cook’s nightmare zone.

It became increasingly impossible to pick a restaurant let alone make dinner at home. Suddenly everyone had become some exotic zoo animal with extremely sensitive diet requirements.

Given that I fulfill most of our dining needs I had had it. I was starting to prepare four totally different meals every night. Who do I look like, the galloping gourmet on the run? Julia Child on a double espresso? The naked chef… streaking?

Sunday I finally resorted to the one thing I haven’t tried, but seen on television.

“That’s it! We’re having a family meeting!”

Everyone stared at me for a full 3 seconds while I stomped into the living room. Then they quickly followed, yelling about claiming the sofa versus the chair.

“We can’t keep doing this crazy food thing, we’ve got to find things to agree to eat,” I said.

“I’m not even hungry,” said Mireya.

“Anything but chicken,” said Sierra.

“You’re Mom’s right,” said my husband. “We have to work together on meals.” I beamed at him. We were a team!

We proceeded to lay some ground rules, and things looked pretty good. And then:

“Okay, I’ll grill some chicken.” I said, heading to the kitchen.

“And I’m going to have a sandwich,” said my husband, following me. I whirled on him, and he smiled weakly.

“I really just want a sandwich.”

Et tu, Brutay?

Sierra saw her opening. “Peanut butter for me!”

“I want chicken,” said Mireya. “Do we have macaroni?”

Next time, I’m not calling a meeting. I’m calling for take out.

Riding the heat wave

2009-07-13T23:25:00.002-05:00

Is it me, or did it just get ridiculously hot?

Usually I pride myself on my desert heritage where we lived in the 90s for nine months out of the year. I’m rolling my eyes at all the northerners, the ones going on and on about how it’s soooo hot.

But even I have to admit, this last week has me trying on the phrase “Summer Minnesotan.”

After all, there are Winter Texans, right?

The last time I remember this many 100 degree days was when I was pregnant during the Summer of ’98 and we hit a record for the most 100 degree days in a row. Then when I was pregnant over the Summer of ’02, we had the flood that sent water over the spillway at the lake.

We should all be grateful that the Prosapios stopped with #2.

Anyway, given conditions out there, I’ve discovered there are certain things I simply refuse to do when it’s over 100 degrees.

I refuse to bake. This is in a vain hope that by banning all forms of heat we’ll stop the insanity. I like to think of it as my bit to stop localized global warming (which is a contradiction of terms, but hey, it’s hot).

I refuse to go shopping because there is just something about walking across an asphalt parking lot when it’s 104. When your shoes are sticking to the parking lot, it’s a signal there’s nothing in that you need that bad. Except ice.

I refuse to stand outside for more than 30 seconds unless dragged kicking and screaming by dogs who insist that I’m the one who’s all unreasonable about house training.

I refuse to exercise unless it involves cold water or unless it’s 5 am.

I refuse to get up early because it’s already hot anyway. An there is no water within 300 miles that’s still cold.

I refuse to remember my pledge to get one box out of the attic every day and get rid of things because I’m fairly sure I will go up in flames if I even OPEN the attic door.

I refuse to turn on lights because I’m convinced that most of our house is glowing with radiant heat until 2 am.

Let’s hope that the early sightings of El Nino, which would bring rain and coolness, turn out to be true and not just the ravings of weathermen who have run out of “it’s so hot” jokes.

Because otherwise I’m not going to get anything done around here.

We don't get too into the 4th of July...

2009-07-04T22:53:00.007-05:00

We believe there's no such thing as getting TOO much into the 4th.

Here's small town Texas on the 4th.

Course, the dog has to get dressed up.

Love this bus!

Well, you know Mireya always dresses for the occasion.

Party barge in action.

The fly over by the vintage planes...

Okay, the other dog got a bandana too.

And big sister Sierra wanted a matching dress and Roxie
broke out the stars outfit. And Daddy is not one to be left out either

I just noticed someone is riding in the bucket of the bucket truck. LOL

These racing kids probably give their mother a heart attack with their antics.
They were doing 360s and peeling out all over the place.

Okay, maybe we do get into the 4th a little.

Hope yours was happy!

Papa Bear, AKA, DH

2009-06-27T15:42:00.002-05:00

Papa Bear and Daddy

If you’ve ever read one of the Berenstain Bears kids books, you have an idea of the kind of father my husband is. For those of you who aren’t familiar, let me explain.

In the Berenstain Bears, Papa Bear has a propensity to teach his son how to do things using the “do as I say, not as I do” approach. For example, Papa Bear will warn his son to not pick up any old rock at the seashore. Then he’ll get bit by a crab when he picks up some old rock at the seashore. He’ll tell young bear to be careful checking an old stump for a beehive, then encounter a startled skunk.

Well, I apparently married Papa Bear.

Case in point: once he told Sierra to be careful around a fire he’d set in our outdoor fire pit. In particular he was telling her not to walk around barefoot since it was easy to accidentally step on a burning ember.

Which he then aptly demonstrated by kicking off his shoes, walking half way around the fire pit, then suddenly started howling in pain and hopping on one foot because… he had stepped on a burning ember.

This is also the man who is the first to tell me that you have to respect wild animals because they can turn on you suddenly. Then he came very close to being gored by a buffalo, saved only by the relative proximity of the women’s rest room. Why did the buffalo charge? Because he was staring at it from 10 yards away.

Most recently he admonished Sierra to wear better shoes to hike around on our camping trip earlier this month, then proceeded to fall because he was wearing …

Sigh. Need I go on?

It’s gotten to the point where I think the best gift for Father’s Day around here might be additional health insurance.

It’s strange because many times he’s perfectly capable to taking on wild bees, stuck jar lids, and smashing scorpions while we all scatter to higher ground.

But it doesn’t last. Soon his inner Papa Bear re-emerges. Like when he realized too late that the snake he was releasing decided to crawl up into his truck instead of into the nearby culvert causing significant consternation and a decision to park the truck outside for a week.

One thing for sure. It’s never, ever dull. Not always safe, sure, but never dull.

AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

2009-06-22T00:59:00.002-05:00

I know, I know. Where have I been?

I have no idea. :)

Here's my latest column...

Why Daddy can never ever leave town again

Many, many years ago when I was single, I lived in Chicago. A girlfriend had just had a difficult break up and passed on these words of wisdom.

“Men,” she said, “are only good for one thing.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes. And how important is parallel parking anyway?”

We laughed. But this last weekend drove home yet another critical skill Dad brings to the house.

He was out of town and we girls were left on our own for a few days. Everything was fine, until IT showed up. The one thing I totally cannot handle. The one thing that sends me running out of any room, screaming.

Keep in mind, I have been a mouse rancher. I have handled garter snakes, rats, and even tarantulas, no problem. But there’s one part of the Texas Hill Country I cannot handle.

Scorpions.

Once, while I was eight months pregnant I completed a seven-foot vertical leap when a scorpion landed on my hand. I spent ten minutes stomping on it until it was completely indistinguishable from the dirt.

I have hopped up on counters, chairs, beds, tables, and on at least one occasion, a person, to avoid scorpions. I couldn't even put a picture of one on the BLOG for god's sake!

Sensing my vulnerability with our in-house exterminator 300 miles away, a scorpion slithered casually into our living room on Sunday. Fighting my abject terror, I managed to quickly grab the fireplace shovel and pin its tail.

Now I had a squirming, clearly not dying scorpion by the tail and I couldn’t move, both because it would escape and because I was completely paralyzed with fear. Fortunately the battle had attracted Mireya who came over to watch.

“Is it dead?” I asked, trying to avoid looking directly at it.

“No,” she said calmly. “Do you want a stick so you can smash it?”

My stomach turned. “Um, yes, I guess so.”

As I worked to smash the scorpion, Mireya called Dad on the phone. “Daddy! Mommy is freaking out.”

“Tell him he is NEVER allowed to go out of town again!” I said. Well, it came out more like a shriek. But if you’re ever trying to smash a scorpion with a stick while keeping its tail pinned and it’s squirming around like an evil monster right out of a horror movie, trust me, you’ll be shrieking too.

So Happy Father’s Day, to all the Dads out there, who parallel park and smash scary things. This one’s for you.

(By the way, there will be no more going out of town during scorpion season. Seriously.)

Princess and the Wild, Wild West

2009-05-29T00:08:00.004-05:00

I'm in the process of cleaning out the attic and I found this. Something bought for Sierra, originally.

Mireya was on the computer, but I set this out in case she might find it interesting. Then I went back in the attic for further rummaging.

When I came out I found this:

And let's not forget the sharpshooters on the ridge...

And the fight over in the ravine...

Given our heritage, I'm glad it's not clear who is the good guys and who is the bad guys. Cuz we're a mixed bag over here.

You know, I don't think Disney has a wild west princess. Well, there's Pocahontas, but when you read the history and realize she was 13 and her name means "spoiled child" and she was held captive by the boys in Jamestown, it gets a little pedophilia.

So we'll have to start with Annie Oakley. I wonder if she wore pink...

Mom 101 favorite post

2009-05-27T00:01:00.000-05:00

I have little to say (actually I'm working on my novel, so will be blogging less) but I love this post over at mom 101

she's so awesome.

With some drool, puppyness...

2009-05-24T22:58:00.004-05:00

We have a new puppy.

I was reminded why it’s vital that young ones are really cute:

They aren’t house broken.

They don’t come when they are supposed to.

They think the entire world exists for them.

They cry.

After a few days you realize if they weren’t cute, you’d wrap them right back up and send them back to where ever they came from, grateful that you’d be getting a full night’s sleep again.

I’ve had many puppies in my lifetime, and every one is as different from one another as my daughters are from each other.

This rescue puppy seems completely oblivious to the fact that she’s the size of a house slipper.

She bounds over the other dogs as if she could take them out with a few well placed nips. She hogs the tiny ball we bought her, refusing to let the bigger dogs play with it after a few tosses.

She dives through every barrier as if she was a Great Dane, not a fluffy white thing with springs for legs.

The puppy is Sierra’s dog, technically, and Mireya, who at age six is still not crazy about things that jump on her, has gradually warmed up to the puppy.

“She is not cuter than me,” she told me as we watched the puppy slide into the door after a poorly executed run.

“Nope. And she isn’t as coordinated as you either.”

“I know. And I’m still cuter.”

I wasn’t sure when the “cute crown” started to seem like it was in jeopardy, but it dawned on me that it was time to be reassuring.

“Oh, you’re way cuter. Plus you hardly ever bite.”

“And Mireya knows how to use the potty,” noted Sierra helpfully.

“Thank god,” mumbled Dad.

I wasn’t sure what he was complaining about. Part of the deal of getting a new dog was that he was exempt from indoor clean up. He’s always had a weak stomach for bodily functions.

With the cuteness hierarchy firmly re-established, and some ground rules set, the puppy became a more welcome addition, insofar as Mireya was concerned. Especially when she figured out she can dress this dog in doll clothes.

That dog has no idea what she’s in for.

This I Believe

2009-05-14T23:33:00.000-05:00

This is my essay which ran on our local NPR station's This I Believe series... If I can find the link to it, I'll post it...

This I Believe.

I believe what my grandmother taught me "no hay mal que por bien no venga" – nothing bad happens without something good coming of it.

For years I completely misunderstood this phrase. As an eternal optimist I thought of it as a kind of "when one door closes another opens" kind of thing. Only recently, after a long string of harsh, pounding times-- mucho mal--do I understand the true meaning of my grandmother's dicho.

The first difficult wave came when our first child, our daughter, was born with a heart defect that required open-heart surgery when she was seven months old. Then another procedure was needed when she was two. Given the emotional drain of those years, it wasn't surprising that our business went through rocky times, just when we were struggling with a flood of medical bills. Then my husband started having debilitating back pain that left him practically immobile for months. Eventually the pressures were too much, bankrupting our family, leaving us to start over, bruised and battered.

We've spent a few years rising from the rubble of our dreams and hopes, as through it all I've slowly begun to understand what this saying, this fairly common Mexican dicho, had to teach me. It wasn't about opportunity at all. It wasn't about doors opening. For me this dicho is about what comes into being beyond the wreckage at our feet.

It's not a great sweeping change in my nature, nor is it something that's readily apparent – even to me. Instead, it’s the building of small things, like bits of layered coral, coming alive on the remains of our best-laid plans. Today I face each day with three new abilities, humility, simplicity and gratitude, interwoven into my character. This is the good that has come from the pounding surf of the last few years.

Lo bien que venga, the good that comes, is our ability to grow and adapt. In the shattered remains left by adversity, I've learned new skills to deal with my rebuilt world. As I grow, like the reef that teems with life, which thrives on what has been broken, I learn that there is good that will come. Over time I am better able to withstand the pounding of the waves, and even learn to sway in the beauty of the surf.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I hope we've been strengthened enough, if I don't long for gentle, quiet tides. But my grandmother's voice steadies my heart, I know that through it all, my abilities will grow in the aftermath – y lo bien vendrá. The good will come.

Hold on

2009-05-11T23:28:00.000-05:00

Found this poem on another blog...

Hold On

Hold on to what is good,
Even if it's a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe,
Even if it's a tree that stands by itself.

Hold on to what you must do,
Even if it's a long way from here.

Hold on to your life,
Even if it's easier to let go.

Hold on to my hand,
Even if someday I'll be gone away from you.

A Pueblo Indian Prayer

Boxing Mireya

2009-05-09T07:35:00.002-05:00

(this is from the crib notes archives)

"Mommy! I'm a box person!"

Mireya had taken the box from the recently unpacked printer, and of course, put it on her head.

"Ask me to do something," she said.

I was having trouble coming up with something that required a box person. So we spent 30 minutes rearranging items upstairs, delivering things that should have been put away. Just think, all this time all I needed to do to get some help around here was to put a box on her head.

This is the child who claims to have a complete physical breakdown when asked to put her shoes away. She turns into a total invalid when the 50 plastic ponies have to be put back in their little boxes. She collapses in a heap when called for dishwasher unloading duty.

Eventually we force the issue, but everyone is so worn out, it's like we not only put away the shoes, ponies and dishes, but also scrubbed the floors by hand with toothbrushes. Twice.

Lately, though, she's been adjusting her tactics. She turns on the charm. Those big dark eyes go onto full adorable setting and she bounds over with big smiles and lovey words and before you know it you've put away her shoes and ENJOYED it.

Here's the most frightening thing – most people don't even see it happening. After a few weeks of being Velcro mommy (you know, when you pick up everything), I suddenly realized what was going on and stepped away from the little ponies.

This ability worries me since she's only four. What will we be unleashing on the world?

I pity her future supervisor, customer, or head of state. If she doesn't mow him down with incredible stalling tactics, he'll be charmed into doing not only her work, but also the work of anyone she deems worthy.

Before you know it there will be a tiny productivity vacuum in America and my daughter will be at the center, convincing everyone around her to do all the work.

As her mother, it's up to me to try my best to help her become a generous and compassionate human being. Believe me, I'm working on it.

But just between you and me, I'm keeping a box on hand. Just in case.

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine - Day 8 DONE

2009-05-06T22:08:00.004-05:00

Boy, was I glad to go into the office today. It's a lovely place where everyone gets their own lunch and no one EVER says they are bored.

Kids were home with Grammy, I have no idea what they did. And I'm perfectly fine with that.

School is on tomorrow and ironically my car has acted up so I'm going to have to STAY HOME.

God has a tremendous sense of humor. Over active, if you ask me.

So, it's back to our regular life. Here's crib notes from a week before this all started (I write for the local paper, and I eventually post things here - as well as items not appropriate for a family newspaper - like "dead mommies don't talk", for example).

The Princess and the Lexington

Before Swine Flu swept through the world with a squealing panic, Mireya and I went on a Daisy Scout trip to the USS Lexington. I was a bit concerned that, given the dearth of pink on board the ship, there would be little to hold her interest.

Still she was pumped about the trip and, like her cold, her excitement was infectious.

Not only would we be visiting this floating town, we'd spend the night! In bunks! We'd be woken up by Revelrie in the morning! We'd have grub in the mess hall!

We'd literally live aboard the "blue ghost!"

It took me a few hours into the drive to realize we'd be sleeping in bunk beds, be woken up by a bugle and eat in a mess hall.

Um, I won't even eat at a regular cafeteria (it's a long story).

As my dread descended like a blue ghost, Mireya seemed oblivious to the reality of the situation. There were no princesses on battle ships. Not to mention mommies of princesses.

And as we arrived, half of this remained true. Gone was my princess and in her place was an honest to goodness WWII sailor. She couldn't wait to get aboard, focused completely on following the rules of the ship, and was thrilled by her bunk.

But most surprising – she was completely taken by the anti-aircraft guns. We spent a good 20 minutes running to her station so she could shoot down enemy aircraft.

This is the same kid that will run screaming from a spider the size of an M&M. But give her a combat scenario and she is ALL OVER IT.

I was somewhat conflicted about this development. I have always been a great admirer of the men and women of the armed forces although my cafeteria aversion kept me from considering it as a career choice. But I have grown accustomed to being with my princess/fashion designer, resigned to a lifetime of having her adjust my wardrobe to live up to her sense of style.

Where was THAT kid?

We talked about the first woman pilot to land aboard an aircraft carrier having done it on the Lexington. We toured the sick bay and the chapel. We wandered around the bridge, she slept like a rock, and loved be woken up with "music."

I'm not sure if the Navy is ready for Mireya. But I know one thing. I sure hope she doesn't decide to take up the bugle.

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine - Day 7

2009-05-05T21:26:00.003-05:00

The end has come. I just got this email:

Based on the latest guidance today from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Comal ISD has decided to reopen all schools and offices earlier than scheduled. Everything will reopen on Thursday, May 7th at the regular time.

That means all students and staff are expected to report to work and school on Thursday this week. If you are sick or become sick with the flu you must stay home for at least 7 days from the onset of the flu.

If you still want a packet of school work you still can pick one up from 10 am to 3 pm on Wednesday from Central Office, the Bulverde/Spring Branch Library, or the CRRC in Sattler. (yeah, right. we'll be right over - NOT)

We will see you in school on Thursday.

So that's it. Done. Finito. Now the big ol' javelina is just Piglet with the sniffles.

We are conflicted, of course, because we had our eye on next Monday as the end, and the kids feel positively ROBBED. I don't feel relieved, because basically this was the end of my shift and the start of Daddy's.

(Need I mention that it ALWAYS happens this way? Enough to make a woman paranoid...)

So, wrapping up our quarantine report...

My favorite quote of the day :

Me: "Okay, we can only stay at the pool for an hour, because I forgot the sun screen and Daddy will kill me. And how terrible would that be."

Mireya, after a beat: "Well, dead mommies don't talk..."

Hmmm. Too much cable?

Accomplishments today:
Today was swimming (the pool is always closed on Mondays), Grammy time, and phase two of closet cleaning (did you know you can fill a trash can with hangers?). Two phases remain with the closet, but we are down to the tool building layer of the dig.

Next:
Planning the return to civilization. Time for some serious laundry...

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine - Day 6

2009-05-05T00:09:00.003-05:00

Okay, it's official.

We're getting bored. (We are taking pictures of tired dogs, for gods sake)

The pool is closed today, I had to work from home, kids were happy doing a few worksheets - that's how desperate they got. Math was fun. For 15 minutes.

The first case of swine flu was confirmed in Austin today. So now that the piggy is out of the bottle (how do they get them in there?)... well, I just don't get what we're supposed to do. Can something like this be contained?

Apparently not.

Any who, we went and worked with our new horse for a while, Sierra worked with her puppy, Mireya hung out at Grammy's.

It's getting rough out here, people. But at the same time I'm not too crazy about the idea of the kids going back to school. I'm not sure that keeping them out is good for my sanity, but they aren't going to catch this thing here, that's for sure.

Okay, we might kill each other by Thursday, but no one will develop a fever.

Sigh. Maybe I just need some sleep. Dyno has the right idea...

I wrote my column on all of this, which I'll post tomorrow along with the update. . .

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine - Day 5

2009-05-03T22:27:00.003-05:00

We stayed up way too late last night.

Well, some of us did.

I feel like we're in some weird summer preview - without the playdates.

We did some hiking (remember the doctor's note - out door spaces are probably ok), I worked with our horses (we got a new one and she needs plenty of work) and hit the pool.

Our neighbor who works at our local doc office was there, so I pumped her for info. She said they have 6 cases they are pretty sure are swine flu, but it takes 4 days to get results. It's a type A flu, so everyone who had a flu shot should be in decent shape (my grandma should be good). People are ending up in the hospital because it turns into viral pnuemonia, for which there is no cure.

You just have to survive.

She also said they expect it to get worse in the next two weeks, which makes it seem odd that kids would go back to school then. I'm not sure if I will want them to go back. Maybe we'll just homeschool it for the last 3 weeks.

But they can't stay in a box all month... They need their own kind, so to speak.

As our neighbor pointed out, there is no real quarantine. And, she said, it looks like if you are exposed to it, you are getting it.

Today the kids played with one child at the pool. Hopefully the chlorine did it's job and killed any lingering flu ness. It looked like this little girl (our neighbors daughter, so we figured she was safe) was having a birthday party. There were balloons at a nearby table and streamers, but no other kids were there. The family tried to make it festive. They were only slightly successful.

A forgotten casualty of H1N1 - the May birthday.

Here's some local news:

As a result, and to further discourage public gatherings, the city of New Braunfels closed Landa Park for what historians have said was the first time since the park was sold to the city in 1936.

Governor Rick Perry issued a statewide disaster declaration. (43 swiners in Texas, apparently)

But after the number of possible cases had risen in Comal County for three straight days, there was no jump in the number of cases on Friday. After filling up the emergency rooms all week, flu-related traffic began to slow at Christus Santa Rosa Hospital — New Braunfels.

On the bright side, I was inspired to clean up. Today we cleaned out the top shelf of a closet in the kids room and put away some Winter clothes. I need about two more weeks of this and I might make real progress around here! We might actually find order in our chaos.

Hmmm. Not sure I can handle that. The shock to my system would be too great.

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine - Day 4

2009-05-02T22:02:00.004-05:00

After yesterday's alarming email, I decided it was time to buy some of this:

Which was the only brand left - there was NONE on the shelves, and this was a store 40 minutes away from our area, where schools are still open.

I really don't like anti-bacterial soap because it's basically a form of pesticide, which seems terrible to use on your skin. But I decided to cave in to a bit of hysteria.

Mireya and I braved the dangers of the grocery store to pick up this and a special cereal she likes that is her very favorite.

Then, after a late breakfast, it was off to the pool which has opened early in our neighborhood.

It was a quiet place.

Very quiet. But we made up for the lack of people with our own family volume machine. Dad.

Church is closed tomorrow.

The libraries have been closed.

Generally you see adults out, but in smaller numbers and practically no kids.

The other day I saw two tweenage girls shouting from their cars to each other, obviously given instructions to not leave the cars to visit.

We have another week to go of this strange time. The newspaper reports that things seem to be tapering off - but two students, one at a high school and one at an elementary school have been confirmed. Here's a little from the paper:

The number of possible Comal County swine flu cases seems to have leveled off before the weekend, with no new reports of the virus on Friday.

County health officials received confirmation of the first two local swine flu cases Thursday from the national Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and also sent another two highly probable samples to the CDC for swine-flu testing.

But after the number of possible cases has risen sharply to 107 local residents (YIKES) since Tuesday, Kari Hutchison, a spokeswoman for the county’s swine-flu response efforts, said that number had stayed the same on Friday. (Something tells me Kari is wearing a face mask this week)

She added that it would likely not change for the next two days, as the county waits to get its residents’ lab results back from the Region 8 office of the Texas Department of Health and Human Services in San Antonio.

We wonder if there will be school on the 11th. If there is, there will only be three weeks left of school. So far the district website is sticking to the 11th. We'll be checking the websites of the girls teachers for some "home" work to do. Home schooling at last!

My 94 year old grandmother who lives two blocks away was laughing about the whole thing when I came over for a visit. "No church tomorrow," I said. We usually go together.

"We all need masks," she said, with her hands over her face, her eyes sparkling with humor. "We're just staying here. And no one is sick!"

Amen.

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine - Day 3

2009-05-01T22:36:00.003-05:00

Today was the day of quarantine when you start to think, "hey, people are freaking out over nothing." All the talking heads are like "those people are over reacting. It's the flu. Yesh."

Then you get an email like this:

Subject: Flu Update from Dr. Gitterle (doctor in New Braunfels, a town close to here)

After I returned from a public health meeting yesterday with community leaders
and school officials in Comal County, Heather suggested I send an update to
everyone, because what we are hearing privately from the CDC and Health
Department is so different from what you are hearing in the media. Some
of you know some or maybe all of this, but I will just list what facts I know.

- The virus is infectious for about 2 days prior to symptom onset
- Virus sheds more than 7 days after symptom onset (possibly as long as 9 days) (this is unusual)
- Since it is such a novel (new) virus, there is no "herd immunity," so the "attack rate" is very high. This is the percentage of people who come down with a virus if exposed. Almost everyone who is exposed to this virus will become infected, though not all will be symptomatc. That is much higher than seasonal flu, which averages 10-15%. The "clinical attack rate" may be around 40-50%. This is the number of people who show symptoms.. This is a huge number. It is hard to convey the seriousness of this.
- The virulence (deadliness) of this virus is as bad here as in Mexico, and there are folks on ventilators here in the US, right now. This has not been in the media, but a 23 month old near here is fighting for his life, and a pregnant woman just south of San Antonio is fighting for her life. In Mexico, these folks might have died already, but here in the US, folks are getting Tamiflu or Relenza quickly, and we have ready access to ventilators.
What this means is that within a couple of weeks, regional hospitals will likely become overwhelmed.
- Some of the kids with positive cases in Comal County had more than 70 contacts before diagnosis.
- There are 10-25 times more actual cases (not "possible" cases -- actual), than what is being reported in the media. The way they fudge on reporting this is that it takes 3 days to get the confirmatory nod from the CDC on a given viral culture, but based on epidemiological grounds, we know that there are more than 10 cases for each "confirmed" case right now.
- During the night, we crossed the threshold for the definition of a WHO, Phase 6 global pandemic. This has not happened in any of our lifetimes so far. We are in uncharted territory.
- I expect President Obama will declare an emergency sometime in the next 72-96 hours. This may not happen, but if it doesn't, I will be surprised. When this happens, all public gathering will be cancelled for 10 days.
- I suggest all of us avoid public gatherings. Outdoor activities are not as likely to lead to infection. It is contained areas and close contact that are the biggest risk.
- Tamiflu is running out. There is a national stockpile, but it will have to be carefully managed, as it is not enough to treat the likely number of infections when this is full-blown. I don't think there is a big supply of Relenza, but I do not know those numbers. If I had to choose, I would take Relenza, as I think it gets more drug to the affected tissue than Tamiflu.
- You should avoid going to the ER if you think you have been exposed or are symptomatic. ER's south of here are becoming overwhelmed -- and I mean that -- already. It is coming in waves, but the waves are getting bigger.
- It appears that this flu produces a distinctive "hoarseness" in many victims. The symptoms, in general, match other flu's; namely, sore throat, body aches, headache, cough, and fever. Some have all these symptoms, while others may have only one or two.

Okie dokie. And here I was just planning a trip tomorrow to Target and Petsmart. Contemplating life as if it were just an over reaction and it was time to have fun. See what TV does to you?!

Needless to say, we're not going shopping. Suddenly the great outdoors sounds greater than ever. That and cable.

Today there was swings:

Swimming in the spa, and snacks.

I also finished a video for work, let me know if you find it compelling. It's supposed to be compelling but it's tough to get opinions here in the isolation ward.

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine - Day 2

2009-04-30T23:06:00.005-05:00

(Beautiful trees grandpa photographed below the dam)

Well, day two of the swine flu quarantine went well, apparently.

I say apparently because I had to leave to go to work all day, and left the children with my step mom and dad, and Daddy.

Wah. I miss all the good quarantine fun!

Let me tell you, they had a blast. I'm beginning to think we should rename this the swell flu quarantine.

There was a nice long walk along the dam, swimming in the spa, and bar-b-que.

Quite the pah-tee. (Mireya in Grandpa's GB hat)

Below is last week's crib notes, which ran in the Herald - Zeitung, an ironic foretelling of the week ahead...

Oh, and Mireya ended up with salmonella poisoning. I don't know where she got it from, we think a hot dog or pork chop, but in my frenzy/horror I threw out all the cutting boards except for one in the very back of the cabinet we hadn't used in a year.

Because in Comal county we specialize in over reacting. =:o

Share and Share Alike.

I have worked pretty hard to make sure my kids learn one important rule in life – share with others. This week I realized I went overboard. I should have placed some limits on this whole sharing bit, because now we’re all sharing the same cold.

This is despite a sneeze/cough/washing regiment that would put most hospitals to shame. But the air was just seeping with germs and it was just a matter of time before the invisible broke through the elbow sneeze rule and antibacterial soap defenses.

“Oh my God, I feel awful,” Mireya moaned. We concurred.

There is one upside to sharing a cold. It’s the found time.

Found time is that time you get unexpectedly in life, like a weird bonus round or overtime game. Time that normally would be spent trapped in traffic in the parking lot of the Friday night game, but is instead back on the field - where everyone in the stands is biting their nails until the end. It’s the time you never imagined you’d have because you had everything figured out well in advance, for weeks or months at a time.

Then you catch a cold and all bets are off.

The cold we shared gave us several hours of found time. Gone were the ambitious weekend plans, gone was school and work, and in their place, between naps and sniffles, was a little found time.

In one hour of found time we went outside and did chalk outlines. There we discovered our new puppy, Roxie, loves to bite at the chalk, particularly green, which made outlining her more challenging than anticipated.

Then Mireya, tissue in one hand and chalk in the other, grew a chalk garden, complete with sun and four types of flowers.

We tried chalk tinting on the puppy, but she was uncooperative. Roxie doesn’t like chalk THAT much, apparently.

(The best part of having a small dog is the really cool costumes. Grammy made this one)

In another round of found time (after naps and juice) we read every library book we had on hand and go through our unread magazines. We vowed to do at least five of the crafts – when we’re feeling better and can schedule time.

Nothing earth shattering happened in our found time. It had that precious quality of simply being there time, where you don’t save the world, don’t learn new things, don’t achieve greatness. We just got to be.

That was time worth finding – and sharing.

Welcome to swine flu Quarantine!!!!

2009-04-29T22:03:00.003-05:00

(Day one of the pandemic: 300 piece puzzle. Done.)

Seriously. They canceled school in both districts in our county until May 11th. That's 14 schools and 50k students. And every day care. And gymnastics. And girl scouts.

Three cases of "highly probably" swine flu have been found in the County with "more pending"

Here's the email the school sent out at 8:30 pm on Tuesday.

Comal ISD closing all schools
immediately through May 11

It is the recommendation of the Comal County Health Department that Comal ISD close all of its schools beginning Wednesday, April 29th until Monday, May 11. The New Braunfels ISD is also closing all of its schools for that time period.

There are at least three highly probable cases of swine flu in Comal County. Other cases are pending.

So, out of an abundance of caution and because our school district needs to do its part to help stop the spread of infection, we are complying with the Comal County Health Department recommendation immediately.

The cancellation of school until May 11 also means there will be no extracurricular activities, such as field trips, and no meetings in our schools. For UIL athletic and academic events, get in touch with your child’s head coach or coordinator.

The Health Department is asking people to stay home if they are sick.

Comal ISD employees are not to report to work unless notified otherwise by their supervisor.

The Health Department and Comal ISD realize the closing of schools may be an inconvenience to your family. The health and safety of our community, our students and staff, is important.

Monitor our Comal ISD website for updates and any other information we can provide. Thank you.

For more information, please visit the Texas Department of State Health Services website at http://www.dshs.state.tx.us/swineflu/default.shtm

I tell you what, the panic is pretty palpable. Since a case of swine flu/HPN1 was found in a nearby town, people started to keep their kids home from school. I didn't keep the girls home, mostly because they've already missed a week out of school for a regular flu and Salmonella (more on that later). I figured they had taken their punches.

It's crazy... Here's a story from our community paper (this is where my column runs, btw). I'm not sure how effective this is, some people think the district is over reacting. I don't know. Three students sick, no one sure about the strain, who wants to risk it? Of course I'm driving to Austin for work, so are thousands more. Hopefully I can run the road blocks.

JUST KIDDING. But I do have to get into the office.

The downside (okay, my personal downside 'cuz it's all about me) is that I still have this frigging cough, which, combined with the fact that I am hispanic (but not from Mexico, for the record) is enough to make people cover their mouths and run screaming from the room. Lord forbid I should sneeze. In fact, everytime anyone around here does sneeze we immediately say "Swine Flu!" instead of "bless you."

So this is our little epicenter blog of the pandemic. I'll let you know how it goes juggling two working parents, kids out of school for two weeks with strict orders from the health department to not gather for play dates or in groups larger than 20 (no kidding).

If the flu doesn't get us, the cabin fever certainly will...

Funky pixs I found when I was cleaning up...

2009-04-24T00:13:00.000-05:00

Sierra and me, striking our magazine pose. I like how the slanty lines line up with my wrinkles.

Kissy faces.

Wah.

Sneakers to Stilettos? But she's in 2nd grade!

2009-04-21T23:58:00.002-05:00

It happened two years ago. Sierra crossed the aisle.

I was digging out a few more boxes in the shoe store when I heard her say "These are too tight! My toes hurt."

"No way."

They were size four ballet flats. Already up from the threes we bought two months earlier. This meant that we were about to leave the land of mary janes and shoes with cartoon characters and enter - - the stiletto zone.

Most people don't worry about these things, but I have a daughter with an unhealthy interest in shoes with a certain glam factor. Shoes with glitter and rhinestones. Shoes that scream Liberace and Elvis meet Imelda Marcos.

It's something she inherited from her father. Not that he likes his shoes with glitter. He just has no sense that these are not options for 2nd graders. I had sent them off to the mall with these instructions:

"Sierra needs shoes good for running around."

She came back with gold lamé wedge heel mules. With sequins.

Perhaps I needed to provide a better definition of "running around." Perhaps I needed to point out these were supposed to be for running around with her classmates, not one of the Village People.

Needless to say, Daddy is now banned from shoe shopping.

So crossing the aisle in the shoe department is crossing into dangerous territory with my girl. She headed for the red pumps like a woman with a charge card. I quickly steered her to the triple-priced size five shoes suitable for swings and slides, which, thank goodness, are still the main form of outdoor entertainment for her.

Something has happened this year. Someone has hit the accelerator and both my kids have gone from a nice, steady development course to a rocket ship out of clothes that end with the letter T for toddler and are hurtling head first into T for Teen.

Of course it doesn't help that all the clothes for girls in this size range do tend to be better suited to gold lamé wedge heeled mules with sequins than mary janes. By third grade, apparently, I'm supposed to dress my daughters like extras on a Disney music video. (Yes, even Disney has gone bare belly on us.)

With any luck I'll be able to keep Sierra in tennies and cowboy boots a few more years. But they'll have to have sequins.

Drop that marshmallow egg and no one gets hurt

2009-04-14T23:01:00.000-05:00

We have a few rules about candy around our house.

Number one: No candy after six pm. Unless you've been really good and let mommy relax for 30 minutes in which case she'll cave on everything.

Number two: No candy if you haven't had dinner. Unless dinner is turning into some sort of epic nightmare of scorched pans and last minute substitutions, in which case mommy will again cave to try and buy time for dinner plan B to come together.

Number three: All individual candy, after a suitable period, becomes community property and is tossed into a "share candy" basket. Of course it has been picked through so much by now, there's hardly anything left worth having.

But my most sacred rule (so sacred it doesn't even have a number) is the Holiday Expiration Rule.

Under the Holiday Expiration Rule, any candy remaining from a previous holiday must be disposed of before the arrival of the next big candy-producing holiday.

Halloween candy has to be eaten or tossed by Christmas. Christmas related candy has to be gone by Valentines. Valentines candy hearts and accompanying cards have to be melted or missing by Easter. While there are a few stragglers (most often the lollipops for some reason), we stick to the rule pretty well.

Which leads me to the problem with Easter. There is no real impetus to get rid of Easter candy for nearly six months, basically until Halloween.

For months I'd come across a random Easter candy and wonder if I should save it for that last desperate sugar request. It was as if I'd become a slave to the Holiday Expiration Rule and without an upcoming holiday to drive disposal, I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the peeps or jellybeans.

Fortunately I won't have this problem this year. I have now figured out exactly what candy gets eaten around here and was successful in conveying this to the Easter Bunny. No lollipops, no hard candies, no miniature boxes of tart circles and squares even if they featured a cute animated character. It was all chocolate, gum and gummies this time out.

As a result, we are already scraping the bottom of the basket. At this rate nothing will be left by Sunday!

This is not good. We've gotten used to the perpetual presence of candy through summer. So if you just happen to have a few lollipops in the shape of bunny head, give me a call. I'm in the market.

The Easter Dress Search

2009-04-12T20:19:00.006-05:00

Mireya is great fun to shop with. Sierra would rather chew through a bear trap than try on clothes, but her sister loves nothing better than trying on dozens of clothes. Say dressing room and you've got a friend for life.

Once in the store, it's all I can do to keep her away from sequins and polyester. I'm thinking she's a reincarnation of some broadway diva. Maybe a distant relative of Liberace.

Fortunately she has a thing for tradition too, and here were the finalists in the Easter dress selection.

#1 Judges' Comments: Mommy, I like this one because it spins out really cool.

#2 Judges' Comments: It has sparklies.

#3 Judges' Comments: Nice sweater.

#4 Judges' Comments: I like the slip and the see through. And the pink flowers.

#5 Judges' Comments: It's a little puffy.

After several agonizing minutes we ended up with two (and both were worn for Easter). After all, a girl has to change after church.

The shoes were killer, though.

There's simple nothing better than little girls in Easter dresses.

Here's big sister too...

Now that process was a complete disaster. First of all, she didn't come along to buy her dress, which, given how much she HATES shopping, I thought was a blessing. Not so much. She apparently grew a size since our last shopping outing and so I actually bought a dress one size too small. Ditto with the shoes.

Luckily with a little creative engineering, the whole thing hung together long enough for church, pictures, one Easter egg hunt and dinner. Never to be worn again. Anyone need a size 10 Easter dress with matching 8 mules?

(They are with Roxi, the newest addition to our household, which is a whole other blogpost.)

Rocking with the Bunny

2009-04-11T22:55:00.000-05:00

Easter is one of those holidays that takes me by surprise every year. Maybe it’s because it hops around the calendar, maybe it’s the unpredictability of the spring weather. But this year I’m really not ready.

Here’s the problem.

Usually by now we’ve saved up cartons of empty eggs so we can make cascarones. We have zero eggs as of today. Zippo. Nada. See, someone was starting to have … umm…. let’s just say negative bodily reaction to eggs (who knew you could clear a room with sunny side up eggs?!), so we stopped eating them out of self preservation.

This is an Easter disaster. Where will we be without cascarones? They are easily my favorite part of Easter, right up there with chocolate covered marshmallow bunnies. Sure, you can get cascarones by the dozens in the grocery stores these days. They’re like mini Easter ammo, already painted and loaded.

But I’m a traditionalist. We MUST get in our “painting with vinegar and little dissolving pills” fix. There’s the search for suitable dipping bowls. The dropping of the pill dye into the white vinegar with a fizz of colored bubbles. Yes, nothing says Easter like kids scrunching up their nose saying “Yuck” as they hover over the dissolving pills of egg dye.

We’ve absolutely got to bend the little coppery hook to take the eggs out of the dye, and, since the hook is basically useless, dump half of the dye all over the place. What kind of Easter would it be if little fingers and parts of the table aren’t dyed robin’s egg blue and bunny ear pink?

Then there’s the challenge of decorating the fragile eggs with tiny little stickers, laboring over the wax crayon and combining colors until you end up with a perfectly un-Eastery shade of cammo.

We could just hard boil a few eggs for a egg salad (none for me, thanks) but then you realize that the dye leaks right through. Call me weird, but green and pink eggs are just not appetizing.
Hmm.

Of course Grammy found an article on decorating river rocks for Easter. She thoughtfully brought us a copy of the article and provided a bag of rocks for us to work with.

I hope the Easter Bunny has been working out. And that no one tries to break one of those open on my head.

Broken Heart Part 8

2009-04-08T22:50:00.000-05:00

This is from a journal I kept 10 years ago when my daughter had surgery. I thought it might be helpful to some who are just starting this journey with tetralogy...

April 10, 1999

6 am

Last night's xray was good enough to convince them to not do a chest tube for her left side, but her fluid output has slowed down and I'm worried she's destined for another one.

She has been out so much. I'm anxious for her to be awake more of the time but I don't want her to be miserable. Our nurse told us not to comfort her when she cries - she needs to cry to loosen all the phlegm in her system. We haven't been put to the test yet, she's pretty quiet and the few times she does cry she stops very quickly all by herself. As if it's too much effort.

We are staying, or rather sleeping, at the Ronald McDonald house since we live 45 minutes away. Walking out into the sunshine is so strange, it's as if I expected the world to stop rotating while all this happened. I got about 3 hours of sleep tonight and 3 earlier when Dad and Christy were watching her and I feel refreshed. Three is about the most I can do because I have to pump out otherwise it starts to be pretty painful. Even with pumping I was having a pretty difficult time. Without her my system just doesn't do as well.

I need her.

.......

9:30 pm

They've taken Sierra off all of her hard core sedation and narcotics and she's doing well on tylenol. I had been getting concerned that she was just too out of it, especially when one of the nurses mentioned the need to let her cry. She isn't going to cry if she's asleep constantly.

For the first time in days I got out of the hospital/medical center. Christy and I went to lunch at a real restaurant and then I grabbed another 3 hours of sleep. I found myself struggling to figure out what day it was. The normal rythm of life has disappeared in the blur of monitors, tubes and wires.

We were talking to some other PICU veterans about their kids, about Sierra, about the whole experience of being here. About the new way we measure days - by medical procedure. Four days ago, heart cath; three days, surgery; two days, removal of the drain tube; yesterday; the chest tube. We all do it. Theo Anderson's family are the real veterans and they give us tips on different things, give us ideas on dealing with being here for our extended stay. We learn what questions to ask, suddenly immersed in this strange world we are learning the language, using the words like incantations to help our little ones. We hear other's more tragic tales and secretly thank God that our road is not as hard. Hell, it's hard enough.

We even get a little competitive - is her baby sitting up? Baby Tovar doesn't have a chest tube and he had the same surgery as Sierra. And what's this about him being moved out of here to the third floor? Then you learn that he isn't moving and now needs a chest tube, or that her baby has had a set back and you feel bad about your silent competitiveness. I want all of us out of here. All of us.

Sierra seems to be swelling on the left side and her breathing looks a little labored. No xray till tomorrow.

Ants. Anything but Ants

2009-04-07T22:34:00.002-05:00

(photo from Paul Garland taken of the dreaded El Paso ants of my childhood)

“Ants! Mom! Ants!”

Ever since I was a little, that was the one word I never wanted to hear screamed in my house.

Ants.

Where I’m from we never had fire ants. We didn’t have many sugar ants. I lived in the desert and we had the Clydesdale of ants – Red Harvester ants.

These big red ants are five times the size of the little sugar ants and they built huge mounds all over the place. The mounds were the size of a kiddie pool, and were like an ant ice burg - there were a whole lot more ants underground than the ones you saw above ground. The outside ants were the landscape crew, carefully moving little pebbles back and forth, while inside the mound trillions more were doing serious jobs like moving pieces of paper to and from each others’ tiny desks.

I learned about just how many ants were hanging out underground when my next-door neighbor, a little girl who was not very nice to the rest of us on the block, fell into a new anthill in her yard. While I had wished for just this sort of thing every time she’d teased me and my friends, it was stunning to see it happen.

In seconds she was covered with really mad red ants and was screaming her head off. Her mother came running out, stripped her clothes off right then and there and sprayed her off with the water hose.

She never really teased me much after that, so I guess I should have been grateful to those red ants – or the giant hand of “what goes around, comes around” that gave her a shove.

Still, there is something about ants the size of moths with mega-mounds (that probably each get their own ant zip code) that makes you unsure of who can stomp on whom.

Fortunately for all of us, there were only a few fire ants that attacked our dog’s tennis ball and then hopped on his muzzle for a ride. None, as far as I could see, landed on Sierra, although she was creeped out for an hour. Dyno, the unfortunate dog in question, survived with no mental scarring, probably due to the fact that he’s pretty bone headed.

So I have no doubt he’ll dive right back in another mound for the ball. We’ll keep the hose at the ready.

Broken Heart Part 7

2009-04-02T06:25:00.001-05:00

Installment 7 of Sierra's Tetralogy of Fallot surgery...

April 9 , 1999 through the night

Midnight

Adam went to get some sleep. After a bit the doctor showed me her last xray. Sierra has some fluid building around her lungs. This is the kind of thing that can lead to a collapsed lung. They are treating it by giving her something to kick her kidneys into overdrive. So we're back to praying to the patron saint of pee. I couldn't decide if I should call Adam and was just crying a bit as I swabed her lips when the phone rang. It was Adam. We talked a little and I felt a little better. He's going to try to sleep so we can be fresh.

I think we've had 10 hours sleep between us both over the last 2 days.

2 am

Adam couldn't sleep so he came back. Sierra is putting out like a champ. I hope this means it's going to be okay and they won't have to put in a chest tube. Dr. Zuckerman, the intenive care doc, is catching a quick nap while things are quiet. We'll ask him how it looks when he comes back around.

3 am

Dr. Z (which is what they all call him here) says he thinks she sounds better, but we are still playing the waiting game. I convinced Adam to go to sleep, I'm still wired. Just wait till 6 am, I'll hit the wall hard.

She's breathing so hard - 60 to 70 times a minute. My poor little one...

5 am

She's still putting out more than she's taken in, but it's slowed down. Her eyes aren't as puffy. Her temp was up to 100 but they gave her a tylenol and it's back down.

I'm working on her embroidery project, the one I started when I got pregnant. Of course she was a little early so I didn't quite finish. It's a nice focus point for me to work on while I sit there, staring at her, not wanting to wake her up.

I'm getting sleepy. I'll hang another 30 minutes, then get Adam so I can crash for a little while.

1 pm

They ended up putting in a chest tube on Sierra's left side. The fluid had continued to build and build and they decided that she needed the relief. Immediately she seemed to stop breathing so shallowly.

Both Adam and I are exhausted. I got 2 hours sleep last night, he got maybe 2 or 3. I finally got Adam to go to the Ronald McDonald house. He just called. He went for a run and is now going to try to get 3 hours of sleep. Now that Christy is here I'm going to go too - right after I pump out (breastmilk) and have some lunch.

Her xrays are all up in the little viewing area, and seeing the fluid along side her lungs make it all seem so simple. Water in? Suck it out. Broken septem? H-E-B twist ties, the Dr. joked, pointing to the wires which looked like little letter "p"s tied around the bone.

She has seen me and Adam both. Not much crying yet. I know she's going to be scared and I wish I could do something, anything to change this room into a place she would see as safe. I mean stuffed animals will only take you so far.

They may have to add another chest tube to the other side where fluid is building around her lung. But ....

I just got to breastfeed her! She ate great! I know they are still monitoring a million things (her calcium and potassium are a little low and that fluid is still a problem) but for a few minutes it was just me and Sierra.

Together again.

9:30 pm

Sierra is getting her first little sponge bath. She's a little uncomfortable, but not bad.

While Adam and I slept, Christy and Dad took care of her. They had some challenges. The CPT (chest physio therapy - or more apppropriatly chest pounding therapy) was too painful and they had to stop the therapy and get her some pain medication before going on.

And there is only one way to know it's too painful. She was crying.

They also had to contend with some bleeding and struggles with the nursing staff. They were exhausted afterwards. And that was just 4 hours, Christy noted.

We are waiting to get her xray back to see if she'll need another chest tube. But her breathing is so good, nice, deep breaths, not so rapid, I have a feeling it's taking care of itself.

I hope.

It's a roller coaster ride with the first big dip being the surgery but with many more following it. I can't imagine how some of the other parents in here have done it - those that have been here for weeks. I've had about 10 hours of sleep in 3 days and feel like we've done this for a year.

Adam said it will be nice to get back to a normal life like what we had before. I told him it was going to be even better since we don't have this hanging over our heads. It's been like there was a huge 18 wheeler closing in on us and it finally went past. There are still some big trucks on the road, but those will be cake. I mean can you imagine what it'll be like when she breaks an arm or cuts her leg or some other childhood injury? Adam laughed "It'll be like nothing after this."

No kidding.

Green Eggs and Scam.

2009-03-31T06:55:00.000-05:00

We are not born with the ability to laugh at ourselves.

On the morning of April Fool's Day last year, I tried to come up with a good prank.

With really young children, it's hard to come up with a fairly innocuous prank. Three years ago I told Sierra that now that she was seven years old she was going to have to take only showers. I explained that it was a new law that had passed and that we had to follow the law or the sheriff would be by to check on us.

You can guess how well that went over. She still remembers that one and gives me a look that says "how could you!"

Oh well. Time to toss another twenty in the therapy savings account for her.

So I decided to do something less personal this time. I was scrambling some eggs and decided to toss in some food coloring and turn them green. Then I announced I would be serving ostrich eggs for breakfast.

"No way!" Sierra said.

"Way!" I said. "Look, see the color?"

"Cool!"

It would have been great if it had ended right there. But of course, it didn't. Mireya was horrified. She began crying that she didn't want ostrich eggs.

Sierra, who was happily munching away, assured her four-year-old sister that they tasted great.
Mireya was having none of it. I quickly fessed up to the food dye. If anything, that made things worse.

"You lied to me?" Mireya said, crestfallen.

We all tried to explain about April Fool's Day, but it was hopeless.

"I hate April Fool's Day!" she shouted.

After promising to not play any more tricks on her, we managed to get through the day. She even ate a little of the green eggs and Sierra managed to play an April Fool's Day joke on me. No one dared mentioned it and we focused instead on how many days until Easter.

But forgiving is not forgetting. Proving once again that four-year-olds have longer memories than anyone likes to think, she gave me a harsh look during bath time.

"You lied to me," she said, "You lied about the ostrich egg."

I sighed and mentally added another thirty bucks to the therapy fund. At this rate we won't have anything left for the college fund.

Tech Support - PLEASE?

2009-03-29T07:39:00.001-05:00

If there's one role in my life that's working out, it's my job in tech support. Finally my lifelong nerdiness has paid off – for my parents, that is. While I was never enough of a geek to cash in, I am enough of one to be responsible for solving all computer problems in my immediate family.

When you're in tech support, you actually don many roles. When it's time to update some software, I'm called on as an instructor. When it's time to consider updating computer systems, I'm a serving in more of a financial advisor role. And, when files disappear mysteriously, I'm called on for divine intervention, and sometimes, grief counseling.

All of which reminded me of an observation made by a friend of mine, Lizette. Life, she noted, needs tech support. We really need someone we can call when life's hard drives crash, when the mental software locks up, when everything begins to mysteriously end up in the recycle bin.

While I'm fulfilling the role as tech support on the computer end of things, I am still looking for a bit of tech support in my own life role as mom.

There are many times as a parent when I could really use some significant tech support. Frankly you can call your family for advice only so often before they just grow silent on the phone, waiting for you to figure it out. Like you'd be calling if you had a clue.

That would never happen with Parental Tech Support.

I can see it now. You'd ring up the special number given to you as you exited the birthing room, the number you'd have since tattooed to your palm. You'd be on hold for an hour and forty minutes, listening to periodic assurances that you are important. Then you'd make your selection from a long menu of choices, many of which have changed to keep you from zipping through. You'd never hit 0 for customer service, because that would be cheating. Plus it wouldn't work anyway.

You'd almost be lulled to sleep with the soft rock music and repeated admonishments to not hang up or else you'd lose your place in line, when you break through. You'd suddenly be talking to a real, live person. They'd be reading from a script on their computer screen in New Dehli, or Florida, or San Marcos, or some other exotic call center locale, giving you hours and hours of advice. They'd send you up the chain of expertise until it seemed like you were talking to Dr. Spock himself, and you'd get more advice, all of which would, in the end, be completely useless.

Still, you'd feel so much better. You'd feel like you had help, like you weren't in this alone. You'd come away knowing you and your tech support person had tried absolutely everything to get your child to eat something other than frosting, or read something that didn't involve ball gowns. So hours later, when you ended up reading Sleeping Beauty for the 27th time or watching as all the tops were eaten off the donuts, you'd understand.

This is a hardware problem.

Broken Heart Part 6

2009-03-28T05:50:00.001-05:00

This is the sixth installment in a series about my daughter's Tetralogy of Fallot that I wrote when it was going on (and before blogs). I'm reposting it since I thought it might help other moms going through the same thing...

As I re-read this installment I remembered a friend who donated blood for Sierra specifically. He has a rare blood type that they use for "blue babies" like Sierra, but he had stopped donating blood for some time. He rolled up and gave during our blood drive. He swore he only had two beers the night before, too. What a guy. So here's a shout out to Ross at News 8 in Austin (are you still there these days?). Thanks again, my friend.

April 8, 1999 4:00 pm

Sierra is in Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU to us veterans) and is doing really well. She's off the respirator which is a huge relief. She had been moving around quite a bit and it's a bad thing to do with a tube down your throat. We spent most of the night trying to keep her still, holding her head, cooing softly. They had to give her quite a bit of medication in an attempt to bring her squirming under control.

By morning they had maxed out what she could get so Adam and I worked as well as we could to keep her calm.

Then they took out the tube. I felt like we had just landed on the moon. I put the second pink ribbon in her hair (the first went in when she arrived in PICU). We had won. We were past the 12 hour window!

We had one more scare when she stopped peeing. The kidneys are not fond of the whole by pass thing, apparently. For four hours she went from previously light peeing to none at all. The possibilities included more tube for a form of dyalisis. Our nurse, Debbie, decided that it might be the result of a blockage in the tube and after some false starts by the nurses and a few hours of nail biting they decided to let the doctor give it a shot. Dr. Schroeder got the catheter in and there it was. Liquid gold.

She still has tubes everywhere and I've struggled for an adequate description:

- a victim of crazed garden gnomes and their hoses

- Sierra Gulliver, taken over by the lilliputians (thanks sis)

- a baby borg from Star Trek, with two pink ribbons

- the sweet princess from the place of strange plastic accessories...

Ah, it's nice to be able to kid around, finally.

Channel 12 was here to interview us about the blood drive. They are having a blood drive at the station and wanted to put a face to giving blood. Sierra was the face. It'll be on tonight.

They filmed her in the bed and I asked them to just take a little video of her pictures as a normal baby. The blood drive has been a success I've been told, but I don't really know how it's gone. I know that 's been on the radio and that we are very blessed with wonderful people who have touched our lives during this incredibly difficult time. I wondered if I did the right thing - allowing her to be "used." But then I think of all the people who came through for us and how important blood donation is and felt that this was one way we could, as a family, give back.

There are no amount of thanks that are adequate to the task. I guess we'll just have to throw a party!

Watch this space for more good news...

Would someone please find the adult around here?

2009-03-27T21:47:00.001-05:00

Growing up is definitely over rated.

You don’t discover this until you have kids and then it hits you like a ton of marshmallows.

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a victim of arrested development. Or worse, perhaps I’ve caught some sort of “Benjamin Buttons” reverse aging disease.

For example, just the other day I rode the grocery cart like a modified scooter all the way back to my car. Did you know there’s no steering on those things? Good thing they put those little rubber bumpers on them.

Then I caught myself lingering over the bubble gum at the convenience store, finally opting for the one with the comic inside. That Joe Bazooka. What a goof.

More than once I’ve turned off the news in the car and opted for a kids book on tape. If you haven’t heard a good Hank the Cowdog lately, you’re missing out.

At this point in my life I imagined I’d spend a great deal of my time doing all the grown up stuff. Learning about a bunch of dead guys, reading labels carefully to select the products with precisely the right amount of trans fats, or watching the news until facts on world events leaked out my ears.

Instead I’m avoiding stepping on cracks, stopping to see what prizes they’re offering in sugar coated cereal, and whistling tunes from cartoons. I fully expect to start finger painting any minute.

I suppose it was inevitable. After all this kind of thing is infectious. It’s simply not reasonable to expect that you’ll catch your kids’ colds but not their sense of fun.

In fact, this whole thing reminds me of the famous entomologist who discovered the organ that ants use to get others to follow a trail to food. Scout ants lay down a scent trail with an organ in their abdomen.

Of course this entomologist had to go around the country and demonstrate how this scent thing worked. But he didn’t just toss up some slides.

He wrote his name on the top of the table using the scent, then let out a bunch of ants. All of the ants ran immediately over and spelled out his name, following the scent trail he’d written.

Now that’s cool.

Proving once again that in a very real way, lots of us never grow up.

Weeeee!

('course now I feel a little guilty about the ants I'm killing with ant bait in my kitchen. Luckily it's just a little guilty. I can do little guilty standing on my head.)

Behold! Art!

2009-03-26T08:36:00.000-05:00

Recently I was trying to gain control of the artwork in our house.

Borrowing from a darn clever Pre-K teacher, (Miss Angela, where ever you are, thank you!) I managed to score a few empty pizza boxes and have been filling them with artwork. With every drawing comes a memory.

Mireya walks up to me about three years ago and proudly shows me the round circle with four stick legs, two eyes and a serious looking mouth. "Cat," she said, beaming. She then walked over to our cat who was taking in some sunshine, kneeled in front of her and thrusts the picture up to her nose. "Look," she says. "It's you!"

Broken Heart Part 5

2009-03-25T08:15:00.001-05:00

This is the fifth installment in a series about my daughter's Tetralogy of Fallot that I wrote when it was going on (and before blogs). I'm reposting it since I thought it might help other moms going through the same thing...

April 7, 1999 - 6:30 pm

She's doing fine.

The surgery was a longer than they anticipated; her heart had abnormalities that didn't show up on either the cath or the xray. I tried to understand what they were saying, but in my haze of worry all I got was that it was tougher than they expected. As a result they had to cool her waaay down, which caused her to bleed a little more....

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I got about two hours of sleep last night, curled up in a "reclining" chair. Adam held her for the last part of her morning and at 6:30 am we got up, got ready. Or as ready as you can get.

As we said goodbye to our family and headed into the pre-op room, time began to slow to an excruciating crawl. I held her for a awhile, hoping I'd be able to take her into the operating room for her knock out juice. But then Adam took her and she fell asleep in his arms. Rats, I thought. Now he gets to take her.

Don't think for a minute this was just an accident on Adam's part. He's a clever guy. But the tables turned as we spoke to the anesthesiologist and she said "Who wants to go in with the baby?"

"I do" I said, tearfully. "But I don't want to wake her - I guess he'll take her."

"Well he'd have to hand her over anyway - someone has to put on the bunny suit" She indicated the white zippered disposable outfit.

So now it made more sense that I'd take her in instead of Adam and I jumped into the bunny suit. She woke only briefly before they knocked her out.

And she's still asleep right now.

How can I describe what it's like to wait during your baby's surgery? One minute I was doing fine, but as the hours passed I was ready to kill anyone who didn't have information on how she was doing. It's Chinese water torture, bamboo shoots under your nails, and a cave in all in one. You want to escape, but there is no where to go. Every bit of news brings it's roller coaster of emotions. News comes so slow and sporadically it is like word from the front lines.

And you feel frustratingly helpless to affect it.

As she lies here in PICU, with more tubes than a fuel injected vehicle I am so grateful to be on the other side of this immense ocean of worry and fear. The next 12 hours are critical and I have a million more things to share but I've got to get some rest.

My baby needs me.

Tortilla Moon

2009-03-23T19:02:00.000-05:00

I looked up in the perfect azure sky and the full moon was there, golden in the dusty veil of twilight. And, since I was still hungry, it reminded me of one thing.

Tortillas.

Not those horrible white things sold in the grocery aisle with ingredients that read like a shopping list for a chemistry lab. Not those perfectly round discs flattened by the thousands by machines.

Those are not tortillas any more than a Chihuahua is a wolf. Distant relatives at best, with minor DNA connections, similar evolutionary relatives. No, not the same.

This golden moon is like my Grandmother's tortillas, with light and dark areas where the masa meets the comal. You can see it's puffy rise, air coaxed into the layers of flour and lard, rising and filling the air with a warm smell that embraces everyone in the kitchen. The smell tangles in my grandmother's hair and when I hug her the scent dives straight for my stomach, teasing me with a phantom taste.

She always made me tortillas of my very own, smaller than the big ones that went in the basket for everyone else. I would hold them in my hands, bouncing them from palm to palm, letting the warmth radiate up my arms, bits of flour which had kept them from sticking, coating the tiny lines within lines on my hands.

But even better was the masa. I never had raw cookie dough as a child; I had raw masa. Before the heat turned the pliable dough into a soft fabric of tortilla, I would get a pinch or two and eat it.

How different the masa tasted from the tortilla yet keeping its essence intact. What was the magic spell cast in the iron comal that changed it from one to another? Was it the same spell that would someday transform me from a skinny, shy child playing under her grandmother's table into a woman with her own kitchen, her own children and her own package of lard in the refrigerator?

That night the spell of the comal, the full moon, and the memory of the beautiful flour tortillas growing in my grandmother's hands filled my senses with memory and longing. Decades flow and I find that I buy all my tortillas from the store.

But not any longer, I vow under the spell of the full moon. Tomorrow, I promise, I will get my grandmother's recipe out, spread flour on my counter and take out my rolling pin. Tomorrow I will heat my iron comal, and watch the imperfect circle rise with the heat. I will hand one to my daughter, one that will be just her size, which she can bounce from palm to palm. And, when no one is looking, I will take a bite of the masa.

I looked at my hands, more comfortable on a keyboard than in a kitchen, and I wondered if I could do it. Could I bring back her kitchen, her warmth, her tortillas? Tonight I've tapped into the power of that spell of transformation. The spell that keeps the essence the same, yet allows for the changes that must come.

It's time to get rolling.

Princess and the Arachnid

2009-03-20T09:34:00.000-05:00

There’s a phrase they use in theater that I’ve always found fascinating – “playing against type.” It’s when an actor, who is known for their roles in one kind of part, plays the opposite. Like when Robin Williams dropped the wackiness and played a doctor in Awakenings.

I’m trying to keep this phrase in mind now that Mireya has her first speaking part in the school play.

First, let me say, that anyone who decides to have a play with sixty first graders deserves some sort of medal of honor - after they return from a long trip to the Bahamas. I’m still amazed that they get that many children through the lunch line in school, let alone through stage direction in the auditorium.

But I was shocked when Mireya came home with her role. She had been completely confident that she’d have a speaking part, due largely to the fact that she can read.

So I was anticipating something interesting, but not too demanding.

Mireya is the spider.

My shock had nothing to do with the role. In fact, the role of the spider isn’t a bad role at all. From what I gleaned, her character undergoes a transformation from bad to good. And many great actresses excel as villains. Plus she is going to have the coolest costume ever, thanks to Grammy and a few black socks.

No, it was the enormous irony of the role. Mireya is terrified of spiders.

Run-screaming-from-the-room-from-even-microscopic-spiders terrified.

Yet now she’s going to be a GIGANTIC spider (as spiders go).

“Wow. You’re going to be the spider?”

“Yes.” She looked at the script a bit skeptically, as if it might grow legs right in front of her.

“That’s really great! You think this will help you not be afraid of spiders anymore? I mean, you’ll kind of have to get in touch with your… inner spider.”

She looked at me as if I’d lapsed into Swahili. “Um, no, mommy.”

“Oh. Okay.”

A few days later following her costume fitting, she made it clear she’d gotten more excited about her part.

“You know what is so cool about my part in the play?” she said.

“What?”

“I have more arms than anybody!”

Which begs the question: do you tell a 1st grade spider to break one leg before the big night, or two?

(Mireya after her successful debute)

Broken Heart Part 4

2009-03-19T17:28:00.001-05:00

This is the fourth installment in a series about my daughter's Tetralogy of Fallot that I wrote when it was going on (and before blogs). I'm reposting it since I thought it might help other moms going through the same thing...

April 7, 1999 - 2:30 am

I guess it was two weeks ago when Adam first asked me if I thought Sierra's fingers were looking a little purple. In the last few days I've noticed the nail beds are almost always purple - it doesn't fade after a few hours. Today, when they did the pulse ox in the Cath lab - before she went under anesthesia - her reading was 76.

Normal is in the 90s.

The good news is that the catherization went very well. Sierra didn't have a tet spell during the procedure, and the coronary arteries are not in the way of the surgeon's knife. She as a few unusual features about her heart. The two veins coming from the head do not connect, but instead go independently into the heart. This creates some complications for the bypass procedure, but apparently it's something they've seen before.

They do these things every day. Every day they look into the eyes of terrified parents and talk confidently about what comes next. They click on their computer screens as we watch, lost in the sea of grey images, describing parts of our daughter's heart in words so foreign I wonder if it can even be considered english at this point.

They seem so at home in this world.

Before the cath, I rubbed on Dr. Schroeder's chest and said "lucky, lucky, lucky." I think he misunderstood me - he said "it's not luck, it's skill and knowledge." "We already assumed you've got that," I told him. But a little luck these days can't hurt.

After all, he was the one who told us, when we asked why this happened, that was just bad luck.

..........

Our entire family is here, practically. We overwhelm the waiting room and it is both comforting and too much. Everyone is here to support us, but if one more person tells me she's going to be fine, I'm going to kill. Friday I was in the car describing to my niece how I feel when I hear all the stories of people who have had some heart surgery years ago and are now just fine. I long to say "Of course I wouldn't hear from any of the dead ones, would I?"

Sigh. Equally bad is "I just knew she'd be fine" which we heard after the cath went well. I bite my tongue. I know people are trying to be helpful, positive. But no one knows. I do now. And I won't say these things to my friend when her little Samantha has her surgery.

...........

Sierra is doing pretty well. She will laugh still and play with her toys and while she seems scared sometimes, she also seems just normal other times. They've been good about minimizing her disturbances tonight so she can rest. Once again I've seen what a difference people make. Our nurse tonight, Patsy is great with her, letting us make minor adjustments in the routine to keep her comfortable.

............

So tomorrow is the surgery. They'll pick her up at 6:30 and at 7:15 we'll watch as she gets wheeled into the operating room. I feel confident about it, but I'm really scared. Right here, next to me as I type this is a baby swing that was donated to the hospital in "memory of baby Jasmine Taliaferro." Sierra swung in it earlier.

I told Adam we can donate something of Sierra's - but it will be in HONOR of her. And she can visit it when she comes in to have her own children.

I wonder if I will get any sleep tonight.

Fish out of water

2009-03-18T17:20:00.001-05:00

(that's me, when I was waaaay smarter. At least as smart as a goldfish.)

Just recently two people I have known for a long time as young and footloose childless people have become expectant parents. And they've got that look. That deer in the headlights combined with intoxicated over-the-top happiness look.

I want to help them, I really do. Because I remember vividly how completely clueless I was when I was pregnant the first time. And the worst part about it – I had no idea I was clueless.

Outwardly I pretended to be aware that this was a whole new adventure I knew nothing about. But inwardly I was sure I knew what was what. I'd listened carefully to all the advice and act as if I was taking notes. I might even have written a few things down, like "carry a bottle of antibacterial soap at all times" (still the best single bit of advice I received).

But inside I just knew I had it all figured out.

Right. It's like the goldfish in its bowl thinking, "Man, if I could just get out of this bowl, you wouldn't believe the places I'd go. I'd rule the world!"

That goldfish thinks we're all swimming out here.

I knew, for example, I'd never panic over a mild fever. In reality, we went to the emergency room when I was pretty sure Sierra's cough sounded just like a barking seal.

I knew, once again, I'd never stick a lollipop in my kid's mouth just to have some peace and quiet on a long drive. In reality, there's a box of them in my car.

I knew I'd never park my child in front of the television. In reality I would never have gotten through a shower for the first five years if it weren't for the combined power of Dora the Explorer and Blues Clues.

And there was absolutely no way my children would have anything but a balanced breakfast. In reality, Sweeties Donuts are a regular feature in our 'we're running late, let's eat kolaches' dietary plan.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days in the fishbowl when I was so much smarter than I am now. I knew everything and there was a certain comfort in that skewed reality.

But once you jump out of the bowl, there's no going back.

Out here, mommies and daddies just have to flop our way through as best we can.

Broken Heart Part 3

2009-03-16T17:10:00.004-05:00

This is the third installment in a series about my daughter's Tetralogy of Fallot that I wrote when it was going on (and before blogs). You can start with the first part here.

April 3, 1999 The Tour

When I signed up for us to take the tour at the hospital where Sierra is going to have her surgery I figured we'd be going on one of those PR tours. You know, "here's our big fancy machine", "here's our OTHER big fancy machine," etc. Milling around with other parents or visitors, spying where the snack machines were, noting which rooms had the Barney motif.

But it was nothing like that. As soon as we got there, I realized we were the only people on this "tour." Our tour guide showed us where we'd check in and let us see a few of the rooms were the kids stay. Then she said "On Tuesday, Sierra will go to the Cath lab - it's on the third floor." She pushed 3 in the elevator.

We weren't getting the PR tour. We were getting the preview to Sierra's time in the hospital. We went into the cath lab where they will do the heart catheter, met a tech and he went over the procedure. "You'll be here with her until she falls asleep..."

We saw the needles, the crash cart, the banks of monitors with someone else's wavy lines speaking some secret code across the silent screen.

We went to the operating waiting area. "You'll be here with her until they wheel her into surgery..." We went into the different waiting areas and were advised to "stake out an area for our family." We went into the neonatal intensive care unit where she will be for a few days (3? 5? they aren't sure).

It was so in our face. No hiding, no denying. Adam said he was still considering running off with her before the surgery and I can't say I blame him. We both had moments during the tour where we just broke and the tears flowed.

"I can't make this easier," our tour guide said. "I can just explain where everything is ..."

I'm not sure if she was saying this for her sake or ours.

I'll be updating this page during the surgery, it'll be the only place for news - so keep us in your thoughts on the 7th and I hope to be back with only the best possible news.

Bare Inspiration

2009-03-15T09:53:00.000-05:00

Sometimes people will ask me if it's hard to keep writing a column every week.

Not with this cast of characters.

In fact, there are weekends where my column just writes itself - like one particularly memorable weekend. I'd just dropped off my grandmother after we'd been out for twice as long as anticipated.

It's never good at my house for Mommy to be gone twice as long as anyone expects. This is how we end up with pet lizards that require live crickets for lunch and captured tarantulas that everyone is too scared to look at, let alone release back into the wild. So I was anticipating trouble.

When I pulled into the driveway, I came upon my husband and two daughters sitting outside in that unmistakable posture of people who have narrowly avoided complete mental breakdowns.

Apparently, while I was out (for once, my timing was perfect), my husband had released the girls to playing in the backyard while he vacuumed out his truck. A fairly picky guy about the condition of his vehicle, he was soon lost in the task of master detailer. He didn't notice the long stretch of relative silence that is a sure sign of impending disaster until it was too late.

Suddenly there was a cry from the back yard. He ran over to find that our youngest had been knocked over by the dog, bumped her head on a rock, and while fine for the most part, was quite upset.

And naked.

I believe I deserve some sort of award for not bursting out laughing at that point in the story. In fact I may have given myself a hernia in the process.

Everyone involved, including the four year old, denied any knowledge of exactly how or why she came to be naked. When I asked her point blank, she just looked at me as if the question itself made no sense.

So like the mystery of lost socks, the Bermuda Triangle, and why bumble bees can fly, the day Mireya decided to play in the buff is just one of those episodes in our life that will remain shrouded in obscurity.

Maybe shrouded isn't the right word. But you get the idea.

Hopefully the next time I'm delayed coming home I'll get another column out of it – as long as I can avoid getting a hernia in the process.

..

My alter ego

2009-03-14T18:12:00.003-05:00

Boy this was too much fun. Presenting:

Whipping out some mean blog entries and flying off the handle when necessary. Make yours here.

Broken Heart Part 2

2009-03-14T08:42:00.003-05:00

This is the second installment in a series about my daughter's Tetralogy of Fallot that I wrote when it was going on (and before blogs). You can start with the first part here.

The anniversary of her surgery is coming up as well as a big milestone - some children who have had the corrective surgery have a sudden heart attack before they reach 10 years old.

Sierra is now 10 and a half.

I decided to repost this since it might help others who are facing the same journey with their little broken hearts.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

January 31, 1999

Sierra's surgery is scheduled. The big day is April 7th, but she'll go in the hospital on the 6th for her heart catherization so they can get a good diagram of her heart.

My sister once said that this whole thing was like being told that your child was going to be hit by a bus and there was nothing you could do about it. Now we know the day she's getting hit by a bus. In some ways it's a relief to have a date; in other ways it's really terrifying. Now my life seems vividly divided into the time before her surgery and the time after her surgery. I find myself in meetings and during phone calls thinking "okay, we can make that, it's two months after her surgery." or "that's 2 weeks before her surgery, we can work that in."

As time had gone on these last few months, I'd started thinking along the lines of "hey, they do this all the time. it's no big deal." But that is bullshit. This is the biggest deal in the whole fucking world and all the statistics from all the experts can't change that for me. I know they do amazing things these days. And I was perfectly happy to read about them happening to other people. Then I'd sit there with the paper saying "Those poor people. Isn't it amazing how advanced technology is?" as I turned the page to the next human interest story.

But there is no way to turn this page without living it.

At the cardiologist's we went over the potential complications [it's rare that a child will go through this procedure without experiencing at least one complication]. Scary stuff like a collapsed lung, irregular heart rhythm, fluid around the heart or lung, etc. We also went over the risk points in the surgery. Like will her heart restart after it's been stopped for 2 hours? How will she be doing in the critical 6-12 hour window after surgery? Will she'll get an infection, will everything will hold, will everything be okay? God, I don't want to do this.

Sometimes, the doctor said, the mother will hold the baby as she's being put under general anesthesia to help ease her fears. Can you imagine anything worse than holding your child as they knock her out and take her from you? Handing her over while knowing the brutality of what is going to happen - the cutting, sawing, patching. I might end up running away with her down the hall, tubes and gown flowing behind us. And when I reach the window, I'll take that step and we'll just fly away from this silly reality and go somewhere where little baby girls don't have to stop their hearts in order to live.

Ask Not for Whom the Alarms Rings

2009-03-12T09:01:00.002-05:00

(This is an alarm clock that will run away from you when you try to hit the snooze button. I have one of those too. Her name is Mireya)

I’m not a big fan of this time change thing. I have absolutely no sympathy with the proponents for this crazy system. Nothing, not the hours of “extra” daylight, energy conservation equations, nor the theory that it impacts shopping patterns, none of this is enough to make me embrace “spring forward.”

The nerve of calling it “daylight savings.” I was saving mine just fine, thank you very much. I don’t need to “spring forward.”

Now “fall back,” that I absolutely love. Love, love, love. We can do that all year until we have gone back an entire day. (As long as we don't end up on February 9th. That was a shitty day.)

But “spring forward” is a horrible idea. And don’t give me that argument that you can’t have one without the other. This is America! We can buy 14 different types of toilet paper. Anything is possible.

My problem stems from my long-standing status as a night person, not a morning person. I did have the misfortune of marrying a morning person, but through sheer force of personality I have poisoned him with my cranky morning attitude.

I don’t know about most morning people, but the ones I know act as if the world would be better off if everyone was a morning person. I beg to differ. Frankly, I’ve long believed you can look at this “morning thing” one of two ways.

The early bird gets the worm.

The early worm gets eaten.

One guess where I stand on the issue.

I have to admit, though, that I’ve tried. For days at a time I have actually gotten up early with the idea that I’d get a lot more done. I’d exercise. I’d get lunches ready for the week. I’d learn Swahili so I could mutter to myself without the embarrassment of someone understanding me. It never lasts. By day three I’m operating with a dazed look suitable for a mug shot and begging for a triple espresso.

And I don’t even drink coffee.

As a result, I tend to think of this first three weeks of the dreaded spring time change as a Baatan death march of early mornings without any of the benefits of an hour’s earlier rise. Half the time I’m getting my cell phone out of the fridge and trying to get the dogs to get their socks on.

So if you catch me and my fellow night folk being a little extra cranky, remember, you’d be cranky too if your dog's socks didn’t match.

.

Looking back video

2009-03-11T23:49:00.002-05:00

Never let me into my archives, cuz I'll stay up till midnight finding this stuff.

What's interesting is we had been fighting on what was a very long car trip. We still hadn't found a good rhythm on the road as a family and I always wanted to stop and Adam just wanted to get home.

We stopped in Fredricksburg to take a break when the sprinklers came on. Things just went nuts from there.

Broken Heart Part 1

2009-03-10T17:05:00.003-05:00

Ten years ago, on April 7, 1999, my daughter had open heart surgery. She was seven months old. During that time I was "blogging" - maintaining a web journal of my pregnancy (believe it not, I coded it myself).

It was a tough time in our lives, but the journal helped - and not just me. I had people who were facing something similar and they read through the journal to help deal with their own scary times.

So I thought in recognition of the 10 year anniversary of that time, I'd revive that journal. Maybe someone out there needs this. Or maybe it's just important for me to remember it all again. This is the first installment - when we found out and a little of the thoughts running through our minds and hearts.

For the next few weeks, the past and present will mix and meld. It'll be a mess. Makes sense.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
8/19/1998

Sierra was born by c-section at 11:07 pm, 34 hours after I had been admitted to the hospital, with Adam on hand to witness. She weighed 6 lbs, 11 oz, quite a heavy weight for what they figure was a month premature.

I watched as her light skinned body was carried to the bassinet where a neonatal team was waiting to test her lungs, provide oxygen if needed. And I heard her cry, and relief flooded me. I was ready to drift to sleep when Adam brought her to me. I looked at her, my new little girl. I was like a wolf mother, eyeing her pup for the first time. All I could think of was finding some sort of identifying mark so when I saw her again I would know it was her. There it was. A little stork bite (red mark) just above her lips. I’ll remember, I’ll remember, I thought.

I asked Adam to go with our little girl as they took her to the neonatal intensive care unit to monitor her breathing, heart and oxygen level. Adam fell in love with her immediately. I woke up to the most excited man on the planet.

I kissed her 30 times, he said, glowing with joy.

When I saw her some hours later, I fed her with my body, feeling the rush of love with every moment.

Baby Sierra

After a few days in the hospital, we discovered that Sierra had a heart murmur. After speaking to some specialists we learned that she has a heart defect known as tetralogy of fallot. I’ll be posting some links here for those interested, but the scary part is that she’ll need open heart surgery.

The doctors would like her to get to 6 months old, just to be a little bigger and a little stronger before having the surgery. I can’t begin to say how hard this news was to take. Our little angel, with a broken heart.

My sister Christy had flown in from Chicago when I started to go into labor and was there when we got the news.

The shock and sadness overwhelmed us all. I don’t know exactly how we are going to make it through the next few months, but I know we will.

And I know that this determined little girl will make it through the surgery she needs. She’s already proven she’s in charge and won’t take no for an answer.

Through this I know that many of us will learn even more about what really matters. Maybe we’ll all heal some of the fears and wounds in our own hearts as she heals hers.

I just ask that any one of you who read these pages to send your prayers and thoughts our way...

(part 2)

Erin Go Bragh and Pass The Green Salsa

2009-03-09T21:41:00.001-05:00

There are not too many places on earth where the sound of bagpipes mixes with the roar of low riders and smell of fresh tortillas.

My neighborhood was one of those places.

We lived across the street from Bel Air high school stadium in El Paso, Texas. El Paso is a border town, ninety percent Hispanic (in our neighborhood, it was closer to 98%), making the high school's choice of the Highland er as a mascot so bizarre; I can't quite fathom how it could ever have occurred. Did a rogue Scott take over the school board at an opportune moment? Were the distant mountains an inspiration of "high land"? Were darts involved?

Whatever the reason, the Highlanders had become a formidable football team, and at every game, in addition to the huge marching band, were a dozen bagpipes in full regalia. A dedicated and gifted band director (what else would you call a guy who could teach Sousa AND Irish battle songs?) held practice for the bagpipers at six in the morning. Since there is no volume control on a bagpipe, no one learns this instrument indoors.

On the cool desert mornings every fall, the bagpipe division of girls (because in those days no Hispanic boy would be caught DEAD in a kilt) would fill their plaid bags with air and the cry of the bagpipes would climb above the desert floor. The sound would bounce off the concrete stadium and enter with full intensity into my bedroom.

I'd feel the strain of the notes; at first interrupted so often that it was more like a chorus of demented car horns than music. But slowly the band director would coax the songs free from the breath of the girls who'd listen to rock music on the way home from school, cruising in low and slow Chevys and Fords.

I'd wake up from my confused dreams, trying to figure out why in my sleep I was bounding through rolling green hills when I lived my waking life amid yucca and sand. The bagpipes would pull a yearning from me for a place I'd never seen, yet who's music slipped into my childhood like a lost leprechaun wandering into a circle of mariachis.

In a few days I'll be scrambling for green shirts and hats for my kids. I wonder about the bagpipe band alumni. Are those bagpipers now mommies with little leprechauns of their own? Do they have the same misplaced sense of nostalgia every St. Patrick's Day? Do they tell their children about the days with the warm bag at their side, the pipes in their fingers? Are there bagpipes tucked into the attic, waiting for the next generation of players?

Do they secretly consider themselves descendants of a lost tribe of Celtic warrior princesses?

Okay, that was probably just me.

So this St. Patty's Day we'll wear green bowler hats complete with shiny foil shamrock and reminisce about the days of bagpipes and yucca plants. Erin Go Bragh and pass the green salsa!

My littliest one's blog

2009-03-09T19:15:00.000-05:00

This is my 6 year old's blog she just started. Now we are really fighting for the computer...

Camp ground fun! Okay, maybe not...

2009-03-08T19:23:00.002-05:00

It's spring camping season! I remember our first campout as a family. The kids were under six, we had three dogs and only two adults.

Clearly, we were insane.

It all started out well enough. My husband packed no less than 100 items into the truck and we left on time. We arrived at Lost Maples and set up camp in #13 (that was my first and last warning).

Within an hour, both kids were crying, one was bleeding and my husband was ready to pack up all 100 items and drive home. At one point I gazed across the campground at another peaceful set of campers and wondered if I could go home with them instead.

As night approached, my five-year-old asked me with great anxiety about what kind of things were in the "forest." I quickly tried to think of the most innocuous animal possible.

"Oh, just bunnies and stuff."

"Bunnies?"

"Yes. Bunnies, raccoons, groundhogs."

She seemed unconvinced, peering into the darkening surroundings. I should note that it's not as if we were roughing it. We were half a mile from the highway in a paved campground with water and electricity. My husband had set electric fans up in our tent for petes sake.

"Besides, you don't have to worry about animals," I said. "We have the dogs. Other animals aren't going to come close to camp—they don't like dogs."

At that she visibly relaxed, convinced that our German shepherd would take care of her in a way neither of her parents could.

In the middle of the night, the dogs began to bark. We tried to quiet them from the tent, but they kept going. I decided to go cover their kennel. I didn't bother putting on my glasses since all I was going to do was toss a blanket over their crate. Also, despite the fact that we had ten different high-powered flashlights available, I stepped outside with my book light since it was handy.

Once I got out of the tent I heard what they were barking at. Something was rustling in the bushes. There I was, no glasses, everything more than a foot away completely blurry, armed with a BOOK LIGHT. But I'm cool, I'm cool.

I called out to my husband in a reassuring tone. "That's why they were barking. There's something rustling in the bushes."

A little voice rose out of the tent, just this side of hysterical. "Something's in the bushes?!"

Oops. Why do we always forget that children have ears?

"What's in the bushes?!" she asked again, urgently.

"Oh, just a bunny or something, sweetie."

"A bunny?" She seemed to doubt that I would have come outside just for a bunny.

"Or a raccoon."

"What's a raccoon?"

I covered the dog kennel and scrambled back in the tent. I reassured my daughter that raccoons were about the size of a cat. As she lay there, completely unconvinced, I realized that I had covered the dogs with a large packing blanket.

Could they breathe through that thing?

Needless to say, it was two years before we tried again – with an RV.

When dogs dream

2009-03-05T10:12:00.001-06:00

Thanks to island princess for this one...

Bizkit, the Sleepwalking Dog @ Yahoo! Video

(You know, this stuff happens to me all the time. I wake up hitting the wall right before I catch up to Johnny Depp.)

Confessions of Mommy

2009-03-03T20:59:00.002-06:00

Before Easter gets here, I realized that now is a good time to wipe my parental slate clean with a few… well, confessions.

These aren't the big confessions, the ones that carry criminal fines or require significant time in pews. These are Mommy Confessions. Crimes which, in the big book of Good Universal and Loving Parenting (known as GULP), carry niggling guilt sentences of 20 years.

This is the perfect time of year to face those little crimes, wipe the slate clean and restore our self-esteem in our parenting ability for at least a week. By merely admitting to these little missteps, you too can go Mommy Guilt-free just in time!

In the spirit of self-sacrifice, I'll go first. Here are my 10 Mommy confessions for spring.

1) I have tricked my children. I have taken advantage of my child's inability to count to get her to eat six more bites instead of two more.

2) I have threatened my children with punishments I never intended to carry out. I never intended to not go to Grammy's house, even if they poured syrup on each other and rolled in bark mulch.

3) I have agreed to things only because I was relatively sure they'd forget about it later or lose interest. I was secretly hoping against having to go to the top of that really big slide in Landa Park since that was the day I decided to wear a skirt and heels. (I see Paris! I see France! Do they still sing that song?)

4) I have wished my children were older, if only because I didn't want to here those five little words shouted in the middle of a quiet library again: I HAVE TO GO POTTY!

5) I have wished my children were younger, so that I could carry them to bed without getting a hernia.

6) I have ignored the first yell for Mommy, hoping they'd find a way to work it out with each other if I just stayed out of sight. Note to self: crouching behind the couch is a lousy hiding technique.

7) I have banned certain children's television programs from our household from the day they were born lest I have to listen to Barney's "I Love You" song.

8) I have gotten my children hooked instead on songs from my favorite musicals, even though Les Miserables is not exactly the most child appropriate Broadway show.

9) I have pulled out the cookies in a desperate bid to get my child to eat, lest she evaporate, despite the fact that she says she isn't hungry and probably isn't.

10) I have explained that I'm too big to fit inside the fast food playscape even though I can squeeze in there if I exhale fully and practice some of the more advanced yoga moves.

There. I feel much better now. Now it's your turn. Fess up. I can guarantee you'll feel better and from what I've heard, the Easter Bunny is very forgiving of these things.

At least I hope so. I love those chocolate eggs.

Like mother, like daughter

2009-03-02T22:15:00.000-06:00

Sierra has her latest video up. Check it out over here...

Please wipe your carbon footprint at the door...

2009-03-02T06:00:00.000-06:00

How big is our carbon footprint? Do they have one of those little metal measuring things around for it? Is it a 9 1/2 D? Or more of a 6 EE?

Whatever, I suspect it's a big honkin' clod hopper boot, not a little strappy stiletto heel number.

Ever since the global warming monster came out of the closet and started breathing heavy on ice caps and polar bears, I’ve looked around in amazement at what a big impact we have on our little patch of the environment.

Whether or not you believe that the ice caps are melting, polar bears are headed for serious makeovers and penguin dads are going to be a little warmer during their “hold jr. on your toes” part of parenting, it’s really scary to realize just how much trash comes in a modern childhood.

First of all there’s the whole toy thing. Just buying a toy means committing to disposing of three times the toy’s weight in wrapping. I presume these 40 different zip ties and half dozen layers of plastic are designed to thwart theft. I hope they are using these techniques on important things at the Pentagon, because trust me, no one would be able to sneak out those top secret plans if they had them wrapped up like Barbie’s doggie grooming shop.

In fact, at home we have a toolbox designated for unwrapping newly bought toys which contains pliers, a flat head screwdriver, a Phillips screwdriver, scissors and two knives – serrated and smooth. Pretty soon we’ll be adding a flamethrower.

And don’t even get me started on the toys themselves - which have a useful life of about a week.

The other area where we are having a severe environmental impact is in schoolwork. I swear I never did this much work when I was at school. Was there a paste shortage when I was growing up? Was paper really expensive? Were teachers focused on doing everything on blackboards?

Whatever the reason we never brought home this much schoolwork.

Then there’s the permission slips. I get several permission slips per child every week. When I was a kid I think I brought home one a year. Like seat belts, permission slips were only used for big trips – like across international waters.

I’d like to think we could reduce our carbon footprint. We’ve changed light bulbs, reduced our use of juice boxes, and tried to be less wasteful in general. We’ve tried to recycle and have created many interesting sculptures out of discarded plastic toys and bottles. But we’ve got a long way to go.

In the meantime, I’m hoping for a paste shortage.

Curls in motion

2009-02-28T19:45:00.002-06:00

It's insanely windy, so I had a chance to make a movie of Mireya's first hair cut. I mean I could have done laundry, or cleaned out my closet.

But I'm way too accomplished a procrastinator.

As you know if you've spent any time here in crib note land, Mireya has crazy curly hair.

No, seriously. Like INSANELY curly.

So I was nervous to get her hair cut, because everyone with curly hair says it's impossible to cut. As a result she had these long bits, short bits, and wild bits everywhere.

It was time.

It was past time, actually. Probably by 3 years.

Did I mention I am an accomplished procrastinator? I mean, I've got my black belt in delay tactics. Well, actually it's in the laundry.

Anywho, here's the video.

Last of the bats

2009-02-27T23:40:00.015-06:00

Well, here are the final photos of Hallow in Washington, and on the way home.
We stopped by to pay our respects to the newest occupants of the white house.

Hallow flew in for a closer look, but was spooked by the secret service.

We stopped at the natural history museum on our way to see art.
Big elephant!

Quick dive into the flowers in the art museum's foyer.
Here's where I saw a really weird painting and
other incredibly beautiful ones.
I love the national gallery.

But we were headed to the pompei exhibit. So we walked and walked.
But it ended up like a tour through liberace's living room.

So we left.

Off for my favorite monument.

Lincoln.

There we were tempted.

Failed to resist temptation.

Flew out of town just in time.

Bats will eat fries at the airport.

Ah, one last shot - memories of cab rides in washington. It sure is nice to be home.

Science, kids!

2009-02-27T22:11:00.000-06:00

Science Marches Forward.

When I was a kid I thought I was headed for a career in the sciences. I was making new discoveries every single day.

Unfortunately, discovering the melting point of crayons didn’t lead to a cure for the common cold, or a renewable energy source to power Barbie’s dream house appliances. Of course, just because I opted out of the sciences as a career doesn’t mean I don’t still dabble as an amateur.
For example, I’ve discovered two fundamental laws governing socks. First, socks are extremely resistant to pairing. The repulsive force is particularly strong in the morning before school. I believe the repulsive force is derived from a combination of laundry detergent and water.

Second, socks are edible. At least, that’s my theory as to why they continue to disappear at such an alarming rate. Someone, or something, is eating them. And apparently only one of the pair is actually edible, explaining the huge bag of inedible orphan socks in the closet.

I’ve also learned something absolutely fascinating about schoolwork that comes home for admiration. It’s ALIVE!

Consider the evidence. Reams and reams of paper with adorable drawings, attempts at cursive, and math drills overwhelm all attempts to contain them. Boxes quickly overflow and any attempt to cull the pile will set off internal alarms with the child involved who will rush over, protesting wildly that their work should be retained until they complete their doctorate in multiplication tables. Clearly those pieces of paper have the power to send out some sort of distress signal. That’s a sign of life in my book. (I’m proposing the scientific term ‘paperous swampous’ for this new life form .)

These days Mireya has taken on the mantle of science officer. We were off on a trip when she explained to me how magnetism works.

“There’s this bar in the middle of the earth, Mommy.”

“A bar? Like a chocolate bar?”

“No!” she laughed at her poor Mommy, who had seemed so much smarter before she herself started first grade and learned everything. “It’s like a ruler. It’s made of metal.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And it has this big letter ‘N’ on it. And that’s how we know which way is North. Just look for the N.”

Next she’ll be working on cold fusion. We’ll get Barbie’s refrigerator running in no time.

Bats in congressional offices

2009-02-26T10:47:00.000-06:00

Buddy (who I let think he's my boss. lol) would kill me if he knew I talked these two staffers to hold the bat. But weirdness is part of my charm.

Thanks to the folks in Congressman Hinojosa's office.

And here's my CEO, proving he has a sense of style - and humor.

And me with the bat, before dinner...

Tomorrow, a few more photos. But I'm beat. Off to bed

Broken Bit

2009-02-25T22:04:00.000-06:00

Digging for memories.

This weekend I satisfied my inner archeologist. With spring slipping through the door someone left open in winter, it was the perfect day to go out into the yard and begin the dig.

Of course it never starts out as an archaeological dig. It starts out as a "let's pick up the yard" thing. A "let's cut back all those weedy, dead plants" thing. A "they're going to rezone our house as a junk yard if we don't get this under control" thing.

Sierra was on hand to help, since she's always eager to earn some cash by picking up endless numbers of plastic items so she can then go out and buy additional plastic items. I've finally come to accept this as an endless cycle.

Someday, when we are long gone, actual archaeologists may dig in our yard and try to figure out if all these brightly colored items are toys or religious cult icons. I'd say in some cases the line is blurred, especially when I try to get them in the trashcan. You've never seen someone move so fast until you try to toss an orphaned doll shoe into the trashcan.

I never knew Mireya's shoes would smoke like that.

So this weekend, I was a jr. archeologist, uncovering our brief family history. I found, under leaves and branches, a worn watercolor paintbrush, and next to it a jar still stained with blue paint.

This was from the day we painted the dogs various colors, turning them into something between pop art and doggie warriors.

Or was it from the day we painted outlines of ourselves on old blueprint paper?

Or maybe it was the day Sierra painted her entire arm blue, which remained lightly blue even after a bath.

Next I find a broken bit of plastic from a bucket of gum. This was from my uncle, who is particularly fond of this brand of chewing gum. We'd taken the empty bucket and turned it into a carrier for all kinds of things - rocks, dog food, plastic toys.

I find a tiny teal bookcase, at least I think it's a bookcase, belonging to Barbie, or Polly, or Little Miss Knock-off from the Dollar Store.

Part of me resists tossing these broken, misplaced bits. Even the empty jar is loaded with memories, crammed with these days of children, messy yards, and blue dogs.

But it is a mess, so away they go. Instead I resolve to go inside and write it all down.

Lest I forget.

Do I know you?

2009-02-23T21:57:00.000-06:00

Are you my mommy?

These days we worry incessantly about our children being taken by strangers, and for good reason. But I have a less sinister, if still disconcerting, worry.

My children don't know what I look like.

It started when we were at the library. Apparently, when you're just under four foot tall, any woman in the sweater with dark hair pulled into a pony tail is a dead ringer for me.

I heard Mireya, four years old and well versed in where all the best videos are in the library, talking in her earnest negotiation mode -- with someone else.

"If I get the Beauty and the Beast video can I get the Dora one too? I want to get that one too."

I looked up from the table in the children's area and saw my daughter walking behind a woman, holding the video box in her little hand. The woman, trying to catch up to her own children, looked down at my curly haired daughter with a smile and said, "Um, well…"

And then the look of horror swept across Mireya's face like a flash flood. I could just see the words appear in a thought bubble over her head.

You are NOT my mommy!

She whirled around and spotted me a few feet away. She ran over to the table, slightly pale.

"I want to sit on your lap," she said, still stunned. I understood what she was going through.
When I was four, I didn't know what my mom looked like either. Really any relatively similar sized woman seemed to fit the bill.

We'd be out shopping and before you'd know it I'd be hanging out with a woman who had probably negotiated a couple of hours away from her kids, only to have me following her around the clearance racks, thinking she was my mom.

Sometimes I never even realized I had the wrong mom until I heard myself being paged over the store speakers. Even then I had to do a double take.

This is precisely why you never test kids with those family reunion photos. The only one they'll get right is the dog.

As we finally checked out our books and videos at the library desk, my eldest daughter, Sierra saw the woman who Mireya had been talking to.

"Wow. That lady looks just like you."

The other mom and I smiled at each other. She looked about as much like me as Conan O'Brien looks like David Letterman.

But then again, it's been a while since I was under ten. According to my kids, she may have been my long lost identical twin. I'll have to check with mom about that.

If I can find her.