High School Bathrooms and Black Dresses

So, our band concert was today. My husband and I brought the girls with us, and they basically just played with whatever kids weren't performing until he or I were available to watch them.

To the concert, I wore a nice, conservative knee length black dress which didn't give me any real wiggle room based on the constricting material of which it was made. I also wore 2 inch black heels (in other words, a disaster waiting to happen). 

After the concert, I realized I brought nothing to change in to for the take-down. So, I shucked the heels and pearls, pulled my hair back with a rubber band, and started tearing things down in my dress as well as I could.

We're waiting on pizza to arrive, and Story comes running in the band room yelling about how she has to poop NOW!!!! I took off after her to the bathroom. She got there first, and shut the door behind her. I waited patiently by the sinks until she was ready for me to help her "clean up."

"Mommy! I done!!" she yelled a minute later. I walked to her stall, and pulled on the handle. It didn't move. I pulled on it, pushed on it, and shook it, but it was locked and not giving.

"Story!" I yelled as I tried to jimmie the thing with my thumbnail. "Get off the potty and open the door!"

"No."

"Yes!" I yelled, frustrated at my now shredded thumbnail.

"I can't, Mommy." So, I looked under the door to the stall where there was definitely not enough room to me to crawl through.

"Story! I can't fit through here! You need to get off the potty and open the handle for me!" She sat quietly and smiled.

"You can fit."

"No, I can't!" I yelled even louder out of frustration. I didn't know what to do...should I try to fit? Or tell her good luck with the wiping? Fortunately, that last thought sent a shudder through me, and I decided that I had to get in there. Even if she did make it off the potty, the chances of her smearing poop all over the bathroom were large.

So, I gauged the amount of room I'd have under the stall door. I tried to crawl under it, but of course, I was too big. Finally, it looked like my only option was an army crawl...

Yes, that's right. An army crawl. On my stomach, in a tight black dress, on the floor of a high school bathroom. I took a deep breath, and pushed myself forward with my hands, trying best I could to think of ice cream and Christmas, and not the millions of particles of...of...stuff I was smushing up against me. At least it was only on one side of me, or so I thought.

I made it through, but then realized that I couldn't get up. My dress was acting like a plastic tube around me, keeping me from the necessary motion I needed to get vertical again. So, I ended up rolling onto my back, and contaminated BOTH sides of myself. But, on my back, I could propel myself into a squatting, then standing position.

My black dress was....gray. I brushed it off, and then wiped Story. She covered her ears, and I pushed the button for flushing. Interestingly enough, everything went down the toilet with the exception of a giant piece of poop. I pushed the button again. It didn't budge. Again. Nothing. Really? I thought. Am I really dealing with this after I just army crawled through a cesspool????

But, I was pretty sure that I couldn't get much dirtier...so I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and pushed it in to the hole, and reflushed....and it went down. 

Story ran out of the bathroom, and I tried to disinfect as much of myself as possible...and then I got the heck out of that bathroom before I got any nastier.

To pick or not to pick?

Story is a serial nose picker.

I think all kids learn to pick their nose at some point. I mean, there's stuff up there. The finger fits so perfectly. They see other kids at daycare do it.

But most kids have realized by a certain age that it's not nice, and definitely that if they continue to do it, they have to at least hide in the bathroom or something.

Not Story.

She picks and eats with pride in front of anyone. The more embarrassing it would be to me for her to do this, the more she does it. In front of the band. At school. In front of my mom. Doesn't matter.

The past couple of months, Daddy and Ivy and I have been telling her how nasty it is. I refuse to pick her up or touch her if she's just played "hide the finger." Nothing has worked.

A ray of hope came last week when Story confessed to me that she had talked to her teacher at daycare. Her teacher had a heart to heart with Story about her bad habit.

Story proclaimed, "Mommy, Imma not pickin' my nose anymore."

I was elated, but cautious. "You sure? You sure you won't pick it?"

"No, Mommy, I pwomise."

As I said, I was leery...but I didn't need to be. In fact, Story took great pains to make sure I knew she wasn't doing it anymore. She'd walk right up to me in the kitchen and yell, "MOMMY!"

"What?" I would say, right after I peeled myself off the ceiling.

"Watch me not pick my nose!" she'd exclaim, and then stand and stare me down...her finger going nowhere near her nose.

"Uh, good job?" I said.

This went on for days. Several times an evening, Story would yell to one of us and tell us to "watch her NOT pick her nose." We were all very patient and did as she asked.

Then, her allergies started back up. I'd see that little finger sneak its way past her upper lip, pause, and then back down. At least she's resisting, I thought.

Finally, she couldn't stop the urges. I saw her duck into the bathroom with a finger in her nose. At bedtime, she'd hide her head in the pillow, but I knew what she was doing.

One might think this is defeat, but I find it instead to be a VICTORY. She might have fallen off the wagon, but at least she's trying to hide her habit now. And she's stopped demanding that I watch her NOT pick her nose. =)

Thanksgiving will be a dreaded holiday from this point on

The plan was to go to my Dad and Step-Mom's house for Thanksgiving, with a stop at my Mom's.

Unfortunately, fate had other ideas.

On Wednesday, the day we were going to leave, I had a list of things to do, and I had to pack. Two things happened simultaneously...my husband checked the weather for his Thursday morning hunting excursion and my stomach started hurting. With the weather being bad and me being sick, the decision was made to leave very early Thursday morning instead.

After confirming this with my family, we settled in for an evening of relaxation and TV watching...until Story puked all over me. I convinced myself that it was a fluke...or something bad she ate.

Just to be safe, I ran to the kitchen to grab a bowl after I'd changed her and cleaned up the couch. As I bent down to the cabinet where the bowl was located, I received a searing pain in my left kidney.

Oh. No.

I have a long running relationship with kidney stones. I get one stuck about once a year or less that involves heavy drugs and a trip to the hospital. There's nothing I can do about then, I just won the genetic kidney lottery.

But this pain meant the worst was coming...a trip to the hospital, along with a puking baby. And an impending trip.

A frantic search of the purses in my closet revealed that I had one pain pill left. I took it, and waited for the results to take effect...and as it started to kick in, Story puked again.

This was not just a random puking event. I was pretty sure she had the flu.

So, I stayed up until two a.m. with her puking every hour while Rob and Ivy slept. At two, my drugs wore off, and I had to go to the hospital. A sleepy husband came in the living room to sit with the puking kid while I turned on my hazard lights and made a speedy trip to the hospital.

It turns out the night before Thanksgiving is an excellent time to visit the ER. I was in and out in no time...and then I drove home under the influence of some nice little shot they gave me.

Story hadn't puked any while I was gone, but as soon as I sat on the couch next to her, she puked again.

The next morning, we had a come-to-Jesus meeting about our trip. It wasn't happening. So, we bought a turkey and some other stuff and spent the day cooking turkey dinner by ourselves for the first time ever.

Which our kids refused to eat.

Friday we took the girls to the movies and bought some Christmas decorations. On the way home, I started feeling strange...and have spent the past 24 hours with the stomach flu. Luckily, this wasn't the worst flu I've had, and since neither kid was a baby and breastfeeding, my husband was able to take care of them all day.

Still, I'm waiting for everyone else in the house to get it...and I'm pretty sure I'll have to take Monday off to recover from my vacation.

Tracee the spider slayer

If you've not gotten the clue that I'm a little wacky yet, this one is sure to convince you.

I have this thing with spiders.

See, I hate them. Most of them are evil, I am sure of it. When I was young, I was petrified of them, even the little bitty ones.

As I've gotten older (oh, and moved "out in the country") I've become more tolerable of the small ones. Okay, not tolerable, just not as scared. And this is because.....

Where I live is like the big hairy spider capital of the planet. No, really.

And suddenly I've developed this superpower where I have visions that I am going to see a big spider right before I encounter one. It's not everytime I encounter one, but it's hard to negate the following examples:

• A few weeks after we moved to this area, I approached the kitchen sink with caution. I just thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be horrible if there was a big spider in there?" Lo and behold, I raised up a pan in the bottom of the sink and a big, nasty wolf spider jumped right out at me. This happened numerous times at this house in the bathroom, kitchen, living room, and garage. I'd know there was a spider there, and then it would jump out at me.
• We were staying at a friend's house for the summer to take grad classes. I woke up from a particularly nasty dream that I was taking a shower in the bathroom of this house, but I saw a really big spider standing on the drain. When I opened the shower door for real, there it was. On the drain. Waiting to eat me.
• I grabbed the dog's bowl and then had a feeling that there was a spider under it...and there was. It was the biggest spider I have ever seen in my life. I couldn't even kill it with a shoe....I had to dump bleach on it. And then I threw the dog bowl away.

Somehow this gift has also enabled me to attract spiders. I do not like this. But they seem to flock to me...let ten spiders go in my kitchen and they all run straight toward me. Which is odd because all I'm going to do is kill them. It's like how the vampires kept coming after Buffy. One time there was a black widow in my screened in porch in December. How it got in my porch has yet to be seen.....it must have just felt this great attraction to me.

I recently had my worst spider encounter yet, and I didn't even know it. I was driving my new (to me) truck and was in the drive-up window of the bank. Suddenly I felt this searing pain on my ankle. I looked down and it looked as though there was a piece of mulch on my sock. I flicked it off, and the movement it made reminded me of a bee. A yellow jacket. I was stung by a yellow jacket. And trapped in between teller machines. I stomped and stomped on the floor mat to kill it before it stung Ivy.

I pulled out, parked in the lot and looked for the offensive butthead. All I found was a wet spot on the bottom of my shoe. Hoping that the spot was the yellow jacket, I hopeed back in and began to drive.

The pain was unbearable.

It radiated out of my bones...my whole leg was on fire. And sore. How did people get stung multiple times? I wondered. I almost didn't make it home- I called everyone I knew from the road and compared stories about stings. I cried. I moaned. The girls thought I was funny.

I put ice on it at home and spent the evening in the recliner.

The next day, my ankle was swollen. I figured it would- stings make me swell, even mosquitos. I went to work (in pain) and put it up again when I came home. Well, I elevated it after cleaning up the mess left by my kids after an evening of Mommy not running around behind them cleaning.

I woke up the next morning, and it was HUGE. And itchy. And even more painful. And I was sick, like achy and nauseous. What kind of mutant bee was this? I barely got through the school day. The ankle just kept swelling. Luckily, I had great classes who let me sit at my desk with it propped up on a stool all day.

That night was the worst. I couldn't even move the ankle..all I could do was lay there and hurt. And itch.

The next morning, I woke up on the recliner and the swelling was down. Refreshed at the thought that it was finally healing, I put on some socks and limped around the house cleaning bathrooms and sweeping floors. About 2 p.m. that day, I took my sock off and almost threw up- my ankle had this weird red stuff on it, climbing up my leg and down my foot.

I took pictures of it and texted them to various members of my family. I spent 20 minutes on hold waiting to talk to a nurse, who frantically told me to come in. They saw me right away, and took two seconds to say, "spider bite."

Everyone kept asking me if I was sure it was a yellow jacket. I had been.....but it was dark on the floorboard. Could it have really been a spider? When the doctor came in, she told me exactly how serious it was. She also said that if I'd waited till after the weekend to come in, I might have lost my foot. My foot?? From a spider???

Even though I had to take like 20 pills a day after the visit, I was really glad I'd come in. I mean, I need my foot. Sometimes I like to drive. Or clean the house. Or walk. Or tap my toe to music.

And in retrospect, I am starting to wonder if I've lost the only superpower I've ever had. I mean, shouldn't I have known right before the most important spider encounter I've ever had? It wasn't even a good superpower....but it was the only one I had. I felt a little bit like Harry Potter. Sigh.

Back to the world of mortals.

Throwing out a hairbrush

If you're my friend on Facebook, you've probably read my umpteen million freak-out posts about how my children have recently acquired head lice after one week of public school.

On Sunday morning, as I was nursing a slightly sore throat and waiting for a friend to show up to attend Mass with us, I brushed Ivy's hair, looking closely at her scalp (something I just do out of habit anymore). And I saw what I had always been dreading- white eggy things attached to her hair.

I ran to the phone and immediately dialed my mom, who is part counselor and part dramatic inciter in these occasions. She confirmed what I was seeing must be true- my darling had lice.

Normally, I would get on top of things, make lists, take action. For some reason, I was so unnerved, I just sat on the porch and drank three cups of coffee. Three. As if the infestation wasn't leaping off of Ivy's head onto every piece of fabric in the house as I sipped. After about thirty minutes, I decided maybe I was wrong. I called Ivy over to the kitchen and took the flashlight. The eggs were still there and then something crawled and I threw the flashlight and screamed. Okay, no denying it now, I told myself. Time to move.

I packed my squirrely kids in the car with a vague thought about how the car was probably infested, too. We struggled through the door at Rite Aid, and I unceremoniously dumped both girls into a shopping cart and avoided anything close to their heads. I also threatened their very existence if they so much as touched anything with their pinkie finger. I pushed the buggy mercilessly forward in order to stop any silly questions about which fingers they could use to touch things.

When I got home, I dumped the goods on the kitchen table, known as Lice Ground Zero from that point on. I went crazy, ripping all the sheets off the beds. Anything fabric and washable was immediately thrown in a big heap in the dining room. I rubbed the kids furiously with the shampoo, rinsed, and spent 2 hours combing them out. I sprayed down the entire guest room to make a Lice-Free Zone (that I promptly locked the offspring out of) for the clean laundry. My washer and dryer went non-stop on the hottest settings for 24 hours.

Exhausted, I reached in my bathroom drawer for my hairbrush. I brought it closer to my hair, looking in the mirror, and stopped. Time was frozen. I was sure thousands of lice were bungee jumping from my brush to my hair. Finally, I threw the panic aside and launched the brush at the floor.

In my family, we have four combs and three brushes (Daddy gets by with just a comb). However, these brushes are not assigned to any one person. They're passed freely from family member to family member.....kind of like the hippie ideals of free love, just with hair care. In a panic, positive that lice were breeding and spilling out of both bathrooms, I snatched up all of the skanky, dirty brushes and threw them in the kitchen sink. I ran hot water over them, filled up a pan of water, boiled it, added bleach, and dunked them in. I kept them in there for several hours.

I emptied the pot and set them out to dry. Then, I needed a hairbrush. I picked one up, turned it over, and promptly put it back down. What if the bleach hadn't killed them? Would I infect my clean head?

I bagged all the brushes in a Ziploc. I finger combed my hair. I grabbed the keys and the kids and took off for the dollar store. I bought three brushes and three combs. (I can't help it, I like sharing a comb with my husband...Rob loads the comb down with hairspray, and when I use it on my wet hair, it somehow evenly distributes the leftover product into my hair.)

When we got back to the house, I opened all the new brushes and combs. I made sure they were all different so we'd never share again. Then, I looked at the sad and lonely plastic bag of our old brushes. I gently laid it on the table now known as Lice Ground Zero, not able to part with them just yet.

You never know just how attached to your hairbrush you will become. It sticks around longer than a toothbrush. Sometimes longer than a friend. A good hairbrush will grant you endless good hair days, and the karma that flows between you is like magic....okay, that's a little strong, but seriously? It broke my heart to throw them away. The girls had two brushes, one perfect for ponytails, the other great for pigtails. One of them had a mirror on the back that the girls liked to look in when I was done fixing their hair. I had a comb that I've had for a very long time- at least college. I stole it from my mom's bathroom when I was home for the weekend.

And normally, I am the opposite of pack rat. I throw everything out! I don't even print out my pictures anymore because they add to the junk in the house.....but my hairbrush? It's too personal, too much a friend at this point.

But today I took down "Lice Ground Zero," since I think the immediate threat is gone and I no longer need immediate access to lice shampoo and nit combs. I took the 30 gallon trash bags to the garage (guess I didn't need 40 of them after all). I put the Ziploc in the drawer (funny how I only used five out of the economy pack). The last thing to leave he table was my Ziploc of hairbrushes. I cried a little inside as I dropped it in the trash can.   

Lice is the cause of many casualties in this house. Rest in Peace, hairbrush.                        

The hidden meaning behind the actions of Ivy

Ivy came downstairs from the playroom and curled up next to me on the chaise. "Mommy, I'm hungry." I looked at the clock and realized that yes, it was dinnertime for them.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I dunno," she replied halfheartedly.

"Pizza? The kind you like?"

"Yeah." Ivy was apparently not her 1678038476 decibel self.

I went to the kitchen and pulled a frozen pizza out of the freezer. It baked, and I observed Ivy. She was laying placidly on the chaise where I had left her watching my shows and not complaining one bit. She looked sleepy, and I thought for a minute she might be trying to nap. So, I started babbling to her inanely about the TV, the playroom, anything to keep her awake. Dinner naps are NOT conducive to Mommy's good night sleep.

The oven dinged and I got the pizza out and sliced it. I would like to say that I served it up immediately, but I was distracted by a facebook friend who really needed my help with Fast Money. So, I did that, and then I served up the pizza. I made two plates complete with drinks in sippy cups, and yelled for Ivy to follow me upstairs. She didn't come. I was thinking, Oh no! Is she asleep?? I rushed, still carrying pizza laden plates, to the chaise where I saw for myself that she wasn't asleep, but she was defintiely zoning out. "COme on!" I urged. She followed me listlessly up the stairs to the playroom. I sat the plates down, and Ivy didn't sit behind hers. She went straight for the little Dora the Explorer couch and laid down.

"Ivy! What's wrong?"

"I'm sleepy."

"Honey, you have to eat! We can't go outside if you go to sleep!"

"Mommy, I don't wanna go outside." It was at that point that I knew something was seriously wrong. Ivy would go outside in the middle of a 115 degree heat wave. She go outside during a blizzard. She loves outside!

I asked a series of random questions that would tell me what was wrong. She finally said her stomach hurt. "Bad enough to 'spill hot dogs'?" I asked, using the "special code" for puking. She shook her head no, but I knew that didn't mean anything. Ivy would never admit she felt like puking because that might mean she would puke.

And I get so scared when the kids have the vomit-bug. not for them, but for me! I hate puking! When they feel like puking, they puke twice and are done with it. They run around and act like nothing was ever wrong. When I get the same bug, I spend 12 hours laying next to a toilet puking up everything I've eaten in the past month, followed by another 24 hours of being so dehydrated that I can't lift my head off of the couch. The entire house goes to heck around me and I can't do anything to stop it. The kids bounce on me, nobody knows where anything is, and I end up having to crawl to the kitchen to look for osmething.....nasty. So, it's terrible when I think she's getting a bug.

I brought her to the couch and made her lay down on topf of two layers of towels and blankets. I put a bowl on the floor on top of another towel. Maybe if she puked in the bowl, and I just didn't touch it except to dump it in the toilet I might be spared?

As she laid down, she asked, "Mommy, where's my pizza?"

"What? Ivy, you're sick!"

"But I'm hungry!"

So I gave it to her. Maybe I'll get puked on later. Maybe not. But I desperately do not want to spend my evening scrubbing pizza stains out of blankets and clothes....nor am I looking forward to my 36 hours of agony a couple days later.

The Bad Smell

Yesterday evening, I noticed that the kitchen had a Bad Smell. I thought maybe it was the garbage. I tied up the sack, took it out, and then lit a candle. Problem solved.

This morning when I woke up, I smelled the Bad Smell again. It smelled like raw chicken left to its own devices. The trash was already out, so I knew it couldn't be that. I lit a candle, and then noticed that the sink was full of dishes. I thought, Maybe the dishes stink? Or the garbage disposal?

So, I unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher. I poured baking soda into the disposal and ran it after a minute. Then, I poured more in to sit for a couple of hours. I scrubbed the sink with Borax, followed by Windex for a shine.I also replaced the dishtowels just in case. Problem solved again.

My mother-in-law and I went to the store and came back a few hours later. The Bad Smell hit me as soon as I opened the laundry room door, only this time it was packing a punch. What could it be? Was it the towels I had put in the hamper? I rushed to the kitchen and lit all the candles. I brought the stinkiest candle into the laundry room.

My mother-in-law and the kids made a hasty exit outside. I, however, had to endure the Bad Smell while unpacking groceries. While putting away the boxed goods, I noticed that the Bad Smell was stronger near the stove. I opened the oven, but there was nothing in it. I inspected the cooktop. It was clean. What on earth could this olfactory offender be? I sincerely hoped it wasn't a dead mouse behind the stove....

On a whim I opened the microwave above the stove and almost passed out. The Bad Smell was in the microwave!! I bravely stood up and looked inside the appliance. There was a raw piece of chicken on the rotating plate in the microwave surrounded by a yucky colored liquid. I flashed back to Thursday evening when my husband was cutting up meat for Shish-kabobs to be eaten at work and vaguely remembered defrosting chicken for him. A piece and some liquid must have fallen off as the plate was pulled from the microwave.

Bravely, I grabbed the plate. Unfortunately, my middle name is not Grace and I slipped and spilled the offensive juice all over the cooktop and my feet. I almost lost it.

But then I got it together. Who has cleaned up more poop mess than anyone else? ME. Who has been puked on by every member of her family including the dog? ME. Speaking of the dog, who slid through doggie diarrhea a couple weeks ago? ME. This wasn't any worse than that! I could do this!

I threw the plate to the sink. I grabbed the roll of paper towels and tossed a wad in the microwave to sop up the mess. I threw some on the cooktop and the rest on the floor. I dove to the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the antibacterial wipes which went straight to my feet. After a good foot scrub, I threw away the wet and offensive paper towels and scrubbed everything else with the wipes until I felt the bacteria lift away from the surfaces. I washed the plate three times with dish soap and then put a cup of white vinegar in the microwave for 5 minutes to get rid of the smell.

It took a little bit longer to rid the house of the Bad Smell, but I worked on it. Now, the house is smell free (until Story poops again) and the mystery is solved. Who needs Scooby-Doo anyways? =)