Parenthood

We made it nearly nine years without taking one of our children to the ER.   I’d say, judging by those around me with young children, that this is something to be thankful for.  

  

I always wondered which adventure would land us in the ER for the first time.  I figured it would be Jrod – perhaps a broken bone from falling off the street sign that he loves to climb, or maybe stitches from falling into the coffee table after taking off from his hand –made vault. 

Not surprisingly, our first trip to the ER involved Jrod.  Surprisingly, our first trip to the ER had nothing to do with any of his various adventures.  Poor Jrod was hunched over with pain in his stomach.  Typically this would not be alarming.  He has inherited stomach issues from both sides of the family.  Usually a Tums and a bathroom break are all he needs.  

His reaction was not exactly out of the ordinary either.  Jrod is my drama king.  We don’t have a drama queen in our house, even though the odds were in the girls’ favor.  No, our Jrod does not have his dad’s calm and cool personality.  He has mine; poor fellow.  

He was out with his grandparents, and the pain didn’t seem to let up.  So, we figured it was better to be safe than sorry.  And so, hunched over in pain in the backseat, I drove to my son to the ER.  

By the time we got to the hospital, Jrod hopped out of the car and stated that he felt fine.  In that moment my maternal instincts kicked in.  I put him back in the car, called my husband, and told him I was positive it was just gas.  Chris was already on his way and he assured me that it was better to be safe than sorry.  

So, we went in.  I went to the front desk to register.  The woman behind the desk asked if I was registering for myself.  I told her I was there for my son and turned around to point him out.  The least he could do was sit on the chair and act sick.  But no, he was spinning around as fast as he could, doing his “dizzy lizzy” game - the same game that caused him to throw up his breakfast a couple of days earlier.  

I assured her that literally moments ago he was doubled over in pain. 

After waiting, my husband and I, and our used to be doubled over in pain son, headed back to the the pediatric wing.  A nurse had him sit down in a chair to answer a few questions. 

 

“Jrod, when did your tummy start hurting?”  

He gave it absolutely no thought:  “After I ate the popcorn at the movie theater.” 

“Oh.  How much did you eat?”  

No way was I going to let this nurse think that we brought him in for a tummy ache caused by eating too much junk food.  So, I interjected:  “I have been assured that he did not eat that much.”  She gave me a very particular smile.  The ones that said, “Yep, you’re that mom.”  So I let Jrod keep talking.  Unfortunately. 

“Jrod, when does your tummy usually hurt like this?”  

Again, he gave his answer no thought:  “Well, it’s usually after dinner because I eat so much food.  I eat so much food.  I mostly eat a ton of Mac and Cheese – like eight bowls.”  

The nurse probably sensed my next interjection coming and concluded out loud that he didn’t look like he ate quite as much as he said he ate.  But that was all.  She didn’t make any comments about the kind of food he said he ate.  She couldn’t hold me back:  “We don’t let him eat just Mac and Cheese; he doesn’t eat much, but he eats well rounded meals.  I can assure you.”  

“Uh-huh.  So, Jrod, do you drink a lot of milk and water?”  

“Nope.  I drink sprite. Pretty much just sprite.”  

I gave up.   I figured the more I defended myself, the guiltier I looked.  

After asking where his stomach hurt, and Jrod saying that it didn’t, they moved us back to the room for a precautionary X-Ray.  I was instructed to put him in a gown.  Jrod couldn’t believe that his loving mother would put him in a “dress that has dogs with balloons in their mouths” on it.   The only way I could get him in the gown was to assure him that everyone who is in the ER has to wear the gown.  

He looked kind of cute.  In fact, Chris wanted to take a picture.   My son put his foot down and we realized we were being a little idiotic, so instead of capturing the moment, we pulled out the ipad to keep him occupied.  About ten minutes into his game, Jrod declared he had to go to the bathroom.  

I was glad, figuring this was the problem to begin with, until I realized he simply had to pee.  It was all of the sudden urgent, so we hurried down the hallway.  Our walk of shame included Jrod holding himself with one hand and with the other pointing out every person he saw who did not have on a gown with dogs with balloons in their mouths.

The bathroom was in use, so we waited.  And again the drama surfaced.  While swaying from side to side, holding himself with both hands, and moaning, he made clear that he needed a toilet now.  One of the nurses heard him and rushed us off to another bathroom down another hallway where Jrod again pointed out each and every person who was not in a gown with dogs and balloons. 

When we had safely used the bathroom, I made very clear to him that he shouldn’t wait to use the bathroom until it’s an emergency. 

“But, Mom!  I was playing risk and I had a really good set up.  I was totally about to take over the world.”  

Of course. He was about to take over the world.  What was I thinking?  

We waited and finally saw someone that I hoped was the doctor; unfortunately it was just someone to fill out paper work.  She asked us for our insurance card.  I had it in my hands only moments before, but now that she was asking for it, I couldn’t find it anywhere.  

Chris asked me if I checked my wallet.  Of course I checked my wallet.  I assured him that I had checked my wallet.  So, my husband went to get his wallet out of the car.  He came back quickly.  He had forgotten his wallet at home.  

In a moment of panic, I asked the woman if she would watch my son while my husband and I looked for the insurance card.  

Chris asked me again if I looked in my wallet.  That was the wrong question at the wrong time. 

We began searching the germ infested ER for a card that I swore I had in my hands only moments before.  After searching the bathrooms, the waiting room, and the hallway, I gave up.  I wanted a Lysol shower.  When I opened the door to our room, I caught the tail end of the conversation between Jrod and the woman, who was kneeling patiently next to him:  “Yea, I like Mac and Cheese too.”  

Come on.  

My husband was trying to figure out how to move ahead with the paper work without the insurance card while I gave my wallet one last try.  There it was.  I quickly exclaimed, “I found it!”   My husband immediately inquired, “Where?”  

Good grief.  

Once the woman left, I anxiously moved over to the sink to wash away the germs from my adventure through the ER.  

The water wouldn’t come out.  Of course we had the room with the broken sink.  “Of course we do!”  I raised my voice at the sink and gave it a kick.  Jrod pointed to the hand sanitizer on the wall.  It was empty.  Of course it was empty. 

We finally saw the doctor.  The first thing she did upon entering the room was walk over to the sink to wash her hands.  My son quickly explained to the doctor that his mom already tried to wash her hands but that the sink was broken.  She then pushed on a lever on the floor, explaining that it doesn’t turn on the normal way. 

“Look, mom!  Your kicking didn’t totally break it!”  

Thanks, son.  

“A lot of people can’t figure out how to turn it on.”  

Thanks, doctor. 

We listened to her ask the same questions and heard Jrod recite the same answers.  I was too tired to interject.  I even let Jrod explain to the doctor all the various reasons as to why he believes that his younger sister has magic powers.  

Clearly ready to discharge us, she showed us the X-Rays and gave us her professional opinion:  he needed to poop.  

“Yes, I do.”  Jrod said, as if he had been telling us this for the last three hours and we had been refusing him the toilet.  “It’s just that I can only go when I’m at home.”  

So, almost three hours later, we arrived back at home.  Jrod immediately went to the bathroom and all was Okay.  I assured him I was not going to pay that kind of money for that kind of diagnosis again.  My instructions to my beloved middle child were clear as crystal:  As soon as you feel like you have to go, Jrod, you go.  No matter where you are.  

This morning, while cleaning up breakfast, I found my sons pants in the kitchen trash can.   After much inquiry, I discovered that he woke up and felt like he had to go.  So he went. 

     

Today

Today is Jrod’s birthday.  He’s seven today.  Can’t quite believe he’s seven (considering the fact that the shirt I bought him for his birthday is 4T, and will fit him perfectly).  That boy has a life about him that is all at once energizing, perplexing, and addictive.  He loves life and lives it to the fullest. 

The world is black and white to Jrod.  From personal experience, this may one day work against him, but for now, his simplistic perspective is nothing short of beautiful.   He worries little, acccepting with ease what comes his way.  

Jrod is creative.  This can be to my demise, but I have to give him credit.  When he runs out of toilet paper, why not use the shower curtain?  When the backyard slide has lost its excitement, why not go down it in a box?  And when you can’t think of another way to pass a hot summer day, why not sit on top of mom’s car and use the front window as a ramp for Hot Wheels?  

I love Jrod and can’t seem to get enough of him.  I’m grateful to the Lord for Jrod’s seven years. 

Today is my grandfather’s birthday.  Today he is eighty-three.  I can’t quite believe he’s eighty-three.  If you know my grandfather, you know that age hasn’t seemed to slow him.  When I think about my grandfather, I think about these three things:  Godly living, hard working, and the sun.  John Buswell is a man that exudes God’s presence in every part of his life:   Never leaving our presence without praying; and offering words of wisdom that come from God’s word in the pulpit, during the baptisms of his grandchildren and great grandchildren, and sitting around the dinner table.  He has passed on to the next generation the importance of pursuing endlessly a deep relationship with Jesus. 

John Buswell is one of the hardest working men I have ever known.  But, to no avail, as hard working as my grandfather is, he knows how to rest.  

To this day, he has the unique ability to soak up every ray of sun, leaving little for the poor pale soul who decides to join him on the beach.  I love my grandfather and look forward each year to those sunny days on the beach.  I’m grateful to the Lord for my grandfather’s eighty-three years.

 

And still there is someone else on my heart.  Today my sister, Erin, will have surgery.  The eight hour procedure will begin this morning while the doctors attempt to remove the tumor that has inflicted her body.  This, I still can’t quite believe.  I am grateful to the Lord for all He has instilled in Erin during the last thirty years.  Because of her unending love for Jesus, she has blessed so many through her own difficult journey.  

Today I am reminded that God holds our future in the palm of his hands.  Whether a rambunctious seven year old, an eighty-three year old who has lived a full life, or a thirty year old mother with cancer, only God knows what tomorrow holds.  And so, in this very moment, I embrace this truth and rejoice in one who holds today.

 

Apples and M&M's

I had the privilege of being in Savannah with my sisters during one of Erin's treatment weeks.  Because she didn't feel well for several days, Bekah and I spent a lot of time with her three precious children:  Lydia, Hudson, and baby Samuel. 

I was geared up to do what I do best:  mom duties.  I'm not a professional yet, but I'm eight years experienced in this department, so I felt more than ready to help with mommy responsibilities in anyway I was able. 

Very quickly, however, I sensed something different - something for which I was not prepared.   For a few hours, I couldn't quite put my finger on it; but then, I had the drastic realization.  The understanding that Erin's kids were.....good. 

There were times during the week when I saw an image:   an angelic presence, calm and quiet, surrounded by small beings with their hands folded asking the hallowed presence for more vegetables.  When I'd shake my head and rub my eyes, I'd look again.  Sure enough.  There sat my sister as calm and collected as any mom I'd seen during the dinner time hour while her three year old daughter asked for more broccoli. 

Our dinner time is just plain different.
 
During our second day in Savannah, Bekah and I geared up for a trip to Walmart with Lydia and Hudson.  We had our list, water cups, coats and shoes.  I knew, though, that we could not leave without the snacks.  The snacks are vital in our household for getting through Walmart trips.  I am forever grateful to the M&M manufacturer as well as the Dum Dum distributors, both of which have made my shopping trips somewhat doable. 

I couldn't find lolypops in my sisters pantry, so I went for the Auntie Anns Honey Bunnies.  They looked sweet enough to keep two toddlers occupied. 

While getting ready to head out, Erin made sure that we had a snack for the kids.  I was about to tell her that I was one step ahead when the word, "apples," came out of her mouth. 

"Just slice up an apple and put them in a zip lock bag," were my sisters instructions.  And that was it. I was waiting for the "and then top it with chocolate or caramel sauce," but no.  Apples were apparently going to keep them occupied at Walmart.  I was more than skeptical, but knew that Walmart offered an array of candies when (not if) they would be necessary.  So, we were out the door, apple slices and all. 

It wasn't long before I once again felt out of my element.  I was not entirely sure about myself when I put Lydia and Hudson in the cart, and they stayed there.

I walked through Walmart with my head held high.  I wanted to sing praises to my niece and nephew!  But then, as we walked through the store, I began to speculate.  Surely they misbehave.  Surely!  Maybe she feeds them something that wires their behavioral mechanisms in a particular way.  Perhaps it was something I just hadn't discovered yet. 

The apples.  It was the apples.  At the first sign of Hudson becoming the least bit restless, I offered the snack:  "Does anyone want....apples?"  I said it like a temptress, luring them down the path of no return.

"Apples, apples!"  They began to chant.  Seriously.  They chanted. 

So, I gave them their prized possession and they ate the slices in the same way that my two year old eats M&M's.  With the passion that my toddler savors her lolly pops and with the attention that she gives to smarties.  They were distracted....by the apples.  They behaved....because of the apples.   

Although I did not admit my sense of inadequacy around her dear children by the end of the week, I made a decision that I was going to try some of my sister's tactics when I returned home.  And it was going to start with apples.  Besides, I convinced myself, my toddler's good too.  Yes, we were going to begin with apples. 

The Monday after I returned home, Lily and I took a trip to Walmart.  I had her water, I had her coat and shoes, and I had...apples. 

I will never bring apples to Walmart again.  They caused tears for both of us, and it was less than twenty minutes before we were in the candy aisle purchasing a pack of M&M's. 

The next morning, I needed some quiet.  Some solace.  It had been a hard week (and it was only Tuesday), so I put Sesame street on for Lily while I made some coffee.  I sat at the table reading my Bible for a few precious moments until lily came in the kitchen, opened the pantry, and said, "napkins will make it all better." 

"Uh-huh.  They will make it better."  I was lost in Daniel's faith as he stood at the thresh hold of the fiery furnace.  It was a delayed reaction, but thankfully I "came to."  I looked up from the Bible to see what exactly the napkins will "make better." 

I don't usually react well when it comes to stressful situations.  We had a fire in the kitchen not too long ago.  I can testify to the fact that screaming does not put out flames.  Thankfully, my husband knew this fact and used water. Thankfully. 

So, true to my nature, when I saw the entire bottle of hot pink nail polish spread out on the living room floor, I did not clamor for someone to bring me wet towels.  I merely stood and stared.  I began thinking about the large dinner party that we had the next night.  And then, as I watched the neon liquid soaking deeper into my white carpet, I began thinking about Lydia and Hudson.  If only Lily would eat apples. 

It was then that I received a call.  A call straight from heaven.  It was my sister, Erin. 

"So, I just spend the morning scrubbing marker off of everything!  My kids colored everywhere but the paper!  I'm putting Lydia and Hudson's markers and crayons away for good." 

I thought about asking her if she fed them their apples.  But instead, I just smiled and looked at my pink puddle. 

Kids are kids....apples or not. 

What Cancer Doesn't Change

My sister, Erin, called me a few weeks ago:

"Hey, Katie, I'm just curious.  How many hits do you have on your blog?"

"I don't know; maybe 300 or so."

"Oh, nice."

My sisters and I have a lot in common.  Amongst our comparable qualities is one very distinct characteristic that we all three share:  competitiveness.

At the age of three, Erin's hair grew longer than mine. I took issue with her golden locks and wasn't about to let her hair grow longer, so I chopped off one pig tail.  Just like that, the golden locks were gone, and my hair once again reigned supremely longer than my younger sisters. At least one side of it.  

I'm not the only one guilty of an intense competitive nature, however.  My younger sister, Bekah, played college ball with Erin.  During one particular practice, Erin and Bek were put on two opposing teams.  Erin took her post position and went up for a great shot, followed by a smooth follow through.  Bekah's nature set in - the same one that caused me to chop my unsuspecting little sister's hair.  Bekah robustly boxed out my sister, ready to re-bound.  Erin fell backward, shattering both elbows.  She had casts for weeks.  On both sides. 

A few weeks ago Erin started a blog about her new found journey- a "live" diary of a young woman and mother with breast cancer.  So, when she called inquiring about my blog a few weeks back, I assumed her pointed question was, perhaps, heading in the direction of:  ""Oh, wise, older sister of mine, please, oh please, tell me how to do this blog thing..." 

I responded to her:  "Why do you want to know about the hits?  How many hits do you have?"

Erin unassumingly answered:  "Oh, I'm not entirely sure.  It's like somewhere around.....6,000."  

I could just feel the deep, wide-spread smile on the other line.

There's no doubt that cancer changes a lot.  It changes a lot for the person fighting this disease.  Amongst the many other changes, the chemo will alter my sister's physical appearance.  It will change her daily routine with her three precious children.  It will change future decisions and plans. 

From the moment my sister uttered the phrase, "Katie, I have it," cancer has changed some things for me.  It has allowed me to see Erin's unabashed and unshakable faith in Jesus like I have never seen before.

Cancer has changed my uninterrupted sleep.  I am up fairly consistently during the early hours of the morning thinking about the changes that are to come for my sister.   Just the other night, I came out of a deep sleep quite alarmed.  I checked on the kids, and once I realized everyone was sleeping peacefully, I began praying for my sister.  The Lord would not let her off my my mind during the next hour.  In the morning she told me she was up much of the night terribly uncomfortable with hives.  

I've also been reminded of something else that cancer can change.  It can change our perspective.  It can remind us that God alone is in control, lest we forget due to the whispers of the world around us claiming desperately and hopefully that we have some say in what tomorrow will bring.  If we don't have control over our own physical bodies, then we certainly can't claim control of anything else around us.  Cancer changes our earthly perspective. 

But, cancer doesn't change everything.  God is in control, cancer doesn't change that.  My sister is a child of the King.  Cancer most definitely can't change that.  My sister's and I are very close.  Cancer doesn't change that.  I am a worrying, older sister.  Cancer, unfortunately, doesn't change that.  And, honestly, my sisters and I have a competitive nature.  Cancer doesn't even change that.

 This is Erin and I competing during vacation to see who can get the best picture of the other one taking a picture.  I won. 

                                  You can visit my sister's blog at www.erinfray.blogspot.com

Joy in the Mourning

We're studying the book of James in our Woman's Bible Study.  I always say that you learn more teaching than you do listening.   When forced to dig into Scripture and learn a passage in order to clearly communicate it to others, the Scripture comes alive in miraculous ways.  This is what happened for me when studying James 1:2-18; and in particular I found a new meaning to the familiar verse that James writes at the beginning of his letter:  "Consider it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness...." 

Notice first that James says, "Consider."  He knows that what he's asking this group of believers to do is something unnatural for us.  Consider, fellow believers, facing the trials that are in your life differently than you might have considered in the past.  Consider, my beloved, facing those trials with joy.

Joy.  What this doesn't mean is having to face trials with a smile on our face.  It doesn't mean acting like everything is OK when it is not.  And it doesn't mean that the all too familiar kids song, "I've got the Joy, Joy, Joy down in my heart," need be sung in a major tune.  Joy can be found in the minor melody's.  Joy can be found in sadness.  Joy can be seen in the deepest of uncertainties.

Joy is not an emotion.  Rather, it is a deep and unwavering trust in our faithful and merciful Savior, Jesus Christ.  And what is beautiful about this trust is that it is God who gives us the ability to trust and rest in Him.  He does not ask from us what He will not in turn give for us.  God is good....all the time. 

My sister, Erin, thirty years old, called on Friday with news that sent shock waves through our family.  She has breast cancer.  This was found only three days after giving birth to her third, a little boy named Samuel David Fray.  The Lord clearly gave her an abundance of peace and strength as she called and portrayed the news. 

Cancer is not unfamiliar in our family.  In fact, it is all too familiar.  However, the words "during treatment," and "meeting with the oncologist and surgeon," were nothing short of foreign coming from my sister's mouth.  All this while holding her sleeping newborn baby in her arms.

God is faithful.  And the image of her precious baby is most certainly one of God's unending faithfulness to us.  He holds us in his arms whether we're calm and at peace, or whether we're kicking and screaming, He holds us, loves us, and comforts us unconditionally.  Like a newborn who doesn't understand the life around him, we too struggle at times to make sense of the difficulties that we face during our journey Home.  And yet, like a parent, God teaches us. He molds us, and sometimes gives us glimpses of His plan at work within us.  We're called to trust. We're called to rest peacefully in the arms of our Savior knowing that He will carry us on the path that He has already laid out before us.  

God is faithful.  And while we mourn the struggles of this life, we look forward to the day when they're will be no sadness, their will be no pain, and we will see our Savior face to face.  Because of this, we have JOY in the midst of mourning.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTLfQ05Otk0&feature=related

Quick and Simple

Our afternoons and evenings are quite busy.  Like most parents with school-aged kids, this time of the day is packed with all sorts of activities – sports, piano, errands, and the occasional trip to the church office for one thing or another.  Recently, when pulling up to my husband’s office, our little two-year old yelled, “We’re home!”  Poor, little confused pastor’s kid. 

But on this particular day, we had the freedom to go right home after school – except for quick and simple detour to the doctor’s office for flu shots. 

I planned for this quick and simple diversion, but if my blog is familiar at all, there is a consistent pattern in my life:  my simple plans are never simple.  In fact, I think I jinx my plans with bold attempts to be quick and simple.  And really, honestly, the words “quick” and “three children” should simply not be understood together, but for some reason, I continue to think I can defy the forces of nature.   

I have met several young families through the years that have a certain grace about them – a poise that I have never understood.  We just don’t do things simply. And, quite frankly, grace, folks, is not the Polski’s forte.

Just the other day, for example, we were at a luncheon with our three children.  The luncheon went “smoothly,” aside from my son falling in a fountain. 

And so it goes.  It’s probably time I accept my reality – in this season of life, most activities just won’t go as smoothly as planned….including trips to the doctor’s office. 

We were only five minutes late for our appointment.  For me, this is usually a foreshadowing of nothing but good things to come.  I was assuming we’d be in and out for the vaccines, which would be a good thing because of my intense dislike of the doctor’s office. 

My hatred is not due to the typical waiting and usual inconvenience that typically comes with doctor’s offices.  No, it’s low on my list of places because it is, in my humble opinion, a “germ fest.”   It’s a, “come on in and breathe in every little kid’s illness in one small room,” kind of a place.  Kids are crying, snotting, coughing, and sneezing.  It’s my personal hell. 

So, I was anxious to get out of the germ infested waiting room so we could get back to the germ infested patient room, breathe in our virus, so as to not get the virus, and get out of there -   quick and simple. 

While in the waiting room, I told Ella and Jrod to sit in a chair and not move.  Next, I directed lily:  “Lily, don’t touch the fish tank in the middle of the room.  It’s gross.  Just stand here by momma.”   The receptionist handed me three papers to fill out – one for each child.  When I sat down to look at the papers, Jrod laughed and said, “Mom, look!  Lily’s kissing the tank.” 

 If you know me, it’s of no surprise that I literally gagged.  The tank was covered in little hand prints and smears from children who, like my own daughter, have showed love to the fish in their own unique way. 

So, I picked her up and decided to hold her for the remainder of our time in the waiting room.  And just like that, my child was transformed before my eyes.  It was the alter ego of my youngest that I’ve grown accustomed to.  The one that comes from the darkest places....  

I could no longer contain my toddler, who at the time could pass for a rabid monkey. 

I felt a sense of freedom as I set her flailing body down.  Unfortunately, this did not help.  She began rolling around on the floor crying out.  The older two sat in the chair cracking up – they find Lily’s tantrums more entertaining than Tom and Jerry.  I’m glad someone does, because to everyone else in the room, I was once again “that” mom.  I was the one whose child was out of control. I was the one who caused the semi-quiet waiting room to become, in an instant, a place of panic and stress. 

She finally found a permanent position and began merely whimpering with her face planted into the middle of waiting room floor. 

I gagged again. 

I really didn’t think I could handle one more minute, so I went to the receptionist desk and with my “phone voice” (as my kids call it) I said very peacefully, “Is it almost our turn?” 

The receptionist looked at her list and explained that she was waiting on my paper work.  Paper work.  I was supposed to fill out the paper work.  How is it that all these other mom’s finished their paper work, for goodness sake?  And why, for that matter, was no one else’s daughter lying face first in the middle of the waiting room? 

Once the paper work was filled it out, I handed it back, mustered up all the self control left in me, and I sat.  I waited as patiently as possible while watching my daughter suck up the fumes on the waiting room floor.  She was no longer crying, so I decided to leave the human lump where it was.  Ella offered to get her, and for once, I denied Ella the right to be a better parent than me. 

Finally, we were called back.  I picked up lily and told all three of them this would be really quick…and simple.    

Once back in the room, the nurse asked which child would go first.  My brave Ella offered and sniffed up the mist as quick as could be. 

Jrod was next.  After seeing how easy it was for Ella, he was brave as well.  He sat in the chair, sniffed up, and….sneezed.  Good grief.  She tilted his head back and finished him up – only a slight complication, nothing to get worked up about. 

It was Lily’s turn.  As soon as the nurse picked her up, she looked concerned, and surprisingly, it wasn’t because of Lily’s alter ego.  My daughter was being suspiciously calm. 

“Does she have a fever?” 

I wasn’t trying to act confused – I literally was.  I didn’t think she had a fever.  I’m a mom, for heaven’s sake.  I can feel a fever.  No, Lily did not have a fever. 

The nurse didn’t believe me.  Out came the thermometer which read 102. 

I decided it was totally inappropriate to say, “I knew that,” so I relented to the hard truth – I had no idea my daughter had a fever. 

The nurse continued on with a series of questions: 

“How long has she had the fever?”  I didn’t know. 

“Has she been eating well?”  I wasn’t sure how to answer this question.  My youngest refuses everything, and I mean everything, good for her.  If it has color, it goes on the floor.  So I relented to my nervous humor:  “Well, if Mac and cheese and ice cream means eating well, she’s doing fine!”  I’m pretty sure she wasn’t amused. 

“Has she had any cold symptoms?”  None that I had noticed.  But then I began second guessing myself – did she have a runny nose?  Did she seem stuffed up?  Had I heard her coughing?  I quickly changed my answer and told the nurse that maybe she did have a little cold, but then I thought again and couldn’t recall anything.  I went back to my original answer.  The nurse just looked at me. 

“Has she been acting more irritable than normal?”  I laughed. 

For fear that the nurse would think my daughter was not in capable hands, I explained that perhaps we’d seen her alter ego a little more than normal, but I hadn’t noticed any other abnormal symptoms.  I was immediately amused, and somewhat disturbed, at the fact that I did not consider it “abnormal” that only moments before my daughter lay in a heap with her face planted down on the waiting room floor. 

Lily could not get the vaccine, due to the fever, but at the urging of the nurse, we went back to re-check in so that she could be looked over. 

And there we were, one hour later, back in the waiting room…waiting. 

It was then that I began bribing – anyone who sat still and did not complain would get a lollypop.  This worked for like five minutes. 

Finally, we were back in the patient’s room, again.  All four of us sat down in the small room, and very quickly, all four of us began going crazy. 

I told the kids we’d play twenty questions.  Jrod began.  “How do babies come out of mom’s tummies?”  Not that kind of twenty questions, son. 

I changed the game to I spy – all in an attempt to not cry.  Jrod and Ella eventually came up with their own game of that they entitled “swap the stickers.”  Somehow my children swiped a grand total of twelve stickers after their flu vaccine.  I decided this was not the best time to chastise them for their greed.   We’d do that in the car on the way home…if we ever made it home. 

Finally, another nurse graced us with her presence.  She asked me the same questions as the previous nurse, and I had the same answers.  The nurse then suggested that the two older kids go and sit in the empty room next door while she examined Lily. 

Once thoroughly examined, Lily and I were finally released.  I wanted to shower with Lysol, but instead I went to gather the other two.  As soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong.  They were sitting in the chairs and quietly giggling.  I decided not to ask, so I walked over and grabbed Jrod’s hand.  It was then that I learned what the giggling was about.  “Mom, don’t step there!  Jrod peed his pants!” 

Wow.  I mean, it was truly unbelievable, especially since the bathroom was right next door.  I have to give him credit, though, I told him not to move – and move he did not. 

I finally handed Lily over to Ella and began grabbing several paper towels, hoping that no one would come in the room.  As I wiped up, I kept envisioning Lily’s face on the waiting room floor.  Gross.  I couldn’t help but gag. 

We finally made it to the car.  I sat in the front seat and stared at the clock on the dashboard.  Our quick detour lasted an hour and forty-five minutes and left me with three cranky children, a very tired and grossed out mom, a pair of soiled pants, and a fever. 

Next time we have an empty afternoon, I do believe we will “simply” go home. 

Something New....

First's can be hard.  No matter what the circumstance, no matter what the age, "first's" are typically accompanied by much thought and a few nerves. 

It's the anticipation of something new that lends itself to the bucket full of emotions.  Once embarking on a new adventure, emotions tend to become a little more steady.  For most, that is.  

We've entered into a new school year in the Polski household.  It's been very interesting watching my two oldest as they anticipate the first day of school.  Like most kids, there is particular interest in all the new friends they'll meet.  And so, it's been fascinating to see their different personalities emerge as they eagerly await the meeting of these potential new friends. 

I will never forget my first day of kindergarten.  I had it all planned out the night before and knew exactly how I was going to make friends.  I had mentally tucked away three stories that I was ready to pull out at a moments notice.  I didn't know whether or not they would be necessary, but just in case, I had a plan.

My first story had to do with a candy necklace.  Remember those?  I had a candy necklace that had one little circle of candy left hanging lonely in the middle of the elastic.  I figured I'd "hook" an innocent bystander by simply wearing the necklace.  Asking me about the candy would be the logical next step, and the story behind the candy  necklace would no doubt draw them right in.  I would have the opportunity to explain that I ate the whole necklace by myself.  And, if they would be my friend, I would let them have the last piece of candy.   And just like that...I'd have a friend. 

Just in case this wouldn't work, I had another plan.  I stuck my favorite T-shirt in my backpack (a dress was necessary for this first day, of course).  The T-shirt had a hot pink palm tree on the front, covered with florescent lights and bedazzles. Underneath the Palm tree was the word "Florida" strewn across in an ostentatious way.  It was awesome.  If I needed to pull it out, someone would surely ask me where I got it (not everyone entering kindergarten was ready to be there).  This was an easy hook.  I would then draw them in by explaining that I got to go to Florida that summer and my grandparents live right by Disney World.  I would then tell them that if they wanted to be my friend, I would take them with me sometime.  And just like that.... I'd have a friend.  

Believe it or not, I used the previous two stories on the first day of school.  I gave myself no chance to make a friend with the all too common "Hello, my name is Katie.  Do you want to play?"  and instead went right to the stories.  I don't remember if the kids were impressed or not.  I do, however, remember a young girl chomping down on the last piece of candy as it hung around my neck.
  
I kept the last story hidden away for almost the entire year.  In fact, my kindergarten graduation was one week after I decided to pull it out.  There was no doubt in my five year old mind that my use of the story was necessary at the time.  You see, no one was playing with me at recess.  All my friends went off in their little circles and I was left by myself on the playground.  This would not do. 

I had to answer questions about this story.  When I told them I could fly, I thought it would be a cut and dry issue, but it was apparent that everyone standing in the circle doubted me.  I remember questions like, "How did you learn?"  and "How high can you go?"   I then responded with one of the stupidest three word phrases that I had used in my entire five years:  "I'll show you."

I walked with confidence over to the bouncy bridge on the playground.  Five girls stood below me while the sixth climbed the stairs that at the time seemed miles high.

I told my friend to stand behind me and when I told her to push, she should push as hard as she could.  I also told her that she would have the best view of the flight.  I asked everyone if they were ready, and then I didn't disappoint and yelled, "push!"  I, apparently, was amongst those who entered Kindergarten but wasn't ready to be there.  

It really was terribly wrong that my friend's mother made her bring me a present and some ice cream after finding out my foot was broken in three places.  Her mother didn't believer her when she explained the situation.  Looking back, I'm not entirely sure I would have believed her either.  Poor girl.  I sat there with a heavy cast on my scrawny leg eating Baskin Robbins and looking through brand new Clifford books.  What a friend.

I suppose I had them in kindergarten.  Friends, that is.

I can't help but reminisce when I watch my kids go through the same anticipation.  They ask the same kinds of questions that I used to ask:  What will the other people be like?  Will they like me?  Who will be my friends?  

Yesterday, I watched quietly as my daughter acquainted herself with her new third grade classroom.   And I noticed something very interesting and really quite refreshing about her.  She was quiet.  She said very little, unless spoken to.  And, remarkably, she had met two new kids in our short fifteen minute visit to her new classroom. Two kids that upon leaving she referred to as "her new friends."   How does she do that? 

And then there is my son.  When putting him to bed the other night, he told us he had a "plan" (oddly and somewhat scarily familiar) for how he was going to make his friends.  When my husband asked him about his plan, he explained the fine details very confidently:  "I'll bring money to school and pay them all to be my friend.  A quarter each." 

Really?  His plan is to buy some friends?

But then, really, is that any stranger than making friends with candy necklaces, Las Vegas style T-shirts, and stories about flying?  I think not. Admittedly, these kinds of "plans" may not be all his own fault. 

I went home from my first day of kindergarten with a saliva ridden elastic band around my neck.  Here's to hoping my son's future friends don't go home with a pocket full of change.