Bunny-Hopping to the Finish Line

     At about 4 o'clock this morning, I heard a cat crying. This isn't unusual since I have four cats and I'm used to their cries. They cry when they first come in from outdoors and they jump on my lap to tell me about their exciting adventures. I know the difference between the meow that means they are about to throw up in my shoe and the one that means they are bragging about bringing me the insect/mouse they have killed (or at least captured alive before letting it loose in my house). There is the, "I'm bored so you'd better entertain me before I find a way to entertain myself" cry and the "How could you leave me on this side of the door when it's warm and cozy in there with you" cry.

     But this was a new cry. I got up and opened the door to let in whichever cat was lonely, but no one waited there. And the meowing continued. I stepped out on the porch to call, "Here, kitty, kitty," but not one furry soul came running. And I still heard meowing. Having been woken from a sound sleep, I was stumbling around with my eyes half-open and my brain on auto-pilot trying to locate the sad kitty. I looked up on the roof, since I have a skylight and cats have been known to stand over the open skylight and cry through the screen to get my attention, but the skylight was closed and no cats were on the roof. I also checked the air conditioning unit sticking out from my upstairs window because one particular cat, PJ, has the unfortunate habit of jumping six feet from a second floor porch railing onto the AC unit (without a safety net) to peer in the window and freak me out with her glowing yellow eyes. She is a black cat, so all you see in the darkness is those eyes. No PJ on the AC.

     I walked back into the house, ready to stumble off to bed and try to sleep through the noise, when I noticed the cries were louder in one area. I looked up at the skylight and felt my heart jump in my chest. I was no longer semi-conscious. I was fully awake. There, framed in the moonlight, was my precious PJ, the sweetest cat I've ever met, sprawled like one of those stuffed cats you see on the rear windows of cars, trapped between the skylight glass and the screen. The space had to be about three inches thick. PJ's mother had climbed onto the screen once or twice, but her weight had always caused the screen to fall and she had safely landed on the table below. The skylight is set up to automatically close when it starts to rain or if anything bumps it, like a branch from a tree. PJ must have climbed onto the screen to let me know she wanted in and caused the window to close, not realizing it was closing until it was too late to crawl out.

      I'm not sure whose face showed more panic, hers or mine, but I know my cries were louder. I grabbed one of the pins in the screen to try to pop it out, then stopped because I was worried she would get hurt when she fell if she couldn't get her feet under her in time. Deciding to use the remote to open the window instead, I pushed the button, then watched as it slowly, slowly lifted off of her. Luckily, the screen had some give in it, so she wasn't crushed, just scared and miserable. She scampered off the screen onto the solid roof, but as I turned to run to the door to let her in, I saw her stick her head back between the window and screen to look at me. I guess she didn't spend quite enough time trapped in there to learn her lesson.

     I've been feeling a little like PJ trapped in that skylight lately. I recently found out that I have to have major abdominal surgery again in October. This will be my fourth time in five years. My choices are either have the surgery with all its pain and long recovery or risk waiting until it is a dangerous emergency that could involve more extensive surgery and an even longer recovery. Some choice. I keep hoping for another option, but unlike PJ's predicament, there is no one who will come along and push a magic button and give me a way out no matter how long or hard I howl.

     At least I can prepare this time. Last time, it was emergency surgery and I had to spend ten days in the hospital with hairy legs and toenails that were only half covered in polish. Do you know how embarrassing that is when nurses are putting socks on you every day? Plus, I was due for a shower when I was rushed to the hospital, so in desperation, I washed my hair in the sink in Intensive Care.

     You would think that I would enjoy a long recovery on the couch, a time of feeling no guilt about laundry or dishes or other household chores. After all, three of my favorite things are writing, reading, and watching movies which are couch-based activities. Unfortunately, general anesthesia and pain medication have a way of clouding your brain for weeks, if not months, after surgery and I always find it hard to concentrate on anything while recovering. My level of concentration just barely rises to watching re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond episodes that I have seen countless times before. My family has also seen them countless times before which makes my recovery almost as painful for them as it is for me.

     Speaking of my family, they are fantastic about taking care of me while in the hospital and once I am home. They buy groceries, attempting to find little treats that will appeal to me, they cook and clean, they change my sheets and help me walk to the bathroom, and they put up with the Raymond re-runs without too much complaint. The only time the ball was dropped was when my husband showed up in my hospital room with a big platter of strong-smelling Italian takeout at a time when I had just spent several days vomiting and was lying with a tube running up my nose and into my stomach. But considering everything else he puts up with and does for me, it was a minor misstep.

     One of my family members is with me round-the-clock for those first few weeks and that is a blessing. I  realize this next statement shows just what a small, petty person I am, but it is also incredibly hard to lie on the couch, bored and in pain, and watch the family members who aren't on duty get ready for lunch with friends or to go to a movie or even to run to the store, all clean and shiny and wearing real clothes instead of the pajamas or drawstring pants I'm stuck in, with their legs shaved and their toes perfectly painted because they can bend over to accomplish the job. Given the choice between going through the recovery myself or watching one of my loved ones suffer through it, it's a no-brainer---I would choose the surgery for myself and the healthy, fun times for them---but even knowing that, I'll admit to getting cranky around week three on the couch and maybe, just maybe putting on another episode of Raymond out of spite instead of a genuine desire to watch Marie get her way once again.

     Well, I'm sure I'll have plenty more thoughts to share with you about this over the next couple of weeks, including sharing some of the "you just gotta laugh" moments from my previous adventures in the hospital, so I'll end this for now. Besides, PJ just jumped on the AC unit again and I have to go save her. Maybe there's a lesson in that for me--she could have spent the day playing it safe, napping, and being fussed over, but she shook off her bad experience and leapt right back into the action. I should be recovered enough by January to at least bunny-hop, if not leap. Maybe my recovery period spent watching my family living life and having fun will go quicker if I plan big things for myself to do post-recovery. Bungie jumping? Sky diving? Maybe not, but a trip to someplace warm where I can lay on a chaise on the beach and watch the waves roll in isn't out of the question. I can always pack my portable DVD player and my Raymond discs, just in case.

I Swear I Didn't Hit Him With A Frying Pan!

There are many ways to celebrate a birthday---cake, a party, nice dinner out, having family and friends come over---and then there is my husband's way.


This past Sunday was Herbie's birthday and he wanted to spend it at our cabin in the mountains with my youngest daughter and me. We drove up on Friday with plans to spend Saturday and Sunday hiking through the woods and paddling around in canoes, then have a yummy dinner, a cake, and presents on Sunday afternoon before driving back home. A nice relaxing, outdoorsy weekend, right?


But Saturday morning my husband woke up before M and I did and since Herbie can't sit still for more than a minute, he headed out to the woods for some manly brush-hogging. The property that we own was left to us by Herbie's uncle and it consists of 127 acres. Herbie likes to use the tractor to cut trails for family and guests to walk through the woods.


I got up and had my coffee and M had just come downstairs when I heard a squawk on the walkie-talkie that was sitting on the kitchen counter. I answered it, figuring it was Herbie calling to see if we were up and ready for some fun. It was Herbie and he said, "I got the tractor stuck in the swamp." I replied, "You wouldn't be Herbie if you hadn't," since getting things stuck in mud is a common occurrence for my husband. Then he said, "I tried to pull it out with a winch. It snapped and the metal hook hit me in the back of the head. I'm bleeding and I need you to come get me." Who needs coffee to get your heart pumping when you have news like this?


He gave me directions as to where to find him and M and I jumped on the four-wheeler and took off, our two little white dogs following on foot since we didn't want to take the time to chase them down and stick them in the house. M and I drove back along an old logging road until I could see him coming up a trail to meet us. I jumped off and ran down the trail (and I don't run often) to where he was, but long before I reached him, I could see massive quantities of blood on his shirt and neck. We got him on the back of the four-wheeler and took him back to the cabin. While I assessed the situation, M drove back and picked up the weary dogs on the four-wheeler and brought them inside.


It was obvious that we were going to be making a trip to the emergency room of the local hospital. Problem is, the local hospital is an hour away. There are small clinics that are closer, but for a real hospital, you need to drive for an hour. Herbie jumped in the shower for a quick rinse off because he said he would be miserable riding in the truck and then sitting in the waiting room covered in sweat and blood. I told him to leave the bloody (not like Ron Weasley bloody, but actually bloody) clothes on so they would take him back to see the doctor more quickly, but he ignored my sage advice.


When he finished showering, I took my first good look at the damage and saw a two inch gash near the top of his head. He kept pointing to a spot lower on his head and when I parted the hair, I saw another gash there as well. M and I put several sterile gauze pads over the injury and then wrapped an Ace bandage around his head to hold them in place.


Herbie was pretty quiet on the ride, only answering my questions (Dizzy? Nauseated? Blurry vision? Any loss of consciousness? Was he knocked to the ground? That's right, I know these things. I raised four kids). I asked about pain and he said it wasn't too bad. I tried to get him to the hospital as fast as possible, but the drive involved a half hour on winding country roads before we reached the highway and both Herbie and M get carsick easily, so  I drove just fast enough to imply a sense of urgency, but not fast enough to induce vomiting. It was a tricky balance.


Once at the hospital, he was evaluated. That is the nice thing about country hospitals--if I walked into a hospital at home and said I got hit in the head by a snapped winch cable while pulling my tractor out of the swamp, they would direct me to the psychiatric ward for further evaluation, but up there, they nodded their heads and the male intern said, "Yup, the same thing happened to my dad a few years ago."   After looking at the cuts, they put fresh gauze on it and re-wrapped the Ace bandage around his head. They asked the same questions I had already asked him, and I was feeling smugly smart about that until I accidentally answered one of the questions by referring to his injury as his boo-boo.


They asked him what his pain level was and he said a three, which isn't too bad considering. Then they decided to put a neck brace on him "just in case" and that's when the fun began for real. If most husbands are potato heads, mine is a coconut head. There is no polite way to say this--his head is huge. It is perfectly proportioned to the rest of him, but compared to other heads, it's gigantic. He had to have a specially ordered helmet when he played high school football and he can never find a baseball cap that fits. He passed this huge noggin on to our girls so you can imagine how delightful it was to give birth to them. Not one had a pointy head, all hard and perfectly round at birth.


I think the hook on the winch cable would have missed a normal man's head by a mile, but Herbie presented too big of a target to miss. So the neck brace was waaaaay too small. They put it on anyway. Now the pain and discomfort level shot up to about a six, because the collar was tight on his throat and he had to hold his head at an odd angle to keep the back of the collar from digging into the lower cut. Blood started to pour down the back of his neck and I had to stuff tissues in there to sop it up. The collar was put on in case of whiplash, but Herbie hadn't had any neck pain before the collar was put on, only after from straining to hold his boo-boo (that's right, I said it) away from the hard plastic.


We walked from the waiting room back into the triage area and asked for it to be loosened. They did, but it didn't help much. When they weren't looking, I loosened it even more because the blood was still pouring out and Herbie had gone from mildly uncomfortable to downright miserable. Maybe twenty minutes later, they took us to an examining room and we told the nurse that the collar was a problem. She said she couldn't take it off until the doctor had examined him. After another half hour of sitting there with dripping blood and cranky husband, I took it off myself. Herbie was much happier and when the doctor finally came in, she didn't even mention it, so I wasted twenty minutes mentally plotting how I would defend my actions when questioned (Stiff breeze blew it off? Rabid raccoon chewed through the velcro? Hard sneeze by my husband shot it across the room and I was too stupid to figure out how to put it back on? Okay, maybe I needed more than twenty minutes to come up with a plausible answer.)


The doctor suspected a mild concussion and ordered a CT scan to check for skull fracture or blood clots on the brain. Herbie asked if he would need stitches and the doctor replied that they don't do stitches anymore and staples would be used instead. I flinched, but Herbie took it quite calmly. It was only later that he admitted that he hadn't fully taken in that she meant she would be stapling the back of his head. He just heard, "No stitches."


We accompanied Herbie down to the CT machine and were allowed to stand in the screening room where we could not only see him rolled into the machine, but could watch the scans as they appeared on the computer screen. On occasion, when my husband swears I didn't tell him something that I've actually told him repeatedly and only remembers being told after I repeat the whole conversation to him word for word, I've wondered about his brain. He's a little too young to be having senior moments like that and while I've presumed that stress from work overload is the culprit, there is a little voice in the back of my mind saying, "Take him to Dr. McDreamy!" At last, I had a chance to see his brain in all it's glory and the experts tell me everything is A-okay. No skull fracture, no hematoma, nothing out of the ordinary at all, just a typical husband who doesn't listen to his wife. Great news all around. Plus, my worries that his head wouldn't even fit in the machine were groundless--they managed to squeeze it in.


Back in the examining room, the doctor asked Herbie to lay on his stomach so she could clean and close the wound. That's when the word "staples" actually penetrated Herbie's brain (That may be a bad way to put it. The staples didn't penetrate his brain, thank goodness. He just figured out exactly what was about to happen.) First, she had to clean the wound and she wasn't shy about it. She poured antiseptic into both wounds and wiped repeatedly. M and I squeezed Herbie's calf and murmured words of encouragement while we blinked back tears. We had joked with him while waiting for the doctor and we had taken lots of pictures of the wound at his request, but watching someone you love in extreme pain is a sobering experience and it takes a lot to get me sober.


As if the cleaning hadn't been bad enough, now the doctor had to numb the area so she could insert the staples and there is only one way to do it---big shiny needles stuck right into the cut. I could have gotten every secret Herbie ever kept out of him at that moment, but I refrained. It didn't seem like the appropriate time, plus I'm kinda scared to know what he's keeping secret.


After the area was pretty numb, she took out a tool no bigger than an electric toothbrush and started stapling. He got six staples in the top cut and five in the bottom. You really have to go to your happy place and ignore what is happening right in front of you when someone is stapling your husband's head like his skin flaps are the pages of a high school book report.


Once the stapling was finished, the doctor had Herbie sit up so she could bandage the wound. He had been laying on a plastic pillow and there was a lovely pool of blood filling it's indents. There was blood splashed all over the floor, on the sheets, all over Herbie's arms and hands--it was like a slaughterhouse in there. She told him to have the staples removed in a week, gave him a prescription for antibiotics, and sent him on his way.


I'm happy to say that Herbie is making a full recovery. He ate a good dinner that evening and slept like a baby. We Skyped with my other daughters so he could hold the computer up to his head and show them the gory details. The next day, his actual birthday, I made sure to grab the phone every time it rang so I could "encourage" all his loved ones to give him a lecture about the perils of wandering off into the woods on his own to pursue dangerous tasks. I can't stop thinking, "What if he'd been knocked unconscious?" I wouldn't have even started worrying about him for hours. I would have been blissfully reading or puttering around the cabin thinking he was happily tromping through the woods when in reality he would have been laying on the ground bleeding. And when I did start to worry--where would I begin my search of the 127 acres? I love my dogs, but trackers they are not. They wouldn't be able to pull a Lassie and help me find where Timmy fell down the well.


Speaking of dogs, I hear you can buy a collar with a GPS locating chip in it in case they wander off. I'm thinking of getting one for Herbie. Unfortunately, I'm almost positive they won't have one big enough. Perhaps we'll have to go old school and have Herbie leave a trail of bread crumbs instead. Or meat chunks. Even my fluffy white puppies could follow that trail.

Empty Nests, Torn Underwear, and the Stirrings of a Rebellion

I'm thinking about getting a tattoo. Or shaving my head. Or maybe getting something pierced.

I've always been dutiful.

A dutiful student who didn't cheat, didn't sleep during even the most boring classes, didn't play hooky, and got the grades to get into and graduate from college.

A dutiful daughter who respected her parents and tried to make their lives easier as they advanced in years, and who took their advice about not giving away the milk for free or nobody will buy the cow (Who exactly came up with that flattering piece of advice? Couldn't they have said something more like if a man can find enough wildflowers, he won't need to plant a garden? Or if he can get free honey, he won't need a queen bee? Why did women have to be the cow in this scenario?) I also did things in the order they preferred--dating, engagement, wedding, moving in together, and then children.

A dutiful wife who has never even thought of straying in 29 years of marriage. Who packed her husbands bags and sent him off with a smile on business trips, adventure excursions with his buddies, and weekends in the mountains while I stayed home with four small children. Who has turned the other cheek to his families' behavior so many times I can now do a full 360 degrees with my head like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

A dutiful mother who always, always, always put her children's wants and needs in front of her own. Who diapered and nursed, wiped and powdered, carried and rocked, punished and rewarded, listened and learned for the last twenty-six years. Who did homeroom mom, fund-raising, crafts, CCD meetings, sleepovers, treasure hunts, Back-to-School nights, party treats, costumes, car pools, designated driver for the of age drinkers, luaus, field-trips, chaperoning, and homework-checking.

Dutiful, dutiful, dutiful.

Now, I am 51 years old, my children are grown with lives of their own, my parents have both died, I've lost touch with most friends over the years as I concentrated on my husband and children, and my husband has spent the past 29 years out in the world, building relationships, friendships, and businesses that keep him fully occupied.

What I wanted more than anything in life was for my husband to be successful and my daughters to grow into independent, happy adults and it has happened. Unfortunately, I forgot to include myself in those goals and now that the nest is almost empty, I can't figure out who I am if I'm not the one gathering twigs for shelter and chewing up worms to nourish someone.

I shall have to drop the unneeded twigs and spit out the unwanted worms and re-invent myself.

The question is--into what?

I don't have the answer to that, but one thing I know is I am tired of caring what other people think, of following written and unwritten rules that make sense only to the people who made them up, and mostly, of being dutiful.

I want to be baaaaaaad.

I feel like putting leftovers into Tupperware and not burping the air out. I feel like throwing an aluminum can into the regular trash instead of the recycling--on purpose. I want to let the grass in the yard grow knee high just to see the neighbors' dirty looks. Check underneath the table of the next restaurant I go to and you might find my chewed gum or you might see me order a banana split and when the skinny people eating leaves and twigs at the nearby tables look down their noses' at my gluttony, I'll slowly and deliberately lick the bowl. I want to wear white before Memorial Day and show up at a funeral in red. Dare me to swim immediately after eating and run around the house holding scissors and just watch me go.

I want to shock my friends by showing up at their house without bringing a bottle of wine or a baked good. Shock my family by taking the last piece of pie without asking if anyone else wants it. I may even stop putting the parking brake on when parked in my own driveway. The next time someone asks if I mind without really caring if I do, instead of saying, "No, of course not," I'll answer, "Yes, I bloody well do mind!" even if I don't (Forgive me, I've been obsessed with watching British miniseries on Netflix lately--Cranford, Upstairs Downstairs, Downton Abbey--and now everything in my head comes with a British accent. As for "bloody" Ron Weasley uses it in Harry Potter, so it can't be too vulgar a curse word, can it? Ooooh, I can add use the word "bloody" in my blog to my list of shocking behaviors!) .

I want to leave dishes in the sink and clothes in the washer. Drink regular coffee after five p.m. Bend the corner of a page down on the book I'm reading to mark my place. Wink at the butcher when he hands me my pork chops. Leave empty rolls on the toilet paper holders. Ruffle up the hand towels and then walk away. Feed stray cats. Pet stray dogs. Write a picture book in bad rhyme. Eat the collection of chemicals known as a Twinkie. Wear torn underwear even though I know I might get in an accident.

I can feel this rebellious spirit rising up in me and it scares me. I don't know where it might lead. Is it possible that if I surrender to it, one day I might find myself truly crossing the line and wearing socks with sandals?

Only time will tell.

Let's just keep my rebellious stirrings our little secret for now. Wouldn't want to create widespread panic.

Do Baby Zombies Eat Your Face Or Can They Only Reach Your Ankles?

I live in perhaps the oddest house I personally have ever seen. It's a farmhouse and the original rooms were built over two hundred years ago. Bits and pieces have been added throughout the years and sometimes I feel like I'm living in The Burrow--the Weasley's tottering home in Harry Potter.

The house has four floors. Let's start in the basement, shall we? The original basement was an approximately 15 by 10 foot room with beams running through the very low ceiling and a walk-in fireplace. Previous owners added a large cinderblock room under an addition which we finished to make a large rec room. Unfortunately, to get to this carpeted, paneled, rec room with it's pool table, sofa beds, and TV, you have to pass through the creepy old basement with it's rickety stairs, cement walls and floor, and exposed wires and pipes running the length of the ceiling. There isn't much we can do about it because we can't cover up these pipes and wires in case we need access. Feeling that this root cellar like atmosphere wasn't deterrent enough for our guests, we added a frequently used litter box to the mix. I have no idea how our daughters convinced any of their friends to venture down into this area to reach the playroom when they were little, but they did, and the basement has been the site of more parties, play-dates, and sleepovers than I can count. When you consider the fact that any little girl who had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night had to pass through here alone on her way, I'd say the Catholic Church should add this to it's list of miracles.

On the main floor, you have the dining room and living room, which made up the original house. A previous owner added a kitchen, family room and laundry room off the dining room and added a powder room under the stairs, which puts it right in the dining room. It's always a nice touch to be able to hear the sound of urination and a toilet flushing at your dinner parties. This powder room was the site of the unmentionable spinning party guest incident. Another nice touch to have that story in the back of your mind during meals around the dining room table.

Open a closet door in the dining room and you will find not a storage place for linens, but a spiral staircase leading to the master bedroom. The staircase is narrow and is unused because the same previous owner built a closet in the master bedroom that required lowering the ceiling in the staircase. A normal staircase was also built between the living room and dining room and I'm guessing that took place after the owners tried to pivot a dresser or headboard up the spiral one and got it stuck. There used to be a window in the wall of the now powder room, so they just put hinges on it and made it into a small storage cabinet.

On what we call the second floor (even though technically, it's the third) is the master bedroom, the master bath, and another bedroom. When you come up the stairs from the first floor, you are presented with the choice of three doors (It's just like Let's Make a Deal!). To your left, is the door to the master bedroom, immediately to your right is the door to the master bath, and slightly down the hall to the right is the door to the second bedroom. How is this possible when the house has four bedrooms? Well, someone throughout the years designed the layout of the house so that to get to the two bedrooms and bath on the third floor, you have to either go through the master bedroom or master bathroom. You can imagine the complications of that. If someone is taking a shower in that bathroom and someone else is asleep or changing in the master bedroom, you are stuck in the hall waiting for entry. This also means the master bath not only has the door to this hallway, but has a second door leading to the stairs to the top floor. I can't tell you how many guests have shared that they sat down on the toilet only to look up and realize there was a door wide open right in front of them.

The master bath had the only shower with the third floor bath containing only a claw foot tub, so you can imagine life with six people (four of them being teenage girls) and only one shower. Our stubborn insistence on keeping parts of history plus the herculean effort involved in carrying a cast iron tub down two flights of stairs kept us from putting a shower in even though it was greatly needed. Now, that three of the girls have moved out and are only occasional visitors, we, of course, came to our senses and we are in the process of installing a shower in that bathroom. It only took us twenty-two years of no one using the tub to realize, hey, maybe a second shower would be a good idea. It's no wonder our daughters know every spot on the ceiling when they spend so much time rolling their eyes at my husband and me for our inability to see the obvious.

The master bedroom has a closet with another spiral staircase leading to . . . nowhere. Previous occupants eliminated the exit at the top of the stairs by putting in a hardwood floor in the bedroom. The third floor used to be an attic, but was made into two bedrooms and a shared bath when the roof was raised by dormers.

In the long history of the occupants of our house, one thing was constant until we moved in---each family who lived here had five children. We, alas, broke the tradition by stopping at four. But even so, there have been many, many babies and young children living here throughout the centuries.

I personally am an open-minded person and don't believe in nor negate the possibility of ghosts walking among us, aliens flying above us, or intelligent life existing in Hollywood. I don't pretend to have absolute knowledge of whether these things are real or not. I can say that, despite living in this old house for twenty-two years, I have never felt an evil presence (other than my in-laws) nor have I seen anything out of the ordinary (well, I have, but I'm speaking in paranormal terms here, not my everyday abnormal living, breathing human sightings).

But others claim that they have experienced things while in our humble home. One case was of a couple who came to feed our cats while we were away. As the wife was opening cat food cans, the husband picked up the baby monitor from the kitchen counter and flicked it on. He casually mentioned to his wife that the kids sounded like they were having a good time upstairs. She froze and reminded him that the reason they were there in the first place was because no one was home. They listened to the sound of children's voices and he suggested that perhaps the part of the monitor that picks up sound was turned off and the receiving part, which he held in his hands, was picking up a signal from a neighbor's monitor. That can happen only if the transmitting part is turned off. She begged him to go upstairs and see if it was turned off. He refused and they dumped cat food onto plates and got out of there. They called us to tell us what happened and when we got home, we checked the monitor. It was turned on upstairs. We also reminded our friends that there were no other children living within the monitor's range. Many times over the years, we turned on the monitor to hear the same lullaby playing. It wasn't playing in our house and it was always the same one.

But baby monitors aren't reliable and there could be any number of explanations. So let's share our next story.

We asked two construction worker friends of ours to do some remodeling in our bedroom closet while we were away on vacation. These are tough, burly, hockey fan kind of guys. When we arrived home from vacation, excited to see the finished closet, we were shocked to see the work half done and tools lying abandoned on the floor, paint cans left open and drying, and general disarray. We'd had these guys do work for us before and knew that they were reliable about cleaning up after themselves.

A call to one of the workers resulted in an explanation of sorts. He said they had been making good progress on the closet when he casually mentioned to his co-worker that he wished I would pick up the baby because the crying was giving him a headache. His co-worker agreed before they both froze at the realization that I wasn't going to be picking up any baby since I and my babies were in another state. They stepped out into the bedroom and both were absolutely positive that the source of the crying was within the house and right up the stairs. They dropped their tools and pushed and shoved each other to be the first down the stairs and out of the house. Both refused to return until we were at home and could assure them that they weren't about to be slimed or have their faces eaten off by a zombie toddler.

I will say that when they did come back, the job was finished in no time. It's the fastest I've ever seen construction workers move.

Perhaps I should share this story with all future workers I hire. I could even rig a tape recorder to play a tape of a baby occasionally crying in case they are tempted to slack off a bit. I could program the lights to go on and off by themselves, have doors slowly creaking open . . .

Well, if it doesn't get my new wallpaper hung faster, it might at least discourage the in-laws from dropping by.

Of course, if there really were ghostly presences in my house, the time that my in-laws have already spent here probably convinced them to move to the light and cross over. Whatever unfinished business was keeping them here was probably forgotten as they came to the same conclusion I have--moving to the light is preferable than living in the hell of having my in-laws in the same house.

Wedding Plans, Barrel Racers, and Blood Oaths

I am honestly curious about something. Is my life normal? I mean, do most other people have the day-in day-out craziness and non-stop circus atmosphere that is my life? I'm not complaining. I know that I have a very good life in many ways--I don't have any flesh-eating diseases, none of my family members have ever appeared on Jerry Springer, I don't have to drive to the state prison to visit any of my children, and none of my in-laws live with me. But there is a constant swirl of insanity in my life and every once in awhile, I wonder if every one else lives in their own constant swirl of insanity, too.

My daughter C and her fiance E were in town for ten days for a whirlwind wedding planning visit. My daughter A came in to go to appointments with us. Ten days of trying on dresses, visiting prospective reception sites, meetings with a wedding planner, talking and talking about where, how, when, and who. C was sick when she got here, so within a few days, so were E and daughter M, who lives at home. M is finishing up her junior year of high school, so we wedged some end of year events into the schedule, too. There was all the usual shopping, cooking, and cleaning that goes with having house-guests, plus a dog who is still biting the rash on his tail where fur used to be, plus visits with their old friends from high school, plus appointments with family doctors to take care of while in town, and since it was Memorial Day weekend, barbecue food needed to be prepared and enjoyed.

It was great having them home and a lot of fun, but exhausting. A drove back to Pittsburgh on Saturday and by the time we got back from dropping C and E at the airport Monday night, all I wanted to do was float on a raft in the pool until I was as wrinkled as Grandma Moses.

Before I could even get home, I got a call from M saying that she needed me to go with her to a craft store for supplies for a school project. We pulled in the driveway at 5:30, and since the store closed at 6, pulled right back out again. Shopping was followed by dinner which was followed by trying to put the house back into some semblance of order.

Then the fun began. I received a text from C saying that they had made it to their layover in Minnesota and were taking off for the final leg of the journey back to North Dakota, but the pilot said there were severe thunderstorms in their path. She informed me, by text, that they were going to try to fly through the eye of the storm. And that was it. Then I got to wait, nervously gnawing at fingernails that don't have much room left for gnawing.

My oldest daughter then called to talk about her upcoming visit home (she is flying in today for a wedding this weekend) and while we were discussing details, I got a text from A that went like this, "Can I ask you a weird question?" No parent ever wants to get a text like that. A graduated from Pitt in April, but is staying out there for another year while her boyfriend finishes up his teaching degree. I cautiously replied, "Okay," and waited for the shoe to drop. She texted back, "Would you mind if I go to Canada tomorrow?" I guess for some people that isn't an odd question, but for us, it came from so far out in left field, it was in the bleachers. I told oldest daughter J that I had to go so I could call A and find out what she was talking about.

When I reached her, A told me that some sorority sisters were driving up to Canada the next day to stay for just one night to see Niagara Falls and wanted her to go with them. I got her to agree that she wouldn't get "Oh Canada" tattooed anywhere on her body, wouldn't go over the falls in a barrel or anything else, and wouldn't elope while there, and then gave her my blessing to take the trip. Of course, she was sitting in a bar doing birthday shots with her roommate when we talked, so I'm not sure she knew what she was agreeing to and I won't be surprised if she comes home married to a Canadian barrel racer with an American flag tattoo from a drunken misreading of my instructions.

Once I handled that situation, my youngest told me that she was having problems printing out a pamphlet for a psychology class assignment that was due the next day. She had completed the work, but the printer wasn't co-operating. I agreed to check the printer in an hour to make sure the pamphlets had printed and went back to writing. She went to bed since it was after 11 and she had school the next day.

I got another text from C at 12:20 saying, "Back in Minn two hours later. Probably here for the night." I called and she said they got about a half hour outside Grand Forks and had to turn around because of the storms. I asked if the airline was going to put them up at a hotel and she said no, they wanted them to hang out at the airport while they decided what to do.

Ding, ding, 1:02 and another text. "Looks like we're reboarding soon, looking at the radar, I think there is a gap in the storms, we're going to try to go through." Be still my heart. I called and asked if there was an option to spend the night and fly the next day, but she said there were no seats available on any flights. I hung up and looked at Barnaby, who now has a puff of fur at the base of his tail, a long section of what looks like pink playdoh, and then an odd little tuft that survived at the very top, and even he looked nervous. But then again, that's his usual expression.

I left my home office to check the printer and found nothing sitting in the tray. In the chair next to the printer, I saw four printed documents and a page that was crumbled as though it had come out of a paper jam. Hmm, curious. I absolutely love technology, but there is nothing as frustrating as technology that won't do what it's supposed to do. I used M's laptop to send the page to the printer again and it started shooting out pages with bits and pieces of text, but not the whole thing. I canceled and tried again with the same result. Oh, well, I thought, I'll just save it to a memory stick and print it on the one in my office. Except the laptop refused to recognize the memory stick. I tried for a half hour, but no luck. So I decided to email the pamphlet as an attachment to myself and and then print it in my office. In order to attach a doc, you have to close it first, so I did. Then I opened her email account and when I went to attach the doc, I couldn't find it anywhere. Another half hour went by as I searched for it, including in recent documents, and I finally found it in a sub-folder of another sub-folder.

I sent the email, went back to my office, and opened the file. But since my daughter typed it on a PC and I have a Mac, there were updates and patches and blood oaths that had to take place before my Mac would consider giving the print order. And once it was printing, since it was a tri-fold pamphlet with printing on both sides, it took me awhile to figure out which way to put the paper back in and what to ask the printer to do before I got it right. Plus there were the obvious questions of how many does she need, do I fold them, and why does this teacher hate me, too.

I finally finished with the pamphlet at 2 a.m. (spending most of that time wondering about the possibility of this whole thing being the actual psychology assignment--"See how far you can push subject before he/she snaps"). My eyes were bleary, I was having trouble making my legs move, and I had ink stains on my fingers, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep until I knew that C and E had landed safely. Being a writer, I must admit to having a bit of an active imagination, so of course I was picturing lightning strikes, turbulence, and C screaming, "I should have never left my mommy!" At 2:30 a.m., she finally texted, "Landed in Grand Forks, thank goodness." I replied and then stumbled off to bed to recharge for whatever awaited me in the morning, including a possible Canadian son-in-law.

I wish that I could say that this was a rare rogue wave in an otherwise calm sea, but this kind of stuff happens to me about as regularly as waves hit a beach. So I just want to know, is anyone else out there treading water or are you all floating on a raft, trailing your fingers in the cool water, sipping from a drink with an umbrella in it?

I could really use one of those umbrella drinks right now.

Squid, Goat's Hair, and The Parent/Teacher Relationship

My oldest child started kindergarten in 1990. I have had at least one daughter in public school ever since. I've spent a lot of time in classrooms over the years, as a homeroom mom numerous times, as a writing workshop teacher, reading my own books to kids, and doing other volunteer work. I was even asked to fill in as a substitute teacher at a Catholic school several times when they were shorthanded (must have been really shorthanded).

I've gotten to know a lot of teachers pretty well and appreciate the work they do. Several of my family members are teachers and my daughter A's boyfriend (Hi, T!) is one year away from becoming a teacher. So I don't want you to take this as an indictment of all teachers. Most of them are quite lovely people.

But there are those teachers who haunt the halls of your children's schools who are, beyond a shadow of doubt, sadists.

I'm not talking about the ones who are tough on their students.

I'm talking about the ones who have it in for the parents.

This post is about those teachers who send home a list of supplies for a fourth grade book project that are nicer than the ones most professionals own. When I was little, we made a book by glueing scraps of material onto cardboard we had cut from a box and then threading yarn through holes that we punched in the spine. Now, when it's time for your child's words of wisdom to be gathered into a book, you'll need a fourteen dollar goat's hair brush with medium bristles and an angled head so she can use it one time to brush glue onto a ten dollar piece of custom grayboard and then leave it to harden into a lump that even a goat wouldn't recognize.

Of course, these required supplies can't be found in the five local art or craft stores that you search. You'll end up only finding them in an online specialty shop, then crossing your fingers that they arrive in time as your child reminds you every day that she needs them by Friday or she'll be the only one who doesn't have what the teacher told them to bring. Of course, once the supplies do arrive and your child takes them in, she comes home to tell you that half the class brought in synthetic brushes from the dollar store and the teacher didn't say a word.

I'm all for fun and interesting projects that engage student's minds and imaginations, just not ones that take more of my time and money to accomplish than planning my wedding did.

We've made it through all sorts of these projects from dioramas of world wars to music videos about dictators to a shoebox replication of George Washington's parlor using a combination of popsicle sticks and dollhouse furniture, but there is one category that is far, far worse than any other---the cooking projects.

At least once a year, from grade school through high school, one teacher would decide that a wonderful way to incorporate a lesson or book about a particular country would be to have each student prepare a dish enjoyed by the population of that country. These sadists then hand out recipes to the students to be prepared at home and shared with the class in a celebration of learning. It has not escaped my notice that the teacher's pet usually gets assigned the exhausting chore of only bringing in paper plates.

I enjoy cooking. I am actually a pretty competent cook. But that is with ingredients I recognize and measurements that are on my kitchen tools. Year after year I would receive recipes that were about as recognizable to me as the instructions necessary for disabling a bomb and with almost as many ways for it all to go very wrong.

This past week, my daughter M remembered on Wednesday night that she needed to bring in a homemade chocolate squidgy roll for a British celebration on Friday. In M's defense, she had been very sick all week and is usually much better about giving me notice. My daughter C and her fiance were in town for the week along with daughter A and we had been in accelerated wedding planning mode, visiting possible reception sites and shopping for the all-important wedding gown. Between a sick dog, houseguests, and wedding appointments, I was reduced to licking candy bar wrappers from the floor of the car in case there was a morsel of sugar or caffeine to be had. I was exhausted. Now I had to bake a squidgy roll? I had never even heard of such a thing. Did I need to find a seafood shop that sold squid? Did people actually eat chocolate on squid?

Turns out a chocolate squidgy roll is a type of sponge cake and no squid needed to die for this assignment. I didn't recognize the measurements, but since they were in milliliters, I knew I could convert them easily enough. The recipe called for basic ingredients that I already had in my pantry, except for the castor sugar. Googling it revealed that castor sugar is just a superfine sugar that blends easier to make meringues and cream fillings. Okay, no problem. My local grocery store should have this in their baking aisle.

Except they didn't. So in between appointments, I stopped at a craft store that has a large selection of specialty baking items, but they didn't have it either. I repeatedly called another shop that I thought might have it, but no one ever answered the phone. Not a good sign. I looked it up online and found out that I could take regular sugar and grind it up in my food processor, but it would likely scratch the plastic to bits. I wasn't excited about that option, so I kept looking. I finally found a store that carried superfine sugar and I was ready to proceed. Of course, I still had appointments to juggle and guests to feed, so it was nine p.m. Thursday night before I was able to attempt my squidgy roll. M was still sick and I didn't want her to contaminate her classmates' food, so she just observed instead of being a hands-on assistant. C helped instead. We were making two of the cakes since they needed to feed twenty-one students and a teacher.

Milk and cocoa needed to brought gently to an acceptable warmth, then set aside. Eight eggs needed to be separated and then the yolks beat by hand with the special sugar until reaching a proper degree of creaminess (or until you develop carpal tunnel). Mix the cocoa concoction with the egg/sugar combo, then whip the egg whites until they are stiff enough to poke your eye out and fold them in. Spread the batter on a jelly roll pan that has been greased and lined with parchment paper and stick in the preheated oven. Whip the heavy cream by hand, then spread over the cooled sponge cake. Now for the fun part---carefully roll the cake from end to end so you have a delightful log of cake with a spiral of cream in the middle.

Only the cake didn't want to stay in one piece as it was rolled and moist sections came off on my fingertips. My log looked like beavers had been gnawing at it. The recipe called for the remainder of the whipped cream to be piped on top of the log and then artfully decorated with sliced strawberries before shaving chocolate over the whole dessert. Does this sound like an assignment a high school student can accomplish on her own? Maybe if your high school offers Cordon Bleu classes as required courses, but not a student from our high school.

I hid the worst of the bald spots on the two cakes under the cream, strawberries, and chocolate, shoveled it all into a container, stuck it in the refrigerator, cleaned up the assortment of bowls, measuring devices, pots, pans, and utensils, then stumbled from the kitchen and fell into bed.

The next afternoon, I waited for M to get home from school so I could hear the praise from her teacher that would make the effort worthwhile. She carried in the tupperware container and opened it to show me that one and a half squidgy lay untouched. I asked what had happened and she said that with twenty students bringing in food (and one lucky parent's child bringing in paper plates) there was just too much for it all to be eaten. I asked if at least the teacher had liked it and was informed that the teacher doesn't eat sugar, so she hadn't tried it. Well, I said, at least she must have acknowledged how much effort went into the final product and given you a good grade on it. This wasn't for a grade, she replied, just an assignment for fun. I reached for another candy bar wrapper to lick.

Sadists, I tell you. Rubbing their hands together and cackling as they think up more and more complicated punishments for parents. M is my youngest and she has one more year of this. I'm not sure I can make it. The only thing keeping me sane is the knowledge that I've never been asked to cook anything for one of my daughters' college level courses.

At least not yet.

Please don't study Japanese, M. If I can massacre a squidgy roll, just imagine what I would do to an innocent little springroll. The possibilities haunt me.

Sometimes One Plus One Equals Chaos

Have you ever had a friend or relative who over-reacted to everything? Each bump in the road was the end of the world, each bout with the common cold was the plaque, every small accomplishment was worthy of national press coverage, and every basic need was an emergency that had to be taken care of immediately?

My dog Barnaby is the drama queen in our family (or technically drama king).

We had a beautiful yellow lab for ten years named Honey Bear. We brought him home when our third daughter wasn't quite two and our fourth daughter hadn't even been born yet. He was an adorable puppy whose feet were too big for his body and whose tongue was always lolling out of his mouth. It was our girls first experience with training a dog, which was evidenced by my oldest daughter trying to convince the puppy not to chew a pillow by reasoning with him like this, "You shouldn't chew that, puppy, because it's my mommy's furniture and she'll get mad," instead of just saying, "No, no."

Honey Bear was loving, and protective, and put up with so much tugging and hugging and dress-up from our girls that he should have won doggie awards. He had his share of quirkiness (he wouldn't have fit in our family if he didn't) like loving water so much that he once dented the metal fence around our pool trying to force his way in, and looking forward to our annual Easter egg hunt so he could find a few on his own and carefully peel the shell with his teeth to get to the yummy egg inside. When he developed heart problems at age ten and passed away in my arms, a part of my soul died with him.

The house was too quiet without Honey Bear's nails click-clacking on the hardwood floors, so we decided to get a new puppy. It would have been too painful to raise a Honey Bear II, so we agreed to go in a totally different direction and get a little white Bichon Frise. We chose a female and named her Isabella, but she quickly became Bella to all of us (this was in 2001, so we weren't honoring vampires). Bella is a laid-back dog who hardly ever barks and when she does, it's a deep-throated ba-roo, like a beagle. Her eyes are as black as coal and the craziest thing she has ever done is chew on rocks when we were doing some digging in the backyard. Seriously, just the thought of scraping my teeth on the hard surface of a rock makes me cringe, but Bella loved digging them up and chewing on them. She doesn't know that Bichons have a long history as pampered show dogs and is most happy when she is half covered in dirt.

We were happily living with our quiet, sweet little dog and a handful of stray cats we'd taken in. Common sense would tell you to enjoy the situation and don't rock the boat, but my family will always rock the boat no matter how many times it tips over on us. We decided to get another Bichon to keep Bella company. After all, who wouldn't love two adorable, calm little dogs to cuddle? We got a male and named him Barnaby.

My vet, who also owns the kennel where the dogs stay while we are on vacation, calls Barnaby "sensitive" and says it takes a special owner to raise a dog like Barn. He is being very generous and very politically correct.

The real story is that Barn is a hot mess. He is nothing like easy-going Bella. You would think they are two different breeds of dog. He doesn't even have her soft ba-roo; he has a high pitched yap of a bark and he uses it when he's happy, sad, scared, confused, lonely, hungry, or awake. We have had him for eight years now and not a day goes by that I don't laugh at his antics.

Barnaby is afraid of everything. He is afraid of his dry food bowl and will only eat the food if it's tipped out onto the floor. He is afraid of his canned food and will only eat it if you hold the plate with your feet so it can't move and startle him. Anything that blows onto or is left sitting in our yard is cause for non-stop barking and avoidance of the area until it is moved or we touch it to show him it isn't dangerous. This includes such known dog-killers as a paper bag, an open umbrella, a cooler, or a bag of fertilizer. He is absolutely terrified by the magazine page with the boy with the "got milk" mustache and the shopping bags from trendy stores that have half-dressed men and women on them, like Aeropostale or Abercrombie and Fitch. Freaks him out every time. We have to hide them.

Everything is an emergency with Barn. Bella nudges her empty water bowl and then waits. Nudges and then waits. Barn nudges, then overturns, then bangs it into the wall, all without a pause, as though he has just spent two days crossing the desert without a drop to drink. Even when you say, "Just a minute, Barn," so he knows you are coming, the onslaught continues. When he has to go out, he whines and dances so you know he needs to go this very second, and the thirty seconds it took you to cross the room were twenty-nine too many for him.

He is afraid to miss out on anything. His attention is torn in so many directions and he has trouble choosing which one is the most interesting. He wants to be outside with my husband, but what if I'm doing something interesting inside and he's missing it? He wants to be by my side, but he also wants to be with Bella and we are in different rooms, so he needs to travel back and forth, back and forth. He has the worst case of ADD I've ever seen in a dog.

He loves to go for rides in the car, but going for a ride makes him so excited that he throws up every time. He runs to the window and whines for it to be lowered, but once it is, he runs to the other window, wanting that one down as well, in case there is something that smells more interesting out that side. Between the whining, vomiting, and running from window to window, Bella only wants one thing--to climb in the front by me where she can sleep in peace.

Bella has had ear infections, hot spots, and various ailments, but she rarely ever lets us know about them. We stumble upon them at regular vet visits or through a slight wince while she is being pet. Barn, on the other hand, is apoplectic about every flea bite. This past weekend, Barn got a hot spot on his tail (which is kind of like a person getting poison ivy). We immediately cleaned it with lukewarm water and put ointment on to ease the pain and itchiness. We then took him to the vet for an injection and have used the pills and spray the vet gave us faithfully since. I feel terrible for him, partly because I hate to see him in discomfort, but also because I know how much this is rattling him. He is shaking like a leaf, keeps trying to bite his tail, fur is falling out, he is unconsolable when I leave his side long enough to use the bathroom even though someone else sits with him, and he wants me to carry him everywhere. The drama of the situation is so much more intense than if Bella had the exact same ailment.

There is nothing funny about a dog in pain or discomfort and I wince every time I have to treat his boo-boo, touching him as gently as I would a newborn baby. He is my baby and I feel his pain deeply. I've gone with only brief patches of sleep the past three nights to take care of him. But it is slightly comical to compare his "I'm at death's door" attitude about common ailments next to Bella's stoic life-goes-on response. It's especially funny to note the similarities to a human male's reaction to illness and injuries versus human females. I've always been the "Bella" in our family, pushing through pain and illness to take care of everyone while my husband needs the world to stop if he has the sniffles, just like Barn.

In spite of all his neurotic behaviors, Barnaby is also one of the funniest dogs you'll ever see. He is the life of any room he is in. He is not only adorable to look at, but has tons of personality. When he walks, he takes two or three normal steps and then hitches one leg up into a cute little skip for a step, then back to normal. He is a bundle of energy and loves to chase a bouncy ball around the room, inevitably losing it under furniture and then lying with his nose tucked under the edge of the couch or table until someone rescues it for him. When he is picked up by someone he doesn't know, he keeps his four legs stiff and straight as though he was a stuffed animal or a possum playing dead.  He has spent so much time around cats that he often thinks he is one, including sitting on the back of the couch pawing at my husband's head until he gets the attention he craves.

He is afraid to climb a set of stairs, so he climbs at an angle from left to right until he reaches the halfway point, which puts him all the way to the right side of that step, then walks to the left side, turns in a full circle so he is facing up, and completes the climb. He hates the water, but hates it even worse when we are in the pool and too far away from him, so we put him on a raft to keep him dry, yet in the midst of the fun. His behavior and high energy make him seem like a puppy still, but so does his size--he eats the same amount as Bella, but burns it off too quickly to fatten up, usually while running in circles around her as she patiently walks through the yard like the princess she is. Bella mothers Barn and puts up with his hijinks with as much patience as Honey Bear put up with my young daughters' hijinks, but every so often, she looks at me with those baleful eyes as though asking, "What did I ever do to deserve this?"

There are days when Barnaby's barking drives me crazy and days when I'm tempted to lace his food with Benedryl just to calm him down, but for the most part, he is a good fit for our crazy family. It's nice to have a dog to point to and say, "Look what he's doing now!" to distract your company while you discreetly blow broccoli from your nose into a tissue or move your mother-in-law's toe so you can reach the ice cream in the freezer you are about to serve them for dessert.