Mama Trauma

We moms know that raising kids will inevitably lead to some hair-raising moments. My son, Ben, has emphatically proven this on numerous occasions. So many, in fact, that my hair should be permanently vertical.

Ben popped out of the womb like Yosemite Sam, packing heat and firing shots into the air to announce his arrival.

In contrast, his older brother has always toed the straight and narrow. A rule follower by nature, Alex was born to be mild. A peaceful, sanity-saving quality I didn’t fully appreciate until the human tornado was born.

Ben has always been a magnet for injury. Not just your usual skinned knee or pea up the nose. But odd things — like mysterious purple spots all over his thighs, for example — that seem to always coincide with the exact moment the pediatrician’s office switches to the answering service. In his seven years, he’s had an equal number of trips to the emergency room. And no — I don’t suffer from Munchausen by Proxy.

Our daily, post-school routine almost always involved a debriefing of his newly acquired bumps and bruises. But despite all the trails we’ve blazed to the ER, nothing prepared me for the giant thud. It was so loud and so hard that plaster fell from the ceiling.

Ben and a buddy were upstairs in his room playing Legos (safely, of course, or so I thought…). “What was that?” I yelled after the sonic boom. I got silence in return. “What was that???” I yelled louder as I took the stairs twenty-eight at a time. Silence. When I got to his room, Ben was lying on the floor, face up, like he was sleeping. Which means he was knocked out. O-U-T. Like, unconscious, out. His friend was so freaked, he couldn’t meet my eyes or tell me anything that happened.

It was literally only a matter of seconds before Ben came to, but it seemed to last an hour. He ‘woke up’ crying, unable to tell me where it hurt or what had happened. After a quick scan of the scene, the scattered toys on the top bunk told me everything. Ben had broken the rules. And hopefully nothing else.

I managed to get him on his feet, down the stairs, and on the couch. I was ready to give him the lecture of his life. But as soon as I opened my mouth, his eyes rolled back in his head and he started to fall asleep. On an ordinary day, it wouldn’t be unusual that my lectures lulled him into la la land, but combined with the fall, it seemed like a sizable red flag.

“Ben, look at me,” I said. “Look at me and open your eyes.” I could hear my voice turning from scolding mom to terrified mom in a split second. “What happened?” he slurred. “Am I going to die?”

Now why’d you have to go and ask a question like that? I thought to myself, feeling the water pooling in my eyes. “No. You’re not going to die. But when I know you’re okay, you’re going to be in big trouble Mister,” I said, trying to add a little levity, if only for myself.

I looked at the clock — 4:46. Of course, the minute after the pediatrician’s office switches to the answering service. I left an urgent message for the doctor to call me back.

I couldn’t keep Ben awake. And to add freakiness to fear, every time he managed to rouse, he’d repeat, “What happened? Am I going to die?” It was like Frosty the Snowman saying, “Happy Birthday” every time he put on the magic hat.

In an effort to keep him alert, I tried to get him on his feet, which was about as easy as getting a gummy worm to stand rigid. When I finally got him up, the vomiting began.

This wasn’t the like the other two head injuries he’d suffered from judgment-challenged falls. (Yes, this was Ben’s third head injury resulting in the v-word, so I’ve been dealt this hand before. And let me tell you, this was a whole new set of cards.)

The doctor on call sent us straight to the children’s ER. We live relatively close, so we decided I could get him there faster than an ambulance. Big fat mistake. In the throes of it all, it didn’t occur to me that I’d be caught in awful Atlanta gridlock. I put the hazards on and made bold traffic moves, passing a flurry of drivers giving me the one-finger salute. Ben slumped in the back seat, tilting back and forth like he was on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride — eyes at half-mast and vomiting into an old bucket.

We got immediate attention at the ER. Never a good sign. The attending physician quickly assessed the situation and non-verbally let me know that Ben was in bad shape. Beyond the vomiting, word slurring, and lethargy, his skin was the strangest color I’d ever seen. It looked as if he was wearing some sort of scary gray Halloween makeup. The doc ordered a CAT scan and told me they’d be checking for a cracked skull or bleeding into the brain. It would be about a twenty-minute wait before they’d be in to take him for the test. In the meantime, my task was to not let him go to sleep.

In the least shaky voice I could muster, I chatted him up about baseball (his fave), asked questions about his school day, asked what he wanted from Santa (it was only September, but Santa typically gets him going), talked about Daddy coming home from his business trip to Nashville — and through it all, the only thing I could get out of my ashen face love was, “Shhh…Mom…I’m trying to sleep.”

The people in white coats finally came in. I was sure they were there to take me to a padded room, but they went straight to Ben, moving him onto a gurney to take him for his scan. He clutched his blue emesis (vomit) bag next to him like a teddy bear, having no idea what was happening or where he was going.

They placed a heavy protective vest over me so I could stay in the back corner of the x-ray room. They moved Ben to the imaging table where he looked like the lifeless mannequin of a boy who simply looked like mine. I was overwhelmed by how small he looked on the big table. The circular machine began to spin and whir. I was sure he’d be scared. But he wasn’t. He just laid there, eyes shut, like he was a sleeping prince, still sporting grass stains from the playground.

The scanner did its job and I stood helpless in the corner, the weight of the protective vest like a feather compared to the weight on my heart. Without Ben next to me I was free to fall apart for a minute, which I did. When the scan was over, I wiped my face, grabbed his hand and managed a smile as he briefly glanced up at me through his glassy eyes.

We went back to our room to await the verdict. It’s an ugly place to be, awaiting the findings of your child’s fate. It’s a place of pure vulnerability. Where about the only thing you can do is pray. And wait.

The doctor finally came in with a demeanor that told me everything. Ben would be okay. The tests found no fractures, no bleeding, no swelling. He had come out of this awful ordeal without permanent damage. Just a nasty concussion and, hopefully, a newfound appreciation for following the rules.

It’s been a while since the giant thud. I still suffer from post-concussion stress syndrome. I overreact to every fall and would like to insist that he wear his bicycle helmet 24/7. Or at the very least, wear his batting helmet when he’s playing the infield. But that’s not going to happen. It seems my little injury magnet is just a rough and tumble boy, and I’ll have to learn to live with that.

There’s really nothing else I can do. Except pray. And wait.

Ode to Toro

It’s with heaviness in my heart that I tell you about the passing of my dear friend, Toro. My long-snouted companion of 19+ years passed relatively quickly, though not without pain. The grim reaper’s presence was signaled by an unusual grinding and metallic coughing, followed by hiccups and stammering, topped off by a little puff of air and finished with the big kaput.

Goodbye my favorite leaf blower.

His last, pitiful little puff was nothing like the strong wind he was known for in his heyday. He had gone from gale force to barely a breeze in a matter of seconds.

I left the beaten-up old guy splayed out on the deck, right where he was, in hopes that my mechanically-gifted husband might conjure a way to resuscitate him.

When Frank arrived home, I ushered him to where Toro lay helpless, his nose cone still proudly hanging on by the duct tape I had put in place years before. Without any to-do, Frank calmly, and with a surprising lack of emotion, pronounced my Toro dead. Then he threw him in the trash.

“That’s it?” I asked, following him into the house. “You’re not even going to fiddle with it?” He was the king of fiddling.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he said all matter of fact, like a detached surgeon relaying the facts to the shocked family. And with that, my favorite outdoor assistant was gone.

One of the most beautiful features of our old Atlanta neighborhood is the statuesque, mature trees. Our home is surrounded by a canopy of leafy oaks and poplars. The big guys drop enough leaves, acorns and assorted stuff to keep the yard covered, and the Toro busy, seemingly year round.

I bonded with Toro during the nesting phase of my first pregnancy. It was a rock-solid bond that only grew deeper with my second pregnancy and even deeper with my third. Growing a baby is no swift process, so the immediate satisfaction of clearing a leaf-strewn porch, driveway or deck brought me immense, clean, happy, happy, joy.

Shockingly, I have a couple friends who claim there should be a noise ordinance against the peaceful hum of a leaf blower. I still love them, despite their blasphemy. To me, it’s a lovely sound of progress and productivity.

Over the years, Toro saved me from more than messes. He saved the kids from untold accidents, what with the acorns dropping like marbles on the driveway that’s basically an all-sport court for running, scootering, rip-sticking, basketball and anything else you really shouldn’t do on marbles.

Then there was the incident with the snake.

I was working on the back porch, about to pick Emma up from preschool, when I spied the creepiest of all creepies, right there in front of her playhouse. Now don’t go all reptile rights on me, I know they do some good things, like eat yucky vermin in their quest to overcome the whole Biblical, Satan snafu. But still, they were cursed to be our enemy, so my enemy it was.

When I spotted the cold-blooded killer coiled like a cobra right there on the threshold of Emma’s plastic palace, I thought quickly and did what any brave soul would do — I grabbed my Toro. With my heart pounding I plugged in my loyal friend and together we blew that snake to kingdom come, which, in this case, was located at the end of our driveway (determined by the length of my extension cord). The knotted-up, dizzy snake lay in shock, the victim of Toro’s full-throttle power unleashed. It was a beautiful moment.

So goodbye to my trusted compadre. So long you forceful breath of fresh air. Thank you for always giving it your all, until your all was all gone.

The People v. 40

Cake

Here’s the thing. At this very moment you and I are doing the exact same thing. In fact, so is the mailman. The Pope. The guy who poured your latte. The squirrel digging in your container plants. The newborn baby. Even Adele.

We’re aging.

But I don’t want to totally bum you out. The good news is so are the other 7.4 billion people on our planet. So we’re in pretty good company.

I’m thinking about this as I sit in my oral surgeon’s chair, trying to figure out why I can’t pry my mouth open wide enough to eat anything larger than a poppy seed. This is a problem, not only because I can’t properly yell at my kids, but because we humans have that pesky need for food.

The timing suspiciously coincides with my entry into the 40s.

My husband, Frank, is four years older than me. Which means for past few years he’s warned me about the physical changes that inherently come with crossing into the middle of the fourth decade. I’ve laughed these off with a not-happening-to-me kind of attitude, otherwise known as denial.

I don’t mean to sound all braggy or anything, but my 40th birthday came and went and the next morning I looked like I could easily pass for 39 years and 366 days. But it didn’t take long for that mean ‘ole 40 to start her tomfoolery. To prove my point, consider this unsettling episode.

A mere four months after my 40th, it was time for the annual Christmas shopping extravaganza. It’s a long-standing tradition — the first Saturday in December, cousin June and I hit the stores from the time they open till the SUV becomes a low rider from the weight of all the loot. We buy for everyone on our list, including each other. June usually picks something to wear, which I then purchase, wrap and send home with her for a huge surprise on Christmas morning. Myself, I like immediate gratification, so I forego the wrapping formality and begin using my chosen treasure right away. In past years, I’ve nabbed earrings. A great shirt. Something fun for the house. But this particular Christmas, I came home with a new king-sized pillow and a foot massager.

The saddest part is how downright giddy I was about them both.

The thing is, I work hard at staying healthy. I faithfully do my 30 minutes of aerobic exercise, five days a week, so I don’t end up on the wrong end of a heart catheter like my mom did at the ripe young age of 50. Oh and, let’s see, my paternal grandmother died of a heart attack. Grandpa too. Maternal grandpa? Yep. Grandma? Stroke.

Now I’m no soothsayer, but even without a crystal ball, I can predict my hereditary demise if I don’t abandon the fatback, deep-fried ways of past generations. All to say, I haven’t had a piece of fried food in two decades. (Swipes of my kid’s French fries and tortilla chips don’t count, right? Work with me here.) And in addition to the cardio, I hit the gym and lift weights twice a week to keep my bones strong.

But even with my virtuous attempts, the temple, as the Good Book calls it, is suddenly in need of some repairs. Not just some spackling and a new coat of paint, I’m talking structural issues here.

It seems that I’m another victim of 40 and her nasty band of bullies. I still haven’t pinpointed exactly when the first act of vandalism occurred. But all evidence points to sometime after July 26th, 2007. Since then, it seems the little rascals have repeatedly entered the temple under a cloak of darkness and deep REM, resulting in visible cracks in the exterior and some shakes in the foundation.

Suddenly, it seems, the entire structure is vulnerable to all sorts of calamity.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a fatalist by any means. I’m typically a look-on-the-bright-side kind of girl who see her glass half full and a stormy forecast as 10% chance of sun. But it’s a bit of a stretch (ironic word choice) to think of my jaw as 1/8th open.

The jaw thing wouldn’t be so bad on its own, but did I mention that my Morton’s neuroma and planter’s fasciitis are acting up? Two sudden-onset foot ailments the 40-pranksters brought my way. So now, as punishment for wearing shoes I actually liked all these years, my podiatrist (yes, I now have a podiatrist) gave me a list of granny-endorsed shoe brands that put the frump in frumpy. And to add discomfort to discomfort, I’m supposed to wear these hard plastic, ski boot-like contraptions while I sleep. Yea, right. The idea behind these 50-pound gems is that they will keep my feet flexed, which will stretch my calf muscles, which will alleviate some of the fasciitis pain. Yes, there’s nothing like shoving your foot in a bucket of concrete to help you snooze like a baby. But the doctor said to wear them, so being the compliant patient, I did. My bad. Not only did I end up bruised from beating myself silly while attempting a simple roll over, the Velcro strap aggravated my neuroma issues which landed me back in the podiatrist office, this time staring down the barrel of a 12-inch needle that the doc inserted in between my first two little piggies. Not even the births of my three kids prepped me for that torture. I’ll stick with the neuroma pain from now on, thank you very much.

And just be sure I know who the boss is, 40 recently forced me to see a dermatologist. I hobbled in on my neuroma-riddled, fasciitis-plagued tootsies, speaking like a washed up ventriloquist with my paralytic jaw, all to hobble out carved like a totem pole.

My multiple skin biopsies came back as Grover’s Disease. I’m sure you haven’t heard of it so let me fill you in. It’s an irritating, itchy rash sort of thing that typically affects overweight men over the age of 50 that — get this — sweat a lot. All of which, I’d like to note, do not fit my personal profile. Don’t you know 40 and her cronies were slapping their thighs over that one?

I know, I know. Thank the Lord (and I really do) these things are just a nuisance. Ego threatening, maybe, but not life threatening. But it does get me thinking that if all this is happening just prior to the mid 40s line, what craziness is waiting at the half-century mark? Will the temple need new plumbing, a completely new heating and cooling system? Will the foundation crack?

Wouldn’t it be something if we could put 40 on trial and see what she has to say for herself? That would be one heck of a class-action suit. 586 gazillion trillion felony counts of desecration of a temple. If I were a prosecutor (which I’m not, but my friend is, which vicariously gives me all sorts of unsubstantiated credibility) I’d throw the book at her. My opening argument would go something like this.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the defendant is responsible for the hostile takeover and maiming of innocent, otherwise sprightly, spunky, healthy adults. What will the evidence show? It will prove that the heinous crimes committed by 40 and her maniacal gang, have forced countless numbers of innocent victims to wear bifocals and comfort shoes. (The jury gasps in horror.) Our exhibits will further prove that 40 is responsible for planting dimples on all the wrong cheeks, etching deep lines into previously smooth exteriors and is the number one perpetrator of (dramatic pause) flab. We will also introduce experts who will prove that 40 is the cause of a serious condition known in the New England Journal of Medicine as going to pot. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, 40 is nothing more than a cold-blooded, menace to society and therefore deserves nothing less than to be found guilty for her calculated crimes.”

Yep. That’s what I’d say, if only I could open my jaw.

Death by Chocolate. (Well, almost.)

 

photo-1448131063153-f1e240f98a72
Today’s National Pet Day! In honor of, here’s a post written about Ollie, our original wild child.

My dog recently tried to commit suicide.

I should have seen it coming, what with the steady increase of children around here and the equally steady decrease in his activity level. Apparently, in a moment of rock-bottom desperation, he saw a way out: An oversized bag of chocolates on top of my favorite living room table.

“Come here, big guy. Come closer…,” the confections must’ve called to him. “Eat this and you’ll go to the big field in the sky where Frisbees are thrown 24/7. Where the roads are paved with carrots (my dog’s odd), your bed’s a big comfy couch. Oh, and there are no toddlers.”

It worked. He devoured the whole five-pound bag — foil wrappers and all. I found his big ol’ 80-pound Labrador-Retriever self beached on the living room rug like a furry Orca. A few tale-tell bits of foil lay scattered near him. And the deep scratches in my mahogany table read like lines from a canine suicide note.

The on-call vet suggested I induce vomiting with hydrogen peroxide. So I hauled the pedigreed mutt out back in the 30º weather to commence the life saving. It seems that hydrogen peroxide wasn’t the bubbly Ollie wished to wash his chocolates down — well, actually up — with. The fella has quite an ornery streak, but so do I. And after conjuring up my best crocodile-hunter impression, I body slammed him to the ground and won. (Round one, that is.)

After getting the first tablespoon down his chocolate-coated throat, I waited expectantly for the result. Then waited some more. Nothing. Ding, ding. Time for round two. I circled the deck ominously, giving him my steeliest glare. This time the scene was more like crocodile hunter meets bull rider. But again, my stubborn side kicked in and I persevered. After getting the second tablespoon of peroxide down, I waited again. Nothing. Not even a gag. Maybe I should call the vet and see how long this is supposed to take.

As soon as I opened the door, the hound dashed in and emptied his entire stomach contents on my hand-hooked wool rug that doesn’t react well to liquids. The only saving grace was that the vomit had a lovely chocolate aroma.
Ollie is our first child, if you will. We brought him home at a mere 8 weeks old, barely weaned and cute as anything. He was the runt of the litter and I picked him out specifically because he wouldn’t stop pulling at my shoelaces — a sure sign that he was to be mine. (And hopefully a red flag to you, in case someone ever tries to brainwash you into thinking that an obsessive puppy sounds like a great idea.)

He’s always been a tad on the hyper side. “He’ll calm down when he’s 2,” my husband, Frank, and I kept telling ourselves. And when he was 12, we were saying, “He’ll calm down when he’s 13.”

It’s not that I don’t love the dog. It’s just that, um, well, hmm, he has some rather unnerving habits that on their own might be tolerable, assuming you’re heavily medicated, but seeing as how I’m not — toss squabbling brothers, a toddler and a seemingly permanent case of PMS into the mix and well, God love him, Ollie is always the straw that breaks the mommy’s back.

Like the majority of his kind, Ollie loves water. You can’t keep him out of a pool, pond or stream, but forget about trying to get him to go potty in the rain. And tennis balls? He’s a full-blown addict. His entire existence revolves around scoring his next ball fix. In fact, it doesn’t even have to be a sphere per se; it can be a cup, an octagon from little Emma’s shape sorter, or even a plastic shovel from Alex and Ben’s backyard toy collection. He has an uncanny knack, that was cute the first couple of times, for dropping said items on the ground and pushing them via snout, right underneath the foot of someone simply trying to make it from the living room to the kitchen without twisting an ankle or breaking a neck.

He knows how to open cabinet doors (we have to dogproof more than childproof), and somehow managed to open and stuff his not-so-svelte body into the tiniest of toy chests one day in the quest of a super ball. It was quite a sight, seeing him stuck like that. Reminded me of myself after having my first baby — trying to squeeze into my pre-pregnancy jeans before leaving the hospital — only Ollie managed to get all the way in. I would’ve left him there to learn a lesson, but unfortunately for me, and the neighbors, his earsplitting bark was relentless.

I admit that it’s not his fault. Frank and I take the blame. We did all the first time doggie parent things: Took him to the park to have a social life, trained him to be a Frisbee dog and generally devoted all our spare time to the little scoundrel.

“You know Ollie’s actually going to lose some status and become a dog after the baby’s born,” my mother told me over the phone toward the end of my first pregnancy. I dismissed this with an exaggerated eye roll and another dive into the box of cereal I was snacking on. She’s a cat person, after all. Big, sloppy, shedding beasts are my thing, not hers.

Now – more than a decade and three kids later, I’ve realized the gospel truth. Mothers are always right.

So I’ve decided to try something new in my quest for domestic bliss (okay, actually in my quest to prevent my head from spinning, which tends to scare the children). I’m choosing to focus on Ollie’s redeeming qualities. Here’s what I’ve come up with.

First, he is the darn best security system anyone could hope for (minus the fact that he can’t be disarmed). I have no worries that a prowler will ever enter our home without my knowledge, since nary an acorn hitting the roof or a squirrel on the porch goes without a hardy round of brain-rattling barking.

Second, his dog bowl is always half full. He lives life just knowing that while it looks like I’m really working at the computer, talking on the phone and simultaneously balancing a small human in my lap, if he gives me a solid, meaningful “woof” and runs to the back door, I’ll instantly come to my senses, drop all those silly distractions and take him out for a round of fetch.

And last, but so not least, he’s a love with the kids. Although “No Ollie!” was one of the first phrases uttered by all three of my offspring, he puts up with whatever they dish out. From being ridden like a racehorse to being the pretend dragon in a 5-year-old’s drama, he’s never once snapped at the kids. Which, come to think of it, is more than I can say for myself.