Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Miley Cyrus and My Uterus, Among Other Things

Well, that's quite the title, isn't it?

Everybody's talking about Miley Cyrus right now, so I'm jumping on that band wagon. I don't watch the VMAs, mostly because the music I like is not really represented. I also honestly can't stand the "show dog-ness" of it all. Now, from what I hear, Miley proclaimed that she would give a killer performance in interviews on the red carpet, saying that she'd outdo Madonna and the rest of the shock-value seekers. So, people shouldn't have been surprised.  I've read a gazillion blog entries this week, talking about what trash she's become, how we shouldn't let our daughters become like Miley, etc. etc.  I agree with those things, but I'm not all advocat-ey (new word!) because despite the fact that my daughter is only four, I feel confident that she will not in fact strive to be Miley Cyrus, at least during her painful years under my watchful eye and roof. Because I won't allow it, period. Sure, if she wants to go all skank when she's 18, I guess she can do that--she'll be a legal adult, and she will have enough money to live elsewhere (because my house has a strict "No Skanks Allowed" policy). I like to think I'll raise her to think that intellect is cooler than shock value, and that good music doesn't have to come at the cost of one's morals and dignity. But I digress.  The thing that stuck out to me about her performance--well beyond the inappropriateness--was that it made absolutely NO. DAMN. SENSE.  None at all, unless you were hitting the crack pipe, and even then, it's a toss-up.  She came out of a giant, crazed teddy bear's belly, for gods' sake.  She stuck her tongue out, not so much in the 'I'm-trying-to-seduce-you' manner as the 'I-want-to-devour-you-and-crunch-up-your-bones' manner.  She flounced and bounced around men wearing gigantic bear backpacks, and attempted to dance, but it didn't resemble ANY dance moves I've ever seen. Then, I'm pretty sure she scared the shit out of Robin Thicke, with that nasty foam finger that she rubbed just about everywhere. He seemed to be a good sport but I feel certain he feared for his life--and his reputation.  I mean, there was no story line! It made absolutely zero sense. It was funny...I kept thinking that she looked like someone I'd seen before. No, not a character in Beetle Juice, although I've seen those pictures all over the interwebs and they're funny! It came to me this morning, while I was packing my lunch, and Marty agreed. Remember the movie The Lion King?  She is a dead ringer for Ed, the low IQ, mentally challenged hyena...
RIGHT???? problem with Mylie is less about her outright nastiness and more about her sanity. And the possibility of her developing dry tongue. I see a 5150 hold in her future...

In other news...

~~Today was originally scheduled as the date my fun uterine ablation procedure. However, about a week or so ago, I realized that I just have WAY too much on my plate at work right now to be missing a few days. It's a busy time, I have a mandatory Title 1 meeting just wasn't going to work. I rescheduled for September 25th. So, I get to hang on to the shreds of my fertility for another month. Quick--anyone have $18,000 lying around???

~~Two weeks into the year, and we're already dealing with funk around this house. Preschool called yesterday to say that Anderson had thrown up everywhere and had a temp of 101.5. Yee-haw. I knew it would happen but wasn't really thinking it would happen so early.  Seems my little guy is a bit afraid of throwing up, like his mama. However, he did manage to laugh after he threw up all over one of his teacher's shoes. Fortunately she's awesome and laughed because he was laughing, so it's all good.  Today, when I picked Amelia up, everyone asked about how Anderson was doing. His teacher from last year, Amelia's teacher from last year, everyone I passed. I cannot say enough about my love for Lexington Hearing and Speech Center (which is not just for kids who need speech, by the way!  There are a LOT of teachers' kids who attend; there's a reason, people!). Those teachers make me feel like my kids are the most loved children in the school--and I know that they're not. They treat everyone that way. Anyway, Anderson came home and laid around all night, fell asleep on the couch. Had a tiny bit of diarrhea when he woke up and has been fine ever since. Now Marty and I are just basically staring at Amelia, waiting for it to hit her.  Good times, I tell ya, when you have kids who share the germs.

Well, I'm off to stare at my little ticking puke time bomb for awhile.  But seriously....

I'm right. Admit it.

Monday, August 26, 2013


That, my friends, is the sound of me pulling my hair out. Literally.

The older the kids get, the busier they get. The busier they get, the needier they get. The needier they get, the crazier I get.  It's a vicious cycle. A dangerous, vicious cycle.  Someone is going down or going crazy. I'm not sure who, or which.

Here's a play-by-play of the last 45 minutes of my life.  After dinner, I decided to prepare some freeze-and-heat breakfast sandwiches for Marty and I. Side bar: have you ever tried McDonald's "Egg White Delight" Egg McMuffin?  I have, and I'm not proud to say that. I HATE McDonald's. I drink their coffee, and that is it. But one morning, I was late for an appointment and desperate for coffee. As I went through the drive-thru, my stomach growled. I realized I wouldn't have time to eat before like 2 pm, so I ordered it. 250 calories, and it was delicious! Fast-forward to this past week, when I realized I could make and freeze my own McMuffins for a third of the cost and less processed crap (no, Michelle, I'm not eating clean yet. Clearly. Baby steps... :-).'s how it went down:
  • 5:45: I put my first egg white on to cook, put an English muffin in the toaster.
  • 5:51: Anderson comes running in from outside. "Mom, I need some milk!" I pour him some milk (after making him say please, of course).
  • 5:56: I start putting together the first sandwich.
  • 5:59: Anderson comes running in from outside. It's quiet. I yell at him, ask what he's doing. The door bangs again and he's gone.
  • 6:02: I pour more egg whites.
  • 6:03: Door bangs again. "Mom, I need to go potty!" Amelia this time. I tell her to get on the potty herself.
  • I wait, she starts screaming. She's stuck in her own underwear. I put the spatula down and help her. When she's done, I proceed to quickly brush/fix her hair. Dad has been doing better hair these days; today was NOT one of those days. It was a cross between this:
and this:
It required immediate attention.

  • 6:04: I quickly take sizzling brown egg white out of the skillet and throw more muffins in the toaster oven.
  • 6:08: Two muffins done! Out of six!
  • 6:09: Door opens and slams about five times. I sigh and prepare to do battle with Anderson, my serial door-opener (and fly-letter-inner). Walk over to the door angrily, ready for a fight.
  • 6:10: Amelia is standing there. "I gotta go potty!"  "Again? You just went!"  She whispers, "I gotta poop."  Sigh....I run and quickly turn cooking egg white, run back to wipe a butt. Yes, she's four, yes I wipe her butt.  I'd rather wipe a butt than clean up nasty undies.  I wash hands, go back to the kitchen.
  • 6:15: Swear to god, the door slams AGAIN. It's Anderson, claiming that he, too, needs to drop a deuce. Definitely starting to lose my cool here. I tell him that he just went to the bathroom and that if he comes in, he's staying in. He stares at me. I can see he really needs to poop. I sigh and tell him to HURRY UP!  He goes into the bathroom, then sticks his head out. He says, "I can still play outside later..."  "YES, Anderson, but you have to poop right NOW!"  No lie, we repeat those exact lines no less than TEN times. Finally, I shriek and shake my hands. He has the nerve to laugh.

I won't go on, people, because you see what it was like. Let's just say that it took me a good hour to finish six damn English muffins. Something that should have taken me 30 minutes tops.  With way too much butt-wiping in between.  So if you hear a loud scream in the distance tonight, don't worry. It's not a zombie attack. It's not coyotes, or criminal activity. It's just me, pulling out my hair and losing my mind. One minute at a time.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Happy ARDSiversary

That's what Marty is calling it. I can't even manage to crack a smile at it.

One year ago on this day, I was in NYC, enjoying the sights and sounds of my first full day in the busiest city on Earth. I was blissfully unaware of how intensely, unforgivably horrible the next month of my life would be.

A year ago on August 23rd, Marty entered the hospital through the ER with symptoms including shortness of breath and high fever, and would end up staying for five weeks, one of which would be spent in a rehabilitation facility trying to build up lung capacity and ability to even walk 30 yards without having to sit down.

A year ago, I lived through what can only be described as absolute hell. The only comparison I can make, based on experiences I've had in my life, is to that of Amelia's NICU experience (not being sure if she would make it), and this was significantly worse. I was faced with the thought of losing my husband, but even more tragic was the thought of my babies losing their father.  When you become a mother, you grow extra appendages on your heart--one for each child.  Those appendages bring you more love, more happiness than you've ever known, but they also bring you more heartache because you feel every single pain that your child experiences.  The pain of your children is so much worse than your own pain.  Thinking about their pain, the heartache they would be forced to endure if they lost their father, was borderline unbearable. My kids have the best dad in the world, hands down. The thought of them not having him--well, it still brings tears to my eyes. It probably will for the rest of my life.

A year ago, I watched Marty struggle to breathe. I watched him fall asleep, oxygen bubbling noisily in the corner, only to startle awake a minute later, terrified that he would stop breathing. His eyes would scan the room, wide open with fear, and I would mouth "it's okay..."to him, so that he wouldn't panic, so that we wouldn't panic his worried mother. If anyone else panicked, I knew that my steady resolve would explode into absolute dust, that I would break and not be able to put myself back together in time to pick up my kids from preschool.

A year ago, I walked into the ICU to see Marty on 100% oxygen, sweating, eyes closed, working with every ounce of his strength to keep breathing. The pulmonologist explained that they were going to do a surgical biopsy, a procedure reserved for the sickest of the sick. I watched my husband literally break, heard him whisper, when I told him that he'd have surgery, that he just wanted it to hurry up because he was too tired to keep going. My husband, who never complains about anything. He was done. That scared me more than I've ever been scared in my entire life.

A year ago, I saw my husband, stripped down completely and on a ventilator, in a bed that looked more like a torture device than anything else. I saw his face swell, with the tilt of the bed, to proportions that made him unrecognizable, and I saw the nurses tenderly wiping his sweaty face and hands. I heard the doctors tell me, day after day, that there was no regression, but no progress.  I saw my son become fearful that I was going to leave him EVERY SINGLE TIME anyone came to our house, because he was so used to me being gone to the hospital.

I could go on for days. Every single detail of that time--every moment of every day--is etched, burned into my mind, like a branding. I remember the most remote, insignificant details. The color of the nurse's nail polish. The smell of the 4th floor.The sound of the ventilator. The hush of the ICU waiting room. The way that people look down, around, anywhere but at you when it's obvious you've been crying. The way people look at you when they recognize you, know that you have been there for a very long time.

He jokes about his ARDSiversary. I cannot joke. Since that time, we've had doctor after doctor reiterate that he almost died. I'm traumatized in a very real, tangible way. Last night I woke up and had a panic attack, something that hasn't happened to me since right after the whole incident. I fell asleep and immediately dreamed that we were going back to the hospital because he was sick again. In the dream, I told the doctors, our families, that it was a year to the day from his last major hospitalization. I'm reliving it whether I want to or not. You can't forget the most significant events in your life, whether those experiences are good or bad. I will never, ever forget.

So please, kind to me this week. And next.  I can't shake the memories of where we were a year ago, despite knowing that our story had a happy ending. Even though I'm busy, and life is going on, and I'm smiling at my kids and making jokes, it's rough right now. I could use the positive thoughts.

Monday, August 19, 2013

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Oh! Oh, oh, OHHHHHHH!!  What an experience tonight!  Words cannot adequately describe what happened after dinner.  I'll give it a shot, though. It's definitely blog-worthy.

On Sunday, as I was perusing the aisles of Sam's, you know...purchasing all of my bulk items (seriously, the "big Tide" is worth it! We washed clothes for MONTHS with that thing! We do some serious laundry too..), thinking about all the things we need (a deep-freeze! A popcorn machine!). I came across this fantastic big-wheel/trike thing. It was a great price, and we have yet to really work with our kids on the whole pedaling thing--bad parents, I know. I have guilt over it. Anyway, the guilt told me to buy the thing. I brought it home, put it together, and Anderson proceeded to "pedal with his butt", as he calls it. This means he pushed it with his feet, like a push bike.  Think Fred Flintstone. Yeah. Not what I was going for.

Tonight, after dinner, we went outside. I told Anderson that if he'd really try to learn to ride his big wheel, I would give him a special treat.  He is easily frustrated when he can't do something, so he needed a little bit more motivation than just the going for a ride itself.  He's always up for a special treat. Amelia heard me make this deal with him, and she wanted in on the action. Fine, great, she can't ride anything, either (here is her sweet ride--not as sturdy but it is VERY small, which is what she needs...). So, we got the trikes out of the garage and onto the sidewalk...and that's when all hell broke loose.  I think the best way to describe the chaos that ensued for the next 45 minutes is to take it kid-by-kid.  You'll just have to picture all of this occurring simultaneously.

I worked with Anderson...and thank god for that. Amelia might not be alive if I had worked with her--but more on that in a minute. Anderson is...shall we say...absent-minded. And that is putting it kindly. He would start to pedal, but kind of forget that he had to steer the bike. When he'd grab the handle bars to steer, he'd forget to pedal. It was like he couldn't do it all at once. Yes, he got frustrated and whined, but it was tolerable.  We took the bike to the end of our street where there is no traffic, put it in the road on a slight hill, and let it go. Comedy, friends. Comedy.  He would get going, but suddenly he'd be distracted by something and turn his head--and then veer straight off to one side. He pretended to wave at an imaginary person on the other side of the road and ran over someone's planter (it was okay). He turned completely around to talk to me and went straight off the curb.  He drove into the weeds. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.  It was totally what you'd expect from him. Absent-mindedness at its best, and a struggle to put everything together. He'd get going, then stop, and forget how to do it.  We did this around the entire block. Stop and go. Stop and go. 45 minutes I tell you.  He did, amusingly, pretend to be the ice-cream man in an ice-cream truck--his big wheel has an authentic Schwinn bell and it's fabulous. All in all, I call it a success for him. Is he independent and riding? Not yet.  Does he get frustrated? Yes. But it's so much better. I'll take it.  He's excited about it, and that's worth it.

The daughter?  She is a WHOLE. DIFFERENT. STORY.  Let me start by saying this was my Facebook status last Wednesday:
If you know me at all, you know I have some mild road rage issues. Okay, they're not mild. They're terrible.  Notice Matt's comment? That really happened.  I didn't notice that the old iPod was playing the kiddie song "I am H-A-P-P-Y", and some crazy dude swerved at us as I was driving.  I might've used a certain gesture and dropped a certain..."f"oul word. Then we cracked up--because I mean really? The song H-A-P-P-Y was playing. And I did that. Yeah. I have issues.

Well, apparently my daughter is carrying on that horribly inappropriate legacy. Fortunately for us, she doesn't know any good curse words. I know...shocker.  I am positive that, if she did know any juicy words, she would've used them tonight.  Friends, it was not pretty. She would get pissed if she slowed down at all. And when I say pissed, I mean absolutely IRATE.  She would yell at the bike. She would yell at the road. She got off the bike and threw it down. She got off the bike and hit it. She yelled at the GRASS. The GRASS, you all! And the hills? Oh my gosh. I could hear her screaming from a street over. She cried, and she screamed, and she yelled for the entire 45 minutes.  She was never, ever satisfied.  The thing is, she did a really good job; she just doesn't have the muscle mass to push through any big hills yet (hello? 20 pounds?).  She has great steering, great pedaling skills. She just wasn't fast enough for her liking.  Clearly, she is a perfectionist. And clearly, she has WAY more of a temper than I realized. The whole time, Marty was so patient with her. If I had been with her, I can tell you right now that I would have picked the bike up in one arm, and her up in the other, and we would've gone back home. I cannot tolerate that kind of whining/screaming/hollering/yelling/whatever it is. Maybe it's because I'm like her, I don't know. All I know is that this mama doesn't play that.  As soon as Marty caught up to me, he quickly said, "Like Mother, Like Daughter". Even I didn't have that kind of temper at four years old, people.  In the end, I guess I'm glad he stuck it out with her. She got so much better and she was definitely proud of herself, even if she did scream like an absolute banshee the whole time.

If you're struggling with the visual, never fear--I fully intend to get this on video as soon as humanly possible. I was too busy keeping Anderson from swerving into parked cars to do any videoing, but it's just too hilarious not to try. Tomorrow...and I'll post it.

We are in so much trouble with that one...

Monday, August 12, 2013

Odds and Ends

It's been over a week since my last post. I hate when time gets away from me. I swear, it seems like every day goes by faster than the one before.

Here's what's new in our world:

***Nana and Papaw's.  The kids are, at this very moment, spending the night with their Nana and Papaw without either parent. This is the FIRST time Marty and I have been alone in our house without our children--since their BIRTH. We've gone away and had relatives/sitters watch them for short overnight trips, but never been alone here. It's weird. It's quiet. It's also relaxing. For instance, I am already in pajamas and in my bed. I couldn't do that with the wild ones here.  I miss them like crazy. I can't wait to see them. If all goes well, we pick them up Thursday. If all doesn't go well, we will get them tomorrow.

***The 5K.  Well, didn't go as I had hoped.  For one, this past week was crappy for the running. I was back-to-work quite a bit and wasn't able to run.  The night of the run, the temperature wasn't very high, but I checked the humidity on my Weather Channel app--91% humidity.  That means you're practically swimming in the air. I'm talking rainforest weather. The kind where your windows on your house fog up because of the funk that is the air. I was hoping that the cool temperatures would negate the humidity, but alas, it wasn't meant to be. I'm a terrible runner in the humidity. I crapped out after about 1 3/4 miles. I walked/ran the rest. I threw up in my mouth around mile 2.5--stupid night race! I like running first thing in the morning, with an empty stomach. When I crossed the finish line, I was covered in sweat--I looked like I'd jumped in a pool. Here, the evidence:
This is my "hey, I might throw up at any second but I need to take a quick picture" face.
I'm not a sweat-er by nature. On this night, even my legs were dripping. I sat down on the curb and tried to breathe. I got nauseous all over again and honest-to-god thought I was going to have to throw up on the side of Big Blue Martini, which would've been disgusting for the oh, gazillion people standing around. Deep breathing and pouring water on my neck helped, and I was eventually well enough to stumble to my car.  I didn't run the whole thing as I'd wanted to and finished with an incredibly disappointing time of like 38 minutes. Oh well. There's always another run. Hopefully a morning run.

***Poor Amelia.  My girl...she is an animal lover. Specifically, she's a cat-lover.  She carries around a Beanie Baby cat as her "lovey", a cat whose name changes from Carrie to Rapunzel based on how she feels on that given day.  I took her to see her first movie (Turbo--it was adorable!) a few weeks ago. We got to the theater a little early and had time to kill, so I took her into Pet Smart to look at the kittens. Let me just tell you, every customer in the general vicinity fell in love with my girl because of how in love SHE was with the kittens. They were so playful, and she just belly-laughed at every single thing they did. I was ready to buy one on the spot, except...I'm allergic. But still, seeing her with them made me think, hey, I can tough it out. That's what they make Benadryl for. Fast-forward to this weekend. One of my best friends moved and now llives a whopping 4.3 miles from my house. I visited her at her new digs this weekend, and I decided to use her (and her cats) to test the allergy waters, so that I could see just how bad my cat allergy is. My sister grew out of hers, and I hadn't been around them in awhile, so I thought maybe mine had lessened, too. So, tonight, I decided to pet one of her cats. As soon as I got home, I washed my hands thoroughly. My nose was a little itchy, but not bad. Then...I took out my contacts. Washed my face. Rubbed my eyes with a washcloth. And all hell broke loose, allergically-speaking. I currently look like this:
 Look at the left (right on your screen) eye. Note the swelling eyelid itself, the redness. This is AFTER Benadryl. It was immediate, and awful. The eye itching immediately leads to nasal swelling and runny nose. So, poor Amelia is going to have to hold off on a cat. If petting one cat one time can do this to me, I can't live with one just yet. Sigh.

***Pre-School Open House.  This is Thursday for us. I'm excited and anxious. This is their last year before Kindergarten (INSANITY). There's a lot of pressure on for this year, academically-speaking. Specifically with the boy. It's time to get down to the nitty-gritty and get some learnin' done. I meet their teachers at Open House, and I'm always a bit more leery of Anderson's teachers than Amelia's.  I think it's because the little guy is a pretty complex kid. Now, I'm a teacher myself, and I absolutely do NOT want special considerations for my kids. I know what that's like and it's not fun. But, he's a little different. And that makes meeting his teacher and anticipating the upcoming year a little more anxiety-inducing. I know who their teachers are for the year--the director shared this information with me earlier this week. She said she feels like they're "good fits" for each of my kids. I trust her judgment; she knows my kiddos pretty well by now. From other moms, I've gotten the sense that Anderson's teacher is more...I don't know...strict? Brusque? Discipline-strong?  All things he needs--but he needs them to be done in a non-threatening, non-stimulating way. I have waaay more success with him when I keep my tone even but serious than when I raise my voice. Raising your voice with him just leads to a meltdown. Anyway...long story short, I'm nervous. I hope this year goes well for them.

That's all...stay tuned for more tales of the Nana/Papaw trip and our first week back at work! To all of my teacher friends, here's to another school year!

Sunday, August 4, 2013

The Grand Finale

This post is for the, fair warning. If you're one of my few male readers, you will want to just go ahead and click that little 'x' in the top right corner and come back to read my next post. This one isn't for you.

I guess it's also not for the squeamish ladies out there, or the ones who don't want to talk reproductive systems. If that makes you uncomfortable, you might want to pass on this one and come back for my next post, too (but please come back!).

As I've talked about a little bit, we have (had?) fertility issues. I had surgery for and was diagnosed with stage IV endometriosis . During what was supposed to be exploratory surgery, they found that my ovaries were adhered to my abdominal wall with endometrial tissue, and that my left ovary had a large tumor. My outpatient, 20 minute procedure became a two hour ordeal that bought me an overnight hospital stay. I left the following day down one ovary and more than half of my fertility.

Fast-forward about five years.  We went through IVF to conceive our little darlings, knowing full-well that this was probably it for us in terms of having children. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind and heart, I held on to some stupid hope. I mean, it's really really, I don't know--FINAL--to say you are just done having children. My mama heart is more than full with A & A, but it just felt weird to think it was over in terms of family expansion.

Unfortunately, endometriosis isn't something that just goes away. You can do things to slow its growth--take various forms of birth control, take Lupron to put yourself into temporary menopause and give your entire system a rest (which I did--and let me tell ya, I ain't looking forward to real menopause! Hot flashes are serious business...)--but until you have a hysterectomy, it isn't going to just stop. Most women with severe endometriosis end up having a hysterectomy at some point, some earlier than others.

I've done two sessions of Lupron, and years of birth control. Unfortunately, that's still not keeping my endometriosis and symptoms at bay. At this point, I have spotting every single day. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Do you know how annoying that is???? It is incredibly, horrifically annoying and inconvenient. So, I went to my doctor. And that's when she told me about endometrial ablation.  I was fascinated and sold--a way to make yourself not have periods, and still keep all of your girly bits? Sign me up!

I won't go into too much detail, but essentially they burn the inside of your uterus, which then prevents the development of endometrial lining each month. If you're like me and intrigued by medical science, you can read the above link to hear all about the procedure. Apparently some crazy places do this in-office, but my doctor does the procedure under sedation because she likes to do a D & C before the ablation procedure. Thank god--when you read the fine print, it sounds pretty...well...horrible. I'll take my happy drugs and go to sleep, thankyouverymuch.

The downside...once you commit to this procedure, you're essentially sterilizing yourself. You have to use birth control as prevention (which is a non-issue for me) because if you WERE to conceive, it would most definitely end in miscarriage--there's no endometrial growth to sustain life. Now...I KNOW that we weren't planning another IVF procedure. I am HAPPY with the gorgeous sweet babies that we have. But it just seems so odd to say I am just done.  It's signing on the line, committing to never mothering again. So, while I will be happy to no longer have periods (I mean, who wouldn't be??), I'm also a bit sad about the true loss of ability to have children. It's just bittersweet.

My procedure is scheduled for August 28th. I think I'm going to have some kind of party for myself, or something, to celebrate the end of fertility. I read the blog of a woman who is young like me (HA!) and had an early hysterectomy, and she had a uterus cake to celebrate before-hand. Anyone have a uterus-shaped cake pan?

Thursday, August 1, 2013

An Unfortunate Accident.

I blame the stupid car carts at Kroger. If I have to do any grocery shopping that involves buying more than 10 items, I have to use one of those god-awful buses known in our house as the "car cart". You know what they are--you probably dodge moms and dads pushing them at the store, cursing silently to yourself as they nearly take out your calf muscle and their kids continuously honk the squeaky horn. I HATE those things, but they do serve their purpose--to keep kids occupied so you can get your shopping done.

Earlier this summer, we were shopping with the stupid car cart. It was right after the van purchase, so I was getting used to the thing--the buttons on the key, specifically. After a particularly trying shopping trip, I was at the van, trying to maneuver the car cart behind the beast of a vehicle. An older man in a pick-up truck wanted to park in the spot next to me, so I had to try to wiggle the car cart out of his spot and far enough back from the van to open the automatic hatch. It took me more than a minute and I felt so bad, but he waited patiently. Of course, as you can imagine, my frustration was mounting. It was hot, I had frozen items melting, and I just wanted to get home. I managed to get the cart situated and the hatch open, and started putting the groceries in the car. I was hoping that the man wasn't planning on getting out of his truck and cussing me out. I know I would've wanted to.

Of course, the complete opposite happened. He was so nice. He said if he'd known I had little ones in the cart, he would've parked somewhere else. He said that he had over 30 grandchildren himself--BIG family--and that he just loved kids. He was such a nice man, it was a like a feeling of relief washed over me. I like it when people surprise me. I chatted with him for a minute, and he leaned down to talk to the kids in the car, which was sweet.

Unfortunately, that's when things went south.

I was trying to open the sliding doors on the van, so that I could let it air out a bit--I wanted it to not be a gajillion degrees when the kids got in. Except...I was talking to the man at the same time as I was trying to push the buttons, and I pushed the wrong one. I heard the tell-tale beep of the hatch closing.  The man, who really was quite old, was still bent over talking to the kids--in the direct path of the closing hatch. I tried to hit the button again to reverse the action, but at the time I didn't realize you had to hold it down for more than a second to do this. I attempted to warn him, but he wasn't the kind of guy who was moving anywhere too quickly--and the door crashed into his head. I learned that the car has a sensor for such occasions--the door automatically opened back up. I, of course, was horrified. I apologized profusely, he said he was fine. I asked him if he was sure, he said absolutely, and he went on his merry way.  I got the kids out of the nightmare car cart and started buckling them in, hoping that they hadn't seen the incident from their vantage point.  Anderson was unusually quiet.  He had a very thoughtful look on his face. As I strapped him in, he said, "Mom? Did you close the Papaw's head in the door?"  Yes...he saw me and he called me out like that. I had to laugh--the whole thing is actually pretty comical, now that it has passed.  I told him yes, I sure did, but that it was an accident and that the Papaw was okay. We went home, and went  about our day.

Except Anderson has a better memory than anyone I know. He reminds me daily--still--about closing the Papaw's head in the door.  Anytime we are in the back of the van, he acts as though he is going to let it close on his head--wanting to relive the little incident.  Today, I made his dreams come true. He was standing a bit close to it, and the hatch grazed his head as it opened. Of course he was thrilled and said, "Did you open my head in the door?"  Yes, Anderson....yes, I did.

Silly kid.