The Day I Almost Died - Again

I didn't write about this earlier because I'm a lazy pig.  And do nothing but sleep on the couch and ignore laundry and dishes.  And bathing myself.  (Which is actually perfect.  Because that new hair color I just got - semi permy dye - will last about 7 times as long as it would on a normal person who cares about their hygiene.)(I never said I wasn't good at getting the most bang for my buck.)

A few weeks ago the circus came to town.  In a way, it's a tad old fashion sounding, and that feels nice.  Until I think about the poor animals. And then I get mad and wish I was protesting with the other protesters.  Instead, I just sulk my way past sign holders and pretend I don't care about the poor elephants.

So Big D works down town - and knows about back alleys and secret parking spots, and all sorts of other non-family places and areas.  But he still likes to take his family there.

I'm not sure if it's because his brain doesn't work properly, or if it's because his brain doesn't work properly.  Still trying to figure it out over here - 9 years later.

The setting:
Pitch black.  Middle of the city.  Both kids with us.  Semi-full bellies.  Lots of farts.  Hidden stash of water in bottom of "diaper-bag".  Freezing.

Big D parked us in our semi-sketchy spot.  And we booked our bottoms to a more appropriate family location - the sidewalk.

And in true Big D fashion, he took us on a special off-the-grid hike.  The least beaten path, you could say.  The path where nobody else was in sight.  Because it was dark.  With no lights.

Honestly, it wasn't too bad.  We got to see all the trailers and trailers of the circus.  But then, ahead of us, a dark ominous figure appeared, and started waddling toward us.  Just one.  In the dark.

But it ended up just being a nice, fat circus helper telling us we couldn't continue our walk in the current direction.  Something about the horses being crazy.  And there in the distance I could see horses whizzing in circles.  I think they were fed crack.  I guess crack horses would be more exciting to watch.

So instead of Big D taking us on a more family-friendly trip around the VERY large building, he some how scrounged up an even more highly alarming, secret passage, short cut.

A secret passage that took us right by the opening of the old aqueduct, that now houses the homeless and addicts.  And in true Big D fashion, he thought it to be the most opportune time to have a family field trip.

Dear Jesus.

Big D was holding Ed.  And Murr was in his hand.  I stood back on the platform, in case something happened "I would be able to run and get help".  Yes, I really thought this.  And then I thought, "my goodness, you're being such a cantankerous panty wad.  Go have a field trip."

Yup, so I had a field trip.  I walked to the ledge of the old aqueduct.  And it was beautiful.  Well, I could imagine it was beautiful.  It was pitch black.  You could see through the windows on the other side.  But inside the actual aqueduct, it was the black that made your eyes ache.

I listened to Big D give his presentation.  I think it lasted about 20 seconds.

And then the voice of Satan appeared.  It was incomprehensible.  And loud. And so gravely, my ears got road rash.  It was oh, so close to my face, but invisible.

I was so startled.  And so angry.  I grabbed Murr's coat, picked her off her feet.  And threw her out onto the platform, grabbed her hand.  And when I say "high-tailed it".  Just imagine that to be an understatement.

Once I got to safety, I turned around to see where Big D was.  . . . . .  Big D, still holding my son - was still standing on the ledge - and I quote - "to try to see who was talking".

The rage.  Oh the rage.
1)  I knew this was going to happen.
2)  Why would you take your family to a very well-known sketchy area?
3)  Why would you just stand there asking to be dismembered, WHILE holding your son?
4)  Was Big D dropped on his head as a baby?

 And I have nothing else to say.  Except I survived my 2nd close brush with death.  

Maybe secretly I'm a cat.  I guess technically a Fox is close enough.

Life is Never Pretty

I felt hope.  I felt grateful.

And it came sweeping over me with such gentle surprise.

You see, I've been sinking.  We haven't been in the best health over here for a little while.  I shower once a week.  Literally.  I don't get dressed.  Heaps of dirty and clean laundry are scattered.  I think I vacuumed last in 2011.  The bottom of my white porcelain sink is orangy/brown.  We eat food out of boxes.  A new herd of fruit flies have moved in.  Big ones.  Twice the size of normal ones.  And they don't like my fruit fly trap.

My bathroom is ripped to shreds.  It has a functioning shower and toilet.  But no sink.  Which means nobody washes their hands anymore.  Nor do we brush our teeth.

The sheets on the bed?  Thank goodness Big D hasn't brought me "down-town" in awhile.  Otherwise we'd be sleeping in crunch.  Because that's how much I'm sinking.

There is no dinner.  There are no thoughts of dinner.

And sometimes I sleep.  And sometimes I don't.  It all depends on how gracious Ed is.  And if the stars align in their magical pattern.  And if "cozy" (his blanket) is perfectly perched upon body.  And if he can find his "hole" in blue.  And if pink cat is present, but not hogging his personal space.  And whether or not he needs to pee or have a drink.  Or a snuggle.

And that's just during the night.

The days are far worse.  With so much screaming and crying.

And Murnice fights me every second.  If I take two breaths, she's off and playing.  Because there is nothing more fanciful, than to play when there's school to do.  Elaborate and thorough games.

But today, as I was sitting, taking my daily, convulsive, diarrhea-squirt session, I felt it.  I felt a wave of gratitude.

I don't know where it came from.  Or why it decided to show up.  Or why it thought I was worthy.  But I really liked that fleeting moment.  I really liked feeling hopeful.

Honestly I didn't realize I was sinking this much, until I breathed fresh.

I wouldn't mind a prayer or two.

The end.

Bigger is Better, But Wisdom is Best

I knew it was going to happen.  Or at least I was prepared for when it did happen.

You see, one of my spiritual gifts happens to be intuition and discernment.  It's a blessing and a curse.  And maybe I'll talk more about that another time.

I became "aware" about two weeks ago.  It was a Friday night.  Friday Friend party night!!! . . . . . except I had a nervy feeling in my stomach about work the next morning.  (I run a swim lesson program)  I wasn't sure if I was just being a wench or my "feelings" were legit.

So I went exploring.  And my mind's eye came up with a picture.

In my home town there's this really neat family.  It's a pastor and his family.  And a couple of years ago they adopted 3 teenagers from the Ukraine.  Two of the kids come to swim lessons on Saturday, and one of those kids is a daredevil on the diving board.  He's good.  And fearless.  All the makings you need to be a diver.

My mind picture was of this daredevil hitting the diving board with his head.  He would need to be backboarded. And it was going to happen right at the end of swim lessons, when the whistle was blown.

I hated it.  But I prayed over it.  Asking God to please let that not happen.  But if he did, to please cover me in wisdom, as I would be the one to be making the calls.

I prayed real hard.  And I went over and over, in my head, the drill for backboarding a victim.  And nothing happened that Saturday.  And I breathed.

Fast forward to last night.  Having moved on from my nervy feelings . . . . I wasn't thinking about diving board accidents anymore.

Tuesday night is homeschool swim.  I bring Murnice and Ed for a lesson. Mother runs the program.  Sometimes I lifeguard.  Sometimes I teach a lesson.  Last night I lifeguarded.  Mother was playing with Ed in the shallow end while she chatted with me.  The whistle blew to signal the end of class.  And the divingboard made a horrific sound.

I looked up to see 3 adults rush to the divingboard.  I knew somebody had hit it.  And then saw that it had been B.B. Bobby.  He was at the edge of the pool.  Which was a good sign that he could move.  I started yelling "DID HE HIT THE BOARD" as I ran down to the deep end.

After about the fifth time of asking the question, somebody finally said "yes, he split his head".

B.B.Bobby is out of the pool at this point, bent over, blooding running down his face.  I take this all in as I grabbed the backboard and start ripping the velcro to shreds.

I'm yelling out commands, "CALL 911" and "HELP ME GET HIM ON THE BACKBOARD".

Immediately about 5 adults surrounded me and start yelling at me, "HOW DO WE HELP?"

This is funny to me.  You know how in fast moving events, its blurred?  So I wonder if what I was saying was actually making sense to bystanders?  And then I wonder if I even answered their questions?  Or if I just did it myself?

I remember throwing my hands up in the air at one point because I couldn't even get to all the straps because there were so many people surrounded him - supporting and gauzing and evaluating.

And then he was finally on the board, properly.  Strapped.  Immobilized.  He was nauseous and dizzy.  And then there's ice.

B.B.Bob was breathing and conscious.  The ambulance was on their way.  And then I realized, Ed was missing.  I didn't see him anywhere in the mass of people.  I yelled real loud.  Three times.  "WHERE'S MY SON".

And there he was.  Wrapped in a towel, sitting.  By Murnice.  Guarded by the lovliest mom.  She shared herself.  Her time.  While others took care of her children.

And then we waited.

I kept going over check lists in my head of what needed to be done.  I not only needed to observe the happenings with B.B.Bobby, but there was paper work, and disinfecting, and kids that needed to be taken care of, and dazed parents that needed to be walked step by step through simple directions - such as how to get dressed, a pool to generally organize and lock up, cars and belongings to collect and be driven back to Mothers - since she was going on the ambulance ride, and organizing helpers to stand in the parking lot to direct the ambulance to the correct door.  Since Father wasn't answering the phone he needed to be personally got, along with warm clothes and cell phones. And phone calls to later evening funs had to be cancelled. 

I am amazed.  I am grateful to the helpfulness of all.  From sitting with smaller children to lending underwear.  Standing in the cold outdoors with just a bathing suit to guide the EMS to cleaning up the blood bath.  To covering in prayers and not leaving his side with jokes.

I was covered.  I had already prayed 2 weeks before.  Wisdom.  It was the most perfect, worst accident the pool of 30+ years has seen.

8 staples.  No headache.  Nothing broken/fractured/sprained.  Bloody and bruised, yes.  His hands are very tender and swollen.  And they are the worst of it, pain wise.

I believe with all my heart that that accident was meant for the daredevil diver.  I believe with all my heart that my prayer changed what was meant to be.  And God was gracious and so perfect.

My heart is full of Thanksgiving.

I Will Not Swallow

I named her Mother Green Toes, because that's what she is.  She's a mother to a large car load of kids.  And she does things that would put a green-thumber to shame.

I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.

These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1)  Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2)  Doesn't own a chemical
3)  Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the  best there is
4)  Homebirths
5)  Grinds her own flour
6)  Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7)  Her make-up is from the holy earth
8)  Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9)  For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into

But she does like her fancy cheese.  And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method.  (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)

The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner.  And it's good stuff.  But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.

Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time.  And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion.  Eggs and muffins.  Naturally I agreed.

Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs.  So perfect.

But the next thing that happened was not perfect.  It was quite confusing. 

I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex.  I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.

And then I didn't know what to do.  I was a guest.  And I had a hostess.  And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more.  And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".

No, that's not appropriate at all.

But that's exactly what I did.  I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too.  There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid.  And you can't think. And you don't care.  But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.

Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?

Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?

Fifteen Ways? Double-Time With an Extra "Ew"

 As if trying their hand at one list wasn't enough.  They had to write another list.  A lady list.  And I thought the man list was as stupid as pie.

The lady list is a joke.  I think.

And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.

Prepare yourselves.  Gird your loins. . . .

Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife

1. Hug and kiss her every morning before leaving the house.
2. Go to bed at the same time she does.
3. Brush her hair while complimenting her eyes and appearance.
4. When she's studying herself in the mirror, tell her, "You are so beautiful."
5. Evict late-night television from your bedroom.
6. During mid-afternoon, call or send her an email to ask how her day's going.
7. Try your hand at making breakfast on Saturday morning.
8. Put gas in her car, vacuum the floor mats, and clean the windows.
9. Write her a short love letter. List several ways she has blessed you this year.
10. Resurrect common courtesies: Hold the car door open. Offer her your arm.
11. Put the toilet seat down.
12. If you hear her engaged in a tough situation, compliment the way she handled it.
13. When you're together in a crowd, find a way to brag on her.
14. Help her put the kids to bed.
15. Pray with her every day. Every day!

And since I can't keep my mouth shut.  And because I'm feeling extra saucy this afternoon, here's my list to Big D.

Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.

 1.  Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon.  And that I have the harder job
2.  I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing.  Try your hardest to be thorough with this task.  As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3.  You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom.  But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely.  And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield.  And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4.  I don't want to be caught looking at myself.  So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost.  But things that would be appropriate to say to me:  a)  your boobs have never looked perkier b)  your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . .  and other fine things of that sort.
5.  Bring the tv into the bedroom.  I may spend more time in bed.  I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6.  DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day.  Send me emails.  And don't ask how my day is going.  If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me.  If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7.  I am offended by #7
8.  Don't waste your time.  Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank.  (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9.  Yes, yes.  Write me lots.  But write when you're pissed at me.  It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10.  Don't waste your time.  Unless I get knocked up again.  And then come pull me out of the car.
11.  If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed.  And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12.  When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13.  When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know.  I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird.  It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food.  But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14.  This lady is a raging lunatic.
15.  This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more.  I sometimes get real itchy to throw something.  Or dump dinner down the drain.

I have no closing thoughts or comments.

The end.

I puked.

Fifteen Ways?

I got an email from Big D this morning.  It said this:

                              "Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."

And this is what followed:

Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband

1. Write him a letter and send it to his office, or put a love note in his lunch box or his briefcase.
2. Prepare his favorite meal.
3. Arrange an evening out for just the two of you.
4. Wear his favorite dress with your hair done the way he likes it.
5. Purchase something small and frivolous for him that he won't buy himself.
6. Give him a nicely framed picture of yourself, or of you and the children, for his office.
7. Surprise him with a trip to do something he likes.
8. Put the children to bed early and prepare a candlelight dinner.
9. Do something that especially pleased him back when you were dating.
10. Pray and read the Scriptures with him daily.
11. Take walks together.
12. Keep your junk out of the garage.
13. Greet your husband warmly after work.
14. Wear his favorite negligee, or buy a new nightgown to add sizzle to your evening attire.
15. Clean out the car for him.

A Typical Day With Ed

My day with naughty Ed as gone like this:

6:58 am
*SCREAMING*  "I want to get up"  repeatedly.  Loudly.  With lots of "moms".

I said no.  Because it wasn't quite 7.  And that's the rule.  And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .

I really thought he fell back asleep.  There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes.  And I thought it was my lucky day.  And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift.  And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.

But then he started yelling again.  And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.

And then there was much fawning over my breasts.  Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly.  And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle".  He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".

Now, not to brag or anything.  But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with.  But it's not soft.  Or squishy.  Or, lovely.  On any level.  But I do have nipples.

And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began.  I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk.  I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table.  In the wrong spot, of course.

And then more screaming.  Because he wanted to be spoon fed.

Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child.  My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.

Well, that attitude really got him going.  Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed.  Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.

In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down.  Picked up his bowl with both hands.  And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out.  Every last bit.  And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.

That was how my day began.  And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB".  It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.

I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library.  Which just sounds boringly naughty.  It was.  But it adds.

He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot.  Followed by snickers and chuckles.

And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.

And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.

I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday.  #1 - It's kinda funny.  #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?

Take Aways
1)  greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2)  and then stay home, forever.
3)  I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4)  I haven't worn makeup in months.  I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5)  Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes.  But in a really bad way.
6)  I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7)  Wah!
8)  Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.