Oh deer

I know I promised this story a little while back, but I was still too emotionally connected to be able to write it. Thus, I will share it with you now, as I’ve stopped thinking about this poor little deer on a day-to-day basis, wondering where it is or if it’s eating little deer cookies in deer heaven.

The day after the wedding, Sept. 18

On Sept. 18 at 6:00, I was ready to divorce John. It had been a long 24 hours, what can I say? Okay, Sweetie, since I know you’re reading this, really I wasn’t. I was just a little harried, that’s all.

On Saturday night, the plan was to spend time with family and friends at a relaxing dinner, which we did, but getting ready for it was one of the most unorganized two hours of my life. John had gone to the hotel early, justifiably, to spend time with his family because he doesn’t have the option I do of seeing his family every day. Or every few months for that matter.

While I tried to get dressed up and keep the boys looking half clean, they managed to:

1. Get a hold of John’s aftershave and spread it on the carpet and sofa to say nothing of their outfits
2. Poop. (By the way, is there some prophecy out don’t know about that when you’re getting ready to go, your kids will poop?)
3. And spray hairspray all over the living room (I was just thankful that this didn’t get in their eyes).

My mom saved the day by coming over to drop off something from the wedding site and deciding to stick with me to help me get the boys in coats, etc. and out the door.

On our way to dinner, just where Hwy 5 meets 35, I heard my mom say, “Sweetie, there’s a deer behind that column.”

At this point, both boys were singing “Wheels on the Bus” in the backseat, I was wearing a dress and heels, and the last thing I was thinking about was a deer.

The deer apparently wasn’t thinking about me either.

She dashed in front of the car and slammed on the brakes (thank God no one was behind me) and we caught the poor things’ rumpus right on our hood.

“Keep driving, you did a good job,” my mom said as my hands shook and I tried to drive 70 to move in with traffic and the boys continued to sing, “The wheels  on the bus.” Thank God for Britax car seats by the way.

“Ummmm …,” I said intelligently. All I could see was that poor deer flying into the underbrush of the bypass, lying in pain or saying, “Thank God for that ghetto booty.” I really hoped it was the latter.

And then my mom said something that made me think – no wonder I turned out so crazy.

“I always wondered what it would be like to hit a deer.”

I looked at her, incredulous. “Really? That’s what you're thinking right now?”

She patted my hand and looked hopeful. “Don't worry, Sweetie. I think that deer may have made it.”

Well, I hope so, but if you did Bambi, you owe me a deductible.

This is what happens when ...

Saturday I was driving to Perry to try on my wedding dress for the first time. I was happy for a few reasons:

1) My dress was lost in the mail for three weeks and was now found. Truly, they were pretty worried about it. I was a little bit. My mom was FREAKING out (not that I can blame her, I just hadn't heard her freak out in a while, so it was slightly entertaining). Love you, Mom.

2) I was listening to NPR. I love NPR because a) I am a dork. b) They have awesome Sat. music from Java House in Iowa City where in college, I stimulated my caffeine addiction as an excuse for better studying habits 3) They still tell news stories instead of having reality TV stars for interviewees. P.S. I make up for this by watching E News a lot.

3) John had bought me 4 truffles from Godiva just before I left and I ate 3 of them on my ride up. It's impossible not to be happy when you're eating 3 truffles. I then sadly let the other one melt while I tried my dress on, but was not above licking the melted chocolate off the bag until my sister looked at me slightly disgusted and said, "You know we have cookies at my house, right?"

So, upon my sister and my arrival in the store we were ushered into a dressing room where my dress awaited. I slid into it up to my thighs and then all sense of sliding stopped. I propped it up around my chest (what's left of it) and said, "Okay. Zip."

And my sister said, "Ummmmm...."

I looked at her face in the mirror and it's one I'd seen plenty of times as a child. One day, I "stayed home sick" with my sister and my mom caught us in our unfinished basement playing soccer and made us go to Wednesday night church. When my sister saw my mom that day at the bottom of the stairs I saw that face.

"No umms!" I said eyebrows sky high. "Zip!"

"Ummmm.....," she said.

And then we shuffled the dress into 20 different positions and suddenly it zipped.

Suddenly, I was also incredibly aware of my diaphragm.

"Ummm," I wheezed.

And my sister started laughing. "My dress was this tight. Soon, you're going to feel like you're sternum's collapsing."

Awesome. Sounds pleasant.

The seamstress came over and said, "How does everything feel? It fits fabulously!"

And I said, "Yeah. Um. I can't really breathe."

"That's perfect!," she said, and I was a bit miffed at how excited she was about my lack of air.

And then I started sweating. In air conditioning. Without lifting 19-month-old boys on my hips or smiling for photos or dancing or sitting in the Iowa September sun and I thought, oh heck. I'm going to be a puddle of a bride about halfway down my walk down the aisle.

And then I thought, well, that's okay. John has seen me with the flu. And pregnant as a whale with twins. And delivering twins. And So who knows, right? Maybe sweaty and stuffed will be an improvement?!

Until tomorrow ...

Tutus and Charleston Chews

In lieu of talking about everything that's making me want a beer right now, I've decided to flash back to dance class 1990.

First, I feel like I should tell you a few very important things.

1) I have huge thighs, and they were with me then, too. So at age 9, my huge thighs were plopped into pale pink tights. No, I can't imagine anything worse.
2) I sucked at dancing. Super sucked. I know with kids now I'm supposed to say things like, "Oh, honey, sucked is a bad word - and so strong - can't you say you weren't very good?" But the strong word is necessary here. I sucked.
3) There was only one thing I loved about dance class. There was only one thing I even liked about dance class. Afterward, my mom would take me to the grocery store right next door and I would get a candy bar. (See #1 huge thighs).

On this particular day, we were all preparing for a recital. I had my token place in the back row where I was no doubt preemptively weighing my options between a 3 Musketeers and a Charleston Chew when things got serious. The owner of the dance studio came in.

She was elusive. Sure, her name was on the outside of the building, but until then, the woman with big black hair and skinny legs was our teacher. Not this woman.

She had gray hair and stick thin legs and a voice like she'd been smoking for 137 years.

She also had a pointer.

She stood up front and said, "Dance monkeys, dance!"

Okay. Not really, but it felt that way. She asked us to run through our routine and every three seconds she would yell, "Stop the music!" and she would critique someone's stance or someone's wrist or someone's eyelashes.

I'd never been happier to be in the back row.

"STOP THE MUSIC!" she screamed a last time. And then her beady eyes settled on a poor slim girl to my front left. I remember her. I remember her hair. I remember her thin legs. I remember the way that the whole situation looked a lot like a hawk circling a mouse.

"Everyone, look over here!" she said, sticking her pointer right at the poor girl. "LOOK!"

"Thissssss....," she said narrowing her eyes and pointing at the girl's behind, "is why we don't wear underwear. Look at this ugly line!"  

I watched tears roll down the little girls cheeks and I thought about a lot of mean things I could say to this woman. And above all of them, I heard a voice screaming in my head, "You were not meant for dance. You always wear underwear!"

And that was it. That was my last dance class. There are moments in life when you realize you just weren't meant for something, and with my underwear and huge thighs and love of chocolate, I knew I wasn't meant for dance. I enjoyed every single bite of my Charleston Chew on the way home that night, and I started contemplating all of the chocolate bars I would get to eat now that I didn't have dance weighing down my snack time.

I'm ambitious like that.

Robbing Banks and Locking Bathrooms

When I was little, and people used to ask me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I would answer: 

"I want to be a bank robber."

What can I say? It was the first wave of computer-hacking bank-robbing movies and it looked like fun. Anyway, apparently I said it too many times because finally my mom said:

"You have to stop saying that, Sweetie."

Probably, it was a little embarrassing to have a little girl with blunt-cut bangs and chubby cheeks running around telling everyone she wanted to rob banks.

This has a lot to do with today's post, because this weekend, I realized that I never could have dealt with the pressure of robbing banks. In fact, I would have been so bad for that line of work, I think I would have wet myself before any of the people I was robbing had a chance to.

On Saturday, in the middle of a weekend full of crazy (John was golfing with my uncle who was in from out of town, while two boys who refused to nap were running around my house like chickens with their heads cut off), the boys decided to lock themselves in the bathroom.

You know how sometimes, you have this moment of pure inspiration and think, "I can do this in 30 seconds and be back and be organized?" I've decided I will ignore these moments forever. I will call this voice, Nancy, and Nancy needs to be quiet, because here's what Nancy told me to do on Saturday when I was trying to get all of us ready to go swimming.


While the boys play, you run outside with the swimming bag full of clothes and diaper bag because otherwise, you'll have two boys in the car by themselves while you try to make the trip. Ah ha! You smart woman, Nancy. What a great idea! So I grabbed the diaper bag and swimming clothes while the boys were entertained and ran outside. It really was 30 seconds.

30 seconds too long.

When I came back in the house I heard lots of crying and thought, oh hell, one of the boys hit the other one for the 30th time today and I'll have to give a time out while trying to get everyone ready for the pool and spread sunscreen on wriggling bodies.

The boys are in a phase where they like to close doors, so I went to open the bathroom door where they apparently decided to play, and I couldn't open it more than an inch.

They hadn't locked it truly.

Worse.

They'd shut the door, then opened a vanity door and pulled a shelf out that sits just an inch inside the bathroom door. The bathroom door opens to the bathroom, not the hallway, so when I pushed on the door, it hit the door to the vanity, knocked into the pulled out shelf, and I had only enough room to squeeze my hand in (which is now all sorts of bruised because my chubby hand barely fit through that space). On top of that, the lights were out, so my little guys were stuck in a dark bathroom.

In a moment of panic (when I realized bank-robbing would have led to me needing to change my pants a lot, not me making lots of money), I thought, oh my God, they're eating VapoRub. VapoRub is awesome when your kids have a cold. But probably not awesome when consumed.

I started throwing myself at the door. (The doors were built nearly 30 years ago, so when I failed to open it this way, I felt a wave of disappointment at my strength, but got over it pretty quickly since the scenario called for quick action). 

So I did what I always do in a moment of pure panic at age 28.

I called my mother.

"Mom!! The boys locked themselves in the bathroom!" I said while I tried to jimmy rig a hanger to reach through the door and turn on the lights for my now glass-breaking decibel-screaming children.

And she did what she always does because she's my mom. She hung up and drove to my house.

Seconds later, I finally got the boys to calm down by saying in a shaky voice:

"Boys - mommy's right here. I'm right here."

Probably it looked really creepy what with my voice right on the other side of the door and just my hand reaching in grasping at air, but I tried.

And they responded a bit. Their crazy cries went to ghasps for air.

"And Mommy's going to get you out," I said, thinking, "How in the heck am I going to get you out?" I went back to my work with the hanger, cursing the fact that I wasn't MacGayver. Or my friend Kim. My friend Kim once fixed a dent in a car with a towel and a spoon.

Really, had I been calm from the beginning, this may have worked out a lot faster, because when I started to calm down and talk to the boys while I slid the hanger through the door, Will started to walk closer, trying to reach my hand, and his little belly inched the drawer forward.

Ah ha!

"That's it Will," I said, "come here, Sweetie."

Another inch, and I could push the door open enough to get my elbow in. He walked a bit closer, and at last! Two children! Two crying, puffy-faced, scared-of-the-dark children who hadn't eaten any VapoRub! They ran at me and hugged my legs and tried to crawl up me to wrap their arms around my neck.

I hugged them tight, and they were over me in about 30 seconds and decided they wanted to play outside. Sully just had a bruise on his forehead and a scratch on his nose earned during all of the excitement.

All in all, the whole situation lasted about 3 minutes, but they were the longest minutes of my life. Probably near the amount of time you'd have to get in and out of a bank robbery. But I'll never know. Two boys are enough excitement for me.

Macaroni and Cheese Please

My children would eat Panera's Macaroni and Cheese if it fell onto the back of a rabid racoon who was getting ready to jump in the sewer. This is why I have to keep an eye out for raccoons. Well, that and I'm totally freaked out by those creepy little animals and their beady eyes and the thought that when they look at me they know that I'm 3" shorter than I told the people at the Department of Transportation.

Anyway, the boys love Panera's Macaroni and Cheese so much, on more than one occassion on one of my "I'm going to go nuts soon!" days we've scooped them up, driven to the mall, and strolled them straight in line where I say:

"Giant Mac and Cheese please."

Normally, this works out well, but the other day, when I said, "I'm going to go nuts soon!" and we scooped the kids up and I tried to make them look halfway presentable and said:

"Giant Mac and Cheese please."

The woman behind the counter had the audacity to say:

"We're out."

I stood there, completely befuddled for a minute. What? Out!? Out of Mac and Cheese! I looked frantically at my children and back at her and she looked at me like a prison guard and that's when I knew that woman didn't have children because she would have recognized "frantic mother about to jump ship" face and instead, she just raised her eyebrows and said:

"There's 500 calories in a small dish, you know."

Um. Double what? Stop talking prison guard lady! I already feed my kids Eggos you don't need to tell me how bad Mac and Cheese is - and hello! Take it off your menu if it's so evil. (Editor's note: Please do not remove Mac and Cheese from your menu or I'm likely to die. I love it nearly as much as my children).

I glared a glare at that woman I normally reserve for my children when they start food fights at dinner (who knew 18-month-olds knew about food fights by the way - this is another post for sure).

"We don't want anything then," I said. Though I looked incredibly forlornly at a chocolate chip cookie. And she shrugged at me and I said:

"Except that Cobblestone," in sheer  panic I thought I would walk away without the two pound muffin I was fairly certain God plopped down from heaven into the hands of a Panera baker just for me that morning.

Trust me, I tried to look grumpy when she handed me that muffin, but I think I looked like a kid in a candy store because it was all sorts of deliciousness wrapped into one. Then I gave the muffin to John and the boys while I went into a store. Mistake. I came back and there wasn't much muffin left and Will and Sully looked like they'd been dipped in a vat of frosting and cinnamon. I almost licked their cheeks to get what was left.

Sigh.

Until tomorrow ...

I don't know what got into me, but at least the car's clean.

So I offered to clean out John's car today, and while normally, I would take a lot of credit for being so thoughtful, I couldn't really do that in this instance because the juice box stains and foreign substances sliding around in the back at sharp turns that used to be Graduates Puffs were about 98% my fault.

"We could borrow my parent's shop vac," I said on our way back from a trip in town today. We both looked over our shoulder into the backseat and I think even the boys were shaking their heads at me.

"Honey," John said. "This thing needs an industrial-strength vacuum.

Taking a second look, I had to agree. After getting the boys down today, I started with the easy stuff, a little Armor All and Windex. And resigned myself to the hard stuff. The industrial-strength vacuum.

"Don't sweat!" John yelled at me as I pulled out of the drive, heading for the car wash.

Don't sweat? Was that a joke? He should know not to joke with me about sweat by now (one time, in fifth grade during a tennis lesson, my instructor told me I sweat like a man. While this is true, I highly recommend if male, you don't say something similar to a female - it will stick with them for life).

Ten minutes later, I was sweating like a pig, and I didn't care that while I was hauling that vacuum into the depths of hell in the backseat of our car, my grandma panties were likely hanging out for the world to see (cleaning out cars calls for grandma panties - nobody wants to tackle that work in a thong. Actually, I don't want to tackle anything in a thong - that situation has uncomfortable written all over it).

Here's the thing. While wrestling that behemoth vacuum around the car and whiling away quarters like I was playing slot machines, I realized whoever invented those vacuums must have had children. Those things could suck up a small adult who wasn't paying attention, let alone the remnants of a PB&J sandwich or a sad little bug (I accidentally squashed a bug in the car on the way to the car wash - I"m still too sad to talk about it for long periods of time because I broke his little wing and he couldn't get anywhere and when it finally looked like he had hope and had turned over I accidentally scooped him up in the vacuum while I cleaned the doors. This bug had bad luck written all over him with a clutz like me in charge today).

When I was done and had sweat through my tank top and my hair was falling out all over and I'd spoken enough cuss words to sail legitimately, I thought, these are the moments when you run into an ex-boyfriend or a girl who hated your guts in high school.

So I hopped in the car and drove home immediately.

Before I go, let me say, here's to you, all parents who have tackled the interior of your car with only your bare hands and a hint of insanity. Next time, I'm saving up and having that puppy detailed.

Until tomorrow ...

Poop. Poop. Poop.

I have a friend who has hated the word poop ever since we were in fifth grade and she moved here from Michigan. Melissa, if you're reading this - yes, I still remember your hatred for the word poop. She has since had two children and had to deal with more than her fair share of poo I'm sure (see Melissa - I called it poo just for you!) - and I got more than my fair share of poop (trust me, this happening deserves the extra "p") last night.

Oh.

My.

So last night the boys were crawling on my legs as I tried to get one minute to eat a snack before taking them on their walk. I thought, heck, we'll give you some juice and head on our walk. But they drank them down right away. Why you little guys are dead thirsty, I thought, and refilled their cups. I knew this was more juice than they normally have in a day, much more, but thought, well, you're thirsty and we need to go. Here we go.

About halfway through our walk they started getting very cranky, and by the time we got home, they were really cranky. Cranky, cranky, cranky. I was losing my mind. John was being patient dad thank God because all I seemed able to say was, "Eek is it just me or are they going nuts? I'm going nuts!"

Some days, I go nuts.

I gave up on getting them to eat and John and I decided we would just feed them a quick tub of fruit.

That's when it all started.

Probably I should have heard many bells going off - fire alarms actually - at this stage, but I didn't. I didn't notice anything was wrong at all, until I looked down.

And saw a puddle.

Of poop.

On the floor.

Under Sully's highchair.

Horrified, I followed the poop puddle trail up the highchair leg, up my son's leg, and into his shorts.

"Ummmm," I said.

By now, you guys know I hate poop. I'm flu queen. I handle puke. I hate, hate, hate, poop. It's beyond gross.

"Well!" John said, "get him in the bath."

I was frozen for a minute. Eeeeeew. Poop!

"Okay," I said and went into action.

I held Sully with as few fingers as possible and ran him back to the bathroom and he kept whining holding his fingers out to me that still had food chunks from the dinner he only played with covering his fingers.

Really kid, I thought, you're choosing THAT to whine about right now? You have a mile of poop running down your leg.

I filled the bath, plopped him in and meanwhile cleaned up his now poopy brother and plopped him in the bath, too.

And then the bath water filled with diarrhea.

And then I watched my children grab the plastic cup and fill it up and pour it out with diarrhea water while I started emptying the tub, telling them, "Eeew! No! Guys - stop it!"

And they giggled.

Sigh.

Then Will decided he might drink some diarrhea water and I moved with what I thought was Olympic speed and grabbed the cup and thought, "2 tickets to the Bahamas are sounding really nice right now." Note to self:
Get rich, call travel agent.

Somehow, an hour later, two more poops later, and a lot of diapers and a LOT of wipes, we had two clean boys ready for bed.

Thank goodness.

This morning on my way to work I called my sister and told her the story.

"You do know you're supposed to dilute the juice, right?" she asked. "Half water, half juice."

"What?! Why don't people tell me these things?" I said.


My poor children. I honestly feel bad. I need a Motherhood book for Dummies. Poop. I tell you.

The end.

Until tomorrow ...

Flight of the bumbling bees.

John is home. The end.

Okay not really, because there was quite the saga in getting him home. It went something like this (I’ve still only slept periodically this week minus a very good Saturday night, so please forgive any blunders).  

Friday at 6:05 John called. Four hours and 55 minutes from when his plane was supposed to land. Not that I was counting down or anything. Not that I was pretending I would hand him both children and run out the door to the nearest bar/mall/spa or anything. Okay I did think about that.

But only about 467 times before he made it home.

John: I may not make it home tonight. We’re supposed to take off in 30 minutes but it may not work out. If not, I won’t make it back today.

Me: Turning from the counter where I was cutting up pears to the two children in highchairs anxiously awaiting dinner with grimaces on their face. “All right.” Mental sigh.

John: I’ll call later when I know more.

I fed the kiddos. Watched Suls mash some pear in his hair while I cut up more food for Will (P.S. Children on steroids for croupe have crazy appetites – if only they had sleeping habits to match).

John texted at 6:40: Please find me flight times home tomorrow.

Me: Looking at the two kids who now had food in their hair, down their shirt, dirty diapers, a need of a bath, pajamas, and a bedtime story, their medication, and me having needed to go to the bathroom for about 4 hours. I didn’t glorify the text with a response. There were employees at the airport in blue uniforms who were trained to find flights. I was in the middle of a battle here.

8:45 rolled around and I hadn’t heard from John. My mom had come to help me and I now owe her one million, four hundred and seventy-seven dollars and a month of vacation. The boys were finally getting sleepy – the Benadryl the doctor finally told me I could after four nights of 2-hours of sleep was setting in and they were hugging their blankets. It was the most promising sight I had seen since Monday.

John called.

“I’m going to make it back.”

Perfect. Not that I didn’t want him back, but we’d avoided taking a car to the airport because we hadn’t heard from him in two hours and assumed it was a no go on the flight home for the night. Now my mom and I had to pack up the now sleepy children, take a car to the airport and drive back, hoping they would go back to sleep.

I followed my mom in to the airport. She drove my car to drop off for John and I drove John’s – the boys sound asleep in the back. While my mom was pulling the car into a parking spot at the airport I was focused on texting John where he could find it. Big mistake.

My mom hopped in the car and said, “Okay. He has a spare key to get in your car, right?”

My eyes got wide. “No. Those were the keys. The keys I had you leave in the car.”

“Well I was asking you that but you were on the phone.”

Oh. My. God.

“Plus, sweetie, your laptop was in there. I wasn’t going to leave the car unlocked.”

I put my forehead on the steering wheel and we both looked at the car that now had my keys, safely locked inside. It was now 9:45, John still had no way home. I glanced in the rearview at the two now-sleeping children in the back seat and my head began to pound.

“Okay, we’ll go home and pray I find my spare key,” I said.

But I wouldn’t.

John sometimes uses it to pull my car into the garage in the morning, and versus running back inside and having the boys go through two temper tantrums in one morning about me leaving, I’d left it under my radio in my car that week.

I was losing my mind.

My mom, being a saint, said she would drive back to the airport in her car and wait for John. I would call a locksmith in the morning.

We tucked the boys into bed and I showered and crawled under the sheets myself at about 10:45.

John made it home safely and the boys nearly slept through the night that night and I woke up with a lot less head pounding (that is until I remembered my poor little car sitting the airport).

And then, then a very good friend made my day. Miss Erin, thank you so so much for dropping off a meal for us. I cannot tell you how much it made my day. I don’t know how you do it. Kiss the kiddos for me.

All right folks. That’s all for now.

Well, until tomorrow of course. 

Who's with me?

Okay. I’m done. I’m checking flights to some far-away island and I’m bringing all of you with me. Who’s coming?

Sigh.

I wish this were true. 24 hours in review. (John’s out of town on business in Vegas so thank goodness family is here to help).

Yesterday morning I ran Suls to the doctor again – his croupe-like cough had returned.  I learned that if he gets it again, it may not be croupe – it could also be that the feeding tube he had in the NICU caused some irritation and he may have scar tissue built up, in which case they would need to do a scope if he doesn’t get better soon. Fingers crossed this is over in two days. 

I get Suls home and run into the office for a meeting. Meeting prep. Meeting. Back home. Luckily, my glorious mom made dinner for us and my mother-in-law was staying with me to help me through the night (Suls on steroids is a not-so-sleepy Sully).

Fed the boys dinner, changed them, read them stories. Put Sully to bed. Put Will to bed. Started working on a work project while eating cheesecake at 8:15.

There isn’t enough cheesecake in the world that would have made me feel better about what was about to happen.

8:45: Sully wakes up. I rock him.
9:15: I get Sully back to bed.
10:00: Sully’s up again. I rock him.
10:30: I get Sully back to bed.
11:00: Will wakes up. I rock him.
11:45: I get Will back to bed.
11:55: I finally lay my head down on my pillow.
12:00: I hear Will crying again. I give in and give him a bottle.
12:30: I get Will back to bed.
12:40: I lay my head down again.
12:45: Both boys wake up. Sully’s croupe-like cough on the monitor is filling my room and I feel horrible for him, and Will must not have been able to get comfortable (he’s getting the sniffles) and he was wailing a wail I think Will reserves for moments when he knows I’m on the brink of losing my sanity.
1:00: I wake up my mother-in-law. I need help. She is my hero.
1:05: We give Sully a bottle. We watch the boys run around the living room like it’s 6 a.m. I was so out of any energy to manage the situation I plopped down on the ground and let them crawl on me like I was a jungle gym and wipe their noses on my sleeve.
1:30: They aren’t losing any steam.
1:45: Still going …
2:00: I take Sully back to his room and rock him to sleep.
2:30: I head to bed. (Thank you Diane for staying up with Will – I can’t tell you how much you saved my life).
3:00: I hear poor Diane try to get Will to bed and he screams.
4:00: Will finally goes down.
7:00: The boys are awake and ready to play. I am not-so-awake and not-so-ready to play.

Thank God I can work from home because I look beyond frightening today and think I would scare small children.

Now – who’s in for those plane tickets?

Until tomorrow …

My bras sing the alphabet

This is my disheartening story about nursing. If you have nursed and can empathize, read on. If you plan to nurse one day, I beg you – stop here. I truly believe in nursing and it being a beautiful thing and yada yada ya, but I don’t know that you’ll want to see any of the factual information shared below.

When I found out I was pregnant, I decided almost immediately I would nurse.

When I found out I was pregnant with twins, I decided not-so-almost-immediately I would nurse.

The image of me trying to nurse two babies had me wishing I could drink a beer. I saw myself teaching the boys curse words before they were a full month old simply in the matter of minutes I tried to rearrange them against my chest.

Before I was pregnant, I was a C cup. When I was pregnant, I was a D cup. When I was nursing, I was a – holy cow it still pains me – DD cup. People had warned me that my boobs would “shoot out to here” but I didn’t believe just how true that would be, and suddenly, a week into nursing, I found myself in need of a new bra.

Here’s my DD cup bra shopping story.

I step into a specialty bra shop that I’ve heard good things about and start perusing. A woman approaches from the back and asks what I’m looking for and can she help me and she eyes my chest when I tell her I used to be a C with a look that says, “Um. Not now you aren’t, Sweetie.”

She tosses a few bras my way to try on, and this is when I realize holy crap – I’m a DD! And suddenly, in the middle of clipping the hooks on a bra on the woman opened the curtain and walked straight into my dressing room! My bra wasn’t even on yet!  

I was in shock.

Here I was, topless, eyes wide, wondering “Why are you in here with me?” but before I knew it she was pulling out a tape measure “tsk tsking” and saying “38” and “Oh my,” and grabbing my boobs and telling me, “Bend over dear and really get them in there!”

I left the store completely traumatized. But I also had the best-fitting bra I’d ever owned, so I shrugged my shoulders as I pulled out of the parking lot, vowed to tell my best friend when I got back to work and left it at that.   

Anyway…fast forward to me being done nursing. John had said things like, “Remember when you used to have gazunguz?” And I would say, “Thank God I don’t have those anymore.” But a month passed. And another month passed. And suddenly, I didn’t have anything close to gazungas. I barely had “uz.”

It was time to bra shop again. This time, I just picked up a B. No talking to anyone. No dressing room. In. Out. Bra.

But a week later I found myself in the store saying this, “I bought a B here last week, and it’s just not fitting right.”

The woman hanging up bras looked at me and then looked at my chest. “Well that’s because you’re an A Sweetie. Maybe even an AA.”

I couldn’t breathe. An AA?? Ugh. Did you even need to wear a bra when you were an AA? In shock, I took a few of the A bras she handed me back to the dressing room and tried them on.

“How are they working out?” I heard her ask from outside the door.

“Good,” I said completely distraught.

“Well, I found an AA for you that you should try on, but it doesn’t have an underwire.”

I didn’t even need to see that AA. She tossed it over the door and I glared at that AA. I grabbed it and shoved it in its own little corner away from me. I didn’t even care if it fit better, I was not trying that puppy on. Plus, did she think someone who was an AA wanted an everyday bra that didn’t include an underwire, and padding, and more padding, and a discount for breast implants?

Sigh. Double sigh.

The end.

Well, until tomorrow …

Ode to my mom

In honor of Mother’s Day, I wanted to write about my mom. I’ll do a Part II and write about my crazy, chubby, loveable kiddos on Monday.

First, how my mom got to be a mom. 

My mom used to have platinum blonde hair. And wear miniskirts. And tan on the sorority roof. And then she went on a blind date with my dad. My dad got back from their blind date and wrote a note to his roommate he hung from the ceiling fan in the middle of their dorm room. It said, “I’m in love.” Okay, really did he have a chance with her platinum blonde hair and miniskirts? Probably not.

But that’s not what my dad says caught him right away. He says, “She had these big, brown eyes, and when I saw them, I knew I was done for.”

Soon after, my dad was drafted for Vietnam. My mom graduated and went on to teach in a town so small it had no radio reception. She waited for my dad while my dad celebrated his 21^st birthday away from family, friends, and all things familiar. He wrote her name on his helmet. She went on to get her Masters in education. She must have stopped tanning because she got straight As. My dad returned, continued school until he earned his degree and then they got married. They had my sister and me, six years apart before my mom celebrated her 32^nd birthday.

My sister and I talk often about how we think we might not be related to my mom. It’s not because she looks different – well, she looks a bit different than me. (My sister looks like my mom. Once, she got her haircut like my mom’s was at her age, and when you put their pictures next to each other, they looked like clones. I looked at those photos and realized when my sister would run around telling me I was adopted when I was younger, she may not have been lying).

It’s because she’s so feminine. She’s proper. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom belch. Or really do much of anything unladylike. Sometimes, I’ve caught her tripping over something, but she even makes that look graceful. Almost like she dabs her mouth with a napkin after tripping and says, “Excuse me,” and it’s over. I love that about her. That I can always hold her up as this person that I hope to be one day when I grow up.

More than her grace, I admire her kindness. I’ve never met anyone as kind as my mom. She’s a principal, and her love of the children she works with is evident in everything she does. Her love for her teachers. For her co-workers. Her admiration. Her drive. She earned her doctorate in educational leadership (I think this is it, mom, I’m sorry if I butchered this) and I watched her present her doctorate in front of the panel and I’ve never been so proud. 

My mom is also a bit of a worrier. Well, a lot of a worrier. And I used to laugh, but now I realize when you become a mother, the second your child is born, the part of your brain that controls your worries grows by like 150%. It’s a fact. I think.

So, even though I’m 28 and have now taken a ride on an escalator approximately 2,347 times, as we near the edge my mom still says, “Turn around. Pay attention, Sweetie. Honey! A child once got his shoelaces stuck.” I’m pretty sure that child also lived to tell his friends about the time he got his shoelaces stuck, but you would never know it the way my mom tells the story.

She has also saved my life. One morning, when the boys were 2 months old and I had slept for a total of about 30 hours in 15 days, and both of them were wailing in their cribs not wanting to take a nap, I called her and with tears running down my cheeks said, “Mom. I don’t know what to do.”

And she came over. She was half ready to go to the office but she didn’t even put on jeans. She had on a nice blouse and pajama pants and to me, it looked like a superhero costume.

She was my mom.

She was here for me.

She always has been.

 When I was little, I wanted to find a way to tell my mom I loved her, so I would say “I love you very much.” But then I felt like I had to beat yesterday’s message, because that day, I loved her even more, so I would say, “I love you very, very much.” But then, I realized I couldn’t capture all of my verys or my poor mother would have to sit and listen to me say the word “very” for 8 hours. So I started telling her, “Mom. I love you all the verys in the world. And more.” And that was it. That was our bedtime routine. She would tickle my arm, sing me a lullaby, and I would tell her I loved her all the verys in the world and more.

That’s still true today, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.  

A gift shop = 2 children?

I had a work trip out in Arizona in the winter of 2008. John was always good about bringing me home gifts from work trips and I wanted to do the same for him, but before I knew it, two days had passed and I hadn’t had a chance to leave the hotel due to all day conferences. So, there I found myself in the hotel gift shop trying to make something work five minutes before the hotel shuttle would take me to the airport. I found a figurine that looked a lot like something John would like – it was a funky metal sculpture of a person dancing on a stone. I brought it back for him and it stayed on the coffee table in our family room downstairs (I promise this odd beginning is going somewhere).

More than a year later, with 3-month-old twins taking a much-welcomed nap, I started dusting the furniture downstairs and noticed the figurine was gone from the coffee table. I found John upstairs a little while later and in passing, asked if he knew where it was.

“I don’t know,” he said at first.

“Really? Odd,” I said. But for some reason I couldn’t drop it. I mean come on. Here I’d so thoughtfully purchased the gift from the hotel gift shop and all. “You don’t have any clue what happened to it?”

“Actually, I do. It’s gone.”

 “Gone?” I asked.             

“Yes. It’s gone,” he repeated.

“Well, did it break or something?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Well, what happened?”

“It was a fertility statue.”

“A fertility statue? Shut up!”

“I’m serious.”

“I bought you a fertility statue?” I said, trying not to laugh. Oh my God. I’d bought him a fertility statue. Okay, for a couple that had, at the time, just moved in together, that was a seriously creepy gift. “Oh my God. Were you totally weirded out by me when I gave that to you?!”

“No – I didn’t see the label until a few weeks ago when I was cleaning. There was a sticker on the bottom.”

“Wow.” I said.

There wasn’t a need to talk about what we were both thinking. I’d bought the statue in the winter of 2008. By the beginning of June, we knew we were having twins. That was one powerful statue.

 “So, you weren’t really feeling more kids, huh?” I smiled. (Again, we love, love, love our fellas, but we’re done with two – partly because I don’t think it’s safe for me to fill the world with children that have inherited my crazy thought process, and partly because I’m not so sure our wallets ― or our sanity ― could have more than two).

“I threw it in the trash immediately.”

I nodded.

Well. That answered that.

Until tomorrow …

So very sleepy

This weekend, Will caught what Sully had. It was expected, but still not welcome. We now had two little snot balls on our hands, coughing, clinging to us to be held all of the time and whining horribly if we so much as had to go to the bathroom and put them down. 

So, Sunday, on our sixth day of horrible sleep, accepting the fact that we would have to move on with life with two miserable children, we put them in their car seats and headed to Target. (Had we not run out of diapers, I will not pretend that we would have been so brave as to venture into the world).

At a stoplight just before Target John said, “I have an idea.”

“What is it?” I asked. Maybe he had an idea about a vacation!

“Dog tags.”

“Dog tags?” This was not a vacation.

“Yeah. What if we bought each of the boys dog tags – they’d have our address and contact information on them, and then we’d leave them at Target, not for long, just long enough to get a nap. And then someone would return them!”

Hmmmm. Ummm. “I don’t think so, Sweetie,” I said, only it sounded more like, “I DON’T THINK SO SWEETIE,” because the boys were now whining so horribly loudly I was wishing we were in an airplane instead of a small car.

“Oh,” John said. And I saw the wheels turning as he tried to think of another idea that would garner us two hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Oh my. It’s hard to describe sleep deprivation to someone who hasn’t been a parent before, because they say things like, “One night – I crammed for a test all night long – no sleep!” And I think, “Oh you sweet little naïve thing. Stay in school.”

Don’t get me wrong. We wouldn’t trade our boys for anything in the world. We might trade a lot of things for sleep right now though. Like dinner. Or a car. Or our house.

All right. I have to go. I’m going to try and sleep for five minutes in my car.

Until tomorrow …

Wax on. Wax off?

So here’s the thing. I love sleep. When I was young, I was an insomniac. I couldn’t sleep for more than four hours a night for a very, very, long time. I watched the infomercials for spray-on hair more times than I’m ready to admit just to have company at 2 a.m.

I’m not sure what happened to change my insomnia, but midway through high school, I started sleeping like the dead. It’s not that I sleep until noon or anything, but I could take a four hour nap in the afternoon if you give me a good book and a fan, no problem.

Anyway, off topic. But, now you’ll have a little background about how I got in the following fix.

A few weeks ago, we finally got the boys to bed around 8:45, which meant after I showered and unloaded the dishwasher and brushed my teeth and made our bed and, and, and ―  it would be at least 9:15 if I put on my cape and moved fast.

Here’s the other thing. And I can’t believe I’m putting this in writing. I have a moustache.

I really do. I think anyway. I never let it get to that point. At least not since 5^th grade when one of my guy friends said, “Hey, you have a moustache.” Ever since then, I’ve waxed. I’ve waxed religiously. And normally, I’ve waxed professionally.

But then I became a mother.

And realized I made it to the salon, on average, about once every eight months.

So the other night, I realized it was way past my normal time for waxing and it was time to bite the bullet and just do it at home. But I was so tired, so I was annoyed as I waited for the wax to heat up in the microwave and was calculating I could still be in bed by 9:45 if …

So I did an extra fast wax. I didn’t mess around with half-heating the wax and getting the temperature just right. I fried that wax. I decided I wouldn’t hesitate at all about ripping the paper off ― I would just do it. And I didn’t put moisturizer on afterward.

See what a problem being an insomniac has caused in my life years later?

 I need to go to waxing safety school.

Anyway, in the middle of the night, I woke up. My face was burning hot. I couldn’t sleep it burned so bad.

I groggily walked upstairs, looked for an ice cube I could rub on my face, found a teether in the shape of a ducky, put it on my lip, and walked back downstairs. I did not want to look in the mirror. And that’s how the night went. I couldn’t sleep. My face burned. I walked upstairs, grabbed the next teether, and put it on my face. When I woke up the next morning, it looked like a baby safari had died at my bedside there were so many teethers littering the carpet.

Finally, around 6:30, I crawled out of bed and on my way to the bathroom, passed John in the hallway.

“What happened to your FACE?” he asked.

Oh great. Oh great oh great oh great, I thought.

I stood in front of the mirror and slowly opened one eye.

Ghasp!!!! I’d ripped half of my face off!

Okay truly, almost all of my face was there, but it had never been more evident that I was a person trying to remove a moustache, because right there was a red strip across my upper lip – skin that used to be there now burnt to a crisp and ripped off!

Fabulous. Just fabulous.

It took a lot of concealer that didn’t really do the trick, and a week's worth of moisturizer before that flaming red strip across my lip started to go away. Meanwhile, I met approximately 324 people in grocery stores, the mall, work, on walks, etc. that must have looked at me as a walking billboard for how not to wax at home.

Sigh. I should find a cure for my love of sleep.

That’s all for today. Thank God.

Until tomorrow …

A certain kind of love story

Okay, so when John and I met, it wasn’t like Nora Roberts was sitting there with a pen ready to capture everything in writing it was just so remarkable. We weren’t a romance novel waiting to happen.

At the risk of sounding risqué, when I met John, I lived with someone else. It was one of those things where I was trying to force a friend relationship to be a love relationship because he was nice and in the end, before
I’d even moved back to my hometown with him, I knew it wasn’t going to work. But I was stalling because I was afraid.

Meanwhile … I’d noticed this very cute boy who lived upstairs. He was just my type. He worked out. He drank beer.

What –

Did you think there would be more?

Well, there is, I just didn’t know that yet. I thought he had a cute toosh and I was still taken, so that was all for now.

A few months after noticing how cute John was, my boyfriend-at-the-time and I broke up. And I decided there was a good chance I’d be single forever. But that was okay. I thought, I will spread my wings and be silly for a while and have fun and maybe end up with 10 cats and that will be just fine.

And I surprised myself, because I really was, just fine.

For four months.

And then one night I went to work out at the apartment gym, and on my way back, sweaty and tired, I saw John coming my way and my throat closed up. I’m not the type of girl who gets really eloquent and beautiful when cute guys are around. I trip over things (literally, I’ll write about this later) and I mumble. I tried to think of something cool to say, but before I knew it, he was walking right by me and he said ―

“Good workout?” This was no doubt in reference to my beet red face and heavy breathing.

“Errrgaaaa….lala….”

Oh my God!!! Did I just say “Errrgaaaa…lala…?”

Yes. I had.

And the moment for any great eloquence had passed.

Oh. My. God.

Somehow, I summed up the courage to talk to him again a few nights later after I’d gone for a jog and he was sitting on his balcony. (I’d now thought about “Errrgaaaa….lala….” for three days and had to get beyond it).

Before I knew it, we were talking nearly every night, for just a few seconds, as I passed him on his balcony on my way to my apartment. And finally, the Friday of Mother’s Day weekend, I summed up the courage to invite him to get drinks with my girlfriend and me.

“I can’t.”

Oh great. I’ve made a fool of myself twice.

“I mean, I can’t because my mom’s in town – for Mother’s Day – and my sisters – we’re all taking my mom out to dinner.”

Huge sigh of relief. And … I’m in love.

“Oh. That’s fine. Rain check, maybe.”

“Definitely.”

So we went out for drinks a couple of week later, and I found I truly did like him. A lot.

And a few months later, I found out I truly did love him. A lot.

And a few years later, I still love him a lot, and now we have two children, who we love a lot more than a lot.

And to think … It all started with “Errrgaaaa….lala….”

Until tomorrow …

Smoke alarms and law enforcement

Remember that cold I was telling you about Monday? Ug. It didn’t get better. Throughout the day Monday, Sully got progressively worse. He was snotty and grumbly and just all around miserable and the poor thing was exhausted when we put him to bed that night.

Oh, if only it had stayed that way.   

We put Sully down at about 7:30. I ran to the grocery store to grab milk right after he went down, and just after I stepped in the door and dropped the bags, a horrible sound filled the house.

 “What is that?” I asked running down the hall to see where it was coming from.  

Horrified, I found it was coming from a finally-sleeping Sully’s room.

The vaporizer had set off the smoke alarm.

I grabbed Sully and yelled at John, “Shut it off!” as I took a very confused Sully into the kitchen away from the noise.

“Shut it off? There aren’t any freakin’ lights in his room to see!”

Oh my. This is a whole other topic, but we have a house that was built with rooms with no lights. Sometimes, I feel like we’re in that book, that one where the town never sees light. Luckily, they have big windows, but after 7:00, we rely on two lamps because the boys knock over the floor lamps we tried to put in and lordy, lordy, it’s just not a good combination. We can talk on this later though.

Luckily, John turned the smoke alarm off in a good way. I guess there’s a button or something because when he turned it off, I didn’t hear anything. When I turn off a smoke alarm a broom is involved and usually neighbors call the police.

So, here we were. John muttering under his breath about a smoke detector and a crazy fiancé. Me cursing the fact I hadn’t left a window open, or the door, or put in a skylight before I’d turned the vaporizer on, anything that would have kept the smoke detector quiet. And poor Sully, feeling absolutely miserable.

We rocked him. We cuddled him. He coughed. He wiped his chubby fist on his face and smeared snot all over his cheeks. We cleaned his cheeks. We swapped holders once our backs said, “no more holding chubby babies!,” and finally, at 10:15, I said, that’s it, I’m putting him in the car.

After a few laps around town Sully was almost asleep. I noticed there were quite a few cops out as I drove around town. I saw lights flashing as I made a turn onto the highway and saw that one of my best friends who’s now a cop had picked someone up and I nearly scolded him because it was a Monday and everyone’s miserable on Mondays so who really wants a ticket on a Monday anyway? But, I decided I didn’t want to embarrass him since I love him so much (plus, I was going 50 miles an hour and it’s hard to scold anyone when you’re driving by them that fast).  And then, finally, Sully fell asleep.

And a cop got on my tail.

And stayed there.

And I thought, Dear Officer. If you wake a sleeping child to pull me over and ruin the 10 minutes of sanity I’ve had in 4 days, I will write you a ticket. And then I thought oh no. If he were walking to my car and I went to put my finger to my lips behind the window would he think I had a gun and be afraid of me? Okay. Now I was getting afraid of me.

Thank goodness, it was a smart officer, and I pulled into home ticket-less with a sleeping baby.

I enjoyed that for three minutes because Sully woke up as soon as we pulled him out of the car and stayed awake until 1:00 a.m. with small moments of sleep on our chest as we finally gave in to sitting down.

Yesterday we took him to the doctor. This is when we learned that one nostril running could signify he or his brother had tried to cram a peanut M&M up his nose (or any other small item, but I haven’t had much chocolate as yet today so I have chocolate on the brain). Knowing my children, I thought this was a very high possibility, so I was thankful when the doctor declared us free of M&Ms and other small objects.

Poor Sully though, he has croup.

We got steroids for him and this marks the second time my little 15-month-old has taken steroids (he had a dose in the womb to help his lungs develop since we knew they would be born early).

 Once he’s feeling better we’ve decided we’ll enter him in a weight lifting contest.

Three days from the start of that runny nose Sully’s still got a bark-like cough but is doing much, much better, and he slept through the night last night, which means John and I are doing much, much better.

Thank goodness. If anyone wants to know the brand of a very, very good smoke detector, just let me know.

Until tomorrow …

You're getting very sleepy ... or not

Disclaimer: I'm getting a head cold so this may, or may not, make sense. You might want to drink a few beers and then read it.

John was out of town this weekend taking a much-needed guy's weekend in South Dakota with his buddies. I don't know why, but I don't sleep well when he's gone. It is not because I miss what he calls his "gentle purr" (this is actually a snore). But the weather was fairly bad with thunderstorms, etc. and I kept waking up, thinking "what if I don't hear a tornado warning?" or "did I leave the stove on?" or "what if the boys rolled out from under their blankets and they're cold?"

Normally I don't worry about these things, because John follows me around the house fully aware that I constantly forget to do things like turn the stove off or water a plant or clean out the lint trap. So, when he's gone, the full responsibility of being a parent falls on my shoulders and I feel incredibly inadequate.

To sum it up though, I just want to say to all of you single parents, in moments like this, when I have more than 12 hours alone with my children, I realize how amazing you must be. And how I wish that all of you would get a cake every day and a vacation every weekend because you really, really deserve it.

Okay, back to our weird household. John came back home last night and said "I missed you guys."

And then four hours later, we put the boys to bed at 8. And then we bought The Informant on Pay-per-view. And 10 minutes in to it, Sully woke up. And his screams woke up Will. And an hour-and-a-half later, we gave up rocking them back to sleep and let them crawl all over us in the living room until they got semi-tired. At 10, we put them to bed. At 11:00, Sully woke up again. At 11:50, I woke John up and said, "I can't get Sully back to sleep."

And now our poor little guys have colds (a good explanation for the horrible night last night), and I'm on my way to one, and I think I will call all of you to help me this week because I have a very good feeling John might be headed back to South Dakota right now.

Until tomorrow ...

The Button Story

Okay, after posting my embarrassing story early this week, my aunt reminded me that I needed to tell the infamous “button story.” Somehow, I had forgotten about the below story. I think it’s because my pride can only handle so many embarrassing stories at a time so my brain starts throwing out excess embarrassments. Anyway, here goes.

Chapter I

It was my very first day of college, my very first class. Reaching into my closet, I was especially conscious of trying to look put together without trying too hard. So, I pulled on my favorite “I don’t care too much” khaki shorts and a fitted T and headed out.

My first day I only had one morning class ― English, which matched up well with my friend Jon’s schedule, so we drove to class together. I walked in and sat down behind someone who, little did I know, I would soon get to know very well. We were partnered for a discussion group during which I found out his name was Kyle, and we had a lot in common. We became fast friends, and somehow ― or maybe because of ― the below, remained friends for years.

Chapter II

Our English class let out and I decided I would park it on a bench waiting for Jon’s class to let out.

I was very strategic about where I sat on this bench because I was a bit shy since it was my first day and didn’t want anyone sitting down next to me (I’m really not good at “just getting to know you” awkward conversations).

I decided I would read our assignment for a few minutes until it was time for Jon’s class to let out. Checking my watch, I decided it was time to go grab him and head home. And here it comes.

I went to stand up from the bench and ―

Plop!

I was pulled right back into the seat.

What the heck? I thought. Oh no. Oh no. I’ve sat in paint, I thought. And turned to look at my toosh which I was imagining covered in forest green paint bynow. But I couldn’t even see my toosh – whatever had me stuck wasn’t letting my tookus get that far.

I plopped back down. Maybe I was imagining this whole thing. I tried to stand again and ―

Plop!

What in the ―

 I turned around and suddenly it dawned on me. My cute little “I don’t care too much” khaki shorts had a button on the pocket that had somehow slipped through the grating in the bench and gotten stuck underneath.

The chances of this happening are probably somewhere close to me winning the lottery, but that’s just my luck ― stuff like this happens to me ― not the lottery-winning stuff.

Okay. I thought. Think. But I couldn’t. I was too nervous. I was stranded on a bench and Jon was waiting for me and a half-inch button was holding me down!

Okay, just reach around and pop the button back through. But I couldn’t do that either. My strategic way of sitting down to avoid awkward conversation had left my arms too short to reach over and under the bench to pop the button back through. You idiot I thought.

Okay, one way left. Force.

I stood up as fast as I could, working to pop the button off. Surely the velocity of my body weight could do such a thing. I heard a tear and grimaced for my favorite pair of shorts.

Still, no luck. I pulled, standing up and down up and down and up and down. At this point I was a bit frustrated, a lot embarrassed, but also truly admiring the craftsmanship of shorts that could withstand this much pull without tearing. Had to hand it to them. I was sure everyone on campus was starting to point out their classroom windows whispering, “Umm. What in the heck is that girl doing?”  

 “Hey!” Wide-eyed, I turned and saw Kyle, who, unperturbed by my strategic middle seat plopped right down next to me. “No way,” he said, looking at my book. “Are you studying already?”

I tried, and failed, to keep up a general conversation for a few seconds and finally caught up the courage to say, “Kyle. I’m stuck.”

“You’re what?”

“Stuck. I’m stuck!”

He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

I was all sorts of red at this point. Like ripe tomato red. Like a shade of red that would make Tim Gunn say “Work it!” on the runway, but it didn’t look at all good on me.  

“My button is wedged under the bench, and I think I need you to pop it back through.” This was a nice way of saying “Will you please touch my butt even though I’ve only known you for about five minutes?”

Kyle started laughing (this is another reason we became friends). He didn’t hesitate, nor give me a creepy look that said, “Wow, I get to touch your butt after meeting you for five minutes.”

Instead, he crawled right under the bench, popped the button through, and didn’t even comment on my ratty old green underwear that was now peeking through the bench due to the tear I’d managed to create pulling up and down.

“Thanks,” I said. And Kyle kept chuckling, and said, “No problem.”

Chapter III

“What took you so long,” Jon said standing outside his classroom.

“Really?” I said. “You don’t want to talk about it.” I turned and he followed me.

“Why are you covering your pants like that?”

“Jon,” I slowly pulled my hand back to reveal my torn shorts and Jon, who has been a best friend of mine since we were 9 and is like the best brother you could ask for smiled, lifted and eyebrow and said ―

“What the heck did you guys do in your class?”