We Also Went to the Coffee Shop

Adelaide received roller blades for Christmas.  She previously did not own any, but had used my old pair over the summer, back and forth on our sidewalk.  There was a lot of squealing, and arms windmilling as she fought for balance, and yelling at any brother who came within two feet of her whilst rolling.  Her brain interpreted this as fun, and luckily for her her grandparents came through.

A couple days after Christmas we enjoyed some unseasonably warm weather- we're talking highs in the 40's, the kind of temperatures that pull roller blading mothers and daughters out of doors to take their questionable ability to balance on wheels out to public places, where the promise of being humiliated not just in front of our neighbors, as we're used to, but by scores of strangers, proved too enticing to be ignored.  Simply translated:  Adelaide and I went to a park.  We brought our roller blades.

 After donning our blades (by how many points, I wonder, does my coolness factor drop when I refer to them as 'blades'?  I've been in the red for so long I suppose it doesn't matter, as is evidenced by my unironic use of the term 'coolness factor.'  Maybe we'll just go with inline skates.) Adelaide wasted no time in pointing out how pretty her skates were compared to mine, and how quiet, and how none of her plastic straps were broken.  I told her none of those things really mattered when I was the one who wasn't afraid to use both feet while skating- there at first she kept one foot firmly planted and just pushed herself along with the other foot, like a skateboarding trainee.  All my taunting/instruction ("pick up your left foot, Daughter- your LEFT FOOT, pick it up!") kind of fell apart right about the same time my roller blades did, though.

I kept stumbling and couldn't figure out why things kept getting stuck in my wheels, but as it turned out, it was the outer black layer of the wheels themselves peeling off and exposing the ridged inner white part.  My skates were literally falling to pieces around my feet.

Really, though, who could have seen this coming?  I mean, I've skated miles on these wheels, they're twenty years old and have been just fine up 'til now (except for that broken ankle strap, of course).  So... me.  I should have known better than to skate on twenty-year-old cheap plastic roller blades.

Thankfully, a quarter mile walk back to the van in socks really drove that lesson home.  Either that, or it was Adelaide cackling as all the international students from Iowa State politely averted their eyes and tried to hide their smiles as we passed them.

"Well, just imagine what we look like, Mom!  The young, graceful girl gliding along on her new roller blades, the middle aged woman carrying her roller blades next to her daughter.  You know it looks like you just can't roller blade and got tired of trying, right?"  I told her that if I'm truly middle-aged, then it looks like I'm only living to the age of 68, and NOW DON'T YOU FEEL BAD FOR WISHING AN EARLY DEATH ON YOUR MOTHER?

Judging by her lack of reaction, I need to be a little more selective about when and how often to employ my special brand of motherly histrionics.

Adelaide on roller blades, communing with geese. 

My chosen method of revenge was to drag her along to Target to look at their newly-clearanced Christmas decorations.  Judging by the amount of feet-dragging she did down those 70% off aisles, my retaliation scored a direct hit.

Three Rivers Trail Half Marathon Race Recap, with Loosely Related Gifs

My goals for the half marathon I ran over the weekend, in descending importance:

1. Not have an asthma attack.
2. Treat it as something I get to do, not have to do, because for crying out loud that is what it is.
3. Run a smart race; specifically, not get caught up in the energy at the start line and go out too fast, fuel appropriately throughout, do frequent checks on my form to keep myself light and upright.  
4. Do my best in whatever circumstances I find myself in Saturday morning.
5. Beat my previous half marathon time.
6. Finish somewhere around the two hour mark.
7. *Secret stretch goal* Finish under two hours.

Let's break it down.

The list, I mean.  Although if it's hammer time and you want to break it down, I say do it.

1.  Remember two years ago when I had an awful asthma attack around miles 4 through 7 of my first half mary and it slowed me waaaaay down and I wanted to die and the whole running+asthma thing wore me out so badly I got home, went straight to bed, and slept like the dead for two hours?

I do.  I remember that.

Asthma isn't something that's easily controllable in the moment; I mean, that's kind of the nature of the beast.  There are things I can do to set myself up for asthma success (or... something), however, like doing my best to remain calm, taking my allergy meds, and keeping my inhaler with me.  Allergy pill an hour pre-race: check; inhaler in my fuel pouch thingy: check; remaining calm: well, that one's more or less on Mindy, my amazing friend who informed me a week ago she would be accompanying me to my race, even though it meant getting up before 5 AM and dedicating the bulk of her Saturday to an event she wasn't even participating in.  Having her to talk to in the car for the hour and a half drive there kept me calmer than anything, as it prevented me from dwelling in a pit of race anxiety and despair.

2.  Between various small injuries and an autumn jam-packed with change (all three kids in school, going from staying at home for ten years to two part-time jobs, etc, etc) and just being plain tired, I was feeling pretty burnt out on running.  I still loved it, but I was feeling more resentment than excitement over this stupid meany race I'd signed up for many moons ago.  This is ridiculous because NO ONE WAS MAKING ME DO THIS.  This one basically involved remembering gratitude and keeping the following in mind:

3.  I was in the middle of the pack at the starting line, and as soon as the gun went off (aka the app blared on the race director's phone, as this was a pretty small race), I was passed by a large number of the people running for the first half mile or so.  The following three miles, I stayed in the same position relative to all the other runners, then spent the remaining ten miles slowly passing most of those people who went out way too fast at the start.  This was exactly what I wanted to do, so hallelujah and pass the peaches.

My fueling was perfect thanks in large part to the race fuel fairy/ my friend Anne, who surprised me by dropping off a baggie of goodies at my front door last week.  Included was a packet of Huma gel, and as I discovered at mile 6 Saturday morning, this is my new favorite running gel.  I've tried GU, and it's fine, I've tried Clif gel, and the caffeine in it makes my stomach cramp, I've tried gummy bears, and while those work for me on my training runs, I've discovered I am unable to chew and run with any speed at the same time [insert walking and chewing gum joke here].  SO if you are a runner or endurance athlete-type person with a gut that is such a diva you've considered naming it after one of the Kardashians, I (and Anne the Wonder Triathlete!) recommend Huma.  Also of note is that the consistency of Huma is considerably less nasty than that of GU, at least to my palate.



4.  Stomach, weather, whatever, I wanted to make the best of whatever circumstances happened to occur Saturday morning, all toward that same goal of not being a miserable cow.  It's a good goal.



5 & 6.  My previous half marathon PR (personal record, rubes) wasn't great, due to the asthma and it being my first race, thus having no earthly idea what I was doing.  My primary goal in that race was to finish.  Fine, mission accomplished.  Anytime someone asked what time I was aiming for (as people are wont to do, I have found), my answer was around two hours.  I felt these were reasonable goals and well within my abilities.



7.  The goal I felt I could only accomplish if circumstances lined up and I had a great day was to finish in less than two hours.  Still within reach, but not if my stomach was acting up or it was raining or windy or the course was unexpectedly hilly or treacherous or strewn with hinkypunks.  I averaged a pace a bit under nine minutes per mile and finished comfortably under two hours, beating my previous time by 26 minutes.  This is a slow pace to many runners, but not this one. All this meant the first several miles felt great, the middle few miles still felt pretty good, and the final few felt hard up to the end, where believe me, I was toast.  But mentally, I was doing this:

Matter of fact, I still can't do that because HOLY HAMSTRINGS.  SO SORE.  Also I am not M.C. Hammer.  M.C. Hammerstrings?




Big fat juicy thanks to Derek for never ever ever complaining when I want/need to go for a run- even the multiple-hour ones that take up so much of our Saturday mornings;

to my mom for watching over our chitlins race morning and going above and beyond the call of duty by taking them to IHOP for breakfast, then shoe shopping, then walking on a nature trail, then introducing them to the wonders of Miracle on 34th Street when I made it perfectly clear she was welcome to just park them in front of the tv whilst I was running and Derek and Mark were golfing,

to Mindy for getting up hours before sunrise to distract me from my own horrible brain and being on the course at mile 3 to take my various layers I was suddenly too hot for and throwing at her feet, then at mile 12-point-something to take my phone because it was suddenly too heavy to carry anymore, then cheering and yelling me across the finish line, along with innumerable pep talks and being a darn good friend,

to Anne for the race treats and encouraging texts mid-race and always being willing to accept with good humor the unflattering selfies I take mid-run, along with innumerable pep talks and being a darn good friend,

to Derek's mom Becky for giving up her Saturday morning to drive up to the race and cheer me on, even though it wasn't the kind of course that easily allows for spectators and it took quite a bit of effort on her part for just a few seconds of "Hi, Kristy!" that nonetheless were encouraging to me,

to all the other people I'm forgetting because I'm a terrible person, and to you, because how on earth are you still reading this?,

and

to chocolate chunk brownies, forever and ever, amen.

All right, so these clearly aren't chocolate chunk brownies, but this *is* a gif that apparently has a subliminal image of historically-inaccurate white-skinned, blue-eyed Jesus.  HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO RESIST?

Like Grandmother, Like Granddaughter

Last week was a rough week for many in my hometown.  Two dearly, dearly loved people passed away, one of whom was an age (nearly my age, actually) that makes you say, "But he'd barely gotten started on the best part!" and the other was older, yes, but still far too young to say good-bye to, because as far as I'm concerned, no one should ever have to say farewell to the likes of Larry.

[Edited to add:  And now I just found out Anna Dewdney died, the author of the Llama, Llama children's books.  This must be how other people feel when their favorite movie stars overdose, except people who write and illustrate children's books die from things like brain cancer, which feels way more tragic to me.  Getting pretty sick of this whole "people dying" thing.]

One of those hometown-many is my mom.  Last week was hard, and this week will be, too, as she goes through all the rituals that accompany death, and helps those left behind, as she's close to both the grieving families.  So we're going to talk about one of the things that makes my mother happy, which could be quilting or traveling or hand-washing, but will today be her grandchildren.

I could go full-on vain and talk about how amazing the three grandchildren that just so happen to belong to Derek and I are, maybe play a little Carly Simon in the background as inspiration, but instead I simply must show you this picture my mom emailed me a while back, one of herself and her sister Kay.

The back of the photo has a note written by my grandma:  "Dresses are gold checked with organdy aprons.  Lorri [my mom] was mad because she had to wear her bonnet.  I think it's pretty but she doesn't.  Have given Kay's hair a feather cut.  Sure is easier to take care of."    

Now, let's just pass right over the fact that I now feel like a failure for never dressing Adelaide in an organdy apron when I had the chance.  I suppose I could still try, but I have a feeling it would end in a storm of tears and shredded fabric.  Let us also skip over the serious cuteness of Kay's beaming little face, framed by a new feather cut.  

Instead we're going to focus on the my mom, the one year old on the left, who is mad because she had to wear her bonnet, a revelation that I am dying over.  Dying because how many times have mothers of girls dressed them in the most darling of clothing- like bonnets- only to have them pout over it in front of the camera.  She's like a chubby Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I'm also dying because when I look at this and other old photos of my mother, I see the face of our niece, sweet Elliot Ann.

The picture is a little fuzzy because I zoomed in on Ellie's face- the one on my mom's lap, there- so you could get the full effect.  The resemblance is even more striking in person, when you watch Elliot as she goes about her business, her tall, strong build just like my mom's, who infamously stomped the floor out of the playpen my grandmother cruelly placed her in to get something done or maybe catch her breath fifty-something years ago.  It would seem that toddler Lorri had trouble understanding why she was in prison when her two older sisters were not.  Her solution?  Break it to pieces, of course.  

I put that scowling picture up there to mark the resemblance to mom, but I don't want you to think that's all she does, so here are other, smiley-er pictures of her.

Look at how happy she is.  Elliot, I mean.  And yes, my sister Steph is pregnant again, with girl #3, as is my other sister, Kelli. There's a special place in my heart for three-girl families, and now both my sisters will have an estrogen trio!

And now, because I am one of three girls and know better than to go on and on about one of them while leaving the others out, here are some pics of my mom's other granddaughters, our other nieces.

Kelli's family, minus Kelli.  Hang on, let me see if I can find a picture of her.

Well, that's Kelli, all right- around 25 years ago.  Here you see she and I dressing a baby Stephanie for the day.  Notice Steph is not crying, or reacting much at all.  She was used to such loving abuse.  I thought it so charming that my parents were thoughtful enough to get me a living, breathing doll when I was 8 1/2.  This model had overactive tear ducts as an infant, so I got to wipe her eyelids with a warm, wet washcloth until they were once again able to open many mornings because they were sealed shut from so much gunk.  Take that, Baby Alive!  

And, of course, we mustn't forget Vada, Elliot's big sister:

That's her at my grandma and grandpa's house over the weekend, following the Adelaide up a tree.  We were down south celebrating Grandma's 80th birthday.  I now can't wait to become an octogenarian, as when I said, "Grandma, you don't have to do that," she informed me, "I'll do what I want!  You get to do that when you're 80!"  

Only 47 years until that magical day.

She Should Have Been a Mole or a Bat Instead

Some time ago, my mother sent me a photo of herself, her sisters, and a couple other girls, all dressed up for Halloween in the sixties.

Now, all of her accompanying text within that email contained useful information, but the one thing I haven't been able to get over is her final statement:  "I don't have any glasses on, this must have been before the school nurse figured I was half blind at school."

I mean

First of all, just for today, we're going to ignore the girl in the nightmarish mask- we'll have to address that on a separate day, when I have emotionally prepared myself to do so.

For now, I'd like to focus on the girl in the cheetah costume:  My mother.

Seriously, though.

Does it really take a brilliant diagnostician to realize that the girl smiling thirty degrees to the left of the camera can't see a dang thing?


Every other person looks as if they've gone through the requisite party ritual of, "Okay, everybody, say, 'Cheese!'"  All look at the camera and parrot, "Cheese!"  Unless you're poor, blind Lorri, however; in that case you're wearing a vacant smile and staring at nothing.

Now, you could argue that the object of her gaze is merely out of range, that I have no way of knowing what she's looking at.  As a terribly, terribly near-sighted person myself (thanks, mom), I heartily and vociferously disagree, as I have pasted this facial expression on my own visage many times, when the contacts are safely soaking in their case, my glasses are on my nightstand, and Derek says something to me that requires a reply.  I have to wait for him to move in order to know where to turn my head and aim my voice at; otherwise, no idea.  None.  Just a blind smile, staring forty paces to the left of the person attempting to interact with me.

Kinda like this, actually.

I wonder how many walls she offered to "Trick or treat" that night.  Bless her heart.  Still, things could have been worse.

What the heck, 1967?

Somebody Make This Woman a Cape

Last week, my mom received the news that she was the Kansas State School Nurse of the Year.  This means that she is the best school nurse in the entire world.  Well, that's what I've decided, anyway.  And so that's what we're going to talk about today.

See, the more I talk to people, the more I read, the more I interact with the world at large, the more I find that many are still operating under the delusion that school nurses spend their days sitting in their offices, just waiting for a sick kid to wander in.  But the people who nominated Mom- fellow staff members, bless them- and the people who decided that she is The Best- fellow school nurses- all know better.  They know about all the vision and hearing and scoliosis screenings.  They know about endless blood sugar level checks (shout out to the diabetic kids), and finding someone who can speak an obscure language so you can communicate with a new family (shout out to the Chuukese), and finding some way to make CPR training entertaining for the tenth year in a row (shout out to anyone who's ever been the butt of one of my mom's jokes- it was for a good cause).

And that's not even getting into body parts being cut off because locker doors are surprisingly sharp and all the other astonishingly stupid ways middle schoolers can find to hurt themselves and each other.  It's also not getting into all the grant writing for health careers classes or AEDs or any of the other things schools need but don't get funding for (in Kansas?  That's basically everything.), or doing anything and everything to get parents and staff alike to make healthy choices for their kids, even if they're bound and determined to do the opposite.

Basically my mom's job.

Or hey, let's talk about some of the more glamorous aspects of her job.  Like nit picking!  I mean literal nit picking, as in picking head lice and nits out of kids' hair because apparently no one else is going to do it.  And what about that time she turned to my sisters and me and informed us that we were not allowed to answer the phone because there was a crazy, negligent, borderline abusive parent harassing her for doing her job?  Or if you really want to get scary- what about all the paperwork generated for everything I've just mentioned?  What about that?

Congratulations, Mom.  You're the best school nurse/obsessive hand washer/stand-up comedian specializing in blood-borne pathogens/mortifying sex educator/mom I've ever known.

"Lorri, someday you're going to be the Kansas State School Nurse of the Year.  All it will take to get there is swimming through an ocean of paperwork, ignorance, and disgusting bodily fluids."  "Super!  Sign me up!"  

Quiet Catching Up

It's been over a week since I last posted, and as such, I have so many things to tell you about I'm completely overwhelmed.  I'm hoping to dedicate a bit of time each day in the coming weeks to sharing all the things you've missed (snow storms!  amazing books!  poop pillows!), but for today, it's just going to be both whatever floats to the top of my consciousness and I manage to get typed before all these children of ours stop doing whatever it is that's keeping them quiet at the moment.  I'm afraid to check on them for fear of what I'll find.

I do know what the youngest is up to:

Ten minutes ago I found him in our bed, asleep.  I'm not sure why he felt it necessary to unmake a bed that isn't even his, but then, the mind of five-year-old boys can be difficult to understand.  Knowing Caedmon, he has a detailed rationale he'll explain to me later, hopefully after a nice, long nap.  

We're all a little tired today, after the assorted merry-making that accompanies Christmas and Derek's birthday yesterday (Happy Birthday, Husband!), and a visit from my mom and Mark.  Among other things, Mom addressed the items on my list mentally titled Things I Need Mom's Help With.  She looked at the zipper on Atticus's coat that stopped working two weeks after we bought it a couple months ago, and voila!  Presto, needle-nosed-pliers-oh, it is fixed!

Aside from a now-working zipper, please note my solution to the problem:  Hand-sewing thick velcro patches on the coat (the velcro's other side is on the inner lining of the coat on the opposite zipper-side, if that makes any sense) so that our son could close his coat throughout the winter if the zipper proved to be unfixable.  Now it's just a fabulous fashion statement, like those tiny pockets you sometimes see on the upper arms of women's shirts, which I can only think must hearken back to when men rolled packets of cigarettes in their shirt sleeves?

Mom also took a look at my right hand and wrist, which has been bothering me for a couple weeks now, generally when I put any weight on it or use it to lift anything even slightly heavy.  She messed with it a bit, spoke some of her nurse-hoodoo over it, listened when I showed her that, "See, it isn't swollen at all," before showing me that it actually was swollen, just in a different spot, and suggested the possibility of a small stress fracture.  Being somewhat, um, accident-prone herself (hey, sisters, remember when Mom cut herself with a chainsaw?  Or maybe it was the tree limb that hurt her so badly.  Either way, a chainsaw was definitely involved), she understood when I couldn't recall any particular incident that might have caused this.  She did suggest compression immobility...or something... and to avoid yoga for a while, so I called her a mean, mean lady.  (Kidding.  I wasn't going to anger the woman who had within minutes just fixed a zipper that had been galling me for weeks.)

I have been following nurse's orders, avoiding yoga and wrapping my hand before I spend hours outside shoveling snow, because she said nothing about not shoveling with this hand.  It's possible she expected me to be smart enough to work this out for myself, in which case the joke's on her!  I am most certainly not that smart!  Hahahaha...ha.  My hand hurts.

In other fun news, our dishwasher has been gracing us with offerings of screws in the bottom of its basin, which I now find with disturbing frequency upon opening the door after running a load.  I can only think it has something wonderful planned for us.

Now I have not one but three children awake and clamoring for a mother who apparently does things, like fixing an already worthless pencil sharpener and reading endless Berenstain Bears books.  I hope you're all enjoying a lovely recovery time after Christmas, or at the very least you have a good book to read.  

Bold Jumping Spiders and Bold Jumping Mothers

A couple days ago, Adelaide and I were the only ones home, and we spotted one of those small, thick-limbed black spiders creeping along the kitchen ceiling.

Ooooh.  I just did a little google search on the above vague spider description, and have spent the last 30 seconds looking at spider photos to try and identify it.  My guess is the Bold Jumping Spider (I did not make that name up, but I am thankful for my pre-squish ignorance, as there would have been significantly more squealing otherwise), but couldn't make it past the first search page as I felt too nauseated.

Even without knowing it was a BOLD JUMPING SPIDER (shuuuuudder), there was a little squealing because it was Adelaide and it was me and the smashed spider corpse descended threateningly on its thread after I had snuffed out its life force.

I managed to clean it up and throw it away with little fanfare and without doing that thing that where you pretend the dead bug or spider is still alive and advance quickly toward the cringing person next to you the way Derek always does, because I am not a monster.

Yesterday, however, there was another slightly larger spider of the same kind (you know, just a little spider whose very name says that it is BOLD and WILL JUMP ON YOU), this time on the living room ceiling.  Same thing, except it was just me and Caedmon in the house: Shoe, squeal, squish, shudder.

Right before I squished its filthy guts out, however, I whispered, "Sorry about your wife," because that it what I say before I commit arachnid homicide.  In my mind, I had killed Mrs. Bold Jumping Spider the day before, and now Mr. Bold Jumping Spider is just walking around, wondering where the heck Tina is, when along comes yours truly to make it a double homicide.

Objects may be closer than they appear *retch*

Then I looked up and saw Caedmon watching me, eyebrows up, smiling bemusedly as I whisper to the spider on the ceiling, which of course he was, because #1: Privacy is apparently against my kids' religion, and #2: If I am doing something even the tiniest bit strange, my kids will find a way to be there, because they like nothing better than to announce the things I do in the comfort of our home to the world at large- see #1.  I can only assume this penchant for mortifying me is a trait inherited from my mother; obviously a gene that skips a generation (because surely I never embarrassed my mother or my children, ahahaha!).  I began to glimpse shiny little glimmers of this realization when Adelaide was almost two years old and an inconveniently early talker, which was cute right up until we were in a public bathroom stall and she announced, "WHY IS THAT LADY MAKING THOSE SOUNDS?" and "I CAN SEE SOMEONE'S TOES!  LOOK, MOMMY, TOES!  REALLY DIRTY TOES!" and "GOODNESS GRACIOUS SAKES ALIVE, WHAT IS THAT SMELL?"  'Goodness gracious sakes alive' being her cry of choice at that age.

While she was making all these lovely proclamations at the top of her little voice, I was thinking that I surely hadn't been this embarrassed since my mom gave a very matter-of-fact and loooong talk about sex and its many colorful facets to me and 200 of my closest friends in seventh grade.  At school.  With no warning- probably because she worried I'd make like a squirrel and dart into oncoming traffic rather than sit there and listen to my mom unfurl her fancy school nurse visual aides because she is an over-achiever, which is great in 4-H, not great when you're praying to go deaf so you don't have to hear your mother say that word again in front of half the school.

What's that?  I've talked about this before?  Not to worry, I'll only be bringing it up for the rest of my natural life, because some things you just don't get over.

You know what I haven't mentioned before?  My mom dressing up as SNL character Mary Katherine Gallagher and once again humiliating me in front of a few hundred of my fellow high school students.  I had repressed that little gem right up until supper last night when Adelaide stage-whispered, "Superstar!" and my body went into an automatic fight-or-flight mode.

She did it with exactly this much panache, too.

My mother is not shy.  Unfortunately neither are two out of our three children, and even the quiet one is not to be trusted.  I suppose this means I need to refine my ability to embarrass others, just out of a sense of desperate self-preservation.  Good luck, children mine, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

A Special Kind of Smart

Last weekend Derek and I got to go play laser tag with some friends.  It was the one thing Derek really wanted to do for his birthday, so his mom kindly came over to watch the kids, and though I've never played laser tag before and really wasn't expecting to enjoy the whole activity, it was for my husband's birthday, so I decided to close my eyes and think of England, as it were, and at the very least pretend I was having a good time while running around shooting fake guns at people.

Well.  It was actually incredibly fun, darting around a big warehouse and peering around pieces of drywall, trying to take out the somewhat obnoxious strangers on the opposing team.

The part that I keep thinking about, however, is at the end, when we were removing the velcro straps from around our foreheads, and the employee said, "Everybody hand me the non-fabric part of the strap, please, there at the end."

I proceeded to do my darndest to take that little piece of the strap off the rest so I could hand it to him, but my gosh, how was I supposed to do that when it appeared to be sewn together?

I wrestled with it for several seconds before looking around to see how everyone else was faring, but it turns out every single other person there had understood his instructions and were holding their headbands by the tips, on the non-fabric end.

Ah.  I see.


I have wondered in the past how it is that so often everyone else understands these things but me, but then I think of my mother and my daughter.

Now listen to me.  My mother is a very intelligent woman.  Our daughter is a very intelligent girl.

My mother is also the person who, when we were out for a walk through a nature preserve while she was visiting us in Connecticut, exclaimed, "I just saw a really old squirrel!"

When I asked how she knew it was really old (never having known before that she was any kind of squirrel expert), she explained that it had gray hair.

Oh, how I laughed.  But also understood.  We only have brown squirrels in Kansas, as opposed to the gray squirrels that inhabit CT.


Then I think about the time I was sitting in a bedroom in our house in Kansas, holding a baby Atticus, and asked two-year-old Adelaide to turn on the light.  She tried but couldn't reach, so I told her to go get the step stool.  A couple minutes later I turned my head at the sound of something scraping against the wall;  our daughter had the step stool stretched over her head, attempting to catch the light switch with it to turn it on, rather than, you know, standing on it.


Or how about when I was a teenager, my mom and I walking out to the parking lot to get in my car, the Little Tercel that Could, and it wouldn't start, which wasn't like it at all.  No air conditioning, no radio or in-dash clock or power steering, but that thing always, always started.  We got out, opened up the hood (which, looking back, is completely laughable- I'm astonished we even knew how to open the hood), then gasped in unison.  There was a gaping hole right in the middle of all the other unidentifiable stuff (that is to say, everything)- someone had stolen part of our engine!  

I'm guessing it was my mom who thought to thumb through the owner's manual to see just which crucial part had been taken, when we found it- that big blank space was where the air conditioner went in cars that weren't completely stripped down.  You know, the one my car never had?  We fell all over each other laughing, and then I don't remember what happened next.  I'm assuming we got out of that parking lot somehow, as I am not presently there.


I must say, if you don't mind looking foolish from time to time, it isn't a bad way to live.  At least we laugh a lot.  At ourselves.  Along with everyone else.

Today We're Going to Talk About Gross Medical Stuff

After three weeks of on-again-off-again high fevers, achey-ness, headaches, and other fun, Adelaide is finally feeling better.

The fact that it took me three weeks to take her the doctor's office should probably cause me more mother-guilt, but the fact is, it takes a whole heck of a lot more to induce said mother-guilt than it did just two short years ago.  Whether this is because I've realized the best mothers I know also screw up constantly or because I've just become astonishingly good at shrugging my shoulders, I don't know.  What I do know is that when I realized Adelaide had been sick for three full weeks, I decided that, sure, I guess, I can take our only daughter in to the see a medical professional.  You know, for a lark.


The diagnosis was one bacterial infection that piggy-backed on top of the initial virus.  Antibiotic prescribed, prescription filled and picked up (say it with me, now:  $4 Rx's are the BEST), and 48 hours later, our daughter stopped her near constant litany of tears and moaning and I don't FEEL well's (what's that, you say?  Sounds like I should have taken her in earlier?  Please see the above paragraph and go ahead and imagine me shrugging my shoulders.  Also building character in our offspring and stuff), is back to constant chatter and charming interrogations.

One of the (many) reasons I didn't take her to the doc sooner is that, see, we were just there a couple weeks ago.  No, it wasn't for Adelaide, and no, it wasn't because someone was sick, but really, I had just been there.  No need to go back for quite some time.  (Please don't try to make sense of this.  There is none to be made.)  That initial trip was because Caedmon had gotten another giant splinter in the sole of his foot, and because this time he was gracious enough to do it on a weekday during our doctor's office's normal operating hours, I was able to take him in to have a medical professional perform the extraction, rather than me rooting around in his skin for an hour and a half while Derek held him down.  This way was much better, as it only took ten sweaty minutes of flesh-digging by the PA while the nurse held his leg and I held the rest of him (don't kid yourself, 4-year-olds are strong).  (Also, sorry to Derek's mom for the words "flesh-digging," I can just see her blanching now, as opposed to my mother, who is probably reading this going, "Mmm, flesh-digging, my favorite."  And now I've managed to further gross Becky out by typing "flesh-digging" four times and made my very nice, excellent nurse-mother sound like Nurse Ratched does Night of the Living Dead.  That one's my bad.)

(Oh, but a quick aside to Becky and anyone else squeamish who might ever be tempted to randomly scroll through the photos on my mom's phone or camera, hoping for cute grandchild photos:  Just Say No.  Well, unless you have a jonesing for pus and boils and inflamed skin and other head-scratchers more suited for a Victorian Oddities Museum.  Or if you're one of those people who continues to harbor the notion that school nurses sit in their offices reading books until some poor poppet stops by with an owie.  Then BY ALL MEANS, look at her phone.  Also ask her for the story about that time a kid sliced their finger off in a locker.  It's a doozy.)


Aaaanyway.  We're all more or less healthy now, although both the boys are now overdue for their yearly check-ups.  Whatever, shrugging my shoulders, I'll get to it when I get to it.  Probably.

 

How To Make New Friends

One week before we left for vacation, I made the mistake of talking to my mom.

If you live near her and work either in the medical community or for the school district, chances are good that you've sat in one of her in-services.  My sisters and I have been told for years that "your mom is SO FUNNY."  What was so hilarious about CPR and infection control was always a trifle mystifying, but as a child all I knew about those gatherings was that my mom got up in front of groups of people large and small to talk about washing your hands and how not to be nasty and that it somehow involved washing my own hands while singing Yankee Doodle in front of a video camera on a semi-regular basis.  (The purpose of the song is to make sure you're washing your hands long enough to restore your hands back to non-disgusting status.)  Kelli, Steph, and I never really understood what "so funny" about our mom until one of Kelli's friends sat in an in-service and reported back to my sister that "your mom has lots of jokes.  Unfortunately you're the punchline."  Mystery solved.

Being one of her daughters, I get these talks whenever I want (aka whenever she wants), which is how, a week before I was to take multiple rides on those big metal birds in the sky, my mother regaled me with such classic tales as "The Truth About How Often Those Tray Tables Are Actually Cleaned" and "Airplane Ice Cubes Are the Dirty Old Men of Ice" and "Airplane Armrests and Bacteria:  A Love Story."  She then sweetly told me precisely where I might find little packs of anti-bacterial wipes at Wal-Mart (the travel section, friends), as if she were doing me a favor.

I purchased the wipes.  I readied myself for the trip.  Derek and I boarded the plane for the first leg of our flight.

For various reasons, I was always in the middle of three seats on each flight, which meant I had to look like I had lost my ever-lovin' mind as I wiped down everything within reach with those wipes as a bemused stranger sat two inches to my right or left watching me perform my little psychotic ritual.  If it was a woman, I made sure to tell them that hahahaha, I'm not always this weird, haha, my mom just told me some disturbing things about airplane germs, hahaha, don't mind me as I gingerly lift your arm to scrub at our shared armrest.  The one man I sat next to was spared this speech simply because I'm slower to warm up to men.

The lady on that very first flight was also forced to become my airplane best friend, as it turns out that I do not deal with moderate-to-severe turbulence well at all.  Every time we'd do one of those little drops that makes it feel like the plane is free-falling for a second or two, my body would involuntarily sit straight up in my seat and my mouth would emit a shaky "HOOO-KAY," while Derek sat to one side of me, ear buds in, calmly watching golf like our children weren't about to become three tiny pathetic orphans.

I tried to keep myself to myself, reading my book and not pestering the poor lady next to me, but I discovered that while reading can distract me from many, many different things, turbulence is not one of them, and I told her so, and basically (in the nicest way possible) demanded she talk to me.  She was very kind, and I learned all manner of interesting things about her.  Every so often there would be a lull in the conversation, then we'd drop and I'd say, "HOOO-KAY- so, your dad has 8 cracked ribs from a terrible car wreck and you had to miss your family vacation, let's talk more about that."

The one comforting factor in that turbulent flight was the off-duty flight attendant sitting across the aisle from us, sound asleep, who didn't so much as twitch during the whole bumpy ride, but came magically awake as soon as the wheels hit the tarmac.  I figured I wouldn't really start to freak out until she did, and she never so much as regained consciousness, so we were good.  We saw her again on our last flight back into Des Moines, and while I briefly thought about telling her something along the very creepy lines of Watching you sleep was very comforting, Derek assured me it wasn't the best of ideas.

I think I can safely add "Makes friends easily against their wishes" to my resumé.

Lifestyles of the Sick and Obscure

I was sick a couple days ago.

Not terribly, horribly sick, so don't be feeling too sorry for me (unless you really really want to- I mean, I won't say no to a few extra pity vibes thrown my way; I'll save them up for the next time I really am disgustingly sick and our children care not the tiniest iota); it was just a nasty cold.  The kind of thing a little extra rest, a bit more fluids will heal more than any medicine.  (Never mind that I try and think that about most illnesses, simply because I HATE taking medicine and will do just about anything to get out of taking it, excepting, of course, my inhalers, Chuck and Mother Mary.  The orange inhaler is Chuck- because he looks like a Chuck, obviously- and the rest are Mother Mary, because when I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me and gives me something even better than words of wisdom- lovely, life-giving albuterol.)

I have always thought of myself as pretty low-maintenance, even, dare I say it, stoic, when it comes to being sick, because I don't require much help when feeling poorly.  I do not want someone hovering, I do not want people crooning and touching and really even being there at all.  I want to be alone, which somehow always made me feel strong and superior, until, that is, a couple nights ago when I realized just how many props I need to surround myself with in my aloneness when I have nothing worse than a piddling cold.


Let's start with our base layer of pampered malingering-wear:

My favorite blankets.  The brown one is incredibly warm, the lettered blanket has the first lines of classic works of fiction.  Because who isn't comforted by Beowulf when they're under the weather?

Next, and arguably the most important:

A rice pack which must be heated for between one minute and one minute thirty seconds in the microwave; less than that and it loses its heat too quickly, more and it's too scorching to put against my spoiled little pelt.  A heated rice pack mends everything from a sore back to a headache to cold toes to a foul mood.  They're so magical and perfect I bet there's one in the foot of every bed in Hogwarts castle.  

Just as important:

Now.  I am, in general, not a brand snob.  I can make do with all kinds of generic brands for all kinds of things, from food to clothing to whatever, but when it comes to my nose, it would appear that I am a big fat baby, as I must have Puffs with lotion IF you don't mind.  

The obvious ingredient:

A book, BUT- it mustn't be anything too heavy or taxing for my feeble febrile brain.  This favorite author fits the bill perfectly.  Congratulations, Ms. L'Engle, for this highly dubious honor.

Water WITH ICE if you please, because I'm an American, for cryin' out loud.  This is one where I've actually gotten better as I've gotten older; as a child I would only drink water out of the bathroom faucet when sick because it tasted better and colder.  I did not ever demand this of my mother, of course, because I always wanted to survive my illnesses.

And all this had to be collected on the couch so that I could sleep with my poor little head (actually, my head is rather large, thank you so much, mother) elevated, and so that I wouldn't wake Derek every time I blew my nose, which was only once every five minutes or so all night long, jeez, Derek, and I am of the belief that if I don't achieve a loud noise when blowing my nose I'm not really getting everything out, and because I'm an eldest child I'm hard-wired for over-achievement, if only when emptying facial orifices.

Do They Still Make Smelling Salts?

Mothers always get the shaft, don't they?

It's like they can't do anything right.  Work while your kids are little, and you're neglecting them.  Stay at home, you're coddling them.  Send them to public school, your kids are gonna end up heathens.  Home school them, they're gonna be weird.

I absolutely believe that a fair portion of all this finger pointing and blaming is done by other parents and just about anyone who sees any little thing a tiny bit differently, but the majority?  The majority is done by us, the mothers, to ourselves.  The guilt.  The second-guessing.  The inner conflict.

I don't even think my husband knows what second-guessing is.  It is a completely foreign concept to his brain.  When he makes a decision, BOOM, that's it, that is his new reality.  He also doesn't worry about what other parenting philosophies might have to say about our style of discipline or how we spend time as a family or anything else because he just doesn't care.  Like, not even a little bit.

Me, though?  I worry.

For instance:  a couple weeks ago, we decided to order pizza for supper.  Derek suggested Adelaide be the one to make the order over the phone, which is good practice for a relatively shy kid who could use some practice interacting with the world at large.  She agreed pretty readily, which surprised me, but also used my written script as a crutch (yes, I made a script of how the conversation would probably go- this was to help prevent any over-the-phone panicked pizza crying, which might throw whatever teenager was on the other end of the line a bit).  She did great.  The pizza was ordered.  There was no panicking.  But as soon as she hung up the phone, Adelaide buried her face in a pillow and didn't come out for five minutes, no matter what we said.  She just needed a few minutes to have her delayed social interaction-induced freak out and its subsequent recovery.

I worry:  Did I make her this way?  Is it because I stay at home with her and her brothers?  Did she not get enough time with other toddlers when she was teeny?  Did she inherit this shyness from me?

It didn't help that the previous day I'd had a little panic attack of my own.  Derek had suggested I go to my favorite restaurant with some friends, which I wasn't about to pass up, so I invited a group of friends, expecting one or two to say yes, given the short notice.  Perfect for my small group comfort zone.  Instead, the affirmative replies kept trickling in.  And honestly, I was excited with each "Yes!"  Because by themselves, these women aren't scary.  These are my friends!  They are kind and lovely and funny.  My first thought was, "Eight!  Oh, how fun!"  And I may have performed a dramatic rendition of the theme song to Eight is Enough.  But as the day ticked by, my anxiety levels started to climb.  I felt nauseated.  My heart was beating so hard is felt like it was trying to launch my blood outside of my poor body, not just do its good old-fashioned circulating.  An hour before everyone was supposed to meet at my house, my fingertips were numb, and I was in my room, flapping my hands and engaging in some lamaze-style breathing exercises.  Fortunately for me, Derek is used to this kind of thing, and folded me into a hug for longer than 30 seconds (I recently told him about an article I read stating that research shows one of those feel-good neurotransmitters is released when one is held in an embrace for 30+ seconds.  He has since been very dutiful about hugging me for the prescribed time, possibly because he knows I need all the help I can get), petted my hair, and only half-patronizingly said things like, "You're okay, everything's going to be fine."  And everything was fine.  The food was delicious and the company wonderful.

Because of all this, I wonder if I'm consigning Adelaide to a lifetime of anxiety and nerves, even when it involves her own friends and she's the one who invited them out in the first place.

Ah, but then there's my mother.  My mom is social and has always had a gaggle of friends (whoop, whoop, Big and Louds!).  I can no more imagine my mom panic-jogging in place in her room and reaching for her inhaler before a social event than I can imagine me writing a post without a single parenthetical statement (isn't gonna happen).  She threw parties all the time when I was growing up.  Most of them were Crap Nights, but every once in a while she'd have a theme- OH, like the Miss America party!  That was one where a bunch of her friends would come over not to just to watch the Miss America pageant, but also dressed as a hilarious parody of their chosen state.  Food was eaten.  Contestants were made fun of.  Kansas was rooted for.  Strangely, the only costume I can remember with any clarity was Debby's; she dressed as Miss Arkansas, and I'm pretty sure she wore cut-off denim overalls with just a bra underneath and she mussed and tousled her short dark hair.  And she blacked out one of her teeth.  And spoke in a charming Ozark twang.

So if my mom, Miss Party Central, could produce me, Flaps Her Hands and Hyperventilates (that's my Indian name, you know), then perhaps there's hope for Adelaide after all.

Humans Should All Just Hibernate Through Middle School

Here I was, all set to write a post about the new levels of disgusting-ness I was forced to explore today via our children's illness when I stopped and said to myself the thing I most often want to say to random strangers:  Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.  (I feel bad about this.  As a Christian I should probably most want to carry around a sign that says "Free Hugs" or something- although I shuddered just writing that.  Instead I most want to say "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should."  I should re-think my life.  Some other time.)

Yes, even on the internet, just because you can, doesn't mean you should.  I thought about plunging on ahead anyway, but then realized that the only person who would have been able to bear to read it was my mom, because she's a middle school nurse.  Obviously as a nurse she's had to see all manner of vile human by-products, but I believe the true test of her mettle is her willingness to work with junior highers.  Have you seen those things?  I visited her office a couple years ago, which features a wide bank of windows looking out onto a main hallway.  Everything was going fine, just me, mom, and one of her co-workers chatting it up, when the bell rang, and then the Freak Parade began.  It was like being in a reverse kind of zoo, where all the frightening creatures are on the outside and you're afraid to tap on the glass lest you draw their attention.  A full third of them must have relied on sonar to navigate the hallway; there's no way they could have seen where they were going with all that greasy plumage hanging over the part of the face that I'm hoping contained human eyeballs.  And that was the "boys"!  (Those are intentional quotation marks, in case you were wondering.)

Look, I remember being a middle schooler.  It was awkward, and awful, and overall a little bit tragic.  I honestly don't know how my mom didn't flinch every time she saw me.  ("NGYAAAAH!  Oh.  Oh, it's just you, Kristy.  I thought one of the vet's experiments had escaped again."  At which point I snarled and cringed away from the sunlight.  Oh, how it burned!  And yes, we had a veterinarian who lived and practiced behind our house, but he never engaged in unlawful experimentation.  Not to my knowledge, at least.  It is a little curious how all our cats chose to end their lives right in front of his house.  Never mind that's where the highway is.)  But somehow time manages to distort even the most heinous of our memories, or you're like me and become awesome at compartmentalizing to a degree generally only shared by women named "Sybil."  Either way, memories of middle school are locked safely away, and you manage to convince yourself it wasn't so bad- until you visit a middle school as an adult and wonder why, with all our scientific advancements, we haven't figured out how to skip this whole stage of life entirely.

Sure, you have weirdos like my mom who talk about her subjects with amused affection, much the way this dog's owner likely speaks of her:

via

Pretty sure I saw this girl walking on two legs in that hallway.  She was sticking up for the really ugly ducklings.  (And I can make jokes like that because I would have loved to look this good in middle school.  If you knew me then, you know exactly what I'm talking about.  You have burned every photo of me from those years like we talked about, right?)

So even though years of working with cripplingly strange middle schoolers- oh, and sick people- may have inured my mother to stories like the one I was going to tell, I know that the rest of you would have had no choice but to leave this blog and never come back.

Good thing I found this supremely relevant tangent to write about, hmm?

Maybe Nessie's Just Stuck In That Loch

When my mom and Mark were visiting a few weeks ago, Mom and I decided to brave a new (to us) place called Sky Zone with the three kiddos.  It's basically a giant warehouse full of trampolines, so I figured at the very least our visit would exhaust the children, which is, sadly, the primary motivation behind half the stuff I do.  ("Hey, Kristy, wanna go do [insert random activity here]?"  The first and most important question I ask myself:  How likely is it that our children are going to fall asleep after said activity?  A) Not likely at all- "Yeah, sorry, but we're super busy that day,"  B) Somewhat likely- "Maybe... could we somehow involve more running and/or obstacle courses?" or C) Very likely- "WE'D LOVE TO.")

Most of the parent/guardian types I saw there were sitting at the provided tables, enjoying some time away from their little monsters while the children bounced around on the trampolines.  

This was not me.  Nor was it my mom.  We are bouncers, she and I.  This is not to say that we are chirpy, effervescent creatures in our everyday lives; we just seriously enjoy some trampoline time.  She has a big ol' trampoline in her backyard (the first major purchase of my sister Kelli after she got her first job, so I suppose we're a family of bouncers); I have pleaded with Derek to get a similar contraption-o'-fun in our own backyard, but he said the only way we could do that was if I made every single guest to our house sign a waiver before stepping foot on it (something about trampolines being death traps and insurance statistics- I'm not sure if you've gotten this by now, but Derek is the practical one in our marriage, doing things like ensuring we're not sued and making sure we have a house to live in.  I am the one that likes to bounce on trampolines.).  I'm guessing something about the way I said, "Well, of course I'd make everyone sign that piece of paper before going into our backyard, and I definitely wouldn't accidentally/on purpose lose it every time someone came over," didn't inspire a lot of confidence.  

Anyway.  Adelaide jumped.  Atticus jumped.  Caedmon jumped.  My mom jumped.  I jumped.  

Right about here is where I would put a whole bunch of photos of our kids having a blast bouncing around, but I have enough trouble getting decent shots when they're stationary; when they're constantly on the move in a poorly-lit-for-photography (for me that's anything dimmer than sunlight) warehouse, my pictures aren't so hot.

Still, I did get a few, mostly of Mom out-jumping her grandchildren.

"Yes, Grandma sees you've fallen, Children, but I am on a trampoline and thus do not care."  I love making my mom seem more callous than she actually is; for some reason it really tickles my funny bone.  Although she is a nurse.  I'm just saying.

Click to embiggen and see my "Hahaha I want to die" face.

This is the part where I jumped down the trampoline runway and into the foam pit.  Unlike our children, who went before me and intentionally misled me into thinking I'd jump in and just kind of land on top of the cubes of foam, I sank completely down into the pit over my head, perhaps because I weigh just a tiny bit more than our kiddos.  (Physics is hard.)  I thrashed about for around ten thousand years trying to get out before losing the will to live and giving up.  I had made peace with the fact that I would be a foam pit version of Nessie, occasionally grabbing unsuspecting children and making them scream, perhaps lifting my head above the foam for grainy photos and inspiring countless legends in my honor when I noticed the employee manning the foam pit looking at me like "Seriously?  I do not get paid enough to help heavy moms out of this thing.  GET OUT OF MY PIT."  (He had a very communicative if derisive gaze.)  I eventually managed to haul myself out, helped along by my mom's helpless laughter at my predicament.  She's always been a bit of a "Well, you got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out while I laugh at you" kind of parent.

See now, my mom also jumped into the Pit of Foam Despair, but she had little trouble extricating herself, perhaps because she is freakishly strong, which I chalk up to being bred from hardy German peasant stock.

There was also a trampoline-basketball area and a trampoline-dodgeball area.  The kids played basketball for a while but I wouldn't let them go into the dodgeball area because dodgeball is the devil.  I was the kid who got "out" as quickly as possible on those days in PE because some kids play dodgeball like they're in the Hunger Games and I'm not stupid.  

To wrap up:  If you have small children and a trampoline place near you, you should definitely go.  But maybe avoid the foam pit.  And the dodgeball area.  

I Should Contact Parker Brothers With This Idea

I have a new favorite game, you guys.


Players required:  At least 2- one adult and one or more children.

Materials:  One kitchen and its contents, plus a book or other activity the adult can hold in her lap.

Instructions for play:  The adult sits quietly with the book (or item of your choosing) in front of you.  Be sure your back is to the kitchen.  The child will take this as an invitation to dismantle the kitchen (because you're not looking directly at them and therefore obviously have no idea what they're doing), but will do so as quietly as they can due to your proximity.  It is imperative that you muffle your snickers when you hear the child try to stealthily slide your 10-pound cast iron Dutch oven out of the kitchen cabinet, and do your best not to laugh aloud when the child accidently drops a whisk then freezes, silently waiting for you to turn around for the next 30 seconds before continuing to empty the silverware drawer.

This will buy you at least 15 minutes of uninterrupted time, but make sure you're paying attention to the sounds behind you, because you want them to think they're still getting away with something when we come to the ultimate step in the game:

Wait until they've unloaded at least one cabinet and maybe a couple drawers, listen to make sure they've put down any heavy objects (just wait for the muffled thud), then whirl around and bellow, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Make sure you do this with a smile on your face.  A smile results in the 2 year old jumping a mile, laughing shakily, then running to you for a hug, where you will feel their little heart beating a million miles an hour.  No smile on the face of the adult ends in terror, tears, and running and hiding from Mommy.



Sometimes I feel a little sorry for Caedmon.

How Dare You?

"Mom, could you please stop breathing so much?"


Honestly, I didn't think I'd have to deal with half of this stuff until Adelaide was a teenager.  Or, in Derek's mind, until she was in college; he's still holding out for a raging awkward phase that will last until she graduates high school.

Last week at the supper table she announced that she has two boyfriends, but hey, it's okay- one is in India and one is in Iowa.  I reflexively started to jump out of my chair, preparing to administer the heimlich on Derek, but there was no need- he wasn't choking; on the contrary, his face was set and stony.


This week, however, she's focused on me- specifically, on me breathing.  I put that word in italics because every time it comes out of her mouth it sounds italicized.

"Do you have to breathe like that?"

"Why are you breathing so much right now?"

"I can't sit next to you anymore if you're going to keep breathing."


My first reaction, of course, was a snarky comment on how I would be happy to stop respirating, and was there anything else I could do to accomodate the princess?

After the second or third comment, however, I was reminded of my childhood best friend and how she frequently talked about how much she wanted to smother me with a pillow the morning after sleep-overs.  Apparently I'm one of those creepy mouth breathers.

I then remembered a visit to my allergist in elementary school and hearing him talk about how my nasal passages are chronically swollen, which obstructs air flow, and how there's pretty much nothing I could do about it.  I'm taking that diagnosis with a grain of salt, though- this is the same man who, after making a lovely grid of pinpricks that quickly morphed into hundreds of hives (you know, because I'm apparently allergic to nearly everything) had the nerve to lie and tell me that the cream the nurse was slathering on my back would soothe the flaming, maddening itch that was threatening to take over my sanity.  All I wanted was a couple sets of well-filed fingernails raked down my back, but no- I got a tube of glorified Jergens lotion.

Anyway.

So yes, perhaps I do breathe a bit more deeply or loudly or whatever than the average bystander.

Then I saw something about misophonia, and decided instead that our daughter is suffering from a neurological disorder.

Because the problem can't be me.