Ramona Had an Escort

We get books on CD every time we head out on long car rides. In fact, last time we

went to Stowe we listened to Ramona Quimby Age 8. Admittedly an interesting pick, considering the audience was a 6 year old boy and 3 year old girl.

I introduced the CD with a preface that started, "WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL... I read all about Ramona...."

And then I could see in the rear view that Dec and Nonie had lost all interest in what I was saying.... So, I paused for a second.

I thought for a moment.

And then I RE-introduced the book on CD a different way:

"Nonie, Dec, we've got a long car-ride ahead of us and I'm going to pop a CD in now that I think you'll like. It is about a girl who always has band-aids on her knees. Her name is Ramona."

And without further ado,

They CLUNG TO EVERY SINGLE WORD.

Just so happens that this morning at 9:27am - I get a call from Dec's school that he has gotten sick in class.

Within minutes (no more than 10) I fetched Dec at the nurse's office. From the school's office, I could see into the nurse's room - his legs were stretched out on the cot. I saw his feet before I could see his face. It was then that I noted that his sneakers were covered in vomit splatter.

I entered the nurse's room with a parental guilt level of 100 on a scale of 1-10. I observed Declan was wearing clothing that we did not own.

Nurse's replacement clothing 2 sizes too small.

He looked so, incredibly awkward in these clothes.

Dec looked up at me and said without hesitation, "Mom - it was just

like in the book Ramona Quimby Age 8, I threw up. Then my teacher told all my friends to move to the caterpillar rug while I went to the nurse. Except that when I walked to the nurse, my teacher didn't ask one of my friends to walk me there."

He finished his statement and looked surprisingly relieved. As if, his story had been told and now he could get on with feeling awful.

I made eye-contact with Dec's school nurse at that point. Just wanted to acknowledge that she was there, and listening to his emotional update.

Clearly, he would have preferred to be escorted to the nurse with one of his wide-eyed, and anxious to leave the vomit smelling classroom friends. But this didn't happen for him.

And amazingly enough (I thought to myself), this is what he will remember about this day.

"Do you remember that Ramona's teacher had a friend walk her to the nurse?" Dec asked.

"Yes Dec, I remember, that was a nice part of the story, wasn't it?"

And I put his backpack on my back, and I signed him out of school. I said thank you to all who had helped care for my baby 6-year-old boy in my absence. And then I held his hand and I walked him out of school. I opened the car door for him, watched him crawl inside and closed it afterwards. Once I was inside, I told him that I was so sorry that he felt so sick.

And I told him

that

I love him so much.

How Could I Not? I Laughed.

He may remember that no one escorted him to the nurse. And Ramona had an escort.

He will remember being cheated out of a friend to guide him.

But, I will remember being his guide.

Sunday Silhouettes & Big, Salty, Tears.

The biggest melt-down of his life (to date).

Followed by an exchange between two crying kids and one sick-as-a-dog mother.
And for the cherry on top? I cried too. Big salty tears.
Yup, I'm chalking them up to just pure exhaustion.

Sunday afternoon plans threatened to be canceled
(by me, the feverish mom).
Then Sunday afternoon plans most definitely canceled (by me, the feverish mom)
egged on by another tag-teamed tantrum.
Those are the events that lead to our (unscheduled) Sunday respite at the lake just down from Happy House.

And while we were there:
1. The kids forgot all about me being there.
2. I forgot about their tantrums. (Not quite as easily or as quickly as the kids forgot all about me being there - but I did my best to let it all go in a balloon - is that what we say sisters? I'm new to this balloon lingo)


3. My blessings became as clear to me as two beautiful silhouettes against a fading sun.

(oh, and Dec grew a halo and I spiked an even higher fever).
The End.

Your Name Means Honor

Tomorrow you are TWO.

Two and terrific.

(Not two and terrible.)

Lately you've gone around the house wearing your underpants as your hat.

You pile them on your head and then point to the pants and say:

Nonie's hat.

Did your uncle Chris teach you that?

He was the underpants hat trick expert.

I'd write more to you tonight sweetheart, but I'm just not feeling up to it.

Remember yesterday when we took you to the Bronx Zoo for your birthday.

Then we dined along Arthur Avenue checking out the sites? Fun huh?

Then, remember when you threw up all over me, my hair, and my jean jacket.

Remember throwing up on Mommy just as the waitress walked over with our tray full of dinner?

I remember it.

And now I'm the one throwing up.

On the eve of your 2nd bday, I'm sick as a dog.

But Nonie.

Your name means Honor.

And, since the day you were born, since hearing the first words of the doctor when she saw your tiny body "it's a girl", and since the tears flowed down my cheeks as I held you in my disbelieving arms for the first time...

It has been an Honor to be your Mother.

(Except when you throw up on me).

To my sweet blue-eyed girl on the eve of her terrific Twos!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I have to...

Yesterday, Today and the scissors of Tomorrow

It appears that Andrew's cannon-ball induced neck injury has given Drake a case of the woopses. What? You don't follow?
Well, yesterday morning I awoke with sympathy-neck-pain for Ange. It's lingering because I keep forgetting to ICE then heat, ICE then heat. Or so Tinker says. Anyway, my body said "As long as you've got a broken neck" (maybe exaggerating) "might as well have a mid-summer cold, too".
And I do.
Drake, ever the gentleman, was feeling my pain. So he decided to throw up on the rug this morning. Drake! Chances are he'll chuck it all up again because I forced him to eat some peanut butter bread and rice. Tinker says not to feed him for 24 hours. I'm starting to think she's a know-it-all. But it's too late.
I declare the best scissors for broken necks, colds and barfing are these bad boys.
In the last two days I've cut: fabric, Drake's hair, my Flav-or-ice, and 12 cardboard lady bugs, a butterfly and a net. Maybe I even cut the grass with them.
I didn't.
Things are productive around here with this broken neck cold and barfing dog. I can only imagine Drake's sympathy illness during Swine season.
Might need 2 pairs of scissors for that.