Stupid Bee

When I was five years old, I was outside playing with the neighbor boy, doing five-year-old kind of things, when that neighbor boy exclaimed, “You have a bee in your ear!” Naturally, my reaction was to immediately clasp my hand over my ear. Because you know, that seemed like the right way to handle a BEE in my EAR.

I think it goes without saying that I got stung.

I remember everything about that moment. The kind of day it was, exactly where I’d been standing on the sidewalk outside my house, running inside to get comfort from my Mom. And while I’ve been irrationally afraid of any bee buzzing anywhere near me ever since, what I’d forgotten about was how much it must’ve hurt. Because on Sunday, my baby boy got stung by a bee.

Let me say that as much experience as I’ve gleaned as a Mom, there are two areas that I have absolutely no experience with and therefore I am rendered hopelessly incompetent: injuries and illness.

The illness issue is a bit of a mystery to me, and truthfully I should be knocking on 25 tons of wood before I say this out loud. But. My kids have never been sick. When Liam was a baby we had a couple bouts with ear infections and both kids get the occasional cold. But really and truly sick? It’s never happened. Vomit? Liam has only done so once, and I’m pretty sure it was because he had too much candy that day. And I’m telling you, I still don’t get it. Not that I’m complaining, I’m not. I just don’t get it. They’ve even been exposed to swine flu, and this stomach bug that got to everyone (Nate and I, their cousin & his parents, the grandparents, everyone) but my boys remained healthy through all of it. It’s bizarre.

The lack of experience with injury stems entirely from my own neurotic need to watch them at every second of every day lest they get into something dangerous. Oh no. I’ve seen too many reports of kids getting hurt on the most innocuous things, so I opt to just watch them like a hawk. What? Don’t tell me I can’t sustain that vigilance. I can. And I will.

But a bee that sneaks into the house. That I didn’t see coming. And so it was on Sunday morning, when my poor, unsuspecting 21-month-old baby was told to go pick up his trains, and he so dutifully complied, and there was a bee hanging out on those trains who wasn’t all that happy to be manhandled by a baby, and WHAMO.

And oh my god, it’s ALL OUR FAULT for telling him to pick up his trains in the first place. That’s it. My kids officially get a pass from cleaning up toys.

It got him on the back of the hand, and at first I thought he was crying because he wanted help with his trains or something, but then Nate starts with his Oh My God shriek and Quin just got STUNG by a BEE, and I go into panic mode. What if he’s allergic? What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to handle injured children!

To my credit, while I was cuddling my baby boy (who in-between sobs kept repeating “hand” and “buuuggg” to tell us just what happened in case we missed it) I did ask Nate to go get the ice pack from the freezer and some Tylenol. And you guys, I discovered afterward that’s exactly what the internet told me to do. Hurah. I watched for signs of allergic reaction. But aside from a swollen middle finger (seems fitting, doesn’t it?) there were just a lot of sobs.

(Also, there was a pause from the sobbing to say "Yummy" in reference to the Tylenol, which I’m now convinced is a very bad sign. Maybe someday I’ll tell you the story I’ve been told about how I ate a bottle of Tylenol when I was little. Yeah. I did that.)

My sweet eldest child showed just what a good brother he can be, when the stealing of toys are not involved. He found every toy he could think of to make Quin feel better. I’m pretty sure that between assuring Quin that it’d be OK, and finding a combination of Zhu Zhu Pets and Buzz & Woody from Toy Story, Liam did a better job of making Quin feel better than I did.

Eventually, My Poor Baby got down to play again. He’d fiddle with some Lego’s or blocks and then pause to cry some more. This is the part I’d forgotten, how much it lingered.  But after an hour or so, he was over it.

Me on the other hand; I’ll remember every moment of that bee sting. Just like I did when I was five.

Busted

Easter-Eve of last year found Nate and I strategically hiding those multi-colored eggs when a then 2-(almost 3) year-old Liam came downstairs for water? A hug? I don't remember. I do know that we really thought he didn't know what we were up to, and had he known, he was only two. So. No harm done.

I had completely and totally forgotten about this event until tonight at bath time when I had a conversation with Liam that went like this:

Me: Hey Liam, did you know that the Easter Bunny is coming tonight?

Liam: I know. And then you're going to hide the Easter eggs.

Me: Well, I don't hide the Easter Eggs. The Easter Bunny does, remember?

Liam: (In a somewhat exasperated tone.) Mom. I saw you hiding the Easter eggs last year.

I couldn't recover. I hadn't remembered and therefore didn't have any excuse prepared. He knows the secret and there was nothing I could say to protect my cover. He just kept giving me this look that said, "I know what I saw, why are you lying?"

Notes to self: 1. Never assume your child is too young to remember. 2. Wait until your children are actually asleep before playing the part of pretend holiday creatures.

The Day a 747 Came to Pick Me Up

I submitted this story to This American Life. If you're familiar with the show, you'll understand why I believe it to be the perfect venue for such a strange experience. Since I haven't really shared this story with may people since the event (given that it is so long), I thought I'd also put it here.

My Mother booked what was to be a “vacation of a lifetime,” to Fiji in December 2004. She and her Husband, along with my sister and I and our spouses were geared up for a 10 day tropical getaway.

Getting there turned out to be among the most interesting, and strange things that has ever happened to me.

The problem began at our home city airport in Denver. We had a layover at LAX before heading on to our flight to Fiji on Air Pacific. The associate at DIA offered to check our luggage through, so we could head straight to our next gate. She handed each of us one of those standard airline ticket envelopes with tickets that were clearly marked “boarding pass,” for our connecting flight.

I should mention that my Mother and sister were terrified of flying. They each took a Xanex before leaving Denver.

So, right, back to the story. The travel agent that booked our trip did not provide enough time between flights at LAX. And on top of that, our flight out of Denver was delayed. This meant that when we got to LA we had to RACE across the airport, to get from the United terminal to the International terminal, which I swear were three miles apart! There is only one flight out of LAX to Fiji EVERY OTHER DAY.

While my step-father, my Husband, my brother-in-law and I were running to catch our next flight, my Mother and sister were happily strolling behind us, completely unaware and uncaring of the emergency we faced. Xanax, remember? They may as well have been star-gazing or catching butterflies.

Finally making it to the International terminal, we headed straight for security. Right, because we had “boarding passes.” The TSA officials eyed our boarding passes a little suspiciously, but still let us through. We got to the gate as they were boarding the flight. Whew, right? Not so fast.

When we got to the front of the boarding line, we were informed that we did not have boarding passes and would have to GO BACK to the check-in counter, the one before the security check. We argued and argued knowing that this seemed silly, we were already here, and couldn’t they just check us in at this counter? But we were only losing time with arguing. They would not budge.

Those of us who were not all high on Xanex flatout ran back to the check-in counter. There we found one employee who was clearly about to leave. We explained that we needed to get our tickets. She told us that it was “too late.”

This is where the story really takes a turn for the weird.

I pounded on the counter, telling her she had to check us in. Our bags were already being checked through, the flight is still boarding, just CHECK US IN!

At this point we were about 15 minutes from the scheduled departure.

She repeatedly told us “no,” but when she realized that we were not going to go away, she strolled back to a back office and got someone I can only image to be a supervisor involved.

This person strolled back out, very unaware of our near total-panic-state and proceeded to ask us for our passports. We happily obliged. And she sauntered (I’m not making this up—no sense of urgency at all), back to her office.

Fifteen minutes come and go. Thirty. Maybe even forty-five (I can’t quite remember) before she comes back. Obviously, at this point, we’d lost all hope that we’d make it to Fiji that night.

She proceeds to explain that she can get us on the flight, but that there will not be enough breakfast’s on board to feed us, and, is that OK? We all look at each other dumbfounded and agree, that yes, of course we can forgo breakfast.

She needed a breakfast decline confirmation, though, so the solution? She pulled out a blank sheet of copy paper, and had each of us sign it. She didn’t write anything on it, just had us sign it.

We are now probably an hour past the regularly scheduled departure.

Once we signed the blank sheet of copy paper to prove we did not require breakfast, she gave us our passports and the real boarding passes and told us to follow her.

She mentioned that the flight was now at a different gate. So the six of us followed her quickly through security, down a flight of stairs, onto the tarmac, and into a waiting shuttle bus.

The shuttle bus driver proceeded across several runways, and then parked the bus in a row of other buses, apologized, and got out. We peered through the bus windows to see that the gentleman was, well, taking a leak. Yes, he took a bathroom break in the middle of the tarmac, at LAX, in plain view of his passengers. I guess our destination was just too far to wait.

We get to our destination (which I’d guess took another 5 minutes—he must really have had to go). The shuttle bus driver indicates that “this is the place,” but doesn’t give much detail. There was no plane here. Just an isolated building, with a door. Inside the door was a ramp, leading up to a room. A room with a door, and a breezeway. No Plane, just a room with a door. And we were the only six people in this room with a door.

Forty-five minutes we waited in our room with a door. No one came to tell us what was happening. We started contemplating how we might escape our room with a door without getting run over by airplanes attempting a landing or a takeoff, or perhaps a deranged shuttle bus driver.

Finally, an Air Pacific employee shows up at our room with a door. She said no words, just waited with us.

And then, the most incredible thing of all happened. Two hours after its scheduled departure, a Boeing 747 bound for Fiji pulled up to our room with a door. It was there to pick us up. And, it was full of hundreds of passengers. Passengers who’d been sitting on that plane for the last two hours. And, our seats were at the back of the plane.

After pushing and shoving each other into the breezeway (no one wanted to go first, to face to angry mob of passengers). We all marched past rows and rows of wary passengers, and took our seats.

As it turns out, the plane was having some sort of mechanical issue. We sat on the tarmac for another two hours before finally departing for Fiji. Though the passengers didn’t soon forget us, and in fact, some even recognized us on the flight home and congratulated us for making it on time.

We made it to Fiji, our bags even made it with us, and the rest is, well, history.

We also enjoyed a lovely airline breakfast on the way. We’re not ones to turn down food when it’s presented to us, after all.

Note: I have a picture or two, I'll post later tonight when I get home.

The Week in Pictures

This past week, my family and I traveled back to my home state of Colorado for family, friends and a good 'ol (if not cold) time. Since this blog generally lacks pictures, here's a pictorial recap.

Loaded the kids on an airplane.

The boys played with Nana, while mommy...

...attended a bachelorette soiree.

Enjoyed some lunch.

Jetted to the Children's Museum for painting.

And mirrors.

And a forced picture brotherly love.

Quin thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Liam became an ant.

Quin took in the view at Nana's house.

And thought it was great.

Went to see some bugs at the Butterfly Pavilion.

And fish.

And butterfly's too.

Who probably weren't all that happy to see us.

Posed for more forced pictures family love.

Met up with some friends.

Liam made a new BFF.

And did everything she did.

Took in the sights at Red Rocks.

And found some dinosaur footprints.

Nate and I took in the view at Lost Gulch. (Nate closed his eyes in disbelief.)

Gave a speech.

Attended a wedding.

For one of my dearest friends.

Made some new friends.

And reunited with some old ones.

Loved up on my hubby.

And enjoyed some much needed good wine.

Confession Session Wednesday

Aside from the radio contest for the best “I Spied” kind of story, I’ve never considered talking about it. And, I never called the radio station either. It was just too much. But my story is a cautionary tale, and I’m ready to spill the beans.

Nathan and I had been together for about a year and had decided that though we were young, we wanted to get married. He came to bed one night as asked me questions like, “If you got a ring, what would you want it to look like?” I tried to set up a “wish list” online, you know the kind where you can design your dream ring and share the design with that certain someone? He would have none of that.

That’s when I did the unthinkable. With my knowledge that he’d most likely been looking at rings on the computer, I accessed the internet files folder. Yes, the folder that, with a little finesse, will allow a person to track the browsing history on that computer. Shame, shame.

Turns out, he had most definitely been looking at rings. One ring in particular.

And, I didn’t like it.

I mulled my dilemma for several days. I tried to do this ring thing together, but he wanted to do it on his own. How could I blame him for that? On the other hand, if I caught him early enough, wouldn’t he rather get a ring he knew I loved? I talked to a few people; I can’t recall what their advice was. In the end, I decided that we were honest with each other about everything else, this should be no different.

I waited until he came home from work one night. And then, I tried to bring it up gently. Yes, I’d been spying. Yes, I’m a horrible person. But, maybe we should look together, I’m not sure I’m in love with the ring you picked.

I, however, was much too late. He’d bought the ring that very afternoon; it was sitting in the (locked!) console of his car.

I was more ashamed than I have ever been in my life. I tried to smooth it over, but it was just too late. Not only had I just told my future fiancé that I didn’t like the ring he bought (before he even had a chance to give it to me!), I’d also just ruined the surprise. I felt horrible. And more than six years later, I still feel horrible.

He proposed a couple of weeks later, and I obviously wasn’t surprised, but I was thrilled just the same. Elated, to be sure. The best part of the proposal was when he opened the ring box, and displayed a beautiful 3-stone diamond ring. It was more brilliant than any piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, and it was just for me. I instantly fell in love with the ring. Not just because it was beautiful (much more beautiful than displayed on a computer screen), but also because it came directly from his heart. That is really all that mattered.

Today, I’m just as in love with my ring as I was that day. And, my love for my husband has only grown since the day we met. I love him for everything about him, and he loves me for me, stalker tendencies and all.

***

I invite my blogger buddies to start their own Confession Sessions. I won't give out prizes for the best one, but I will have an awful lot of fun reading them!

Confession Session: The Day I Killed a Fish

I'm going to start a new feature: Confession Session Wednesday. It's time to stop giving this blog lip service, and actually demonstrate all my, um, imperfectness. And trust me, there's a lot of it. So, for better or for worse, I'm going to lay it all out there. (Well, okay, maybe not all of it!)

***

I don't remember exactly when it happened. I do know I was in college, and Nate and I were together, so I'm going to guess 2003. I also don't remember why we stopped at the local PetSmart that night, perhaps it was just boredom.

While Nate was off looking for something of importance, I was mesmerized with the fish. Not so much because of their brilliant color or shapes, no I was enamored with the tanks full of minnows who were surly destined to be some other creature's lunch.

Enamored because I discovered that these gaggles of fish were skittish, and I could flick my hands and them and they'd all swim away together. Except they couldn't swim anywhere and that made it all the funnier, because they'd just all squeeze momentarily against the back of the tank. Hundreds of them in unison.

But finally, I flicked my hands and they all tried to swim away, away to no where, and instead they flew toward the top and out popped a fish! Right at my head!

And, I didn't know what to do. I squealed. And I backed away. And I was too afraid to touch it. And I called for Nate. He did his best to scoop it up, but by that time it was too late. The poor little minnow was gone.

And that's how I killed murdered a fish at PetSmart.

But, before you go railing on me, know that I was sincerely sorry, and I've rarely shared this story since because I was so ashamed. And, most importantly of all, I've never flicked my hands at a gaggle of fish confined in a tank since. So there.

***

Stay tuned for next week's Confession Session Wednesday; I'm going to share a story that almost no one knows, because I've been too embarassed to tell.

Also, I invite all of my blogging buddies to join in Confession Session Wednesday, I can't possibly be the only one out there with stories to tell!

Bottle It Up

If I had one wish for the new year, it would be the ability to bottle up my kids, just the way they are right now, and hold on to it forever.

I've said this before, with Liam. Each and every stage he has gone through has been amazing. Not better than the last, but awe inspiring in it's own right. But, it slips away so easily. Transitioning to the next stage without warning, silently in the night. I realize more than ever, now that Quin has joined the family, just how easy it is to forget. Not because I want to, but because life demands it.

No amount of pictures, video or even writing will allow me to hold on to them, in this moment, forever. I know that. Their unique little mannerisms, their sly little faces, their touch, their smell, the funny and adorable things they do everyday, it all just fades away into the new chapter.

Don't get me wrong, I love to watch them grow up. And I know that a year from now, I'll have the same sentiments about that stage. The pattern repeats itself. But, I want to be able to remember each stage just the way I experienced it, at that moment. Revel in it, take myself back to that time, that day, that specific instant. There are just too many details, all so important, to put together the whole picture for future reminiscing.

For now, I'll write what I know about this moment. I won't get it all down, only what I can recall at this instant, but it will be something to hold on to. Not everything, but something.

Quinlan

• I love the way you smile at me first thing in the morning. Pumping those chubby legs and arms like you are having the time of your life, because to you, seeing someone smiling back at you when you wake up is the time of your life.
• I love how you smile with your whole body. A wiggle that starts at your head and works its way all the way down to your toes. No one means their smile more than you do.
• I love how you scrunch your legs into your tummy, and then kick them out, back and forth.
• I love your cry. Yes, your cry. The beginning "eh, eh, eh" when you're just revving up. To let someone, anyone know that "Hey, I'm about to cry, better fix it." I love the little screams that come at the end of a wail, the ones that say "I REALLY MEAN THIS, FIX IT!" Even though sometimes it kills me, because I know I can't fix it (we're in the car, I'm working on that bottle, I just don't have it yet, etc. etc) I want to hold on to that sound forever, because it's uniquely yours and I cherish it.
• I love how you talk to yourself. What started out as constant (and I mean constant) grunts when we first brought you home turned into the most adorable coos, and giggles, and squeaks of happiness.
• I love how you smell. There are few things better than the smell of your soft hair just after a bath.
• I love that you've managed to create a bald spot on the back of your head, right above the only place on your head that didn't lose any hair. It's like a small round face with a big beard below.
• I love wondering what color your eyes are going to be. Because at nearly 5 months old, it's still a toss up between green and brown. Currently, you have these adorable green eyes with little specks of brown all over. They change color from moment to moment, and they're just so perfect.
• I love your chubby rolls.
• I love how you snuggle. How you bury your face in my chest when you're sleepy. And how you could sleep that way for hours.
• I love your tiny fingers. The way they wrap around my fingers when you've decided my thumb should be in your mouth!
• I love your little feet. Like your brother, you have small feet, but they are so cute and round with little bitty toes poking off the top.
• I love how you're beginning to be so aware of your surroundings. Grabbing at toys, putting things in your mouth, rolling over, watching your brother with a careful eye, these are all relatively new to you at this stage and it's amazing to watch.

Liam

• I love the new things you come up with to say everyday. Yesterday, you told your Dad (in the middle of a tantrum) that you couldn't give him a hug, because it was "dangerous." I couldn't possibly write down every new, and hilarious thing you say, but I do try.
• I love your stunning blue eyes. I know these won't go away, but I still wonder (almost on a daily basis!) where on earth they came from. They mesmerize me.
• I love watching you explore your world. You are a sponge soaking up every thing you see.
• I love debating whether or not you are going to be left handed! Your Dad and I are nearly certain that you will be. It's hard to ignore that you've eaten with your left hand since 10 months old, and that you currently paint and draw with your left hand, and kick with your left foot. I know it's a very small thing, but I love it.
• I love how are you are trying to get a handle on this numbers thing. You'll pick up two items, and say "Look, I've got all three!" You get so frustrated if you are wrong, and you try so very hard. I know you're going to have it down very soon.
• I love the way you bop your head sometimes when you are talking. Like you're telling yourself you agree with whatever you're telling us.
• I love that you've finally decided you want to cuddle with Mom. We can snuggle in on the couch together and read a book or watch TV. This is a relatively new turn of events, previously you couldn't sit still long enough!
• I love how you will suddenly remember something that happened 6 months ago. It never ceases to amaze me that you can remember that far back!
• I love your little voice. There's just no way to describe it. And as much as I try to capture the funny things you say, it's just not the same without capturing the voice that goes with it.
• I love finding out what you dream about. You, of course, do not yet realize you're dreaming. But sometimes you'll wake up in the night worried about the dog you saw. Just the other night you woke up crying because Quin "went up the chimney" and you wanted to go make sure he was okay. This morning, when I woke you up, you told me that you were just "Swinging with George."
• I love watching you get excited. Sometimes it doesn't take much, but watching your face light up is the best feeling in the world.
• I love how you come bounding down the stairs, after Daddy gives you a bath, and run straight into my arms.
• I love that, finally, when I tell you I love you, you will respond, "I love you too, Mama."

Christmas Eve-2008

Memory Lane

I decided to pull out my "memory" box today, which contains mostly memories from high school, and a few from early childhood. Here's what I found.

• Copious amounts of cheerleading mementos; including the "Mouse Award" given to me during cheer camp for "always being quiet and attentive." In other words, for being way too quiet for a cheerleader!
• Kick ass jewelry. Why was that shoved in a box?
• Many, many incriminating pictures of my friends. Rest assured, as soon as I can get my hands on a scanner they will end up here.
• Prom pictures galore.
• My childhood doll, whose head, for some reason, is sticky.
• My blankie.
• An unopened package of thank you cards from graduation. So, for all those who obviously never got a thank you card from me: thank you!
• And the following story. I remember this story well because I wrote it when I was 12 and it was the first time I got praise for my writing. I'd always known I enjoyed writing (I decided, at 5, that I was going to be the youngest person ever to write a novel. I think I managed to get 3 paragraphs in.) But, this was the first time anyone took notice. The assignment was to write a mythological story.

PoPcOrN

Long ago, in the county of Pazacorf, there lived a mad scientist named Papa Cornerisac. He was a funny little man with very short limbs, a bald head, and glasses that constantly slipped down his short, cropped nose. He was very poor, for all of his incredulous experiments were always short-lived and did nothing but make a mess in his already congested home.

Papa cornerisac did have one friend though. It was a young boy named Josh, who was an oversized boy for his age, with black wavy hair that seemingly had never seen a comb, and clothes that were way too tight, for he grew so quickly and was too poor to go out and buy new clothes. Josh was over to Papa Cornerisac's house every day, and he too loved to experiment. He also liked to go and "search" for nothing in paticular. Actually, all he really did was point his head to the ground and run into things.

One day while out on a walk, Papa Cornerisac felt a slight twinge on the bottom of his bare food (he was too poor to buy what he called "useless flaps of rubber that make your feet stink!). Papa Cornerisac stopped for a minute, lifted up his foot, and found a kernel of something. It was small, yellow, and hard. After thinking for quite some time, Papa decided to name it Corn, after himself.

Later on he finally decided to put the corn into the ground which had very fertile soil. So Papa Cornerisac put the kernel into the ground, gave it some water and went about his horrendous experiments, forgetting completely about the corn, that is until a few months later when he discovered a very large stalk, nearly five feet tall, growing out of the ground! It was green all the way up, and at the top was a sphere of corn! Papa Cornerisac has shocked! He could hardly believe it!

Papa went on to perform many experiments on his corn. None of them amounted to much though, except for his last one.

Papa Cornerisac decided to cut lots of corn off the great sphere, put them in some oil, and heat them up to see what would happen. After the corn heated up a bit (by then Papa Cornerisac had forgotten all about it sitting there, he had a poor memory) it began to pop, one by one until the whole house was bursting with pops!

Now Papa Cornerisac was extremely afraid of war, and he constantly thought someone was coming after him! So when the corn began to pop, Papa Cornerisac went nuts-he thought someone was shooting at him! He went crazy, and ran! Never to be seen in Pazacorf again.

Later on that day, Josh decided to go see his friend Papa Cornerisac. Well, not surprisingly, he didn't find Papa, but he did find small, puffy white pieces of food! He ate a bit and loved it! Next to the batch of popped corn lay the experiment recipe, and one unpopped kernel of corn. From the kernel Josh grew many stalks of corn, and popped them. And then, after Papa Cornerisac, he named them Popcorn!

Over the years Popcorn became very famous. Finally Papa Cornerisac had made a worth while experiment!

The End.