Of misplaced lizards, expensive losses and Dory

Dory: I suffer from short term memory loss. It runs in my family... At least I think it does... Where are they?”

 

I don't think Dory forgot her family, I think she forgot she was a mother... because only mothers are this forgetful.  I know I am.  Honestly, I don't know where my brain is these days.  It's gone.  Officially gone folks.  Somewhere with the disposed diapers, the packed away size NB baby clothes, the rocking chair we gave away and my maternity clothes, somewhere is my brain.  Cuz it certainly ain't here anymore.  I'd look for it, but I've forgotten where to start.  I'm lucky I remember my name. Shit I know my kids wish I could at least remember theirs as I'm known to throw out the dogs' names, my siblings' names and probably a sprinkling of old flames' names before I EVER arrive at theirs.  Calling them these days usually sounds something akin to:

"Uh...Yuko-no-sash-no-Dane-Ellie-Mike-no-FUCK!  What IS your name? Agh!"

 

Granted, I've never had the BEST memory.  My family can attest to this. I often wore a dumbfounded expression (my son wears this now) when my mother would inquire about a field trip notice or homework that she only knew existed because my responsible sister would pull hers from her backpack in pristine condition as though it had been pressed.  I would be forced to dive into the abyss of my backpack, removing a crumpled wad from the detritus of my academic efforts and attempt to flatten it again into a paper that could still be written on.

 

After having children though, I can say that unfortunately, those were my BEST years as far as my memory is concerned.  Now I'm shambling around, lucky to be dressed and wearing the correct glasses... only because Elizabeth's don't fit me yet and I'm so out of it, if they did I would never notice they are the opposite correction than the one I require.  Add some drool and I'm ready for assisted living.

Now, if it were just the normal day-to-day items, that would suck, but it would be better than my most recent testaments to my increasing motherhood-induced dementia.  While I'm known to call my own cell phone in an effort to locate it (only to jump when it vibrates in my pocket... please refrain from sick vibration related jokes here) and walk around swearing about the missing glasses that are already perched on my nose, lately the forgetfulness has been... bigger.

The other day I go walking upstairs to our playroom and as I reach the top of the stairs, the landing to which affords a perfect view of our terrarium, I literally get those pre-fainting, oh-shit prickles as I realized our terrarium is EMPTY.  We have two, count 'em two, juvenile Bearded Dragons, and both have flown the coop courtesy of yours truly.  FUCK.  Juvenile Bearded Dragons are still small.  Thus they are FAST, easily camouflaged by our light brown carpet (really, did we have to obtain pets that match our carpeting so perfectly?), and will skitter away rather than accepting a helping hand back to the heat they require to survive.

So I'm looking at this empty cage, trying not to panic because I realize it's 4:00 in the afternoon and that cage has been open since 7:30 am when I fed them last.  That's 15.5 hours for them to explore our 2200 sq ft home.  Shit.  I yell downstairs to Mike that I've "done it again!" when I hear the freakiest scratching noise on top of the cage and realize one of the lizards is bright enough to stay near a heat source.  I pop her into the cage and yell "yay!  I found one" to which Mike's panicked voice replies from downstairs "ONE!!!!  You mean you lost BOTH this time?" (I had recently... uh, misplaced one when we had friends over for the first time.  Thank gawd they had good senses of humor and were not squeamish).  I look under the couch where I had found him last time and there he is, flattened against the carpet like a hawk is flying overhead.  I grab my daughter's sparkly wand (hey, it was right there) and begin to attempt to guide him out from underneath as though he's merely a marble that can be rolled in my direction.  But he begins scrambling and popping around like he's a barefoot, double-dutch champ competing on hot pavement and I'm getting PISSED.  I finally get him to jump in my direction and grab that little sucker before he can get away.

While it's nice to misplace items that can't actually RUN away, I have to say, misplacing the big ticket items in life is something I can do without.  This morning, as Mike and I are at brunch with the kids and wanting electronics to entertain them at the restaurant Mike says, "I would have brought the iPad, but I couldn't find it".  Again with the oh-shit, hot prickles as he says, "You carried it out of Red Lobster last night, though, so I figured you know where it is."  He sees my face and says, "You DID carry it out of Red Lobster, RIGHT?"  Weeeeeeell...

We actually get it back after calling Red Lobster, so I'm feeling better about finding it, but seriously doubting my ability to keep track of anything that isn't already attached to my body or that lacks the vocal chords to say "DON'T FORGET ME!!!" as, unfortunately, my children have ACTUALLY had to do.  Yeah, I know.  Mother of the year here.

 

Not only have I recently misplaced a big ticket item, I've also misplaced something just plain BIG.  I'm not exactly sure how I've managed this feat, quite frankly.  I think it takes Dory-sized memory loss to do this. My most recent?  A large, reusable grocery bag, packed to the top with Elizabeth's swimsuit, two towels, 3-in-1 over-sized shampoo bottle, a rash guard and comb.  WTF?  It's not like when I drop a small key into the abyss I call my purse.  THIS IS A FREAKIN' GROCERY BAG FULL OF STUFF.  So full, in fact, stuff sticks out of the top.  And I lose it.  Because I'm an idiot.  Because my head is so full of what I have to do and where I have to go next and whatever little strange tidbit of imagination has spilled from my daughter's lips, I can barely remember to clothe myself fully before leaving the house.  I left it on a playground we played on after swim class.  Just walked away not noticing the rather large, NEON GREEN item sitting there.

 

It's gotten so bad that Mike has to mark his coffee cups from Starbucks because I've been known to consume his after consuming mine because I forget I've already had one and proceed to reach for whatever is in front of me.  My children have found me swearing about the lost pajamas and bemoaning their irresponsibility, only to have to point out sadly that I'm holding those same pajamas.  I've left with a grocery list of only 6 items, CROSSED ITEMS OFF AS I SHOPPED, and still forgotten to buy the ketchup listed there.  I even tried to turn off my truck IN THE MIDDLE OF DRIVING IT on Friday.  Don't ask me why.  I don't know what possessed me, halfway down the street leading to my son's school, to reach over and turn the key.  Who DOES that?

 

They say that a bit of coffee daily helps fight dementia and Alzheimer's, so with the amount I drink, I should freakin' be able to get through a day without putting cereal in the fridge, losing a lizard and trying to reheat my coffee in the toaster oven.  I shouldn't attempt to put on my son's pants or walk into the laundry room in just my underwear in search of pants and then walk toward the stove to prepare breakfast STILL sans pants.  I drink enough coffee to keep the local Starbucks in the black and yet I call my son by the dog's name.

 

Suddenly my mother makes sense.  Her need to call me Gypsy (our dog), her inability to give the right lunch to the right kid, her falling asleep in her dinner, her countless lost cameras on vacation and her sudden rifling through a purse to search for glasses that are sitting on top of her head.  She's a mom.  Babies in your belly don't just suck your energy, they abscond with your brain cells as well.

 

Dory sang, "just keep swimming" and I'm thinking now, it wasn't because she was the encouraging sort.  I'm thinking she would have just plain forgotten and sunk to the bottom if she didn't.

 

 

Sleep Positions

I'm looking over at two beautiful little heads as I type this.  Hair askew, arms and legs strewn about in a tangle of William, Elizabeth, blankets and comforter and soft snores emanating from below the pillows they never quite seem to rest their heads on.

We're having a playroom camp out.  We've been sick/quarantined to the house for a week now thanks to Whooping Cough (yes, I'm serious).  And with no need to wake up early, no school schedule to stick to tomorrow, I thought - why the hell not?

And as I look at this beautiful tangle next to me, I find myself thinking of the many "sleeping positions" I've taken in the last nearly 7 years.  I can measure my life as a mother in those positions.  I can mark the growth of these two and the change into who I am now, versus who I was then.

When they were teeny I found that my sleeping positions were often not chosen, but a result of sheer exhaustion posing me as my eyes closed despite my best efforts to the contrary.  I recall falling asleep in the rocker, feet falling asleep on the ottoman, Boppy pillow on my lap and a child attached to my breast.  My head would fall, my body would rock forward and I would start awake, fearful of dropping this sweet thing who had fallen asleep, mouth still open as though wanting to keep the option of nursing open should they wake.  I remember being so exhausted from the nurse/pump/clean/diaper/put to bed cycle in the newborn days that I would only get as far as burping them and just fall asleep with them there.  Me sitting straight up, them with their tiny, sweaty heads on my shoulder.  Sometimes my hand would just stay on their backs.  I remember falling asleep cradling them, sometimes on the couch, sometimes in the rocker, because I hadn't made it to the crib.  I would wake up and see their beautiful little faces in my arms and just decide to sleep with them, because it was too delicious of a moment to let end.  I remember not wanting to be apart from them, so I would make a little "nest" for them on the couch and fall asleep facing them or next to them and I could feel their little breaths across my face.

Sickness over the years brought more sleeping positions.  There was the half-reclined/half-sit up position, propped up on pillows in an effort to help them sleep sitting up when they were so congested they couldn't breathe lying down and were so small they needed to be held in that upright position. I've slept in small beds, on couches and even on floors, usually curled into a small ball with one hand on a trash can listening for the telltale moan that precedes their vomiting.  I've fallen asleep against bathroom walls, toilets and even kneeling and leaning against them during nights when vomiting or diarrhea has taken so long, we haven't left the bathroom for hours.  I've fallen asleep on my back (which I hate) with one arm falling asleep under their sweet heads because they feel so yucky, they want to sleep on my shoulder.

As they've gotten older, the chances to sleep holding them diminished and blooming in their place have been the strange solitary positions brought on by my body just surrendering after a day of keeping up with two little ones.  I've fallen asleep at the kitchen table.  We'll be mid-meal and my eyes will just shut and my head tilt backward or forward.  I've fallen asleep lying next to them in bed as a book has crashed onto my face because I can't even get through one short pre-nap or pre-bedtime story.  I've fallen asleep sitting on the bathroom floor, with my head and arm stretched across the side of the tub because I can't even make it to story time.  I've even drifted off standing up... drying my hair, cooking a meal, surveying the pantry, washing dishes or standing in front of the open fridge.  Not even realizing I was tired until my body pitched forward.

Now the two of them sleep together.  But there have been nights when they still want me to sleep with them.  And I do, either because these moments don't last forever or because I fall asleep mid bedtime story.  I often end up balancing carefully on my side, arm falling asleep, so I can take up as little room as possible in the bed.  Otherwise, I end up in the tangle myself - Elizabeth's feet in my back, William's arm smacking my chest, all of us rolling around and complaining in our sleep about the accidental wrestling match that results from sharing a bed.

But the best positions are the ones like tonight.  A playroom camp out.  A playroom tent city.  A makeshift "bed tent".  Whatever silly fun we can come up with.  I'm thinking if it's warm enough this summer, we'll need to add one more to the repertoire  - the trampoline camp out.  That thing is freakin' huge and I'm sure I can find a way to rig something across the top of the protective netting so that we can make a trampoline tent.

I know I'd sleep better if I would just put them in their own beds every night.  But these moments won't last forever.  They won't want me close forever.  They've been asleep for hours and my butt is falling asleep as I write this and I know I may be tired tomorrow, sharing this not-so-comfy fold out with them.  But they'll remember this camp out.  The movie, the giggling, my snoring and the novelty of waking in our playroom with nothing to do tomorrow but play.  So what if it's not a good night of sleep for me.

Besides, as my mom often says, "I can sleep when I'm dead."

Don't miss the little moments

"Mommy, am I ice skating?"

I look up from cooking and see Elizabeth, clad in a short night gown and over-sized Hello Kitty slippers, sliding and laughing across our hardwood floor.  She is utter joy clothed in unkempt, blonde bed-head, crooked glasses and a smile so big, it breaks my heart.

"Wanna skate?"

I pause.  I should finish making brunch.  I'm in pj's still, tired from our shared illness, and hungry.  But I don't want to miss this.  These little moments are where the magic lies.  So I put down the chef's knife, slip on my own socks and make her crack up at my purposely clumsy twirls and leaps on my "skates".  I don't really want to go back to cooking.  So we skate a little bit more and I feel like a kid again.

We miss these moments often, or at least I do.  And these moments usually hold more magic than any of the "big" ones we work so hard to plan- the Disney adventures, the airplanes, the grand parties, the school programs.  The little moments are what they'll remember.  What they'll treasure.  If we'll only take the time to stumble on them, like that perfectly intact, sparkling shell on the beach.  All the more beautiful because we weren't looking for it at the time.

I want to remember heading out in rain coats and rain boots one ridiculously wet day to "worm hunt" with my kiddos, hands FREEZING as we picked them out of puddles.  And I want to remember their surprised laughs and joyful squeals as I turned the worm hunt into a puddle splashing adventure, not caring that we came home dripping wet and freezing... and too late for naps.

I want to remember the "car picnic" in the very back of my Ford Escape while the rain and wind pounded the windows.  Me and two little bodies packed together, surrounded by an array of Starbucks bags we used as plates while we enjoyed scones and yogurt and oatmeal and coffee and hot cocoa.

I want to remember the last-minute playroom camp-outs where we ignored bedtime, shared our huge but not overly comfortable fold out bed, popped popcorn and fell asleep together to some animated movie or another.

I want to remember jumping on the trampoline with my son and his friend while the sprinkler was spraying all of us and doing a front flip just to make them laugh.

I want to remember walking out of the house with my daughter's fairy wings strapped to my back and one of her tiaras on my head and going to pick up William from school that way just because she asked if we could be fairies when we picked him up.  She and I walked to the front of the school, hand-in-hand, wings out, tiaras sparkling and too busy enjoying the look on her brother's face to care what the other parents might have thought.

Don't miss the little moments folks.  I kick myself when I let one by.  Let's not get so lost planning the perfect event that we care about WAY more than they ever will, that we forget to stop and draw "whiskers" on our faces with washable marker.  While we're busy cleaning our houses, making meals or jumping on the computer to plan that ultimate vacation, let's not forget that deciding to wrestle with them or watch a movie mid-day or go the park after dinner because it's not dark yet, will mean so much more.  Because it's the little jewels collected over time, piled up and put together, that they hang on to and treasure most.

I know because, while I have good memories of a Cancun vacation with my folks, or the big trip to Maui we all took... one of my favorite memories is of my twin and mom and I, huddled under a tarp in POURING rain in the Sierras on one of many fishing trips because we weren't going to just give up and head back to the cabin without any fish. 

Credit Where Credit Is Due

I don’t give her enough credit.  Elizabeth.  I don’t.  I’ve forgotten that the sensory stuff is really such a small piece.  I will teach her to not fear the toilets.  I can teach her to find the foods that don’t bother her.  I can teach her to calm herself and curb her destructive tendencies.  But what I can’t teach, I forget to credit her.  I forget how WELL she does.  Truly well.  Not just for a 4 year old, not for a “sensory kid”… but for anyone. 

We had to get to LAX 2 hours early, only to find that it was 4 hours early due to a sizable delay to our flight.  This could be torture to parents with children who DON’T have sensory issues.  Who don’t have “motion seekers” with an oral fixation and auditory sensory issues.  But it wasn’t hard.  Not really.  Nor was the two hour flight after 4 hours of waiting.  She played with her sticker book until it was okay to use the iPad.  She NEATLY drank a cup of soda on the plane filled WAY TOO FULL of soda and ice to be balanced precariously on those sad little airplane tables.  Didn’t spill a drop.  When it was time to find a restaurant in busy LAX, she put down her iPad and went willingly.  When her brother had to go to the bathroom for the umpteenth time, she didn’t care.  When she and I had to squeeze into the smaller of the handicapped bathrooms so she could stay in her stroller while I used her nemesis (the automatic toilet), she was wonderful. 

Did she get edgy when we were waiting for our zone to board to be called?  Yes, but it wasn’t out of control.  Just a 4 year old girl who was a little tired.  Did she and her brother have a moment about how much light to let in the window on the plane?  Yep, but it was a sibling moment not out of the ordinary.  She did well.

I was so looking forward to this vacation.  And fearing it.  We’ve just started Occupational Therapy to help her with her sensory issues.  She sometimes yells when she thinks people are looking at her.  I have to watch her eat food she really likes carefully, because she will overeat to the point of vomiting.  She can’t handle standing in even the shortest of lines without touching everything in sight or collapsing onto the floor.  She doesn’t make friends easily because she will yell at other kids to go away in public places.  Strange places and strange smells can bother her.  She can reach a tantrum level where all she can do is scream, “I CAN’T CALM DOWN!” over and over.  And over.

Had I known how amazing she’d be, I would have slept better the night before we left.  But this trip was full of the pitfalls for a girl like her.  Strange public bathrooms.  Frequent changes (my mom’s house, my dad’s house, Palm Springs hotel and back to my mom’s).  My absence as I met up with old friends.  Sharing public space like the wading pool at the hotel. And, of course, the delays.

She handled it all.  And beautifully.  I actually teared-up at the pool when two little girls climbed in with her and instead of her usual bossy or screaming or angry demeanor, she turned to them and said, “Hi.  My name is Elizabeth.  What’s your name?”.  My mom and I stared at each other in disbelief.  And I turned away so Elizabeth wouldn’t see me get teary-eyed in pride.

When her beautiful little blonde head fell against the plane window because she was exhausted after trying SO HARD in the airport during our delay and during the flight, I looked over and felt the most immense love and pride, I let my hair fall around my bent head so her brother wouldn’t see me tear up again.

The first night in Palm Springs, when she declared the hotel room too small and that she needed a house to “have room to run”, a short walk around the grounds and pointing out the “fun” of hotel rooms like a TV in the room, a little fridge stocked with goodies thanks to her Oma (my mom), etc. adjusted her mood almost immediately. 

When faced with her nemesis, the automatic toilet, she started to panic, but took her deep breaths, put on her headphones, worked to stop her shaking and declared, “I can do it mom”.  I couldn’t hide the tears that time.  I hugged her tight and told her I was SO, SO proud of her.

I want her to be different from me.  I want her to be fearless and try everything.  I want her to be tough, so bullies never hurt her.  I want her to be uninhibited, so she can enjoy being different, rather than fighting to fit in. I want her to be comfortable in her own skin, so she never fights anxiety or depression.

So far… she’s WAY ahead of me.  Dammit, here come the tears again.  It sure is nice when they’re from pride though.

Afraid to Say It Out Loud

I should be going to bed right now.  I will be tired tomorrow.  But I've been dealing with something for a while and I've wanted to write about it, but I've been afraid to say it out loud.  Afraid to voice the fear.  Afraid if I mention the Devil's name, he will, indeed, appear.

We're doing Occupational Therapy with Elizabeth.  Why?  The doctor will tell you it's because she still walks on her toes at 4 years old.  The doctor will say she wanted to do an MRI first to rule out spinal difficulties because she seems to be a "normal" (I hate that word), bright, articulate child and that it is only because I pushed for OT evaluation.

I will say something else.  It's because, starting with a gymnastics class, I began to notice... differences.  She isn't the same as other kids her age.  Yeah, a 3 year old has trouble focusing.  But she stood out.  My kid was THAT kid in class.  I'm crying as I write this.  It's been months since that class, but it still hurts.  Having THAT kid.  The one who jumped all over, spun in circles and sang to herself while the others tried to follow the teacher.  The one who lay in a puddle or rolled all over, when the teacher asked her to sit up and pay attention.  The one who nearly had to be pulled out because she began to throw a fit of embarrassing proportions when a teacher tried to help her do a somersault.  The one whose name was said over and over and over... and over.  And my heart sank.

We had been through eating therapy at around 2 because she began vomiting up nearly everything.  Sometimes from texture.  Sometimes from smell.  Sometimes because she lacks the satiety cue to know when she's full.  I had hoped it was the last thing.

But then came the noise fears and the amazing tantrum/reactions they produced.  Vacuums.  Blow dryers.  The car wash. Blenders.  Mixers.  Fans.

Then came the need to put EVERYTHING in her mouth that she never outgrew.  Still hasn't.  And the destruction of EVERYTHING by chewing, ripping, smooshing, crushing, etc.

Then came the tantrums about... we don't know what.  Anything.  Nothing.  Not finding her sock.  Someone picking up her toy.  Chocolate milk.  The lighting in a room.  Someone looking at her.

And then came the gymnastics class.  And I began to think.... so what is Sensory Processing Disorder?  What else should I look at?  I have no idea.  And so I pushed the doctor.  Because I KNOW my daughter.  She is bright - she just read the word "crystal" off the eye doctor's computer and turned to her and said, "what's a crystal? why does it say that?"  She has made a couple friends.  She has pretty decent motor skills.  Her potty training didn't fall into what would medically be considered "late."  But despite all that, there was this nagging.  And the gymnastics class.

So we're going.  Therapy has been great so far.  I've learned about Chew Stixx - wonderful, safe things she can carry with her to chew on so she doesn't chew on her sleeves, paper, rocks, toys, whatever.  I've learned about using balance balls, wiggle seats, weighted blankets, wraps and skin brushing to try to put her "senses" in order.  I've learned about visual cues like a motor (how fast is her motor running) to help her figure out her emotions and how to re-center herself.  I've learned about fidgets (gadgets she can fidget with instead of jumping out of her chair) and "heavy work" like running, jumping, pushing, pulling and balancing so she can maybe focus on quiet tasks later.

But it's also created a weight in me as I watch her for... signs.  Does she make eye contact?  Why does she show no interest in making friends or being social at the park?  Why does she seem to never hear me, forcing me to ask her things 4-5 times?  Why does she not seem to understand social rules like when to undress?  Why you shouldn't kick another kid at the park?  Why you should follow the teacher's rules?  And I wonder... am I looking at more?  Am I looking at Asperger's? 

I'm terrified.  And not because I can't handle this... but because I fear for her.  My beautiful, bright, imaginative, blonde little mud princess.  I don't want her to feel like the "bad kid."  I don't want her to get picked on.  Or ostracized.  I want to wrap her up and hold her tight and make sure that the world doesn't bump and bruise her too much.  I want to go all "mama bear" on the shitheads out there who stare at her when she's having a hard day like she's an undisciplined, spoiled, unruly brat and who shake their heads at me.  I want to rip their fucking throats out and say, "do you even KNOW what I've been through today with her?  Do you know that just the sound of my blow dryer this morning and you looking at her is enough to disorient her in a way she CANNOT help?!"

I'm trying not to panic.  I have a friend whose daughter went through a lot of what Elizabeth is going through and now... she's fine.  She laughs about how she was afraid of flushing toilets.  She has tons of friends.  She plays sports.  She's awesome.

And so I hope.  And fear.  And cry.  And go to therapy.  I will take one day at a time and see where this road takes us.  Tonight, with the help of an amazing friend, I made my first "social story" - a picture story to help Elizabeth  through our upcoming plane trip to California so that maybe she will be able to handle automatic toilets and a 2 hour plane ride and the security line at the airport.

She just had her 4th birthday.  In my FB page I said she was my "imaginative, funny, muddy, ninja-princess-warrior-storm trooper-whirling dervish" and that I wouldn't have her any other way.  And I wouldn't.  I just want the rest of the world to want her that way too.  Because she is amazing.  She kicked the shit out of me when she was in my belly (she loves that story).  And she does it to this day... in the most amazing and beautiful ways.  Like when she sings a little song she has only heard once... perfectly and in key.  Or when she gives me the most amazing hugs and holds my face and says, "I love you so much mommy"

I'm crying again as I write this.  But I won't be afraid to say it out loud anymore.  The Devil can fuck off... whatever she has or doesn't have, or is or isn't - she's perfect.

Opa's Stories

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For some reason, I've been thinking a lot of my Opa.  Wishing I could talk to him one more time.  Remembering the magic tricks and swimming lessons.  And the life lessons.  Mostly, though, I wish I could sit by him and hear one more story.

Opa told the best stories.  When I heard his voice take on that familiar “narrator” note, I would shut up in a hurry.  His stories were not to be missed, nor was the awesome “shhhh shhh” laugh that accompanied them.

I often wonder how I will tell stories to interest my kids and grandkids, when I haven’t had the life to fill a room like his stories could.  Perhaps what mom says is true – she always says you have to be tortured and have a hard life to be an artist (writer, musician, painter… it doesn’t matter).  Opa’s “luck” was being at the confluence of some of the largest events in history … and being on the wrong side of all of it.

Opa was an Indo, which is not short for Indonesian , but rather a term for the Eurasian or Indo-European peoples of  what was then known as The Dutch East Indies.  He was the product of those Dutch sailors sailing at the behest of the crown and the Dutch East India Company who got greedy for what Indonesia had and colonized a people who did not want them there.  Those sailors intermarried with the locals and thus “Indos” were born.  Our family and other families like us say that word with pride, but it wasn’t always uttered by others in a nice way.

It was a good life for Opa, until WWII came along.  Being Indo made him a victim three times.  Once when the Japanese occupied the islands and Opa, technically a member of the Dutch army, was captured and imprisoned as a POW.   The second time when he was he was freed by the Allied Army only to be re-imprisoned by the Indonesians fighting to throw off their colonial “oppressors”.  And finally, when he was “repatriated.”  Although he was innocent of the colonial fighting that brought the Dutch to rule over the Indonesians a century before he was even born (and the violence that made it an official “trading post” 300 years prior), he was hated by the native Indonesians for the bad (or good) luck of being born into a ruling class.  So he and his family (including my aunt and uncle) were “repatriated” to The Netherlands even though Indonesia was the only home they had ever known.  My Opa spent the rest of his life looking for another Indonesia… even moving to Hawaii briefly in search of it.

The best of Opa’s stories were actually about his time as a POW.  But I think it’s only because of Opa’s need to cast everything with humor.  It was his armor, as it is my mother’s and mine.  I think it’s a family trait actually.  Like my cousin Pam talking about putting the “fun” in funeral and my cousin Rick IM’ing me from his time in Iraq with stories of bombed porta potties.  We are experts at laughing at ourselves.  It deflects attention from the ugly matters at hand.  While Oma would sometimes talk briefly about being loaded naked onto trucks “like cattle” and packed in so tight you could hardly breathe, Opa told of playing tricks on the guards and my favorite, landing in a “pit of shit”.  I lived for that story.  It never got old.

I don’t even remember how it started.  I’m not sure how, in the middle of a Thanksgiving dinner or a Super Bowl party it could come up.  I just know the rest of the sound in the room disappeared and I could see the tropics of Indonesia intersecting with the brutality of the camp when I heard him say, “I remember being scared of a tiger once in camp…”  I was riveted.  So here’s his story.  I only wish you could hear his accent (mostly Dutch with some influence of the Indonesian language that made him sound different from those raised in Holland) when he told the story.  And his laugh that made me think of Ernie on Sesame Street. 

Opa was up one night in camp because he had to,  ahem, use the facilities.  However, being a prisoner, the facilities consisted of large pits dug into the ground.  Now, keep in mind, this is Indonesia.  There are animals there we do not have to worry about here in the USA unless you’re worried about escapees from the local zoo.

So he’s wandering in the dark when he sees yellow eyes peering at him from the bushes and freezes.  He’s wondering just how big this tiger is and how on earth he’s going to get away.  He weighs his options and decides that instead of shitting into that pit, he’s going to have to jump in.  Up to his neck.  So he does it.  Jumps in up to his neck and waits.  And waits.  And waits some more.  Yellow eyes still staring, not moving and Opa is left wondering how long it takes a tiger to pounce once it has stalked its prey.  And will it jump into a pit of shit if it's hungry enough? The eyes begin to move toward him, the leaves rustle and out steps… (and here’s where Opa cracks up) the guard’s damn German Shepherd dog. 

At this point in his story telling, Opa is laughing so hard he begins to swear in both Dutch and English and it takes him a few moments to catch his breath.

So poor Opa, covered from the neck down in shit (and I use that word because that is the word he used, even when he first told me the story and I was only about 7).  He climbs out, giving the dog a murderous stare, and has to now dive into the FREEZING river to wash it all off.  He then drags himself out and attempts to dry off, warm up and stop shaking – he still can’t tell if it’s from the cold, the fear or just sheer lack of body fat.  He weighed around only 80 pounds when he was freed.

Opa never did see a tiger during his time as a POW.  And he never forgot that German Shepherd either.  Nor, I suspect, did he ever forgive him.

Of Snot, Hips, Arthritis and... JEEZ! WTF already?!

My buddy Chris Clark from work (at my old mortgage job, not my stay-at-home job... I'm not just keeping some dude around the house for my entertainment) used to ask me if Mike and I lived on an old indian burial ground for our extreme bad luck with illness, injury and other random household items.  Well Chris... I think I'm just gonna answer yes now.

The illness and injury and "strange shit" rate in the Plavin household has now reached comedic proportions kids.  It's ridiculous.  I mean COME ON already. Current status:

Mike - back injured and sore, some kind of cold/flu crap he got from William
Me - walking on crutches thanks to a fall on my hip this morning, gotta call doc tomorrow about swollen lymph nodes all over, but cleared of the breast cancer scare after a mammogram and ultra sound
William - on week 2 of the cough he has lingering after the horrid bug he brought home last week
Elizabeth - feverish and at the height of the cough/snotfest that William brought home last week
Yukon (yep, including the dogs here) - liver is repairing, but mobility and bladder/bowel control is not great.
Ellie - Still need to take her to the vet because she is a literal dialy "snot cannon" who sneezes out a horrible concoction of dog food and green goo a few times a day.

I think it's time to invest in better vitamins, some horrid tasting made-only-from-vegetables daily drink, some good pyramid-scheme supplements and snake-oils, a Shaman, a priest and a good exorcist around here.   Seriously,  I'm out of options.

When I took William to the doc at the start of his bug (thinking he might have strep) the Pediatrician said she hasn't seen the rate of illness around here (not just us, I mean, but here where we live) in many, many years.  William's school sent out a special email about keeping kids home and ALL my friends and neighbors (regardless of diets, vitamins, anything-you-can-think-of-to-boost-your-immune-system methods) are stuck in the same hellish merry-go-round of illness.  I'm thinking we need to just send the kids in hazmat suits for a couple months and "Silkwood shower" the whole damn school.

As for Mike the illness would be enough... but no, we're Plavins and we do everything BIG.  I believe it was last week or the week before that I hear Mike yell out in pain after a few minutes of playing with the kids.  Here's the deal, Mike has Spina Bifida Occulta.  His last two vertebrae are not formed as they should be.  He has to be very careful with impact.  William, however, forgets this and decided to try out is WWF moves on Mike and jumped butt first onto Mike's lower back.  All 56 pounds of him.  Mike's legs tingled for a few days and now he's very sore. "Can you smell what The Rock is coooookin!" - yes, yes I can Mr. The Rock and it's called a crippled Daddy.

Dizzy finally had a good night of sleep last night after two nights of crying, nightmares and breathing difficulty.  But of course, following the Murphy's law of child illness vs. parent illness, she has the energy of 3 Jack Russells hopped up on crack, so getting her to get enough rest is going to take some sort of animal tranquilizer... or duct tape. 

We brought Yukon back from the brink of liver failure and pancreatitis with the help of some meds from the doc, HOWEVER, the meds do not treat his spinal stenosis, so now he cries when he lays down now and his bladder/bowel control rivals that of a newly potty-training 2 year old.  Needless to say,  a trip to the vet and perhaps a 12-step program to get him off the booze might be the answer.  "Hi, I'm Yukon and I'm an alcoholic"... I can see it now.

When we first brought Ellie home we actually took her to the vet fearing she had kennel cough or some horrible respiratory ailment because we have never, EVER seen a dog like that.  She is a mucus factory.  She has these HUGE sneezes, multiple times a day and look out if you're close.  You will require a change of clothing.  I'm NOT kidding.  So I've been wanting to take her back to see if there are some allergy solutions or something, because I'm running out of "oh shit" towels in the house just cleaning up her snot.  But between doctors visits for me and the kids and school-baseball-indoor playground obligations, there's been a delay.   But our "snot cannon" is making us CRAZY, so I'm going to try to squeeze it in this week... if I can walk.

Because that brings us to me.  As if the arthritis and William shouting "YOU NEED THAT" at a wrinkle-cream remover commercial doesn't make me feel enough like an aging freak, these past two weeks have involved a CBC, Mammogram, ultrasound, two doctors trips, the same flu/cold crap William has, swollen lymph nodes that I STILL need to see the doc about, and now... The Fall.  The whole house is currently under quarantine to try to stop the spread of the crap, so I've been sleeping in our office.  I was TRYING to get up with the kids today to let Mike sleep in again to help rid him of whatever bug he has.  Dizzy is in there with me and I'm dozing again when I hear "beep... beep... beep..." OH SHIT.  That's the burglar alarm.  William (whom I vaguely heard come downstairs and thought was just going potty) had tripped the alarm attempting to let Yukon out to pee.  So I scramble off the futon bed and start to RUN for the alarm.  Only... I turn the corner really fast into our hallway and our beautiful entry carpet (there ostensibly to prevent slips on our hardwood floor) is apparently slippery to the barefooted human.  Or at least to someone as clumsy as I am.  My legs shoot out behind me, my arms in front of me and, assuming the pose of a runner sliding into home, I CRASH hip-first onto the floor.  I'm in so much pain I can barely think and being an expert fainter, I start to recognize the fluttery, cold sweat, darkness-closing-in feeling as I at least crawl far enough to hoist myself up and disarm the damn thing.  Then I collapse.  Elizabeth is screaming and shaking me in her best Simba-trying-to-wake-a-dead-Mufasa rendition, William is crying and Mike IS NOT sleeping in.  I'm now on his crutches and some Advil and he has drug his sick ass and our two freaks out to accomplish the grocery shopping I was supposed to do today.

I think we're an episode of Modern Family.  I really do.