Laugh Today~so called drama.

Fire ant in the pants.
Yup. No lie. Today my husband was working in the yard, while I casually watched him from the porch with a cup or coffee. Imagine my surprise when he began jumping and hitting himself, finally ripping off his jeans, trying to pull them over his work boots while jumping around.

Ants in the pants.

Understand, this is something that would happen to me, not him. Not the 'king of the yard'!! Oh how I delight in writing this passage because he never humiliates himself (he has ME to do that for him) and for me to be just a spectator in this and not have a main role just pleases me to no end.
Yeah, it's sadistic. But it's funny.

I often laugh at inappropriate times. In fact, I almost always laugh at inappropriate times..not just sometimes. It's some kind of defense mechanism, I have read enough psychology text to know this. It doesn't sit well, usually, with the social medium.
I laugh at funerals. I laugh at baptisms. I almost, always, without fail..laugh during Mass. I don't know WHY this is but I just can't seem to stand the overabundance of solemnity..my mind breaks and I just roar with laughter. I will laugh until tears roll down my face, I usually excuse myself. Sometimes I laugh until I literally can't breathe or have to use the ladies room. There have been times where I actually pretend to be crying in order to hide the laughing.
I find humor in the very basic and boring. I find humor in the drama.

I remember sitting in the formal living room after my father's viewing, and laughing until my sides were sore. Who LAUGHS at the end of the worst day ever? Me. And a few close friends. Because only the real ones get why the release of laughter is the equivelent of the release of tears.
It's all an emotional retribution.
And I would rather laugh than cry.

I am an emotional person. My kids will vouch for seeing every emotion played out to award winning perfection, from their own mother. They have seen me cry..they themselves have driven me to tears at times, and I let them see it. I want them to see it, it's healthy for them to know that I am not above showing the basic feelings that they have. I have laughed with them, and at them. I laugh at myself mostly. I have yelled, swore and slammed doors. I have apologized and meant it. I have been wrong, right, and confused. They have seen me love their father and watched us dance in the kitchen. They have seen my frustration with my mother, they have seen me cry on Father's Day. They have seen me apologize to my mother, and watched me laugh at old home movies.
They have seen me come out of my seat in defense of something I believe in. They have seen me tear into someone who would dare say anything unkind about their father. They have seen me sit beside a hospital bed with my head in my hands praying. My kids have seen me at my strongest and at my most vulnerable.
And all the in between.

Maybe I am wrong in showing them this. Maybe my honesty with them has left them scarred or somehow hesitant themselves to show emotion. (it should be noted that their father barely has a pulse and never shows emotion)

I want them to know that I already forgive them for their flaws. I love them regardless of flaws. I have huge, gaping flaws and they have seen almost all of them! I want them to come to me and know that while I may be upset in their actions, I understand the need to have to make their own mistakes and recover from them.
I cannot put them in the 'bubble wrap'..I want to, trust me.

But life is full of emotion. It is full of questions, mistakes and really, really painful hurts.
And it's full of faith, forgiveness and laughter.
I can't map it for them. I can't make their choices, I can't choose for them.
I can laugh at their triumphs. I can cry for their wounds.

And I will teach them, above all, that laughing at inappropriate moments may be the thing that saves them.

Shades of Grey

The truth is humanity is not black and white. I have struggled with this for several months, perhaps years in the making.


The very core of ourselves isn't a block or square or even oval shape. It's complicated and twisty and dark and shaded.


It's grey.



I have good intentions. I have the best intentions for my children, for my husband. I try to set realistic goals for me as a mother and wife. I try to laugh every day with them.



But I have forgotten that I am a daughter.


The first and foremost feeling in my heart is that I love my children. And yet, I let myself get so caught up in that, that I forget that my mother loved me the same way, every day, forever.




My life began with her and she sustained me in the high and low tides of our lives with my father. She has never painted a poor picture of him to me. Various people can tell me of what outsiders 'saw' or presumed to 'see' in our family~but she never, to this day, says an unkind word about him. She still loves him. She dreams about him. She misses him.


What can I learn from her? Everything.


Here is a woman who has clung to life for the past 5 years, and in her dementia, I have become hard and cynical. I get easily frustrated and impatient. I blame HER for changing and becoming weaker and making ME be the strong one.


Well, I guess it's time to grow up.



I am ashamed of how I treat her. I am disgusted at my impatience. I HAVE GOT to pull back and step away from the situation and look at it objectively, no matter how hard that is.

I have spent the past week awake in my bed, wondering how to make amends with her and myself. How to show her that I was wrong.


I admit it honestly to her. I don't even know if she will understand me. I am fearful that the meaning of my words will be lost on her.


I am wrong.


Because as a mother myself, I should know that of all things, the connection we share is constant and we will always forgive one another.


I look at my children and know that they are a gift. They are not mine forever, and the time we share together has to be made as special as possible. I have said all along that I hope my children 'soar', and in today's world, that implies that I want more for them than I have.


But I have everything. I want as much happiness in their hearts as I have.



I want them to fall in love forever and laugh and share their lives with me and their father.


I want them to understand their grandmother as someone who yes, forgets things. And yes, wakes up at night, a lot. And she gets confused. And she is weak, and she can't hear. It's hard for her to 'be' a grandmother. It is my privilege to teach them that 'being' a grandmother is about 'loving', and she has given them that in spades. And she wasn't always confused, or weak. I have to draw them the pictures of our story before now. It wasn't a perfect story. But it was ours. Before today's ending. Their grandmother is my tie to this world. One rope was already cut, and I will hang on to her until it's her choice to let go.


My choice to share this isn't to make anyone feel sorry for us, or me specifically. I have had ENOUGH of self-pity. I want people to know that I was wrong. I was wrong to feel this way.


It's better to know it and own it and admit it, then try to pretend to be something else.


I share this as part of my apology to her.


She is the tether to my life.



As an child, she said she would kiss me and say 'No man will ever kiss you more than I will.'


I say the same exact thing to my daughter. Every night.

Mother's Day.

This mother has some requests.

Dear Kids,

Please, please, please shut up. Please stop fighting with one another. Get yourselves ready for school without a fist fight. Eat the dinner I prepared without complaining that it isn't what any of you wanted. Put the food in your mouth and chew it. With your mouth closed, preferably. Pick up your dirty clothes and put them in the laundry room. Take a shower without arguing that you took one yesterday. Let your brother(s) take a shower alone without busting into the bathroom and then teasing him about penis size, ensuing another fist fight. Go to bed. Sleep all night. Get up nicely.

Please do not wear your muddy ball cleats in the house. Please shut the fridge door and please stop drinking out of the milk container, even though your father does. Please turn off a light when you leave a room. Please do not hold me responsible for your missing ball glove or bat. Along with this, remember to shut up, because all the needless banter is slowly killing me. Try to think about what you are saying before you say it. Think about whether or not it makes sense. Please help your sister find her pink baby. Please push her on the swing when she sits there for 10 minutes waiting for someone, anyone to push her. Don't pick on her, don't tease her. Don't make her scream, as I am looking for quiet, hence all the requests to shut up.

Please don't move the chair right in front of the tv. No one needs to sit four inches in front of the tv. And since I mentioned tv, please find something to watch that isn't some lame, mindless, brain sucking show about twin boys, wizards, igirl with obnoxious friends or a yellow sponge. Watch Animal Planet or Discovery Channel. Try to learn something.

Dear Husband,

Please stop being so nice. It's hard being married to freakin' Jesus. Stand up for yourself and for me. Please let me take a bath ALONE and do not assume I want your company, either in the tub itself or on the toilet next to the tub. There are three other toilets in this house.

Please pick up your socks. The black Under Armour ones. You know what ones I'm referring to. Just pick them up and put them in the laundry room. Take the initiative to leave the house with the children in tow. Take them for a hike. Please sit down on weekends and stop making me feel like all we can do all weekend is work, work, work. Please let me finish landscaping the front yard and stop saying "No one sees the front yard." because I see the front yard.

Please, if you see I am reading a book, do not bother me. Do not start a conversation about your lack of pitchers on the little league team, because..my love, I do not give a shit. Please, for once in your life, put a roll of toilet paper on the holder. Just try it.

Please SHAVE. Your face. I understand you are bald and any hair is a gift, but the scrubble on your face hurts my face and your daughter's face. We don't like.

I don't want fancy gifts or flowers. I just want my sanity back.

Love,

Mom

The Middle Son

This is about a son. A son and a mother. A son and a father. A son and his brothers. And finally, a boy and his friends.

Every family has THIS story. In varied stages, absolutely. Every family has a child in the family who needs more than the others. It is NOT about loving that child more than the others. It's not human to love one of your kids more than the others. If that were the case, for God's sake, people would have only had one child or live in China. (thankfully my parents knew that I didn't share well with others, hence being an only child worked very well for me..snap!)

My twins were the happiest, most well adjusted babies and toddlers. They went to school and made friends (who I love)..they get beautiful grades. They have glowing reports from teachers, from coaches. They play sports because they love the comradery of the team. They are team players. Over the past weekend, they had friends here and I smiled quietly and laughed later with my husband as the conversation revolved around baseball and girls. They are so free with us and they talk in front of us and with us.

Third son is not like that. Not quite.

He was, as I have wrote before, the most stoic of babies. People would get in his face, as a baby, and coo and babble at him trying to extract a smile. He would look at them, right in the eyes, and not only NOT smile, he would stare at them like "WTF is WRONG with you? Dummy." One eyebrow raised. I would kind of laugh nervously, almost like trying to cover up this strange child's random disposition.

"Why does he act like this?" I would ask my husband. "Why doesn't he like anyone?"

As he grew, we noticed he was far more willing to take risks than the twins. He had no problem walking UP the slide at 14 mos while his 4 yr old brothers were still half afraid to slide DOWN it. We had a 'zip line' hooked to the slide that went to a tree (one of my husbands many superfundangerous ideas that all kids LOVE)..he grabbed onto that sucker when he was 2 years old and away he went, right into the tree. Blood pouring, wiped his with his sleeve, he climbed right back up that slide and did it again. No emotional reaction.

We bought the twins ATV's when they were 8 yrs old, helmets, pads, the whole nine yards. We have enough property that they have free reign over it and have made their own trails. Well, guess who decides he is going to ride that ATV? You know it. Husband had to pull out spark plugs so it wouldn't be able to go as fast. Guess who figured out how to fix that problem? You know it. Four years later, he not only has his own ATV, he rarely rides sitting down, he builds ramps and can kick start his father's standard transmission four wheeler. He not only rarely rides sitting down, he rarely even wears a shirt. Jeans, boots and a helmet.

The end.

This kid has gone through hell. He knocked his teeth out. He can't talk. He can grunt. I drag him to pediatric dentists. Orthodontists. Speech pathologists. Hospitals.

This kid walked around for three days with a ruptured appendix.

He doesn't complain. He puts his nose to the grind and gets it done.

All through this, my husband and I have laughed and marvelled at how incredible stoic he has remained. He rarely says "I love you."

This is a kid who silently has made his mind up to reach his goals. His way.

He doesn't 'love' someone because society says he must. He has just started telling his grandparents that he loves them. They had to earn it.

I think this is my main idea. This is probably the one, single thing that I love about this child.

He owns himself.

He owes no one any thanks for ANYTHING he can and/or will accomplish, because he is doing it all on his own time and terms. He trusts no one, until proven.

Once gained, it is unbreakable.

Our kids lay in bed and visit before bed, and because I am the type of mother who listens in the doorway, I take what he says and sit on it.

"You know who I love?" he'll say. "I love Dad because he is so awesome. He plays catch with me every day and he lets me work on my fourwheeler with his good tools."

"I love Mom because she's mom. She makes me sausage and she doesn't make me eat the broccoli. I hate broccoli, Nick. Hate it. And mom never makes me eat it. She makes you eat it though!" (laughing usually follows when the boys compare food intake and what I will and will not force)

He will list off his friends, and because of privacy, I will not name them. But if their mother's read this blog, they will know without a doubt which kid he is talking about.

"I love ____ because he knows me the best. He doesn't care if I'm wrong or right or if I had a strange way of talking. He just is my best friend because we're supposed to be that way.He hugged me when that bee stung me at Miss Linda's. I never have to wonder if we are friends."

"I love ____ because he makes me laugh. He is my best friend because he knows exactly how to act to make the whole class laugh. And he makes every sport so fun, he makes me laugh so hard and he falls and rolls and makes every day like a movie."

"I love ____ because he is so smart. He is such a better reader than I am, I hope he's in my classes forever because he always can help me with reading, and he has really good video games and a room in his house ONLY for FOOD. And his mom is super pretty."

"I love __ because he's the only kid I know who wants to win as bad as I do. He makes me try harder to win. He makes me run faster and hit harder. Before we were friends I didn't know how to win as good. He made me feel good about trying harder. And he never gets mad at me for tackling him."

Know this, fellow mothers: this kid is strange. He's for real. There is no false reality about him..your sons have earned this.

I am going to write a tribute to my husband.

In no way am I planning on embarrassing him, as he has been with me long enough to know that nine times out of ten, if I do embarrass him, it's for a good reason.

I have known him almost my whole life. We went to the same small school. He was two grades ahead of me.

We went to a school populated with about 600-700 students, seventh through twelfth grade. Everyone knew everyone. He also lived three houses away from my grandparents on Lake Hill, and was friends with my older cousin, who lived three houses in the other direction from my grandparents. Farm community, where the two friends would race up and down the road on their atv's and my grandad would sit on the front porch and yell at them to slow down even though they of course couldn't hear them.

He was very good looking. He was very quiet and very polite. He was the type of guy that none of us thought we had a chance with, so why bother? Ironically, I was flattered (and slightly annoyed) to find out that he thought the same of me.

He played football. (in our town, at this time..playing football was the mecca of manhood).

In my next to last semester at college, he approached me at a local dive bar we all frequented. I had never spoken more than four words to him in my life. He had on a burgandy ball hat with a suede brim and a plaid shirt. He was drinking Yuengling out of a bottle. He sat down at my table and began this conversation that made zero sense to me because I was looking at his eyes and they sucked me in like wet cement. After about a half hour, he asked for my number and I left the bar with friends.

He didn't call the next day. Or the next.

Oh well. I had a lot of options at this point in my life..and to be honest, my father was in the final stages of cancer and I truly didn't know if I had it in me to start up something new.

Then one afternoon a few weeks later, I saw a birth announcement in the local paper about his sister having her first baby, a daughter. It was the first grandchild in the family and I knew that her birth would be a special, special event. So I called him to congratulate him 'on being an uncle'.

(please note: I HATE calling boys. Hate it. I was of the confident crowd, if a guy doesn't call me, fine, I have a waiting list, trust me)

That's all it took. He asked me that night if I would like to go out sometime, and if so..perhaps he could stop down sometime and we could visit before hand.

He came on a Thursday night. He wore a navy blue zip up fleece, jeans and boots. No hat. I had on the baggiest jeans I owned and a man's button up dress shirt from the Gap. I was so nervous I ate an entire jar of cinnamon jelly beans.

While we sat and visited in my parents den, my father wandered in. He was weeks away from dying and in an immense amount of pain. He was having morphine constantly for the pain. He was using a walker, as the cancer had spread to his bones and his hips hurt unbearably. But he walked into the den, unassisted (I am now really popping the ole' jelly beans, thinking 'holy crap what do we have here?') and sat in his favorite chair, crossed his legs and said (smirking, his trademark Harry Potter glasses on..jelly bean, jelly bean) "Well, well, well. Mr. Schoonover, you have showed up a little late for this party, now haven't you?"

My husband reached out his hand and said "I hear that, Mr. Johnson. I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

They shook hands and talked for about 4 minutes before my mother came in with the liquid morphine, which my father took through a baby medicine dispenser, some rolled down his chin as his motor control was failing.

George never even blinked. He kept talking and acted as though this was the most natural situation ever.

When he left that night, I expected him to tell me that our date wasn't going to work out, that something had come up. Young men and cancer grieving girl don't mix well, as I had found out a few months before.

He said, "I'll see you Saturday, and I'll call you tomorrow."

Kiss on cheek.

Three weeks later, after several evenings together and phone calls, we had gone to the grocery store for my mother (HOT DATE here people) and I knew my father was close. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't hold his spoon, and he couldn't talk anymore. I was getting to that emotional point of no return and I said "If you want out, it's fine. I understand. I totally, 100% understand that I am an emotional basket case..I have all this baggage and I'm sad and my family is strange and sad. So, if you want out, do it now because I won't be able to take it later."

He pulled the vehicle over. (I was like "Oh crap! He's going to make me get out and walk!") Leans over and says, "I am in love with you. I am not leaving you ever. No matter how sad you are, how miserable you are. Got it? I'm in."

That was a Friday. My father died the following Monday morning.

Five months later we were engaged. Thirteen months later we were married. Ten months later we had twins. Three and a half years later we had another son.

Two years later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. One year later we had a daughter.

My tribute is this.

My husband is without a doubt, without one shred of doubt, the kindest man I've ever known. He is patient (anyone who knows ME will attest to this being a true test). He is calm. He is smart. He worships our children. He tolerates my mother. And he still looks at me sometimes and I feel like I'm standing in wet cement.

He makes me believe in God. Every. Single. Day.

I haven't written in six months. I am not inspired.
A friend recently asked me what inspires me and I answered "grief". So I guess it's a good thing I am not inspired to blog right now. I do not have a lot of sadness.

But I am restless. I feel a need to release whatever pent up mid-life pre-menopausal issues are building.

I have been racking my brain about to write about. I can write about my kids, obviously. I can write about my friends, and the shifting dynamic that comes along with friendship in ones thirties. I can write about cancer and it's impact on my life, or dementia, as it currently impacts my life daily as I struggle with my mother.

What I have concluded is that it all intertwines, but how to weave it with words is the challenge.
What is the glue? What holds it together?
(I am also afraid of repetition. I hate when someone repeats something to me. Like I didn't hear it the first time.)

So, in an effort to un-stifle my creative talent, I will try to write..while completely exhausted and fully uninspired.

It's winter in Pennsylvania. We have had a very full winter. Full of kids, holidays, and one hospital trip.

Yes. And no, it was not asthma twin. It was my eight year old son, who since has had a birthday so at the time of the crisis, was only seven or "almost eight MOTHER!".

There is a fine line when a child is sick that all parents have gone through. Whether or not to go to the ER. If there is parent out there reading this that has not ever once considered rushing their child to the local ER when all common sense fails, then I am amazed.

Our son, the day after Thanksgiving, started complaining of a stomach ache. He is not usually a complainer, and definitely not a whiner, so I gave him some motrin and encouraged him to lay low until he felt better. At this time, I'm thinking either over indulgence at Thanksgiving dinner or stomach flu. He gets through the day, and that night comes in our room in the very early hours of the morning, probably 2am. "Mom, my belly hurts again." I give him some motrin and a glass of water, back to bed.
The next day we have more of the same, the 'belly ache' and some mild vomiting. I am sure he has the stomach flu and keep assuring him he would be fine by tomorrow. The night proves to be more of the same, and he has a hard time finding a comfortable place. He finally ends up on the couch with his dad, sleeping fetal on stomach, rear end in the air, knees tucked up under belly.
By Sunday mid-morning, he can't even straighten his right leg and I say to my husband, "I think we should take him to the ER for hydration. He needs a bag of saline."
My husband hems and haws..no one likes going to the ER, all the waiting and not knowing, and then some more waiting.
We go to the ER, where we wait for over an hour to see the physician on call. After deciding that perhaps a bag of saline would rehydrate him (didn't I already say this?) the doctor ran blood work. His counts came back very high. Obviously an infection. A cat-scan was ordered and he had to drink 16 oz of apple juice with contrast in it over a hour and a half.
Proceed to cat-scan, and escorted back to gurney.
Things started happening very fast after that.

His appendix had burst, had been ruptured and there was an ambulance on the way to get him to a bigger hospital.

That feeling is indescribable. If you want the worst feeling of fear, of not knowing, and of looking in the eyes of a scared child, this is your trip.

The ambulance arrives and my husband and I separate, I drive the car and he goes in the ambulance. We arrive at the larger hospital within twenty minutes and are met in that ER by a family friend, who is the mother of one of appendix-boy's best friends, and an OR nurse. She had put herself on the case to keep our child reassured that he was safe. As a mother I may never be able to thank her enough, because she made the experience bearable.
All this time, our son was completely stoic. No tears, no emotion, just focus on getting through the pain. He did not want to ride in the ambulance. He did not want to be put in a wheelchair and he did not want to be on a gurney. In the time frame of him being in the ER, and drinking all the contrast and being nervous, he signaled to his father and I that he needed to use the bathroom. A different nurse, who was doing his paperwork in the ER, brought him a bedpan and explained to him how to use it. Seven year old child, appendix burst, looked in her eyes and said "I don't do that."
He rolled off the gurney and walked/stumbled to the bathroom.
I am telling this for the people who know my son, his extreme stoic behavior and the fact that there was no way in hell was he using a bedpan. Ever.
As he lay in the ER, there was a woman in the next exam area, curtained off. My husband and I catch a glimpse of her through the curtain, she is suffering from what my husband calls 'carbuncles' (! please understand that I have no idea if this is even a medical term!) or open, huge sores all over her legs. She is moaning and groaning, yelling and vomiting as well. My son just lays on his gurney with his eyes as wide as pie plates. Next rolls in a man via wheelchair who begins vomiting FULL THROTTLE heaving and LOUDLY.
My son is literally in a state of shock at this point.
We meet the surgeon, we discuss what will happen, explain it to son.
At 12:02am he is wheeled into surgery with his surrogate 'mom'/nurse by his side. My husband leans in, kisses his forehead and tells him to be tough.
I lean in and in the four seconds it takes for me to put my cheek to his cheek and his left arm over my shoulder, his entire life to date floods to my head. I put my face in his neck and breathed his smell and kissed him goodbye.
He was a huge baby, all shoulders. I just wanted him OUT OF MY BODY at delivery and didn't heed my midwife's warning to 'slow down'..he had a purple head. Black hair and no sign of a neck anywhere. All shoulders.
He was a serious baby. Not overly smiley. He did a lot of staring and studying. He didn't talk or coo to himself.
When he was 18mos, he came off a swing onto pavement. Not having the best defense reaction yet, his face, namely his teeth suffered the consequences. Top four front teeth were knocked up in under his nasal cavity. We couldn't even see the actual teeth, just four big, bloody holes.
X-rays confirmed the teeth were there, and it would take almost a year for those teeth to fall back into place, only to find out the nerve damage was so severe that all teeth were removed before his third birthday.
The loss of the teeth did little to improve on his already serious personality.
Or his speech development.
Or his self esteem.
It is hard to learn to talk when first of all, it hurts. Secondly, without the teeth there, it's even worse to try to enunciate.
So he didn't even try. He talked to his father and myself. We were the only people on earth that could understand him.
He goes to kindergarten and struggles. Struggles at school work, the confined space of a room. He is insecure and it's hard for him to make friends. He has two. They understand his 'language' and serve as interpreters.
I begin the process of speech at age three, so by school age, he has an IEP. Constant paperwork, vigilant therapies. He hates it. He hates being different.
I take him to private therapy twice a week in a hospital 30 miles away, the very hospital where is appendix will be removed.
He loves the outdoors. He loves to ride four wheelers, he loves his dog. He loves to ride bike and play catch.
Two years later, child has amazing friends. He speaks very well. He has overcome huge obstacles to trust his environment. He is funny, articulate. He is athletic and has found his place on a football and baseball field. He loves his teacher. He loves his friends.
He laughs constantly.
He has long blond curly hair that he grows out because 'the chicks dig it MOM!' and 'Shaun White the snowboarder has smokin' cool hair MOM!'..his hair hangs out from under his helmet and everyone fusses over him.
He basks. And his father and I fall in love all over with this new and happier child.

After surgery, the doctor and our nurse/friend come to tell us he is fine. That the rupture was severe and there is much infection. He will have at least a one week stay to recover.

That night, at 3:30am, my husband leaves for home and I lay down in the hospital bed next to him. He is lulled into a drugged sleep, he is warm. There is an IV in the crook of his arm. His belly and beyond is covered with iodine and he smells sick to me.

(I should probably mention that at this time, I notice that not only have I not showered since Thanksgiving. I also am not wearing a bra. While this is not a big deal, I have failed to notice either of those things until the whole ordeal was over. What the doctors must have thought of me, I can only wonder. And shudder.)

The next week, my husband and I take turns staying 24/7 with our son. Thankfully, my in laws were more than willing to take over care of my other three children, as we basically forgot they existed. Our daughter even had her birthday during this time and we were not a part of the festivities, so my sister in law provided all the love and laughter and care she needed during this time
He couldn't sit up without pain. He absolutely froze in fear if he felt a cough coming. He had to learn to walk again, and would push his IV pole down the hall, dragging his right leg and foot along, as those muscles just wouldn't engage. He cried in fear that he would never be able to 'run the sideline' again with his speed. He blew through two IV's in three days. His hands were black and blue with bruises from the IV. His arms were bruised from the IV and tape.
On the second day, as he labored out of bed, slowly, so so slowly to the bathroom on his own. I sat outside the door (he is big on privacy) and all of a sudden he bellows "MOM! MOTHER! WHERE ARE MY UNDERPANTS?!"
The sudden understanding that his friend's mother had to take off his underwear set in. "Mom. We will not ever talk about this again, OK. Tell Becky, OK?"
(Not only have I not mentioned it again, but friend's mom/nurse Becky and I decided that perhaps telling him she had to run a catheter is also not a fact he needs to know about!)

He returned home after a week, then spent the next week at home resting, and the following week he returned to school half days.
He lost 9 lbs total, and now, after two months, has still not gotten it all back.

But there is laughter, and he is tackling his brothers and sisters and riding snowmobiles and going to wrestling tournaments.

He is eating mounds of food and had his birthday party at a hockey game.

He is fine.

But the smell of his hair still lingers on me. The feeling of helplessness and fear hasn't left.
I sat and thought of all the time we have invested in this kid. Of the countless hours of speech therapy. Of the hours his father threw balls to him to get him confident. Teaching him how to swim, how to water ski. I think of his father telling him to 'drop a shoulder' when he goes in for a tackle.
I wonder will his whole life be a struggle? Will he always have to 'drop his shoulder'.

Then I stop and know he'll be fine.

After all, he was all shoulders.

The Family Dog

If anyone ever wants to know about 'the family dog' just go rent "Marley and Me"..or you could just call my house and I will tell you all about the family dog.



Most families in rural Pennsylvania have a dog. Or two. There are many, many families all over the world who have dogs, even in the city. Dogs who are an integral part of their family, who are loved and faithful companions. They need walked and loved and vet checked and fed.



My dog, mainly, likes to be fed.

We came across this particular animal when we had just moved to our new home, all freshly built and full of wide acres and woods. A friend of a friend had heard of a family who had recently decided to give away their Labrador retriever. She was 3 years old and fully grown, perfect health and very gentle.

One December day, my husband rings into the phone on his cell, and says "bring the boys to the window, I have a surprise for them". He drives up the driveway with the window down, her gold head hanging out, snowing like crazy and the kids went NUTS.

She is hands down, the most gentle dog known to us. The day after her arrival, the older boys went to school and our third son, at age 4, asked if he could go outside and play in the snow with his new dog. I, having just had a baby weeks before, said "OK, but I'll watch from the window"..out they go, red and blue snowsuit and yellow lab. I watched for a time while he threw snowballs and she tired to chase them or catch them. Then he (or perhaps the dog herself) got the bright idea to start digging a tunnel from all the snow that was pushed to the side of the drive from my husband's snow plow. I watched as one little boy and one large dog dug side by side in the deep, deep snow for over an hour to create the 'coolest tunnel ever' and two big brothers come home ready to play in it. On that day, the four yr old child made his very first friend, and she didn't care that he couldn't talk very well. She pulled him on his sled and jumped in the pond after him, swimming and laughing. She chases him on his bike and on his four wheeler. She walks every single day to the bus stop and sometimes even follows the bus for a short distance. She waits every single day at the end of our rock wall, every single day. Sometimes it's only for a pat on the head from the older boys, but the now 7 yr old always, always has a stick he's grabbed from the woods to throw to her. Every single day.



This sounds idyllic, right? Well, I'm now going to give you all the 'reality bites' section of this dog story. You know there are animals who are just big oafs, right? All hair and stink and slobber and barking at night when it's NOT APPROPRIATE. Well, our wonderful, amazing dog is also that big dummy as well.

(as a side note, I wonder if my dog is bipolar? maybe she needs medicated..)

Anyway....my dog has gained an enormous amount of weight since coming to live here at our house. This is because everyone feeds her. As in, every single person in our house fills her food dish at least once a day. Do you sense a communication problem here? My husband feeds her when he leaves for the day at 5am. Next, Mr. "I take a dump every single day at 6am" feeds her. Then when they kids leave the house at 7:45am, the other twin feels badly for her, so he thinks a bowl of food may help her survive the day without them. By noon the 3 yr old has fed her at least part of her breakfast and possibly all of it. After school, the 7 yr old feeds her 'just because I love her so much MOM!'...by 6pm when it's dinner time, she gets all the leftovers. That's like 8000 calories a day! My dog needs to do P90X!

Last summer, I went on a crusade to 'save the dog' by jogging with her or at least walking her daily. She lost a little weight and was so much healthier, happier. This summer, again, all over again, because she's even bigger than last year. Poor animal. And believe me, taking this animal on a walk/jog isn't fun because I usually end up DRAGGING her 110 lb body half the distance! She will actually stop and lay down. Picture a mother on a country road, dog tied to jogging stroller, two kids on bikes and one small blond boy pushing at a dog's BUTT to get her up and moving!

We are a movie, just waiting to happen.



My dog has a keen sense of who is small enough to have food at eye level. She has some kind of radar with the midgets. One particular child, she has stolen every single solitary piece of food from for two years straight. He hates her. When these particular friends show up, the dog gravitates toward this single child (they have 5 children in total), fully knowing he will have some kind of food at some point in his visit. And she always, always gets it without biting him or hurting him. She just reaches up and gently takes it out of his hands. We should perhaps praise her dexterity for not hurting this child, but as his cries and screams of "Maggie stole my hot dog! Maggie stole my pizza!" are much louder, she usually gets yelled at.

My dog will lay in front of whatever door we are using and will not move her body. In the winter, we use the garage door~she lays in front of it on one of those coco mats. We all have to literally STEP OVER her body or in the children's case, LEAP OVER her body to get out the door. In the summer, we use the sliding glass doors on the deck. She again, lays on a decorative, outdoor mat I have out there. We open the door, and jump. She never moves. In my head, I'm silently screaming "MOVE YOUR ASS DOG!".

My dog is also, I'm sure, a lesbian. Which is fine, because I don't have a sexual bigot issue. (also, I am not one of those people that says "I know lots of homosexuals" and really doesn't..I hate that about people! Jesus!) Anyway, she is, at the very least, sexually confused. She came to us already spayed, without pregnancy or puppies. She is a humper. She gets on other dogs, she gets on benches, and occasionally, a child who has fallen off a snowmobile. We have been outside sledding and my husband will yell "KID DOWN!" and we run to save whatever child is being molested by our beloved hound. Confounded animal!

Our dog is a night barker. Last night, for example, at 2am, I was awoken by barking. And she really barks, if anyone is familiar with a lab's bark, it's not a little yip. She barks. I jump out of bed to run to the window, look down into our front yard, where the movement light has come one and see one yellow lab barking at one skunk. I immediately run to the children's rooms to shut their windows, as I know what the outcome of this battle will be. I am too late! The skunk has done it's duty and my dog has run down the yard, rolling and rolling.

I now own 'skunk dog'. We attempted a bath, with gloves. We were unsuccessful. She will simply have to wear it out.

Our dog drives us nuts. She does. It can be 90 degrees outside and she will come and sit right next to us on our feet. I can lay on the deck on a towel after playing in the pool with the kids and again, I will detect a faint smell, look over and she'll be within inches of me, laying down. She will take a ball we throw to her, and run. She never, ever has brought one back. Ever. We just accept that we'll have to buy cheap tennis balls. The kids all are hoping that one day they will come upon a hidden pile of them. She eats Barbies. But not the heads. She eats the bodies. She runs away with our flip flops, and frankly, any one's flip flops. She especially likes the ones that say 'Adidas' or 'Nike' or 'Under Armour'. The $2.50 ones from Old Navy just don't cut it.

I have tried, after bathing her, to brush her teeth. She takes the brush and eats it. She does enjoy some Crest.

She is all tongue and brown eyes. She looks like she's smiling.

She is gentle beyond belief. One afternoon this spring, the 3 yr old asks "Mom, can I go jump on trampoline?" as I am finishing the dishes. I told her yes and I would be right out in a few minutes to watch her, as our trampoline and play area is about 25 yards from the deck. I watch her walk out, Maggie the Dog waddling right behind her. She climbs up the step onto the trampoline, inside the enclosure and begins jumping away. The dog sits down, eyes keen on this child and I think, 'she's not so bad after all'.

Marley may be Maggie the Dog's cousin..