in case of emergency

I had one of those ‘freak out mom moments’ on Labor Day. We were on the porch and Logan tumbled off the top of the slide head first. His landing point coincided directly with the corner of the metal door frame which sliced his head right open. He’s fallen before, but not like that. Usually I’m dealing with goose eggs and looking for signs of concussions. Oozing cuts are another matter. 

Both twins were sick with colds too, complicating the matter. Dave was also at work (being the random person that actually has to work on Labor Day due to his magazine’s weekly publishing schedule).  So I was alone. Both kids were crying. Doctors office was closed. Do I take him to the emergency room? Oh heavens, please not that.

My mom worked in an ER for years, first as a nurse then as a doctor. She now works for an urgent care clinic, and she’s always the person I call when I need medical advice. I sometimes call her ‘Dr. Mom’. And because of her I know all about stupid people that go to the ER when they don’t need to. I know about long waits. And that the holidays are even worse due to the stupid things people do while drinking and celebrating. Facing an ER waiting room with both twins watching people with bigger emergencies go ahead of me while I try to entertain Lily and Logan, preventing them from having meltdowns was definitely not my first option.

I call mom who asks me how wide the gape is. “First you have to clean it out to see the actual cut,” she says. This required me pinning him down as I tried to clean off the blood. His head wouldn’t stay still, he was screaming at the top of his lungs and I was near tears myself. Lily got mad and started screaming, grabbing my arm and trying to stop me from torturing her brother. I gave my mom the measurement, comparing the cut to a ruler I quickly grabbed from my desk drawer. 

The results were negative for the ER. Just a bit of the prescription Neosporin-type ointment from the “Dr. Mom Stash” and he should be good to go. “You could wait until Dave comes home late tonight, shave his head and bind it together with suture tape to prevent scarring,” she said. I laughed. The thought of us holding him still enough to shave accurately just didn’t seem possible. So the kid has a small scar under his hair. It will give him character.

I just hope the next time something like that happens Dave is around. Because now I’m plagued with nightmares of the ER.

it’s not you, it’s us

That’s essentially what I was told yesterday afternoon when I was politely informed that the company I write for could no longer afford me. After the whole song and dance about bleeding money, no profits, cut backs all around, I was told my 20 hours of work a week were going to be dropped to six.

It was followed by lengthy praises and adoration of my work. And the hopeful exclamation of more hours in the future if business gets better. I wasn’t upset at my boss. In fact I felt bad for him, because who wants to have to tell people you can’t pay them any longer simply because of finances?

Regardless after the call was ended I immediately and simultaneously A) instant messaged Dave and B) burst into tears.  I’m not one of those moms who work to keep the brain active. Yes, it’s a definite plus, but truly it’s for the money. I need a job. It’s not an option.

So first there were the tears, then came the sweets, followed by a sugar rush-induced online job search and resume update. I found one job that I’m perfect for—article and blog writing for a major, heavily trafficked website in their health, nutrition and fitness department. It was only after I sent a sparkling cover letter along with my resume and samples that I realized the post was three weeks old.

This is the worst part about freelancing. The uncertainty. The stress. Not knowing what I’m doing in two weeks let alone two months. Having to let my baby sitter go and then praying she still has the time to come back if and when I need her again, because the kids and I adore her. The frustrating number of writing jobs out there that pay $15 for an article that would take hours to write. Or the ones that claim, “You will be compensated after we take off.”

So now I’m off to the kitchen. Because a batch of baked goods will, if nothing else, make me feel useful and empowered… even if it’s just in the kitchen.

when tech meets the toilet

The unthinkable happened to me this morning. Actually that’s not true, it’s something that’s very very thinkable in my world these days. My almost brand new (less than 2 months old) iPhone must have fallen out of the back pocket of my shorts while playing with the twins in the living room. Any technology, especially the iPhone, is like toddler crack to my children. I’m in the kitchen with Lily and I hear a plop sound coming from the bathroom.

So Logan’s figured out how to lift the toilet seat lid. Damn. I run in there, thinking I’ll have to fish out a lotion bottle, a toy or even his sippy. But what do I find? My iPhone. Lightening fast I pulled it out of there, removed the case and dried it off. I then blew into the charger and ear phone holes, feeling a rush of air go out the other end, bringing with it droplets of water.

The whole time thinking “I’m totally and completely screwed right now.” This phone was a luxury for me. Part of it a birthday gift from Dave, the other part paid with my own money. Between checking my email all day, the useful apps, having iTunes and of course the actual phone part, it’s a useful luxury… but a luxury nonetheless.

As soon as the babysitter arrived I turned to the internet for help. Apple got smart it seems with people bringing in broken iPhones and pleading ignorant to what the problem is. They’ve placed a water damage sensor on the phone that goes from white to red if the phone has suffered from dangerous H2O. And paying Apple to fix the phone can cost just as much as buying a new one.

Now I was Googling ways to help save my still oh-so-new phone. Turns out that covering your wet phone in a container or bag of dry rice will speed up the drying process, helping seep up the condensation preventing permanent damage. Apparently people have had success with it. So right now my iPhone sits, in critical condition, in a hospital bed of dry rice. I’m praying for a full recovery, but know our time together may have ended permanently. Oh poor iPhone, you were so young, so full of life and we had so many adventures planned together.

the curious case of the cheesy dress

Remember when you were a teenager and hanging out at the mall proved to be glorious fun? (Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. And if you really don’t, keep it to yourself.) For me it was shopping at Wet Seal, checking out psychedelic posters at Spencers Gifts and sipping an Orange Julius. And of course the essential part is having a friend along.

This weekend I rediscovered the joy of wasting time while shopping when my dear friend Kate and I searched for a dress. These days, shopping for me is all about getting the business done as quickly and efficiently as possible. Otherwise known as being grown up. But Saturday was completely different as Kate and I ransacked department stores and boutiques

Looking for a dress for Kate to wear to a wedding next weekend, we came upon hundreds that made us squeal with disgust. Some because they were blatantly gaudy and others due to the lack of wearability. One particular little shimmering midnight blue number was slinky, tight and hosted a crazy panel of openings at the back. It was definitely cheesy on the hanger. But at second glance I could tell someone could pull it off. That someone not being me. She has to be reed thin and super tall. With shining black hair, tons of black eyeliner, kick ass heels and maybe a stack of rock and roll inspired bracelets up one arm.

Later in another store Kate was trying on a few choices and I was trying on dresses just for the hell of it and with no intention of buying. Our large, dimly lit dressing room was already full of someone else’s rejected choices. Among them the slinky dark blue dress. I don’t remember whose idea it was for me to try it on. Probably mine because I have no shame. But it was a size I usually wear, so it seemed like a natural way of wasting time as Kate legitimately shopped. It looked so tiny on the hanger. Yet it zipped up easily.

And I was shocked. Kate was shocked. It fit, it suited my curvy shape and I actually looked good. Hell, I looked hot. Instantly Kate’s camera was out and my iPhone went into camera mode as we marveled at how such a dress could actually look good on me. Then we found the second dress. The same dress in a different size. And Kate shimmied into it. She looked smoking too. Magical, supernatural forces must be at work, because it really seemed impossible. We posed and preened, talking about how if we started a girl band we could wear these. Or use them as costumes when our Vegas act takes off.

Of course I didn’t buy the dress. Sure my self-esteem shot through the roof, but where would I wear it? It’s not really suited for weddings and I don’t live the life that requires shimmering slinky dresses on regular occasions. So with one last laugh we threw off the dresses and left the fitting room. The photos are enough to make me smile and give me any needed confidence after flipping through a magazine and eyeballing all of the emaciated models.

delayed reactions

To say that I had been dreading our flight from Newark to Dallas to visit my mom and sister is an understatement. The night before our trip I actually got physically nauseous with worry. It’s the same feeling I used to get in my tummy before the first day of school. I couldn’t sleep either, so I tossed and turned replaying the following day’s events in my head to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to pack anything critical and to come up with possible solutions to every crisis I could think of.

Yet the actual trip to Texas was a breeze. We wheeled through the airport: two adults, two toddlers in car seats attached to genius little wheelies, two giant suitcases and four carry-ons. Lil and Lo each had their own window seat and were content snacking, then sleeping and then snacking again as we landed. 

So I was woefully unprepared for the craziness of the trip back.  Turns out one of our suitcases was over the weight limit by two pounds. So we gathered everything up and moved to the benches to redistribute. After debating on how much is enough, we go back to find out we had moved too much and now the other one was over. At this point the Continental staff have decided to give us a break (giving that we were taking up an enormous amount of space and than both children have decided to start whining) and they help us move crap from one suitcase back to the other directly on the scale. 

At security we wait an eternity while a lady in front of us is scolded for smuggling a liquid lip gloss. Lily’s Drool Bear blanket had to be pried from her tiny little hands before walking through the metal detector leading to tears. Apparently the Dallas security personal think they’re bad asses. Once we’re all through, our bags are all through, the kids are back in their seats and we all have our shoes on again we get word from Dave’s dad via a phone call that there’s tornado warnings back home. Crap.

Turns out our 12:30 flight (which I had perfectly timed in sync with the twins’ nap schedule) was delayed for three hours. Double crap.

All our fellow passengers seem slightly upset, but I’m thinking “What the hell do you have to be upset about?” Go get your self some Starbucks, visit the cheesy little Tex-Mex themed gift shop, read your book or use the free WiFi. I only dream about having three hours of extra time to just sit and do nothing.

Instead I have to entertain cranky, desperately in need of a nap, 17-month old twins for three hours.  And of course the Continental staff warned us that we could end up leaving sooner, rather than later, and not to go very far. 

Here’s what happened. Lily discovered an appreciation for soy chai lattes and window shopped for ceramic glass roosters in the gift shop window. Logan made several friends by climbing into any available seat and accosting the person sitting next to him. And they both discovered that in desperate times both mom and dad are willing to hand over their iPhones to promote peace. 

Once in flight, we realized a Mary Kay conference had just ended. So our plane was full of wonderful ladies who were all very understanding when the grumpy twins fussed and cried. In fact after landing Lily and Logan were actually smiling, laughing and flirting (in Logan’s case) with all of the other passengers as they deboarded. Dave and I, however, were thoroughly beat.

means of escape

Logistically, things are always a little more complicated with twins. And trying to get us all into the car A) within a reasonable amount of time, B) without me pulling out my hair and C) forgetting something either beside the car or leaving it on the roof is sometimes challenging. As with most of what I do with the niblets, I take turns on who gets loaded into the car first. It was Logan’s turn. And he’s the one I usually have to worry about. He recently learned the age-old pelvic thrust maneuver he performs to the sounds of shrieks and screams whenever he doesn’t want to go in the car.

I don’t know where he picked this up. It’s not like he watches other kids get into the car thinking, “Wow. I should be doing that!’ So it must be toddler instinct. Much like tossing full plates of ravioli onto the just-mopped floor or insisting that only wearing one shoe is really the way to go.

So here I am at the park at nine in the morning amidst the svelte joggers, the dog walkers and the moms taking their kids to summer sports camp with a deceptively innocent-looking boy screaming at the top of his lungs and turning limp as an egg noodle as he slides down onto the floorboards. His face is super red from the screaming and mine is almost the same color from embarrassment. During all of this Lily is happy as can be sitting patiently in her side of the busted-up double jogging stroller.

Or at least that’s what I thought because I hadn’t heard a peep from her.

By the time I had safely buckled Logan, my arm muscles throbbing from exertion, and turn to the stroller, I realize it’s not there. I put the brake on right? I always put the brake on. But I’m also crazed most of the time. So I can’t even believe myself. Plus the brake sometimes pops right back up and I don’t notice if I’m not paying attention.

Immediately I’m panicking. I let my daughter roll away. Was she hit by a soccer mom pulling into the lot too busy paying attention to her own children to notice mine? (My first thought.) Was she snatched up by some park perv who would sell her to the highest bidder because of her unparalled adorableness? (My second thought.) The parking lot isn’t exactly Times Square but neither is it as empty as a Dairy Queen in January. Someone is always pulling in or out.

And although it felt like time was moving in one of those movie slow mo sequences during a sports scene where the voices get all drawn out, deep and wonky sounding, it really was just a couple seconds before I spied her. Five parking spots away leaning up against an SUV that had thankfully stopped her from rolling right on into the street.

I rushed over, my head a bubbling cauldron full of mixed emotions. Thanking the universe for her safety. Hating my own negligence. And hoping no one else witnessed what could have possible ended up very very differently.  Lily, being who she is, was completely happy to be rolling away on her own adventure. She was smiling, playing with her shoes and had no idea how much she had freaked me out. Or why I was clutching her to my chest and squeezing her so tightly.

Needless to say, getting into the car takes even longer now because I have to stop every five seconds to make sure the other twin is hasn’t rolled away again.