Last weekend we had friends over for dinner (you should go say hello btw, because Becca is new to the blogosphere).  They’re good peeps.  So good that they brought fresh flowers.  Two bunches in fact.  One for me.  And then their youngest son Jack (who may or may not be majorly crushing on one of my girls.  You didn’t hear it from me though) brought one for the girls.

Ahem.

I absolutely love having fresh flowers around the house and I happen to be of the opinion that a beautiful bouquet makes a lovely hostess gift.  But that’s beside the point.  The point is that as much as I love having flowers around, I seldom do.  So I had to really climb and dig and search for a vase.  Two vases actually.

Which made me realize that perhaps I need to buy flowers more often.

So that less climbing and digging and searching for a vase would be in order.

On the other hand, there are those tools around the house that hardly have any counter time–or cupboard or closet as the case may be–because they are so frequently in use.

I thought I’d share a couple of those with you today.

You can thank me later.

See this?

It’s my strainer.  Otherwise known as the kitchen MVP.  Seriously.  I wash this thing like, I dunno, umpteen times each day.  Okay maybe not umpteen, but certainly no less than three.  I would be lost without it.  Or stuck eating homemade strawberry ice cream full of itty bitty strawberry seeds.  Ew.

And then there’s this.

It’s my obviously overused vegetable brush.  I’m sure there is some fancy shmancy football word for runner up MVP but I don’t know it so suffice it to say that, next to my strainer, this is the most used item in my kitchen.  We try to go heavy on the fruits and veggies.  And knowing what I know about pesticides I insist on scrubbing the heck out of those things before they make it anywhere near our mouths.

Judging from the looks of my veggie brush I’m thinking another trip to the Crate and Barrel is in order.

Moving right along though.

Ah.  These guys.

I’m the world’s most annoying drinker.  Because if I attempt to take a sip from a cup containing any type of beverage with ice, I make horrible slurping sounds.  Unless I have a straw.  Apparently the ability to drink in a ladylike fashion was not coded into my genetic make-up.  Which is why we always have a healthy supply of straws on hand in the pantry.

Last but not least…

Uh huh.  My hand weights.  I use them nearly each and every day.  Sometimes Gilad from Fit TV keeps us company.  Other days it’s Jillian.  But no matter who’s kicking my butt on any given day, these little babies are doing their part to add a touch of definition to my arms.

And shoulders.

And back.

Sigh.

So there ya have it.  The four tools that see me through.  Day in and day out.

What say you?  Which tools would you rate as your own MVP’s?

I’ve been maybe a touch on the spastic side since Jayce’s accident.

More so than usual.

He slept next to my bed for a week.

When I moved him back to his room I couldn’t help but check on him six times before I went to bed.

And even then I turned our baby monitor up so loud (and got used to sleeping in spite of it) that now if it were to break I’d need somebody to crackle cellophane in my ear before I could even think about drifting to dreamland.

Eight days post accident Jayce developed a cough.

Which I swore was pneumonia.

Jeff, on the other hand, swore I was crazy.

As it turns out?

Pneumonia.

Or borderline at least.  The radiologist was noncommittal in the report he sent after reading the chest ex-ray.

Our pediatrician looked at the ex-ray too.  And didn’t want to say one way or the other.  But he did go ahead with antibiotics.  To be on the safe side.

If it is pneumonia, Jayce could care less.  It certainly isn’t slowing him down any.

But still.

Pneumonia.

Pneumonia that would have gone haywire were it not for my hovering.  Hovering which admittedly may border on stalking, were he not my child of course.

The moral of the story?

Yeah.  I don’t really have one.

Just thought I’d share.

Dear Target Store Manager:

Hello Mr. Manager sir. It’s me.  The mom of four who visited your store today.  I know you’re probably busy ironing your khaki pants and red shirts so I won’t keep you long.  I just wanted to send along a helpful hint that may save you a few dollars in the way of lawsuit settlements down the line.

Let me begin by asking, sir, if you’ve ever had the pleasure of opening a store on Black Friday.  Given your expansive resume bullets, I assume you have.  Surely, then, you must be familiar with the mobs of frenzied shoppers that, quite literally, shove their way through the store in an effort to hoard the flat-screen TV’s and newest video game consoles.  You know as well as I that Black Friday deals can be found throughout the store, scattered among the toy, electronics, and home departments.  Imagine, for a moment, the scenario should those crowds of Black Friday shoppers find themselves all gunning for the same thing: school supplies.

Better yet.  Don’t imagine it – visit it.  Right there in the back corner of your store where sporting goods and domestics cross paths.  But be forewarned: it’s a jungle back there.

You’ve heard that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?  Well.  Nor does hell haveth fury like a mother on a mission for those elusive dividers.  Or dry erase markers (blue – why have you no blue?!).  Or reinforcement labels that little Johnnie may or may not need in the fourth quarter but will be docked points for if he doesn’t show up with them on MONDAY!

Look at that.  I’m getting off topic.

My reason for writing is this: I’d like to suggest that you offer complimentary body armor suits to mothers and children intending to shop for school supplies in your store.  While I understand that you cannot reasonably prevent every black eye or busted toe, at least the major casualties could seriously be reduced if you provided proper equipment for those brave enough to “go in.”

Another option would be to hire armed guards.  Perhaps even designating your Back to School headquarters as a mom-free zone would work.  After all, dads are perfectly capable of handling up on the pencil purchases.  And yes.  I realize that a nation of dads doing the school supply shopping would seriously cut into your profit margin.  Because no dad I know is actually going to buy into that teacher’s request for hand sanitizer and Kleenex, citing something about “when I was a kid…”  But really.  In spite of the profit loss – it’s the right thing to do.  For the sanity and safety of all your loyal customers.

I urge you to consider my input.  Before your store is the site of the next postal-like rampage.

Sincerely,

A Concerned (black-eyed) Mom.

“We’re not those parents…”

So said my “friend” (in quotations because the term just doesn’t do our relationship justice at this point), Becca, as she stood outside her house on Thursday afternoon.  I wasn’t there to hear her say it though. I was in the ambulance that had just whirred away from her neighborhood, speeding out of the desert with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

My son–my precious baby boy–was in that ambulance too.  He was breathing by that time. But he wasn’t quite right.  He was barely responsive.  Far from the vivacious little monster he had been only an hour before.

One hour.

An hour before we’d been playing and splashing in the pool.  Becca and I sat at the edge of her pool, our legs dangling in the water. Four of the six kids in the pool were proficient swimmers.  And then there were Cassidy and Jayce–neither of whom can swim without some sort of assistance.

My attention–though divided many ways–was aimed mostly at them.

Cassidy wore her arm floaties, and turned circles in the water as though Michael Phelps himself was no better than she.  Jayce stayed close at my side, shooting the other kids with streams from a water gun he’d adopted for the afternoon.  He waded from one end of the shallow lagoon to the other, back and forth, taking aim, over and over.

As we splashed in the water that day not a single sip of alcohol was ingested.  Not one split-second passed when either Becca or myself were not physically in the pool with our collective children.  Because we aren’t those parents.

But in the end, my physicality alone wasn’t enough.

I scanned the bobbing heads once more–as I’d been doing all afternoon–accounting for my four.  But this time I came up one short.

Until I saw a dark mass submerged to my left.  Not across the pool, but right next to me.  Three feet from where I sat.

Words can’t possibly convey the image of him there.  An image that I would pay countless dollars to have permanently deleted from memory.  An image that is burned into my mind’s eye.  An image that haunts me at night, and threatens to pounce even in the light of day, the instant I let my guard down.

While that image is truly horrific, worse still are the torturous thoughts of what he must have gone through in the seconds that led up to it.

Whether it’s a blessing or a curse that I don’t have those images available I’ll never know.

I suppose that when you get right down to it my memory is well supplied with a brutal arsenal with which to assault: the feel of his limp body against mine as I pulled him from the water, the sight of his blue lips as I placed him on the grass, the agonizing hours–or minutes or seconds, it’s hard to be sure–it took for him to finally respond to my demands that he breathe.

And then there was the blur of activity around me.  The fearful, wide-eyed children hovering nearby.  The sight of Becca, trying to answer questions for the 911 dispatcher on the phone.  A random neighbor, having come to help.  The shrill sound of my middle daughter, screaming her brother’s name with more desperation in her voice than I’ve ever heard from anyone else in all my years.

It was through the grace of God that Jayce finally responded.  It couldn’t have had anything to do with my worthless attempts–my misguided efforts to save him.

The sound of his exhausted moans were the sweetest music I’d ever heard.  And when–seconds later–he opened his eyes my heart pounded against my chest.  By the time he threw up, the crowd of miniature onlookers had been herded into the house.  Otherwise how crazy they would have thought I was for heralding it the way I did.

The next thirty minutes were joyous and overwhelming and terrifying and confusing at once.  There must have been ten paramedics.  Four emergency vehicles.  More beeping machines and heavy medical equipment than I ever care to see again.

I held him in my arms, cursing my own stupidity and praising his courage without taking a breath in between.  The decision to transport him to the hospital was not mine to make, though I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment had it been.

Becca became like a sister instantly-assuring me that everything was going to be fine.  She thought when I couldn’t: repeating Jayce’s birthday and the spelling of his name every time they asked, calling Jeff at work to tell him what had happened, fishing the keys from my purse so she could drive the girls home and stay with them, fumbling through my wallet for my driver’s license when the officer needed it. She freed me to focus on the only thing I could have anyway: the boy I’d come so close to losing.

It wasn’t until we sped away in the ambulance, as Jayce lie there with an oxygen mask over his sweet little face, that I was struck with panic.  Would he have brain damage?  Might he regress at any moment?  Was he out of the woods?  My prayers went up steadfastly; my tears came in earnest.  In the thirty minutes it took to get to the hospital, my amazing little man made a full recovery.

Blessed indeed.

It may have been about that time that Becca stood amongst her neighbors, puzzling at how it could have happened.  We aren’t–after all–those parents.

But in my life I’ve learned that while most bad things happen to someone else…every once in awhile they happen to a neighbor.  To someone I knew in high school.  To a guy Jeff works with.  Or maybe to you.  Even to me.

Not because I don’t love my children with everything in me.  Not because I stole a candy bar when I was six.  Not because I honked at the slow car ahead of me not realizing it was an elderly woman at the wheel.

No.

Sometimes bad things just happen.  To good people.  To good parents even.

I certainly don’t do everything right. Every once in awhile I may look the other way when the TV has been on too long.  Or I forget the multi-vitamin.  I send my kids to school without every last one of the supplies on the back-to-school list.   I allow soda when we go to restaurants.  Once or twice I may even have said “hit her back” when one of my girls tattles on another.

And I looked away for a moment too long in the pool.

But (and believe me when I tell you that I am filled with doubt as I force these words through my fingertips onto this keyboard, and eventually the screen), I am a good parent.  I am.

I know that the very presence of my son is a gift that surpasses understanding.  Hearing his tiny words, the touch of his padded fingertips, the rise and fall of his itty bitty chest, his wet kisses–all are blessings for which I couldn’t possibly be more thankful.

So while every instinct within me demands that I punish myself, that I wallow in guilt for having abandoned him when he needed me most–I’m choosing another way.

This gift that God gave me last Thursday afternoon–this second chance–is not something I want to thumb my nose at.  It’s true that allowing myself to smile at this point goes against my human sense of justice.   What gives me the right to feel anything but gut-wrenching guilt after my failures permitted something so heinously unconscionable to occur.

What gives me the right?

There is but one thing that gives me that right: the grace and mercy of the Lord.   It is because of Him–and through only Him.

Because of Him, I will do my best not to let this experience overtake me.  Nor will I allow Jayce’s experience to be in vain.

So many of you have asked how you can help.  Most of us are separated by vast miles but there truly is something you can do for me in spite of the distance.

You can help me to become whole again.

How?  Easy.   Do something.  Anything.  Take a CPR class (as I fully intend to do).  Buy a life jacket and donate it to the neighborhood pool.  Promise that no matter how late you’re running you’ll turn around and grab that second set of water wings.  But most of all, watch.  Watch vigilantly.  Because being there isn’t enough.  Pledge to stop momentarily on your way to the water and consider our story, so that you, too, can grasp that what they say is true: it can happen to you.  It only takes a second.

And a second was all it took.

Please just do something.

So that I can believe that our story has helped to keep another child safe this summer.

That’s what you can do for me.  Thank you.

My family has suffered a horribly traumatic event.  We are all safe and healthy.  But I will be taking some time away.  Your prayers are much needed and greatly appreciated.

I took my four children to the mall today.  And yes.  I would like a round of applause thankyouverymuch.  I mean, I’m no Kate Gosselin, but still.  Four children.   To the mall.  C’mon.  You know that’s harrowing.

We were in search of some school clothes.  I’m blessed in that Cassidy could care less what she wears to school.  Or anywhere for that matter.   As evidenced by her choice to wear mismatched socks to her eye doctor appointment yesterday.  Not that I’m complaining.  Because if she’s happy letting me pick up the majority of her school clothes at Old Navy and Kohls…well, atta girl.

The older two?  Not so much.

The older two insist on shopping in those seriously unpleasant stores at the mall.  You know the ones.  First of all you can smell them a mile away because they honest to goodness pump cologne from the eaves of their storefront.  So much cologne that your stomach turns upon approach.  And they’re dark inside.  What’s up with that?  I’m certain that they dim the lighting so that parental types can’t see how skimpy the clothing is.  And then there’s the music.  Please don’t even get me started on the music.  There must be a reason that they blare it so loud, effectively making it impossible to communicate inside the confines of their darkened chambers.  Subliminal messaging probably.  Or maybe they just do that to tune out the employees.  Because.  Well.   They aren’t exactly valedictorian material if you know what I mean.  Honest to goodness, a salesgirl at Hollister greeted me today with, “hey, what’s up?”  And not a perky and bubbly “hey, what’s up.”  No.  It was as though I’d bumped into her at a party and she was about to offer me a smoke.

Um.  Yeah.  Hey.

I always wonder what those saleschildrenpeople think of me.  Today, for instance.  I slapped a pair of denim Daisy Dukes down on the counter while Torri sat nearby, though out of view, with her two younger tornadoes of siblings.  I hadn’t showered since Sunday yesterday so my hair was ponied up and slung through a baseball cap.  It took me a minute to find my wallet as I dug through the abyss of my anything-but-youthful purse.  And when the young man (whose impressive physique clearly had nothing to do with his being hired) announced my total I may have gawked a little.

I know I’m a mom of four.  But many people don’t.  Jeff has a picture of me and the kids sitting on his desk at work and people frequently mistake me for one of his children.  So I’m wondering if these mall employees do the same.  Are they eyeing the shorts I’m buying and thinking to themselves, “uh, really?”

“No,” I feel compelled to say, in spite of the fact that they didn’t actually vocalize their disdain.  “Those aren’t for me.  I swear.  They’re for my daughter.  She’s a freshman.  Whereas I would look like the covergirl for Age Denial Weekly, she can totally pull those off.  For real.”

Not that their patronizing expressions matter for long.  Because it’s certainly not as though I can calmly and collectively gather my entourage of children and inconspicuously take exit, leaving the salespeople snickering in disbelief behind their counter.  Oh no.  Cassidy surely will bust free of my hand on the way out and knock down a rack or twelve of clothing.  And then there’s Jayce who’ll sweep his arm across any and all surfaces low enough for his reach.  So that pristine pile of perfectly folded shirts that joint girl just spent hours folding?  Ruined.  Which wouldn’t be so bad if we could escape quickly enough.  But as soon as we step foot out the door I’ll realize that I left my receipt.  Or something more pertinent.  Like the red-head.

That, of course, is when I make good use of Torri.

Run back in there and fetch your sister why don’t ya?

And she’s always so happy to oblige.

Just wait til school starts and she realizes that those salespeople are the upperclassmen.

Then she’ll really love me.

It’s okay though.

Those clothes ain’t cheap.

I consider it payback. :)

*Looks as though this sale has ended.  It was a great deal while it lasted!*

Two years ago my sister-in-law gave me a gift subscription to Real Simple magazine for my birthday.  I liked it so much that she renewed my subscription last year.  After two years of admiration I payed it forward and gave my mom a year-long subscription for her most recent birthday.

But talk about pay it forward.

Cuz’ I’m gonna pass along a really, really great deal.

Psst.  Come closer.

Not that close.  Sheesh.  Whadya do, eat a chili dog for lunch?  Have a breath mint why don’t ya.

Okay.

Much better.

As I was saying.

You should cruise on over to Amazon and pick up your own 12-month subscription.

But instead of paying 24.95 like I did for my Mom’s subscription (hi mom-you’re worth every penny!)…you can score a year’s worth of great articles, great tips, and yummy recipes for $5.

Yep.  Five bucks.

Go.  Quick.

I can’t guarantee this deal will last.

*This is an affiliate link. If you click through this link I will earn a few odd cents off of your purchase. If you’d rather I not earn a few odd cents off of your purchase then don’t purchase through this link.*

Last week was a doozie.

A doozie I tell ya.

I’ve previously promised not to intentionally embarrass my children among the pages of this here blog so I have to refrain from going into specifics.

All I can say is that I should be making some serious bank for the job I’m doing.  Because raising children is no joke.

And that’s saying nothing of the wife gig.  Because it ain’t always a cakewalk either.  Ahem.

Moving right along though…

So.

How was your weekend?

Ours was great.  And completely wholesome.

As long as you consider sneaking into a local hotel to make good use of their pool wholesome.

What?

Does 114 degrees mean anything to you?

Yeah.  I thought not.

Good news on the AC front though.  It’s fixed.  After only one night of suffering in silence.

Good news on the swim class front too.  Jayce is no longer giving lip about getting in the water.  AND.  And he “graduated” from Flounder to Pollywog.  With two and a half months left in the season he’s bound to be a little lillipad-leaper in no time.

Oh, and the girls go back to school one week from now.

I know mid-July seems early for back to school to you traditional folk, but it’s a way of life here in year-round school zone.

And I can’t complain.

Because back to school is one more milestone down as we edge ever closer to our big Disney trip.  And subsequent Disney Caribbean cruise. {squeal!}

So put in your orders now.

What’ll it be?  A rum cake from Grand Cayman?  A conch shell from Cozumel?

Or better yet.  Living it vicariously through yours truly?

Sorry friends.  But the latter is about the only thing I can fit into my suitcase.

Better luck next time. :)  Happy Monday anyway.

81:  the digital number displayed on my thermostat even as I type this at 9:41 pm.

102: the forecasted high for tomorrow.

2: the number of air conditioning units our home is equipped with.

0: the number of air conditioning units currently functioning.

You know what all those numbers add up to?

One.

Yes.  One.

One very overheated desert-dwelling Mama who may just have to kick some serious butt if those AC guys try to pull any crap.

For real.

Jeff has come up with some great ideas in his lifetime.  At least in the portion of it in which I’ve known him.  Ideas that we could totally market – if we were ambitious like that.

Our infamous game, for instance: a Jeff original.  Really, it was a collaborative effort – but mostly him.

Our Disney shirts?  Same thing.

His most ingenious idea yet though?  The Eggsacutor – a bumper mounted egg launcher that he insists should come as standard equipment on each and every vehicle in production today.

Drivers would have three eggs per month at his or her disposal.  With the simple push of a button, you could launch eggs at offending drivers – all from the comfort of your plush leather seats.

Presumably I need not explain the motivation for his brilliant idea.

I, for one, am a huge fan.  And you can play all high and mighty like you aren’t.  But I know better.  I mean, it’s a way more effective method than a honk of the horn.  A flip of the bird.  Angry gestures tossed at inconsiderate drivers via their rear-view mirrors.

Effective because, if your car was sprayed with egg after cutting off grandma in the beige Buick, well, you’d likely think twice before you pulled that again.

Right?  Right.

I already have a few people in mind.  You know.  For when the Eggsacutor becomes more than just a dream that dances through my husband’s road rage dreams.

Here’s my list:

-Anyone with an Obama bumper sticker.  Better yet – I’d launch the vomit from when I throw up in my mouth after seeing their sticker.
-Those with “Another Mama for Obama” stickers would get two.  Eggs that is.  One for Mama and one for bambino.
-Trucks with those über klassy ball sacks hanging from the trailer hitch.
-Anyone with a naked woman silhouette sticker.  Including those adorned with angel wings or devil’s horns.
-You know those people who proudly display stickers boasting that their child can kick my honor student’s @$$?  Uh-huh.  Them.  I’d have my honor student press the launch button.
-Guess who I’d save all three eggs up for though? The morons who have the nerve to drive around with “Short Bus” bumper stickers.  And yes.  Those do exist.  That’s all I have to say about that.

So spill it.  What kind of deserving driver would get your egg?