Have I ever mentioned that I’m not so much a cold weather kind of gal?

I’m not.

Eighty degrees finds me thriving while winter months leave me holding my breath, waiting for warmth.

We’re supposed to hit 80 this week, for the first time this year.  And here I am, holding my breath.

And dreaming.  Thinking back to October when my family disembarked the Disney Magic in Cozumel, where the ocean was warm and the margaritas were ice cold.

Crystal blue waters.

Sand between my toes.

Palm fronds swaying in the breeze.

Bliss, I tell you.  Pure bliss.

With the forecasters promising 80, I can’t help but drift.

Come along, why don’t you?  Dream a little dream with me.

Lately my mind keeps being pulled to the ifs.

The plots in the novels I’m reading, the estate planning software (unopened on my desktop) and topics on Oprah have my mind wandering.

Yucky ifs.

…if I end up in a wheelchair.

…if I get Lou Gehrig’s disease.

…if something horrific wreaks havoc on our life savings.

I told you; these are yucky ifs.

Sometimes–when these ifs threaten to pounce–I run the figurative numbers.  I tell myself that my “if” has already happened.  And I reason that the “if” I’ve been dealt is not so bad, as far as “ifs” go.

I distinctly remember having a conversation with another mom, back when my oldest was the only.  This other mom and I were discussing the possibility of future siblings for our only-ies.  And she said something that struck me.  She said, “it’s hard to think about another when I have this one who is perfectly healthy.”

I thought she was such a downer.  Who thinks like that?

I was young.  Naive.

She was older.  Less naive.

And wouldn’t you know–just a few years later–an if of the very sort she was speaking snuck through.

I’ve since come around to her way of thinking.

Not so much in regard to more children.

But the ifs.

The ifs are more prevalent now.  Now that I see {and appreciate} all that I have to lose.

There is a positive to this if-dwelling: the ever-present reminder to live.  Out loud.  Presently.  Intentionally.  To give thanks for the iflessness of my days.

Because this much I know is true: each moment I ponder the if is one lost to me, wasted.  Never to return.

If if go away.  Don’t come again another day.

I’m too busy.  Enjoying the iflessness.

Hi friends.

Sorry about that brief delve into topics better left for the sides of trailers.

I made him promise never to “surprise” me with a post again.

If he does I might just leave him at the door-stoop of aforementioned trailer.  Let the creepy old man have his way with the hijacking husband.

Moving right along though.

I have pictures (I promised, didn’t I?) from the Polar Express.

They’re forthcoming.

But I have to first tell you about my flight coming home yesterday.

The one where every single person in my vicinity was left with no choice but to write me off as a crazy woman.  For real.

I don’t fly well.  Never have.

I’m not exactly scared of flying.  I just have difficulty with the lack of control air travel entails.

I enjoy being able to stop at my whim.  Pull over for Starbucks.  Leave when I’m ready to leave – as opposed to when Air Traffic Control sees fit.  Use a bathroom with fewer than six gazillion germs and Lord-only-knows-what-else floating around in there.

Makes sense, right?

So I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the extra long flight to Orlando, and the extra long flight home about 24 hours later.

I was pleasantly surprised with how well I handled the first flight.  It flew by (pun intended) and I was on the ground before I knew it.  Easy peasy.

The next day?  Eh.  Not so much.

I got a middle seat.  On a full flight.  And all three of the inconsiderate ahem, passengers (because I’m ladylike and the word I’d prefer to use is anything but) in the row in front of mine opted to recline their seats.  To the full extent.  Which was lovely.  And so very thoughtful of them.

But even then, I was okay.

I thought I’d pull out my laptop, in hopes that I could do something to help pass the time.

So I retrieved my computer and released the tray table.  I totally should win some medal since I had to contort myself like Mary Lou Retton in order to do so.

That’s when it happened.

With my tray table down, a person tucked closely in at either side, my seat-belt fastened, and the passenger in front of me practically lying in my lap, I sort of freaked.  Claustrophobia type freak.

I wasn’t all that patient in asking that the woman in the aisle seat move so that I could getoutofthisseatRIGHTNOW.

There wasn’t far to go of course.  Not much fresh air to be had.

So I settled for the rotten sewage-esque air the rear of the plane near the lavatory provided.

Which was a million times better than the chamber of death in which I’d previously been confined.

But I couldn’t stay back there forever.  And that knowledge made me freak even more.

I may have cried.  And incessantly chewed on my fingers, fists, knuckles, and the thumb drive I’d been prepared to put into my laptop.

I may even have begged the flight attendant for an aisle seat.  Any aisle seat.  At any cost.

To no avail though.

She proposed instead that maybe I kindly request that the passenger in front of me raise her seat.

Which I really didn’t want to do.

But once I’d returned to my seat I did it anyway.

Very nicely, I might add.

Her response wasn’t nearly as nice.

In fact, she was downright rude.  With eyebrows raised she let out an exaggerated sigh before inclining her seat maybe 1/4 inch (if I’m being generous), replacing her headphones and returning her attention to the movie she’d been watching.  The moment she’d resumed the movie-watching wouldn’t you know that seat just fell right back into place.  Go figure.

And yes.  I had explained to her that I was experiencing a bit of a panic attack triggered by claustrophobia and that it would help me immensely if she’d just sit upright.

I didn’t think it was asking too much, under the circumstances.  I guess that’s just me though.

Luckily there was a super sweet gentleman, Ozzie, sitting next to me in the window seat.

He sensed my panic (not that it was cloaked in any way, shape, or form) and he started small talk.  And even when at first I could offer little more than fragmented, panicked responses he didn’t let up.  He just kept on talking and talking and talking.  And intermittently apologizing for “not shutting up.”

Only he wasn’t talking in a won’t-shut-up kinda way.  He was just being nice.  Nice enough to help demented me breathe easy again.  So nice that within thirty or so minutes I felt 100% better.  The wine I ordered during beverage service may have helped too.  But mostly it was Ozzie.

Eventually I was able to carry on an actual conversation, as opposed to the frantic ramblings of a crazed person.  I learned all about his quaint hometown in the Midwest.  He gave me an impromptu history lesson on subjects near and dear to him: the Badlands, Wild Bill Hickok, and Calamity Jane.  He told me about his wife of nineteen years and their only daughter.  We even swapped stories of deployments (mine from a spouse’s perspective, his from someone preparing for yet another).

Ozzie rocked.

The outrageously thoughtless lady in the seat in front of me?  Not so much.

I guess I’m too naive.  Naive enough to not understand the heartless actions of some of the people who walk this Earth.  There are those who are heartless through indifference. Narcissism.  Entitlement.  And another kind entirely, whose hurtful actions are seemingly premeditated.  Those who set out to cause pain.  For no good reason.

I’ll never understand those people.

And that’s probably a good thing.

I’d rather devote my attention to the Ozzies of the world.  Granted, they may be few and far between.  But the light that the Ozzies cast is widespread and far-reaching.

Even at 40,000 feet.

I never claimed my methods were subtle…

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.

I’ve been saying things lately that make me feel old.

They do more than make me feel old actually.

The fact that I say them is enough to qualify me.

Not five minutes ago, these very words came out of my mouth: “I’m not running a diner here.”

I said it response to Kennedy when she asked if her and her overnight guest could have ice cream.  At nearly 10:00.  As in PM.  I mean, I don’t know about your house, but around here the kitchen is absolutely closed at 9.  Period.

And earlier today I swear I heard myself telling Cassidy something to the effect of, “that’s what happens when you make bad behavioral choices.”

That one didn’t make me sound old so much as just really geeky.

And it’s not just the things I say.  That which I do is also proof.

I’ve taken to shaking my head in disapproval when I see kids on roller skate shoes in the stores.  Or with saggy pants.  Or two-toned hair.

Those freaky piercings in which they insert random wooden hexagons or screws or whatever the heck they are thoroughly disgust me.  As do skinny jeans on otherwise respectable young men.

I refer to the majority of Torri’s iPod playlist as noise (with the obvious exception of her Disney selections, which I highly approve).  And I honestly can’t remember the last time I even casually flipped to MTV.

The other day Jeff was telling Torri that I liked the book she’d recommended so much that I’d kept him up really late because I wouldn’t turn the lights off until I’d finished just one more chapter.

How late? She hedged.

Like, 11:30.

11:30?  Wow.  Move over Farrah and Michael, we’re talking newsworthy here.

See what I mean?  Old.

And I used to be so cool.

Next thing you know I’ll be griping about the bus-stop kids walking through the yard.

Or better yet.  Talking Jeff into hiding one of those little zapper do-dads at the perimeter so they get a little juice pumped into ‘em if they opt for the shortcut.

Yeah.  It’s official.

Send Depends.

It’s official.  We are now a household that includes just eight tonsils.

Cass was a little champ for her surgery.  And there was only a fleeting instant during which I thought my legs might crumble beneath me.  It was as they wheeled her bed through the OR doors that we weren’t allowed through.  Jeff and I turned to head back to the waiting room and at the last second I heard her yell “Mommy…”

Tell me your heart wouldn’t have broke in two had it been you.  Because mine totally did.

I am such a weenie.  But I managed to reign in the tears.

The surgery only lasted about forty minutes.  And then we were escorted to the recovery room where Cass was waking up WAY more gently than she did from the tooth debacle.  She was in and out (mostly in) of sleep for a long while but when she was awake she kept asking me to “pet me” and by that she meant for me to rub her hair.  How cute is that?  Pet me.

It was really, really tough to leave her at the hospital with Jeff.  Part of me wanted to stay.  But the other part knew Jeff was much better suited for the job because at one point this afternoon Cass vomited and I about threw two nurses through the curtain because they weren’t properly reacting to what I just knew would lead to a choking/bleeding fiasco.

Turns out it wasn’t so much a choking/bleeding anything.

Just vomit.

My overreaction is the result of one too many memories of Cass being hooked up to scary beeping machines in the NICU.  Or the sight of her being taken by ambulance from one hospital to another as she fought a true respiratory emergency.

Thank God I had my level-headed Gram there to rein me in during both of those previous instances.  But she wasn’t here today.

So you’ll have to forgive my tendency to freak out.

I’ll just be happy when that risk of bleed out at days 5-7 passes.

Blissfully uneventfully.

Cassidy will fall asleep tonight with her tonsils intact for the very last time.  Tomorrow morning we will head to the hospital where a highly skilled doctor will remove them.  Ideally the anesthesiologist will be equally gifted and will successfully render my little girl unconscious during the surgery and then just as successfully wake her up when the time comes.  Both Jeff and I will be there holding her hand when she wakes up in recovery and acts so loopy it will surely scare the pants off me.  She’ll spend the night at the hospital under Jeff’s watchful eye (his as opposed to mine because I am oh so incapable of dealing with medical situations).  I’ll pick them both up the following morning and we’ll begin spoiling Cass with smoothies and mashed potatoes and ice cream immediately.

What won’t happen is we won’t be one of the few cases where the scabs “bleed out” causing an emergency situation.

That won’t happen because the mere mention of scabs and bleed out in the same sentence gives me hives.

Have I ever mentioned that I’m a little squeamish when it comes to blood flowing from my children?  When I know another adult is nearby in those situations I typically close my eyes and yell for help.  When I’m the only capable adult I’m slightly more proactive.  Only slightly though.

This is why I’m not a nurse.  Nor could I run a day care.

As you might imagine–what with my aversion to blood and needles and stuff–I’m just a tad apprehensive about the big event tomorrow.

So if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go take a valium now.  With a tequila chaser maybe.

Just kidding.

Sorta.

Yeah, so teacher appreciation week.

I have a great deal of respect for teachers.  Especially Cassidy’s teacher because Lord only knows how she manages Cassidy andtwenty other kids.  Heck.  Cassidy alone is the equivalent of twenty kids.

So, like I said, I’m all about the teacher appreciation.

But then this afternoon I got an email asking that I bring in a homemade or store-bought food item for the staff appreciation potluck.

Um, hello?  Staff appreciation?  Really?

Because here’s the thing.  The staff?  I’m sort of picky and choosey with which of them I appreciate.

The inclusion specialist?  I think she would be considered staff and I have the utmost of respect for her.

The crossing guard who gives me a friendly wave and tip of the hat every morning?  He’s A-Okay.

The librarian?  I’m totally diggin’ her.

The school nurse though?  I have to take issue here.

This chick drives me batty.  Like, as in, Robin could totally be my trusty sidekick batty.

And it’s weird because I really like her on a personal level.  We’ve chatted a bunch of times and I’ve always found her to be pretty cool.

I just don’t like that she calls me every time Cassidy has so much as a hangnail, kwim?

A couple of weeks ago she called because Cassidy’s eyes were red.  She called at freakin’ 7:54 in the morning.  I had just dropped Cassidy off at 7:15 mind you.  The conversation went something like this:

*Names have been eliminated to protect the obnoxious.

Nurse: Hi Darcie, this is *that nurse from the school office and I have Cassidy here with me.
Me: (thankful that the roll of one’s eyes is a silent gesture) Hi *school nurse.
Nurse: Cassidy’s eyes are really red today.  And very goopy.
Me: What?  I just saw her, like 20 minutes ago and she was fine.
Nurse: Well, she’s goopy now.
Me:Hmm.  I’m telling you that she was fine all weekend long and when I washed her face and put sunscreen on this morning I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
Nurse: Well, she’s rubbing them like crazy.  Oh, and did I mention the goopy?

“Goopy” is clearly a code word in this case for pink eye.  The nurse thinks Cass has pink eye.  Thus the repeated dropping of the G word.

Long story short: We determined her eyes were red from having rubbed sunscreen into them.  The goop was disputed and could not be verified by a third party.  Case dismissed.

And then last week Nurse Hypochondriac phoned again.

Nurse: Hi Darcie, this is *that nurse from the school office and I have Cassidy here with me.
Me: (beginning to wish that the rolling of one’s eyes maybe wasn’t so silent) Hi *school nurse.
Nurse: Cassidy’s para says that Cassidy is complaining of a tummy ache.  And she had diarrhea.
Me: Oh.  Well she was fine thirty minutes ago when I dropped her off.  How about if you keep her in the office for twenty or so minutes and see if she gets to feeling better.
Nurse: Well, she has diarrhea.
Me: You mean, loose stool?
Nurse: Yes, diarrhea.
Me: Well, how many times has she gone?
Nurse: (asking the para)….just one.
Me: So not diarrhea.
Nurse: Yes, it was diarrhea.
Me: No, it was just a loose stool.  Diarrhea is something that is ongoing.  Like, as in over and over.  Cass just has loose stools.  It’s normal for her.
Nurse: Well, as per district policy you’ll have to pick her up and she’ll have to be symptom free for 48 hours before returning to school.
Me: Oh.  See now, that’s a problem because the symptom to which you keep referring is loose stools.  And if loose stools are in violation of district policy, poor Cass will be a lifetime offender.  She’ll never be allowed back.  Like I said, it’s normal for her.

UGH.  I ended up having to talk to the inclusion specialist who promptly made the whole thing go away.  But seriously, how annoying can this chick be?

So, as much as I’d love to shower appreciation on the staff, somehow, I’m just not feeling the love.

Unless…

Unless maybe I bake a batch of special Ex-Lax brownies.  Teach her a thing or two about diarrhea.

Oh I kid.  But it’d be funny though.

You’re probably familiar with Murphy’s Law right?  You know the one: Anything that can go wrong will.

Seeing as how I fall on the glass-half-empty side of life I tend to be a believer.

And in the course of my thirty-one point five years I’ve garnered insight into other laws of the universe.

In honor of Jo-Lynne’s weekly “What I Learned This Week” carnival, I thought I’d share.

Pay attention now, these will come in handy for you sooner or later.

1. On the eve of your husband’s business trip to Baltimore, your car battery will go kaput.  But only if you’ve recently opted not to renew your AAA membership.

2.  Within moments of having your windows professionally cleaned, your peanut butter faced toddler will most certainly try to give you a smooch through the closed sliding glass door.

3.  The neon yellow flier the school sends home on Friday to remind you about teacher appreciation week will undoubtedly be lost beneath a stack of other papers and it will remain there until Monday morning.  It will, however, be discovered in the nick of time.  And by the nick of time I, of course, mean three minutes before you have to be out the door.  Leaving you precisely enough time to slap a sticky note thank-you on a Tazo tea bag and send your poor unsuspecting child off to school with it.

4.  Once you return home from dropping the kids at school (and ducking out quickly before your child presents her sorry teacher appreciation token) you will sit down at your computer to peruse your favorite blogs.  You’ll notice that your overachieving friend Heather went all Martha for the occasion and leaves you looking like a ghetto impostor.

5.  Thanks Heather.

6.  Your teenage daughter will approach you late Monday afternoon and inform you that she is required to go to the high school to register for classes on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday evening.  You will be left with no choice but to bring four children to registration night because, you remember?  Your husband will be in Baltimore.

7.  Things always come full circle.  See number 1.