Justification for a Gin and Tonic

After a full day away from home you come home to dog poop on your rug. Did the dog poop on the miles of wood floor surrounding the rug? No. On. The. Rug.

The dog also threw up in your son's room.

You have an hour to clean it up, jump in the shower, and greet the sitter who will relieve you and your husband for a two hour date. The first date in way too long.

Your toddler hasn't napped and is clinging to your leg like a spider monkey while you clean up dog fluids.

You remember your kids have to eat dinner while you're gone so you whip up something moderately nutritious. With the spider monkey, now also part howler monkey, still attached to your leg.

You hear your older son screech, "Oh, no! Fire! Uh, FIRE!" from the guest bathroom. Apparently the lit candle, burning to help diffuse the scent of dog fluids, was the perfect opportunity to burn toilet paper...for a six year-old.

I had mine on the rocks, hold the tonic.

Mini-Date

This morning before Bob left for work we were trying to take a moment to talk. Obviously, with four kids, there isn't a lot of time for romance, private chit-chat or dates - we take what we can get.

We stood outside of one of our daughter's rooms, our voices were lowered and we just chatted softly for a few minutes about non-child related things. It was nice.

Then we heard the sounds of our daughter waking, and within a few seconds we heard another sound: that of her loudly and obviously using the restroom. I looked at Bob, my lashes lowered. "It's almost as if we're in a private cafe, talking over candlelight, huh?"

He smiled back. "Yes, and we're listening to soft jazz being played - I do believe that was the trumpet solo."

Wordless Wednesday: Buried Treasure, Cake and Roasting Things with Fire...Keys to a Successful Boy's Party

Logging the Miles in the Clicky Shoes

I have never not worn high heels to work or to meetings. Hell, I wear high heels to the PTA. It is what it is. Some women can't imagine life not lived in comfy shoes, and I can't imagine life not lived in a pair of shoes that make me feel great - even if the rest of me is spat up upon, mussed, and otherwise "motherized."

I know that when I wear heels to school I get looks from some of the moms. I'm used to that. Some will even ask me where I'm going, My! You're awfully dressed up. Where are we off to? Sweet mother of God, comments like that can be so transparent. They really should just say, I do not like that you are wearing what you are wearing. Why don't you look/dress like me? I can only be nice to people who are EXACTLY LIKE ME.

So now there's work. I work with killer people - amazing professionals who have managed to train me in a field I never thought I would work. At least half of my day is spent around these good people. Then I get to run (very literally) around the hospital to just about every floor. It's dynamic, keeps me hopping, and it can be the favorite part of my day.

Except for some of the nurses. Nurses, people whom I adore and revere as having one of the coolest jobs around, have by and large proven themselves to be high heel haters. I can enter a floor that is frenetic with activity - medical staff running around, machines beeping, phones ringing, staff jostling and walk past a group of nurses in search for a patient's chart. In a way that is almost scripted, they whip their heads around in confusion and irritation - what IS that sound? Then they quickly see me, one of the few or only people not in scrubs and they nearly crack a vertebrae again as they snap their heads downward to investigate if the source of the clicking sound that has lodged itself nastily in their ears. Then, and this has happened every single time I have entered certain floors (there are areas of the hospital where my footwear goes blessedly unnoticed), they pause, give me the up-down appraisal, and either settle on my feet again or turn back to their work. Intimidating? Sadly, yes. I feel like the new girl in high school who has not pre-investigated the dress code. The new girl who even if she knew about the mandatory Croc/clunky clog rule would still have found a way to find Kate Spate clogs.

Even the men notice, which cements my theory nicely. Yesterday, while waiting to enter a patient's room as he chatted away on his cell phone (hello! Cell phone in the CVICU?!) a nice young man who was charting at his nurse's station gestured at the chair next to him. "He looks like he'll be a while. Why don't you have a seat?"

I gratefully sat next to him, mostly because when a nurse is kind like that I lap it up like the sweet honey that it is, and flipped through my papers on my clipboard. After a moment, I felt uncomfortable, because I could sense that this man was staring at me. I looked over to give him a smile, striving for something like, "What a day, huh? Old Man Leland is busting my hump" when he interrupted my thoughts. He pointed to my feet with his pen. "That's a lot of miles to log in the pointies," he said.

I looked down at my adorable Nordstrom slingbacks with the top stitching on the upper, all the way to the saucy little point where my toes should be. I sighed. "Yes, but these are actually very comfortable for me. I could play basketball in these things." (I was shooting for an oblique reference to the 80s commercials for Easy Spirit Pumps but my guess is that he wasn't born then).

He went back to his chart, but then stopped at looked at me again. "You know, you really need to get yourself a pair of these." He was pointing to his behemoth rubber Crocs. I swallowed back the nausea.

"Yeah, I just can't go there, okay?"

I am looking for the perfect pair of stilettos for next weekend. Sometimes you just have to man up and blaze your own trail.

Birthdays, MRSA, and Mother Power

Few things feel worse than cancelling a child's birthday party. Last year Jacob got so sick and ran such a high fever that at the last minute I was forced to cancel his fifth birthday celebration. It was awful. The whole time I kept thinking, "I wish I could just be sick for you - take it away from you so you feel better and get to eat cake with your friends." What mother hasn't thought that? I think the desire to take on all the bad stuff for our kids is hardwired into us. This year, a particularly bad year for illness in our house, I watched nervously as yet another super virus swept through the schools.

When I had to keep Chloe home last week due to a fever, I got an ominous feeling as I looked at the calendar and saw how close Jacob's party was. He seemed fine, though, so fingers were crossed. We celebrate tomorrow and so far he seems healthy as a horse. Me, on the other hand...I woke up this morning for the first time all week and felt good. My fever broke sometime early this morning, and although I woke drenched in sweat and still thick-headed, I felt like a millions bucks - because since Sunday night I have been sick as a dog. I like to think that somebody up there heard me and said, "You betcha. We can make you as sick as you want..."

Fine. Just as long as he gets his party. I feel well enough today that 800 mgs of ibuprofen and pot of coffee are all I need to get up and get things ready.

Of course, I also can't help but wonder if I've picked any of this up at the hospital. The thing I love most about the new job is that I get to be all over the hospital. I get to interact with patients on just about every floor (except Behavioral Health - thank God, because I am so done with my social work days). Last weekend I needed to talk to a patient who was confined because she has MRSA. You know MRSA, right? That terrible super-virus that kids are getting in locker rooms and half their arm or leg or what have you gets eaten away? Well, this young woman had it. So I gowned up, masked up, put on the gloves and held my breath as I went into her room. After I left, I was outside of her door and I Purelled every surface of my body that was exposed. I caught a nurse looking at me with a funny look as I slipped off my heels and Purelled my feet.

Hey, I'm not taking any chances. Embarrassment or MRSA? Easy choice.

I wonder if they will notice that this weekend I will be covered in a thin sheeting of saran wrap....

Wordless Wednesday

Global Warming Has Killed My Garden

I woke up this morning to drooping trees, a dying garden, and pots containing frozen flora and fauna. I am so demoralized....I live in one of the southern most states and it is snowing. In fact, it has been coming down in big, fat chicken feather flakes for the past two hours. My apple trees, just starting to bud, will likely not bear fruit again this year. Here's what they looked like an hour ago.

And here is what the BBQ corner of my courtyard looked like around the same time. In three days we're supposed to be roasting hotdogs and marshmallows with friends and family in honor of my son's birthday - it definitely feels like I should dust off the carols and whip up some hearty soup instead.

Sigh. Back to the drawing board, folks.