We are where we are for a reason

I spent my first three years in Philadelphia wondering why we were there. Other than my husband's job, there was no logical reason: both of our families live in Los Angeles, we're not big fans of cold weather, and we much prefer the suburbs to big cities. When my husband and I were in graduate school, we used to entertain ourselves by making lists of places we could see ourselves living and being happy: Philadelphia wasn't even on the radar. Upon graduation, my husband received job offers from lots of places, many closer to home and with higher pay. Yet none of them felt right. The only job that did feel right was the one in Philadelphia. I wore sweatpants for two months after he accepted the job; I was that supportive.

With the exception of a few awesome neighbors and friends, things never clicked for us in Philly. Within a year, we began actively looking for a way out. For the next several years, we were presented with several opportunities to escape, all of which fell apart for various reasons beyond our control. By year three, my husband and I were frustrated, annoyed, and confused. Why couldn't we get out of there? And then I found myself unexpectedly pregnant with Cameron.

Sometime early in the second trimester of the pregnancy, I contracted Fifth Disease. My older kids got the virus at preschool and passed it onto me. The odds of me passing the virus onto Cameron was very, very, very low but fetal ultrasounds performed twice a week during the pregnancy revealed that Cameron not only had the virus, but that it was making him progressively more sick.

Two years ago today, at 35 weeks gestation, I checked into the hospital at the University of Pennsylvania knowing that there was a distinct possibility that I would be checking out without a baby. I knew this throughout the pregnancy and the uncertainty of the future is what kept me from buying baby clothes and imagining family photographs that contained four children. I went into the hospital uncertain about the details of how it all would end, but also with comfort in the knowledge that angels would be present in the delivery room, either to help heal Cameron, or to comfort me.

I haven't written about Cameron's birth because I don't remember most of it. What I do remember isn't pleasant: doctors--lots of them--and the silence after Cameron emerged.

"Why isn't he crying?" I asked.

I wasn't able to see Cameron until later that night. By that time, the hospital chaplain had already come to talk with me. Cameron had had two blood transfusions and was in a medically-induced coma in the NICU. It wasn't until Cameron defied the odds and turned the corner several days later that I realized that HE was the reason why we were living in Philadelphia.

While I contracted Fifth Disease by chance, I believe that it's no accident that the world's leading Neonatal Infectious Disease Expert is at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. It's also no accident that one of the world's top pediatric hematologists also works at that hospital. Cameron's condition is so rare that there are virtually no precedents for treating it. To put it bluntly, I have no doubt that Cameron would not have survived had he been born anywhere else. The outcome certainly would have been different if I had delivered him at one of the small regional hospitals at any of the places around the country where we had hoped to move.

When I think of Philadelphia now, I am filled with gratitude and humility. The city sucked some of the life out of me, but it gave me in return a son that I wouldn't otherwise have.

The reason why I'm telling you this story now (besides the fact that it's Cameron's second birthday and I'm feeling nostalgic) is that I've received lots of emails in recent months from readers who feel "stuck" and "trapped" in places both geographical and emotional that they don't want to be. I'm hardly a paradigm of positive thinking, but I have learned from experience of the simple truth that we are where we are for a reason.

Sometimes we get the answer to the question "Why am I here?" right away.

Sometimes it takes four years.

photography by silvina b. photography

Either way, it's worth it.

Hallway Camping

One of my six year-old sons woke up on the wrong side of the sleeping bag today.

The reason why he slept in a sleeping bag in the hallway instead of in his bed last night has less to do with fondness for camping and more to do with an attitude problem that resulted in the loss of the privilege of having one's own bedroom.

There are a lot of things that my son didn't like about sleeping on the floor: the carpet smelled funny, the cat sniffed his head all night, the monster who lives in the hall closet came back from vacation. By far the biggest gripe, however, was the unfortunate fact that every time his brother or sister had to get up to use the bathroom, they had to step over him.

This proved to be a task that neither of my son's siblings seemed to be able to do without accidentally tripping over and/or bumping into him.

"KNOCK IT OFF!"

This is the sound of the unfairly persecuted.

For reasons no one can explain, last night the two children not sleeping in the hallway were plagued with overactive bladders. One got up three times before I gave him permission to urinate in his pants if need be. I had to ask the other one if she needed me to put her in a diaper.

"No one is getting out of their beds again," I said more hopefully than forcefully.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard a loud scream.

It didn't come from the sleeping bag, but from the person who tempted fate...and teased the person inside the sleeping bag.

Work from Home

There are lots of ways that moms can strike it rich with a home business:

Option A: make headbands/hair clips/ large infant hair bows and sell them on Etsy

Option B: sell herbal supplements/hypo-allergenic lip gloss/wickless candles to friends and neighbors

Devoid of creativity, people skills, and patience, I am left with no other choice but to go with Option C: namely, I buy toothbrushes at the Dollar Store and sell them for a profit to my children.

My kids cycle through toothbrushes like they're going out of style. When I wizened up to what was going on and instituted a strict limit of the number of toothbrushes one could use in any given month, horrible things started happening.

First, toothbrushes started disappearing from the bathroom.

"I CAN'T FIND MY TOOTHBRUSH!" they screamed. "If you want me to brush my teeth, you'll have to give me another one."

When that didn't work, the toothbrushes began committing suicide.

"It jumped into the toilet," my son told me, pointing to the corpse.

"The cat licked it," cried my daughter.

After losing six toothbrushes in two days (5 to the toilet and 1 to the cat), I turned into CVS.

"If you want a new toothbrush, you'll each have to give me a dollar," I told them.

"That's not fair!" my daughter wailed. She pointed out that the toothbrushes come three to a pack at the dollar store.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm just getting my piece of the pie," I told her.

My sons decided that they would rather fish their toothbrushes out of the toilet.

"Negative," I replied.

It's been three days, and so far I've made $5.

Easy money....I'm telling you.

The Bishop's Breakfast

A few times a year, the leaders of our church make pancakes for the congregation. If eating breakfast is all that is required, I would be fine. Unfortunately, attendance at these events comes with the expectation that guests will do the s-word: socialize.

That's more than I'm capable of doing on any given Saturday morning.

My children, on the other hand, have a neurotic obsession with the Bishop's Breakfast. Their fantasy includes an all-you-can-eat Las Vegas-style buffet line. My husband told them to imagine instead a paper plate containing two soggy pancakes and a strip of bacon...if they're lucky.

Despite the reality check, nothing could dampen their enthusiasm for the party.

"I lost the handout that they gave us at church," I told them truthfully. "I can't remember when exactly the breakfast is."

My children have minds like steel traps and informed me that the breakfast was scheduled for this morning at 8am.

That seemed a little on the early side, but we went anyway. The parking lot was empty.

[insert 5 minutes of mass hysteria]

"It's probably at 9 or 10, but we can't come back because you have a soccer game," I told them.

Everyone calmed down when I agreed to make pancakes at home.

My almost two-year-old decided to help. Everything was going well until I turned my back to get an egg out of the refrigerator.

That's when he spit into the batter.

Disgusting?

Yes. But also strangely fitting.

Soccer Practice

"I love playing soccer."

This is what my kids tell everyone they meet.

If this is true, they have a funny way of showing it.

Preparing for soccer practice is like shopping with coupons at the grocery store: it takes an inordinate amount of time and it's generally unappreciated.

An hour before soccer practice is scheduled to start, everyone's shin guards mysteriously go missing. Cortlen can't find one of his cleats and it's my fault that Camber cut her own bangs and now they're too short to fit into a ponytail.

Thanks to a series of major and minor miracles, we made it to soccer practice on time today. Everyone got out of the car pretty much on their own, except for one of my boys, who crawled into the back seat and started speaking in tongues.

"What's up dude?" I asked.

"I can't tie my shoes!" he cried.

I told him that it's my job to solve problems of this magnitude.

He sat sullenly, armed crossed over his chest, as I tied the laces. Immediately after I was done, he ripped the shoes off again.

"You didn't tie them tight enough!" he wailed. "You never tie them tight enough! Agh!"

He spent the next five minutes crying foul over my unwillingness to retie them. It was only after his coach penalized his tardiness with two laps around the field that my son remembered how to tie his own shoes.

"This is the worst day of my life!" he cried as he passed me on his first loop.

At the end of his second loop, he stopped in front of my lawn chair.

"Can you please retie my shoes?" he asked politely. "They're too tight."

The Snake

Today my kids found a snake at the park. Roughly the size of a large worm, the reptile was hanging out in between the cracks of the sidewalk.

"SNAKE!" screamed my son at the top of his lungs.

Suddenly, the snake had 10,000 visitors.

"Don't touch it," I told the herd of school-aged children who had gathered to inspect the animal.

One boy sat down on the pavement and turned his arm into a ramp. "Climb up my arm," he whispered encouragingly to the snake.

Another boy offered the snake a leaf to eat.

Good ideas spread fast. Within seconds, huge clumps of grass were being dumped on top of the snake.

"The snake looks hungry," a little girl concluded.

"Just leave it alone!" I told the group.

My son asked if he could pet the snake, or preferably put it into the plastic Tupperware container that was inside his lunch box.

"The snake is staying here," I told him. "You can look, but you can't touch."

"We could take it to the zoo," my daughter proposed. "I could hold it in my lap while you drive."

"Or we could just leave it where it is," I replied.

"I know someone who once ate a snake," volunteered another boy.

My kids' eyes widened with surprise and wonder before shifting back to the snake. Pandora's Box had just been opened.

"I wonder what a snake would taste like," my son mused.

"We're going to go home now," I announced.

"Like chicken," the boy with the friend who ate a snake replied authoritatively.

I thanked the boy for his knowledge and pushed my kids in the direction of the car.

"The next time we go to eat," my son said pensively, "I'm going to order snake."

The crazy thing is that there are some restaurants in central Florida that just might actually serve it.

The Baseball Game

This weekend, my husband and I took the kids to a Tampa Bay Rays baseball game.

Before arriving at the stadium, we stopped and got a quick lunch at Wendy's. Dispensing ketchup into tiny paper cups is a privilege that my older children have abused in the past. Until I say otherwise, none of them are allowed anywhere near the condiment counter.

The restaurant was crowded when we entered and, as a result, we were forced to split into two groups. My husband took Cameron and I got the other three. After delivering the food to my offspring, I made my way to the vat of ketchup and waited patiently for my turn. By the time I returned to the table, all of the food was gone, including my own.

"Who ate my hamburger?" I asked.

Everyone feigned ignorance.

"You just left it there," one of my children said.
"It didn't seem like you wanted it," said another.

My husband told me to go buy another combo meal. I chose the higher road and decided to be a martyr.

By the time the baseball game started, I was starving and super cranky.

"You're going to ruin this experience," my husband said with fear in his voice. "I can tell."

During the first half of the game, I left my seat on average of once per inning. Cameron puked on me twice; in the third inning, he had a different kind of accident.

On my third trip up the stadium steps, a fellow spectator leaned into the aisle and tapped my arm.

"You win the prize for the most ups and downs," she told me.

Ten minutes later, I solidified my title by making the journey again...this time with all my kids.

Outside the restrooms there just happened to be clown who was twisting balloons into the shape of strange animals and giving them to children for free.

"Can we get a balloon? Please?" everyone cried in unison.

I gestured to the line of 37 people standing in front of the clown.

"Do you want to stand in line for a balloon for an hour or do you want to watch the baseball game?" I asked them.

Everyone wanted the balloon.

"Wrong answer," I snapped.

My husband ordered me to get something to eat.

I held off until my surliness ruined another inning.

"Can I have a bite of your sandwich?" Cortlen asked, licking his lips.

"If he gets a bite, then I get one," Kellen piped up.

"And me," said Camber.

Cameron made his desires known by sticking his finger through the bread.

My husband responded by making everyone switch seats. I moved to the end of the row and he moved into the seat next to mine. Using his body as a barrier against the sea of grabbing hands, he assured me that the coast was clear.

Gifted

Yesterday, the school guidance counselor pulled my kids out of class and gave them all IQ tests.

"Their academic performance indicates that they are strong candidates for the gifted program," the woman told me a few days ago on the phone.

"I am so mad at you for making me take that test," snapped Kellen when I picked him up from school.

I pretended not to know what he was talking about.

"The guidance counselor showed me the papers that you signed," he sneered.

"I answered all the questions wrong on purpose!" barked Cortlen. "And I got up to use the bathroom seven times during the test."

"Well done," I replied.

"I do enough work at school," Camber complained. "Why would I want to do more?"

She made a good point.

Early this morning, the guidance counselor called me with the results of the exam.

According to the test rubric, Camber and Cortlen have below average intelligence.

Kellen is bored out of his mind at school, but he probably doesn't notice because according to the IQ test, he only has three brain cells.

I seriously don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Shopping Carts

Yesterday afternoon, I took my kids to the grocery store. The minute we pulled into the parking lot, my kids began screaming.

"Park over there! Park over there!" they shouted.

When I saw what they were pointing at, I deliberately parked as far away from the object as possible.

"You are so mean!" they cried in unison.

"We are passed that stage in life," I told them.

"It's just a shopping cart!" they whined.

What they were referring to was the size of a small sedan. It had four seats and the turning radius of a semi-truck.

"Nope," I said again.

Much wailing and gnashing of teeth and whining about paralyzed legs and unfair lives followed.

I told everyone to get out the car. After unbuckling Cameron from his car seat, I turned around to find all three of my older children crammed into the basket of a regular shopping cart.

"Now what are you going to do?" their eyes taunted.

I shrugged my shoulders. Then I plopped the baby into one of the million empty shopping carts surrounding my car and started making my way to the store entrance.

"See you later!" I called out.

The wailing and gnashing of teeth continued, but for different reasons :)

The Cake

I feel persecuted.

Last night, I made a sheet cake for the local elementary school's bake sale. After frosting the cake, I made the fatal error of leaving it overnight uncovered on the kitchen counter. This morning, I woke up to find our cat stretched out on top of the cake.

When I saw her, I did a little dance. It wasn't a happy one.

My daughter decided right away that the cake was ruined and demanded that I throw it out. Cortlen's take on the situation was a little more generous. "A little cat hair never hurt anyone," he pointed out.

Kellen suggested that we just add another layer of frosting. "No one will ever know," he smiled.

I was entertaining my sons' good ideas when my husband brought me back to reality.

"It's the thought that counts," he told me as he tossed all of my hard work into the trash can.

After he left for work, I scooped a handful of cake out of the trash and put it in the cat's breakfast bowl.

I am bound to disappoint my kids. At least I can please the cat!

Christmas Cards

Further proof that I take my calling in life seriously: it's only the second week in September, but I've already ordered my Christmas cards.

The above image meets all of the requisites of a card-worthy family photo:

A) It was taken during a family outing, in this case a recent trip to Weeki Wachee State Park, home to a tank full of live mermaids.



B) At least one of my children is not looking at the camera.

C) It will look amazing blown up and framed above my mantle.

D) It highlights my exceptional assets.

Some requisites are more important than others.

Entertainment Books

"Today I won a trip to Sea World!!!!!!" my daughter screamed the minute she got into the car after school.

I had been wondering how my school tax dollars were being spent. Now I knew.

"All I have to do is sell 54 of these books," she said, tossing a plastic grocery bag into my lap.

Inside the bag was my best friend.


"Nice to see you again," I said to the book.

I had a similar friend in Philadelphia which I was forced to buy after one of my sons ripped out three coupons without permission.

"I'm not going to buy 54 of these books," I told my kids flatly. "In fact, I'm not even going to buy one. We never come close to getting our money's worth." Sometimes honesty is the best policy.

My daughter looked at me like I had just stabbed a dolphin.

"If you buy four books," she told me, "I get entered into a raffle to win a glow-in-the-dark hula hoop."

I hid my checkbook to avoid temptation.

That was last Thursday. Today my daughter announced that I was the only parent from her class who had not purchased a coupon book.

"The only one," she said slowly.

"I like to be unique," I replied.

"The only one," she said four more times.

If there is a prize for the student who sells the most books, I suggested that there might be one as well for the student who sells the least.

"What kind of prize?" my daughter asked suspiciously.

I encouraged her to ask her around.

Fair Trade Goods

On Friday, my daughter got to pick three items out of her teacher's treasure chest.

"Look what I got!" she said proudly the minute she got into the car. She held out two fruit-flavored Jolly Ranchers (hard candy) for my inspection.

"Excellent choices," I replied. "But I thought you got to pick three things," I continued, slightly confused. My math skills are not so good, but I can still count up to ten. On occasion.

My daughter told me that she gave her third Jolly Rancher to the girl standing next to her in the parent pick-up line.

"That was very nice of you," I said proudly. I commended my daughter for doing something that I probably wouldn't do myself. When it comes to candy, I have a sharing problem.

"Look what she gave me in return!" my daughter replied, opening up her backpack. Inside was the contents of an entire pet store.

It was hard to keep the car on the road.

"You made a very good trade, but you are going to have to give all of those animals back to your new friend," I told her.

Everyone the car had a hard time understanding why I would demand such a senseless thing.

"I don't know what to tell you other than that I am a mean mom," I told the angry mob.

"You owe me a piece of candy then," my daughter said as she handed over the booty.

I nodded my head. That request seemed rational.

"Actually you owe me fifteen Little Pet shop animals," she said, changing her mind.

Orlando: The Collection

If you have read this blog for any length of time, you know that I love Shabby Apple dresses. One of the things that I like best about this boutique (besides their super flattering clothes) is that the ladies who run the place are way into themes.

After experimenting with a variety of different types of themes ranging from the delicious (boysenberry), to faux French (oh la la), to pre-World War (1943), the designers at Shabby Apple seemed to have settled into a comfortable groove. If you haven't noticed, most of the boutique's recent dress collections are named after beautiful and inspiring places: the Berkshires, Central Park, Baja, Manhattan, Queensland, and, most recently, Yosemite.

There are many deserving candidates, but may I suggest the most worthy city for a future photo shoot?

Imagine this: a gorgeous model wearing equally an gorgeous dress standing on top of the Epcot Center.

And this: a gorgeous model wearing an equally gorgeous dress feeding Shamu a fish from a bucket.

And this: a gorgeous model wearing an equally gorgeous dress hanging out in the parking lot of the Titanic Museum.

I get goosebumps thinking about all the possibilities.

Why am I not a stylist? Or art director?

I ask myself these questions almost every day.

Until the arrival of the dress collection called "Orlando," we'll all have to make due with what's available.

Behold! Yosemite:





I've spent most of the day wishing I had bangs to work into mini-buns. Just so you know.

Shark Attack

This morning, my husband and I took the kids to Disney's Blizzard Beach (water park). Everyone had a great time until Cortlen got bit on the arm by a ten-year-old kid.

My husband was in the water with my son when it happened. He said that out of nowhere a boy swam up to them and, without provocation, bit Cortlen hard on the arm. Cortlen is a tough guy but understandably, started crying. Tim hollered at the boy and motioned to the life guard, who quickly snatched the boy out of the water. It was all over in a matter of a few seconds. Unfortunately, we'll probably never know what motivated the attack. The boy was from a different country and neither he nor his parents spoke English. We spent the rest of the morning inspecting the bite wound and trying to determine the best course of action for treating it. Fortunately, the bite didn't break the skin.

"You're an animal," I told my son on the way home.

"Probably not the best choice of metaphor," my husband replied.

"You were super brave today," I tried again.

After the shock and horror of what happened wore off, Cortlen began to embrace the attack as a badge of honor.

"The boy was kind of like a shark, right?" he asked.

"Yep," my husband answered.

"So I can tell people that I got bit by a shark then?"

We thought about it for a minute before my husband replied.

"Tell them it was a Great White."

***
11: 45pm Due to a racist comment (now deleted), I'm going to have to block comments on this one from this point out.

Thanks again to those who brought it to my attention.

Costco Special

Employees of the Month

Last weekend, I found myself forced to explain the concept of nude beaches to my children.

This afternoon, I was charged with the task of explaining to the same audience why a grown man of seemingly normal intelligence would pull down his pants in the middle of Costco and have a bowel movement.

Needless to say, I struggled to find the right words.

We happened upon the crime scene--the book section--immediately after the event took place. I learned later, in the checkout line, that the suspect had been caught and apprehended in the parking lot. This information made me feel better, but provided little consolation to the crew charged with the task of cleaning up the mess.

"What happened over there?" asked my son, straining to see what was causing all the commotion.

"I don't really know," I said vaguely. "I think someone just had a little accident," I said.

The man standing next to us in line was kind enough to clarify.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," I told my kids as I loaded the groceries into the car.

They had a hard time understanding why I would deem such a fascinating topic of conversation off limits.

To their credit, they didn't talk about the incident on the drive home. Weirdly, despite the 90 degree heat, they all insisted on waiting at the end of the driveway for my husband to come home from work.

The minute that my husband's car pulled into the parking lot, they attacked.

"DAD! DAD! DAD!" they screamed, motioning for my husband to roll down his windows. My husband stopped the car and complied.

"Thanks for greeting me!" he smiled, clearly pleased that his kids were so excited to see him.

"Guess what?" they said, ignoring him. "We saw something super disgusting today."

I watched the exchange from the front stoop.

"I don't really want to hear about yucky things," my husband told them. "Tell me something nice."

Regardless of what my husband said, the result would have been the same.

They all clamored at once to tell him the gory details.

The line between disgusting and delightful only becomes visible in adulthood, and even then, remains fuzzy for some.

After listening to the kids' story, my husband covered his mouth in feigned horror.

Soccer Shoes

My kids moved up an age bracket this year in soccer.

New division= bigger soccer balls.

"Can't we just pump up the ones we've got a little bit more to meet the new size requirements?" I asked my husband.

He hissed something back about not being ridiculous...and cheap.

Yesterday, I took the kids shopping for the unnecessary objects. My husband, who breaks into hives at the sight of any retail establishment (he loves shopping that much), insisted on going with us.

"Done!" I said, plopping three five-dollar balls into the shopping cart.




My husband wrinkled his nose. "The quality of these balls is sub par," he said authoritatively.

"Does it really matter?" I shot back. "I'm going to run over at least one of them with the car by the end of the week."

Our kids' overall lack of respect for their personal property swayed my husband to my side.

The three people clutching $25 designer soccer balls required further convincing.



"Nope," I said, shaking my head.

"I've always wanted a pink and purple soccer ball," cried my daughter.

"I only like this one," said one of my sons, gripping a ball stamped with the World Cup logo.

"I want one of these instead," my other son said. He was holding a football.

"Those are all very nice, but we're getting these," I told them, pointing at the contents of the shopping cart.

By the time we got to the parking lot, no one was speaking to me. However, everyone had plenty to say about me to each other.

"Just a minute," Irrational Mother told them. "I forgot something in the store."

When Irrational Mother returned, she was wearing a new pair of shoes.

"Where are the soccer balls?" my children asked nervously.

I pointed to my feet.

The blood drained out of their faces, confirming that I made the right choice.