Vital Organs

Yesterday, Cameron turned six months old. Our sweet little guy has come a long way since his birth, but still has a ways to go.



As some of you know but many of you don't, I contracted Fifth Disease (Parvovirus B19) while I was pregnant and passed the virus onto Cameron in utero. The virus attacked Cameron's bone marrow, effectively shutting it down and preventing his body from making red blood cells. Needless to say, without a sufficient supply of blood, the body cannot properly grow and develop.

While the outcome of the pregnancy was uncertain, my husband and I had reason to hope: when a fetus's blood supply is compromised, the body instinctively compensates by sending blood first to the vital organs: namely, the heart, lungs, and brain. Anything left over goes to the other organs and the arms and legs.

Cameron survived the pregnancy because his body made this sacrifice. The choice to feed some organs more than others, however, did not come without consequences: Cameron was born at 35 weeks (one month early), yet was only 15 1/2 inches long; his abdomen was filled with fluid, he couldn't breathe on his own, and he was in heart failure.

Yet he survived.

I marvel at the body's commitment to self-preservation in the face of such obstacles. I am inspired by the body's focused gaze: keeping its priorities straight is instinctual. Unfortunately, this perspective of life does not come to me as naturally. My son's illness has reminded me of a simple truth that I too often forget: namely, that there are things in this life that I can live without, and things that I can't. Cameron has brought me many blessings, but perhaps the most important is the physical reminder to feed and nourish what is vital to my life (family, faith, and friends) before things that are nonessential.

My son's struggles have taught me that one can live with shorter than normal arms and legs, an enlarged liver and spleen, an underdeveloped GI tract, poor muscle tone, and yesterday's gift: a small brain bleed. We can all survive--and even thrive--with these things. Yet even the best of us cannot live a single day without our vital organs, and all that they symbolically represent.

Comments closed today. Hug your kids instead!

SWIMSUIT GIVEAWAY!!!

The Swimsuit Goddess (AKA Modbe Clothing consultant Janae) is mindful of our suffering. She heard our wails of despair and has very generously stepped forward to save us from ourselves...and the unflattering and ill-fitting tankini/swimdress that is on layaway at T.J. Maxx.

GIVEAWAY TIME!

One lucky winner will win a swimsuit of her choosing from Modbe's wholesomely sexy line of swimwear!!!

banded bottom= no muffin top (always a good thing)

If there is one bad thing about Modbe swimsuits, it is that they don't multitask.

Contest starts NOW and ends THIS FRIDAY, April 3 at 12pm EST. To enter, simply leave a comment. For a second entry, link to this contest on your blog. The winner will be chosen at random and announced super soon after the contest ends.

Good Luck!

If you want to sponsor a future Mean Mom giveaway, contact me here.

Swimsuit Shopping

The window of time to purchase a swimsuit each year is very short. If you do not buy one by mid-March, there is a strong chance that you will be stuck with a crochet bikini with no padding or a one-piecer with built-in bra cups the size of your rear end.

It's a toss up which one is worse.

Like most women over the age of 30, I look really good in string bikinis. After I had children, however, I decided/was politely told to go with something a little more modest, so I traded in my collection of patriotic triangle tops for the mythical creature known as the tankini.
It's a total myth that tankinis are the mom jeans of the swimsuit kingdom. The ones in my closet are downright hot.


This year, I waited one week too long to get my newest treasure. All that was left on the racks at Target were XS bottoms and XL tops.

"Why don't you buy something that actually fits you for once?" asked my husband when I showed him my purchase.

"I would," I told him, "If I could find something that costs less than $15.00 per piece."

"I don't care how much it costs," sighed my husband. "Buy something that fits."

A very kind friend pointed me in the direction of Victoria's Secret online swimsuit collection. Before making my purchase, I took the catalog's suggestion and went to the VS store in the mall to have my cup size measured by one of their underwire experts.


While the saleswoman/college student measured me (in the middle of the store), my children marveled at the diversity of underpants available for purchase.

"Can I get one of those little dresses?" my daughter asked, pointing to a hot pink teddy.

"Negative," I replied.

"You are either an A, B, or C cup," the saleswoman told me. "Depending on how much padding is in the bra that you are currently wearing."

I thanked the woman for her precise measurement and ordered the C cup.

Yesterday, the package arrived in the mail.

One thing is certain.

I am not a C cup.

I cannot post today. I am in mourning.


Check back tomorrow.

Love Notes

On Tuesday afternoon, my six-year-old daughter joined a group of older neighborhood girls (grades 1-4) in decorating the cul-de-sac in front of my house with sidewalk chalk.

Sadly, Camber didn't get the chance to finish her masterpiece (a flying unicorn) because I called her in for dinner 10 minutes later.

The next morning, my kids were riding their bikes in the same cul-de-sac when my daughter's two-wheeler came to a sudden grinding halt. She sat paralyzed in the middle of the street, staring at the ground, for several seconds. When I reached the scene, I immediately saw why. Scrawled onto the asphalt in hot pink chalk was this little gem:


More pleasantries were written on a neighbor's driveway including "Camber smells" and "Camber you stink."

My daughter was more confused than upset.

"Do I smell?" she asked. "Why don't my friends want me to come back and play with them?"

The answer I gave my daughter confused her even more.

"This is why kindergartners shouldn't play with older kids."

That afternoon, I left my children with a neighbor and greeted the tweens at the bus stop.

"You have 5 seconds to clean it up," I said to the group.

"We don't know what you're talking about," replied the group's spokeswoman, a fourth-grader, as I walked away.

Despite their insistence that they were not responsible for the insults, the girls worked extremely hard and fast to rub out the words the instant that I pulled out my camera and started snapping pictures of the asphalt epistles to show their parents.

***
Ugh. This is the first of many such episodes, I am sure. Camber didn't have the slightest idea that she was being insulted, but I know the time is fast approaching when she will get it, and it will not feel good. How do you handle such situations? What do you do when your "baby" gets his/her feelings hurt?

Zero Tolerance Policy

My sons’ preschool has a zero tolerance policy regarding weapons. The school also has a similar policy for open-toed shoes, gum, and low-grade fevers.

My sons memorized the rules in September and recite them on the way to school each morning. Kellen in particular is very diligent about minding his P’s and Q’s at school and thus, was understandably upset when he was forbidden from taking his show-and-tell item out of his school bag.

“I brought a weapon!” he cried.

I snatched my son’s school bag and frantically dug through it, looking for a butcher knife or bazooka. All I found was a retractable light saber.

“This?” I asked incredulously, holding it up. It had never crossed my mind that a plastic fluorescent phallus would be included on the list of banned items.

My son acted like I threw a live grenade into a crowd.

“PUT THAT AWAY!” he screamed, shoving the toy back into his bag.

“Do you want a piece of gum?” I asked, once we were in the car.

Kellen waited until we were out of the preschool parking lot before accepting the illegal substance.

***

Has your little one ever been busted for contraband? What? When? How?

My Daily Photo Op

On super awesome days, I take pictures of my kids' temper tantrums. I don't do it for my personal amusement (although it is an added benefit), but rather, to prove to my husband that my day really was as bad as I said it was.


Exhibit A


Exhibit B
Exhibit C

After viewing yesterday's evidence, my husband handed me his car keys and told me that he would put the kids to bed. My presence, he said, was requested at the mall.

***
Do you immortalize your child's meltdowns? If not, you definitely should give it a try. The pictures are not so funny in the moment, but hilarious 10 minutes later. I promise.

The Tick

Half of my daughter’s elementary school classmates have lice; the other half engage in high-risk behaviors that put them at considerable risk for acquiring the communicable insect.

A few weeks ago, my daughter got off the bus wearing someone else’s baseball cap.

“We swapped!” she explained with a smile.

After receiving the principal’s email acknowledging the epidemic, I began inspecting my daughter’s scalp at regular intervals throughout the day.

“You look like Jane Goodall,” observed my husband.

I let that compliment slide.

In the end, my diligence paid off. Camber didn’t get lice (at least not yet). During our search of the woods behind our house for our missing cat last week, she acquired something even better.

I found the engorged tick ten minutes before the school bus came.

I was appropriately mortified, grossed out, and embarrassed. My daughter was almost giddy.

I agreed to put the tick in a small plastic see-through bottle.

I found out the reason for this request later that afternoon when my doorbell rang. Half of the under-12 residents of my neighborhood were standing on my doorstep.

***

P.S. Our pediatrician confirmed that Camber is at low risk for Lyme Disease. We’re keeping a close eye out for mysterious rashes nevertheless.

Did you get lice this year? Was it everything you hoped it would be?

Go Butler!

We love basketball at our house. We love one college team in particular so much that we named our youngest son after the school's basketball stadium:


I am so not kidding.

Despite my family's fierce loyalty to Duke University, the Blue Devils don't make it to the NCAA championship game in any of my children's brackets. The crowd favorite to win it all in this year's big dance is none other than the Butler University Bulldogs.
"That college has the word 'butt' in it," squealed Cortlen as he choked on his dinner.

The mere allusion to a rump of any sort sent the other two into a fit of hysterics.

"You guys are hilarious," my husband said flatly.
"You're one step away from being excused from this betting pool," I added.

We should have saved our breath; none of the Bulldog fans heard us. They were too busy scrawling "I love Buttler" on scrap paper in the playroom.

My husband and I were disheartened over the fact that our children jumped ship so quickly, and over something as silly as an abstract allusion to a universal body part.

Sadly (for my offspring at least), Butler lost in the first round to LSU by four points. Now that my kids have fallen this far, it wouldn't surprise me if they dropped out of school, starting doing drugs, and began cheering for UNC.

The cliff is that steep.

***

Happy first day of Spring! It's practically sunbathing weather at my house. Wish you were here!


***

Just a quick reminder: this is the last day to enter to win a $100 gift certificate to SalonWish.com (a division of SpaFinder.com). The gift certificate is good at thousands of locations nationwide. All you need to do to enter is join the Meanest Mom group at momlogic.com. Good luck!

A Moment of Clarity

My husband's birthday was on Tuesday. My kids and I always give him awesome gifts (trio of black socks, ice scraper, fireplace tools), but this year's present was by far the best: we showed up to his work uninvited.

I always try to look my best when I visit corporate America; I feel that it is my civic duty to dispel the myth that stay-at-home moms dress like they've lost the will to live. Sadly, my favorite outfit (stirrup pants + man-sized sweatshirt) was in the wash. However, I did rejoice in the fact that I had a Friends (Season 2) haircut to show off to my husband's colleagues.

I got my hair cut last weekend. My hairstylist agreed to cut my hair into choppy layers if I agreed to invest in a hairdryer and a large circular brush.

"Your hair will look terrible if you don't style it," she warned.

I am what my sons' preschool teacher calls a 'bad listener.'

My kids and I were greeted at my husband's place of employment by an ivy-league business school graduate who runs five miles each morning. She was wearing high heels and a jacket with no arm holes.

"It's a cape," the woman told me.

After herding the kids into my husband's office, I went to the bathroom. When I returned, one of my children was writing "This is boaring" on my husband's dry erase board. The other two were shooting staples into the carpet under his desk.


"Surprise!" we screamed when my husband opened the door. He was happy to see us, but not so happy to find that someone had erased last year's earnings from his dry erase board.

"Sometimes I want to be that," I said longingly, pointing to the supermodels standing around the water cooler.

My husband came home from work later that evening to find me and the kids lying on the sofa, checking our scalps for lice. All of us were wearing some variation of stirrup pants.

"Danielle (one of the supermodels) said something interesting about you after you left," he told me.

I could only imagine.

"She said that she would give anything to have a house full of kids like you," he continued.

I stopped inspecting my daughter's head for microscopic insects long enough to count my blessings.

From a distance, the grass is always greener somewhere else. Despite the manure, I feel incredibly fortunate to be on this side of the fence.

We are all so blessed.

You're Invited

The Missing Cat's Funeral Feast

I'm a big fan of traditional marriage, but I have to admit that my own is somewhat unconventional. For the past eight years, I have been sharing a bed with my husband and his hairy girlfriend.


Sometime last Sunday afternoon, our indoor cat left us. She slipped quietly outside, we presumed, through a door left slightly ajar by one of our children.

Our family spent the rest of the day canvassing the neighborhood, shaking small Tupperware containers filled with dry cat chow while calling our cat's name and peering under our neighbors' decks with flashlights without their permission.

Despite their concern for the family pet, our children were full of optimism.

"Our cat is dead!" wailed Camber.
"A grizzly bear ripped her to shreds!" helped Kellen.
"Pretty soon, vultures are going to peck out her eyeballs," added Cortlen.

Although my kids' imaginings were not quite the image of my pet that I wanted in my head, after 30 long hours had passed, I was forced to admit that they were probably right, and began planning the funeral luncheon.

After buying a ham and retrieving a bag of prepackaged dinner rolls from the freezer, my kids and I set about the task of making a cake.

To my great sorrow, I was out of boxed cake mixes. As I groped my way to the dining room and my antique baker's cupboard (where I keep my cookbooks), I lamented the loss of my pet, and my self-worth. Losing a pet is sad; making food from scratch is demoralizing.

My attitude instantly improved, however, when I opened the cupboard door and my cat jumped out. I have no idea how she got in there or why she didn't make her presence known (she was as quiet as a mouse), but I am happy that we found her, and grateful that we did so before I was forced to get out my measuring cups.

"The funeral feast is on hold!" I announced, holding up the cat.

Everyone cheered, except for Camber, who was hungry. Her appetite was abated, however, by a snack, a quick trip to the grocery store, and the promise of a dessert produced from the contents of a clear plastic pouch.


***
Have you ever lost a pet in your own house?
Do you have a pet that your husband/significant other likes better than you?
My husband pretends not to hear me when I ask him which of us he would save from a burning building.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

As you can see, I've definitely got the luck of the Irish with me! Thank you to all who voted! Really- thanks so much. I am thrilled.

Boy Books

The subject of many books for early readers is a short vowel animal. This is a good thing if you like fluffy cats, big ducks, and dogs named Biscuit, but a bad thing if you prefer spitting cobras and flesh-eating parasites.

"I am definitely not reading a book about a pig that likes to jig," said Cortlen matter-of-factly.

Kellen concurred.

Fortunately, my J.C. Penney catalog arrived in the mail the same day.






Be sure to check out my other best-selling children's books: The Rabid Dog, The Pig That Became Pork, and The Poisonous Muffin.

FREAKY FRIDAY

It's Friday the 13th! To celebrate this wacky day, the Meanest Mom "swapped blogs" with the world's nicest mom, Courtney of C Jane Enjoy It. Courtney is everything that I'm not: classy, crafty, kind, and compassionate (plus we think that it's kind of funny that she has an angel on her header and I have a devil). I read Courtney's gorgeous prose to be inspired, to laugh, and, most of all, to be reminded how lucky I am to be a mom. Below is a little sampling of what the crazy famous C Jane does with words. Prepare to be amazed.

CONFESSIONS OF A SIN: PARTS ONE, TWO, AND THREE

by Courtney "C Jane Enjoy It" Kendrick

Part One
I lied to my husband the other day. To his face, I let the lie roll off my tongue into his trust and care. One day later with my guilt—anchored in my stormy soul—I confessed to my little sister.

“I did something bad.” I said, looking out the window like it was some forecast into my grim future.

“What now?” She said, my statement bouncing off her ears. She’d heard that statement too many times from her foul older sister.

“I lied to my husband.”

“About what?”

“I ordered an enlarged canvas print of one of his photographs.”

“And?”

“And he told me not to, because the resolution was so low it would look terrible. He said he’d reshoot, but it might be ten more years before he’d reshoot and I was really impatient. So I ordered it as is, even though they warned me it might look like pixilated puke. It should be delivered this week.”

“So you lied to him about ordering it?”

“Oh no, he knows I ordered it with the low resolution. I told him I was feeling lucky.

“So you lied about feeling lucky.”

“No, I lied when I told him it was twenty bucks. We’d only be out twenty bucks for a crappy canvas print. And because it was only twenty dollars, he wasn’t as disappointed that I indulged my impatience and stupidity all at once.”

“But it was really forty bucks?”

“No.”

“Fifty bucks?”

“Eighty. I was really eighty bucks.”

Then my sister gazed out of the same window. As if she agreed. Indeed, that future does look a little gloomy.

Part Two

I forgot that my sister has a penchant for announcing my sins at inconvenient times in front of interested parties.

This time she did it by pretending to talk in code, which always attract/annoys people. Humans are bothered by codes which is why they seek to decode. I should’ve seen it coming.

“Dad, ask Courtney about the really INEXPENSIVE print she bought this week.” My sister, my clumsy confidant did this with my husband on the couch next to my dad.

Exhausted from the hiding the truth, I cut to the core and confessed to my spouse. But this time I used ample theatrics with those wet things that drip from the eyes.

“I am so pathetic! I am a liar and a sinner!” I wailed. Tears are always Plan B. A spontaneous back rub should be Plan B, but I am generally too tired.

“You’re cute.” He said, sorta sarcastically.

“And I’m out eighty bucks.” I sobbed.

(I play the role until all is safe.)

Part Three

The canvas came in the mail two days ago.

If you stand a couple feet away it looks sharp. When my husband came home and saw it hanging in the kitchen he was impressed.

“You were feeling lucky.” He winked.

Only, then I remembered that I wasn't really feeling lucky at the time. That was a lie too. After I ordered the print I went into my room, got on my knees and prayed for a miracle.

For more of Courtney and a post by me, head on over to C Jane Enjoy It.

*************

Today (Friday the 13th) is the last day to vote for your favorite mommy blog! The race is super close. The Meanest Mom is neck-and-neck with several blogs for the lead and I need your help! If you haven't voted already but want to, please, please, please click HERE.

Thank you soo much! Every vote counts!

Tardy

More difficult than scaling Mt. Everest is getting three kids to school on time. I have, however, significant motivation to do the impossible: her name is Lorraine.

Lorraine is the secretary at my daughter's elementary school. Starting in late February, she wears a sweater vest decorated with three-dimensional Easter bunnies, but don't let the 1980s homemaker facade fool you: Lorraine is as friendly as a jackal.

Roughly once every three weeks, Mt. Vesuvius erupts at 8:50am at my house in the form of a missing shoe, a temper tantrum, or the unexplained need to change one's clothes for the third time in one hour. On these mornings, I park my car in the school's fire lane and drag four children into the front office to do penance before St. Lorraine.

"May I sign in my daughter please?" I ask after waiting at the counter for what feels like a century. My five-year-old twin boys have already written their names on seven visitor badges and have attached them to their shirts.

After Lorraine finishes her personal phone call/applying lipstick/rearranging her collection of angel figurines on her desk, she heaves a loud sigh of disapproval and hands me a tardy slip.

Even though my kindergartner is only 2.5 minutes late for school, I'm still required to publicly confess that I don't have my act together by filling out the form, signing it, and listing a reason for her lateness. By this point in the school year, I have exhausted all of the standard excuses. Plus, Lorraine is starting to question their validity.

"You were really 'out of town' for five minutes?" she asked in February.

Lorraine's growing suspicions that I have been less than forthright with her in the past have shamed me into telling the truth. While it used to take only a few seconds to fill out the tardy slip, now it takes me several minutes--and the front and back sides of the form--to describe the events leading up to and causing my daughter's late arrival. Usually my epistles include the phrase "I'm going to count to five" followed shortly by the phrases "I'm sorry you made a bad choice" and "against their will."

"This is all avoidable," smirked Lorraine on Tuesday, "If you could get out the door five minutes earlier."

I wanted to thank Lorraine profusely for coming up with a solution to my problem that I hadn't thought of myself, but I also didn't want to hold up the line. As I exited the building, I whispered words of encouragement to the handful of nervous mothers who were waiting for their turns to meet their maker.

When I got home, I decided to do something nice for Lorraine, to demonstrate my appreciation for the sensitivity and compassion she routinely shows parents who mornings are plagued with natural disasters and children who like power struggles. I missed the nominations for this year's faculty and staff recognition awards, so I had to settle for a candy poster.



I wonder what Lorraine will think about my gift. The fact that I took all of the candies out of their packages--leaving only their wrappers--may give her a clue.

Haute Cuisine

Last night, my husband took me to a dinner at a fancy restaurant in downtown Philadelphia, compliments of his work. A quick glance at the online restaurant reviews confirmed that it was the kind of place where Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and two-inch roots would be welcome.


The evening was quashed early by my husband's request that we not discuss my three favorite subjects: our kids, the octomom, and the clearance aisle at Wal-Mart.

"So what are we supposed to talk about?" I hissed as we sat down.

Several minutes were consumed by a lengthy discussion of the menu.

My husband liked the fact that "cheese" was called "brie." I liked that the main dishes were listed numerically, like Burger King.

"I'll have a number 3," I told the waiter.

The man holding the notepad and wearing a tuxedo looked confused.

Once my husband translated my request into Thai-French fusion, all was well.

My chicken was served in a tall cylinder that my husband identified as seaweed. Perched on top of the tube appeared to be a full-grown Chia pet.

Eventually I located what I assumed was the chicken and ate it in two swift bites. I spent the rest of the meal thinking about what I wasn't allowed to talk about.

During dessert, my husband praised the quality of the food. I lamented the quantity. On the way home, we stopped at Taco Bell. When I made my request through the drive-thru microphone, it felt good knowing that I was talking to someone for whom #2 is not a bowel movement, but a taco and burrito combo meal.

No translation necessary.

***
In all seriousness, our "date night" was a lot of fun (how can it not be where there is free food involved?!). The frequent lull in conversation, though, raised a good question: When YOU go out to dinner with your hubs and no kids (we go out a TON...like every 6 months), do you ever run out of things to talk about it?

Snow Day

Last week it looked like this in Philadelphia:


School was closed for two days. By 10am on day 1, my kids were acting like this:


So with their help I decided to make this:


Which turned out like this:

(baking soda is not an optional ingredient, I have learned)

And tasted like this:
While the delicious pumpkin bread was baking and I was giving Cameron a bath, my three older kids found the box of scissors that I had put on top of the refrigerator...


And a red marker.
I called my husband at work and told him that his presence was requested. Immediately.

He came home from work at lunch and he and the kids spent the rest of the afternoon doing doughnuts in our cul-de-sac with his truck.


Everyone was happy, except for my elderly neighbor, who watched in horror (hand over mouth) through her front window.