Halloween, Dirt & Noise Style

I happen to be a big fan of Halloween. I love eating candy, dressing up in costume, being spooked, eating candy, dancing to the Monster Mash, snacking on candy corn mixed with dry roasted peanuts (a deliriously divine treat that my friend @turnaroundart turned me onto!), carving pumpkins, eating candy.

I also happen to look good in orange so I embrace any chance I get to sport it. If I keep on eating candy I just might look like a pumpkin myself one of these days. That'll save me money on my costume I suppose.

The boys of course love Halloween for all the same reasons I do. Mac Daddy hates Halloween for all the same reasons. He detests dressing up, could care less about spooky movies (He flat out laughed at Blair Witch Project whilst I peed in my pants.), hates candy corn, thinks dancing to Monster Mash is dorky, and is painfully uncreative when it comes to carving a jack-o-lantern. Meanwhile I buy pumpkins at every turn and even planted a kitschy scarecrow in our yard. Our table is bedecked with sparkly black and orange place mats, candy corn shaped candles, and plastic spiders. I listen to the Monster Mash station on Pandora and read Halloween stories in creepy voices with much ballyhoo.

I sounded every single one of my 41 years when I proclaimed to the boys that we'd be making our own costumes this year. Their mouths hung agape. And Mac Daddy laughed. Then these preachy words came out of my matronly mouth: "When I was a kid no one bought costumes. We used our imaginations and creativity to make stuff up. We were green without even realizing it. No one wasted money on costumes, even if that meant dressing up as a hobo or the unknown comic every single year of grade school." I must have spoken with authority because no one questioned me...though they clearly questioned my sanity. And for the record, I am the least crafty person I know. Luckily the boys are too young to know how ridiculous they might look, and by the time they figure it out, they will hate me for many more reasons (like the bowl haircut Bird seems to sport in every school picture).

I do hate all the high fructose corn syrup that cannot be avoided without paying an arm and a leg for carob bars or other such crap that the children would toss out with the razor bladed apples and arsenic laced popcorn balls. I wish there were some viable alternatives (stupid tombstone shaped erasers and skull emblazoned super bouncy balls aside). I suppose next year I could serve the fair trade natural stuff and rig up a fake gory arm and leg with a sign stating "I paid an arm and a leg for this candy."

Or I might just put up a sign that says "I paid an arm and a leg for healthcare. Can't afford candy."

In the mean time, I'll be dressed up as Rizzo and trawling the hood for candy. Bird will be a ninja warrior, and Deal will be his own super hero known as Super Deal. Mac Daddy will be dressed up as a corporate cube dweller who works for Da Man.

Sick About Being Sick

I don't like to shake hands. Not because I'm snooty, though I admit I can be. Because of all those nasty freaking germs out there. Like tampons, handkerchiefs, and mascara, some things should not be shared. I'm uncomfortable touching other people's hands, especially strangers. Think about it. Do you know where that hand has been? What's worse is when you do know and someone juts out her manicured hand in a gesture to make corporate niceness. No thank you.

I'm talking to you, Roxanne! I know you don't wash your hands after you go to the bathroom, even though you're dressed to the nines, fooling your minions into thinking you are a maven of cleanliness and perfection. Even my boys know better, and they scrub extra hard after a few good plops in the potty. You, Roxanne, are a germ infester. And I know you don't give a rat's ass about sick days, considering you once sent a CAB to your 10-year old daughter's school to pick her up when the nurse called you at work saying your child had a fever. You were the boss, the head honcho, the big cheese, and you kept on working, even though telecommuting and working from home were acceptable and even encouraged at the time.

And by the way, you were still at your desk when I left at 6:00 that day.

Germs make us sick, and I don't want to get sick. I work for myself and don't have the luxury of paid sick days. On those days that mucus flows like Niagara Falls, I simply work in my bubble and stay away from clients. I do have the luxury to be productive in my own wee little world. I was struck to learn that about half of all private sector workers don't get paid sick days either. Are you as incredulous as I am? Did you naturally assume you have paid sick days? Better rifle through that new employee handbook that HR handed you on day one with the soggy sandwich in orientation.

Raise your hand if your kid has been in daycare/preschool/school/gynmastics with another kid who has clear case of the runs or a runny nose?

Raise the other hand if you have ever pumped up your kid with Tylenol/Motrin/Benadryl to mask a minor ailment because you couldn't afford to take time off from work?

Now how does it feel to be sitting at the coffee shop/your desk/library/McDonald's (yes, they have free wireless!) with your arms up in the air?

Seriously, those parents, most of 'em anyway, aren't to be blamed. The finger pointing goes beyond the mom and dad just trying to get by (especially these days!). The fault lies with the system. If bosses like Roxanne don't value paid sick time, who will? Clearly the people in the C-Suite have the pull, and they're pulling in the wrong direction. That leaves us parents being pulled in all directions.

As a culture, it's no secret that we value productivity more than people. It is a utilitarian (not to be confused with Unitarian) society indeed. I could even make the leap to call our philosophy Darwinism, but some folks out there don't want to hear all that crazy talk. Just take a look at the state of our healthcare, maternity and paternity leave, heart disease rates, and poverty levels. For a first class developed nation, we pretty much suck at the things that make, and keep, our citizens happy and healthy. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Does that ring a bell? All that productivity is literally killing us, but hey, those fine folks at Halliburton and their ilk are making a killing. Our culture, policies, politics, and philosophy must change.

If you think it's tough to juggle work and family when you're sick, just wait til you add ailing parents to the equation. Now that's some murky territory that you definitely don't want to be treading in. It takes a village, my ass.

THE MAN, you know, the one we all work for, is a bastard. Make that with a capital B.

Click here to tell THE MAN what you think. The hard work is already done, thanks to the fine moms at Moms Rising.

Ella's Miracle

Tonight at dinner Bird asked me if he started as the size of a sprinkle in my belly. Where do kids come up with this stuff? I think a sprinkle is a fabulous visual for the tiny little baby that grew inside of me, kung fu kicking, swimming laps, applauding live music, and nudging me time to time just to let me know he was anxious to meet me. Just a note, the kung fu kicks and applauding live music have not stopped.

I was lucky to have an uneventful pregnancy, gloriously easy delivery, healthy, delightful baby, and now a smart, silly, loving, comic preschooler. Twice I've been so lucky. Bird and Deal fight the usual suspects of ailments with a few kickers thrown in just to make us crazy and pray like hell for a remedy: RSV, dehydration requiring two trips to the ER, rotavirus, pertussis. Both boys have beaten every bacteria and virus that have come their way, no worse for the wear.

In the short term Mac Daddy and I were utterly grateful, squeezing them just a tish tighter every night. Then the routine of pick up your toys, stop kicking your brother, eat your squash, talk nicely, share, make your bed, stop pushing, wait your turn, use your table manners, napkin on your lap, get off the dresser, wash your hands, be gentle with the cat, use your fork, wipe your mouth, put on your pajamas, drink your milk, get in the car, stay out of your brother's face, shut the door, turn off the lights, shut the door gently, stay in the yard, put on your helmet, shoes off, brush your teeth, no whining, talk in an inside voice, and so on set in. Back to the life of Sisyphus, which meant mundane routines and that whole being grateful thing tossed out with the ham sandwich crusts and uneaten apple skins. Many hours of the day spent frustrated, exhausted, resentful at times, lonely, spent, defeated. Such is the existence of a mom, right? The good, the bad, the ugly.

I suppose the world of the ordinary is a happy place, like a day with no bills in the mailbox. Ordinary means nothing especially great. It also means nothing especially bad. Even keel. Uneventful. Coasting.

There are times that even when coasting, we slam on the brakes.

And so it goes for the Newmiller family. Their lovely daughter Ella, just a few months older than my Bird, was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor smack in the middle of her brain stem. INOPERABLE. The fine doctors at the Envita Clinic are mapping our her treatment options. I don't know Ella, but my friend Molly was her preschool teacher. A lovely child by all accounts. No rhyme or reason behind such tragedy. I don't know where to begin looking for answers to questions that go unraised. Indeed this story is a tragedy on so many levels that I cannot bring myself to face them.

I wrote about my years as a pediatric bone marrow transplant volunteer. Not work I can wrap my heart around now that I am a mother. It's simply too difficult to face. I shudder to think about the heartache this family faces. This mother and father, cherishing their little girl as I cherish my boys, not knowing what one speck of their future holds.

And so I implore you, regardless your faith and ways of worship, even the non-believers out there, to pray for little Ella. Pray for her recovery, her health, her happiness, her right to a childhood and an adulthood. Pray for her parents and big brother too. You better believe I will be.

For those readers in the Triangle area, check out Ella's Miracle fundraiser this Thursday. And please, pass this on. Take a moment to be thankful for the ordinary and go kiss your children.

And yes, I did squeeze my boys a little tighter tonight.

IBC is not a rootbeer.

Few people know that three years ago I found a suspicious lump in my right breast. This was just a few months after Deal was born, so at first I thought it was just a nursing/hormonal thing. Something told me otherwise. I took my health into my own hands and got in to see my Ob/GYN immediately. Talk about listening to your body. A few days later the surgeon removed a lump almost the size of an egg. An egg! It had been hiding in a place my monthly self exam would have never detected. It was only after the lump grew and shifted that I felt it. That egg was heading over to pathology for a biopsy. A biopsy?! I'm too young for this, I thought. Why am I the youngest woman in the waiting room, I wondered.

I banished all dark, negative thoughts lurking in my 2:00 AM sleepless psyche and willed myself to think about something else any time my thoughts veered to thinking about Bird and Deal growing up without me. Mac Daddy and I barely spoke, lest we erupt in tears of fear and worry. The anxiety was eating us alive. Yes, I jumped the gun, but feeling a giant lump in your breast that wasn't there a week ago on top of having a newborn and a 2-year old can make a girl's mind do crazy things. Luckily, that lump was a lipoma. Just a lump. Nothing at all related to the dreadful C word. Bullet dodged.

Lesson learned: listen to your body and be your own advocate when something doesn't seem right. No one knows your body better than you do.

I came across the following post in the blogosphere. I am reposting it in its entirety. The post is written by a fellow mom of two boys. She is fearlessly fighting a form of breast cancer that I didn't even know existed until I read her post. Applaud her courage. Say a little prayer. Hug your children just a little tighter. Now take a look and pass it on. Consider it your good deed for the day.


"We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.

You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.


P.S. Feel free to steal this post too. I’d be happy for anyone in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions asked. Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place barefoot. I don’t care. But I want the word to get out. I don’t want another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis? Is it a rash? Am I overreacting? This cancer moves FAST, and early detection and treatment is critical for survival.

Thank you."

Disheartened

Today I am a bit disheartened.

Yesterday I took Deal to the doctor for a nagging cough. That led us to the hospital lab for some testing. Nasal swabs on a 2-year old is not pleasant, yet Deal was an utter super champ. He even thanked the nurses as they gave him a firetruck sticker and a Dum Dum lollipop. It was of course no big deal for us to go the doctor, pay the $15 copay, head to the hospital lab, get a $7 prescription filled. We are thankfully well-insured. Mac Daddy's company takes good care of its people. Plus, though we are not wildly wealthy, we are among the top echelon of Americans who live more than comfortably.

Mac Daddy and I spend wisely and are not frivolous people (as long as you don't count the occasional shopping spree -sales racks only). We believe in donating money and time because there are plenty of lives that are worse off than whatever self pity we feel. We are the world's best tippers. We treat our nanny as part of the family, not as hired help. Think about your creature comforts. A cleaning lady? DVR? 100 pairs of shoes? Sure, we splurge and waste money. We treat ourselves to luxuries. That's because what are necessities to us are luxuries to a whole host of others. And I'm not just talking about the Sally Struthers kids in ads in faraway countries. I mean right here. Under our noses. Among us.

I have never in my life worried about where my next meal would come from. My family answered my growling belly with plates of chicken curry and rice, spinach lasagna, and the occasional Doritos or Oreos. I have always had a roof, a very nice one at that, over my head. I took college for granted. Of course I was going, and of course my parents would pay for it. Same for boarding school, trips abroad, and vacations to Hilton Head and Palm Beach. I never was denied medical care, no matter how big or small the ailment.

Now what about all those people who don't live like I do? What about the kids who wouldn't have the benefit of going to the doctor, much less the hospital? Deal just had a nagging cough, nothing life threatening. That's because we can afford to get him the care he needs to prevent minor ailments from exacerbating into something nasty. Deal and Bird also have a bedroom to themselves, with full size beds no less. A loving, secure, comfortable, clean home. Emotional and financial security go a long way.


The state of our healthcare is shameful. A disgrace. Shambles. We have hit rock bottom. Are you listening in your ivory towers on the Hill? A basic level of healthcare is a right, one that our forefathers promised us. Now imagine if your son died because you couldn't afford to take him to the dentist. The dentist! One thing leads to another so the seemingly simple toothache could point to bigger issues. I once volunteered with a boy whose cancer was spotted by his dentist. Think about how many parents must weigh the expense of basic medical care with dinner on the table. This is a reality, not some media hyperbole. We, as a nation, are in denial.

Don't get me started on the insurance business. What a deplorable bunch of louts.

For now, I will be angry until I find a way to transfer this rage into something more productive. Luckily Deal is doing well. There's nothing that a humidifier, some meds, his teddy bear, and a giant dose of TLC won't cure. And let's not forget the follow up doctor's visit next week.