Blogging: the therapy.

Swimming Onset Insanity.

posted on June 11, 2013 by Rachel · 45 Comments Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Toddlers: The Experience

A week ago from tonight, I found myself losing my mind in the shallow end of a pool. Questioning my ability to be a parent, and doubting my purpose in life.

What had led to this travesty? How could my life be so complicated when standing in a swimming pool?

Let’s go in reverse order.

Thirty minutes before, my daughter began having a complete panic attack at even the thought of getting her face in the water. Or even her chin.

One hour before, I had done the treacherous work of getting my two children ready for the pool, driving to said pool, and taking off my two-year-old’s diaper and putting him in a swim diaper. Only to then find out that the pool was closed for a swim meet. This was followed by calling a family friend and begging them to let us use their pool.

Four hours before, at the first of three pools for the day, Ali’s swimming teacher told me the grave news that my daughter was not willing to get past the whole “water” part of swimming, and so I needed to work with her before the next day, or she would be fired.

(Okay. He actually recommended that I pull her out because he didn’t want me to waste my money. But still – only my kid could get fired from private swimming lessons.)

But four and a half hours before, halfway through that swimming lesson. That’s where the true root of my meltdown originated.

It was the second day of lessons with Mister Ray. Perfect for my intensely fearful daughter, he was calm, laid-back, and gentle. (Let me know if you need his number.) He didn’t try to trick her, and he never let her get scared.

(Unlike myself. Who is apparently horribly scary in the pool setting.)

Despite her six and a half years of built-up water/face contact fears, Ali adored Mister Ray. The day before, she had giddily giggled at everything he’d said, and was oddly not at all nervous about the pending confrontation between h2o and her facial orifices.

Noah and I had tried to stay far away from the lessons so as to not impede the happiness that was occurring. I thought he would be happy scooping and dumping, since it’s all he ever wants to do.

But he was not.

Thanks to teething, heat, and general crossness (I’ve taught him to explain to people, “I’m a little storm cloud”), he made it known how unhappy the arrangements found him.

So on Day Two (the fateful Tuesday in question,) Mister Ray, being the kind and merciful guy that he was, suggested that I let Noah hang out on the stairs of the pool. After all, our lessons were in the middle of the day, it’s June, and have I mentioned that we live in Alabama?

I happened to have Noah’s swimsuit and a swim diaper on my person, so I quickly took him up on it and plopped the kid in the pool.

Noah was happy, Ali was happy. Mister Ray was happy to explain how water doesn’t hurt our face for the four-hundred-and-sixty-seventh time.

I sat on the side of the pool, soaking up the rays of sunshine and of happiness exuding from my children.

Until a few minutes before the lesson was over. When I looked next to me and saw a dinner-plate sized pile of puke directly adjacent to my hand and creeping closer at an alarming rate.

My mind started racing.

“How did PUKE get next to the pool? We’re the first lesson of the day…and Ali didn’t throw up. I’ve been watching Noah. And Mister Ray seems healthy…so that’s strange.”

I looked at it and I looked at it, and then I looked at Noah, who was standing in the pool. Which is how I noticed the unhealthy yellow-brown tinge on the top of his swim diaper.

Nonononono NO NO NOOOOOO!!!!

In denial, I stretched the backside of his diaper open and peered inside…then yanked my finger back out with a new, thick coating.

That pile of puke was not puke. And if he had left that on the side of the pool…how far and wide had he spread his love?

I grabbed him out of the water and ran over to the sidewalk, where I had zero wet wipes. Or shop towels. Or a HAZMAT suit.

I told him to NOT MOVE AN INCH and ran to the car. When I came back, he was lying on the sidewalk with his feet sticking straight up in the air.

“Change me, Mommy!!”

As carefully as one can (which isn’t very), I shimmied Noah’s sopping wet and unpleasantly squishy swimsuit down his wet legs, while things that must not be named dripped out.

Then came the door to the underworld.

The ripping of the sides of the Swim Diaper of Hell.

Nothing can make poo nastier than being marinated in water. Especially when that water has had a really good chance to mingle, thereby creating a Lake of Darkness.

Let’s just say that I, who prides myself in never gagging at my kid’s various productions, totally gagged.

I managed to get the Bog of Eternal Stench into a bag without spilling it everywhere, wiped him up, scrubbed the sidewalk with a wet wipe, then went to attend to that gigantic pile next to the pool.

At which point I realized: Mister Ray and Ali were still practicing blowing bubbles in the pool. That pool.

“Hey Mister Ray…um…you might need to shock the pool and then some with a treatment. Noah just…had an issue.”

About twelve wet wipes later, I got the pool deck clean…ish.

Then I looked into the pool and saw a sinker.

(As opposed to a floater.)

I leaned over and dipped it out with my bare hand – it was a poo cashew.

Like, literally. Left over from the previous day’s granola consumption.

All the while, Noah was screaming because I wouldn’t let him back in the pool.

It was time for the lesson to be over anyway, so Mr. Ray had tactfully hopped out of the poo(l). While Noah continued to scream, Mister Ray broke the news about Ali’s inability to get over the whole water thing.

I apologized profusely for my son and my daughter, promised to work on her swimming in the next 24 hours, then collected my children, their shoes, their towels, and their poo and loaded it all in the car.

It was one of those car rides where Mommy needed a time out.

“No one talk. I need silence.”

I processed my mortification with regards to my child’s murder of the pool.

I processed my kid’s inability to conquer her fears.

Then, when my voice returned, I began teaching Noah a new No-No-Poop Catechism.

“We No-No Poop in the pool.”

“No-No Poop in the pool.”

“What do we no-no do in the pool?”

“We no-no poop in the pool.”

Epilogue:

Noah repeats his catechism at the mention of the pool, and has not pooped in any more of them. In fact, he actually didn’t poop for several days, since he met of that need so thoroughly in that nuclear waste site of a pool.

I recovered from the day with the help of a lot of artisan chocolate consumption.

Ali did indeed take an early retirement from swimming lessons. Although she could never make herself voluntarily put her face fully in the water, she did adore Mister Ray so much that on the last day, she allowed him to do this – twice – without any tears.

I was amazed, stunned, and otherwise speechless.

If only she loved me as much as she loved him, I might be able to help her conquer her fears before she’s twenty-one.

But I don’t see that happening.

45 Comments

As I Enter The Asylum,

posted on May 24, 2013 by Rachel · 30 Comments Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Toddlers: The Experience, Weird Strange and True

this will be the last story that I ever tell.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. I had promised to meet two friends at The Wish Collection to do some shopping. I was excited, because I hadn’t been back since my original score (and had been hearing about the beautiful finds that many of you had bought.)

I pondered getting a babysitter, but I decided against it. After all, we were only going one place, I only have two kids, and I’d take entertaining electronic devices – how bad could it be?

I arrived a few minutes early, but the warehouse seemed closed.

I walked around the corner and pounded on the door.

The office looked dark.

With a bit more research while sitting in the parking lot in the most abandoned part of downtown, I finally had to call it: the warehouse was no longer there.

{So ignore my advice and don’t go there.}

It had indeed been the sale of a lifetime – and I wouldn’t be getting any more of that goodness.

(Unless by some miracle they return. That’s what I’m hoping.)

My friends arrived just as I was discovering the sudden departure of our shopping destination, so I had to tell them the sad, sad news.

They sat and pondered for a minute, then suggested we drive out to The Shops of Grand River.

Perfect!

My kids love the outlet mall, I love the outlet mall.

However, after the hour detour downtown, Noah was in no mood to shop.

He was in the mood to fuss, complain, to hysterically run in circles around the stores, and to lick. Everything.

He licked the mirror. The wall. The floor. His sister. Me. My friends. The other mirror. The other wall. Thank goodness the sales clerk never walked by too closely.

As I pondered how I could create a makeshift tongue tourniquet, I apologized to my friends.

“I have NO idea what is wrong with him! He has been completely orally fixated lately. Everything goes in his mouth or gets licked. You should have seen The Black Spot he licked a few weeks ago – on the tile floor of the Downtown Library.”

My friend who doesn’t have kids yet said, “Maybe he’s teething?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

I checked, (getting thoroughly bitten in the process,) and sure enough, a new molar was poking through his germ-infested gums like a needle in a hazardous waste bucket.

And that’s why you need friends who haven’t had kids yet. They come up with the simple answers.

So as an apology to Noah for dragging him on a detoured girl’s trip while he was in pain (and Ali for having to put up with it,) I took them next door to the toy store and offered to buy them each something small.

They took my direction quite literally – they chose Squinkies.

Squinkies are tiny, pleasingly tactile rubber toys. And when I say tiny, I mean size-of-Craisin tiny.

In fact, Sally and Ramone had to be saved from the back of Noah’s newly-toothed jaws when he unknowingly picked them up with a handful of said Craisins.

(I got bitten for that one too.)

So Ali got random girly Squinkies, and Noah got Cars Squinkies.

I didn’t really care about Ali’s, because they were tiny creepy unicorns.

But the Cars ones – I was obsessed. They were adorable, detailed, and full of personality.

Within two minutes of depackaging all twenty-four Squinkies, one was missing.

And he knew which one.

“Where’s Sarge?? WHERE’S SARGE??”

I searched and searched to no avail. I promised him that it hurt me more than it hurt him. After all, not having a full set of something (including, and sometimes especially, my kid’s toys) is nearly more painful to my psyche than a lack of continuity.

I tried to enforce supervised-Squinkie-play-only to prevent any further loss of life, but that only lasted for 72 hours.

And on the third day, Noah found the bag of Squinkies for private play.

And at the end of the third day, there were only six Squinkies remaining.

It was as if someone ripped 18 rubber-car-shaped holes out of my heart. I languished in their loss, missing their tiny presence in our home with great sorrow.

I tried to let it go.

I tried to remind myself that they were just toys that were destined to get lost.

But I needed 24 Squinkies.

For three days and three nights I tried to forget.

On the sixth evening, I was talking with Chris. I looked past his shoulder and spotted a mirage on the end table.

No. It couldn’t be.

I interrupted his deep and lengthy thought with a squeal.

“Is that…is that SARGE?!?!?”

“Yeah. I found him between the couch cushions.”

“He’s been missing for a week!!! He was the first casualty!!”

The next morning, with hope and passion overflowing from my heart, I declared it to be Squinkie Search Day.

We started under the coffee table.

1 rescued.

Under the couch.

3 more.

On the train table.

2 more.

With each tiny rubber discovery, my soul burst with joy and victory.

We made it up to sixteen with scouring searches, but I needed those last eight.

And those last eight needed me.

I spotted a tiny shape slipping down to the bottom of Noah’s car basket.

I yelled to Ali with the urgency of a war mission.

“The Squinkies!! They’re in here!! I just saw Finn McMissile! AND THERE’S SALLY!!!!”

I began throwing Hot Wheels into my lap like I was digging a hole to escape a Chinese Prison.

Ali stared at me for a moment, then disappeared – and returned with my phone to take a picture.

Every time I found one, I squealed with excitement and threw it in a bucket, not daring to let Noah near it.

Ali changed her angle to show the burgeoning state of my lap. And a tiny glimpse of the deranged state of my face.

I put her to work counting and recounting tirelessly, giving me the new quantity every two minutes.

And after every surface was cleared, every basket was declared Squinkie-free, and every inch of floor was investigated, we took a final count.

Although it was beautiful to see so many happy Squinkies in one place, It felt like failure.

Where was the last Squinkie? And who was missing??

I thought of one place it could be – and considered giving Noah some Miralax to get it back.

But as I was distracted, Noah decided that it was time for his inspection.

Within seconds, the count had mysteriously decreased.

Did I mention that they bounce? With a very wide arc? And a very unpredictable trajectory?

I began grieving to the bottom of my toes.

I couldn’t handle another battle.

I couldn’t stomach another mission.

So I did what any logical person would do:

I logged onto Amazon and ordered 24 more.

These babies are mint in package. And no one knows about them but me.

And no one need know about them but me. Got it?

The fact that I know I have them, all twenty-four of them, safely in my care, means that I can now leave Noah and his set alone.

Live and let lose, that’s my motto.

Oh – someone’s knocking on the door. I think it’s the nice men with the straightjacket.

30 Comments

The Final Fix.

posted on May 14, 2013 by Rachel · 24 Comments Filed Under: Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Photographical Oddities

And so it came to pass that it was her time to spend 184 Days in the prison of flood recovery. She prayed three times for this thorn to be taken from her flesh, as it grieved her soul greatly. But finally, the end was at hand.

From the dark day in November when my daughter flooded her bathroom and then then went back to playing while the toilet spewed forth until the final completion of all necessary home repairs, it was taken from my life six months and three days.

The cleanup was intense, recurring, and ugly.

The last remaining step in the process was to replace the carpet in Ali’s room where the flooding had leached in brought ruin.

Replacing carpet seems significantly easier than gutting a bathroom and completely retiling and bathtubbing it, an it even seems easier than completely cordoning off the kitchen to scrape and repopcorn the ceiling, all of which had already been completed.

Except for the fact that my daughter is a hoarder. And I was Proverbs 22:6-ing it and training her up in the way she should go, which was clearly hoarding.

(Maybe I misunderstood the concept of “should.”)

So every surface of her room,

every drawer in her room,

every floorspace on her needing-replaced carpet,

was completely loaded with priceless treasures. Treasures that needed trashing before workmen showed up.

The night before The Big Dump, I prepped her and her brother.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow. We’ve got to throw many things away, but it will be fun – because we’ll find all kinds of toys and treasures that you’ve forgotten about.”

And the next morning, she was ready to go.

We had a trash box, a donate box, and a sentimental-stick-in-the-basement box.

We started sorting, and Noah started de-sorting.

We sorted faster, and he de-sorted faster.

We exchanged hopeless looks, and distracted him with new and fun toys.

But ultimately, after two days of work, we achieved DeJunked Nirvana.

(Okay. I didn’t throw away that much, but I certainly thought about blowing up the room and starting over.)

In the process, I ran across some especially curious finds.

1. Such as, the one remaining tiny princess shoe from the Christmas of 2009.

I still want to hunt down the childless idiot doll designer at Disney and ask him what-in-Jasmine’s-name was he thinking when he designed those shoes that were so tiny not even a brain surgeon could even get them to go on those stupid doll’s feet.

2. The Treasured Target Cardboard Collection: authentic floor-droppings from Targets all around Birmingham.

(My friends always thought I was embellishing my daughter’s hoarding tendencies when would I tell them that she has a drawer dedicated to cardboard-from-the-floors-of-Target, but this photo proves it – I was not.)

3. A Corner O’ Styrofoam. Also a hugely exciting Haul from Target.

4. This guy.

I have no idea who he is, from what world he came, how he broke into my daughter’s room, or what his intentions were. But he has now passed on.

5. To prove that perhaps the mess wasn’t entirely Ali’s fault, I present to you Exhibit A: unopened baby presents circa 2007.

(I apologize to whomever gave me those precious gifts. I assure you, I treasured them. In the back of her closet.)

6. While I’m at it, I apologize to the gifters of these as well.

7. It’s bad when her room is so messy that her toys themselves start passing along veiled threats.

8. Although we found enough Legos to sell on eBay and feed the world, there was a bowl with this collection, carefully set aside:

And tucked neatly next to the bowl were these directions, front and back:

When the two were combined, this was created:

Her first set of hand-drawn Lego Instructions. My husband’s lego-built heart grew ten times that day.

9. When all was said and done, the room was cleaned out, and the carpet installers were on site, I went to move a plastic shelving unit out of her closet. The type with the shelves held together by hollow tubes.

As I picked it up and tilted it, I was showered with her final art installation: hundreds of chestnuts, molded and partially disintegrated.

When the carpet was installed and I went to move the shelves back in, somehow a second batch that had been holed up and waiting for the exact right moment to plan their escape and all came tumbling out, covering the brand. new. carpet. with chestnut dust, particles, and nuts.

She’s a special kid.

Our ultimate load included five garbage bags, a box of trash,

and a giant stack of donate items (I hope someone gets good use out of that first year frame – apologies once more to the gifter.)

We also removed the carpet from the hallway and replaced it with hardwood,

And Ali, who was surprisingly proactive about throwing away or giving away even more than I thought she would, was thrilled with her new carpet, but even more thrilled to have a purged room.

And I was just happy to be done. 184 days later.

For those of you who asked the final tally of what that one cursed toilet flush cost our family, here’s the breakdown:

State Farm originally gave us $3,680 for our troubles.

On three different occasions as the project grew and more damage revealed itself, I spent hours calling, emailing proof, nagging, negotiating, and making them wish they never agreed to insure me to get them to give me more money. I even had my wonderful carpet guy and friend George to call my insurance guy and explain why I needed more of The Farm’s cash. Due to my general pain-in-the-buttedness, State Farm sent me three more payments for a total of an extra $1,798.51.

So the total Insurance payout was $5,478.51, which does not include the nine day bill from ServPro for untold oodles of dollars, because State Farm paid them directly.

Our total repairs and upgrades (such as getting a new bath tub while the bathroom was torn out, and getting hardwood in the hallway, an area that State Farm staunchly refused to admit damage but clearly also had ruined carpet) cost $6,352.01.

(This does not include the amount that we spent to go ahead and get the outside of our house painted while we already had multiple workmen coming in and out of our house.)

(And then the amount that we’re spending to finally get sod in our front yard because the house’s new paint job really made the mud pile of a yard look significantly worse.)

So ultimately, we got: