Discovering Death

I get a phone call a few weeks ago. Its dear Mrs. Fultz. Saying her name that way suddenly makes her 62, but she's not. She's Emily's first grade teacher.

Emily has a peanut allergy.

Its not as bad as Brandon's. Any exposure whatsoever and B gets a Twinject, adult dose (he's 11) and a 6 hour trip to the ER.

Do you realize how fast you get in when you use the first Twinject dose, and then get the second one ready (remember the phrasing "Twin" in Twinject), and show up at the ER holding the exposed needle and saying, "My 11 year old son was exposed to peanuts. He has swelling in his throat, nose, and all over his face. He's throwing up. He's having a difficult time breathing." Everyone drops everything and we get all the attention.

I don't particularly like the attention, but Brandon is not one to ever turn attention away.

Less digressing . . . . Emily has been allergy tested for peanuts and she's a 2 to 2 1/2. Brandon is like a 10, on a scale of 1 to 4. But we don't know exactly her symptoms progress. So, we've informed her of sensible eating habits when away from home.

Apparently we've scared her so much, that she won't eat at school.

Apparently this had let to her being a major hypochondriac.

I hear little feet going 90 miles an hour down our stairs. I'm in the kitchen with Lisa and I say to her, "Here it comes."

Or maybe I said, "And here we go again."

Whatever. . . but I'm sure it was witty because at least inside my head it was.

She runs in the room screaming, and I mean screaming (if you know the REAL Emily, you know what I mean. "Mom, I'm having a heart attack!!!!!!! I am going to die!"

By this stage in, well, her stage of discovering death, I have become quite numb to it. If you knew her, and all my kids, you would understand. Exaggeration was taught to them all in secret by whom I have yet to determine. But I think genetics is really to blame. Jonathan can't tell a story without a bug becoming a giant tarantula.

(No offense Jonathan.)

In the movies - Mall Cop - at one of the most pivotable points (its such a deep inspirational experience that I was saddened by the interruption) Emily feels a bit of reflux. Too much popcorn.

And it starts.

And it ends 2 minutes later.

Well, ended in the theater, when she started screaming, "I'm gonna die! Take me to the hospital! I'm gonna die! Call an ambulance!"

Why we couldn't have seen Pink Panther, I do not know.

October 9, 2008

More Riley:
"Mom, Mom!"
(I'm on the computer writing last night's blog.)
"What, Riley?" (looking at the clock realizing its 45 minutes past his bedtime.)
"Mom, do I have awesome rock hard abs?"
"What?!"
"I've been using Dad's new exercise thing. I did 200. Feel my stomach."
I feel his stomach. His skin is soft and new, he's only eight after all.
"Wow, Riley, you DO have awesome rock hard abs!"
His dimples appear, which means he's smiling.
"Cool."

Happy Birthday Mom!

Lately I have been on a mission to transfer my VHS to my computer in order to make DVD home movies. After all, in 20 years when I am old and reliving my past by crying over home movies, will there really be a working VCR?

In watching the film from 10 years ago, I have discovered that I liked my kids a bit more when they were little. Its not that I don’t like them now, its just that back then there wasn’t as much screaming, name calling, and general misbehaving. Maybe I do better with smaller children than I thought. I was certainly nicer on the video than I am now. And I seemed happier too.

Funny how perception works.

Its not that my kids are bad, because they aren’t. It is just that together, all four of them, is more than a handful. There is so much competition to be the best, to get attention, to be head honcho, that lately they haven’t left much room for friendship.

When I was growing up, my sister and I fought. And fought. And fought some more. She was the typical older sister, I was the middle child. I was not allowed to be anything like her. Do anything like her. Once when we lived in Maryland, we shared a room in the house in the house that was not on Autumn Valley Lane. That was the first house, I am referring to the second house, but the name of the street escapes me. I am sure I’ll think of it in a minute.

There was a thunderstorm. I don’t know if it was a bad one or not, but as a 6 year old child, I was scared. My sister and I were in our room and my bed was closer to the window, hers closer to the door. She hid behind her bed and proclaimed that the thunder and lightening could not get her where she hid. So I got on the side of my bed that was not closest to the window. I had been informed that the thunder and lightening was going to come into the room through this particular window. I was then informed that where I was stationed was not safe. The thunder and lightening could still get me there. Terrified I got up to go over to where safety was and was promptly informed that I was not allowed on her side of the bed.

Why I did not just walk out of the room, I do not know. What possessed my sister to be mean to me, I do not know. I just remember feeling panicked that I would be struck dead at any moment and that the one safe place was a place where I was not allowed.

What possesses my kids to fight? Or to be mean to each other? I’ll never know the answer. Even after competing with my sister all those years, I don’t understand it now. I guess I am now the old cranky dog that is annoyed by the pups.

Somehow Riley became afraid of thunder and lightening. It terrified him for about a year. Even in the middle of the night the thunder would wake him up, when it woke no one else up, and he would come running into my room. Maybe his roommate insisted that the bottom bunk was not safe. Maybe it is his mild personality. It got so bad that even if it looked like it might storm, he would run inside and cower.

So one day, I sat down and asked him why he was afraid. I don’t think he quite knew. All he knew was that it scared him. So I let him in on a little secret. And maybe you don’t know this secret yet either. Sometimes growing up makes you forget.

“Remember when we went bowling? Remember the low rumbling sound when the ball rolls toward the pins? Remember the loud noise when the ball hits the pins? What does that remind you of?”

“I dunno.”

I hear that a lot. It gets annoying.

“Doesn’t it sound like thunder?

“I guess.”

“Well, most people don’t know this, but the angels are actually having a bowling party. Strobes lights and everything. Remember the flashing lights at the bowling place?”

He had to think about this for a while.

“Does Heavenly Father let them bowl?”

“Well, sometimes he doesn’t know that they are bowling until it gets really loud, and so he makes them stop.” Cause a storm eventually stops, right?

“Do they get in trouble?”

“I suppose if it gets too loud he does, because they sure do bowl a lot at night. And that’s when we are sleeping. Heavenly Father knows we need our rest.”

More thinking.

And then a smile.

And he has never been afraid since.

BEGINNINGS

I used to write little stories about things my kids did that were cute. I don't know exactly when I stopped - maybe when I became uphappy, maybe when I didn't have enough time. Occasionally when I search through my word documents to delete the ones I don't need, I come across my little stories, events that tickled me when I wrote them. It's amazing how many times I have forgotten the stories, or remembered them incorrectly. I have always resolved to start writing again. . . but there is always an excuse. I'm too tired. I don't have enough time. What is there to write about?

Recently I have been following the story and updates of Stephanie and Christian Nielson and I think of how blessed they will feel, especially Stephanie, when they are able to read the daily happenings of their children when they weren't able to be there for them. You see, they were in a plane crash and were badly burned. Their children went to go live with two of Stephanie's sisters - out of state - because it will be a half a year or more, maybe never, when they are able to care for their children themselves.

 

What if something were to happen to me? Or simply, what if my kids don't remember the good times - only the times when they got in trouble (which happens a lot!)? Maybe if I resolved to write something positive about them they will remember, and not forget the good things that we do together.

It makes no sense, but doesn't it seem that the negative things in life imprint upon your memory much deeper than the positive? Maybe this will be a counterbalance or will even tip the scales in my favor - our favor.

There's no time like the present.

This morning I didn't feel well. My head hurt, again, making my neck and back hurt too. Its easy to give into slothfulness when you have a headache, day after day. And yes, I feel guilty for not going to church, especially when I only have two kids right now, instead of four. But I guess I didn't feel guilty enough, so I turned off my alarm. I finally got showered and started the dreaded task of getting dressed. It's not fun to pick out clothes when you used to be a size 6 and your headaches and medication have made you gain 30 pounds over the past 2 years. I found a clean but crumpled pair of cropped jeans on the closet floor and put them on. Something made a crackling sound - a sound not normal for putting pants on! I thought, "Oooo, I bet there is a twenty dollar bill in my pocket I forgot about!" (You just don't know how many times I put on pants and find money in the pocket!) I eagerly reached in the pocket and drew out the odd sounding item. As my hand turned over, I realized that the item was white. And lined. And had been ripped out of a notebook. I almost threw it away, but being the "don't throw it away unless you've looked at it" kind of person, I unfolded it several times and saw the handwritten note inside.

I immediately knew that my six year old daughter, Em, had written it - who knows when - and given it to me. Probably given to me when she was writing everyone a note, most likely I put it in my pocket because she was watching and well, I very well couldn't throw it away in front of her. So I guess I had put it in my pocket, went about my day and forgot about it. She's always writing notes and giving them to people, mostly me. I don't even remember her doing it but it sure left an impression on me today.

I looked at the note, surprised at how good it made me feel. Normally I would look at it and then throw it away. But today - today I folded it back up and put it back in my pocket.

If we could all be so willing to tell others of our love for them!

But I know the world can't change in an instant. Heck, I can't change in a month much less a year. I will probably be irritated by her choice of clothes tomorrow morning. The way she wants to wear her hair. How her clothes don't even come close to matching. And I will probably yell at her sometime, or two, or three, tomorrow when she doesn't listen to me. Doesn't clean her room. Says, "No!" in a nasty way. I am not necessarily a sentimental person, but today I got to actually carry her love with me.