Why is my life so sticky? About 8 years ago, I started noticing the beginnings of a strange sort of "gooiness" in my life. I've decided that something being "gross" is very much relative to your current situation. For example, I have known those women who wear gloves when they do dishes because the feel of the water on their hands is just "yucky." Yeah, well let me tell you something about yucky, my friend. Kids give you a whole new perspective when it comes to all things disgusting.
A friend of mine recently told me that she noticed something on the back of her neck. She reached up to scrape it off and found it to be a dried on piece of some sort of food. She has no idea when it got there, and is fairly certain that she was not the one eating it. This is the perfect way to explain the "ickiness" of being a mom. We are literally, a human kleenex. I honestly can't remember the last time I had a shirt that DIDN'T have something crusty/gooey on the left shoulder. And, I absolutely LOVE when a newly engaged friend flashes her sparkly diamond my way, because I almost immediately think, "That's awesome, wonder what it will look like with baby poop smeared on it."
It's like being a mom means that you no longer recognize a "right place" and "right time" to have the icky conversations. My daughter went to the bathroom in a store once, and came out with a horrified look on her face. Of course the stalls were full of other women, and she says, "Mommy!!! Come look at my poop! It's green, and it has a beard!!" Yeah, great. One more place that I can't shop anymore. Thanks, dear.
We've all done the unthinkable as moms. And if someone tells you they haven't done something absolutely repulsive as a result of mommyhood, they are either a) lying, or b) not actually raising their own children. Here are a few of the gross things we've all done, but some are too embarrassed to admit (note: after 4 children embarrassment is sort of non-existent). You know you're a mom if...
1. You've ever given your child a 30 second spit-bath before meeting someone new.
2. You've ever lifted a child high enough into the air in order to stick your nose directly into their butt-crack to determine whether or not you need to change a number 2. (note: mothers do this all the time, and we don't give it a second thought. It's sort of like waiting for the turkey timer to pop up. Just part of the day.)
3. You've ever dropped your child's pacifier, picked it back up off of the street and licked it off before shoving it back into your kid's mouth. (a slightly germy, quiet baby is better than a screaming one.)
4. You've ever pulled over on the side of the road, held your daughter up in a sort of squatting position and watched helplessly as she pees directly on your foot.
5. You've ever smelled something exceedingly vile, checked every butt in the house and eventually discovered that it's the soured milk smell of your nursing bra. Yeah, gotta change those things every once in awhile.
6. You've ever looked down at your hands after a really long, hard day and noticed something slightly yellowish smeared across your knuckle and tried to remember if you'd eaten mustard that day. In all likelihood it is baby poop, but you figure that pretending it's mustard means that you can just wash it off tomorrow if it happens to be shower day.
These are just a few of the beautiful moments in a Mommy's life. But, like anything else, we must take the good with the bad. Sure, I have to wipe butts while eating, but I also get the biggest, squishiest hugs imaginable. And to be honest, I wouldn't trade those for anything. Even if they are slightly sticky.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The Mommy Bikini
Every woman comes to THAT time in her life. You know, the time that you feel crampy and crabby. No matter what time of day it is, you are bloated and pissed. And pretty much the only thing keeping you from becoming homicidal is a bar of chocolate. Yep, you guessed it...I'm talking about swimsuit shopping.
Is there anything worse than shopping for a bathing suit? No. There isn't. It sucks and yet we have to do it. Even if you don't EVER actually put it on, it is imperative that you have one sitting in the back of your sock drawer mocking you every time you open it. So, we make ourselves miserable by going in and trying it on, which inevitably turns into an inner monologue of self-loathing. Then we spend a ridiculous amount of money on the only one that didn't immediately make us throw-up in our mouths a little, and we tuck it away, tags and all into some corner of a dark drawer knowing full well that it will never again see the light of day. I absolutely HATE swimming suit shopping.
So, I'm proposing that we open a new sort of bathing suit store. First of all, bikinis will not be allowed and anyone who walks in and asks for any size that does not include at least two digits will immediately be punched in the face as they are escorted back out the door. There will be a rack for the "new mommy", one for the "mommy to be", and of course one for the "mother of 4 or more." This rack will only contain those swimsuits with a girdle sewn into the bottom, and stainless steel cups to hold the girls in place. You see, when 4 kids have been hanging off of them for the past 8 years, regular underwire just doesn't cut it. This new store would NOT have any mirrors. No one actually wants any mirrors around when they're trying on a bathing suit anyway, and if they do they have probably already been punched in the face. And, there would be no need for self-loathing and promises to oneself that when you get home you will begin a strict crash diet. In fact, this store would give you a free donut with every purchase. That's right you single digit, swimsuit wearing wenches...bet you wish you'd asked for at least a 10 right now, don't you?
Yeah, that would be nice. But, since it doesn't exist I will just stick to swimming with the short people in my house. They don't judge me when I walk down the stairs in my purple (seemed like a good idea at the time, but now sort of resembles a certain dinosaur that I'd rather not mention) full body suit/tent. They're just happy that I'm playing with them. They don't care that there are a few more curves than last year. And really, they shouldn't have a problem with it because it's totally their fault that they are there in the first place. I still hate putting it on, and I still sort of walk/run to the pool and get in as quickly as possible. But, it's easier to take when your 4 year old looks at you with all of her baby honesty and says, "Oh, Mommy, I LOVE your bikini."
Is there anything worse than shopping for a bathing suit? No. There isn't. It sucks and yet we have to do it. Even if you don't EVER actually put it on, it is imperative that you have one sitting in the back of your sock drawer mocking you every time you open it. So, we make ourselves miserable by going in and trying it on, which inevitably turns into an inner monologue of self-loathing. Then we spend a ridiculous amount of money on the only one that didn't immediately make us throw-up in our mouths a little, and we tuck it away, tags and all into some corner of a dark drawer knowing full well that it will never again see the light of day. I absolutely HATE swimming suit shopping.
So, I'm proposing that we open a new sort of bathing suit store. First of all, bikinis will not be allowed and anyone who walks in and asks for any size that does not include at least two digits will immediately be punched in the face as they are escorted back out the door. There will be a rack for the "new mommy", one for the "mommy to be", and of course one for the "mother of 4 or more." This rack will only contain those swimsuits with a girdle sewn into the bottom, and stainless steel cups to hold the girls in place. You see, when 4 kids have been hanging off of them for the past 8 years, regular underwire just doesn't cut it. This new store would NOT have any mirrors. No one actually wants any mirrors around when they're trying on a bathing suit anyway, and if they do they have probably already been punched in the face. And, there would be no need for self-loathing and promises to oneself that when you get home you will begin a strict crash diet. In fact, this store would give you a free donut with every purchase. That's right you single digit, swimsuit wearing wenches...bet you wish you'd asked for at least a 10 right now, don't you?
Yeah, that would be nice. But, since it doesn't exist I will just stick to swimming with the short people in my house. They don't judge me when I walk down the stairs in my purple (seemed like a good idea at the time, but now sort of resembles a certain dinosaur that I'd rather not mention) full body suit/tent. They're just happy that I'm playing with them. They don't care that there are a few more curves than last year. And really, they shouldn't have a problem with it because it's totally their fault that they are there in the first place. I still hate putting it on, and I still sort of walk/run to the pool and get in as quickly as possible. But, it's easier to take when your 4 year old looks at you with all of her baby honesty and says, "Oh, Mommy, I LOVE your bikini."
Monday, July 11, 2011
Finders Keepers
I have a theory. My thought is that there is a direct link between increased amounts of testosterone and not being able to find ANYTHING that isn't surgically attached to your body. Obviously, men have this issue but I'm also convinced that all children are born with a little more testosterone than needed and eventually the females just replace it with estrogen. At that time, they seem to be a little more adept at locating things. I swear if the "lost" item isn't IN my husband's hand, he simply cannot find it. For example:
Jeff: Do you know where my shoes are?
Me: Did you look in your closet where we keep YOUR shoes?
Jeff: No.
Me: Oh, I see. They weren't on your feet, so therefore they have magically disappeared.
Kids are no better. The worst part about kids is that they KNOW that Daddy can't find anything either, so even if they are sitting right next to him, they will get up and walk a mile and a half to find me and ask me to find the lost item. We have a rule that you are not allowed to ask mommy where something is until you have actively looked for it. This does NOT include standing in one place and complaining that said item hasn't appeared in your outstretched hand.
My husband has his daily misplaced items which always include the keys to his car. And that is a serious problem because he already lost the extra sets of keys to BOTH of our vehicles. We do have an actual key holder right inside our front door, but putting them there would just be too sensible. We must ALWAYS throw them haphazardly on some surface that the children are guaranteed to touch, and it can never be the same surface because then we would know where they are the next time we need them! He also has his chronically misplaced items. The man has had approximately 27 different pairs of sunglasses since I met him. I've had three. However, I believe the most ridiculous example of his, "I can't remember where my own ass is" moment was just recently.
We had just watched our oldest son win his championship baseball game. He was so excited, and decided to talk to a few of his friends after the game. I told Jeff that I was going home with my mom so that I could feed our youngest son before she and I left for a short trip to Springfield. He arrived at Mom's a few minutes after we did, and sat down on the couch to use the computer. After a few minutes, my Dad asked what our 4-year-old daughter, Morgan, was doing. I looked at Jeff for the answer and he sort of just sat there for a second and then his eyes grew wide. I SCREAMED at him to, "GO GET HER!!!" He jumped up off the couch and sprinted for the door. He had LEFT her at the ball field!!!!!
That's not the best part. When he came back, he tried to blame ME for not TELLING him to get her. Oh, right, jackass. I forgot to tell you that we still have FOUR children. Wait, did you also know that in order to continue living you have to breathe in AND out? I mean, if these are the kinds of things I have to tell you then we may have a problem! Of course Morgan was fine because she can make friends with a grasshopper if need be, and in fact she didn't even know we were gone. When I asked her if she was scared, she told me some story about her flip-flop not staying on her foot.
I'm not saying that I've never lost anything. I've had four children, so my brain is mush. What I do have is the ability to LOOK for things that are "lost." Although, I guess if my theory is correct then he really can't help it. It's just the testosterone at work. So, fine...as if the female body doesn't have enough going on, I suppose we must come to terms with the fact that the uterus is also a tracking device.
Jeff: Do you know where my shoes are?
Me: Did you look in your closet where we keep YOUR shoes?
Jeff: No.
Me: Oh, I see. They weren't on your feet, so therefore they have magically disappeared.
Kids are no better. The worst part about kids is that they KNOW that Daddy can't find anything either, so even if they are sitting right next to him, they will get up and walk a mile and a half to find me and ask me to find the lost item. We have a rule that you are not allowed to ask mommy where something is until you have actively looked for it. This does NOT include standing in one place and complaining that said item hasn't appeared in your outstretched hand.
My husband has his daily misplaced items which always include the keys to his car. And that is a serious problem because he already lost the extra sets of keys to BOTH of our vehicles. We do have an actual key holder right inside our front door, but putting them there would just be too sensible. We must ALWAYS throw them haphazardly on some surface that the children are guaranteed to touch, and it can never be the same surface because then we would know where they are the next time we need them! He also has his chronically misplaced items. The man has had approximately 27 different pairs of sunglasses since I met him. I've had three. However, I believe the most ridiculous example of his, "I can't remember where my own ass is" moment was just recently.
We had just watched our oldest son win his championship baseball game. He was so excited, and decided to talk to a few of his friends after the game. I told Jeff that I was going home with my mom so that I could feed our youngest son before she and I left for a short trip to Springfield. He arrived at Mom's a few minutes after we did, and sat down on the couch to use the computer. After a few minutes, my Dad asked what our 4-year-old daughter, Morgan, was doing. I looked at Jeff for the answer and he sort of just sat there for a second and then his eyes grew wide. I SCREAMED at him to, "GO GET HER!!!" He jumped up off the couch and sprinted for the door. He had LEFT her at the ball field!!!!!
That's not the best part. When he came back, he tried to blame ME for not TELLING him to get her. Oh, right, jackass. I forgot to tell you that we still have FOUR children. Wait, did you also know that in order to continue living you have to breathe in AND out? I mean, if these are the kinds of things I have to tell you then we may have a problem! Of course Morgan was fine because she can make friends with a grasshopper if need be, and in fact she didn't even know we were gone. When I asked her if she was scared, she told me some story about her flip-flop not staying on her foot.
I'm not saying that I've never lost anything. I've had four children, so my brain is mush. What I do have is the ability to LOOK for things that are "lost." Although, I guess if my theory is correct then he really can't help it. It's just the testosterone at work. So, fine...as if the female body doesn't have enough going on, I suppose we must come to terms with the fact that the uterus is also a tracking device.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Do these pants make my feet look big?
So I was in the bathroom doing my make-up, and my four-year-old daughter came in and started telling me a story. (This, by the way, is the rule. If Mommy is in the bathroom for ANY REASON AT ALL, someone under 4 foot is absolutely REQUIRED to join her.) I have no idea what she was talking about, but I do remember that she was playing on the bathroom scale. I happen to remember that detail because she paused, mid-sentence, as only 4-year-old children can and said, "Someday when I'm a big girl that number on here will go all the way to the top!! Then I'll be in the big numbers! Just like you, Mommy! You get to be in the REALLY BIG numbers!" Thanks kid, you're out of the will.
I thought about her comment for a moment. First of all, why in the hell do women even OWN scales. Seriously, we should never EVER purchase such a thing. It's worse than a medieval torture device. And secondly, at what point do we stop wanting to be in the "big numbers?" I mean, the girl was rather devastated that the number wasn't going any higher and I can recall a time just last week when I decided to piss myself off by standing on the damn thing and thinking that it was most likely broken (as has been the case with every scale I've stepped on in the last 8 years.) They just don't make things like they used to...
Anyway, I think I'm going to take a different approach to this "weight loss" thing. I'm gonna take cues from my four-year-old. It just makes sense. She is beautiful, completely satisfied with the body she was given, AND she eats chocolate ice cream like it's her last meal. The point is, I think in order to be successful at this I'm going to need to like myself FIRST. As difficult as that may be, I'm pretty sure I've got the world's best teacher. Just today she found a new swimming suit in her dresser, took it out, looked it over once and said, "I'm going to look SO cute in this." With that kind of attitude, how could I possibly go wrong?
While in the bathroom with my daughter, I decided to make it a learning experience, as I often find myself doing for whatever reason. It's probably just because I'm a mom, and I try to "teach" when possible. As is often the case, there was definitely a lesson involved but I'll let you decide which one of us was the teacher. The conversation went something like this:
Mommy: "Morgan, can you tell me what number is on there? How much do you weigh?"
Morgan: "Well, I don't really know how much I weigh...but my feet weigh 40 pounds."
And this is why my 4-year-old is a genius.
I thought about her comment for a moment. First of all, why in the hell do women even OWN scales. Seriously, we should never EVER purchase such a thing. It's worse than a medieval torture device. And secondly, at what point do we stop wanting to be in the "big numbers?" I mean, the girl was rather devastated that the number wasn't going any higher and I can recall a time just last week when I decided to piss myself off by standing on the damn thing and thinking that it was most likely broken (as has been the case with every scale I've stepped on in the last 8 years.) They just don't make things like they used to...
Anyway, I think I'm going to take a different approach to this "weight loss" thing. I'm gonna take cues from my four-year-old. It just makes sense. She is beautiful, completely satisfied with the body she was given, AND she eats chocolate ice cream like it's her last meal. The point is, I think in order to be successful at this I'm going to need to like myself FIRST. As difficult as that may be, I'm pretty sure I've got the world's best teacher. Just today she found a new swimming suit in her dresser, took it out, looked it over once and said, "I'm going to look SO cute in this." With that kind of attitude, how could I possibly go wrong?
While in the bathroom with my daughter, I decided to make it a learning experience, as I often find myself doing for whatever reason. It's probably just because I'm a mom, and I try to "teach" when possible. As is often the case, there was definitely a lesson involved but I'll let you decide which one of us was the teacher. The conversation went something like this:
Mommy: "Morgan, can you tell me what number is on there? How much do you weigh?"
Morgan: "Well, I don't really know how much I weigh...but my feet weigh 40 pounds."
And this is why my 4-year-old is a genius.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Kanine Kabob
I'm an animal lover. Well, ok maybe not an animal LOVER so to speak, but I don't drown kittens or anything. I like seeing them occasionally, and I'll pet them if they happen to wander my way. We even had a dog that I loved very much, but that was before we had children to raise. We made sure she went to a great home and I shed a tear or two when she left, so I think that qualifies as AT LEAST "animal enthusiast." I mean, I have seen Marley and Me twice so that pretty much makes me the freakin' president of PETA, right?
Well, I may have to resign my position due to a little experience with a certain pooch who may or may not live through the next 24 hours. You see, I've had sort of a "rough" patch in my life lately. As in, I haven't slept in approximately a year and a half, my youngest son sent me on the roller coaster of my life, and I had to stop the one exercise I happened to like because you have to be at least coherent during daytime hours in order to go for a run. The combination of all of the above have put me in, let's just say, a LESS than chipper mood.
However, for whatever reason my son FINALLY decided that he was going to sleep an entire night. That, coupled with the fact that I have recently allowed myself to actually close my eyes when I hit the pillow, made me think that maybe, just maybe, I might get some adequate sleep. And I would have. If it weren't for one teensy little problem. At approximately 4 am, one of my neighbors thought that it would be ok to let their dog outside. That would have been fine if the dog had done his business and gone back in for the night. This, however, was not the case. The damn thing began to bark and did so, unceasingly, until 7:30 am.
The first 30 seconds of the doggie serenade made me feel bad for the poor guy. He just wanted to go back inside. See?...animal lover! But, yeah, that didn't last long. I sort of immediately began plotting his slow and painful death. Like maybe a little trip down to the river, for perhaps a sort of eternal game of "fetch." (Don't get all self-righteous and huffy with me. Like you haven't thought about such things at 4 am.) So anyway, as I'm seething beneath the covers I look over at the clock and realize that this lovely creature has now kept me awake for 2 hours. At this point, my genius husband begins to stir and realizes that perhaps there is something disturbing his beauty sleep. I watch him clumsily head for the windows and close them. Then he comes back to the bed, notices that I'm awake, and starts to move his mouth. I stare at him in warning, so as to telepathically prevent him from asking the stupid question that I know is coming. Of course, he misses this message and says, "Do you hear that dog?" No, not at all. Dog? What dog? Oh, you mean that incessant noise coming from the demonic flea bag outside the window? I may have noticed it.
I'm guessing I'm going to have a little conversation today about maybe NOT leaving the dog outside all night. I think if I present my case in a level-headed, calm manner, they will see things my way. And if not, tonight it's Shish-Kadoggie.
Well, I may have to resign my position due to a little experience with a certain pooch who may or may not live through the next 24 hours. You see, I've had sort of a "rough" patch in my life lately. As in, I haven't slept in approximately a year and a half, my youngest son sent me on the roller coaster of my life, and I had to stop the one exercise I happened to like because you have to be at least coherent during daytime hours in order to go for a run. The combination of all of the above have put me in, let's just say, a LESS than chipper mood.
However, for whatever reason my son FINALLY decided that he was going to sleep an entire night. That, coupled with the fact that I have recently allowed myself to actually close my eyes when I hit the pillow, made me think that maybe, just maybe, I might get some adequate sleep. And I would have. If it weren't for one teensy little problem. At approximately 4 am, one of my neighbors thought that it would be ok to let their dog outside. That would have been fine if the dog had done his business and gone back in for the night. This, however, was not the case. The damn thing began to bark and did so, unceasingly, until 7:30 am.
The first 30 seconds of the doggie serenade made me feel bad for the poor guy. He just wanted to go back inside. See?...animal lover! But, yeah, that didn't last long. I sort of immediately began plotting his slow and painful death. Like maybe a little trip down to the river, for perhaps a sort of eternal game of "fetch." (Don't get all self-righteous and huffy with me. Like you haven't thought about such things at 4 am.) So anyway, as I'm seething beneath the covers I look over at the clock and realize that this lovely creature has now kept me awake for 2 hours. At this point, my genius husband begins to stir and realizes that perhaps there is something disturbing his beauty sleep. I watch him clumsily head for the windows and close them. Then he comes back to the bed, notices that I'm awake, and starts to move his mouth. I stare at him in warning, so as to telepathically prevent him from asking the stupid question that I know is coming. Of course, he misses this message and says, "Do you hear that dog?" No, not at all. Dog? What dog? Oh, you mean that incessant noise coming from the demonic flea bag outside the window? I may have noticed it.
I'm guessing I'm going to have a little conversation today about maybe NOT leaving the dog outside all night. I think if I present my case in a level-headed, calm manner, they will see things my way. And if not, tonight it's Shish-Kadoggie.
Monday, June 13, 2011
What A Difference A Day Makes
We've all said it, "I just wish there were more hours in the day." I'm guilty of saying it myself, but I now know that a lot can happen in 24 hours. In the time it takes for the earth to make one rotation, lives can be changed forever. It happens to be exactly the amount of time that it took for my youngest son, Easton, to go from being a happy, healthy baby boy, to suddenly becoming a shell of his former self as a massive seizure claimed his body.
Adrenaline, pain, and fear of the unknown forced me to not only be awake for the full 24 hours, but also to be extremely hyper-vigilant. It was physically and mentally exhausting. I asked so many questions, cried so many tears, and although it was the most horrific day of my life it eventually gave way to the most beautiful 24 hours I have ever experienced.
During our first couple of weeks at the hospital, we had tunnel vision. We were concerned about one thing, and one thing only...the well-being of our son. Eventually things began to look more promising and gave way to thoughts of mounting hospital bills, ongoing care possibilities, and most importantly regaining a sense of safety and security for our family. Would we ever be able to recover from such a tragic event both emotionally and financially? Had we managed to create any kind of financial safety net for ourselves? We were obviously going to do whatever was necessary to bring our son back to us, even if that meant we would have to fight little battles for the rest of our lives. But, little did we know that back home, people had waged a war against our pain. We didn't come home to a few soldiers shouldering all of the burden. We had an army.
What began as a couple of people throwing out ideas to help raise funds, became a community working together to uplift and restore our little family. A benefit was held in honor of our son, and was centered around a walk-a-thon in which hundreds of people signed up, donated money, and walked a specified amount of time. The entire 24 hours was covered by at least one walker. People made sure that not even a second went by without someone walking. The symbolism of our friends and family coming together to each take a portion of our son's pain brought tears to my eyes all day long. My husband was there for the first steps, and I was fortunate enough to be there for the last. All along the way, we were accompanied by selfless, loving people who didn't give a second thought to donating their time.
The benefit was organized by a small group of women and men, and it ran like a well-oiled machine. But, I know that each of them would tell you that it was due to the fact that so many people offered time, money, and donations of all kinds. Every person that said they would be there, showed up. Every person that said they would bake something, went above and beyond bringing in some of the most creative and delicious goods I've ever seen. Every person that signed up to walk, brought their walking shoes and made it count. Needless to say, the benefit was a huge success. It surpassed every person's expectations. We will no longer worry about how to provide for our medical bills. Our friends and family have made it possible for us to focus 100% of our attention on Easton's recovery.
Small towns can have their own issues, including silly arguments and taking sides. But, on June 11, 2011 the walls came down. The barriers were broken, and friends and foes alike came together for a common cause. Like I said, a lot can happen in 24 hours. I have never been more proud of my roots. The communities of Payson and Quincy, IL have proven that big city lights and big city attractions could never compare to a small town heart.
Adrenaline, pain, and fear of the unknown forced me to not only be awake for the full 24 hours, but also to be extremely hyper-vigilant. It was physically and mentally exhausting. I asked so many questions, cried so many tears, and although it was the most horrific day of my life it eventually gave way to the most beautiful 24 hours I have ever experienced.
During our first couple of weeks at the hospital, we had tunnel vision. We were concerned about one thing, and one thing only...the well-being of our son. Eventually things began to look more promising and gave way to thoughts of mounting hospital bills, ongoing care possibilities, and most importantly regaining a sense of safety and security for our family. Would we ever be able to recover from such a tragic event both emotionally and financially? Had we managed to create any kind of financial safety net for ourselves? We were obviously going to do whatever was necessary to bring our son back to us, even if that meant we would have to fight little battles for the rest of our lives. But, little did we know that back home, people had waged a war against our pain. We didn't come home to a few soldiers shouldering all of the burden. We had an army.
What began as a couple of people throwing out ideas to help raise funds, became a community working together to uplift and restore our little family. A benefit was held in honor of our son, and was centered around a walk-a-thon in which hundreds of people signed up, donated money, and walked a specified amount of time. The entire 24 hours was covered by at least one walker. People made sure that not even a second went by without someone walking. The symbolism of our friends and family coming together to each take a portion of our son's pain brought tears to my eyes all day long. My husband was there for the first steps, and I was fortunate enough to be there for the last. All along the way, we were accompanied by selfless, loving people who didn't give a second thought to donating their time.
The benefit was organized by a small group of women and men, and it ran like a well-oiled machine. But, I know that each of them would tell you that it was due to the fact that so many people offered time, money, and donations of all kinds. Every person that said they would be there, showed up. Every person that said they would bake something, went above and beyond bringing in some of the most creative and delicious goods I've ever seen. Every person that signed up to walk, brought their walking shoes and made it count. Needless to say, the benefit was a huge success. It surpassed every person's expectations. We will no longer worry about how to provide for our medical bills. Our friends and family have made it possible for us to focus 100% of our attention on Easton's recovery.
Small towns can have their own issues, including silly arguments and taking sides. But, on June 11, 2011 the walls came down. The barriers were broken, and friends and foes alike came together for a common cause. Like I said, a lot can happen in 24 hours. I have never been more proud of my roots. The communities of Payson and Quincy, IL have proven that big city lights and big city attractions could never compare to a small town heart.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Be A Nurse
I. Am. A. Nurse. Actually you could probably classify me as one of those annoying people who knew from a very young age, exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I can remember being as young as 5, playing with dolls and acting like I was their nurse. I loved "taking care" of people, animals, rocks...you name it. I know there were a few points along the way that I thought about other possible careers, but ultimately I never wavered from my original goal.
My Aunt Joanie is a nurse, and I remember overhearing her talk about her job. I was fascinated by the stories she told, and always admired her confidence. I WANTED that. I needed to feel like I was making a difference too. And that's exactly what nursing is...making a difference, no matter how small, in the life of another person. I couldn't wait to get that RN behind my name.
I took sort of a non-traditional path to finding the right college for myself (my Dad loves that about me!) but I eventually ended up at Blessing-Rieman College of Nursing (BRCN) in Quincy. Sometimes when you live in the same place your whole life you have the assumption that other cities will have "better" things to offer in the way of education. However, BRCN is a nationally recognized school and more importantly does a great job of giving their students a solid foundation on which to build a successful career. I'm glad that I had the opportunity to experience it.
Having said that, I only worked as an RN for a few years before deciding to be a stay-at-home mom. I've definitely had moments where I miss nursing so badly that I give serious consideration to going back at least part-time. However, I also have moments when I think that maybe I'll choose a different career path altogether. It's moments like these that I've questioned becoming a nurse. It's not that I didn't like the job. Actually, I LOVED my job as a labor nurse. There is something truly magical about being in the room with a woman as she gives birth to her child. I could never describe it in words. But, I think at some point during my years of staying at home, I wondered if I'd made a mistake in getting my degree and then only actually using it for a few years. (This of course doesn't count the calls from friends/family members asking their nursing questions!:)
My recent life experiences have forced me to be several things at once. At times, I'm Mom, Wife, Daughter, Sister, and Friend. While my son's illness certainly saw my "Mommy" hat, I also felt compelled to slap that nursing cap back on my head. I knew what medications were being given, when they were to be administered, and I always asked why they were being given. I knew side effects and half-life of each drug. I asked all KINDS of questions about his care, and offered my help when they would allow me to do so. When we came home, I flushed his broviac line daily and performed sterile dressing changes as needed. But more importantly than my physical capabilities as a nurse, was my ability to use my critical thinking during the whole process. I say these things not to brag about how great I am, but to express how truly grateful I have become for my education.
I had a bit of a disagreement with a resident about taking Easton's central line out of his leg. The resident told the nurse to pull it, but I told him no. I'm sure that wasn't exactly what he was expecting, but I knew that although infection is a risk with a central line, having access for the remainder of the anti-viral medication was higher on the priority list. He argued that we had another access point in a peripheral vein. But, again my experience told me that a 24 gauge IV in the foot of an 11-month old is not likely to make it for 12 minutes, let alone 12 more days!! I agreed that he could remove the central line, but only AFTER he was successful in getting a more reliable access somewhere else.
In May of 2004, I graduated with my BSN. Blessing-Rieman College of Nursing did a great job providing me with the "who", "what", "when", "where", and "how" of becoming a nurse. Seven years later, my son taught me "why."
My Aunt Joanie is a nurse, and I remember overhearing her talk about her job. I was fascinated by the stories she told, and always admired her confidence. I WANTED that. I needed to feel like I was making a difference too. And that's exactly what nursing is...making a difference, no matter how small, in the life of another person. I couldn't wait to get that RN behind my name.
I took sort of a non-traditional path to finding the right college for myself (my Dad loves that about me!) but I eventually ended up at Blessing-Rieman College of Nursing (BRCN) in Quincy. Sometimes when you live in the same place your whole life you have the assumption that other cities will have "better" things to offer in the way of education. However, BRCN is a nationally recognized school and more importantly does a great job of giving their students a solid foundation on which to build a successful career. I'm glad that I had the opportunity to experience it.
Having said that, I only worked as an RN for a few years before deciding to be a stay-at-home mom. I've definitely had moments where I miss nursing so badly that I give serious consideration to going back at least part-time. However, I also have moments when I think that maybe I'll choose a different career path altogether. It's moments like these that I've questioned becoming a nurse. It's not that I didn't like the job. Actually, I LOVED my job as a labor nurse. There is something truly magical about being in the room with a woman as she gives birth to her child. I could never describe it in words. But, I think at some point during my years of staying at home, I wondered if I'd made a mistake in getting my degree and then only actually using it for a few years. (This of course doesn't count the calls from friends/family members asking their nursing questions!:)
My recent life experiences have forced me to be several things at once. At times, I'm Mom, Wife, Daughter, Sister, and Friend. While my son's illness certainly saw my "Mommy" hat, I also felt compelled to slap that nursing cap back on my head. I knew what medications were being given, when they were to be administered, and I always asked why they were being given. I knew side effects and half-life of each drug. I asked all KINDS of questions about his care, and offered my help when they would allow me to do so. When we came home, I flushed his broviac line daily and performed sterile dressing changes as needed. But more importantly than my physical capabilities as a nurse, was my ability to use my critical thinking during the whole process. I say these things not to brag about how great I am, but to express how truly grateful I have become for my education.
I had a bit of a disagreement with a resident about taking Easton's central line out of his leg. The resident told the nurse to pull it, but I told him no. I'm sure that wasn't exactly what he was expecting, but I knew that although infection is a risk with a central line, having access for the remainder of the anti-viral medication was higher on the priority list. He argued that we had another access point in a peripheral vein. But, again my experience told me that a 24 gauge IV in the foot of an 11-month old is not likely to make it for 12 minutes, let alone 12 more days!! I agreed that he could remove the central line, but only AFTER he was successful in getting a more reliable access somewhere else.
In May of 2004, I graduated with my BSN. Blessing-Rieman College of Nursing did a great job providing me with the "who", "what", "when", "where", and "how" of becoming a nurse. Seven years later, my son taught me "why."
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