Fancy

While in college, I met a girl who I can best describe as a kindred spirit. We were alike in so many ways that we decided our lives were almost parallel in some areas. But in others, we were so very different, and those difference were what cracked us up, often enough to make our stomachs hurt and the tears start. Stef and I were both journalism majors and worked in the university PR office together. College would not have been the same experience without her.

One of our very favorite stories revolved around a beloved professor who has now passed on. He was polite and precise and perfect, in a persnickety type of way-- almost kind of fussy. Once Stef and her group (all girls) had to turn in a big project, which she had put together in a special folder. Upon handing it to the professor, he appeared surprised at their packaging efforts.

"Oooh, fancy," the professor remarked with glee (and maybe a smirk?).

Undecided as to how to respond to this, Stef stammered out the first thing she could think of.

"Well, we're fancy girls," she managed to say somehow without completely losing it.

If you're not laughing, then you just had to be there. We thought it was hysterical, and we still do. And the story has lived on since then, as "Fancy" became a term of endearment, an adjective, and a prefix that could interchangeably be used in almost any context. Even retelling the actual original conversation is enough to reduce us to tears of laughter. It's eight years later and we communicate mainly by email or phone, but we still call ourselves Fancy. And now we have little Fancies of our own.

So when Ben tonight said that his Halloween costume made him a Fancy Little Boy, I couldn't resist grabbing the camera and coaxing him into getting it on video.


So, this one's for you, Fancy. Love you and I'll call you soon!

Bestest Halloween Ever

It's 8:45pm, and it's been one long day of Halloween for this mama. I should be washing my face and going to bed, but instead I'm crunching away on one of the boy's tootsie roll pops and already reminiscing about the first trick-or-treat year that actually meant something to the boys. Sure they had fun last year dressed as cops and all (predetermined costumes that were literally bought for them when they were about a month old), carrying around their cheap plastic pumpkins and visiting a few special friends here and there. But for the most part, they sat on the porch with us and helped us hand out candy to all the "big kids." They probably ate an eighth of their body weight in skittles and 3 Musketeers, but they went to bed pretty much at the usual time and everything was.... normal.

Not so this year.

This year, they'd been carefully plotting what they wanted to be for months. In fact, there was much controversy in the family when Ben switched from wanting to be a football player to a racecar driver a few weeks out. I was not about to be swayed by a 3-year-old's whims, but Nana would hear nothing of it, and racecar driver he was. Jake, however, was steadfast in his decision to be a -- what else -- bowling player. Even Ben's nifty little racecar get-up didn't tempt him to change to perhaps a more obvious costume.

This year, there was the pumpkin festival to attend and blow $75 on things like $6 corndogs and a $1 per child rip-off straw bale maze. There was pumpkin buying (small, medium, and large-- two each, please). And the much-anticipated Preschool Party, complete with costumes, pumpkin-decorating, snacks, and of course, lots and lots of candy. Upon hearing that today was the much-heralded actual trick-or-treat day, Ben exclaimed with glee, "I love it so much!"

But the biggest change this year was the actual trick or treating event. I don't know how many year's I've been the one with the bowl of candy at the door, watching the little ones timidly walk up the sidewalk, encouraged (none too subtley) by the parents to walk on, say "trick or treat!" and use their manners. It was completely surreal to be on the other side of it, watching them intently and guiding them from the street as to what to do. A corny milestone, but a milestone regardless.

And the evening was not without the comments we've come to expect from the boys. Poor Jake wearing rental bowling shoes started gimping around pretty early in the evening, but he gamely carried on and insisted that "The shoes are fine. I'm okay." About two minutes from the house he finally agreed that yes, his feet did hurt and he'd like the tennis shoes we'd been carrying around for him for the past hour and a half.

At the first house where they had to actually climb stairs and go knock on a door, Mom and I made a move to go with them to help, but Ben would have nothing to do with that.

"We can do it ourselves. We don't need any help."

And really, they didn't. Ben, however, decided that there were too many big kids dressed in scary costumes at one point, crowding up his path to a house and cramping his style.

" I don't like the big kids," he let us know.

But for me, Jake took the prize when he responded to a man who jokingly asked if Jake wanted candy or just the cash.

"Just the cash," Jake replied without missing a beat. In this economy, really who can blame him?

All in all, Halloween was a hit with the boys this year. They even affirmed that Halloween was quite possibly better than Christmas when asked which was their favorite.

But the holiday season is young, friends. Stay tuned.

Tis the Season

Before I had kids, I never fully realized or appreciated just how often and easily children got sick. It was something I'd heard and read about, but I just didn't give it any thought.

Until the boys got their first cold when they were three weeks old. Two weeks before they were even due to be born.

Perhaps it was just a coincidence, a freaky super-contagious bug they'd somehow caught.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps, as I have discovered with time, kids are virtual walking, talking petri dishes, with disgusting habits and tendancies that give them practically no chance at escaping germless as they go about their way. The flip side? No one is safe in the wake of their illness. Their slobbery little hands, their snotty noses, their insistence on touching everything. You get within a 5-foot radius from them, you're a goner. Even the furniture and walls aren't safe-- Jake likes to smear his boogers on the wall above his headboard (I've actually been waiting to be able to mention this in a blog).

Last cold and flu season (ha. like that's the only time they get sick), the boys had a particularly impressive go of it. With the exception of two blissful weeks, they (and by "they," I mean "we") were sick from October until April. I am not exaggerating. Along with a handful of random upper respiratory viruses that would last anywhere from one to three weeks, we also enjoyed the following: two separate stomach bugs (puke, puke, pukity puke), throat infections, sinus infections, acute mono (that's right, my two-year-olds had mono), and for the grand finale, influenza for the entire family, complete with 105F degree fevers and convulsive chills.

Obviously, we've entered into this brand new season with much trepidation, especially considering the boys are now in preschool with a multitude of other petri dishes twice a week. And those concerns, most unfortunately, have been legitmate.

By the end of their first week of preschool last month, the boys had acquired their first cold. Two weeks ago, they got their second, which by the next week had morphed into a third bug (our doctor informed us last year that you can get virus on top of virus on top of virus. Fascinating.) I used to try to keep myself protected against their germs, but there's no point; I get it regardless. Same thing with them sharing spoons, toys, food. In fact, I know some people will disagree with this, but early in the illness I encourage the sick one to share with the other just to go ahead and get it all over with.

So here we are mid-October, still all sick, and apparently our sickness has spread to others outside of the immediate family (at least last year it was all contained to Lexington). I'm working on a nice case of laryngitis, Hilton can hardly breathe at night, and the boys are still sporting snotty-green noses every day.

Ladies and gentleman, start your engines. The horses are in the gate, the coin has been tossed, the starting gun has fired.

Let the games begin.

The ER Cafe

So..... I should have posted this blog a few weeks ago, but it's been a couple of rotten weeks of sick children, sick mommies, and out-of-town daddies. Suffice to say, I've not been in the mood to be witty.

But there's a story that begs to be told, and while I'm STILL sick, if I don't write this down soon, all of the snot stuck in my sinuses is going to take over my brain as well, and the memory will be lost for good.

Those of you who read my blog on my MySpace page might remember an entry titled "The Allergy Spa," in which I described how much I enjoyed the experience of getting tested for allergies, for the simple reason that I was given several child-free hours of just sitting still in a nice recliner. Never mind those pesky needles and the 64 holes in my right arm.

This is a similar blog.

A few weeks ago when the boys and I were camped out at my parents' house (again), I was settling down to work on my latop while the boys napped. I had just woken up from a delicious nap of my own and it was time to get serious. The phone rang, and it was Mom. She was with my sister, Allison, who had (acccidentally, I need to add) stabbed herself in her hand with a knife in an unfortunate incident with what will now go down in family history as the Very Last Piece of a Frozen Weight Watcher Cake that Wouldn't Budge. I hate it when that happens. Alli needed to go to the ER, and someone either needed to watch Eliza, her 14-month-old daughter, or take Alli to the ER.

I weighed my options quickly but carefully. Sick, cranky child who had napped poorly that day (plus my two boys).... or the Cabell ER, commonly known around here as the Seventh Ring of Hell. This was a hard one, truly. Then, in the back of my mind, I seemed to remember the ER had recently undergone an extensive renovation and was actually quite nice. I think I even heard they had... could it be.... Wi-Fi??? I love Eliza to pieces, I must make this clear. But....

"Ummm.... I'll take Alli to the ER."

As soon as my mom walked in with poor, red-faced, snot-nosed, miserable little Eliza, I knew I'd made the right decision. Door #2 was definitely the winner. I breezed out to the car, laptop and a good book in tow.

Upon arrival at the ER, I was not disappointed. The ER was in an entirely different location from the previous dungeon of filfth. The walls and decor were designed, it would seem, in direct imitation of my Very Favorite Place Ever, Panera. Warm colors, granite countertops, comfortable private seating, a flatscreen TV with Law & Order on, and yes, dear reader, Wi-Fi. Of course, there was still that inevitable icky hospital smell of antiseptic and cigarette smoke. But really, I was pretty excited. I camped out with all my stuff and settled in for what I hoped was a nice, long ER visit.

But what I didn't realize was that not only was this new ER pretty to look at. It was also much more functional, a novelty that normally would have thrilled me but this time left me somewhat dismayed. Alli was called to a triage center almost immediately, and in less than a few minutes, she was getting ready to head back to a treatment room for stitches and a tetanus shot. For a brief moment, she looked at me as it to say "Um, are you coming?"

But I simply could not make myself get out of that chair. I was so happy there in the waiting room. What if they didn't have Wi-Fi back there?

In an instant, she realized I wasn't going anywhere, and with what I am sure was disappointment, she turned and left to go back there all by herself. I'm sorry! I wanted to call out. Are you sure? I can come with you if you really want! I felt myself start to say. But I didn't. I just sat there selfishly with my little laptop, guilty but as happy as a clam.

So as poor Alli sat back there by herself getting shots and stitches, I got some actual work done and enjoyed myself. Thoroughly. My only real issue was that I was literally twitching for a chai tea latte or cappuchino or something of that nature. While working I would reach over to grab my drink and realize with sadness each time it was just a boring bottle of water. I resisted the temptation to go ask the ER receptionist where I could find something fun to drink.

All too soon, Alli was done and we were out the door, but not before I made sure she didn't have any other emergencies she needed taken care of before we left this nice place. She assured me that she didn't.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about returning there to get some work done during the week instead of going to Starbucks or Panera. I wonder how many days it would take before I'd get thrown out?

Baby Baby

Those who've been around me for longer than five minutes know that I. Really. Don't. Want. Anymore. Kids. Period. Fact. End. Finito..... you get the picture. I rant and rave about how the boys drive me nuts, how I can't wait until such-and-such stage is over with, and in general how I want to run away from home some days. The thought of having a newborn to deal with all night long and then the boys all day is enough to make me break into a cold sweat. Imagining once again being chained to the house for at least three naps a day and a super early bedtime makes me practically itchy with claustrophobia. Remembering the horrors of colicky babies and reflux and baby vomit everywhere makes me nearly gag.



So those who ask me "So, are you done having kids?" will get an affirmative, if not slightly rude, response, practically before the words have even left their mouths.



That is the factual, practical, realistic side of me talking. The part that uses my brain.



But friends, there is a phenomenon that I'm sure many of you are familiar with-- Baby Fever. Ah, yes, Baby Fever. An unfortunate affliction that is also known as This-Makes-No-Sense Disease, What-On-Earth-Are-You-Thinking Disorder, and Are-You-Crazy? Sickness.



Before having the boys, I was not exactly maternal material (read: I had never changed a diaper until we came home from the hospital). I think some might have been a bit worried if we'd all make it. But what no one ever knew was I had been afflicted with Baby Fever multiple times before, and I had been bitten good by that bug. I had hardly told a soul the real reason while I always hesitated to hold a newborn that was getting passed around the room.... yes, I didn't have that much experience holding babies and I was awkward, but the reality was I knew I'd react physically to holding that baby. Literally aching from my fingers to my toes, my heart feeling as if it'd burst, the warmth of that little one spreading to me like wildfire until I absolutely could not stand the pain of the child not being mine and I'd have to pass it on.



When I was pregnant with the boys, I lived with Baby Fever on a daily basis. Lying on my left side on bedrest, absolutely all I could think of was getting them here in this world so I could hold them. There's a Chris Rice song with the lyrics "I just want to be with you/Just want this waiting to be over." The song is originally intended to be sung to God, but during that time in my life, that song was my anthem to my boys, on constant replay in my head, over and over.



So really, it should come as no surprise that I am still capable of catching Baby Fever, but it recently snuck up on me and bit me so hard it smarted. In the last ten days or so, I have held no fewer than four babies, three of which were newborns. I'd forgotten the warm weight just lying on my chest, the indescribable baby smell, the helplessness, the teeny little features. It all came rushing back in a flood, and I found myself glassy-eyed and practically dizzy, thinking things that I had no business thinking... stupid, illogical, unpractical things that should have earned me a good beating with the baseball bat of reason.



This Baby Fever, I told my sister later, is downright intoxicating, dangerous even. When I left my friend's house after visiting with her new precious twin girls, I'd just spent nearly a solid hour holding those babies. I didn't know which way was up, I was so screwed up in the head. I would have failed a sobriety test had I been pulled over on the way home.



But home was where I went. Because that's where I'd find the antidote to this insidious ailment:



Two screaming, whiny, snot-nosed, crazy little three-year-old boys.



MY babies.