The Death of a Salesman

I'm skeptical of most salespeople, but today I gave in and let one in my house. Actually three of them.

Not my finest moment.

Around 11:30am, a young woman comes to my door and tells me she's from Kirby. She would like to come in to vacuum and shampoo one of the rooms in my house as advertising for her product. "We don't do TV commercials. Our only advertising is word-of-mouth, so if you would let me show you what my Kirby vacuum could do for your carpet you would really help me out," she said. "My boss pays me $35 to clean a carpet, so he says I'm cheaper than advertising."

Okay, I cave. What can I say? I'm a housewife with a post-birthday party mess to clean up from the night before and I could use a little help with some of the cleaning! I figured it was harmless. I knew I wasn't buying, so no big deal, right?

Wrong.

She tells me they'll be right over (who is "they" all of a sudden?). So I stop her and say, "Is it going to be noisy? My son needs to take a nap in a few minutes and I can't have loud noise."

"Oh, no. It's not loud," she assures me.

Salesperson #1: not a truth-teller.

So a few minutes pass, and two young gentlemen plow through my door with large boxes of vacuum parts. They're cordial enough, but I am irked that they don't remove their shoes as they enter. Um, wouldn't vacuum cleaner guys realize removing shoes is important if you're going to keep carpets in good condition?

I'm slightly annoyed, but they're all dressed up, so I cut them some slack.

Of course my mind is on those shoes now, so I look at the kid's shoes who is unpacking the chrome-glistening vacuum. His shoes are a fright. Completely peeling on top, and he informs me later his dog chewed the backs off of them.

I'm not buying it. I see it as a ploy for me to feel sorry for the guy and hand him a check.

Not happening.

He starts in on the small talk, acting interested in what my husband and I do for a living. In hindsight, my husband tells me I should have made something up. "You should have told him I sell vacuums," he jokes.

At any rate, I am feeling stuck in the room with this guy - with my son who should be down for a nap right now. He begins to start showing off his prize vacuum, bringing out gadget after gadget and having me test drive them.

And there is noise. Kirby is not a quiet product.

All I can think of is all the work I need to get done, all I had planned to do while my son napped.

But I try to remain cordial. I keep thinking, surely he'll get to the shampooing part soon and be gone.

It isn't long and the sales pitch comes. That monster of a vacuum can be mine for just $2700+.

If I had $2700 to spend, believe me, it would not be spent on a cleaning device.

But then he tells me he can knock $300 off that price because of his "contest promotion."

Ah, love these things.

The great line of, "I'm trying to win a trip to XYZ and you can help send me there, blah blah blah."

Oh pul-eeeze. I'm supposed to want to buy from you so that you can take a trip? Give me the trip, and we'll talk.

The kicker was the trip destination. And where these fine young gents were from.

They came here from Nebraska.

The trip was to Oklahoma City.

Uh, that's just a day road trip, isn't it?!? That's like offering me a trip to Pierre, SD. Woo wee. Sign me up.

Really? Oklahoma City? That's the big prize trip? Apparently people aren't buying the ol' Kirby if that's all they can spring for.

So I have very little interest in hearing about how he can win a trip if I "become part of the Kirby family."

They need to work on their main sales pitch, though. The "repulsion" factor. You know, vacuuming an area and showing you the filter, littered with dirt, dust and fuzz. Like I don't feel bad enough about how far behind I am on housecleaning, now I have some young whipper-snapper showing me I am not cleaning nearly well enough.

Thanks, dude. You now sent me into such a depression I'll need the $2700 for counseling and medications. Oh, I'm sorry. $2400, since I'm helping you win that extravagant trip.

But wait! He's grabbing his phone. This got really comical for me after awhile. He kept calling his "boss" to tell him about the nasty stuff he was getting on the filters.

"Hi, Mr. Snitzenbueler! Yeah, I'm here with Maxine and holy smokes! - you should see what we've pulled out of her carpet! It's awesome what Kirby can do!" Short pause. "Okay, great."

He hangs up and tells me Mr. Sneezyboo is taking another $200 off the price.

I feel like I'm a contestant on Deal or No Deal. Why does he need to keep calling "his boss?" And does that guy really answer every call on the first ring? Does he never have other appointments? Or for that matter, ever need to use the restroom? He is always available to take the call.

How convenient.

I call Vacuum Boy on it.

"Is there really even someone on the other end of that line?" I ask.

He looks at me in disbelief. "Of course! It's my boss. Here, look at this."

He shows me the last call on his phone. It means nothing to me. Just "Brian" somebody. Proves nothing. I figure, if it was legit, he would have rung dear Mr. Sloshfosh so I could speak to him.

But he goes through this charade at least 8 more times. Each time, Mr. Shooshibeans offers another price cut.

Now they're willing to give me a $700 trade-in on my vacuum. The one they claim is worth nothing because it doesn't pick up any dirt whatsoever.

I realize they have no need for it. The "trade-in" comment is just a ploy to make me think I could get a "good deal."

An hour and a half later, I insist that I need to get some work done, that I was not under the impression he would take this much time to vacuum and shampoo my carpet.

"Oh, go ahead and do your work," he says.

Okay, so I bolt. I've got dishes to do, an article to finish writing, and phone calls to make. I don't trust a complete stranger in my house, however, so I keep coming down to check on him.

Each time, he's got a nasty filter to show me. "Holy smokes, huh?"

Yeah, holy smokes, kid. Are you almost done???

I continue this darting in and out until his sidekick shows up again, this time saying verbatim what the other guy had just told me. The language was identical. Right down to the "awesome."

What's with using words like "awesome" and "perfect" 400 times in a sales pitch? Does that really resonate with people?

He claims he's sold 11 vacuums toward his 15 vacuums goal for the trip.

Good. What's four more, then, for a fine saleman as he? He doesn't need my help.

Not that it matters, but there is no chance of spending that kind of money without my husband's consent anyway, so he and his sidekick are practically begging me to call my spouse and see if he'll bite. The price is down to just $1700 now, after all.

I wanted to tell them that if I called my husband at work to ask him if spending $1700 on a vacuum today would be a good idea, he would laugh harder than he does at Jay Leno's Headlines on Monday nights.

So I get honest with the fellas.

I tell them the price isn't the issue - I'm not in the market for a vacuum, and furthermore I don't like their sales tactic. The girl tells me she'll be over to vacuum and shampoo one room, and then these guys show up and take up my afternoon.

I expected one clean carpet and a sales pitch. I did not expect him to drag Kirby upstairs and vacuum a mattress, try out every gadget on my stairs, ceiling fan and drapes. I did not expect him to pull out a filter every 3 -1/2 seconds to show me more dirt.

I return to my office and sidekick dude leaves. After I heard the shampooing finally end, I went downstairs to check on the trip contestant. He was packing up his gear. Finally! I thought.

I go back to working, and don't hear much so I check to see if he's still here.

He's at my front door gripping Kirby and company in his hands, peering out the window. He looks like a school kid waiting for the bus. A kid who has to pee.

Why is he fidgeting so much? He's just dying to get out of here, isn't he? Wow, they don't like "no"s, do they?

I am amazed at how he could go from Mr. Perky Holy-Smokes guy to unresponsive ready-to-dash boy.

I go check out my freshly cleaned carpet. He only did half the room, but that's okay. He did the dirtier half.

But all those filters with the guck on them were left in a pile in the middle of my floor.

Really? You can't stash a trash bag within all that cargo you've got?

Worse yet, as he picked up all those filters to put them in a pile, the dirt and fuzz fell off them onto my carpet.

Why would you not have Kirby clean that up?

So I'm pulling out my own vacuum and cleaning up his mess. He's still in my house, but doesn't make a peep when I utter in disbelief, "You sell vacuums, but you leave a mess on my carpet?"

Then I head to the kitchen and come upon the huge mess of water splattered all around my sink. He needed water to fill his shampooer, but obviously couldn't make use of a towel.

Needless to say, I wasn't impressed. And as I watched his ride pull up, it looked nothing short of a bank heist.

Driver smoking a cigarette flies into my driveway. Scared boy runs out of my house, hustles to the back of the van to throw the vacuum in and jumps in the passenger seat. They practically burn rubber out of my driveway.

I shake my head and realize I've learned a hard lesson. It's best to just send those salespeople on their merry way when they come to my door.

Lest I shatter the dream of young people everywhere of luxurious stays at the Motel 6 in Oklahoma City.

7-Up. A health food.

If you spend any amount of time in the grocery store these days...

(...which I don't, really. My dear husband does the grocery shopping. Mainly because grocery stores are cold. I don't like to be cold. Enough said. But actually, the guy loves it. It's the thrill of getting the best deal possible for him. He considers it success when the clerk has to hand him money at the checkout.

And I'm not kidding.

It happens.

To be honest, I think the guy really believes he should only have to pay 1950s prices for 2010 merchandise. He's delusional that way, but I love him. But enough about my frugal husband...that could be a whole other blog.)

So back to that grocery store. Namely, the increasing number of grocery items with words like "Natural," "Fortified," and "Antioxidant" slapped on the label.

Apparently we're falling for this deception, America. Because there's a bottle of Cherry 7-Up "with antioxidants" in my house right now.

A friend brought it over as part of a dinner we hosted last night. And she left it here, maybe because she's concerned for my health.

Or...because I was so mystified by it she casted it off for me to study.

Antioxidants. In soda pop.

Really?

It claims to have 10% Vitamin E. Vitamin E acetate, to be exact.

And yes, I Googled "Vitamin E acetate." I mean, come on. It sounds fake. This needs to be investigated.

According to www.vitamins-supplements.org, "Vitamin E acetate is a powerful antioxidant, possessing the ability to increase the moisturization of the skin's horny layer and thereby improve surface relief."

Uh, my skin has a "horny layer?" I'm not even goin' there.

It also says, "Vitamin E acetate is a dry, powder form of vitamin E that has no antioxidant power until the acetate is removed in the intestine as it is absorbed."

I had to re-read that sentence about 14 times. Huh? "no antioxidant power until...it is absorbed."

Okay, so it's good for my skin, if my skin ever gets the stuff. Because wouldn't you think all the other goo in that bottle of 7-Up is not likely to allow anything good to get past it? The second listed ingredient was still high fructose corn syrup, after all.

Get real, soda people. 10% vitamin E isn't likely to deter the probably 100% forms of sugar sloshing through my arteries. But nice try, 7-Up.

Then I check the ultimate source for information. Wikipedia. Look what they have to say about our magical vitamin E acetate. "It is often used in dermatological products such as skin creams. Some studies have linked this acetate to cancer."

WHAT?!?!

The antioxidants have power alright....the power to KILL you, evidently. Add them to your high fructose corn syrup beverage and wa-lah! Snap 10 years off your life.

The sad thing is, if you really stop to think about it, there really isn't anything we consume that wouldn't kill us eventually anyway. Fresh produce - someone will claim it was treated with pesticides. Water - someone will claim the plastic bottle contains carcinogens. Even soy is getting a bad rap lately. One guy is claiming soy is feminizing, therefore causing kids to become gay.

There's a soapbox for anybody that wants one, I suppose.

I'm going to get on mine now with a sparkling bottle of Cherry 7-Up in my hand. I figure if all the ingredients are opposing each other, they must cancel each other out, so it is really like drinking a glass of water.

Or at least that's what I'm going to tell myself. Until my premature death.

Is "Gumby" listed in the phone book?

I have a newfound respect for plumbers.

I'll be honest, when I think of plumbers, I think about a guy tinkering around under a kitchen sink. I'm thinking the most difficult part of the task is finding the leak and fixing it.

However, this is no longer my thinking.

Instead, I am pretty sure these guys are part Gumby. You know, that green clay humanoid character.

It's the only way I can fathom those guys actually getting the job done. I know this because I needed to do a "plumber-type" task in my home and I was nearly reaching for the phone to dial 9-1-1. That is, if I would have been able to get to the phone.

Which I couldn't.

And herein is where the newfound respect comes into play.

I had a wall-texturing guy coming to our house to texture the walls of our entry bathroom. Mind you, this is just a small half bath great for our kids to wash their hands before dinner and guests who need to "use the facilities." In my father's words, "That bathroom is so small you have to decide what you're going to do before you go in so you make sure you enter facing the right direction." To be fair, it's not that small, but my Dad likes to exaggerate a bit.

Anyway...I needed to remove the tank from the toilet so the guy could texture behind it.

I figured it can't be that hard.

My husband told me to call a plumber.

Nonsense!

In his defense, we have a friend who is a plumber, so my husband really just wanted me to call him to find out how to do it - utilize our resource pool type of idea. My husband likes to consult the experts.

I thought that was ridiculous. I simply just Google anything I don't know.

So that's what I did.

And I came across a wonderful blog post detailing the process by a mother who also was left to do an unpleasant task such as this. Plus she had good commentary to go with each step. I like that.

Okay, it seemed simple enough. I wasn't worried.

Until I stepped into my bathroom.

And realized the toilet allows maybe six inches on either side of the bowl to maneuver. I thought maybe I could just reach my hand back there to remove the nuts from bolts.

Um, no.

NOT feasible.

Okay, I had no other choice. I had to get down on that floor and squeeze into that miniscule space.

So I get down there, and attempt to lift my arm to put that pliers to use, and I am stuck.

Instant panic.

Then I remind myself plumbers are not typically small people. And they do this. Certainly I can do this.

I wiggle my way out and try again. This time, making sure my arm is above my head before I get into position.

One is off. YES!

I proceed to the next one. This one is placed at a precise angle that is nearly impossible for me to move my arm enough to get a good grip. I struggle to get the pliers in place.

It slips from my hand.

I cannot physically reach to pick it up as I am not Gumby.

I am going to have to shimmy my way out of that tight spot again to retrieve the crazy pliers.

And I'm stuck.

Now I really panic.

And I'm sweating.

I think of what it will be like when my husband gets home from work in 6 hours and I'm stuck between a toilet and the wall. The school will have called repeatedly telling me I need to pick up my children, but I will be unable to get to the phone. My two-year-old will have eaten everything in the pantry that is at a 2 to 4 foot level, smearing crumbs throughout the house, giggling profusely as he refuses to hand me the phone.

I cannot allow these things to happen. I close my eyes and try to relax. Then I wiggle free and figure I need a new plan. The nut isn't budging anyway, so I head to the garage to survey the toolbox.

Wrenches. Well, that makes sense. But I never can figure out which one will fit. So I bring in a couple and give it a try.

Of course, neither are a fit.

Back to the tool box. I am confident I've grabbed the right size now.

Sure enough. It fits. But by this point, I'm tired. And I'm weak. And turning that ridiculous wrench seems impossible.

I'm starting to wonder if I could find the phone number for our plumber friend.

But I refuse to throw up the white flag. I pray instead. Then I gear up for one last-ditch effort to break that nut loose. And it budged!!

HALLELUJAH, IT BUDGED!!!!!!!!

I had to return to the floor to get to the third and final nut on the other side of the tank. Ironically, my sense of accomplishment must have shrunk my head and shoulders instead of puffing them up!

Toilet tank removed. Goal attained.

Ahhh.

And then, ewww.

Did you know your toilet is really dirty under that tank? Yeah, you probably didn't want to know that.

Cleaning that up seemed like a piece of cake compared to the tank removal.

Seriously, plumbers. How do you do that? I saw our plumber friend on Sunday and noticed his broad shoulders. He'd never have made it out of my bathroom. I would have had to turn him into a throw rug - something - because he'd be part of my permanent decor.

At least then the plumber would be the one to make "cracks" about the unsolicited viewing of another person's posterior cleft!

What They Don't Tell You At the Baby Shower

I firmly believe that at the moment of conception, all women should immediately find a huge "S" appear on their chests.

Because becoming a mother is synonymous with being Superwoman. And no one at the baby shower is going to tell you that.

But they really should.

Mothers will be able to perform feats that no man could possibly fathom doing himself. He wouldn't even attempt it.

But as mothers, we have no choice. We either become Superwoman or our children would probably cease to exist.

Today my "S" was beaming. Even if I wasn't.

For a variety of reasons - namely 3 reasons: Rachel, Caleb & Noah - I have gotten very little sleep in the past couple of weeks. This past Wednesday I only snuck in about 3-4 hours of shut-eye as Noah was hurling the night away.

Why do we always get the stomach flu in the wee hours of the morning? Has anyone ever STARTED the flu around noon or even a more convenient 9am?? So by the time bedtime rolls around the worst is likely over?!?

Noah hasn't been sleeping well for awhile anyway, so he's interrupted my sleep often and I really like my sleep. When it is time for sleep, I want ALL of it. So as you can probably guess, I got wore out. That is, my immune system got wore out.

And guess who woke up Sunday morning with the flu? Yep. Superwoman just got zapped. Picture the big "POW" slamming into my face.

But we all know moms are not allowed to be sick. At least, they are still responsible to do everything they would normally do if they were in perfect condition.

That's when that "S" seems to shine a little brighter...

So it's Monday morning and I am still not anywhere near 100% yet, but I take one look at my two sons and realize it is going to be a LONNNNNNNNNG day. Noah is the epitome of misery and Caleb says he can't even chew his breakfast because it makes his head hurt.

Oh, joy.

I check their temps - fevers for both. So I send Caleb back to bed and call the school to let them know he won't be joining them this fine Monday.

Then I take a better look at Noah and I'm greatly concerned. He's a rashy fright and I either seek help or I'm in for a day of constant whimpering and whining.

Of course our pediatrician has no appointment opening, so I have to settle for some 5th string doctor who I'm pretty sure just got hired last week.

Once I meet her and we begin to dialogue about Noah, I'm convinced I was right. She has no clue what to do and soon she's running for my pediatrician.

Next thing I know, we're in a new exam room with our pediatrician, two medical students and the doctor I made the appointment with...I don't think she knew as much as the med students.

Yikes.

Anyway, turns out Noah is a wreck but no one really knows why. It's time for x-rays and lab work.

This is when it gets interesting.

First stop, the lab for a blood draw.

If you read my blog about Noah's surgery you'll know the nurses struggled to find a vein to put the IV...I would discover this to be an ongoing problem. Ugh.

As I clutched my little boy in my lap, the lab technician poked and prodded until she finally hit a vein. Meanwhile, Noah is screaming uncontrollably and I'm feeling so horrible about putting him through this while in a conscious state that I am now crying too!

I take several minutes to calm him (maybe, us) down as we make our way to x-ray. I have to manually turn him into a contortionist to get the pictures she wants...so yeah. You know what happens. He's bawling again.

I'm fighting back the tears only because I may be more irritated than sad at this point.

Once it is finally over we're ushered back to the exam room where we will sit for another half an hour waiting for some results. It is well into Noah's normal naptime by now, so he is crying incessantly.

The pediatrician pops her head in briefly (probably heard all the wailing and figured she better check in) to let me know they're still waiting on a few test results.

I'm so physically and emotionally exhausted all I want is to take my children and go home. But we wait and Noah refuses to settle down even slightly unless I am standing and rocking him.

So here I am: ON MY FEET as I still fight the flu myself, rocking a 28-pound fitful child. Considering in the past 24 hours I've had nothing but dry toast and Sprite as an energy source I am amazing even myself.

We're finally able to leave - of course at this point we're all ravenous so fortunately McDonald's is only a block away.

I suppose if I was truly Superwoman I'd have a healthy gourmet lunch simmering in the crockpot at home.

Get real.

On a side note, I was so proud of Caleb for sitting patiently all that time as his little brother went through continuous torture - he was such a trooper and he earned that Star Wars Happy Meal toy! Shoot, he earned the entire line of toys!

Instead of the crockpot - awaiting me when I got home were six voice mail messages.

I had a meeting at 10:30 that I missed.

My husband is wondering where in the world I am. Several times.

So I settle the boys in with their Happy Meals and start returning phone calls, desperately trying to reschedule my meeting that HAD to be done today...deadlines don't care if you're a mom.

Fortunately I salvage the meeting situation and I'm set-up for 2pm. Whew!

The meeting goes great, only I discover later in the day that I conducted the entire meeting with a Wonder Pets sticker on my shoulder blade. Thanks, Pediatrician's office. And thanks, Noah for snuggling me so much the sticker transferred itself from your chest to my back.

What can I say? I'm a Mom. It happens.

So I finish my meeting and drive over to the school to pick up Rachel. I'm early, so I enjoy the few minutes of solitude and quiet in the car.

I was actually starting to feel a lot better about the day.

So that's why when I stepped into the school hallway I had to laugh. It probably should have made me cry, but I think when your "S" is so wrinkled and worn you realize it's just another part of motherhood and you better get used to it.

Head lice. The hallways were lined with large black garbage bags full of each child's belongings in an attempt to stop the spread of the vicious bugs.

Some classrooms were checked for head lice and since some was found, parents are turning OCD. Bedding, stuffed animals, coats and carpets will be under attack...by Superwomen.

Personally, by that point in my day I was so done that I didn't even get worked up about it. So far, neither of my kids that attend that school have been checked and I have no reason to believe they have head lice yet.

After all, tomorrow is another day. And there will have to be something for this superhero to tackle.

I just wish it were a good book and a pillow.

Instead I'll probably be boiling that pillow. Oh, well. The steam will be good for my shriveled "S".

In The Eyes of a Stranger

I'm really not used to hospitals. And frankly, I really don't want to get used to them.

My 2-yr-old son Noah had surgery recently to remove a nevus sebaceus (medical term for really weird mole on his scalp). The event itself is enough to make one uneasy, but now add an environment you just don't comprehend. It's unsettling.

After registering, we were sent up to the 6th floor to get settled into a room and dress him in hospital pajamas. (I must say he can even make those things look cute!) The pediatric nurse introduced herself and said, "I will be Noah's nurse today."

She failed to mention only for the few minutes he was on that floor! We never even saw her again until we returned for a half hour post-surgery.

But whatever, lady.

Sure. You're his nurse for the day.

Anyway...soon we're ushered down to surgery - actually the pre-op room - where we anxiously await the anesthesiologist's arrival.

And meet more medical staff.

I really don't even know what their jobs were. And you would never recognize them again if you passed them in the grocery store or sat by them at a ballgame because they're so garbed with scrubs, booties and hats that they could be anybody.

I completely understand now why in TV shows the actors trying to sneak into a hospital can just slip on some scrubs or a white jacket and parade right by without any suspicion.

More staff pop in and out. Someone hands me a snap-up shirt, booties and the ever-fashionable blue shower cap thing. I now feel like strutting into surgery myself and uttering a few lines stolen from an ER episode.

And I probably could have. The swarms of people in blue get-ups racing here and there were nothing short of nuts. Who knew it took so many people to get us in and out of surgery?

Another staff person comes in to keep us company. Or so I thought. Actually, he was comic relief. He was great with Noah and did a good job of calming my nerves.

What I'd soon discover... he was the person I needed to trust most that day. Because eventually he was the one to send my son into an unconscious state.

Some might think, "Well, Maxine, you should have been more nervous about the surgeon, or the anesthesiologist!" Perhaps.

But this is the man who had his hands on my son at the moment I had to leave him behind.

And there was something special about him. Between his scrub cap and mask were incredibly bright - yet comforting - eyes.

I was told Noah would very likely fight the mask a lot - start screaming, pulling it away, reaching for me.

That I would have to stay strong.

It would only be 5 breaths...and he'd be in dreamland...that's what this stranger in blue told me.

But Noah didn't fight the mask at all. He went to sleep without an ounce of struggle. I couldn't help but notice Noah was looking into that man's eyes.

Then it was waiting room time.

I was in a daze. I couldn't read a magazine or pick up a newspaper. I even saw someone I knew but couldn't utter a simple "Hello." My only focus was on that big TV screen in the room that told what "stage" he was at in surgery.

"Procedure" it said.

30 seconds pass.

"Procedure" it read again.

5, 10, 20, 30 minutes passed.

It still said, "Procedure."

Ugh. The surgeon said this would take 15 minutes tops.

Finally. The surgeon approaches me.

Everything went fine, but basically my child is full of holes.

"It took just as long to get an IV in as it did to do the surgery itself," he tells me.

All that toddler chub makes it hard to find a vein, apparently.

I wouldn't realize just HOW MANY places they attempted to get a vein until I was at home, putting him in pajamas later that evening. They obviously had quite a struggle and turned him into swiss cheese! Thank goodness the poor kid was out cold for all of that!

So it was off to the recovery room. This is where I determined I made a wise career move to not pursue the medical field.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of "regular" staff are the med students. Like deer in headlights, they are bombarded with techniques and medical jargon that made me dizzy.

How do they remember all that stuff?! I'd inadvertently kill someone for sure.

One guy sitting at the computer and monitoring my son's vital signs, gives me a brief run-down of the surgery. And encourages me to touch my son and help him come out of his deep sleep.

Noah is sawing logs. And I'm so grateful.

Before I left Noah in surgery, I asked if I would be able to be there when he woke up. They told me they would have him in recovery cleaning him up, so it would be a couple minutes before he'd see me.

Truth be told, that bothered me. But I realize they're just doing their job.

So I was secretly very grateful God kept Noah snoring away until I arrived. Because when he opened his eyes, my face was the first one he saw.

Thank you, Jesus!!

Noah immediately put his arms out for me to pick him up. I held him snuggled against me, so grateful for this moment. And feeling so blessed to have the opportunity to be there.

Not just in that recovery room. But in every step of this process. Because it opened my eyes.

Here's an example:

As we waited in the pediatric unit prior to surgery, Noah went to explore the large play area on that floor. I sat down to watch him and as I scanned the area, it hit me. I had been there before.

You see, over 10 years ago, we lived in Bismarck and I worked as a reporter at a local TV station. One day I did a story about a man who would come to the pediatric floor and sing songs for the children to encourage them. He had some tear-jerking stories to tell about his experience with children fighting for their lives. That particular day the play area was buzzing with several pint-size patients.

He sang "Puff, The Magic Dragon." You know, the one where the dragon can't be brave without his life-long friend.

I'm with you, Puff. I'm not so good at this bravery thing, either.

At the end of my report, the video concluded with a little girl driving a child-size car, waving at the camera, and the music fades...

Touching, yes. But this was before I had any children.

Before I knew what it felt like to be a parent of a child in the pediatric unit.

And I realized...you just never know what the future will bring.

Had you told me 12 years ago I would be sitting in that play area with my own child as a patient one day, I could not have comprehended it.

Here was my son puttering around the room in the same car that little girl was in all those years ago.

And there I was. A young, inexperienced reporter, attempting to describe the meaningfulness of a man singing songs of hope for sick children and their parents.

Believe me, it had meaning now.

My mind darted back to the present as I heard the nurse say, "We're ready now. I'll take you down."

One week later, I walk into the doctor's office to learn results of the biopsy. And I had to ask myself, Am I okay with whatever God does here? If the news is not good, will I crumble? Or will I trust?

Fortunately, we were blessed with good news. No cancer. Nothing to worry about.

And honestly, I was grateful that I wouldn't have to be brave anymore.

I know it was a gift, regardless of the outcome. Because I know the Giver.

I saw Him in the eyes of the man holding my son when I had to walk away. I'm convinced Noah saw Him too.

Confessions of a Wounded Mom

When I could have used encouragement, I received criticism.

When I could have used prayer, I received judgment.

When I could have used understanding, I received accusations.

Late this afternoon, my daughter Rachel came to me asking if we could 'go somewhere.' She was a little tired of being cooped up at home. I had a couple things I have been wanting to find, so we headed to the store.

I had Noah with me as well, and in recent weeks he has developed a dislike for shopping carts. He's two, after all, and would rather wander aimlessly discovering all the treasures on store shelves than to be strapped into a cart. I have found that letting him sit in the bigger part of the cart versus the traditional seating spot has helped.

Except for today.

We didn't get very far into the store and he was screaming to get out of the cart. I calmly, yet sternly, looked him in the eye and told him he needed to stop screaming. He stopped briefly, then resumed his wailing. I was going to round the corner, accept this toddler tantrum as defeat and head out of the store to go home.

But that's when I heard it.

The voice of an older woman on the other side of the aisle spouting, "Some people shouldn't be parents."

I was startled. I was dumbfounded. And I was hurt.

I approached her and said, "Excuse me, did you have something you wanted to say to me?"

The woman, obviously shocked by the confrontation, attempted to walk away while telling me I should take my child home for a nap. As I began to respond to her judgmental statement, she continued to reprimand me as she rushed off, blurting something about raising four children herself and the voice of criticism drifted through the stale retail air.

Normally, I would probably just let those statements roll off my back and tell myself the woman has no basis for her accusations.

But instead, I buckled my kids in the van and sobbed all the way home.

Because frankly, this week has been a tough one to be a parent.

To sit in a surgeon's office and plan a surgery for your two-year-old that will follow with a biopsy is no picnic.

To have your son's kindergarten teacher approach you about behavior issues for the third time in two weeks is not a walk in the park.

To comfort a daughter who is heartbroken to be left off the 'guest list' of a classmate's birthday party is humbling.

So to be honest, yeah, there were times this week I didn't know if I should be a parent. Sometimes it's just plain hard. And you wonder if you're doing things right. You second-guess yourself constantly. You debate whether you can even handle it.

And the one thing you hope beyond hope is that you're not screwing it all up.

So when someone comes along and implies that you are, it is almost too much to take.

So please. Think twice before passing judgment on a mother having a 'moment' with her kids. You don't know what her week was like. You just can't know what she's been facing. Instead of a roll of your eyes, why not give her a word of encouragement.

Perhaps what's even more sad about the entire encounter is that the woman was at the store with what appeared to be her own grown daughter. Someone who may already, or someday, be a mother.

It's very likely she'll have a child throw a tantrum in public sometime, too. Will she remember the words she heard her own mother say to a complete stranger?

Maybe it won't matter. Maybe it won't come to mind at all.

But what if it does?

That woman's words ring in my head and I feel hurt. But her words may scream failure to her own child one day.

So I prayed for her. It's what I do for my children. Perhaps today God needed me to pray for someone else's too.

I'm No Cinderella

Good judgment flew out the window this week. I decided to shop for jeans.

A friend of mine recently strutted by me in a super cute pair of jeans so I had to find out where she got them. She proceeded to excitedly tell me all about her amazing shopping excursion at a local store where she was treated like a queen by the sales clerk and jeans were hand-picked off the racks just for her...and poof! The perfect pair of jeans found a new home.

Intrigued by her find, I decided to check it out myself.

Let's just say, if my friend was Cinderella, I apparently was one of the evil stepsisters. Because just as there was no chance that little shoe was fitting their feet, I would not get those jeans beyond my knees.

The mystery to me is that the jeans can be the size of all my other pants, and yet you'd think I was trying to slip into a pair 3 sizes too small.

The other great mystery? After peeling the denim off my calves and holding them up to inspect the size, immediate depression kicks in. Seriously? My thigh is BIGGER than that?!?!

Someone. Please. Tell me! Why are jeans so deceptive? How can something that looks large enough to wrap around a circus elephant not get over my hips?

Now I'm not going to attempt to say that I'm the thinnest person in the world. Believe me - I steered clear of the rack of 'skinny jeans.' I'm not that foolish! I can honestly say there is no part of my body I would deem "skinny" except maybe my toes. They are freakishly skinny, actually.

So I don't expect to slide into a size 1 and trot out of the store giddy about my purchase - that would only happen if I had spent the past two years eating a strict diet of celery and water.

And since I certainly have not limited my diet in such a way, I am forced to pour through the racks of jeans of a significantly larger digit. And yet when I step into the dressing room and realize even those will not accommodate my newly discovered bulges, I panic. How huge have I become?? When did this happen??

So I hang the jeans back on their plastic hangers and reach for the pants I wore into the store. Pants of the same size I was just attempting to fit into, mind you. Huh?! How is this possible?

I am disgusted with myself, vowing never to eat again.

As I turn away from the horrifying mirror and exit the dressing room, I'm aghast at the sight in front of me.

It's a woman. Putting a pair of jeans on the counter as she pulls out her credit card.

She found a pair that fit.

So I do what every woman does. I compare myself to her. I pretend to continue scanning the racks when I'm really scanning her thighs.

How come she found a pair that fit? She isn't skinny! She's pretty average, actually. She has curves, too!

It's taking every ounce of strength within me to hold myself back from charging the counter in order to grab those jeans and check the label for a size.

And then reality strikes me - I may very well be living in a land of Cinderellas. Maybe jeans fit every other woman but me!

So I accept defeat and walk out of the store.

Next time I'll just go to Target and see what Polly Pocket might have in the way of jeans. I guess my freakishly skinny toes are the only body part jeans-worthy.