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.

What It's Like to Be Purple For A Day

"Wonder if they'll find a way to blow it this time."

That's the remark I heard this afternoon shared by one guy to another as they discussed the upcoming Vikings game in the grocery line.

I guess that pessimism isn't completely unwarranted. The Vikings have caused blood pressures throughout the midwest to soar and fall on numerous occasions...only to be heartbroken by the final score.

I have to admit, it's tough not to catch that Vikings fever when you live around here.

I honestly think some of the fans really do bleed purple. And it's fun to watch my hometown's hero Jim Kleinsasser smackin' a guy or two around. Plus my heartstrings get tugged a bit as I read pre-game Facebook posts by Kleinsasser's Mom - that woman must have nerves of steel by now.

But still. She IS a mother. Her nails must be chewed to the nub.

I really shouldn't do this to myself, but I plop down on the sofa and start watching the game -- secretly (after all, my devoted Raiders fan husband is never sad to see the Vikings lose) hoping those Vikings are headed to Miami.

Please, someone grab the blood pressure cuff.

Why am I letting this get the best of me??

Everything seems okay at first. The touchdowns are bouncing back and forth. But hey, it's okay. There's a lot of game left.

Until suddenly someone from Land O' Lakes decided it would be good advertising if each player in the Vikings offense held a stick of butter. Well, I'm assuming that's what happened. How else can you explain all those fumbles?

Ugh. Painful to watch.

But the blood pressure soars again as they seem to sneak in some good plays...giving more hope that maybe, just maybe, the Super Bowl is in reach.

Then heartbreak.

Purple Pride just got punched in the gut.

I feel for the fans. (Hey, I cheer for the Raiders. We haven't seen anything remotely resembling a winning team in years. I know heartbreak in the NFL.)

But I feel bad for the players. Maybe not so much about the loss itself. But about the really pathetic interviews they must endure after the game.

"Tell us how you're feeling? Disappointed, I'm sure." (Uh, dude, you just answered your own question. No surprise, then, when all you get for an answer is, "Yeah.")

Or my personal favorite - the lady who interviewed Adrian Peterson outside the locker room. I think she may have been trying to score a date.

"You look really sad. Are you going to be okay?" she asks in a blubbery tone. For a second there, I thought she might give him a hug. The whole thing made me uncomfortable. Just let the guy go shower up and go home.

To some peace and quiet.

Good grief, that Superdome noise must have gotten so annoying. It was starting to irritate me and we don't even have that great of audio on our TV! I bet when those players finally got to a quiet corner they just breathed a sigh of relief.

Of course, they'll be thinking of all the "should have's" for the next six months. Or nursing aches and pains. Favre is gonna have some serious arthritis one day.

I say make the NFL like MLB. Let's play best of seven.

Yeah, I know. The old man would be playing game three from a wheelchair.

Thing is, he'd still be playing. The guy is a marvel.

Well, grocery-patron-man, I guess they did "blow it." But as deep as the pain is for Vikings fans, the pride is just as deep. Because you know by next Fall the fans will be geared up for another season of heart palpitations.

And as Favre responded in his post-game interview regarding sticking it out for another year, "I really enjoy the guys," he said. "I just wonder if I can hold up, especially after a day like today. Physically and emotionally, that was pretty draining.

It was pretty draining on all of us, Favre. Even for this Vikings-fan-for-a-day.

One thing you WON'T find me a fan of on Facebook.

I'm a fan of many things.

Chocolate, for instance.

Romantic comedies.

Naps.

And even American Idol.

But one thing I am NOT a fan of is...the common cold.

I'm pretty sure when Adam and Eve took that first bite of forbidden fruit, a cold virus immediately set in. After all, it was the first moment they realized they were naked.

They probably caught a chill.

Next thing you know they're hacking and sneezing.

And now the rest of mankind is cursed with the torture of the common cold.

Lucky us.

It's misery at its finest, because it isn't like the common cold really justifies a day or two confined to bed.

Nope. People expect you to continue in your normal routine. (Just don't shake their hand or cough in their direction.)

You are still expected to go to work, drive the kids to school, finish the laundry and cook three meals a day.

All the while feeling like you've been hit by a truck.

Because let's face it, a cold is a pain in the...head, ears, throat, chest, nose, eyes, well... Everything.

It starts with that tingly feeling in your sinuses. You know the one...when you think maybe if you wash down a bottle of vitamin C tablets with a gallon of orange juice your body will fight back with such vigor that the pesky virus will be gone within the hour.

Hardly.

My experience is that any attempts to naturally medicate only backfire. By the next morning, my head feels six times its normal size, my mouth hangs open so I can breathe, and I never walk away from a box of tissues.

Which brings me to another thought...tissues. Who invented those? Some incredibly wealthy guy named Mr. Kleenix who laughs with joy as he counts his money when winter's cold and flu season rolls around, that's who!

But I digress. Back to this nasty cold. I really hate that it is common. Basically that means you're going to get it and you're going to get it often.

And when the best thing to do to bring it to an end is extra rest, that's exactly when you will be too congested to catch any shut-eye, so you'll be awake for four hours straight in the middle of the night, only to finally nod off...17 minutes before your alarm goes off.

So you'll get up and go to work, take the kids to school, finish the laundry and make three meals that day.

Now repeat this cycle several more times.

Four Kleenix boxes and an empty Tylenol bottle later, you start feeling a bit better.

So you're ready to crawl into bed for a decent night of sleep.

And then...

Just as you are seconds from drifting off into dreamland, you hear, "Mommy? I don't feel good. My throat hurts."

Pass the OJ. It's gonna be a loooong winter.

Can I make you a mixed tape?

As my 7-year-old perused my tattered childhood scrapbooks she said, "Mommy, why did your mom just paste stuff in here instead of making it pretty like you do?" I explained to her that back when I was a kid they didn't create scrapbooks like they do now with scrapbook papers, stickers and protective covers.

Then I made the fatal mistake of saying, "Kind of like how they didn't have computers back then, either."

Her eyes widened and she gasped, "No computer!? How did anyone write to each other?"

After recovering from my own surprise and a good chuckle, I replied, "With pen, paper and the postal service!"

Her jaw dropped and I rendered her speechless.

We've probably all been forwarded the email about what kids graduating this year will not remember because it happened "before their time."

Like being in a classroom without computers.

Or remembering when Jimmy Carter was president. (Or Reagan, for that matter!)

How about playing an 8-track...or even knowing what it is.

That there used to be a country called the Soviet Union - and it was a superpower.

Watching The Challenger explode on television.

You get the idea.

I read that email once or twice and admit to thinking, "Are you kidding me? Wow, I guess that was a long time ago."

But when it comes from the mouth of your own child. Whoa. Whole different deal.

I suddenly recall the stories my parents used to tell me of getting to school on horse-drawn cart, hauling water, and not having a TV. Soooo archaeic, I thought at the time.

And now that's me. My own flesh and blood is aghast that there once was a day before computers.

I'm not even going to bring up the subject of rotary phones...