My dad was sick—we think it’s the first Pork Festival he’s missed since his dad helped create it. The kids walked away with homemade Barbie clothes and wooden trucks (thanks Aunt Ellen), as well as full bellies. Despite the missing family, it was a fun—and beautiful—day.
“Life is a festival only to the wise.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
“It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely, but the desire to beget children is a natural urge.” —Phyllis Diller
I was switching laundry in the basement when I heard yelling—from all the way up in the boys’ bedroom. The boys yell a lot and I’m pretty good at noting the difference between a he-took-my-toy yell and a I’m-hurting-for-real yell. James’s yell became louder and louder so I abandoned the laundry and ran up the (many) stairs and saw this:
Owen wouldn’t let James out.
Now, I felt bad for James, I did, but just look at their faces! I laugh every time I see this picture.
“Siblings that say they never fight are most definitely hiding something.” —Lemony Snicket
Picked up Sophie from preschool, dropped her off at play date.
Came home with both boys and found a half-eaten plastic sandwich bag in living room.
Realized bag had been filled halfway with raisins.
Made lunch.
Vaguely remembered something about dogs + raisins + toxicity.
Marveled how the brain pulls out bits of long-ago information when most needed.
Googled.
Questioned legitimacy of search results.
Got Owen more cheese.
Visited Snopes: “Raisins and grapes can be harmful to dogs.” TRUE
Called Ft. Thomas Animal Hospital.
Talked to tech.
Called Andy.
Left half-eaten lunch on table.
Loaded both boys and Tucker into van.
Drove to Animal Hospital.
Took both boys out of van, stood them in front of a stone wall, made them touch stone wall and insisted they do not move.
Went back to van to get Tucker.
Ran behind Tucker across the (thankfully small) parking lot while both boys followed, waving their arms and screaming with glee.
Got inside Animal Hospital without dog or child running into street.
Witnessed boys go crazy over a small dog and four cats.
Watched small dog immediately seek shelter from screaming boys.
Realized Tucker just peed all over the floor and a wooden bench.
Waited for receptionist to get off phone so I could ask for paper towels while reminding boys over and over and over again the location of the pee while they ran around screaming “CAT! MEOW MEOW MEOW! CAT! MOMMY, CAT!” as if they’ve never seen a cat in their life (we own a cat).
Talked to receptionist, found roll of paper towels.
Ran into Andy while trying to keep Tucker out of the pee puddle. Thankful.
Let Andy handle Tucker while I cleaned up pee.
Reminded boys that cats have small ears and loud noises can scare them.
Wondered if boys’ ears were working.
Talked to tech, who claimed more than six raisins for a dog Tucker’s size could be toxic.
Learned that they needed to induce vomiting.
Asked for reassurance about outcome, which was given.
Filled out form.
Wondered about cost.
Vowed never to keep raisins in the diaper bag again.
Drove home sans Tucker (who is being kept for monitoring).
Put boys down for a nap.
Wrote this while listening to boys scream and jump up and down in their cribs.
Thought about 8pm.
And a glass of wine.
“A well-trained dog will make no attempt to share your lunch. He will just make you feel so guilty that you cannot enjoy it.” —Helen Thomson
“There are no extra pieces in the universe. Everyone is here because he or she has a place to fill, and every piece must fit itself into the big jigsaw puzzle.” —Deepak Chopra
Scene: Owen is sitting on the leather chair in the living room. His milk is in a cup (with a lid) on the floor, 6 feet away from him.
Owen: “Where’s my milk? Where’s my milk? WHERE’S MY MILK!”
Me: “It’s right there, Owen. You can get it.”
Owen: “No. I can’t, Mommy. You get it.”
Me: “No. You can get it.”
Owen: “Get it! Get it! Get it, Mommy! Get it!”
Me: “Owen, you’re a big boy. Get off the chair and go get your milk.”
Owen: “But you’re the biggest.”
“Pretty much all the honest truth-telling there is in the world is done by children.” —Oliver Wendell Holmes
epilogue: James, tired of the whole thing, got up and gave Owen his milk. Owen threw it at his head. And with that, I put his milk away.
Sophie woke up wanting to “teach the boys how to paint.” She’s not the most patient of teachers. She also dislikes mixing colors. Although the pictures depict a rather lovely experience (and for awhile, it was), it did not end well. I suppose, for a more truthful depiction, I should take pictures across the spectrum. Too often, though, I’m solving and resolving at the one of the spectrum, leaving little time for picture-taking—whereas the other end of the spectrum is the stuff you dream motherhood is going to be, with plenty of time for dreamy documenting.
“A child’s attitude toward everything is an artist’s attitude.” —Willa Cather
I don’t know what’s worse. Using my legs and arms to pin Owen against myself, a nebulizer mask over his mouth and nose while he thrashes and screams, feeling him soften every few moments only to say, muffled and between sobs, “all done, Mommy, all done.”
Or looking at the look James gives me at the doctor’s office while I’m doing this to Owen—watching James cry and scream from across the room, not understanding that what I’m doing to Owen doesn’t hurt and is, in the long run, going to make him feel much, much better.
Our entire family got hit with a cold this past weekend. Colds always land in James’s chest and he had already done the doctor’s visit with the nebulizer treatment and the every-four-hours at-home albuterol treatment. He’s on day three of steroids. This has become the norm for James. He’s calm with masks over his face now. He inhales the medicine, knowing it’s helping him breathe, feel better.
But Owen. This is all new to Owen. Andy and I averaged about two hours of sleep each last night, staying up with him, watching the retraction in his chest, listening to the wheezing, calling the doctor on call, sharing James’s albuterol with him, debating the ER.
So tired. Everyone is so tired.
Owen had to have two 10-minute nebulizer treatments at the pediatrician’s office today. Ten minutes is a long time when you’re pinning a 2-year-old down and when the 2-year-old’s brother, full of steroids and lacking sleep, is beside himself with worry for his twin brother.
When it was all over, I asked James if he wanted to hug Owen. James said, between tears, “yes.”
Oh my heart.
Of course Owen, furious at the world, refused to accept James’s hug and pushed him away.
Still.
Even on the bad days, the really bad days, there are moments—these small and beautiful moments.
Slow inhale.
Slow exhale.
Breathing.
We’re all breathing.
“There’s no other love like the love for a brother. There’s no other love like the love from a brother.” —Terri Guillemets
The kids decided to make a train. Clever and cute, right?
They did this to the playroom in order to make it.
“That’s what children are for—that their parents may not be bored.” —Ivan Turgenev
“You cannot help but learn more as you take the world into your hands. Take it up reverently, for it is an old piece of clay, with millions of thumbprints on it.” —John Updike
