Humility and hilarity

Originally published in The Miami News-Record, May 2020 

Some things are more humbling than others. Sometimes things are humbling and also hysterical. For instance, getting a new pair of shoes that have a little more heel than you’re used to, practicing walking in them so you don’t look like a frozen-toed chicken, then sashaying across the room all sassy-like only to twist your ankle and fall. That’s just humbling. Or accidentally saying the wrong word - a DIRTY word - in place of another, in front of the whole family at Christmas, trying to correct it, messing it up again, then messing it up THREE MORE TIMES before your mother finally says, “Enough! Stop trying to fix it!” That is humbling and amusing even while you mortified your grandfather. Or getting tickled with your best friend at the Tastee Freez and laughing so hard you pass gas very loudly (if you remember the old Tastee Freez in Miami, the place was small, sound carried, the booths were very hard and….resonant). That’s just downright hysterical. 

The other night I had an experience so humbling and hilarious I can only write about it and share with you, Constant Reader, because that’s just what I do. 

I’ve been doing some extreme social distancing since March, plus I had been in school for almost a solid year and had very little social interaction even before the pandemic hit. Only recently have I emerged from my little groundhog hole, eyes squinted, skittish, and very, very wary. We have limited our interactions to only our kids, my sister and her crew, and my mom and pops. Even those interactions are distanced and there isn’t the usual hugging and close proximity we are all accustomed to.

Last Thursday Paul and I had dinner at Mom and Pops’. After dinner, the fellas went to the living room to watch TV while Mom and I stayed in the kitchen and visited. 

You ladies know how it is, you touch your chin and accidentally discover a chin hair, and then it’s literally all you can focus on. I was trying to get it with my fingernails to no avail and Mom said, “Well, you can’t just sit there and fiddle with it, come on.” I protested, telling her I had car tweezers (because y’all know that car light is the best light to nab chin hairs) and would get it on the way home. She insisted I follow and as I entered the bathroom she unfurled a giant magnifying mirror from the wall. That thing had to be about 97,856X magnification. But I’m so short all I could see was my eyebrows and those were another story altogether. I tried standing on my tiptoes but still couldn’t get my chin in the frame. Finally, Mom got tired of watching me hop and stretch and said, “Give me those!” She snatched the tweezers, abandoned all social distancing rules, and grabbed my face. The hair was actually down below my jaw and still pretty small. She couldn’t see it. I found it and said, “There, right by my fingernail!” With a surgeon’s precision, she honed in on the hair. The room was quiet. And then…she started laughing. Then I started laughing. My chin in her hand, tweezers between us, both of us were laughing so hard that one of us passed gas. And one of us - okay, probably both of us - peed a little. The more we laughed the funnier it got and both of us were doubled over, wheezing, until Paul got concerned enough to come check on us. I heard him say to Pops, “I don’t know what was going on in there, but they’re both bent over and neither one of them can breathe. They’re probably fine.” When we finally composed ourselves we decided to just count our losses and leave well enough alone. 

The next day when I plucked that sucker from its little hiding place, I got to giggling all over again. Few things humble - and amuse - us more than chin hairs and having someone else attempt to pluck them for us. 

I Mom So Hard

(Originally published in the Miami News-Record)

I am not a perfect mother.  I freely admit this. My mom made it look easy; I however make it look like a herd of rabid, radioactive ferrets have taken over my circus and have eaten the ringmaster and all the other acts. So yeah, you could say I’m doing GREAT. Granted , the house is quieter more often now that they’re mostly grown, but when they’re all here, it’s back to the chaos and insanity. I created them, so I have no choice but to sit back and enjoy the fruits of my labors. (Heh. Literally.)

About the only thing I ever really shone bright in when they were little: I rocked Valentine boxes. I was mediocre on Halloween costumes (the bag lady complete with shopping cart was my moment in the sun), but dudes, I killed it at Valentine’s Day. It’s my least favorite “holiday” (it’s not a real holiday, by the way - it’s commercialism at its pinkest and glitteriest and syrupy sweet awful-est), but something triggered me come February 1st and I became one of those moms, determined to outdo everyone else on the planet. Fortunately, by the time we started attending homeschool co-op, my kids had outgrown Valentine boxes. Homeschool moms are apparently ALL. ABOUT. VALENTINE. BOXES. I felt like shoebox-with-stickers-on-it-mom at homeschool co-op – and there is nothing wrong with shoeboxes and stickers mom, but my TV with real cord and hand-painted color bars paled in comparison to the to-scale ice castle that looked like it came straight from a frozen Norwegian village a la Disney.

But back to me being less-than-perfect: I dropped Kady three times when she was an infant. I told Abby to suck it up and finish her gymnastics class after she stubbed her toe on a chair. Turns out the toe was broken. And the list goes on of all the things I’ve done to thoroughly mess up my kids. I Mom pretty hard, but not perfectly.

Awhile back I found some cute string lights for the porch, which I asked Paul to put up repeatedly, to no avail. So Monday, since Kady and I had just cleaned and decorated the porch with mums, we decided to hang the lights ourselves. Until we realized we needed the big stapler. Which was somewhere in the disaster of Paul’s shop. After a few phone calls to him during which he directed us repeatedly to “one of those DeWalt tool bags over by the fridge,” we gave up due to anaphylaxis setting in. Oh, not from anything we’re allergic to, but the mess was just giving us hives. I grabbed some hamburger from the freezer for dinner and we decided to just wait until he got home

As we got back to the porch where we planned to just sit and relax, I heard Kady shriek, “OH GOSH NO MOM NO!!!!!” I turned to see her, arms in the air, spider crawling on  her shirt. She was frozen in fear and apparently, as the adult who was present, she looked to me to remove it before it ate her spleen or something. I love her and all, but no way was I touching a spider with my bare hands. I briefly considered kicking it off her, then remembered I am old and fat and not at all flexible.

So I did the only thing I knew to do: I whacked my child with a pound of frozen ground beef. Right in the ribs. She made a little “oof” sound as the tube of frozen meat made contact, but I was now committed to spider annihilation. And….of course, I missed the spider. I whacked her again. Success! She should’ve embraced me in a thankful hug, but instead she just stood there a few seconds before she finally said, quietly, but fiercely, “Mom? Did you just hit me with HAMBURGER???” before she just turned and walked in the house.

I’m telling you, few women achieve this level of Maternal Greatness.

Insult and Injury

(Originally published in the Miami News-Record)

Now that life has settled down a bit, I’m trying to establish a routine at my house. Housework that has been done on an as-needed basis (read: only if I knew someone was coming over) is now being done because basically I’m only working a couple days a week now, there are no small children in the house, and really I have no excuse to not have a house that doesn’t look like crime scene investigators should be called in. I’m not aspiring for Chip and Joanna Gaines status, just less “There appears to have been a struggle” status.

A couple weeks ago I was happily doing my new Saturday cleaning thing. I sprayed down the shower and decided to dust while I waited for those scrubby little bubbles to work hard so I don’t have to. As I was finishing up the mantel I looked up and noticed the TV screen was fingerprinty. Not sure why since it’s mounted on the wall and it’s not touch screen, but in my house I have learned that my children are capable of just about anything and most of all, weird things. It’s pretty much a circus when they’re all together. My circus, my monkeys, nothing I can do about it even if I wanted to. I just embrace the chaos and wait to clean it up after it’s over.

I scrubbed all the fingerprints off at the bottom and saw some toward the top of the screen. I am all of 5’2” and the top of the TV is somewhere around seven feet so I was struggling. Having been this height since I was 13, I did what I have done for over 30 years - I stood on my tiptoes. I didn’t go full pointe like a prima ballerina. I just barely went up enough to allow my paper towel a liiiiiiiiittle extra oomph.

Then I felt a pop in the top of my foot. Followed by what felt like a horrendous cramp. Then I said a bad word. Followed by a few more. I sat down and did a few flexing and pointing exercises and felt the crampy feeling subside to a dull ache. I think I know now why people avoid housework the way they do – IT’S DANGEROUS. I figured I probably needed to put on my shoes to do housework from now on since I’m old and fragile, but instead of doing that, I went on with my vacuuming and then finished up the bathroom. As the day went on, I noticed the pain was intensifying and by evening my foot had swollen to comical proportions. Monday I shoved my foot in a comfy shoe and ate ibuprofen by the handful. Tuesday morning I could barely get any shoe on. I got a same-day appointment, they x-rayed it, and she said it sounded broken but didn’t appear broken on film. Then added that stress fractures don’t always show up immediately on an x-ray. She wanted to put me in a walking boot, but since it’s my right foot I begged for anything but that. I need to be able to drive because Kady is in physical therapy in Joplin twice a week for her very own foot injury. So instead she put me in a “surgery shoe” and scheduled me for a follow up in two weeks.

As she was walking out she cautioned, “Please be very careful the next few weeks. That shoe will affect your balance and you’re a fall risk.” I, being who I am, laughed and said, “Yeah, and at my age I’m probably at risk for a hip fracture as well.” She didn’t even smile, she just replied with, “Yes. Absolutely. So be careful.” Then patted my leg, gave me a sweet smile, and said I should probably schedule a bone density test.

Ouch. That hurt worse than the injury – or the fact that I have to tell people I am hobbling around in a Frankenstein shoe because I injured myself while dusting.

Me and Gym

(originally published in the Miami News-Record)

I’ve been going to the gym. Now, I’m not a gym rat or anything like that. In fact, there is 100% zero chance of that ever happening. I may have a genetic propensity to addiction, but going to the gym is excluded from that in my DNA. If I were to go to one of those sites where they trace your genetic makeup and tell you that instead of being Native American you’re in fact Scandinavian (which leaves someone in your family with some ‘splaining to do), I’m fairly certain that my family history will show me to be a descendant of a little-known and long-extinct tribe of very fat, very short, very clumsy cave people who loved carbs and died out pretty early on for obvious reasons. I mean, you can’t very well escape a ravenous saber-toothed tiger when you’re in the midst of a sugar crash from eating an entire loaf of fresh cave-baked bread. And also you keep tripping over your own feet.

Aaaaaaaaanyway, so I’ve gone to the gym a whole four times in the past week. Okay, week and a half. The point is, I’m actually going. I don’t hate it, but I darn sure don’t like it. But after losing this weight I have some extra baggage. And I’m not talking about a cute, coordinating Michael Kors luggage set. I’m talking about some extra body just hanging out on me now. Y’all, I have some serious bingo wings going on. (Read: flabby arms) And my thighs are super weird – but in their defense, they’ve always been that way. They’ve always been jiggly, but I’m just more aware of them now that all the rest of me is jiggling in unison. Also, y’all my butt is sagging. Yes, I’m 45 and that’s not all that uncommon for a woman of my age, but I don’t like it. If I’ve sacrificed my beloved carbs in order to, you know, not die and stuff, I’d at least like to have a cute hiney while I’m out here living.

See, fat is jiggly like Jell-O. It’s filled out and plump. Yes it jiggles, but in a uniformly pudgy kind of way. When you lose a significant amount of weight all that skin that was gently cradling the fat now has no purpose in life. So it just kinda….hangs out. It jiggles in an entirely different way. And it’s traumatizing and uncomfortable – for you *and* those who happen to catch a glimpse of you waving, jumping, or God forbid, naked. So I’m going to the gym in an attempt to tone up some of this extra junk. And to strengthen my heart because of the not-dying thing I’ve got going on.

I’m not very confident when it comes to working out. I don’t know squat. So in my mind, walking on the treadmill is a good start. Until I get in there and remember I’m not the best at walking. I’m incredibly clumsy and uncoordinated on regular ground, so imagine how I am on ground that is constantly moving. It’s sad, but amusing and also keeps those around me on their toes. See, I’m creating a stronger, healthier me while also providing a few much-needed services. While I am walking my way to prime cardiovascular health, I am also: 1) allowing those around me to feel better about their form and stamina. They don’t need to worry if they look inept – I’m doing enough ineptitude myself that everyone’s pretty much only focused on me and worry about proper form goes right out the window. 2) creating a vigilant community of fellow gym goers who make sure no one gets hurt in their watch. Forget about 81 year old Fred over there struggling on the kettle bell in the corner, y’all better keep an eye on the short youngish grandma on the rowing machine. She’s probably gonna lose a finger at some point. And finally, 3) I’m bringing humor to the gym. Because if you can’t get a kick out of me tripping over my own feet and subsequently tossing my phone across four treadmills and also accidentally almost strangling ol’ kettle bell Fred with the cord from my ear buds, then you have no sense of humor whatsoever.

Smile!

(Originally published in the Miami News-Record)

Smile!

I dabble in photography from time to time. I’ve done several family sessions, a Senior session, and a couple of weddings so far. I don’t have any fancy “real photographer” equipment, so I specialize in outdoor shoots where light is more forgiving and I don’t need light boxes and those big umbrellas that I *think* are there for a purpose, but I can only picture Mary Poppins looking around like, “Blimey, I lost my giant umbrella once again!” And taking outdoor shots are all well and good until it’s January and you need your newborn’s pictures taken and Oklahoma is currently glazed in ice. So shortly after Petal’s birth I suggested that Abby try JC Penney portrait studio, see if she liked them, and let them do the pics I simply can’t until I win the lottery and buy equipment.

When Petal was a few weeks old, Abby, Kady, and I took the girls to Joplin for shopping and pictures. Petal was right in the middle of the worst colic known to humankind and yet onward we trekked. Wemberly fell asleep halfway through the mall on the way to the studio, of course, and when we woke her up she proceeded to cry like her heart was broken. The first thing we noticed when we arrived was the temperature. It was somewhere around 188* degrees in there. Abby set to the task of dressing Wemberly while I dressed Petal who was screaming like her arms were being removed with a spork. Abby pushed her sweaty hair out of her face, plugged a Goldfish cracker into Wemberly’s bawling mouth and said, “Right now, we are THAT family.” I smiled in agreement, lost track of my bouncing rhythm and Petal started screaming once more. Eventually I bounced her in just the right colic-busting way and she stopped. She was still scowly and fussy, but the screaming abated. At the height of the colic she had three moods: angry, angrier, and angrily asleep. We found a new setting that day: Maximum Angry. Best described as “like a tiny Hulk, just less green.”

The photographer was a champ and while neither girl actually smiled, there were still some cute ones. So we decided to do it again last weekend. Wemberly is now 15 months – the age all three of my kids were when they had their pictures taken in a pair of camouflage overalls Paul had bought for Abby and I want the picture recreated with all of my grandkids as well. The temperature in the studio was still tropical, but tiny screamy Hulk baby was considerably less screamy. Wemberly, dressed like she was headed out to the woods for a day of hunting, was as hyper as a chihuahua after an espresso and gave that poor photographer a run for his money. He rolled with it, though - and literally rolled around on the floor with her to get some adorable shots. When it was Petal’s turn I took Wemberly out to change clothes and let her run off some more of that energy. A Kindergartener named Brennon with a snotty nose and an obnoxious cough kept hovering over her and I was convinced she was going home with Ebola after that.

After all pictures were taken, the photographer disappeared. I don’t know if it was his corporate-mandated break time or if he was cowering behind a dumpster in the alley, chain smoking and searching Monster.com for jobs in an entirely different field, but regardless, dude was GONE. We finally managed to coax him back in with the promise we’ll request a different photographer next time and previewed their pictures. They turned out quite wonderful and I assured Abby every time we go it will get easier. That might be a tiny mom lie because I don’t remember picture day being remotely enjoyable until the last one was past Kindergarten, but young mommas need hope so I smiled and said, “Let’s make an appointment for Christmas pictures! And let’s ask if we can bring the new puppy!” I might’ve been borderline dehydrated from the heat in the studio when I suggested that. And fortunately they said no. Whew.

Liberating Plankton, Part 3: The Finale

Up until this surgery, my biggest stressor regarding anesthetic was the whole waking up and feeling like you had just closed your eyes and having lost time where you don't remember a damn thing. Like, it would freak me out to just think about it. But this time I didn't have that bewildered "Where TF am I?" panic moment upon waking. Again, I think that was another little knuckle bump from God.

So last we left me in the capable hands of "Guy Who Smelled Amazing and Had the Go-Go Juice In His Possession."

I woke up a couple hours later and, when asked, reported my pain as a 5. Post-Op Nurse Craig (who smelled almost as good as OR guy) (what's with these hospital guys smelling so dang amazing?) said, “Well, let me get you some Dilaudid for that.”

Y’all. I am 100% convinced still, six weeks later, that a magical sparkly unicorn delivered that blessed medicine to me right there in the recovery room. Soon my pain subsided to a 3 and apparently the goal was ZERO because I got even MORE of it. More unicorn. More awesome. The only thing that could've possibly made it better was if Deadpool himself had delivered it on that magical unicorn.

Turns out, there was a slight complication during surgery. The plan had been to remove the dastardly uterus and leave both ovaries which had appeared 100% normal in the ultrasound. Once he got in there, he discovered the left ovary had a big ol' cyst on it. And still, his plan was to simply remove the cyst and leave the ovary. Then, that ovary, who had probably been colluding with the evil uterus and was a full-fledged member of The Dark Side, decided to hemorrhage. Yes, actually hemorrhage. He tried to cauterize it. It wouldn't stop. He was considering an anti-coagulant, but given my Factor V, decided to not do that (thank God). So that ovary got evicted. There was also an almost-complication with my bladder, but just as he had called in the urologist, things rectified themselves and that was that.

I got the post-op report a week or so later. I had Adenomyosis, an ovary riddled with cysts, a shortened Fallopian tube, and an angry/inflamed cervix. So you could say, it was a gynecological shit show up in there.

I'm just glad it's all gone. I've since gone back to work (new job), my hormones seem to be doing a fair job of behaving (thanks to some Maca root) and I feel 900% better than when I was bleeding to death --or recovering from bleeding to death-- three weeks out of every month.10 out or 10, highly recommend. Go get ya a hysterectomy. You won't regret it. 

And every night in my dreams I search for the magical Dilaudid unicorn and well, as I typed that I realize that makes me sound slightly deranged, so yeah, forget I said that.

Liberating Plankton, part 2

Oh GAH! I told you I was going to TRY to be better at writing. Yeah, apparently I'm failing again. In my defense I started a new job last week, so hush.

So to continue.....

So surgery date scheduled, I had a lot of stuff to do. I am a worrier, a fretter, a preparer by nature. I try to be better about this, but sometimes it's just how I am. Kady and I sat down and made a menu for the first two weeks post-surgery. If it were up to her it would've been 14 solid days of frozen pizzas and tacos on a steady rotation. It was not up to her, so there were things like hamburgers, Cheesy Bacon Chicken Casserole (low carb), and some crockpot meals in there. Turns out, two actual weeks out from the surgery, she and Paul already went through the frozen pizza stash, so you can see the menu worked well.

I paid up as many bills as I could. Paul drew unemployment all summer and I had only been working two days a week, but God was good and the whole summer we didn't pay a single bill late. I cleaned the house furiously and would occasionally walk to the doorway of the craft room/office, then quickly turn around again and shut the door. Abby and Dakota and the girls lived with us for a year and that had been their room. When they moved out, it became the Room of Requirement - everything went there. Kady decided to paint her bathroom and bedroom, so the contents of her room stayed in there while that was happening. Heck, parts of her room are STILL in there, so that's fun.

Sam had been living on campus at Crowder for a year, but had come home the weekend before to hang out, love on his momma, and use my washing machine before he left for Falls Creek the day before my surgery. This was his third year to go with this church - first as a camper, second as a Junior Sponsor, this year as a Real Big Person, Fully Powerful Adult Sponsor. That Monday I took him to meet the church crew at the buttcrack of dawn and then went back home to finish freaking the hell out preparing.

My pre-op instructions included such horrifying phrases like: "No hair products" and "No lotion, moisturizers, or deodorant." Yeah, I was more upset over those things than the fact that very soon my doctor was going to pull organs out of an incision up in my lady bits. I am very dependent on lotion and deodorant. Oh and also, on top of not being able to properly moisturize my aging skin, I had to wash the night before AND the morning of surgery with Dial Gold. That golden bar of skin-drying, antibacterial soap which they say will kill germs, but also any of your body's own ability to retain moisture. I stepped out of the shower the night before and put on lotion. I had to. I could feel panic rising as I'd grab the lotion, set it down, pick it back up and stare at it longingly, then set it down, pace a few times as I'd feel my skin starting to resemble a raisin. I finally gave in. The morning shower I managed to refrain, but in my defense, it was like 4am so I really think being incoherent and half-asleep helped there.

I slept like a log the night before. I think that was God's way of just giving me a little knuckle bump.

Kady and I arrived at the hospital, checked in, then proceeded to people-watch until I was called back. She's nearly 17 years old, but leaving her alone in that waiting room was hard. The nurse assured me she could come back once they got my IV in. My mom was going to be there after a doctor's appointment, but it was still hard to leave her right then.

My pre-op nurse was sweet. Quiet, but sweet. She tried to get my IV in, blew the vein and refused to try again. She called in another nurse who managed to get it in the other hand after some digging around. She brought me several heated blankets since I was all naked under my gown. Dr. B came in to briefly visit. He said he had a baby trying to decide if it was going to be born any time soon, so I might be delayed a little. He was in the delivery room with Abby during Petal's birth around four hours so I was really hoping this new kid was a little speedier than my second granddaughter.

After he left, my nurse meekly - and without making eye contact - said, "Part of your pre-op is being shaved. So.....I need to do that......if that's okay." Sister. Is it "Okay?" Look, I'm about to let strangers cut on my naked body, yes it's okay. I'm okay with y'all doing whatever you need to do to make sure I don't die of infection like I'm having surgery in a third-world country. Also, sidenote: I'm pretty chill when it comes to medical procedures and my body. I don't enjoy my yearly well-woman exams, but I'm also sensible enough to, you know, not want to die, so I get my mammograms and pelvics like a good girl. But having her awkwardly announce she was getting ready to shave my downtown? Weird. So weird. But I smiled, trying to make things less cringe-y, and I told her to have at it. I flipped back my gloriously heated blankets and laid back.

And when she brought out this industrial-looking electric shaver that looked like something out of Mad Men I nearly lost it. Had her personality been less quiet and gentle, I'd have made a joke of some kind, but as it was I just kept quiet. I'm sure she misjudged my shaking as nerves or being cold, but it was really just me trying not to laugh. I just decided to look at the ceiling. And as I looked up caught a horrific glimpse of myself being shaved by a stranger in the reflection of the overhead light. And then I was just fascinated by this out-of-body body-hair-removal experience and all I wanted to do was text my friend Stacie and be like, "DUDE. You are never gonna believe what is happening to me RIGHT NOW!" Once she finished shaving me (super drafty, btw) she then said, "Okay, now I have to uhm.....get the little hairs with......this....." and donned what looked like a cafeteria-lady plastic glove. She giggled and said, "It's sticky!" Then for the next minute or so she just patted me down with that thing. And I was still trying to not die laughing.

After all that was over, they finally let Kady in. She immediately asked if I was "okay" which is code for "Are you freaking the actual f*ck out right now, Mom?" to which I answered, "I'm actually okay." And I meant it.

Dr. B came back in to discuss the use of Lovenox and the conditions of whether yes or no, I would be getting it. Because I have Factor V, I am at risk for blood clots after surgery, so that's always something to be on top of. A few minutes after that they said they were ready for me in the OR, I kissed Kady, and they wheeled me out. She chatted cordially as she pushed me along. I didn't have my glasses on, so I couldn't tell you much about the decor, although I doubt there was much actual decor. She she turned a corner she announced, "And here we are!" She pushed another button, the OR doors opened wide and everyone in the room looked up and said, "KRISTIN!" I felt like Norm from Cheers. The nurse who brought me in introduced me to everyone in the room. I just wanted to really look around some, but one, they were already in full OR Team Six mode and two, I didn't have my glasses on.

As I was scooting from bed to tiny little table meant for people with much smaller rear-ends than mine, the two gals on either side of me had a conversation:

"Dude. Remind me to tell you about what Mom said."
"Okay, dude. *eye roll*"
"Like, you're not gonna believe it."
"Oh, I'm sure."

I don't know if they were sisters or if "Mom" was code word for someone they don't like, but at that point all the laughter I'd held in while having my cooter shaved by a stranger, just bubbled out. And then everyone joined in and honestly, I think I could've had the entire OR team over for Thanksgiving dinner and we'd have gotten along just fine.

Settled in on my Barbie-sized table, a fella who smelled really good, told me his name and made some conversation I don't remember. Then there was a mask on my face and he told me to breathe deep and then it was lights out.


to be continued.....

Back in My Day

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on June 26, 2016. 

My oldest daughter, as you know, is expecting a sweet, precious, little girl (who has decided this week to behave and stay put awhile longer, thank the Lord). She is very active, has crazy long legs, and likes to lie on her back with her arms over her head or across her face – just the way her momma sleeps. This has proven problematic for ultrasound pictures because the little stinker refuses to cooperate and smile for the camera. And now Abby is just absolutely convinced she needs a 3D ultrasound so she can see this baby girl’s face.

But I think “need” is a bit of a stretch.

Back in my day, you got ONE ultrasound. It was at 20 weeks. Period. You had to go in with a bladder full to approximately the size of a watermelon, knowing full well someone was going to squish around on it for about 30 minutes. All of your friends warned you and told you to expect to either cry or pee yourself. Or do one then the other. There was no such thing as 3D or 4D ultrasounds back then. No, your baby appeared on screen as a grainy, skeleton alien monster. If you were lucky enough to have a cooperative child with some exhibitionist tendencies, they could sometimes determine the gender of your child. Then the technician would describe the child’s genitals as either a “hot dog” (girl) or a “turtle” (boy). And most of them wouldn’t give you any more than a 60% chance they were correct. You didn’t WANT a face shot because frankly, your baby was a frightening creature that looked like an alien and you were secretly afraid it was going to grab hold of and eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

This glamorous ultrasound session was usually done by a surly technician who felt their time and talent was being wasted on such frivolous things as, oh you know, YOUR BABY. Twice I got a tech that sighed through the entire ultrasound. Apparently they were bitter that they hadn’t been made famous yet by discovering a new and previously unnoticed organ or something during a routine ultrasound.

The price of your child’s first photo shoot was included in the all-inclusive delivery fee you were informed of on your first visit. You know, the first visit where they confirm that yes indeedy, you are quite pregnant. As if the 50 positive pregnancy tests you peed on and the barfing 24/7 weren’t big enough clues. You were shuffled from the exam room to an office where “the girl who does the insurance” held court. There she asked for your insurance card, did some magical figuring on an adding machine (this was pre-internet, mind you), and made a declaration of what you had to pay the doctor every month when you visited so your baby would be paid in full by delivery. (During my last pregnancy I asked if they would repo a couple – the two who were at that moment in a full-on WWE match on her office floor) (She didn’t get my sense of humor. She said no.) 

I get it, times change. My mom had nary an ultrasound with either of her pregnancies. Of course, my Nana also nearly had a stroke when she saw Mom hanging clothes on the line and running the vacuum while pregnant because both of those chores were 199% known to cause the cord to wrap around the baby’s neck. Daddies didn’t get to witness the birth of their children. Diapers were cloth, bottles were glass, carseats were virtually nonexistent.

So if my kiddo wants to pay for a glimpse of her baby’s face ahead of time, I suppose I won’t complain. I’m already so in love with this little blueberry that seeing her squishy little face early might cause me to go into happy spasms or an uncontrollable squealing fit, but I suppose I’ll adjust to the changing times. It’s what all the hip grandmas do. 

Hard Labor

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on June 19, 2016. 

A little less than 15 years ago I was pregnant and started having what I thought were Braxton-Hicks contractions. After a week of the pesky contractions other things happened that made me think that perhaps these contractions weren't merely for training purposes only. And sure enough, a visit to my doctor, then a trip to the hospital revealed that I was indeed in active labor and dilated four centimeters. Normally people get excited at this news, but I was only 25 weeks pregnant. They shot me full of steroids to speed up the development of her lungs and sent me home on strict bed rest. The doctor said delivery was imminent and the outlook was grim. Happy ending: we managed to keep the little stinker in place ten more weeks and, other than being a bit of a diva, she's a normal kid. 

Fast forward to this past Tuesday when my oldest, the one currently incubating my first grandchild, sent me a text that asked, “What does a contraction feel like? Because I'm pretty sure I just had one.” Well, that got my attention. I quickly text a nurse friend who said for her to drink a big glass of water and take a warm bath. They didn't stop. She called her OB’s office and they sent her to the hospital. As we walked in, Abby said, “This is going to be SO embarrassing when they say I'm silly and send me home.” She and her husband went into a room, my mom and I stayed in the waiting room. Finally after ten minutes I couldn't stand it. I knocked on the door and peeked in. My teeny tiny little girl was swallowed up in that big ol’ hospital and grew even smaller as she said, “I'm dilated.” A tear slid down her cheek. We spent the next few hours in a room while she was scanned, prodded, hydrated, medicated, and pondered over. It got kind of tense so Mom and I decided to lighten the mood by telling a story. 

It was December 19, 2001. I was in labor the second (and proper) time with Kady. My mom and mother-in-law had come up to visit us.  Now, my mother-in-law is a funny lady. She's sweet, but very quiet and matter-of-fact. She did not attend the birth of the other two and I offered once more to let her attend to which she quickly replied, “Oh nononono! I don't need to see…..that.” I laughed and told her the offer was there if she changed her mind. She stood there awkwardly and I patted the bed and said, “Martha, come sit here. There’s no need to stand!” Paul even offered her his chair. She waved us both away and said, “Oh, hush. I'll just sit on this stool here.”

What happened next still causes Mom and I to have to stop the story-telling because we’re already laughing. Martha backed up to the stool – which was on wheels – and started to sit. But the stool had another idea. It started to roll away from her. She started baby-stepping backward trying to catch the stool with her bum, rolling all the way to the wall across the room. Paul, Mom, Abby, Sam, and I watched in horror as the stool stopped rolling when it hit the wall and Martha fell squarely on her rear end. The room was silent then all of us busted into laughter so loud the nurses had to think we were crazy. Mom and Paul ran to her aid while I continued laughing until I was certain I was going to laugh Kady right on out. The telling of the story still makes her laugh as well. It's my favorite Martha story, second only to the one where she killed a goat. But I'll save that one for another time. 

Of course, by this point in the story, Abby and Dakota we laughing and the scary preterm labor monster was temporarily forgotten. Y'all know that my answer for everything in life is laughter and I was only doing my job. We’re still facing down some unsure times ahead over the next few months, but one thing is for sure, we’ll face it all together and we’ll do it with as much laughter as we can muster. 

Being Bold

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on June 12, 2016. 

I’ve mentioned several times here on our Sunday chats that I am an introvert. I am an outgoing introvert, but an introvert nonetheless. I am also nonconfrontational. So when I have to cowboy up and stand up for myself or someone I love, it’s a BIG deal. I don’t enjoy it, however I have been told I’m awesome at it once I’m forced to do it.  I still don’t like it and I don’t think I ever will. I am generally a nice person. Most of the time. And I like to get along with people even if I don’t like to interact with them.

It’s been over six weeks since Abby’s car accident. Just this past week the other person’s insurance made contact for the first time. They decided to go ahead and accept the liability which is a total duh decision since the police report and the witness all state as such. Their insured ran a red light – how would they NOT accept the liability?? Yeesh.

After a phone conversation where the claims agent told me they wanted to take the vehicle off our property to assess the damage and make their decision on what to offer us, my husband nearly blew a gasket. He told me to call her back and let her know that an adjuster can come to us and that was that. That meant me having to actually pick up the phone and call her back. There are just some days it’s almost physically painful to pick up a phone and dial a number in order to speak to another human. And knowing I was going to likely have to be firm and/or confrontational made it worse. But I didn’t dare let Paul handle it – he tends to be a little uhm….shall we say “overly aggressive” when he has to get firm. The quiet, genial redneck in him mutates like when David Banner gets angry and goes all Hulk on everyone. When Paul gets wound up, the freckles on his face go from a sandy ginger to an angry brownish red and veins appear on his neck and forehead. His flannel shirts are in danger of ripping and once I swear I thought he was going to turn green. No, he was NOT going to handle this.

So I called the claims agent and she himmed and hawed, but eventually agreed to send an adjuster to our house. She said if the towing service called to schedule a pickup for the truck to let them know other arrangements had been made. Again with people making me interact! Why does the world insist I speak to other people so much lately??

Sure enough, they called to schedule the pickup, but I missed the call. When I called back the gal asked for my lot number. I explained that I didn’t have a lot number because my vehicle isn’t on her lot. She refused to comprehend the words emanating from my face. Then she got snarky and hateful and well, she just caught me in the right mood. I nearly went Hulk Smash myself. 

She snottily stated, “If you don’t have a lot number I simply cannot help you. Lady, I have six acres of cars out there and a lot number is the only way I can find your vehicle.”

My reply? “Well, I have 30 acres and I can tell you exactly where to find it. It’s HERE. On MY thirty acres. Not on your six. I just need to make sure you don't come pick it up from my 30 acres!” Then she said that my attitude wasn’t helping her any at all. Seriously, folks. Jesus was all that was holding me back. Well, and the fact she was in Oklahoma City.

And I may or may not have told her that if someone from her place of business showed up on my property there would be a redneck with a shotgun there to greet them. I didn’t mention that he might be green, though. I wouldn’t want her to think I was weird or something. 

Don't Throw Stones

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on May 22, 2016. 

Five years ago my husband had a kidney stone. And it was a testament of my enduring love for him.  

After two ER visits to two different hospitals he was finally admitted and scheduled for surgery. Paul all but kissed the ER doc when he said he’d get his orders ready to admit him. The plan was to have surgery the next morning where they would go in and…..ahem….retrieve the dastardly stone. Yeah. I’ve had that done myself. It’s as unpleasant as you’re probably imagining.

Bright and early the next day the anesthesiologist came in, visited with us, and gave him some Versed to “relax” him prior to them taking him downstairs to surgery. Paul sat there on the bed and said, “This stuff doesn’t do anything to me. I’m …..fi—“ and then he started snoring. I patted his leg and went back to reading my book. In came two cute little gals from the surgery department, ready to take him away. They managed to wake him up long enough to confirm his identity and were unlocking the wheels on his bed when one said, “Oh no. Mr. Hoover? MR. HOOVER?? Hon, you left your shorts on and we’re going to need you to take those off. MR. HOOVER??” She poked her head around the curtain and said, “Are you Mrs. Hoover? Uhm…can you try to get his shorts off of him? He seems to be pretty out of it.” She held the curtain open so I could see my completely unconscious husband. And his flowered Bermuda shorts just shinin’ there in all their glory. Then they told me they’d give us some privacy and stepped around the curtain.

THEY LEFT ME. I sighed. I patted his cheek, said his name, patted his hand. Nothing. Just snoring. I shook his shoulder. He waved me away. “Honey, you have to wake up and help me get these shorts off of you! Can you help me?” He mumbled, “Well, sure. Why didn’t you just ask?” I heard a giggle on the other side of the curtain. I shot her a death glare she’s probably glad she couldn’t see.

What ensued was pretty much the hardest thing I’ve ever done next to birthing babies. I would give him a command, make a request, he would agree to comply…..then he’d pass out and start snoring again. He was 100% deadweight and absolutely NO HELP. At one point one of the little gals on the other side of the curtain said, “Ma’am? You doin’ okay back there?”  to which I replied, “NO! I am NOT doing okay back here! Could I maybe get some help?” Then they giggled and said, “You’re doing great! Take your time. You’ll get it!” It was at that point I just busted out laughing. And they joined in. And we all had a good ol’ laugh. Which woke up my husband and he drunkenly said a bad word and passed back out again.  

After much wrangling, wrestling, persuading, and borderline accosting my poor husband, the Bermuda shorts were finally removed. By me alone. With no help. I considered a cartwheel, but then decided if I broke a hip and ended up in a different hospital room who would be there to remove any other stubborn articles of clothing if necessary?

The surgery was unsuccessful and a second procedure was scheduled for the next day. When the anesthesiologist came in the second time he said, “I gave him about half of what I did yesterday. Apparently your husband is a lightweight. We’d never seen anyone quite so out of it as he was yesterday.” Then he laughed as he said, “And I heard you had quite a time with his shorts…”

I dug those dadblamed shorts out of his laundry bag and threw them in the biohazard trashcan as soon as they wheeled him off to surgery. He’s mentioned them a time or two and wonders where they went. I’ll never tell. 

Disorganized

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on April 3, 2016. 

I came to a realization this week: I will never be organized.

It’s not for lack of trying, mind you. I just feel like I’m fighting a battle that literally cannot be won. Ever. By anyone. Even the most organized person on earth has that one secret area of their life that is never quite where or how they want it to be or look. And don’t tell me about the award-winning book by Suzy Homemaker or the foolproof method taught by Linda Betterthanyou. Total Organization is the impossible dream. I love FLYlady (check her out at www.flylady.net) and think her program is amazing. And I get super duper amazingly organized when I’m following her steps. But then suddenly I find myself just…..not. Not doing it, not following it, not trying, not FLYing, just….not. Because my life tends to be a little more out-of-control than her “Control Journal” allows for. Oh, I do have a Control  Journal – I dusted it just the other day. After I found it peeking out from the bottom of a stack of papers and bill stubs that needed to be filed. In 2014.

Just this past week our youngest daughter had her wisdom teeth removed. I cleared my calendar for the week knowing that she’d be convalescing and that was the perfect excuse to not commit to leaving the house for at least the work week. My goal was to get the file cabinet cleaned out to where only the current year’s stuff is in there, get April and May’s school assignments in my planner and begin the countdown to The Last Day Of School (yes, it must be written in capital letters and it must be said with extreme reverence), get the craft cabinet and my sewing stuff cleaned out and organized, and get the kitchen island and the dining room table cleared of anything that doesn’t belong there.

As I write this, it’s nearly 11pm on Thursday night. The file cabinet is cleaned out and my sewing stuff is organized. That’s as far as I got. The school assignments are still in their purgatory of being on paper, but not officially in the book. The craft stuff was partially cleaned out and organized, but then I found some pretty scrapbook paper and a Pinterest tutorial on how to make origami bookmarks and well, let’s just say I need to read more books to utilize all the bookmarks I made. Like, about 126 more books than I’m reading now. And my goal to rid the island and table of things that don’t belong there? Well, it seems that both surfaces have been occupied by all that stuff for so long everyone just assumes that’s where those things belong. I can assure you, though, that the three cans of spray paint, a coupon from the vet for heart worm medicine, four mini candy bars from someone’s Christmas stocking that no one claims yet everyone hollers when I head for the trash with them because they “might want to eat that after dinner”, four broken pencils, roughly four dozen paper clips, a container of bb’s, four opened packages of Juicy Fruit (and oh yeah, my Control Journal) don’t actually belong there. I think.

Funny thing is, though, in the midst of the clutter and apparent disorganization, there is a system, a method to my madness, if you will. If Paul decides he needs the instruction manual on a battery charger he bought in 1998 or a check stub from last year, I can go right to the file (or pile) and pull it out. If Sam needs a copy of his high school transcript, I can tell you immediately that I did not file it the last time he needed a copy of it, but instead laid it on my desk to file it later and can go to the correct pile and produce it for you in less than a minute.

So I suppose that while I’ll never win an award for my mad organizational skillz, nor will I ever be featured in House Beautiful, I do have a very alphabetized DVD collection. And if you need an origami bookmark (or twelve), I’m your girl. 

Operation: Fun

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on February 21, 2016.

I mentioned that our youngest, Kady, has been having some stomach issues and we have been on a months-long quest to find the culprit of the pain. After many tests and bloodwork and x-rays this past week she finally went in for an EGD (upper GI scope).

She has always been our most rambunctious child, is rarely still for any length of time, and will talk your leg off at 90 miles an hour and barely stop for air while she chatters, but she is also our most chilled-out child. (Talk about an oxymoronic enigma.) She pretty much just rolls with life and doesn’t get too stressed out about much. She wasn’t the least bit nervous prior to the test and the only real issue she had was the fasting. Girl likes her morning coffee. And wanted Taco Bell. Or a giant burger.

We checked in at St. Francis Children’s and after a hard-of-hearing senior volunteer finally figured out I was shouting “HOOVER” as our last name, we were given our surgery passes and sent upstairs. We got settled in and Mom and I took advantage of the free wi-fi by playing Words with Friends back and forth in a furious, never-ending cycle. Kady just took selfies. When we were called back to a pre-op room we met the sweetest nurse named Tammy. She told us about her grandson, how she put together his plastic ride-on Police car with only a screwdriver. And since her daughter didn’t have a hammer, “Sisters, I just used a garlic press!” She told us how she prayed over that baby before he was born, that he would be a “gentle gentleman.” She was precious. And even though she is 14, brought Kady a stuffed panda. Then the next time she came into the room was carrying about 12 urine specimen containers and told her “I need all these filled up, sweetie, so get busy!” The IV team was wonderful and encouraged Kady’s desire to become a respiratory therapist. We joked and laughed and before she was wheeled off for her scope we had become the “fun” family all the nurses wanted to come see. That’s just how we roll.

Mom and I were both hungry, but I refused to leave the waiting room and Mom refused to leave if I didn’t leave. So the Words with Friends frenzy continued. Every time the waiting room phone rang this woman would just get up and answer it. (Which was good, I suppose, since the adorable white-headed senior citizen manning the desk had gone AWOL. She was probably getting a snack. Unlike my mother.) And every time it rang it was for her. Until one time she turned around and bellowed, “Kady Hoover? Is there a Kady Hoover here?” I resisted the urge to tell her she might think about refining her receptionist skills and instead just took the phone from her hand. She sighed impatiently. I suppose she thought she might miss an important call. I secretly wondered if the guy who was trading stocks in the waiting room a few weeks before was who kept calling her.

We walked back to recovery to find Kady eating a popsicle. She was cold so I asked Tammy if she could have a heated blanket. She said, “That baby girl can have anything she wants! Does she want goldfish crackers? Animal cookies? A pony? Sprite? I will get it for her!” After recovery she nearly knocked over another nurse so she could be the one to wheel Kady out. After she made sure Kady was safely in the car, she grabbed me and hugged me tight, and said she would pray for us. And I believe she will.

By the way, the Sprite that Tammy brought Kady was apparently “real” Sprite and according to Kady, and “not the cheap stuff you buy, Mom…. No offense.” I’m going to blame that grocery-shopping critique on the anesthesia. 

Stage Presence

Originally published in the Miami News -Record on January 10, 2016.

When I was a Junior, our school got a speech and debate program. I was no stranger to the stage what with me reciting Luke 2:12 proudly on the stage at Hudson Creek Baptist Church at the ripe old age of five and other church plays, skits, and the occasional special on Sunday morning. I was SO in when Mrs. Enoch and Mrs. Sharbutt suggested I be part of the team and went to state competition both years I was on it. I was also a busty Bertha Beaumont in our production of “Greater Tuna” my Senior year. I may be an introvert, but I have always LOVED being on stage.  

So when the pastor’s wife stood up in front of the church one October Sunday and said she’d be in the foyer after the service with a sign-up sheet for the church Christmas play I nearly got filled with the Spirit right there before the offering was ever taken up. I was down the aisle and had pen in hand before the last strains of the invitation hymn faded. I think the poor woman was a little taken aback at my excitement and was probably thinking, “What on earth have I done?” when I did a kick ball change and yelled “FOSSE!” while showing her my best jazz hands. I enthusiastically told her I had stage experience and would help out any way she needed. She just smiled and nodded and patted me on the shoulder.  

The next Sunday she approached me with script in hand and I was nearly light-headed. She smiled and said, “Here you go. You’re Anita.” And ohhhhh the thoughts went through my head as I clutched the script to my chest.  Anita! It sounds like a female lead’s name. Ohmygosh she gave me the LEAD! Stop shaking and for heaven’s sake, don’t cry. Okay, cry. It will help when Anita has to decide whether to have the surgery that will save her life or spend her last days courageously fighting alongside her long-lost twin sister against the savage guerillas in the jungles of Alaska.

Turns out, Anita was not the female lead, but rather the heinous and evil, self-centered department store manager who got what she deserved in the end. It didn’t involve guerilla warfare or even a life-saving surgery, but I did manage to scare every small child in the church with my evil antics. One week at practice a sweet little girl sat down next to me, gave me a sideways glance, then quietly asked, “You’re not really mean, are you? You don’t look mean now, but….you sure are up there….” I asked her what she thought as I raised an eyebrow and looked over my glasses into her tiny face. She didn’t come to practice much after that. And when she did, she sat on the other side of the sanctuary.

But the true test of my acting skills came when a mere week before the play, we found ourselves without our male lead. The original “Barry” and I had finally managed to conquer the scene where I flirted rather aggressively without him quivering in fear and suddenly, I was going to have to swiftly break in another poor soul. Turns out, that poor soul was my son. My 17-year-old son. The first run-through with Sam as lead was….awkward. At best. We muddled through the scene with red faces and giggles, but managed.

As I walked off stage after the scene, one of the deacons approached me and said, “I know y’all are new to the church and all, but I had no idea y’all were from Arkansas.” Once again I found myself with a raised eyebrow giving an evil stare over my glasses.

When we got in the car after practice that night Sam said, “Soo….that was weird.” I said, “Yes, weird indeed. But here’s the positive: at least we don’t have to kiss.” The poor kid nearly fainted. 

Spelunkin' (A continuation)

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on October 18, 2015

Back at camp, Lana praised me for passing my free cardiac stress test, but kept a close eye on me. I know she loves me and all, but really didn’t want to do CPR on her friend. I drank a bottle or seven of water, rested my shaking legs, and was excited to hear Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie say that the cave entrance was “only a minute” from our camp. I was fairly certain I could handle a minute of walking. As we started for the cave I tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head that kept saying, “This path is preeeeeetty steep which means coming back up later is going to finish you off where the other hike didn’t. You better call your mom and tell her you love her.”

At the entrance, the guide warned us about low hanging ceilings, fluttering bats, and slippery surfaces. He cautioned us to not touch anything with our hands and to stay on the path because some of the critters living in there were so small we could knock out an entire community with the toe of our shoe.  “Horton Hears a Who” flashed in my head. He said if there were hand rails we could touch those, but to be very careful to not bump other surfaces with any body parts. I vowed to lovingly make those hand rails my new best friends.

And thus we began our descent. Our friends’ youngest son had been very nervous and scared to go in the cave and they had been praying God would help him overcome that fear in the weeks prior to the trip. I know in my heart of hearts that God conveniently placed some salamanders in the stairwell as we entered. Ezra was fascinated with those scurrying boogers and we were 20-some feet underground before the little guy knew it. I, on the other hand, didn’t do so well on the trip down. I am terrified of heights and the stairs were steep. In order to keep from breaking my hip, I had to look down at the steps. Looking down made me light-headed and I lost my balance and bumped the wall….and felt something wiggle. I called down the stairs. “Uhm…..Nathan? I’m pretty sure I just killed a salamander with my butt.” Paul whacked me on the shoulder and shushed me. He said didn’t want me banished before we even got in.

We went 170 feet below the ground that afternoon. We saw all the usual cave offerings: stalactites, stalagmites, bats, lizards, frogs, unknown drippy things and wiggly things. I saw this cool looking stuff on the handrail and hollered to the guide to see what it was. “Oh that? It’s a fungus growing in some guano.”  It was then that I shone my flashlight further onto the handrail and realized that the rail that I had been clinging to was pretty much covered in bat poo. So. Much. Bat. Poo.

Sam entertained us all with random Batman quotes and declarations to save Gotham from the Joker. Everyone over 5’ tall whacked their heads. For once Kady and I felt pretty fortunate that we’re short. We saw a pile of guano that had to have been 12-feet tall. I heard the folks at the head of the line say, “We’re almost there!” and I assumed that “there” meant “exit”. No, “there” meant “as far as we can go and now we have to turn around and walk all the way back out.” It was a half mile in and the same half mile out, but it took a quarter of the time to get out than it did to get in.

It was a really cool experience and I’m glad we did it. I’d even do it again someday. But I’m hoping that between now and the next time, that special cave snail pays for a golf cart and paved pathway to and from the cave. Nature schmature. 

The Great Outdoors

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on October 11, 2015.

Awhile back, Mike and Lana, the friends that came over to sort-of camp in our yard and go four-wheeling back in the summer, asked us if we would be interested in visiting an underground laboratory in a cave in the Ozarks. How does one say no to such a proposition? Kady and Sam are studying earth and space science this year, so I thought caves would go right along with such a trip and you know us homeschoolers and the constant educating of our children and stuff. We were SO in.

We were only going for an overnight stay and would really only spend about 24 hours on the property, but goodness gracious it looked like we were packing to stay a year. We had lawn chairs, flashlights, coolers, bags, sleeping bags, enough bug spray to kill half of Missouri’s insect population, plus hot dogs, sandwiches, and I made enough blueberry muffins for an army. We arrived, grabbed a bite for lunch and finished up just as our tour guide showed up. He looked like a lumberjack. He had a beard and wore a flannel shirt and very serious-looking hiking boots. His name was Nathan, but in my head I referred to him as Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie. He was adorable.

He took us on a hike through the beautiful wilds of a tiny dot on the map called Protem, Missouri. He explained about the cave and its impact on the environment. He told us about how the owners were working very hard to protect the endangered species that lived in their cave. He said, “The elaborate septic system that keeps the groundwater free of waste was paid for by the snail.” And rather than wonder why or how a snail paid for a septic system, all I could think was, “Where is this snail and will he pay for stuff for me, too?” Turns out, there is a species of cave snail that is only found in this particular cave in the whole wide world. It’s a VIM (Very Important Mollusk). And apparently when you have a VIM on your property you are a VIP and people pay for your toilets.

Not far into our hike we came across a pygmy rattlesnake. But being homeschoolers, we didn’t run screaming; we all gathered around to inspect it. Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie nearly had a stroke. “Folks, that’s a poisonous snake. Folks? Rattlesnakes are poisonous. PEOPLE! RATTLESNAKES ARE POISONOUS SNAKES.” Poor fella. Apparently he had never led a tour for homeschoolers before. We are a curious lot.

Little did we realize that our hike was taking us downhill. (Or at least, I didn’t – maybe everyone else did.) When I heard, “Okay, let’s head back to camp for a quick rest then we’ll walk down to the cave,” I was thinking, “Oh, it’s been such a lovely trek so far. I can’t wait to see the rest of the trail.” Then about 10 minutes later after a nearly vertical incline that would make a mountain goat faint, I was sucking so much wind I was seriously considering trying Kady’s inhaler even though I’m allergic to albuterol and it causes my throat to swell shut. I was pretty much just thinking it would bring about death quicker than the heart attack I was certain I was going to have. Lana is an RN and Mike is a firefighter. They both looked ready to spring into action if I keeled over – something I think we all felt was fairly imminent. However, I made it. I survived all 4,270 miles of that hike.

I also exaggerated a few times in the previous paragraph.

You’ll have to come back next Sunday to hear the rest of the story. I know, I know… I’m not one for suspense either, but such a tale requires more than my 650-ish word limit. And believe me, you will all want to read about how I’m pretty sure I killed a salamander with my butt.

Beards and Man Buns

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record on September 20, 2015

Last week I had the privilege of volunteering at the county’s Man Up conference. This was my second time to help out with Man Up and I gotta say….a lot has changed in two years. Now, keep in mind Paul and I have been out of youth ministry for over a year and a half now, and our kids are not in public school, so I guess that puts me at risk for being out of the loop when it comes to what’s going on with young dudes these days.

My husband graduated in 1982, back when moustaches were all the rage. You know, the moustaches I’m talking about – the ones usually worn by the creepy guys in movies who own cameras with telescopic lenses and drive vans with no windows. I graduated high school in 1991. Not one single guy in my glass walked the stage on graduation night with hair on his face. The guys of the early 90’s were more interested in the hair atop their noggins, not on their faces. Anyone remember the re-emergence of the bowl cut? How about shaving their jersey numbers into the sides of their heads? Oh and we can’t talk about guy hair in the 90’s without mentioning the frosted-tips on a super spikey, so-much-hair-gel-it-was-downright-dangerous ‘do.

Last week, if I hadn’t known I was at Man Up, I’d have sworn I was either at a lumberjack reunion or a Duck Dynasty convention. The beards on those boys! I was absolutely in awe of these 16 and 17 year old guys with more facial hair than Professor Dumbledore or Abraham Lincoln. And in doing “research” (read: I searched the Google) for this column, most men don’t really have the ability to grow serious facial hair until they are in their mid-20’s. So what is in the public water supply around here? Straight up testosterone mixed with a little Propecia??  

I also saw more than one man bun. If you haven’t seen one of these things yet, Google it. Or better yet, don’t. That is one trend I do not understand nor will I ever be able to embrace. I keep seeing these things here and there and I just don’t get it. I recently had about six inches cut off my own hair, so I know the value of a good messy bun day. When your hair is so long you can’t do anything with it other than bun it, it’s time for a trim. But if you want long hair, guys, let it hang gloriously down your back or gather it into a neat ponytail. Please don’t wrap it up strangely on top of your head like a little nubbin of keratin and protein and expect the vast majority of women to compliment you. Especially here in Oklahoma. I guarantee you, you probably can’t fit a John Deere or Realtree cap over that strange little bun so seriously, what’s the point?

At the risk of sounding like I have found a soap box on which to stand and shout, I will just end this with some friendly advice. As the wife of a redneck man and the mother of a nearly 17 year old guy, I have been in two barber shops multiple times over the last 23 years and never once have either of my boys come out with a man bun. Nick Koronis gave Sam his first haircut on his first birthday and over the last 17 years if Nick hasn’t been available, Larry Linthicum has stepped up and taken care of business. My husband has grown quite attached to Mr. Ed over the past few years as well and in my opinion, if Mr. Ed can’t take care of your hair cutting needs, you are entirely too high maintenance.

Keep it simple, fellas. Leave the buns to the baker.  

Inappropriate Laughter

I love to laugh, I love to make people laugh, and I love to hear people laugh – unless I’ve gone to town in shorts; then I’m suspicious of laughter in my vicinity. Laughter is a huge part of who I am, however, this gift of laughter is also a bit of a curse at times. Like, when I can’t control it in embarrassing, unfortunate, and/or awkward situations.

Granny Glenn passed away when I was pregnant with Abby – so pregnant I was convinced that when she wasn’t using my bladder for a pillow, she was kickboxing with it. My sister, Cousin Courtney, and I were shuffling quietly and serenely into the chapel of the funeral home when Aunt Erma accidentally took a picture, setting off a blinding flash only capable by the old school flash cubes of the 70’s and 80’s. It was 1996 and Aunt Erma was still blinding everyone with flash cubes and also, did you catch that she brought a camera to a funeral?? We three girls began giggling when my giant belly nearly knocked over four people as we shuffled down the row, giggled harder when the camera flash went off, but we spiraled out of control when my giggling paired with a sucker punch by my gestating daughter caused me to wet myself right there in the Cooper-Althouse chapel. After a quick run to the bathroom where we nearly collapsed from laughter, we managed to regain control only to spontaneously begin again several times throughout the service. Hopefully folks behind us perceived the shaking of our shoulders with crying, not laughter.

My mom, Uncle David, and I are all afflicted with a phenomenon known as “Furniture Relocation Hysterics.” It’s a medical condition that appears to be in remission, then attacks the patient when they lift a piece of furniture more than six inches off the ground. It is then that the laughter commences, thus causing muscle weakness, loss of breath, tears, and sometimes loss of bladder control. It has also on occasion caused bruised shins, smashed toes, and irritated husbands.

As a teen, once during the Lord’s Supper, the cups were filled too full. Mom, Sis and I were carefully holding our miniscule cups, full to the brim, all three of us getting more and more tickled because the more we tried to not laugh, the more we laughed and the closer we came to spilling Welch’s grape all over our Sunday best. We were never so glad to hear the words, “Drink this in remembrance of Me” in our lives.

More recently, I was plagued with a case of inappropriate laughter when the kids’ doctor tried to convince me to vaccinate my youngest for HPV, a vaccination I am not comfortable with after reading about some serious side effects. This did not please the doctor who then informed me that I was going to watch a video. I informed him that his video would not change my mind. He sat his iPad firmly down in front of me and said, “Watch this.” What followed was a parody video extolling the virtues of the vaccine and at the same time describing all of the horrible things that could happen to my child by not vaccinating her. Did I mention it was all set to the tune of a 1991 acoustic ballad with an added awkward bass drop and rap solo at the end? I tried so hard to keep a straight face, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t a good example to my kids that day – especially since they had maintained straight faces until they saw that I was giggling while tears streamed down my face. By the time the video ended, all three of us were beyond laughter and had slipped over to uncontrollable guffaws. It was definitely not my most shining parental example, but in addition to a legacy of informed selective vaccination rebellion, I hope to leave behind a legacy of laughter. Hopefully the kids will learn to control the laughter better than I ever have. 

My First Ride

Published in the Miami News-Record on May 3, 2015 

My first car was a gold 1986 Chevy Cavalier. I drove her until I was nearly 21. I ran her completely out of oil once. I also wedged her driver’s side rear door into the tailgate of Jerry Friend’s truck in the school parking lot one morning. By the time we traded her in she was using a quart of oil a day (turns out, running a car out of oil is a bad thing…who knew?) and you couldn’t go up a hill with the air conditioner on because her four little cylinders were apparently very tired, but she got me where I needed to go. Sometimes it took me awhile, but I got there eventually.

I turned 16 in 1989. It was a glorious time of permed hair and giant bangs that jutted awkwardly off of our foreheads like unicorn horns, though far less pointy but no less rock solid. My bangs were so high-in-the-sky back then I had to drive slouched down in my seat because my bangs touched the headliner and I couldn’t have anything encroaching upon their airspace. Apparently the slouching weakened the seat support. One day, as I leaned back to smooth my skirt underneath my rear, the seat gave way and completely came loose from the car. I found myself looking up at the ceiling of my car, legs smashed into the steering wheel, rocking back and forth, in complete and utter shock at the abrupt change from vertical to nearly horizontal. It was then I also noticed faint shoe prints on the backseat ceiling. Turns out, my sister and best friend thought it would be completely hilarious to put those up there and then watch my mother have a full-blown conniption fit right there in my car if she ever saw them. After I righted my seat and found my way out of my car (all while making a mental note to scrub that ceiling ASAP), I retrieved my father who was coming in off of a night shift. He was exhausted and I was going to be late for school, so he did what any other Oklahoma father in his situation would’ve done – he propped the seat up with a brick and sent me off to get my daily dose of public school education. It worked far longer than it should have and it wasn’t until I was a newlywed that the brick broke and my new redneck husband drilled a hole through the floor of the car and bolted the seat right to the frame.

The seats of that car were particularly quirky and the passenger front seat would lie completely flat. One time while dragging Main in Miami, Sis and I were smack dab in the middle of downtown, cars in front, back, and to the side of us when she said something really funny and made me laugh out loud. While I was sitting in the passenger seat laughing like a loon, tears streaming down my face, she released the seat and laid down making it look like I was entirely alone in that car, laughing for no reason. When my laughter subsided and I opened my eyes to see her out of the view of every other teen on Main that night I then began trying to make her sit up, begging her to stop making me look crazy which only succeeded in making me look even more so because now I was talking to myself as well.

One day Mom said she had a headache and was going to lean the seat back and close her eyes while I drove us to town. About halfway to Miami she quietly asked, “Kristin Dawn, is there something you need to tell me…like why there are shoe prints on the ceiling of your back seat?”

And then it was Sis’ turn to laugh hysterically in that sweet little gold Cavalier. And I had some splainin’ to do. 

Okies Underground

Published in the Miami News-Record, April 12, 2015 

Those who know me best know that I am kind of a weather freak. I become somewhat obsessed with the weather this time of year and I consider Dr. Greg Forbes, Jim Cantore, and Mike Bettes the holy trinity of The Weather Channel. I love Dr. Forbes so much I have considered writing him fan mail or at the very least, naming my next cat after him.

As a kid, when the TV (a console behemoth that commandeered 85% of the living room) began emitting the ear-splitting tone that for most meant “Take cover now!” all I heard was the siren song of the National Weather Service warbling “Go stand in the yard and look for the funnel!” I can only remember there being a handful of times as a kid that we actually drove the mile-and-a-quarter to Papa’s where there was a cellar – and never once did we ever step foot underground. I remember on one of the rare stormy treks to Papa’s, very vividly seeing the tail of a funnel cloud dip down out of the clouds and Mom pointing it out. Sis and I stood on that little back porch and simultaneously spoke a reverent “Wowwwwwwww”. But we never ran for that cellar. Probably because Mom knew there were mice in it and she’d rather be swept up in a funnel straight into Jesus’ arms than seek shelter with a host of rodents.

Now, some 30 years later, my kids know that when Momma says TOR:CON more than about 10 times in a day, they should probably go ahead and pack their tornado bags because it is almost certainly inevitable we will go underground at some point. If you look up my family on Ancestry.com you might very well find we are descendants of moles as much as we go below the ground’s surface in the spring.

Last Thursday afternoon Sis called and asked if I had been watching the weather. I answered, “Duh.” She then asked if we had a cellar at the new house. Again, I answered, “Duh.” Then she asked if we were going to be home. You don’t need me to tell you how I answered. After confirmation she said, “Good. We’re coming out. I’m bringing pizza.” Yessssssss. We had an all-out party while we watched radar images online, TWC on TV, and had the NOAA radio on the kitchen counter. Once the NOAA radio started going off I hollered for a mass bathroom visit for all of the kids seeing as how a few years ago it was when the tornado was visible in the sky that everyone suddenly had to pee. When everyone’s phones started screeching A TORNADO IS IN YOUR AREA – TAKE COVER NOW we managed to get four parents, one adult child and her 60 pound dog, five kids, and my infant nephew in the cellar in under two minutes. It was nothing short of military perfection.

We were safe and sound – albeit not altogether comfortable – underground for about half an hour. The baby barely fussed and eventually fell asleep. The dog took up more room than anyone and eventually started to snore. The boys said the pizza made them gassy. The girls played games on an iPad. We talked, passed the baby, texted people on the outside for updates.  And even though we had two teenage boys in an enclosed 5x8’ concrete box, we weren’t even gassed out by anyone’s noxious fumes. Maybe my sister’s vehement threat of dismemberment if anyone so much as thought about farting had something to do with that. ‘Tis the season for storms, my fellow Okies. Get a weather radio and keep batteries in it. Friend me on Facebook – I’m quite dedicated in my meteorological annoyances. Find a shelter and make a plan. 

And if you have teenage boys, throw a bottle of Gas-X in your emergency kit. Just in case.