Vomit in Places it Never Should Be

My new blog friend Eve shared some insight into her passion for reading in her Friday post. I couldn’t help but recall the same fervor with which I read as a young girl. There was one particular paperback biography of Florence Nightingale that I repeatedly checked out of the school library. I read it cover to cover on numerous occasions. I would be so enthralled in the book, that sometimes I’d crawl out of bed onto the bare wood floor and pull the thin ball chain to turn on the closet light. There I sat half shivering in my nightgown while holding the book at an angle to catch the light peering from the open closet door. In that position I would read well into the night.

The book about a very brave nurse made me wonder if perhaps I’d want to be a nurse someday. As it turns out it’s a good thing I didn’t pursue the field of medicine, because I had no idea what a weak stomach I had until I became a mother. The bodily fluids I come in contact with on any given day can be more than what I am capable of handling. In fact, there are days when I feel as though I’ve been called upon to deal with more than is fair.

One such day occurred when D1 was about two years old. She was quietly snuggled in my lap. I held her close while talking with DH, and then she turned to look at me and seemed a bit pale. Looking down, I asked if she was okay. And right when I verbalized the ‘k’ in ‘okay’, she vomited.

Projectile positioned perfectly into my open mouth! I dropped my sick child on the floor and while pointing in an exaggerated fashion to my agape jaws not daring to close or swallow, I repeatedly hollered “Ing ee a owel. Urree!” Which loosely translates into, “DH, forget the vomiting child on the floor, she will pull through. But I may not! I have vomit in my mouth – vomit that is not my own!” DH, being a parent first and a husband second, picked up and caressed the still heaving and now crying-because-she-was-dropped youngster. It was not until he was certain she was going to survive, that he finally managed to grab a kitchen towel so I could attempt to mop my mouth.

That well-loved Florence Nightingale paperback seemed so dramatic at the time, as she helped ill and wounded infantry on the battlefront. But somehow the novel was not comprehensive enough to prepare me for nursing sick children at home, let alone sick soldiers at war.

Will the Real Dick Cheney Please Not? Come to BYU

John Spernak of Connecticut claimed to be Vice President Dick Cheney a few days ago after leading police on a high speed chase. Besides being just plain crazy, what reason would anyone have to make such a preposterous claim? Seriously, who would want to be Vice President Dick Cheney right now?

The poor man is being shunned in his own back yard. Wyoming native Cheney is scheduled to speak at Brigham Young University’s commencement exercises in April. My western state alma mater features a student body and staff that is largely Republican. This would lead one to think that hosting the Vice President as the keynote speaker would be considered an honor. Apparently, there are more than a few at BYU who are not feeling so warm and fuzzy about Vice President Cheney’s visit. And if anyone at BYU, (besides the school's spokeswoman Carri Jenkins) is happy about the choice, please speak up! All the noise from web sites advertising protests, online petitions opposing the speech and letters to the editor expressing displeasure is seemingly so loud, that if there is an alternate viewpoint, I can't hear it.

I am not exaggerating how bad it is. You know there have even been threats. That’s right. Just remember where you heard it first. I’m talking serious stuff too, like threatening to not attend even one more BYU football game in Lavell Edwards Stadium or to never purchase another BYU sweatshirt. Ever.

With a variety of scandals from torture, to Scooter Libby, to Halliburton lurking in Mr. Cheney’s shadows, perhaps he is too shady of a choice for BYU. It sounds like he could be more of a threat to the Cougars than the Utes at a homecoming game.

For some reason, I'm just not that worried. Perhaps I'll even attend Cheney's speech. If I go I'll need something to wear. Maybe DH can pick me up one of those cool navy hoodies with the white 'Y' at the bookstore. Size medium please.

McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Denny's & Sushi Bars

Growing up in a small town in the Midwest, my sisters and I were sheltered from much of the world. For instance, we felt the JCPenney catalog represented the essence of fashion. Without so much as even a McDonald’s in our town, we never ate out for dinner, because doing so could only involve going to the local tavern.

The afternoon Mom found out I had been going to the local tavern everyday after school, was not a good one. She didn’t seem to get it when I explained that it was the only place in town with the brand-new Ms PacMan arcade game. It was obvious that up to that point, I had never “shocked” and “disappointed” her so much. (No, not even when I fought with my sisters on the way home from church.)

Since going out to eat in our town was next to impossible, whenever Grandpa Littlefield would come to visit, he would take us to the next town over for dinner at Pizza Hut. That was a major deal. He made sure the waitress brought us a big pitcher of root beer and a massive pepperoni pizza. We made sure to eat and drink so much, so that at least one of us would end up puking all night. Interestingly enough, Grandpa would order a Grandpa-Root-Beer-with-a-wink for himself, which was lighter and more golden than our own dark-colored beverages.

The first time I ate at a Denny’s was a major turning point. I was 16 and had been brought there for lunch by a cute, but slightly older guy. They brought my sandwich, cut into fourths, with these fancy toothpicks poking up in the middle of each piece. I had no idea what to do! Do I take the toothpicks out? Do I pick up the sandwiches with the toothpicks still in them and try to eat around the tiny wooden sticks? Oh, how my heart was pounding on that one.

Needless to say, we (my sisters and I) have come a long way since then. So far in fact, that while talking to my sister Jackie yesterday, she proudly announced that she had finally eaten sushi. “Really?” I asked. “At a sushi bar or where?” “I dunno,” she started to recall, “It was a restaurant that serves only sushi.” “Okay,” I reasoned out loud, “Then it was probably a sushi bar. Cool, what did you have?” “Imitation krab!” she answered. “Was it raw imitation krab?” I asked, “Because that’s barely even fish so you can’t really count that as sushi.” “Of course you can,” she countered. “It was in a sushi roll.”

And so we Iowa-bred babes continue to broaden our minds as well as our palates.

The Prettiest Sight to See

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Which can be very exciting if you're just getting over that stuffed feeling from eating too much Thanksgiving turkey and you're singing Christmas carols while hanging decorations on the the tree. But when you are planning Easter Egg hunts and the Christmas lights have been packed away in the basement for three months, it's not so thrilling.

Winter storms in the spring, are not uncommon where we live, but ten days ago, while the kids were running through the sprinklers and getting sunburned laying out on beach towels on the driveway, I took that as a good sign to finally clean out the mudroom for the season. Dragging snowboards, sleds, snow boots, hats, and mittens to the basement, I made room for the increasing clutter of flip flops, sunscreen, bottles of bubbles, kites and visors. In hindsight, I should have known such an act would send a red alert to Mother Nature.

This morning, after bundling the children up in their beach towels, I drove them to school in 4-wheel drive and marvelled at our blessed winter storm. Luckily, the holiday decorations are not buried too deep in the basement clutter. Now, if only I could decide what to ask Santa to bring me for Christmas.

March Madness: NCAA Final Four and I'm In Baby!

To know DH is to love him. And to love him you must also love basketball, or at least put up with it. I was mildly aware of his sports passion before we married. I knew he liked to play basketball, in the evenings, while I was studying. However, the extent to which the orange leather ball dominated his life, I did not fully realize until well after I had committed myself to love and pay the cable bill with him forever.

When we bought our first TV, well actually our second... DH bought our first TV shortly after we were married. I came home from work and there in the living room sitting on the sofa (wait we didn't own one yet), so on the floor was DH and his brother sprawled out watching a brand new 26" Sony television, which was placed on an entertainment center (no, didn't have one), a low bookshelf then, (no, not one of those either), just the bare floor. So I put down my purse on the dining room table (uh, we didn't have one of those) so I held my purse and sat down in the chair (nope, didn't own even one of those) so I stood. Next, I basically freaked out at the purchase which two college students definitely could not afford. The following day the TV was gone and our living room was empty once again.

It was not until after the second time we bought a TV that I began to fully comprehend DH's love of the game. Big 12, Big Ten or Big East, the only thing they mean to me are big waste of time, big waste of ugly dish on side of house, and big waste of money. Season after season. One year of expensive cable after another. Is the game on ESPN? TNT? Fox Sports? ESPN2? NBA League Pass? No problem, we've got em' all!

Given DH's intimate knowledge of the game, you would think he'd be doing better on his March Madness bracket. Oh, he's doing okay. He has three of the final four. Which might be pretty good, if I DIDN'T HAVE ALL FOUR OF THE FINAL FOUR!!!!!

My selection for the winning teams was purely mathematical. For example, Dad went to Virginia Tech first, before attending UC Davis where he met Mom, so naturally Virginia Tech will win in the first round. UC Davis is not in the competition, but UCLA is. And Mom and Dad have lived in four different states since I was born, so UCLA should make the Final Four.

Some other upsets were similarly picked as well. We have a friend from college that lives in Michigan, and Marquette sounds like a furniture feature, so I figured Michigan could beat Marquette. Vanderbilt reminds me of Gloria Vanderbilt the cologne which I wore when I was 16, so certainly they can make it to the Sweet Sixteen.

Figuring Georgetown would at least make the Final Four was easy. In high school I was one of four girls in the contest for Homecoming Queen. I went to the Homecoming Dance with Dave Witte. Dave loved the Georgetown Hoyas.

And so my logic unfolded. So purely, in fact, that now I sit here in my crowning glory with the Final Four, just as I imagined. All those years of expensive TVs and cable may soon be forgotten if I actually beat DH at this thing.

Fond Memories Like Being Abandoned on the Roadside

Twelve-year old daughters are a blessing. And a pain in the keister. The latter is why D1 was almost dumped out of the car on the way to Sunday dinner at Grandma’s house. It was nothing specific that nearly caused me to send her packing, just her general preteen conduct coupled with my hunger pangs. If it were not for traffic, serial killers, and DCFS, I probably would have invited her exit from my vehicle. Oh, for the good ol’ days when parents could boot their daughters out of the car to hike home…

It was an especially warm summer afternoon as our station wagon traversed the 15-mile route from church to home. My younger sisters Jackie and Christine had been aggravating me for miles. It reached a point where, despite my mature 13-years of age, I could restrain myself no longer.

The sweltering temperatures aided me in developing a pristine plan. With no air-conditioning in the car, we traveled with all the windows rolled down, our long strands whipping around in the tornado-like winds forming untold numbers of hair knots. And so I put the plan in motion, with fingers wide and straight I inserted my hands into their tangled tresses, one on the left, one on the right, simultaneously pull, and listen to them howl! I tried to suppress the wicked smile that formed across my lips, but the pleasure was too great. Naturally, payback was not long coming. In went their fingers into my mane, and thus the fight ensued. Stern motherly warnings from the front seat did nothing to temper our turmoil. We were at war by now and even Mom could not stop this battle. Dad on the other hand…

The 1974 grey Dodge station wagon came to a sudden, neck-jerking halt and so did our fighting. “What was he thinking?” we wondered. “Outta the car girls,” Dad spoke matter-of-factly, opening his car door. Okay – that was not expected. With nervous stomachs we slid off the sticky, black vinyl seats, terrified of the punishment awaiting us. We were standing on the side of the road presenting our most innocent-looking faces when Dad told us to shut our car door. Then he climbed back in the driver’s seat, and in the most unexpected move of all, drove away.

We stood there in brief amazement and then dashed after the family vehicle that was growing less and less significant in the distance. Panting and out of breath we finally stopped when the station wagon vanished over a small hill in the distance. Looking around, trying to hold back the tears, we realized that having just reached the edge of town, we were probably two-miles from home. After spending a fair amount of time blaming each other for our unfortunate situation, we grouped together to determine a plan. They were just trying to scare us, we assured ourselves, our parents would be back for us soon. So we seated ourselves on the roadside gravel and waited.

Some time passed and then, without saying much, we finally stood up and started the inevitable trek home. A two-mile journey in the afternoon sun in your church shoes is pretty bad. But not as awful as the embarrassment you feel when your school friends whisk by with their loving families that drive them home from church. “Do you think they saw us?” I asked. “Ummm, three girls walking all alone on an empty road,” Jackie sarcastically reasoned, “How could they not.”

We learned a few things that afternoon. Among them included, 1) If you are going to fight with your sisters while in the car, do so only when wearing your tennis shoes, 2) Even normally predictable parents can sometimes surprise you, and 3) A long walk in the muggy Iowa heat can turn enemies into best friends.

Too bad for D1 that overcrowded roads, criminals, and government agencies have ruined those types of teaching moments.

As Fast as a What?

On the way home from school Friday, D2 begged me to go to the local copy store. I know it is an unusual request for a second-grader. However, let me explain that it is not because she had any plans to increase the demand for the merciless death of helpless trees. It is the 25-cent gumball machine in the front corner by the window that continues to attract her fancy.
Now when I say "begged" you need to understand the intensity with which she petitioned this favor. From the time she climbed in the Yukon, while we waited for D1 and S2, and then for friend of D1, and then friend of S2, and for friend of S2's scooter, and for all backpacks and arms and legs to be safely stowed inside the vehicle, and then while we drove out of the school parking lot, and veered right down the first street, and then took a left turn down the next street, she did not stop pleading, "Can we go to Copy Right, please, please, please, please, please, please can we go to Copy Right, please, please, please, please, please." This she repeated incessantly.
Finally, I could not take the repetition anymore, not to mention the fact that her constant jabber was making it difficult to focus on the AM Talk Radio commentary screeching over my car speakers. So I momentarily turned down the volume, and spoke to D2 very calmly yet firmly, "We are not going to Copy Right. No matter how many times you ask, that is my final answer and it will not change at all today." D2 paused and then replied in a solemn voice, "But, Mom. I'll be as fast as a chicken. I promise."