One Year Ago...

*Let me start by saying, that events in this story might not be described exactly as they happened. It's been over a year, and there was a whole lot of adrenaline rushing around that day! Also, I may possibly tend to exaggerate. Haha!*
One year ago, on the Friday before Thanksgiving, I was working in the library at school around 1:00 when an announcement came over the school, asking for Mrs. Hildebrand to please come to the office. In the background of the announcement, I could hear (which also means the whole school could hear) crying. I know my kids and I just thought, "Oh Gavin." He's my crier, my sensitive boy, and sometimes, when he gets overwhelmed, he just can't stop crying - even if it's over something small. I figured this was just one of those times.
However, when I opened the door from the library, I could instantly hear that something was very, very wrong. This definitely wasn't a boy who was feeling overwhelmed - this was a boy in a lot of pain. I started running down the hall (so if I'm running you KNOW it's bad! haha) and the secretary stopped me at the end of the hall and said something like, "Amanda. It's bad, but he's okay."


WHAAAAA....?! Well, that's not reassuring!
I turn the corner into the office and Gavin is sitting there, SCREAMING (louder than you can imagine, hence the all capitals) and his forearm is OBVIOUSLY broken. Like, broken like a scene from the movies. Like, broken like no longer in a straight line. I am fairly certain, dear readers, that I may have said a word or two I shouldn't have - especially standing in an elementary school. Everyone was looking to me for what to do. I excused myself for 20 seconds and went into the hallway, faced the wall, and did a quick self-talk, "You can do this. Breathe. You can do this." I was shutting down "the Mom" and opening up "the Crisis Handler." (If I've learned anything the past few years, it's that I really am good in crisis or emergency situations.)
Then I returned, ready to go. First I said to call an ambulance, but our amazing secretary already had Chris on the phone and said he'd be here in a couple minutes. Then someone suggested moving him to the van, but I knew we needed to splint the arm because I feared it would just be hanging otherwise. Some people were throwing suggestions around of towels and cardboard, but then I remembered the cardboard tubes we had in our classroom for making bridges. I ran and grabbed one and knelt down before my wide-eyed screaming boy and closed my eyes as I quickly slid his hand in, knowing it would hurt worse. But, my splint was pretty genius, if I do say so myself. The doctor even commented on it later.

We hauled the whole office chair out to the front of the school where I had the van waiting. We were loading Gavin into the front seat when Chris pulled up and hopped in. Now, just in case you didn't remember, Gavin is still screaming bloody murder. Constant, loud, never ending screams. He was also yelling, "This is an impossible task! I don't think I can survive this task!" His screaming just never ended. I can't even talk to Chris. Chris is not super great in these situations and he just kept saying, "Shhh... buddy. It's okay." and I'm in the back seat of the van, wedged up through to the front so I can have Gavin wrapped in my arms still and I'm saying, "No! This hurts. You yell as loud as you need to!" I was also giving a very not helpful play by play of the van ride, that also doubled as instructions for Chris. "We're only a few minutes away. Here's a big bump. Dad's going to slow down for this one. Dad's going to turn here. Turn here! Ohhh dad is going too fast. Dad is going to SLOW DOWN. Dad's going to drive right to the door and leave the van running and help me take you inside."


When we got to the hospital, I'm pretty sure the entire hospital heard Gavin's screaming. I wasn't really able to function any more. Gavin's screaming was breaking my heart and I couldn't concentrate on anything. Now I know doctors have to remain all calm and cool and that a simple broken arm really isn't a big deal, but to me? My baby was broken and in pain. I just wanted him to have drugs! The lovely, calm, soft spoken doctor was introducing himself to me and I'm pretty sure I just kept repeating to give him drugs. The nurses were ready to go - they just needed the okay. Let's make this happen. I just couldn't focus on anything while he was in so much pain.
The nurse was asking Gavin how his pain was - a sad face, or a happy face. He just screamed in this gut-wretching deep voice, "OBVIOUSLY A SAD FACE. OBVIOUSLY!" Then I asked him to think of a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the most pain he could imagine and he said, "FIFTEEN. FIFTEEEEEN!" Throw in a few, "THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!" "THIS IS AN IMPOSSIBLE TASK!" and a few, "I'M NOT GOING TO SURVIVE THIS!" and the nurses couldn't help but chuckle. He was finally given a drug in a syringe up his nose (I think. This is where it gets all hazy for me.) This calmed him down enough (Don't you worry. He was STILL screaming with every breath) that the nurses could put an IV in.  They had asked if they should explain what they were about to do and I said, "No way. Just do it." So they did. But poor Gavin probably did need some explanation because suddenly he was screaming "Stop!!! That's my good arm! What are you doing to my good arm?! What's wrong with you??! I'll have no arms left!!! THAT'S MY GOOD ARM!" The nurses were trying to distract him while putting in the IV. One nurse was chatting to distract him and said, "I'll bet mom and dad will even buy you a toy after this. What kind of toy do you want?" Gavin stopped screaming long enough to respond that he wanted the Lego Dimensions video game and the nurse said, "Sure! That sounds great!"
Umm... that video game is over $100! Yikes! 

I don't remember when he had the X-ray taken because my adrenaline was pumping too, but check this out!

Eventually, the IV was in and the morphine kicked in and after the first dose, Gavin said he was at a 9. Still screaming, always screaming, but at least was able to breathe.  

After a second dose of morphine, he calmed down and finally stopped screaming. I think everyone collectively sighed in relief. They had to cut his shirt off and Gavin was so sad. It was picture day, and he knew that it was my favourite shirt on him. Like even in the midst of pain, he was worried about me. What a sweetie. But for real, look at his eyes when he wore that blue shirt.

Now, he was very wide-eyed, possibly high, cold, and worried. The nurse placed one of those toasty, warmed up, straight from heaven itself, blankets on him and Gavin loudly proclaimed, "Woah. I just went straight to a 2 (on the pain scale). This is niiiiiiiicccccccceeee."

Haha. He definitely had the nurses laughing with his vocabulary and ideas. He was insisting that he wanted a red cast, not a pink one, even though pink was a shade of red. He made them promise that if the cast was even "hinting pink" that they would change it.
He wasted his good morphine high by asking me to practice friendly numbers. "Mom. You say a number and I'll say the number that goes with it to make 20. Like seven, 13. Got it?" Geez, kiddo. You have a good morphine high and you want to do math??

Eventually, he was taken into surgery and his arm was reset. It all went so quickly, that I was left standing in ER alone and looking completely clueless. Thank goodness my friend's husband rescued me and showed me where to go. When we saw Gavin after his surgery, the first thing he said was, "Let's go buy Lego Dimensions!"

We were home by 7:00, with a brand new cast... and video game.

(Reminder - this was a year ago. Gavin is very much healthy, happy and whole now!)

Part Two - The Bearded Mom? Just kidding.

Okay, now where was I? Oh yes, bad parenting decisions and bearded dragons. In case you haven't read it, check out part one here.


Nacho slept for almost 4 months. It's totally normal (and absolutely glorious as a non-willing pet mama) and called brumation. It's like hibernation for lizards. Anyways, during those long months, Chelsea obviously and with good reason, lost interest in the lizard. It was boring. It wasn't new and exciting anymore. So it meant that I was constantly having to nag her and remind her and I just felt so frustrated. This wasn't supposed to be my job! Getting this lizard was a bad decision that wouldn't go away.


Fast forward a few more months and just visualize lots of nagging. We go camping lots during the summer and then we (read: I) had to find a few babysitters for Nacho. We brought her cage to a few houses and it all worked out fine. (Also - Hey Nacho! You know that long sleeping thing you do? Maybe do it during the summer when we are super busy and want to ignore you. That'd be great.)




However, at the end of summer, when we returned from our latest trip, we noticed that she was breathing funny. I did not think too much of it, as bearded dragons can get stressed easily. (Yes, stressed. They get anxious over making sure there's enough food and money for bills. OH WAIT.)


Eventually we had to make a decision about whether or not to take Nacho to the vet. I started adding up the costs in my head - vet bill, medicine, etc. all while Chelsea is sobbing in front of me.


Chris and I (again, mostly me) decided that if the cost was over a certain (albeit ridiculous) amount, we'd make the tough, but fair decision to bring Nacho home, un-medicated. Chelsea was beside herself and devastated, but deep down, I was slightly relieved. No more worrying about the lizard. (Don't judge me. I know you're thinking I'm a terrible person, but COME ON. IT'S A LIZARD!!)


Because of the busy day, Chris had to take Nacho to the vet in the city, alone. This proved to be a mistake as he has such a heart for animals. I knew I was in trouble when he sent me this picture.

A lizard x-ray. Yup. A lizard x-ray, showing a classic lung infection IN A LIZARD. A lizard x-ray showing a classic lung infection that can only be cured with antibiotic injections every three days. INJECTIONS. And yup, Chris bought them.

It didn't matter the total we had agreed upon. Big Softie Daddy would never have been able to disappoint his daughter. We came home and Chelsea has been ever the doting mother since Nacho's return. She emptied her piggy bank to help cover the costs. Because I wasn't at the vet, Chris and Chelsea have bonded over saving Nacho's life. I'm doing very little and loving it.


So let's recap...
Bad parenting decision #1 - letting your not even 10 year old buy an exotic pet.
Bad parenting decision #2 - secretly wishing for an extreme vet bill so that perhaps that exotic pet will go to exotic pet heaven and live a very happy exotic life on a cloud.
Bad parenting decision #3 - sending the softie parent to the vet with the sick animal who would then pay an outrageous amount to keep this thing alive.


Sometimes, when you are a parent, you make a decision and you eventually realize that maybe it was the wrong decision. But over time, you forget. Life goes on and you make a million more decisions, some good and some bad, but you move on.


Unless your bad decision stares you in the face EVERY SINGLE DAY.

The Dragon Mom

As parents, we make so many decisions every day. Hundreds, I'm sure! It starts the moment the alarm goes off - Can I press snooze? (Yes. Always yes.) Can I press snooze again? (Well, that's debatable. How much dry shampoo do you have to use today?) Should I get up and work out? (pfffft... who am I kidding?) Should I wake the kids up already? (but they had a late night - let them sleep a little more!) What am I making for breakfast for the kids? (peanut butter sandwiches for the umpteenth time in a row) What clothes should the kids wear? (times 3 - because you have to choose clothes for all three. Even though you have a hard time choosing clothes for yourself. Also, how many times can you allow the same clothes to be worn in a row? Can I let him wear the same pants two or three times if I change his shirt? Asking for a friend, of course.) Now making school lunches - more decisions. Soup or sandwich? (Oops, out of sandwich meat again. Can I send a peanut butter sandwich even though he had one for breakfast? The answer is yes.) Yogurt or apple sauce? (Both!)




Yes, as parents, we make endless unimportant decisions constantly.




But then there are the big, hard decisions - the decisions that can potentially impact your child's life forever. Sometimes, you antagonize over these decisions and write pro/con lists, ask advice, pray endlessly, research, and then scrap it and flip a coin (well... maybe not). You make what you pray will be the right decision and then you go for it.




And then sometimes you realize HOW WRONG YOU WERE.


Let me start telling you a tale about a bad parenting decision that I've made recently. (I've made many - just only sharing one... for now!)




So, once upon a time, many years ago, (well, two years specifically) Chelsea got to hold a bearded dragon lizard. She fell in love. She spent a solid two years doing research and learning and saving her money. She repeatedly asked if she could buy one and I, being the wise, sarcastic parent that I am said, "Sure. Maybe when you are 12 or 13." thinking, of course, that she would be long over her desire to be a lizard owner.




You see, this whole little plan of mine, failed to take one important thing into account. This little girl has a father - a father who tends to get pretty excited about new things and adventures. Somehow, these two convinced themselves that I said that she could get the dragon when she was 10. TEN... So they gang up. There's many promises made by both Chris and Chelsea, promising that I won't have to do anything for this lizard. (Yeah right!) They will take care of it all. (Snort.) There's some kijiji searching and in November (Yup - she was still 9. I still stand by the fact that I insisted she be 12 or 13!!) last year, Chelsea's dream came true.

Introducing Nacho. Well, technically, the previous owners thought she was a boy and named it Zeus, but after some quick googling, we discovered that she was indeed a girl. So, Nacho it is.

So I'm over here, still convinced that owning Nacho isn't a great idea. (Did you know she has to eat live worms? Like not normal garden worms, but superworms that have mouths and teeth and legs and feet that you have to get shipped to you? And that once they get shipped to you, you have to count them to see how many died in transit?) Well, dear readers, we all know how this is going to play out, right? Me, reminding Chelsea constantly to feed this thing, clean the cage, bathe her, make her salad, water her, etc. etc. and me getting stressed over this thing. Blah.

Then Nacho went into a long hibernation for 4 months - a glorious 4 months of not having to think about this lizard. She just slept and slept and slept and it was good.

(Wow this story is taking forever. Stay tuned for part 2. You might think GETTING the lizard was the poor parenting decision, but I'm barely scratching the surface here.)

Pssst... I think I'm back

Well hello there. It's nice of you to check in. I'm flattered that some of you still do!


I know, I know. It's been a while - a long while. I've missed blogging. It makes me so happy when people comment that they miss reading my writing. I miss my writing too. I miss jotting down the funny stories about my kids, the tales of our everyday woes, and simple updates about life. I could give you a hundred reasons why I stopped blogging but really, they are all lame excuses. Facebook and Instagram makes sharing pictures way easier than blogging, and people comment on those pictures. I like that! It's quick and easy.


Blogging takes time. I sit and write, drink some coffee, walk away from the computer, go back, re-word, start another entry, re-size pictures, drink more coffee, edit, re-read, write more, and finally hit publish.


Then I wait for feedback. Even just a few comments to make me feel like my writing was read by someone and made someone feel something - whether it's a quick laugh, an understanding sigh. When I teach writing to students, one of the lessons that they learn is that their writing has a purpose and that they are writing for an audience. Well, people of the internet, I'm writing for you! Well, I hope you enjoy it, but this time, I'm mostly writing for me.


See you again soon.

Amusement Park Musings

This trip will forever be burned into my memory. Chris and I felt like we had finally arrived as parents. We were going to a nearby amusement park (which I shall not name so that this story hopefully doesn't wind up connected to that park)  with no stroller, no diaper bag, no sippy cups, no baby. FREEDOM! The kids were 3, 6, and 8 years old. Not having to take a stroller was a HUGE milestone! We packed a few water bottles into a backpack and walked in, all holding hands. It was glorious.

After the first few rides, Eli came running up to me and said that he had to go to the bathroom. No problem - until we went to one bathroom and it was closed for cleaning, so we had to run to another bathroom farther away. To put it plainly - he didn't make it. It was a bad situation involving some very poopy gitch. Frustrating and gross, but not unmanageable. I have been a mom for 8 years, I'm not about to let a little poop ruin our day.

So I did what any good mom would do; I took those gitchies off, threw them in the garbage, cleaned up my boy and taught him a new vocabulary word: commando. I've got this.  

I marched out of the bathroom with my boy and Chris looked at me with a question mark and I said, "No big deal. We are good to go." So we continue about our glorious day. We take a break from doing rides for lunch. Chris and I are enjoying a lemonade while the kids are playing in the big play structure when suddenly, Eli appears and says, "Poop pants."

 

Umm... pardon?

 "Eli, do you mean you have to go to the bathroom?" Please, please let the answer be yes.

 "Nope. Poop in pants."

  

... Aw, crap. Literally. Except he's not wearing pants. He's wearing shorts. Commando. And this is obviously some kind of stomach bug because this is no ordinary poop. So, athletic shorts, no gitch, and runny poop. As I'm connecting the dots on what is about to happen, I pick him up and put him on my arm. Annnnnd there it is.  Now, not only in his shorts, but also on my arm. I am horrified and because we were cocky, we have no diaper bag or stroller. I tell Chris I'm going to trek back to the van. I know there are some wipes somewhere in there and I had a pair of sweats in there from when he was potty training (a year ago, so those were going to be short, tight, and hot in August but it would be better than any of the alternatives!)

 

As I'm speed walking through the park and then the parking lot, I'm looking like a crazy, kidnapper wannabe. I'm literally running from an amusement park with a child who has a stunned look on his face. I'm randomly asking any female with a stroller or large bag if they have a diaper that might fit my son. He’s been potty trained for over a year, but obviously, we have a situation of some sort going on. One lady kindly offers me a size 3 diaper. Eli would be at least a 6, but I take it, again thinking anything will help!

So I finally make the endless journey across the muddy, packed parking lot. Of course, as luck would have it, we are in the far overflow parking because we had the audacity to show up 15 minutes after the park opened. I set Eli down and start rummaging through the van looking for, praying for, desperately searching for wipes that I *thought* were in there when Eli pats my leg and in the cutest little voice says, “Mommy? More poop? More poop, now!”

Are. You. Kidding. Me?

What are my options at this point? First of all, I think, whip down those pants and poop in the parking lot beside the van. But, knowing me and my children, someone would have wound up stepping in that and making an even bigger mess. So that’s out. Instead, I spy the KFC popcorn chicken bucket from lunch and my plan all comes together.

That’s right; I actually caught my son’s poop in a KFC bucket in an amusement park parking lot.

 

This is motherhood. Poop in a KFC bucket. 

You’ll all be happy to know that I did eventually find the elusive wipes, a few bottles of water and a pair of shorts, and got him all cleaned up and ready to return. I squeezed his booty into that much too small diaper just in case, for peace of mind, but that was the last incident of the day.

Now I know you are all wondering about that KFC bucket. To get rid of the incriminating evidence, I slowly and carefully slid the bucket into the paper bag, rolled up the top, and deposited that into the park garbage can on a hot August day.

BOOM. Motherhood.