Tooth Trouble

Makenna keeps things so interesting around here with her hospital visits. She began life in the scariest way possible by being diagnosed with beta strep after an emergency c-section. She was in intensive care with Life Flight on alert for seven days.

Then, and much more acceptably, she needed tubes in her ears when she was two. After that surgery she stood up all wobbly like in her bed, took a big drink, then threw her cup down on the ground, looked at me and Mike and said, "Let's get out of here guys!"

We took her to India when she was in forth grade where she became so sick we had to admit her into the hospital. Wow. There is nothing like an Indian hospital. I first became worried when I noticed tiny bugs crawling all over the bed she was in. I put myself on bug duty and flicked bugs for the next twelve hours. By then the bugs were the least of my worries. The nurse, or possibly some random lady from the street, came into the room to give Makenna an IV. The panic set in when I noticed the needles were old and preused. I asked if they had been sterilized, but nobody spoke English. I said an intense prayer, and chose the needle that looked the newest. Five hours later another "nurse" entered the room and told me the doctor (who I had not yet seen) wanted a urine sample. I carried Makenna with her IV down the hall until we found the bathroom. It didn't make me feel good when I noticed that the bathroom was shared by all the sick patients on the floor, but when you are carrying a child who can barely move and might throw up at any moment and trying to balance an IV bag, you take when you can get. I noticed right away that there was no toilet paper because I was going to use it to cover the toilet seat. Plan B was don't be picky and sit the child down on the toilet before you drop her. That was when I noticed the bottle the "nurse" gave me was a tiny glass bottle like the one you might have gotten medicine samples in. It might hold a couple teaspoons of liquid. Also, the opening was very narrow. Being a girl, I knew there was no way her aim was up to this task. But we gave it a go. That was when I noticed there was no soap in the bathroom.

It was noon the next day, and I had not yet seen a doctor, when I noticed her IV bag was nearly empty. I went to find a nurse to change the bag, but it was noon. There was nobody around. Even the front office was empty behind a metal gate that was closed and locked. Since I know nothing about nursing, I was at an utter loss. I had heard that bubbles in the blood stream is really bad, and I didn't know if the tube would draw in air once the liquid was out of the bag. So, I panicked and decided to change the bag myself. There were three extra bags lying next to the current one, so I said another intense prayer, randomly picked one, and switched it out. It must have been okay because when the next person walked into the room I told her, by means of pantomime, what I had done, and she just nodded. I took that as, "Good job fending for yourself in a third world hospital where you are doing stuff you have no way of knowing how to do!! You will surely get an award when you get home, and people will sing songs about you for years to come!" We saw a doctor in the morning, but by that time she had pretty much healed up on her own. We left soon after that, and I went to the front office to pay our bill. It came to $3.17. I still have the receipt.

When she was in fifth grade her stomach wasn't cooperating with her, so she had a tube with a camera on the end of it shoved down her throat to take pictures of the inside of her stomach. After that she got into the car and announced, "I need Olive Garden NOW!"

Now she has a tooth that just won't move. It is stuck up in her gums. You can see the outline of it. To solve that problem, the surgeon cut her gum around the tooth, exposed the tooth, glued a bracket to it, and connected a chain from the bracket to her braces that will pull the tooth down. After that surgery, she got into the car and said, "While I was in that room, I was singing a song with Sloth from Ice Age. Then the doctor walked in and started singing with us and we all danced around on a giant calendar."

I'd really like her to be a bit more boring.

Camping

The word camping shouldn't really be anywhere near the word vacation, in my opinion. A vacation is relaxing and fun. Camping is an exhausting, dirty, bug infested experience where we pretend to be pioneers. We do everything we have to do at home, but in the hardest way possible.

But, I am outvoted. I have a husband who loves camping, which I will never understand no matter how many times he attempts to explain it to me, and kids who also love to camp. That's the thing about having a large family - you are often the only one voting sensibly.

So, several years ago we took a camping trip to northern Minnesota near Canada. We went to a place called The Boundary Waters. No motorized boats are allowed on the water, so we loaded up canoes and rowed across the crystal clear water to a small island. By the time the canoe touched land, my arms resembled wet spaghetti noodles due to prior lack of moving in EXCESSIVE, MONOTONOUS ROWING MOTIONS. I couldn't have been happier to be on land.

Until I was informed that we needed to carry all of our camping supplies AND THE CANOES across this small island to the next lake and continue rowing. Continue rowing. After carrying all of our stuff. Why can't we just camp here seemed a reasonable question to me, but I was informed that it would not do to camp on the first island because all the good fishing and isolation was further ahead. But, I do not like fishing. Or isolation. But, again, I was outvoted.

The worst part about carrying all of your supplies is that your hands are occupied, leaving your body as an uncontested prize for the mosquitoes. And they love that.

We repeated this torturous exercise of rowing, carrying, rowing, carrying until we finally reached a campsite deemed worthy of us. We pushed our canoes onto the land, unloaded, and then, instead of resting from all that work, we had to set up camp. And, after that feat was managed, we had to prepare and serve a meal in the manner used more than 100 years ago. Camping is like going back in time with only the parts that include a lot of work and none of the good stuff.

But, I do have to admit, the peaceful, beautiful atmosphere was astounding. And the uninterrupted time with the family was precious. The conversations were meaningful, and the smores were exceptional. I'm not going to say I'd like to go back, but I do miss the moments around the campfire.

This trip revealed something different about each child. We discovered that Makenna can survive almost anywhere. She evaluates her environment, conquers her surroundings, and then thrives. Josiah is happy and carefree whether covered with tics or swimming naked in a lake. Nothing gets that guy down. Drake is stinking hilarious and makes us laugh constantly. Emery is excited and precious. She brings an innocence and sweetness to every activity. Oh, and she can bring the fury. For real.

A better mom than me would have stopped filming and comforted her child during an episode such as the one I am about to show you. But, I never claimed to be a better mom. I do, however, recognize something worthy of being on film when I see it.

A Long Line of Dads

This is Grandpa Nuzum. I have never in my life heard him complain or say anything negative. He is known for saying things like, "We have the best family in the world," or, "This day just couldn't get any more beautiful," or, "Sandwiches? That is my favorite meal!" Every time I talk to Grandma on the phone, I hear Grandpa in the back shouting, "Tell her I love EVERYONE!" You would think that he grew up sheltered from all bad things, but you would be so wrong. This man grew up during the worst of the Depression in a family of six children. Their father was a cold-hearted, selfish man who abandoned them when things got tough, leaving Grandpa to quit school after eighth grade and get a job to help support the family. What kind of man can endure something like that and end up being a warm, caring man excited about all the little things present in ordinary days?




This is Grandpa Kennedy. I've talked about him before. He just had a birthday, and, for his gift he requested new clothes. Apparently the peer pressure to look nice at his retirement home is pretty steep. Every time I see him he tells me, "Sharla, everyday I pray for all my kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids by name. I never miss a day, and I never miss a name." On Father's Day he sang us two songs. One of my favorite things about him is that when he talks to you his eyes twinkle. Literally.


This is my dad.




He is known for  wrestling on the ground with small children and squealy laughing when pounded by waves in the ocean. Seriously, you can hear his laugh from any point on the beach. He sometimes shows up to a slumberparty in the middle of the night with ice cream for everyone. He has been known to roll on the floor in laughter when watching the original Pink Panther movies, which ends up being more entertaining than the actual movie. But, if you are fourteen years old and a boy puts his arm around you, he WILL come up behind the two of you and say, "I'd find another arm rest if I were you, boy."


I know many father's aren't that much to celebrate, but I happen to come from a long line of men who take the job of being a father seriously. The rareness of it makes it that much more important to acknowledge and appreciate.  Thanks guys. Thanks for quietly, faithfully, being great. Where would we be without you?

To Mail a Letter

I've been asked, and when I say asked what I mean is forcefully ordered to tell this story. It pains me. It is the most embarrassing story of my life, and I am not joking.

I'm not an overly sensitive person. I can usually laugh at myself and take a fair bit of ribbing. But one day events had conspired against me and comments were made until, finally, I had had it. I decided to talk to Mike about it during the ride we were about to take to mail a letter in the post office box in front of the grocery store near our house.

"You've been pretty sarcastic today," I told Mike as I climbed into his oversized construction truck.
"Have I hurt your feelings?" he asked, surprised.
"Yeah. I know you were just joking, but after about a hundred comments, it just doesn't feel funny anymore."
"Wow. I am really sorry. I had no idea any of that would hurt your feelings." He pulled up in front of the grocery store, and put the truck in park.
"I know. I usually don't get upset about this sort of thing, but it has just gone on long enough for today. Do you think you can just stop making sarcastic comments for the rest of today?"
"Absolutely. I'm really sorry that I hurt you, and I will only say nice things for the rest of today. You don't need to worry about a thing."

I smiled at him and opened the passenger door so I could slide out and quickly slip the letter in the mailbox. However, as I slid down the leather seat, my shorts got caught on the lever that controls the seat. Since I am a short person, my feet did not touch the ground, and I was dangling from the seat lever by my shorts. I tried to wiggle and release my shorts, but that caused the seat to move backward and forward in a lurchy fashion.

I considered all my options in a split second, and decided upon wrenching my body back and forth angrily. Instead of solving my problem and gently releasing my shorts, this decision caused the seat, and my body with it, to lurch back and forth as if possessed.

As I dangled, with my one side of my shorts hiked up to my hip bone, being tossed violently back and forth, the irony struck me. I thought about the conversation I had just had with Mike and thought about what he must be seeing at the moment and his promise to only say nice things the rest of the day, and I began to laugh. Hysterically.

At that moment my shorts ripped and I was dropped unceremoniously to the concrete. I was laughing hard. I hit the ground hard. I had gone through labor four times. It happened. I wet my ripped pants.

Remember, this was all happening just a few steps from the front door of the grocery store near my house. The store I shop at on a regular basis. The store where the employees know me by name. I imagined what they would think, and I imagined it would look like I became possessed, threw herself to the ground, released my bladder and mooned the world.

I was laughing too hard to say anything, but I managed to worm my way back into the truck, letter still in hand, and motion to drive forward.

"Sometimes the things you ask of me are impossible," Mike said as he bit his lips together and drove away.

Mice Aren't Treats

Drake loves all animals. He thinks spiders are interesting, ducks are cute, and fish are cool. Obviously, I am lumping anything that isn't human into the animal category. I know that is not the proper classification, but moms are allowed to make up their own classifications because I said so.

As a child, Drake was usually holding a cricket or a moth or something else he had found to play with. At first I told him, "Put that down right now because it is dirty and GROSS!" But, since he never stopped and since I had four small children and since I was exhausted and since it kept him interested in something besides biting his brother in the back (Josiah still has the scar), I relented and let the child play with the grosser things in life.

Then, one day, he ran to me with his teary cheeks bouncing, and told me, "A mouse bit me!!"
"How did you get bitten by a mouse?" I asked as I examined his red and swollen thumb.
"I was holding it, and it bit me," he cried.
"How did you get the mouse?"
"It was on the ground, and I saw it, and I caught it." I've seen mice. They are fast.
"Didn't the mouse run away from you when you tried to catch it?"
"It was running, and I was faster."
"So the mouse was running away from you, and you chased it down and were able to catch it?" I asked skeptically looking at his chubby little legs.
"Well, it was running and jumping, and I was faster than that," he nodded.

When I was in high school I was working as a nanny at a youth camp and saw a mouse in my cabin. I called the director of the camp, who was my uncle, and screamed into the phone, "WOTHLS TYHA OXZY-QE!!!!" He somehow correctly translated that to mean, "THERE IS A MOUSE NEAR ME!!!!," and he burst into the cabin moments later with a broom. I stood screaming on a table as he chased the mouse around attempting to beat it with a broom. He successfully smashed a plastic chair and overturned my suitcase, but the mouse was never found. So, I know from experience that mice are terrifying and will haunt your nightmares for years. And they are fast.

So, I admit that I had a hard time believing that a small child with legs covered with fat folds could actually move fast enough to catch a mouse. But a small voice in the back of my head said to believe this small boy. With my own eyes, I had seen him do stranger things.

"Well," I tried to reassure him, "the mouse was probably scared when you picked it up, so it bit you out of fear."
"No, it wasn't scared when I picked it up. It was scared when I tried to feed it to the cat."

If I have to pick a side to sympathize with, in this case, I think I'm picking the mouse.


My good friend, Adam Smith, happens to be a creative genius and was at the camp we were at when this whole thing happened. When he heard the story, the artist in him came alive, and he put the event on film. Now we have proof that I am not making this stuff up. Thanks Adam!!

Also, when I see chubby cheeked Drakey-Brakey of yesteryear in this video, I want to reach into the video and pull him out and scream at him to NEVER GET A DAY OLDER, but that is mainly just me.

Flowers Aren't Treats

If I said to you that I love to garden, I would be lying my face off. I'm sorry to say that I really hate digging holes, pulling weeds, covering myself with dirt, and feeling itchy. I know some people love it, but I think they must be more evolved than I am.

The weeding is what really bothers me. You pull thousands of weeds and three measly days later, they have the audacity to grow back. It is a contest between me and them. They wear me down. I hate losing to a plant.

But, I have a new deck in my back yard, and I have high hopes and dreams that my back yard will be pretty this year. I have resolved to plant flowers. My mom took me to some of her favorite flower purchaing spots, and we had a lovely day.

When I carried my flowers home, I tackled the job of getting them into the ground immediately so as to BE DONE WITH IT. I grabbed my potting soil and trowl and got to work.

It was a hot day. Not a warm day, a hot day. The sun's sole focus seemed to be my back, and I was blasted with UV rays that caused sweat to run out of me like a river. I got dirt under my nails, in my hair, smeared across my sweaty face, and in my pants. Don't ask.

After hours of digging, trowling, loosening, planting, patting, and watering, I finally rewarded myself with the most appreciated shower I have known. The refreshing water removed the itchy, dirty feeling, and I was able to smile again. I returned from the shower with a peaceful heart, and my kids dared to speak to me again.

Then I saw this...

That fresh soil scent had enticed my puppy to go a diggin'. As I turned in a slow circle, I saw dirt and broken plants everywhere. And one very dirty dog.

I love my puppy. But, love sometimes includes a small element of hysterical shouting and throwing oneself to the ground while moaning. I admit it - I may have gone a little nuts. The neighbors may have noticed. All the while the dog just looked at me with his cute puppy eyes, tail awaggin'. He thought we were playing some great new game.

He wears me down. I hate losing to a dog.

Human Fountain

I had four kids in four years. Ever since then, I've just been trying to catch up with my life. I have accepted the fact that I will never be one of those moms who prepares for things ahead of time. I love people who plan and prepare. I probably annoy people like that to death. I rush to the mall to buy my son his required black pants the night before the concert, we sometimes live without soap for a couple of days before I buy more, and I never have extra batteries.

In that same spirit, it just hit me that my youngest child is now in 6th grade. If you consider 6th grade jr. high, I have two children in jr. high and two children in high school. Rolling this thought around in my head makes me very tempted to head right out and buy a freeze ray gun to use on them immediately. I specifically told them not to grow up. I think I will ground them until they are younger.

I remember them being a lot of work when they were little, but those four chubby, little faces were sometimes the only faces I would see for days on end.

One time my husband was out of town for two weeks, and, feeling stir crazy, I decided to take the kids to Target. That is how much fun I can be. It took half an hour to leave the house, but I finally managed to load them into their carseats, drive without incident, and transfer them from carseats into a shopping cart.

I know I walked up and down those isles with a huge smile on my face, feeling like a victorious and independant mother. I threw my head back and felt the fresh department store air on my face as I navigated the cart around corner after corner, deeply inhaling the new stuff scent. Until Josiah started violently retching.

There was no warning. In fact, it took me a moment to figure out what had actually happened. He stood up in the cart, which was specifically forbidden according to the scary signs plastered everywhere, bent over the side, and let loose. Since I was afraid the Target hallmonitor would phone my parents and give me a detention for allowing my kid to stand up in a cart, and because I had not yet figured out what was going on, I ordered Josiah to sit back down. Unfortunately, he obeyed. And kept retching.

It was bad enough to have stomach contents on the Target floor, but it was worse to have it all over the other children. All I could think of was the scene from Stand By Me where everyone pukes one after the other like dominos, and I knew I had to get out of there.

I grabbed Drake and put him on my back piggy back style, held baby Emery with one arm football style, held Josiah with my other arm face forward, and, since Makenna was at the capable age of four, I let her climb out of the cart by herself and shouted at her to follow me. Josiah turned into a human fountain, and we just ran. No longer smiling or feeling victorious.

I buckled the slimy, smelly kids into thier carseats and returned home as fast as I could. When I got home, I washed four kids, four carseats, and the inside of a minivan. I was exhausted and didn't leave the house again for seven days.

I guess there are some benefits to kids getting older.

Dogs and Dustbusters

Huskies shed. A lot. We have this really helpful tool called The Furminator for just this reason.

My son, Drake, is basically the reason we have animals living in our house. After I had four babies, I really didn't care to clean up after any more living creatures. But ever since Drake could talk, he asked for animals to live with us. It was as if he didn't realize that regular people owned pets, and he concocted all sorts of ways in which an animal might end up living in a house.

One day he said, "I think I could get an old cereal box and stick it in a tree to trap a bird. Then I could make the bird live in my room." Another day he said, "If I put a nut in a jar, I could trap a squirrel, and then it could sleep in my bed." One time he did catch a fly, pulled off it's wings, and said he had made an ant to play with.

After that we decided to get the boy a dog. We were afraid for the animal kingdom. So, Drake is usually the one who volunteers to do the dog related jobs, like baths, walks, and using the dog as a pillow.

When the mountains of fur got too much for my nerves, Drake volunteered to attack the dog with The Furminator. The dog does not yet know that this tool is his friend. It is how he lives with us longer. So, I sent Drake outside with Arrow (the husky) and The Furminator and didn't hear anything for about twenty minutes. Then I looked out my kitchen window and saw Arrow, ears slicked back, running as if he had indeed been shot from a bow. The next thing I saw was this...

Yes, that is Drake chasing Arrow with a dustbuster. Yes, his hair is a lot longer. Yes, both of his feet are off of the ground.

Apparently Arrow's shedding was too much for The Furminator to handle, and Drake used his creative problem solving strategies to come up with something more effective. Well done, Drake. Well done.

Stuck Where?

Sometimes mothers get this prickly little feeling of premonition just before something happens.

I didn't get it.

Mike left with the kids and their new moped just before bedtime and headed down to the vacant car dealership at the end of our street hoping to teach them to be responsible moped drivers.

When Mike walked in the door twenty minutes later, I still didn't get the prickly feeling.

"Don't worry," he announced, "nobody is hurt yet." When the word yet follows the statement nobody is hurt, the prickly feeling is bound to begin.
"What happened?" I asked in my calm voice.
"Drake is stuck on top of a building," Mike answered in his trying not to laugh voice.





Your mind processes a sentence like that slowly and in steps.


Step 1: Something has happened involving my son Drake, who is not hurt yet.
Step 2: Drake, who is not hurt yet, is stuck.
Step 3: Drake, who is not hurt yet, is stuck ON TOP OF A BUILDING?!?

Apparently he found something to do while waiting the five minutes until it was his turn on the moped, and that was to scale a building with his hands and feet. But he did not love the idea of scaling back down.

Because I am a caring mother, I grabbed my camera and asked him to show me his superpower of leaping over tall buildings. I wanted to get proof incase he was the new Spiderman. He's not. He's 13. He's a boy. This stuff happens.