Vegas, Baby!

Chris and I returned from Las Vegas on Monday, and I think I've finally recovered today. It was the first time for both of us--now we're no longer Vegas virgins. Stacy and Neil met us there, and we partied like rock stars. Okay, we partied like middle-aged rock stars, but we definitely stayed up later than we have in a long time.

While Chris and I were in the security line in the Indianapolis airport, I realized that my driver's license was not in my purse. Now, you must understand that I'm a nervous flyer, anyway. My head tells me that air travel is safe, but my heart tells me that we're going headfirst into the side of a mountain. To add the lost license to my fear of flying almost sent me straight to the St. Vincent's Stress Center. I did, however, have my Social Security card and my voter registration card. When I showed these to the security gal, she marked me as an "SSSS" and told me I'd have to go through additional security. All I could think of was a full body cavity search by a burly woman in a hidden concrete bunker. Luckily, that wasn't the case. After careful and intense examination of my cell phone and my digital camera, I was good to go.

Vegas is one of those places that everyone should visit at least once. I mean, really, where else can you see at least ten billboards full of boobs in every city block? From cigarette smoking seventy year old slot machine players to CFMP-wearing twenty-two year olds dressed in band-aids, there's no better place to people watch (which, incidentally, is one of my favorite pasttimes). Stacy and I spent a lot of time shopping, but I spent even more time gawking. What fun!

I lost my prescription sunglasses and a decent amount of money, but still managed to have a good time. The incident that put me over the edge was when we were denied admittance to a nightclub because I didn't have an ID. I'd been drinking a bit before we went (well, the drinks ARE free when you're gambling!), and when the bouncer said "no," I grabbed my boobs and shouted, "Come on! Do these look like the boobs of a twenty year old?! For God's sake, I'm a 36 year old housewife with 4 kids!" He wasn't impressed. Neither was Chris. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

911...What's Your Emergency?

So, I have to admit that I've never actually called 911. That doesn't mean, however, that I haven't made my fair share of speed-limit-exceeding driving trips to the ER. With 4 kids, I think I've actually achieved "frequent flyer" status and hope to someday have a wing (or at least a waiting room chair) named after me. Last night, we made the journey once again.

Sam's been running a fever for the past three days, but we've been able to control it with Motrin and Tylenol. (For those of you counting, YES, we let him go sledding. We definitely do not get the Parents of the Year nomination for that particular decision.) Anyway, I was putting away clothes in Mary Claire's room yesterday afternoon when he came staggering up the stairs declaring that he wasn't feeling very well, that he had a horrible headache, and that he was going to lie down in his bed. I hung up a couple more pairs of pants and went to check his temperature. It was 106 degrees. For those of you that know me well, you might guess what I immediately assumed. Yes, meningitis. In a somewhat controlled state of panic, I called Chris and told him to get home ASAP, and I loaded Sam up into the car.

When we got to the ER, we had to wait behind a teenager who had apparently choked on a piece of turkey three hours earlier. I thought a 106 degree fever trumped the three-hour-old choking incident, but no one asked my opinion. When the nurse took Sam back, she took his temperature and it was 101 degrees. This is the moment that presents a great conundrum for a mother. You certainly don't want your child to be sick, but you also don't want to look like a complete and total ass for bringing him into the ER with a 101 degree fever. (Damned inaccurate ear thermometers!) So, Sam was loaded up with some Motrin and Tylenol and had his throat swabbed, his urine checked, and his chest X-rayed. He ended up having strep throat and left with an antibiotic prescription, so it wasn't an entirely pointless visit.

The good news is that he's feeling a bit better today. The bad news is that he can't play in his basketball game tomorrow. His team is 0-7, and he's one of the better players. It's going to be a tough morning on the court. Did I mention that I'm his coach?

Granny's Fire

After sledding with the kids today, they begged for a fire to warm their toes. Chris loaded up the fireplace with wood, and we all enjoyed the serenity that only a fire can bring. Well, we enjoyed a few precious minutes of serenity before the "he's touching me!" arguments began. As I sit in front of the fireplace now, I'm transported back to my childhood and our weekend ventures to Granny's house.

My Granny (my Mom's Mother's Mom) was a 4 time world champion bowler in her youth. When I knew her, Sally Twyford was simply "Granny" to my sister, Carrie, and me. She lived in a cabin at the top of a hill on Clay Lick Road in Brown County, Indiana. She wore her white hair in long braids and killed rattlesnakes with her shotgun. She taught Carrie and me how to play poker and saved all of her spare change in a giant Mason jar for us to divide when we came to visit. We didn't have much as children; our Dad was MIA, and our Mom worked three jobs to keep food on the table. But we had our weekend trips to Granny's. Those were the highlight of our childhood. Granny wasn't a warm, loving, grandmotherly type. She cursed and drank with the best of them. She was fearless and wouldn't put up with sass from any of us--including my Mom. She had a crochety old dog, Rusty, that would bite us if we came too close. And we all knew that Granny loved Rusty more than any of the rest of us. But when I was at Granny's house, I felt safe. Granny didn't like everyone, but she liked us. I never questioned this gift; I just took it and held it tightly for fear I might someday lose it.

When we visited Brown County, we hiked through the woods during the day. We tied red bandannas around our heads to keep the ticks out of our hair. Granny would bring her walking stick, and I knew there wasn't a rattlesnake that would dare show it's scaly face. We spent afternoons skipping stones at Zack's Lake, and in the evenings, we would sit on the floor while Granny played her guitar and sang, "Please, Mr. Conductor." She didn't have a particularly good singing voice, but I loved to hear her sing, anyway. She sang "Two Little Babes" which always made me cry.

After a round of poker in the evening, Carrie and I would settle downstairs in our sleeping bags in front of the fire. It would pop and crackle and dance in the darkness, and although I was always a little afraid in the basement, I loved that fire more than anything. Mom and Granny would stoke it throughout the night so it wouldn't burn out, and Carrie and I awoke in the mornings with that campfire smell in our clothes and our hair.

I was eight when Granny died. She was the first person I had ever known and loved who passed away. Cancer ravaged her body quickly and although her death came fast, it was laden with pain and suffering. I prayed for Granny with all my heart. I was afraid she wouldn't get into heaven because she drank, cursed, gambled, and wasn't always nice to our cousins. At her funeral, I couldn't stop touching her. Her body was so cold; her face so still. My cousin, Erin, and I were fascinated by the obvious fact that her nose hairs had been removed. We giggled about it in the funeral parlor, and I was sure that a mortal sin had stained my soul forever. What good Catholic girl laughed at her dead Grandmother's missing nose hairs? When we lost Granny, I lost a part of my childhood. Our weekends seemed long and lonely without our road trip in the blue Chevette. When I went to CYO camp down the street from Granny's house, it felt lonely and strange.

I sing Granny's songs to my children now, but I change the words so they're not quite so disturbing. The two little babes don't die in the woods in my rendition. The train conductor's young passenger's mother isn't dying either; she's simply waiting for her son to arrive for a visit. My watered-down versions of Granny's songs make my kids laugh and roll their eyes. They would have loved their Granny. They would have probably been a bit afraid of her, too. They would have laughed when she passed gas and didn't know it because her hearing was gone. They would have been scared to sleep in the basement, but they would have loved the fire. It is the one piece of Granny we can all share.

Snow Day

It doesn't get much better than a snow day with your Valentine! Although I'd like to paint the idyllic picture of us all sitting around the fireplace with hot cocoa, in reality, I'm blogging in the office, Chris is snow-blowing the driveway, Sam is down with a 102 degree fever, Gus is playing X-Box, and "the littles" (Mary Claire and George) are making a grand mess of the basement that I just organized yesterday. I woke up to the sounds of The All-American Rejects and my 4-year-old singing "Dirty Little Secret" at the top of his lungs. When Sam was 4, he sang Barney songs. Somehow, from the oldest to the youngest, I've lost some of my parenting prowess.

I had the Grand Idea last week to move everyone's toys from their bedrooms to the basement. I was tired of messes in the bedrooms, messes in the family room, and messes in the basement, so I decided to contain the mess on one floor. It took me an entire day to move everything from the third floor to the basement. (Can you say, "overindulged"?) I mean, really, we could rival a Matchbox factory with the number of toy cars that we own. So, yesterday, I spent the entire day organizing, purging, and dividing things into various and sundry toy bins and Rubbermaid containers. My best friend, Stacy, reminded me that I do this on an annual basis (at least). She assures me that by fall of 2007, I'll be moving everything back up into their bedrooms. It's that bit of OCD in me--I can't help it.

I received an e-mail yesterday about an open audition for a production of "Nunsense" at a local dinner theatre. I was up most of the night thinking about how I could make it work. I want so badly to audition, but how in the world can I be gone from my kids every night for a month? And then the production runs every weekend in April. I'd give my right arm to do the show, but at what cost to my family? I think we female products of the 80's were sold a bill of goods when we were told that we could "have it all." Eventually, something has to give. It could be a career, a family, a dream, an ambition, but there aren't enough hours in the day to "have it all." I'm trying to determine at this point in my life how I map out my future years to be able to experience some of the things that I've dreamed about doing. The problem is, by the time I'm able to do a dinner theatre show, I won't be able to dance because of arthritis, and my boobs will be hanging down to my knees. Who wants to cast a geriatric wanna-be as Maria? I won't be very convincing singing "Climb Every Mountain" from my wheelchair. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my life for anything in the world--I just want to be able to add to it. Too many dreams, too little time.

I'd love to write more, but I just heard a little voice from upstairs yelling, "Mom, will you please wipe my butt?" Broadway, here I come!

Into the Great Wide Open

So, here I am. Posting. To my new blog. To say this is foreign to me is the understatement of the year. I have a stinky (but devoted) black lab sleeping at my feet, a snoring (but devoted) husband in the chair next to me, and 4 young children dreaming upstairs in their beds. Okay, Mary Claire is actually in bed with George, but at least she's not in my bed. We're all about baby steps here. Maybe by the time she goes to college, she'll be able to sleep in her own room. We have 12 more years to figure out the details...