Family Rewind

Just found this on my SmugMug account.

A little blast from the past for our family.
Look at those babies!

Plus George, who wasn't around when we took this photo.

But he was around for this family photo.

Thanks to Cowtown Camera Girl for capturing these moments
(well, I took the unprofessional picture of George alone).

Something for Lindsey

This is for you, Lindsey!

Reminds me of your outfit for Abby.

I've got a secret!

*POP*

Whew! I've been holding that breath for a while because I knew if I opened my mouth I would spill the beans about my dear blogger friend, Angie.

I hope you'll check out her blog, Professional Motherhood, where she has just made a very big announcement. Read closely!

I can't believe I got to find out the news before you! (totally singing Nanny-nanny-boo-boo in my head). Well, I mean, you probably aren't all that jealous, but still, I had a secret and you didn't know it, so boasting shall commence.

The Ambulance and The Woodshed

Friday night, we went to this really cool restaurant down the street from us called The Woodshed.

This is what it looks like during the day.

It is owned by Tim Love (an amazing Iron Chef winner) and it is located on the Trinity River. It boasts smoked meats and very little else. There is a pig roasting on a spit when you walk in. It's serious stuff and you better like meat and, specifically, smoked meat if you're planning to eat there. I have to admit that there isn't much for the kids to eat other than a hamburger, and even that is not your typical McDonald's style hamburger. So, Friday night our kids went home hungry. That's okay though, because we fed them, and because they had the BEST time hanging out with friends and playing outside at the restaurant. So much fun! In fact, here's a picture of all of them climbing on a ginormous steer.

Evie planking.
(not on purpose, but I thought it was funny)

Lots of kids!

And lots of wandering around.

The kids had so much fun there, that Chuck decided to take them again last night while I watched the Oscars. It also didn't hurt that one of Chuck's best friends was there too.

Still, it gave me the opportunity to bask in the frivolousness of the Oscars without the kids climbing all over me, asking for food, whining about toys, etc. I love the Oscars. I can't help myself. I like to watch the beautiful people give themselves awards and talk about themselves. It's fun and entertaining.

The only problem is that at 7:45 I got a phone call from Chuck's friend who was at the Woodshed. He started the conversation by saying, "Uh . . . Theresa . . . there's been an accident."

Um, yeah, this was the best way to send a mother into a tizzy. Especially since I know the restaurant is on the river and I'm convinced that George is going to fall into the river and get swept away.

I'll give myself credit for staying relatively calm while getting just a few more sketchy details:

• Evie fell off a wall
• Chuck is with her
  
• They have called an ambulance
• They have her immobilized
  
• She is moving her feet

Sounds fairly grim when you feel like you need to assure someone that the injured person is moving her feet. Shit.

I got myself together, pulling on a fleece over my yoga pants and tennis shoes. Hair in a ponytail, no make up and no bra. I was not appropriately dressed, but I didn't care. I grabbed my phone and my keys and ran out the door without locking it behind me. Remember that this restaurant is literally a few blocks down the street. I screeched down there, threw my keys at the valet and said, "My daughter is hurt." and I ran past him leaving him with my dumpy mini van. As I ran, I dropped my purse on the deck where the patrons were eating their dinners. I found Chuck sitting with Evie at the bottom of the concrete wall where she had fallen off. And she looked so much better than I had prepared myself for.

She fell onto a concrete path that runs the length of the river and is used for joggers and bikers. The wall is about my height. I have to carefully lower myself down and then heft myself back up. It's a substantial concrete wall. You can see it in the picture above. Luke was with her when she fell. She had been balancing along the edge of the wall, walking it like a tightrope in the dark. One leg slipped and she began to fall. She used her hands to try and catch herself, but she landed on her stomach on the ground. Apparently, a waiter saw/heard her fall. He dashed over the wall and had her secured just seconds before Chuck got over there after he heard her cry. The waiter insisted on keeping her immobilized. And someone . . . I don't know who . . . called an ambulance.

When I got there she had pretty much stopped crying. I went to her immediately and told her I was there. She was sniffling. I asked her what hurt. She held up the pinky finger on her right hand. There was a blood blister on the tip. That's it. I crinkled my brow and asked, "Anything else?" She held up her left hand and showed me a tiny scrape by her thumb. "O-ka-yee." I looked at Chuck. He was stroking her hair and telling her that everything was going to be just fine and trying to make her laugh with jokes. I continued with my own evaluation, knowing Chuck had already asked all these pertinent questions, but it was my turn to get the story first hand. "Evie, does anything else hurt?"

She shook her head - so much for being immobilized.

"Does your head hurt?"

She grunted, "Huh-uh."

I went through all her extremities, felt her stomach, felt her head, felt her arms and legs. There was nothing. She answered repeatedly that she had not hit her head or her back. There were no marks on her stomach. She really just looked like she tripped on the sidewalk and took a little stumble. Nothing led us to any concern. Once I had satisfied myself that she was fine, I relaxed and whipped out my iPhone to take this picture.

That is when you know all is well.

All was well.

And then . . . the paramedics arrived.

Three lovely firemen arrived first. Great people. Wonderful people. They asked Evie her name, put a blanket on her, gave her some oxygen, monitored her pulse, felt her extremities, checked her eyes. They determined that she was probably fine. They suggested that we get her in the ambulance (once it arrived) and let her warm up. Nothing was really wrong and they felt good about that evaluation too, especially after hearing that she had not hit her head. So I took another picture.

But then it seemed to start getting crazy. They brought out a back board and they put a neck brace on her. It seemed at odds with the diagnosis and our diagnosis. I assume this is really what they do with everyone, and I still think that is true. At least twenty minutes after Evie's fall, Evie's ambulance finally arrived. I was almost amused at that point.

More muscular men swarmed around her and that is when she started to freak out. No one would let her stand or sit up or move. New people were coming in and asking her name, hold old she is, what hurts, etc. She started to tear up and I heard her tiny voice ask, "Mommy?" I rushed forward and held her hand. She didn't want to let go. She was freaking out. And by all appearances to her paramedic team and the image below, she was not doing well.

They insisted that she needed to go to the hospital to be examined further -- have x-rays, a CAT scan, etc. What?! She has a couple of scrapes. She's feeling okay. She did not hit her head. Nothing hurts other than her pinky and her thumb. Seriously, we're talking about phalanges, not a wrist or an ankle, much less her head, neck, or spine. There's not a mark on her. Nothing. Nada. Zip. And now they think we should take her to the hospital? "Better safe than sorry," they kept saying. I told them we didn't think she needed to go to the hospital, but let's just get her in the ambulance to let her warm up and evaluate it further there. Oh, holy shit. I should have just let her get up right then and there, wrapped her in my arms, and taken her home. She just scraped her damn fingers. But I didn't do it and this is what ensued:

They rolled her with a concerted effort onto the back board. They secured her head with tape. They pulled her hair in the process. They took off the glow in the dark necklace she had been wearing. (Kids love that glow in the dark junk.) They buckled her into the board and three men walked her up a hill and put her on a gurney. Then they rolled her into the ambulance. She was flipping out! She squeezed my hand and whimpered through the entire process despite my assurances that she would be fine. I offered up ideas like:

• It's going to be so cool to be in an ambulance!
  
• This may be the most men that ever pay such close attention to you at one time.
• Gee, why didn't they want to carry me up the hill on a stretcher?
• Did you hurt the concrete when you fell, or is that okay?
• George and Luke sure are going to be jealous about all this attention you're getting.

We got her in the ambulance and she warmed up with a fleece blanket while she was still strapped to the gurney. She was still freaking out. And then, a first-responder and I discussed the situation over her head while I held her hand and stroked her forehead. He insisted that we should take her to the children's hospital to make sure everything was fine. I told him I didn't think it was that serious and that there is absolutely nothing to indicate that she had hit her head. He insisted that children don't always give signs and said indignantly, "Well, it was serious enough for you guys to call us."

And that was the moment. Right there. That was the moment I realized he didn't know what was going on - not that it was his fault. So I told him calmly, "No. We didn't think it was that serious. We didn't call you. Someone else did." And that is what gave me the confidence to make the decision to take my daughter home against the medical advice issued by the paramedics. Although they see this stuff--and see the worst of it--I am the one who knows my daughter best, gathered all the facts, got there sooner than any of the other first responders. I was the one who was capable of making an informed decision as a person who cares most about my daughter's well-being. The chance of anything being wrong with her head was slim to none, but freaking her out with a trip to the hospital was guaranteed. I couldn't do it to her.

There was a little more discussion and I consulted with Chuck, during which the boys climbed in the ambulance and explored all the gadgets. But eventually, I signed a release, and told her we were going home. As soon as I said that, she started ripping the medical equipment off. She started with the blood pressure cuff, moved to the zipper holding her onto the backboard, and tried to remove the sticky tape holding her head down. I had to slow her down and told her to let the paramedic do it. But, clearly she agreed with my assessment and wanted to get out of there. We did the right thing.

Once in the car, she became the confident Evie I know and love. She spoke with authority while she explained to Luke and George how the paramedics put her on a board and put a "necklace" on her. She also mentioned with disgust that the paramedics had taken her glow-in-the-dark necklace off and thrown it on the road. She was pissed. And, all I could do was smile at her spunk and thank God for her health. She was going to be fine.

I took pictures of the spoils of her adventure which included, a stuffed animal, a fleece blanket from the ambulance, and two Mickey Mouse band-aids from our medicine cabinet. She faked a sad face for us, and then went back to smiling.

(yes, she's wearing a Christmas outfit. Don't judge. That is her outfit of choice for emergencies as evidenced here.)

We checked on her throughout the night. We woke her up, quizzed her about her name, school name, and siblings. She's fine this morning. Absolutely, wonderfully, perfectly fine. And now, we're pretty sure that Evie will be the impetus for the installation of fencing or something similar at The Woodshed.

Can't quit my day job.

Sorry for the extra long post yesterday. Not even sure most people read the whole thing. If you didn't, then you are missing out. It is worth the time. I'm still cracking up about it.

Today's post is more of a picture post, so enjoy. This is what I made at a lovely shop called A Piece of Work. It's a great idea that is really starting to get popular. I went with my friends from Junior Woman's Club last night and had such a fun time. Unfortunately, I had to leave early to get home to the babysitter. I wish I could have seen how everyone's turned out! If you click HERE or HERE you can see another group's final version of this painting.

Here's the progression of the Fort Worth Skyline Starry Night.







By the way, I don't possess a lick of artistic talent, so I was pretty darn proud of this, although I've decided I shouldn't quit my day job. Moreover, my children were inordinately proud of it. Luke asked me where it came from this morning in the midst of me running around like crazy to get everyone out the door. I absently replied, "Oh, I painted it last night." His eyes got big and he asked incredulously, "You painted it?" I quirked a half smile and said, "Yup." He looked at me longer and said with deserved disbelief, "It's really good." I smiled fully and said, "Thanks." Then I started back in with my morning tirade about how no one was ready and why did I have to keep telling them to get their shoes on.

This is my life and I really love it when I'm not bitching about it.

Seventy and Beach Ready

Have you laughed lately? Bahahaha! I have!

My 70-year old mother (yes, I have to boast her age), is going on a cruise next week. This is my mother:





She LOVES cruises. Loves them! She goes on at least one cruise per year. However, she's not what we might call, a person who is naturally tan. In fact, if you've ever seen my pasty white legs, then you can picture what my mother must look like and has looked like for the majority of her life. She does not tan; she burns. Quite frankly, I've lived with this type of skin my entire life, and there are ways around it, but it involves actually working to tan yourself. Therefore, I must admit without any regret that I have in the past frequented tanning beds to acquire that natural glow that JLo boasts so well. Of course, I was always disappointed when I emerged from the tanning beds looking like a slightly tinted version of myself instead of looking like the beautifully tanned Jennifer Lopez. I have, however, come to accept my fate.

So, when my mother mentioned that she was going to get a spray tan about a year ago, I cheered her on. Unfortunately, it did not go well. I believe she looked like a streaked, tan zebra instead of the gently tanned beach goddess we all hope will emerge from these things. Oh well. I chastised her for failing to consult me on which type of spray tan to get. She got the Mystic tan instead of the much-superior Versa tan (read in sarcasm). And I guess she looked a bit like this:


So, this year, she mentioned that before her cruise she was considering getting another spray tan and wanted to know the name of the tan that she should get. I told her Versa was the better version of the spray tan, but encouraged her that if she really wanted to get a more natural looking glow that would last more than a few days, she should just go ahead and get into a tanning bed. Now, as a disclaimer, let me assure you that I am not telling my 70-year old mother that I thought she should get a tan that would turn her into this (and try not to vomit):

or this:

or this:

No, I'm simply saying that a good base tan would be better than a spray tan. That's it. Will skin cancer ensue? Maybe, but I hardly think her chances are much worse now than they were before she got in the tanning bed. So everyone that's against fake baking, just get over yourself and hold your tongue. I digress.

If you don't know, I try to call my mom every morning. I'm a rockstar daughter like that (*wink, wink*), but really the morning phone calls were initiated when I realized the poor woman could die in her sleep and be eaten by cats before anyone would know because she lives alone. Pleasant, right?


So on my recent morning phone calls, my mother -- oh, dear Shazza -- has been giving me the update on her tanning adventures. First she told me that she is not getting tan. I assured her that it is a slower process than getting a spray tan and just to keep going. She decided to stop putting on "the lotion" because she thought it was keeping her from getting tan. After finally wheedling out the fact that "the lotion" is the tanning lotion that they told her to buy and not some sort of sunscreen, I told her to definitely keep using the lotion. She pushed back a bit until I told her, "No. Mom. Listen to me. When people who are more experienced than you with this tanning bed stuff tell you to use the lotion, then you need to listen to us and use the lotion."

I think she continued to use the lotion, but she also continued to tell me that she just wasn't getting tan.

Hmmm.

She started increasing the time she spent in the tanning bed. I got a niggling sense in the back of my mind that maybe I should be a little worried. I'm not exactly an expert at this, but 7 minutes for your first few times in the sun-coffin-of-death can really give you a bit of a burn. So, when my mom told me she was increasing her time, I started to wonder, but I pretty much had to accept her assessment . . . until today.

Today, on my daily phone call, my mom asked with excitement, "Guess what I found out yesterday!"

She sounded so happy that I started smiling into my phone and asked, "What?"

Shazza, "When I was at the tanning place yesterday, I figured out that the top of the tanning bed pulls down."

Me, "Bahahahaha! HAHAHAHA!!! HAAAAA!" *snort* "HAHAHAA!" *snort, snort, breathe* "So you've been tanning with the top of the bed up?!?" I started laughing uncontrollably and then exclaimed, "Mom! Oh. My. Gosh! Are you kidding me?!"

Luckily, she was pretty much laughing too, or maybe she wasn't. I couldn't really hear much over my own laughter, but I did her her say, "Well, I didn't know it came down. I've never done this before."

My attempts to gather myself a little to spare her feelings failed as I asked, "What? Mom, how could you not know that the top pulled down?"

Shazza responded, "I told them I had never done this before. How was I supposed to know that it came down? I only found the handle after I finished tanning yesterday."

Me, "Mom. It's kinda obvious."

Shazza, "Not if you've never done it before."

Me, "Uh, Mom . . . if you had never chewed a piece of gum before, don't you think it would be obvious to take the wrapper off before you put it in your mouth?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before she said, "Well, I didn't know. And now my back is burned and the only way to even it out is to go back to the tanning bed and lay on my stomach."

I burst out laughing again at the image, rolled my eyes at her over the phone, and told her I still couldn't believe she had done this but the entire thing had made my day. I mean, come on.

This is open.

This is closed.

And now, this is what my mom must look like except her burn is on her back . . .
and she's a woman.

Seriously, that woman--that wonderful, crazy woman--
cracks me up!!!

The Road to Recovery is Paved with Prescriptions

Took Evie to the doctor again last night. She now has an ear infection coupled with a lower fever, coughing, runny nose, and general illness. We have acquired three new prescriptions including a new antibiotic, cough syrup, and numbing ear drops. She also gets to take Motrin to ease the pain. Poor baby is ready to be well again. We're still a little concerned, however, that the original dose of antibiotics didn't take care of this ear infection. And the term "concerning" is how the doctor left it. If she isn't better by Friday, we have to go back. Wish us luck!

Evie

Evie's fever has returned. Could it be the flu?

So true, so true.

Color me surprised to be taking parenting advice from Mark Wahlberg, but it's so, so true:

If I succeed as a businessman and I fail as a father, then it’s all been for nothing.

Underwear

Things I never thought I'd have to say: "You have to have underwear on while you're eating dinner."

We've had the same conversation about riding a bike.

Thanks to George, my life is always a surprise.

Worst Week

This is an abbreviated Sharon Kurzy description of my week. If you've met my mother you will understand what I mean. I'll understand if you decide not to read it.

Monday:

• George wakes up with poopy diaper and proceeds to poop himself two more times within an hour. I stay home from work and try to get some work done while George watches Barbie movies and Thomas the Tank Engine movies. George grows bored easily and does not poop again, but is still raspy with a cough. I call the doctor and confirm that his poop is a side-effect of the antibiotic he has been on to clear his congestion, but the congestion did not clear. The doctor calls in a prescription for more antibiotic (a different one) which will result in prolonging the pooping phenomenon.

• I wrap up all the Valentine's gifts and projects, except for getting a gift for my dear husband.
• I receive news that my friends must decide whether to take their child off of life support. I try not to bawl too much in front of the kids.
  

Tuesday:

• I receive a heart-shaped box of chocolates from my three wonderful children and husband. Courtesy of television commercials, Luke is convinced that "it is the only way to say 'I love you.'"

• I've convinced George's school that he can come in if he wears diapers so that it isn't too much trouble for them. Praise the Lord, I might get some work done.
• As we rush around getting ready for school (after opening the Valentine's gifts), George manages to get himself under Chuck's feet, causing Chuck to pirouette in the hall way, nearly fall down, and knock down a picture frame in the process. Chuck avoids stepping on George, but the corner of the picture frame lands on George's finger and cuts the top side. Screaming ensues, and we know it hurt really bad. I take George to school and his finger has begun to turn purple by the time I drop him off. I ask the dear people at his school to keep an eye on his finger.
• I receive word that my friend's child passed away the night before. I bawl in my office intermittently.
  
• Around10:45, I receive a phone call that George's finger has swollen even more, is a darker shade of purple, and difficult to bend. I take George to the doctor where we have x-rays taken. There is no break, but the finger looks disgusting. Dr. Murphy puts it in a finger bandage and sends us on our way after giving George a toy from his special toy stash.

• I return to work. I get very little accomplished.
  
• At 1:30 I leave work to attend Luke's Valentine's Day party because I am his room mom along with a friend of mine. I show up with the napkins. My feet hurt, and while my friend conducts musical chairs and the rest of the party, I sit in the corner and watch while I rest my feet. I decide for the 115th time that I will never volunteer for homeroom mom again.
• I go back to work and put my nose to the grindstone.
• At 6:20, I realize I am 20 minutes late for my Valentine's date with my husband. I rush to see him and spend the evening with my favorite person in the whole world. I never had a chance to get him a present. He bought me a pearl necklace and earrings.
  

• I am so in love.

Wednesday:

• I cry some more about my friend's loss.
• I work.
• I cry a few more tears as I read his caring bridge journal.
• I work.
• At 4:30, I get the text that Evie is sick.

• I rush home to get her. She has a fever of 102.8. We go to the doctor at 6:30. Our nanny watches the boys because Chuck is at an executive meeting. Evie vomits while we wait at the night clinic. We get a prescription, but there is no real diagnosis of Evie's ailment. She's coughing, sore throat, fever, tummy ache, vomiting. No strep throat as I was hoping because at least it is treatable. Probably a virus but we get antibiotics for her cough. The vomiting is apparently a side effect of the high fever and she feels better when the Tylenol kicks in.

• I get the kids to bed and then I work until 11:30.
• I go to bed. Chuck comes home. I hear Evie coughing in her bedroom and rush in to find her vomiting on her pillow and bed. We clean stuff up, and I spend the night sleeping next to her with only a vomit bowl in between us, except when she woke up to vomit.

Thursday:

• Chuck wakes up sick with a head cold. I barely wake up because I'm exhausted. I take the boys to school while Chuck stays with Evie who is feeling better.
• Once at work I discover that I missed a nail when I tried to take off my nail polish this morning. Really?

• I work. I miss lunch because I leave at noon to attend the funeral for a sweet little boy. The child-sized casket at the front of the church kicked me in the gut. The tears start leaking before the service is even close to beginning. The service begins and they sing "Jesus Loves Me". I can't breathe and my head hurts from trying to hold in the tears. The service is brief, powerful, and finalizing. I never want to attend a child's funeral again.
• I return to work and work - trying to catch up. I may never catch up again.
• I finally get hungry and eat what I call the Lunch of Champions.

• I made it home to find out that Luke allegedly cheated on a timed test by finishing three questions after the teacher said stop. My heart sinks. Why can't this be easier? Why must there always be an issue?
• We put the kids to bed. Evie has a fever of 103.5. More medicine and somebody has to stay home with her again.
  

Friday

• We sit at home watching princess movies. Will this be the end of the worst week in recent history, or will there be more?