If it's a boy, it must be Turkey

My youngest has a birthday coming up. Hard to believe he's going to be 12, but life does tend to march on. Next year, I will officially be the mother of three teenagers. Pray for me.

When I was pregnant with ds, I had a rotten gallbladder. Due to a mixup at the doctor's office, I was given this diagnosis six months after I had the testing done -- and by then, I just happened to be six weeks pregnant.

That pregnancy was a roller coaster ride. I was in and out of the hospital, and my mom came up from Florida several times, to help with the other two kids. I had preterm labor, so I was on bedrest for twelve weeks. Basically, I told my friends that if I ever mentioned that I wanted to get pregnant again, that they had my permission to shoot me.

My parents were planning an overseas trip, about the time I was due. The closer the time came, the more my mom fretted. She told me that I needed to tell my doctor to induce me, so that they would know that everything was ok. They were going to Turkey, and didn't know if there were going to be phones there, to get the happy news. I told her that I couldn't just demand to be induced.

Then, the morning of their departure, my water broke.

I called hubby and told him to come home. He called back to check on me, and didn't even recognize my voice, bellowing "WHO IS THIS?" into the phone. Geez, honey, just come home! Called my mom and told her that it looked like the baby was on his way. They were just getting ready to go to the airport, so she said she'd call me from the airport in Tampa.

They did. "Ain't nothin happenin' but the rent, Mom." Ok, she said, she'd call me from the airport in DC. Which she did, as soon as they arrived.

"Ain't nothin happenin' but the rent, Mom." Oh for heavens sake, says Mother, I'll call you right before we get on the plane. Again, "ain't nothin' happenin' but the rent." Mom was coming slightly unglued.

So, push comes to baby, and everything was fine. Then, our secretary called into the room. Rather hesitantly, she said "Lisa, your parents are on the phone." Long pause. "They're calling from a plane."

So, my parents got the happy news whilst somewhere between here and Constantinople. And that child has given us nothing but excitement ever since.

You show me yours, I'll show it to my cousin.

Some people are just really stupid. I'm sorry, but it's the honest truth. And I've taken care of a lot of them.

One time when we lived in Florida, I got a new admission in the ICU. Something new: a rattlesnake bite. I'd never taken care of a patient with a rattlesnake bite before. I went in to do an initial assessment on him -- this guy's arm was at least three times its normal size. It was a sight to see, believe me.

I'm a chatty person. OK, so I talk too much, but it helps a bit, when you're a nurse. You find out all kinds of things if you know how to talk to people. One time, the neighborhood hottie was at our house. He ended up staying for 2 1/2 hours, telling me everything from his middle name to how he almost got arrested, to how he duct taped a kid to the flagpole at school. DD asked, "how in the world did you get him to tell you all that?" It's my job, ma'am.

So, I was talking to my patient whilst I settled him in. He was from Tennessee, and had an accent to prove it. We got to talking, and I asked him how in the world he got a rattlesnake bite on his thumb. Here's what he said:

::imagine slow Tennessee drawl::
"I was walking down the road to my cousins, and I saw this ole rattlesnake, just lyin' there, so I decided to take it and show it to my cousin. Picked it up, and it bit me, right on the thumb."

I asked, "What'd you do next?"

Reply: "I kilt it with a rock."

Me: "Well, then what'd you do?"

Einstein: "Took it and showed it to my cousin."

OYE. That guy probably has a whole bevy of children who all look like him by now.

But Mommy, I don't wanna live in the shelter!

We love our neighborhood. As a matter of fact, my hubby used to ride his bike through our neighborhood when he was a kid and wish that he lived here. We live exactly eight blocks from the hospital where the old guy was born. We will likely never move from here.

I grew up moving all over the place. My parents are part gypsy, I believe, don't like their blonde and red hair fool you -- the people just love to move. As a result, I moved 12 times by the time I was sixteen, and went to four different high schools. Hubby, on the other hand, lived in the same house that he was brought home from the hospital to, and his parents lived there for about five more years after he moved out. The man is ROOTED.

I told hubby that once we had kids, I didn't want to ever move, because I wanted the kids to know where home is. I even have a clipping from an old Oprah magazine that says "the most important gift in life is roots." And I firmly believe that.

So, I was a little unnerved a couple of summers ago when we had three -- count 'em, three, offers to buy our house. Mind you, it was not for sale. No sign, no mention of a sale, nothing. But yeah, three people seriously wanted us to sell them our house. One couple went so far as to send their agent over to look it over, and when we told her no, we love our house and don't want to sell, she ended up calling back a couple of weeks later saying that the couple said we could name a price, and they'd buy it. (We met that couple last year -- she really was serious, they really wanted it, but had to buy a block over when we wouldn't sell.)

Hubby said "let's just name a crazy, exhorbitant price, and see what happens." I just looked at him and asked "where exactly are we going to live? In the shelter? Homey don't play dat." ::whapped hubby firmly on the head::

About that time, one of the kids walked in and quite firmly announced "Mommy, I do NOT want to live in the shelter." Alrighty then.

Fortunately, he wasn't serious, and neither was I, so here we are, thirteen years after we moved in. I'll probably be taken outta this house feet first, but that's ok with me. We all know where home is.

Vintage Terrorists: take a picture, it'll last longer

We did a photo shoot yesterday, with a wonderful model. I was terrified, not knowing what to expect. I've never worked with a model before, so it was a bit unnerving, wondering if anything would fit, would the clothes get damaged, was she going to think I was nuts...........in the end, it was like a big party.

We met at Starbucks. I walked in with armloads of vintage, and we let her try them on, one by one. We had one lady ask if we were doing a wedding, and one man who walked up and told us his son was a model with A&F and Budweiser. Then, of course, there was the very odd lady who rubbed dd's head whilst talking about Project Runway, and when Kailly walked out, kept touching the clothes -- while they were on her. I knew there's a reason I don't go to the north side of Indy much......

I didn't know what would fit, or what would look good, so I took a bunch of stuff. Started out slow, with a striped day dress. I was so happy to see that it fit her great, so I got out some of the great 50s stuff we have. She was in love!

Next, we moved on to the Central Library, which is downtown, in a huge marble building that once was the Indiana State Museum. Marched right in, through the metal detectors (who wants to terrorize a library, I ask you?), once again carrying armloads of vintage, crinolines, purses, anything we could carry. Marched straight into the privvy and set up shop.

We had a professional photographer for this part of the shoot, and got pics on the stairs, amongst the books, all over. Until security showed up and informed us that "you can't take pics in here." Guess they thought we were gonna bust some caps. Oh well, didn't want to get security's crinoline in a knot, so we went back out, followed closely by security. She parked herself on the steps, watching to make sure that the Vintage Terroristas left. What she didn't know was that we just took Kailly, now in a strappy beaded number, exactly like a Laura style from Project Runway, and went into the alley behind the library. Put her up against a chain link fence, and started shooting away.

There were guys on the third floor fire escape, who sat and watched the whole thing. Sulking, I might add, after they yelled down "can we get our picture taken with you?" and were told a firm NO. They watched, then went in and got another friend. Then did it again, several times, till we let poor frozen Kailly get dressed and left the alley.

So now, I'm not freaked out to use a model, can't wait to see the pics, and am looking forward to doing it again. WOOT!

Cooking for Dummies

I love cooking. I've cooked since I was a little kid, making cookies, pies, Caesar salad -- you name it. But I hate cooking for my family.

DD has been vegetarian since the age of 9. I don't mind that -- I can usually work around it pretty well. I don't make two different meals, I just make stuff and leave the meat out of hers. When ds found out she wasn't eating Babe anymore, he said "she's not eating meat? Pass me hers." It's been like that ever since.

I believe that ds has made a vow of some type, to never let a vegetable pass his lips. He doesn't like pasta or rice really well. He hates chicken with a passion. He has his own case of mad about cow disease. He loves beef, and has probably singlehandly depreciated the bovine population by a significant amount. If it's vegetarian, he won't touch it.

Hubby doesn't mind vegetarian, but, if I make something veggie, he thinks he's starving about two hours later, and heads to Wendy's.

I can sneak in something veggie from time to time. Those Boca crumbles are great! DD and I have a high sign we give each other when it's something meatless. DS started getting it for a while, saying "is there meat in here? Well, then why is she eating it?" My reply?

"What your sister does or does not eat, is of no concern to you. EAT." Purposefully nebulous. It works every time.

Invisible Poop Monsters

Potty training isn't fun. I know that there are those who say that a child should be potty trained by 2, but I beg to differ. You have to have some modicum of cooperation, or it just ain't gonna happen.

The names here have been changed, to protect the potty trained.

We have a photo of one of our children, sitting on the potty, "reading" (upside down) a book called "Chemotherapy and You." Yep. Hubby is an oncology nurse, and aforementioned child wanted a little light reading when nature called.

But the one that takes the cake is the child who decided that he just was NOT going to poop in the potty. And I mean, this child was determined not to use the potty. Just wasn't gonna happen. Now, putting pee in there was fine. We sunk a LOT of Cheerios -- the best way to teach the young 'uns to aim, and got that job done. It was pooping that was problematic.

We tried everything. Bought Spiderman undies and tried to get him to keep em clean -- no problem, he just wouldn't go at all. Tried sitting on the potty in a diaper, and then he refused to go anywhere near the bathroom. Tried prunes, raisins, bribes, and praying to the poop god. No go. He'd actually bring me the diaper, lay down on it, and all but hook it up himself, then go in our room, close the door and let it rip. If we forgot he was in there (or didn't know), we'd go in, and he'd be behind the door, pointing a little finger at us, whilst saying "go away." He was seriously freaked out.

Finally, when he was a little past four, the doc decided that the situation was nuts. Or maybe just that our child was nuts. Sent him to a psychologist who was promptly christened the Poop Counselor. Well, Dr PC was humored by the situation. I could tell from the look in his eye that he thought he was going to cure this situation in about two minutes flat. Asked said child why he wouldn't poop in the potty. Child, who was sitting and coloring on the floor, looked up furtively, said "monsters," and went back to coloring. Geez. That was a new one on me. I hadn't been told of the monsters, but now the truth was out. "Well," says Dr PC, "I have just the solution for that. I have invisible monster spray that'll cure it."

He left the room briefly, then returned holding not one but TWO cans of invisible monster spray. Asked ds, did he want to see how it worked, and we headed off down the hall. He showed us poop warfare, asked ds if he thought that would work, and got an answer in the affirmative.

Dr PC looked rather smug as we headed out the door, with me holding the two cans of Invisible Poop Monster Spray. The first set of double doors had scarcely closed behind us when ds turned, looked me straight in the eye and firmly stated, "monsters aren't real, that spray isn't real, and I'm not pooping in the potty." All righty then.

Took another six months, but the child finally broke down and did it--while I was at work. After all that work, I still can't take any credit. I still have the email I received from ds, announcing touchdown. It's in a certain baby book actually. I was told later, by one of his siblings, "I just told him he was going to sit on that potty, and I was gonna read to him till he pooped, or he wasn't getting up. We prolly read 50 books, but he did it." Like I hadn't tried every trick in the book that every friend, co-worker, doctor, and internet bulletin board had recommended. Heck, we even read "Everybody Poops."We had a whole poop reading club of books that'll never make Oprah's list. Turns out, dd wanted to have the poop party that we had promised him, once he reached the age of reason. And party we did.

What goes around, comes around

I am the youngest of five. By the time my parents got around to me, they likely were having a little trouble naming kids. My grandma did. Of course, anyone would have trouble naming 18 children.

My grandpa named my mom wrong, behind Grandma's back. They planned the first and last names, but at the last minute, he switched the middle name to the first name. They still called her by what was actually her middle name -- and she didn't even know that that was her name, till she got her first job.
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They named one of their sons a name pulled from the obituaries, the day after he was born. And two of the boys have the same middle name. When I asked why, they said "if you had 18 kids, you'd forget that you already used the name, too." Yep, I'd have to agree with that.

I was kind of named after Lisa, on As the World Turns. Not EXACTLY after her, but my mom did like the name. Years later, Lisa (who had been married about eleventy thousand times) got married to a man named Earl. I had just gotten married too, and when I watched an episode (cause I had been watching it since conception), Lisa introduced herself to someone. I thought to myself "why does that name sound familiar?"

She had MY name. Earl had the same name as my maiden name. So, I was once named after her, but then she ended up named after me.