Mary Bernard

Yesterday, I took the kids to see Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. Each summer, Regal Cinemas offers weekly FREE movies.

This seems like the perfect outing, right? DARK theatre (Mommy can nap). Air conditioning. Seated in comfy chair. Children seated and distracted. Tasty popcorn. $1 soda (because we have managed to hang onto our Regalator giant cups, which they will refill for $1 but don’t offer to sell anymore. Yes, these are among our most prized possessions in our home and would certainly be on the short list for items to grab in case of disaster.)

So, off we go to our “special treat.” A movie! In a theatre! With popcorn!

Everyone pees before we leave the house. Very important.

Now. I know. I was really stupid to think that a “kids’ meal” at the movies would cost any less than $5. But I did. I was kinda thinking, $2 or so. And because I never get to read, evaluate, or discern when I’m with my kids, I succumbed to marketing. That giant KIDS’ MEAL COMBO sign was beautiful. “Three kids’ meals, please, and one refill soda in my Regalator.”

“That will be $18!”

Eighteen dollars???? I could have ordered a pizza for that. Oh my goodness.

(I still am not sure what those kids’ meals actually cost, because, you know, I don’t get to read, evaluate, or discern any kind of posted signs when I’m with my kids. But I guarantee you one bag of popcorn would have been substantially less.)

We traipse on in to the show.

Let me just say at this point that this movie has to be one of the worst I’ve seen. Boring and slow. Trite plot and character development. And Dustin Hoffman was just kind of annoying with a lisp and fake overbite teeth. But, again, I was thrilled because it was dark, air conditioned, and I was seated.

With about a half hour left, the boys start getting antsy and Seth announces he has to go potty. Spencer does, too. BIG SIGH.

Potty trip #1.

Back in the theatre.

Five minutes pass. Dustin Hoffman’s character is about to die (I really don’t think I’m spoiling much for you here).

Seth announces loudly he has to go poo-poo this time. Spencer does, too.

Potty trip #2 with both boys pooping simultaneously in different stalls (twins really do share everything).

Back to the theatre and Dustin is dead. The movie concludes with a predictable ending.

OK. Time to go. But, of course, we must have a meltdown first, right?

Spencer had taken off his sandals in the movie and they had been kicked to the row beneath us. I asked Susanna to take our trash to the trashcan and I would get Spencer’s sandals. But I had to walk out our row, down the aisle, then back up to get to the sandals.

Mid-trip, my 6 year-old possessed daughter starts screaming, “Mom! I’m ready to go home!!!! Mom! You shouldn’t have let him take off his sandals!!!! Mom!”

Calmly, I said, “We are going home. I have to get his sandals. Calm down and get control of yourself.”

I don’t know what was going on with her. Maybe overstimulated with the movie, the emotion, the music? Scared I was going to leave her?

To stares from sympathetic parents, she screamed all the way to the van.

And that was our fun-filled, restful, “free,” summer treat movie day. Can’t wait until next week.

These two weeks without routine and without consistent distraction have been really hard for me. I’ve been trying to discern exactly what the “problem” is, in my never-ending quest to delve into the inner-workings of my personality.

The children have been, well, children. They, of course, get tired and bored. I have seemed to spiral down into a short temper, anger, exasperation, stress, fatigue, and anxiety. All great character traits for being home with the children, wouldn’t you agree?

And then I stumbled upon this blog post that rocked my world. THIS is me to a T! This woman spoke to my core being.

I’ve always known I was an introvert (gets energy from being alone). I just could never pinpoint exactly how that was expressed in my interaction with my kids nor what I could do to adapt to my preferences. This so explains to me why I “enjoy” zoning out on the computer, surfing blogs and such and why I love reading magazines. These activities are my attempt to regroup, recharge in the middle of nuttiness going on around me.

So, I’m still trying to figure out realistic coping mechanisms and continuing to strive for celebrating the way God made me.

P.S. I’m certain Michelle Duggar must be an extrovert (gets energy from being with other people), and that has to be the reason why I am fascinated with her.

If there’s one character-building transformation that I’d like to think I’m working on, it’s wanting to feel good—no, great—in my own skin. To accept the unique gifts God has given me. To embrace my particular calling.

It’s not that I question if I have gifts and a calling. It’s just that I want to have MORE. Or ALL of them if that’s possible.

I don’t know why I’m like that, exactly. My friend, Jennifer, says that I see the benefit in everything. But she reminds me that I can’t do everything.

So true, so true.

So what ends up happening (usually) is that I bite off everything and then I’m way too overwhelmed to properly chew and swallow anything much. I need help with prioritizing, I guess.

I always say I want to be “that girl.”

“That girl,” who:

• grows her own veggies and herbs
• keeps her van cleaned out
• reads all the classic novels
• goes to bed at midnight and gets up at five
• not only works out at the gym daily… BUT ALSO
• does “boot camp” and circuit training and yoga and zumba and spin and every other I-think-I’m-going-to-die class they offer
• keeps her nails polished and her spray tan current
• doesn’t allow her kids to watch too much TV
• makes crafts with the kids every day at the kitchen table
• is caught up on her scrapbooks
• flosses daily
• always has the kids’ party presents purchased, wrapped, and tagged at least 3 days prior to the birthday party
• unloads the dishwasher first thing every morning
• makes mouth-watering cookies at Christmas
• loves housework

Hmm. But I’m not that girl. I’m not.

I read a story about a young mother whose dream it was to hand-weave an authentic Native American rug. She kept putting it away for the “next season,” when her kids wouldn’t need so much of her time and attention. She realized while her kids were young and needy, she only had so much to give. So, she did.

It was—literally—30 years before she finally started her rug project.

I would hate to think that it will be 30 years before I can do some of the things I want to do. But I also must be honest with myself that some of these things on my “that girl” list may be convenient distractions. I’ll tell you. Sometimes I find my life pretty rote and predictable. “Daydreaming” about all the excitement everyone else is having in their tanned, Zumba’d bodies while they work on their scrapbooks is a convenient idol for me.

Embracing. Prioritizing. Accepting.

I’m working on it.

OK–so I need to catch way up on holidays and birthdays and pictures and such, but that would require actually dumping all the photos off my camera and organizing them. Ugh!

So, instead, I decided to blog a little about my trip to the doc with Spencer on Friday.

I’ll start by saying I love my pediatrician and his office. I mean, almost psychotically, love him. I told him I’d follow him to Kansas. And I really meant it.

But, really, why do I need my doc for ear infections? I know ear infections. I do.

Thursday afternoon/evening Spencer started complaining of a hurting ear. A little ibuprofen and he was feeling fine in 15 minutes. He was up for a bit through the night, but overall felt OK with the ibuprofen.

Friday morning, I sent him to school. I mean:
1. I knew he wasn’t contagious.
2. I knew he would feel fine with some ibuprofen.
3. I knew if we sat home, he would feel fine and just run around and play anyway.
4. I knew if I kept him home, I’d have to also keep Seth home; because, that’s just what I do since they are in the same class. Too much trauma and hassle of “Why can he go to school and I can’t?” “Why does he have to stay home and I can’t?”
5. I knew #3 would then be doubled.
6. I knew I could time the ibuprofen dosages with his getting out of school.
7. And I had a ton of stuff to do on Friday.

OK. So, I picked him up and we went to the pediatrician’s office at 3. Now, this was no small task, either. I actually had Chris leave work early and meet me at home to watch Seth and Susanna (I checked her out early) because going with all 3 to the ped’s office is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

We had to see another doc because My Favorite Pediatrician doesn’t work Friday afternoons. That’s OK.

The nurse takes us back.

“OK. What seems to be the problem?”

I wanted to say, “Ear infection left ear. Amoxicillin—1 teaspoon, 3 times/day for 10 days.” Oh, and here’s your $25.00 co-pay, thank you very much.

Instead I say, “He’s complaining of his left ear hurting.”

Barrage of questions follows:
“When did it start hurting? Any fever? Any coughing? What kind of cough: a dry, hacking cough or a wet, productive cough? Appetite? Is he playful? Does he have a fondness for Dora? Could he pick a criminal out of a line-up? Is his favorite color fuscia?”

I say, “Yes. No. I don’t know. Tuesday. Wet, productive. No, celadon.”

She says, “OK. Let’s walk down the hall and get your weight.”

For real? He’s like 36 pounds, give or take.

Back in the exam room. “OK. Put on this large T-shirt and the doctor will be right with you.”

As he wiggles out of every piece of clothing to change into the large shirt, I’m thinking, the doctor better at least whip out the stethoscope for all this production. Something.

Here comes the doctor. “Hi! How are we today? Spencer, what’s wrong?”

Again, I’m thinking. Ear infection. Left ear. Amoxicillin.

“My ear hurts.”

Now. I know you are shocked and surprised to hear that—despite Ms. Nurse Every Question’s interrogation and subsequent recording of my answers—the doc starts asking me many of the same questions. “When did you notice? Fever? Can he multiply and divide fractions?”

“Well, let’s just take a look.” The doc pulls out the little ear thingey.

He looks. A few “uh-hmms.” Other ear. “Uh-hmm.”

“OK. Well that left ear is—”

Oh, wait. Let me guess. An ear infection?

“Infected. The right ear looks fine.”

The doc sits down and starts typing his diagnosis. “OK. We’ll give you some amoxicillin. You’ll give that—”

“Oh. Oh. I know,” I’m raising my hand like an eager nerd in chemistry class. “One teaspoon three times a day for ten days.”

Yep.

But then as I think we are in the home-stretch, this doc throws me a curve ball. He says he’s giving us an ear drop. Hmmmm. Trying to catch me off-guard? Trying to spice up an otherwise boring Friday afternoon? A steroid/antibiotic ear drop. I didn’t see that one coming.

“Alright,” the doc says and stands to leave. “Spencer, hope you’ll feel better soon. Oh, and for the pain, you can—”

“Continue with the ibuprofen,” I finish his sentence.

He leaves, and I’m a little hacked he didn’t listen to one beat of the heart, didn’t touch the tummy, didn’t test a reflex.

“OK, Spencer. Let’s get dressed.”

“No. I want to wear this shirt home!”

I then explain to my son that this shirt does not belong to him and must be left for other boys and girls. He finally relents.

We leave wearing our own clothes, pocketing a handful of Cars stickers, and clutching a receipt for our $25.00, thank you very much.

Oh, yea. And we came home with a prescription for amoxicillin, too.

I know I was going to get all caught up on my posts and pics, but alas, I have not.

I am so busy right now, I’m just trying to keep moving forward and meeting everyone’s basic needs.

We are quite grateful for extra work, which means extra $$$, but we do feel the brunt of it on the house and lifestyle.

We got through our big yard sale in the pouring rain. I’m getting assignments turned in as I begin a new part-time job.

Whew! I’ll get caught up sometime. Just not sure when.

You’ve probably heard of potty mouth. Well, I have potty brain.

Potty brain afflicts me a few times a month. I’m not sure what brings it on or what it means, but it’s torture, I tell you. Torture.

For many years now, I have been dreaming of toilets. Usually, the dream goes like this:

I am in a public place (restaurant, school, locker room) and in desperate need to use the toilet. I hunt and hunt, stall after stall, for a clean toilet. I’ll spare you the details, but every toilet I encounter is usually unusable. Clogged or dirty (or both), the toilets are disgusting. Sometimes, I’m forced to use the least of all the evils and choose one toilet that is kinda, sorta usable. Sometimes, the only clean toilet is exposed and so I must decide between privacy and a dirty toilet or exposure and a clean toilet.

It’s always gross. It’s always a dilemma.

What does it mean???

I’ve decided there are a few things in life that we would NEVER do again if we truly remembered what our last time was like.

Take parenting. God gives us all amnesia concerning puking our guts up with morning sickness, labor pains, sleep deprivation, post-partum depression, and the agony of teaching a baby to sleep. We forget and we do it all over again. And sometimes again and again.

Moving would fall into this category. For some, going back to school or painting a room would qualify.

I’m convinced that I also suffer from amnesia when it comes to consignment and yard sales. Every time I prepare my junk to sell, I think, why did I sign up to do this again? Every time I’m working the sale, with aching feet and going on little sleep because I was up late the night before, I think, what was I thinking? When it’s time to clean up and put up and haul home or haul away the unsold items I think, I don’t think that was worth it. Afterward, when I count the money I made (which is always less than I had imagined) I wonder, why did I do this?

And then the opportunity rolls around again, and my amnesia kicks in. I giddily sign up to be a consignment “seller” or start fantasizing about the yard full of my possessions and hoards of shoppers offering me thousands of dollars to cart off my stuff.

This spring, I guess my amnesia has escalated to a full psychosis because I am actually ORGANIZING our neighborhood yard sale in May.

Yep. That amnesia is a pretty powerful force not easily reckoned with.

Susanna turns six at the end of the month. Unbelievable, I know.

For months, she’s been saying she wants a Hello Kitty party. Whew! I breathe a sigh of relief because there’s Hello Kitty stuff everywhere, right? Right.

Until last week when I start thinking about invitations and proudly announce, “I’m going shopping for your Hello Kitty invitations and we’ll get those in the mail soon.”

“Um, no, Mom. I want to have a bunny party.”

A bunny party? Like bunny rabbits. Where did that come from?

Um, OK.

So, I think this can’t be that bad. I start googling “bunny party” and come up with some cute game ideas. OK. I can make this work.

And… Bingo! It dawns on me that bunny stuff is everywhere now with Easter decorations. Alright! I’m home free!

But, alas, because the kid party subculture has always been and will always be out to get me… I find myself spending almost 2 hours today looking for pink bunny stickers. Something not too Easter-y, not too babyish. Something kind of elegant but still fun.

See, I can find cartoony bunny plates, napkins, cups, tablecloths, baskets, bags, sacks, and pails. But THERE ARE NO BUNNY invitations for anything anywhere. Nowhere.

And I swear, they just aren’t out there precisely and positively BECAUSE I am looking for them.

OK. But I find these cute pink plaid blank invitations at the Dollar Tree–10 for $1.00. I’m so proud of my bargain that I decide that SURELY I can find some cute little bunny stickers to go on the invitations.

No. No. No.

You want pink flamingo stickers? You got ’em! Turtles, alligators, dragonflies? They are there. Ducks, chicks, and Easter eggs galore. But just bunnies? Little pink cute bunnies? Of course not.

After two hours of hunting and muttering under my breath things like, “Why would someone buy an entire package of pink flamingo stickers?” in the aisle at Michael’s, I finally settle on some pretty flowers.

I decide our Bunny Party invitations will just have flowers prominently displayed. Darn those pink bunnies.

I KNOW I’ll be assaulted with bunnies next year when I’m looking for some OTHER party decorations like pink flamingos.

David Thomas

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Stephen James

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