• We finally won a cake at the cake walk! Daphne staked me tickets (rather, she staked me with tickets I bought for her) and we doubled down like mental patients for seven rounds. It cost like ten dollars in the end, but it’s a huge pirate ship so…win!
• I ran into Dylan’s kindergarten teacher (the one who told me 7 years ago he was the single worst behaved student she’d had in 17 years of teaching) and told her that he won the district writing fair. She didn’t have to look so pleasantly surprised. I’m still mad at her.
• We are all starving. When their dad asked early in the week if I wanted a dinner at the faire I thought he was preordering tix. Not as such.
• Dylan just came by and I asked him for two tickets for a soda. He made a show of slapping them onto the picnic table and said “GO.”

  Then I asked him to watch my stuff while I got it. He sighed and said, “Look. You and I both know I’m not going to watch it so why don’t I just get you one.”

  Two minutes later he slammed it on the table in front of me and said, “Drink up, woman!”

• Omg Daphne’s friend’s dad is dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow, and he and two other guys put on a show, fencing with real swords. They just took it off the blacktop where the chairs are and chased each other onto the slide and play structure. All the kids ran after them, crowding around and cheering, and all I could think was holy fuck those are real swords and someone is going to have them arrested.
• Oh hells no, Daphne and her friends just got on this ride where they sit on stuffed, motorized animals and ride—for two laps only—around a tiny race track. I thought it was more of a ripoff until I saw how slow they go. It takes a while. I got a video of Daphne’s on a two foot tall panda, and her friends on a tiger and a bear. I do not have permission yet to post it but if I do you’ll be the first to know.
• Oh goody, just fifty minutes to go til the end. STARVING.

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1. Fantasy Faire
2. And this wasn’t even about getting school supplies for the first day of school
3. Late night texts

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And yet the irony of the fact that the registration apparel is as idiot-proof as it can possibly get without an assistance dog is not lost on me.

For the first time in conference history, I know which swag bag is mine.

If found, please drop in nearest mailbox and punch air holes.

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3. For Sale: Terrifying Commute with Chance of Screaming Plummet to Death

“Mom, I think I’m dying. I can’t fall asleep.” I think I’m dying, too. Of a heart attack. “I’ll be right down.”

I felt his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. I think you have what I have.” I gave him one his sister’s Tylenol her dad sent with her last night—she’d had a tooth repaired after a chip and it was sore. Oh my god, all my kids are old enough to have full-strength pain relievers. “Here, sit up and take this. It’s just the flu.”

“Did I get it from you?” he asked. I think if he’d had the strength that would have sounded almost accusatory.

“Not in the four hours you’ve been here. It takes longer than that to incubate. But thanks for thinking of me.”

I took one, too. When I woke up from a dream in which we all had fur and tails like mice and has no standing until we’d won a spar with the current tail-judo master, my neck was a girder and I was about a thousand degrees too hot. Besides, that mouse was really doing a job on my self-esteem because I couldn’t land a blow on his belly. Think Ripred from Gregor The Overlander.

On my way back to bed I heard a creak from Daphne’s bed and saw the light under her door. Oh, no. I opened up the Tylenol and shook out another pill.

Daphne was sitting up in bed, face flushed with a thousand-yard stare. Oh, goody.

“I knew it,” I said. “You didn’t look right when you went to bed.”

“Mom, I’ve been like this since midnight. I only slept two hours,”she said, as I felt her forehead.

“Yep, you’ve got it, too.” Earlier, I’d begged off from dinner out with their dad and them to celebrate Logan’s birthday. I was too glazed over to steer two tons of German engineering over the mountain pass. Hence their late-night arrival so they could wake here on Mothers Day.

I don’t think breakfast in bed is on the menu anymore. Limp, hot children maybe, but not a fresh, hot meal.

Did I mention Guy has it, too? He asked for the chocolate Hagen Daaz and a spoon as long as I was up. I handed it to him and picked up my iPad to write. I wasn’t interested in chocolate Hagen Daaz. I really must be dying.

3:40 am: the first child starts driving the porcelain bus. Just waiting to see who’s next.

Mid- hurl: “Happy—blergh—Mothers Day.”

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1. Happy Mothers’ Day

I said, “I guess it’s your lucky day.”

Ten minutes later, she announced that she had five theories as to why she received two patties in her Whopper rather than one.

About a third of the way through the second theory, I said, “Wait! Mommy’s watching Hulk smash. You’ve got to write this down. Here, you can use my laptop,” thus guaranteeing a Monday morning post.

Here we go:

First Theory

The  first person put a patty in the hamburger, then the next person said “I bet I can do that faster!” So then that person put another patty in the hamburger. Then a third person tried to put another patty in the hamburger but he was tackled but the other two people. Then they put the hamburger in the bag, forgetting the two patties in the hamburger and gave it to me.

Second Theory

The person that put the patties in my hamburger went to a Chinese restaurant and got a fortune cookie. The cookie said, “Do something weird at work tomorrow.” So the next day the person went to work and thought “My cookie did say to do something weird.” Right then he was making a hamburger and made a two pattied hamburger. So he put it in the bag and gave it to me.

Third Theory

There was a hobo on a bench and the person felt bad and gave the hobo some money. The hobo then walked into Walmart and got a card for the person and it read “Put twice as many patties than usual tomorrow at work, sincerely, Stanley.” So the person thought, “Oh so his name is Stanley.” The next day the person put two patties in hamburger and put it into the bag and gave it to me.

Fourth Theory

A person walked into Burger King, thinking that he worked there and then quickly said,  ”Wait I don’t work here!” Right then the person went home and soon came back and applied for the job there. In about two minutes he was working on making hamburgers and he thought “Its my first day” and he made a hamburger with two patties and put it in a bag and gave it to me.

Fifth Theory

A metal chicken gave a note to the person who made my hamburger, that said “Bwok” which inspired the person the make a two-pattied hamburger and put it in a bag and gave it to me.

THE END

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This year, I was (virtually) introduced to Krissy Dietrich Gallagher, who has written for us the kind of Mother’s Day post that should be read BEFORE the day so that you can ACT on it. And I suggest you do it in time for next Sunday, because any mother who recieves something like this will treasure it all her days.

(Krissy Dietrich Gallagher is a Cleveland mother of two boys, Braedan, 8 and Austin, 5 (who insist on being identified as 8 ½ and 5 ½). In July 2007, at the age of 10 months, Austin was diagnosed with bilateral Wilms tumor, a solid tumor cancer in both kidneys that occurs in a mere 20 children nationwide each year. The Gallaghers were thrust into a world of chemotherapy, hospital stays and four abdominal surgeries before Austin was declared cancer-free eight months later. But after one glorious year, the cancer was back. More chemo, radiation, overnights and enough surgeries to cost him his entire right kidney and half of his left. Today, Austin is a relatively healthy, extremely happy and remarkably normal five-year-old (ahem, 5 ½ year old) despite living with Stage 3 renal failure. He is one of five St. Baldrick’s Foundation 2012Ambassador Kids. The post below was adapted from one Krissy wrote for Mother’s Day 2010, when Austin was still in treatment, on her blog The Luckiest.)

Moms do things selflessly. We sacrifice our free time, our career goals, our neat homes and our hot bodies for the sake of our children. We sometimes do it begrudgingly, but we do it nonetheless. And we rarely get thanked for it, nor do we even expect to. But after watching this 2010 video from Kelly Corrigan, author of The Middle Place and Lift, about the Thank You note that moms really want and deserve from their children on Mother’s Day, I couldn’t help but add a few of my own. Of course, I will keep doing all that I do whether I get thanked or not, as will we all, but it sure is nice to imagine….

Thank you, mom, for taking care of me day and night. For holding me and rocking me back to sleep at 3 o’clock in the morning when I’m woken by some stranger taking my blood pressure. Thank you for sleeping with me in my (very narrow) hospital bed even though it means you can’t roll over or you’ll get tangled in my IV lines. And thank you for learning very early on how to silence the IV pump machine when it beeps, usually just as soon as I’ve dozed off to sleep. Thank you for remembering all my medications and making sure I get just the right dose at just the right time of day, and for turning it into a game or a race so it somehow feels fun, like when you take a Tums right along with me before I eat my phosphorous-filled cheesy meals so we can be “Tums buddies.”

Thank you, mom, for always (or at least, often) packing the right lunch and snacks and books and toys to keep me fed and entertained through hour after hour and day after day in the hospital.  Thank you for never failing to flush my PICC line every eight hours, even when that eight-hour mark comes at midnight and you’ve just crawled into your warm cozy bed. And speaking of that bed, thank you for scooting over so I can squeeze in between you and dad when I feel scared in the night. Thank you for treating me like a regular kid and letting me climb the rock wall and fall down and get hurt even when my platelets are low and my legs are already covered with purple welts. Thank you for not letting me get away with everything just because I’m sick and for laying the foundation for my future because you fully expect me to have one.

Thank you, mom, for not forgetting about me, your healthy son. Thank you for making sure I always have fun play dates when you’re at Austin’s appointments and for giving me veto power over whose house I go to, no matter how desperate you are. Thank you for emailing my teacher at the last minute so I’m not too surprised by who’s picking me up from school on unexpectedly long hospital days. Thank you, mom, for waking up early to bake homemade bread for the Teacher Appreciation Brunch, even though you have a perfect excuse for not participating in any PTA events. Thank you for running back home to get my library book on library day so I can check out a new one. Thank you for patiently explaining to my kindergarten classmates how cancer is like a weed in a garden and then listening, also patiently, to their endless – and completely unrelated — stories about pulling weeds with their grandmas. Thank you for arranging for friends to secretly take me swimming all summer even though Austin can’t get his PICC line wet. And for sneaking yogurts into my lunchbox so I can eat them away from the watchful and (understandably) jealous eyes of my brother, who follows a ridiculously limited diet.  Oh, and speaking of jealous, thank you for listening with respect and not getting too mad when I whine and I say I’m jealous of him because he gets to ride a tricycle around the hospital hallways when I have to go home and go to bed. Thank you, mom, for letting me know that I matter too and for making sure I’m remembered and heard and loved.

And thank you to my mom for always managing to fit in a several-hour visit to the hospital every single day we’re there, no matter how busy you are. Thank you for canceling fancy overseas bike trips with dad so you can both be close by to support us. Thank you for shooing me away from eight-hour blood transfusions and sending me home to shower even if Austin is screaming in your arms as I leave. Thank you for reassuring me that he will be okay in my absence and for always telling me how okay he actually was when I get back. And thank you for valuing my daily workout as much as I do and making sure I have time to go for a run. Thank you for having Braedan sleep over and getting him off to school and making your home feel like his home. Thank you for loving every second you spend with Austin in your arms and for making it seem like I’m giving you a gift when you’re really doing me a favor.

Thank you, mom, for taking care of me when I’m sick.

And thank you, mom, for taking care of me when my brother is sick.

And thank you, my mom, for taking care of me when my son is sick.

Thank YOU, Krissy for the inspiration.

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I feel like each chapter is being peeled off my skin in one continuous strip, so long that I think I can’t possibly function with that much laid bare. Each chapter leaves me drained and melancholy, which is really weird, because when I begin I’m all wired and excited and have the clearest vision of what will help others going through divorce.

Hopefully things will be back to normal soon. In the meantime, there’s three thousand posts and ten years of material in the archives! Go crazy! (I did.)

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I was finishing a delightful walk at the beach with my wonderful friends visiting from France. [Her Rhodesian Ridgeback] was on leash. In the parking lot. A great dane leapt out of its owner’s car and came charging at me growling like a maniac. Kooper was on leash but jumped in front of me to protect me. The great dane kept trying to attack me. The two dogs went at it and I jumped on top of Kooper to control him and i think i broke my ankle. Its five times the normal size. Waiting for X-rays. The owners were too scared of their dog to intervene. Ranger had to grab the other dog. A nurse was there and jumped in and saw my ankle and ordered me straight to ER. They wanted me to take an ambulance but i cant afford that.

"And I usually have such a cute, delicate little ankle... The only part of me I'd ever describe as dainty! Ha! So much for that.... Booooooo. "

So I immediately left her a message demanding to know her address so I could get her food and prescriptions and ask how the kids were getting home from school (just down the street from me), and warned her that I didn’t want to hear any macho cop bullshit, I was coming over. Oh, she used to be a cop, and a fireman, and I didn’t trust her for a second to stay put.

She (wisely) wrote back with her address and asked me to come get her insurance card and take her car to get her pain meds and gas because it was on fumes. No problem, I said, I’m on it.

I don’t think I’ve ever driven a minivan before. Weird.

At the pharmacy, I said I’m picking up for a friend, and here’s her insurance card, credit card, and here’s my ID, and the guy looks at me and says, “There’s an owl on your shirt.” I can see how this is going to go.

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to get rid of it all day. Look, she wasn’t sure if her insurance was on file..”

“What’s her address?” I told him. “I don’t have that. I’ve got her in a different town.”

“Oh. Well, she used to live there, but moved and is home alone with her kids now and I’m just trying to keep her from running errands with a broken ankle. Do you need to call her?”

“No, no, it’s ok. Huh. There’s a dog on your credit card.”

Here we go.

“Yep, that’s actually how she got hurt; there was a dog fight.”

“Dog fight? Now I’m thinking of football players.”

“No, she would never—she used to be a cop—” He’s openly staring now. “I’m going to stop talking.”

“Can you give me her date of birth?”

I could! I’d scrawled it on my hand before I left her house! So I peered at my hand, turned it a little, read him the date, and then realized how insane I looked while trying to pick up Hydrocodone. “Sorry, I’m a little hyper and mad at her for driving herself to and from the hospital. I took her car. My palm’s sweaty.”

“Is that a bird on your keychain?” I looked down and sure enough, there was a tiny pillow in the shape of a bird attached to her car keys.

“Apparently.”

“So let me get this straight: you’ve got an owl on your shirt, a dog on your card, and a bird on your keychain. I can’t wait to hear what’s on the car.” And then I realize he’s messing with me and is not letting me go until I’m completely discombobulated. He’s just mad he didn’t throw me with the owl crack. “Aha! You blushed.”

“Yes, thank you. You win. I blushed. Can I go now? Because I think we should stop talking.”

And then I couldn’t remember what kind of car she drove.

I stood in the parking lot counting aisles, remembering that I only jogged over one lane so it must be… I’m walking… omfg there’s a minivan with a Rhodesian Ridgeback sticker on the back. Bingo. Off to the gas station, where I poked and prodded at the gas panel but it wouldn’t open. There was no button. No lock. It just sat there. So I climbed back in the car and looked at all the buttons. There’s one for SONAR, but not for the gas cap.

I texted, “How do you open the frigging gas cap??” and waited for like five minutes with no response. I was leaning against the pump with one foot up on the door jamb, wondering what to do and wanting to kick something. And then I looked down. Right next to my foot was a shy little lever with a picture of a gas pump on it. Hallelujah.

Later, the updates were flying:

“You must have looked like quite the doofus…wandering around with pain meds in one hand, a puzzled look on your face and car keys in your other hand…. Bwahahaha!!!!”

“That’s when you press the little alarm button on the key fob and hope you are close enough for it to work.”

“I have empathy. Even more so because I have done that with my own car (doesn’t help that Toyota Sienna minivans are popular where I live).”

And dammit, it WAS a Sienna.

I still didn’t get out of going to Daphne’s science fair. I’d hoped that taking care of Pascale would stir up enough sympathy in my daughter to tell me it was ok not to drive for an hour through rush hour traffic in the rain, over the mountain, to her fair 45 miles away. After all, we’d been living and breathing this project for a while now and it wasn’t as if I didn’t know—”That’s ok, Mom, you can still make it. The fair goes for an hour and a half. You’ll get there for the last few minutes.”

And so I did.

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Mom:  Your gal, at posh and expensive salon, stood me up 2x– for 3 hour appointments in 2 consecutive weeks–keratin treatment and cut.

Me: Wow, I’ve been going to her for three years and never had that happen. I’m so sorry. They did send me a $20 certificate for referring you. I’ll call and let them know how that went.

Mom: $350 for a keratin treatment!

Me: And THAT is why I won’t even do highlights. Highway robbery.

Mom: Yr life is a hilite

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I’m gonna need to start selling Amway, because the ratio of stuff going on in our lives to stuff I am allowed to write about is the square root of nothing. It’s killing me. I’ve shifted focus to writing books, and the occasional inane Facebook update. Oh, look, I’m like a hundred million other people out there.

Back to the notebook. As I was flipping through the pages, a half-sheet fell out, with a poem. It was called “Unwritten.” Which is exactly my problem these days. (Months. Whatever.) The first and last stanzas were highlighted, and I know I didn’t do it so I offered a little prayer to the goddess of serendipity and decided to post those lines.

But THEN, I noticed that the author looked a bit like the singer whose song was playing as I pulled into the driveway after the school run. It’s called “You & I” and was part of our wedding playlist. I looked up the video for the song because it’s a happy song and if I do nothing else productive today I’m posting something happy. For Aunt Barbara’s sake, I CLEANED OUT MY DESK. I’m done for the week!

Ingrid. Natasha. Those aren’t real common names here, Rocky & Bullwinkle notwithstanding. I found a video of the first song—not a poem after all—right there on youfrickentube. So you get both.

“Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield

I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined

I’m just beginning, the pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you

open up the dirty window

Let the sun illuminate the words that you cannot find

Reaching for something in the distance

So close you can almost taste it

Release your inhibitions

P.S. In the back of that notebook? I’d written the original organizational outline of chapters for the book I’m currently finishing up. Wasn’t THAT helpful? I’ve been looking for that for AGES. Guess what that means, honey? When you return from Shanghai this weekend, the dining room table will be covered in sticky notes representing 42 chapters, so that I can rearrange and organize and optimise the order of ideas. And there isn’t a thing you can do about it because it’s the kind of crap you’ve been trying to get me to do forever. So, HA! (My work is always a little more fun if the chaos it creates also accomplishes your personal wish fulfillment because I know you won’t dare touch it.)

P.P.S. I sure hope there’s Chinese food tonight after your meetings.

P.P.P.S. For context, the last time he was in Shanghai, his team took him out to dinner on the last night. “It’s a great restaurant, no one knows about it!” So they got into a taxi and crawled through downtown traffic for 90 mintes to travel about seven blocks. They had been in meetings 12 hours that day and were exhausted, so as Guy stepped out of the car and looked up at the restaurant, he said, “I sure hope they serve Chinese.” The team didn’t get it but his British boss was doubled over.

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