Syria, the Dime, and the Southland - Part 2

So I type the original post with this title the other night and was pretty proud that I've been writing more.  As silly as it seems, writing is the key to my sanity.  (Well, that and a daily dose of lemonade from a guy named Mike)  I mentioned this "therapy" to someone and they said, "Oooohhh, what do you write?  Do you journal or keep track of the kids progress or list your daily accomplishments?"

"Uh, no.  I write what I need to get out of my head.  Mostly smart ass observations about life.  The other day I wrote a letter to Sawyer's ear tube."

"Oh."

I can't even remember who it was I was talking to because the conversation ended right there.

Regardless, I truly feel that my mental state is improving because I am blowing off more and more daily chores in order to sit and type on my blog.

I wrote the first post about Syria and was congratulating myself on getting such a random, scattered conversation out of the kids.  As exasperating as they are, I always remind myself that they will be funnier later.  I sent the link to my Dad who has yet to figure out how to get on my blog.  I got tired of waiting to hear what he thought of it so I called him.

"Did you read the article I sent yet?"

"No, I haven't had a chance.  It's about Syria?"

"Nah, that's just the title.  It's actually about General Scales."

"Bob Scales?"

"Yeah, about the time I sliced my foot open and he drove me to the hospital."

"That wasn't General Scales."

"Yes it was.  General Scales, he's on Fox News all the time!"

"I know which General Scales you're talking about.  It wasn't him.  He was the commander at Carlisle Barracks much later than that.  He was a good guy though, I really liked him."

Okay, at this point, I'm sitting my butt on the cold hard floor as the rug has just been swept out from under me.

"Mary, are you there?"

I was able to get out an audible whisper, "It wasn't General Scales?"

"No, it was General ______." 

"It wasn't General Scales?"


Let's pause while I reflect:
There have been a few times in my life that I have found things out long after the fact.  Things I wasn't told because, "we didn't want to upset you."

One was that the "cargo" in the aisle of the plane in which we flew "Space A" home from a vacation in Germany, where my siblings and I sat in bucket seats along the walls of the plane, was not in fact a pile of suitcases.   It was a casket!  Some poor family had lost their daughter while living in Germany and they were on the plane to take the body back to the States.  Here we were throwing things back and forth to each other over this child's body and no one bothered to tell me.  I found out about 10 years later.

Another time was when I was watching a documentary on Pan Am Flight 103 that went down over Lockerbie.  A women whose husband had died in the crash was talking about him.  The name of the guy was the same name of my cousins' first husband.  Hmmmmm, you can put the pieces together yourself for that one.  I knew this guy as a kid.  You would think someone MIGHT have mentioned it along the way.

So there it was: Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Leprechauns....and now General Scales.



My Dad laughs. "Mary, are you there? I'm sorry."

"I've told people that story for a hundred years.  Well, since General Scales has been on Fox News."

"Well, you've been telling them the wrong name."

I made a sound....a whimper I think.  I was crushed.


Fast forward about two hours and I'm up in Tali's room discussing her homework.  She needed to write four journal entries from a fictitious person who was alive during the Continental Congress about the direction he thought the country was heading.  Let's just make it clear, I didn't know what was going on the FIRST time I had this stuff in school.

I get a text from an family friend making fun of his sister.  It's a long story, but basically, she uses bleach to wash her vegetables and it totally creeps him out.  I think the back and forth is hilarious so I tend to egg on discussions between them regarding the subject. 

He sent her a note (and copied me) saying to keep her bleach for her husbands' "tightie whities."

I was laughing and suggested they both send me their bleach as I need them for Baby Charlie's "tidy whities."  Then, in a bold, authoritative, idiotic move, I said, "Yes, I just corrected your spelling of 'tidy!'"

He then said, "Really?  I might have misspelled 'tighty,' but I'm cracking up that you thought it was 'tidy' whities."  He then proceeds to include the link to Webster's Dictionary definition of "tighty-whities."

OH MY GOD!

How have I lived on this Earth for 45 years and not known that it was "tighty" not "tidy?"  I knew what they were.  I got the meaning of non-loosely fitted underwear, but how in the world did I not know it wasn't the word for a clean and neat space.  I mean, the oxymoron itself is beyond belief!

So there it is.  Twice in one night, a truth from my childhood was crushed like an ant under my great-niece's shoe!  (She likes to crush bugs.   Her sister likes to get down on the side walk and try to kiss their boo-boos.  No lie!)

And in the space of two hours I am caused to start questioning every reality in my life!

Syria, the Dime, and the Southland

Amazingly, both boys were bathed tonight. I was starting to worry that I would be getting a note home from school asking why they smell so bad. One hundred degree weather in Kansas in September can result in many many negative residual issues.


Regardless, they were both in my bed yet they were clean so it was definitely a decent night. About the time that Charlie remembered that he had homework, I remembered that the President was speaking about Syria tonight. Oooops all the way around.

I turned on Fox News and there was a panel of people talking about the speech. One of those on the panel was Major General Robert (Bob) Scales. I was trying to pay attention to what was being said while ignoring the raucous wrestling match taking place next to me on the Tempurpedic. In an attempt to get them to settle down and shut their traps I started a conversation that went something like this:

Mary: See that guy?

Sawyer, Charlie & Lyra: Yes.

M: When I was Josie’s age, I was playing in the creek behind his house. I cut my foot and my friends brought me to his back door. He drove me to the hospital in his Volvo and I got blood all over his car and I had to get stitches. It was the only time I got stitches.

Kids: Silence for a beat or two

L: Really? Was he mad?

M: No, he was super nice. But later Nana asked if I had made a mess and his wife said they were still trying to get the blood stain out of the white carpet.

L: NO WAY!

M: WAY!

Lyra leaves the room to inform her sisters that I ruined a famous person’s rug.

C: Did Nana and BobBob know him?

M: Yes.

C: Because you were so bad?

M: NO! (Where does he get these ideas?)  They knew him because BobBob worked with him.

Charlie started working on his homework. Meanwhile, Sawyer had been quietly absorbing the conversation. Then he was ready for more information.

S: He is the President?

M: No, he’s a General.

S: He is the President who is on the dime?

M: No, he was a General.

C: What are you before you are a General?

M: A Colonel.

S: He looks like (the President on the dime). Was he ever the President?

M: No.

C: Did Dad used to be a Colonel?

M: No, he’s a Lieutenant Colonel.

C: But did he USED to be a Colonel?

M: No. First you’re a Lieutenant Colonel, then a Colonel.

S: Is there only one President?

M: Well, yes, one at a time. But some of the men who used to be President are still alive.

C: So what comes before Lieutenant Colonel?

M: Do your homework!

Surprised by Sawyer's questions, I decided to see exactly how much he knew.

M: Do you know who the President is?

S: Yes. Alabama.

M:  What?

S (Not quite as sure): Bama?

M: Um, Obama.

S (unphased): That wasn’t the only time you got stitches.

M: ?

S: When the doctors got the babies out of your belly you got stitches.

M: You are absolutely right Sauce.

Sawyer gives a smile. He has been successful in frying my brain!

Epiloge:  It frightens me to think that rockin’ out to Lynard Skynard may now conjure up the image of BHO!

Eviction Notice

Dear Ear Tube,

In March of 2010, you were inserted into Sawyer's left ear as a temporary hire.  Placed there to do a job that the eardrum itself could not do.  The agreement was that you would do the job, allowing air or liquids to flow through the drum so the pressure did not cause yet another ear infection.  There have been tubes before you, but they were smaller, younger tubes, not the hard core tube that you have proven yourself to be.  You have gone above and beyond your call of duty!  For that I applaud you and Sawyer is grateful (although he will never tell you that).

I realize that you did not move yourself into your current home. You were chosen, by no fault of your own.  I am more than certain that your life inside Sawyer's ear has been interesting to say the least.  Good money would most likely be paid to get that up close and personal with Sawyer's amazing brain.  Loud annoying noises are stopped as soon as possible by me, Sawyer leaving the situation or by his new VERY EXPENSIVE noise cancelling headphones. Do I even need to mention the new iPod filled with the music of the Sponge Bob show, Rush, and Weird Al Yankovic?  Who wouldn't be thrilled to listen to that every day on the bus to and from school?  In addition, I'm sure Sawyer's own yelling is muffled by the wax that surrounds you.  You stay warm and relatively dry most of the time.  I get it.  You're cozy.  Much like a baby in the womb, I could see where the outside world would pose a scary situation that you are not looking forward to.

However, the time has come for you to move on.  The Doctor told me today that ear tubes are meant to stay in the ear for a maximum of three years.  This means that you are coming up on the end of your lease and you will need to vacate the residence at the pre-determined time.  Perhaps you have already made arrangements for moving on, but this letter serves as a legal and binding statement, that should you refuse to leave the premises on your own accord, you will be forcibly removed.

Honestly, I have very little problem with sending in a professional to rip you from your homestead.  I feel no guilt.  Nor am I concerned with the expense of having to pay someone to do that.  (Lucky for us both, the Army will take care of it)  Also, I am not one of those parents who are overly concerned with the surgical aspect of the procedure.  They are welcome to put my kid out, I trust them.  In fact, he’s cuter when he’s asleep (mostly because he isn’t talking, crying, or screaming).  Should the opportunity present itself, I may indeed try to sneak out with a tank of that stuff…the whole family could be enjoying a good night’s sleep!  But I digress.

Make no mistake; I do NOT want Sawyer to go through another surgery.  When the Doc mentioned it today, what sent me to the window to see if it was high enough to make it worth jumping were not the dollar signs, nor the picture of Sawyer in a hospital gown with traces of dried blood on his earlobe.  What caused the high blood pressure, the craving of a bottle of rum, and need for a cigarette was the vision of the alarm clock going off at 4 AM so we could arrive at the hospital at 5AM.  Do you hear me?  They always want us there at 5AM!!!  Those who are new to surgery may think, "Wonderful, they'll take me back around 5:30 and I'll be done by 7!"  This is a bold faced LIE!

 

At 7AM anyone who is not having the procedure will be through the first torn up, coverless outdated People magazine, out of their first caffeinated drink of the day and not happy that the waiting room is blaring Matlock on the TV that bears a sign reading: UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH- DO NOT TOUCH TV OR CHANGE CHANNEL!

Meanwhile, the patient, fully awake, has thought through every possible bad scenario.  They have decided that perhaps they should just hope to die on the table compared with all the complications they may face due to a botched surgery.  In the case of a child, especially one like Sawyer, they will be angry that they have been woken up, angry that they can't eat, angry that they have nothing to watch on TV, angry that there is no wi-fi and furious that their kindle battery is dying!

By the time the surgery rolls around, the patient, who is a nervous wreck and hasn't consumed even water in the last 14 hours is beginning to vomit bile.  The accompanying parent, friend, relative is starting to think perhaps they are now in need of medical care as well.  Do you get where I'm going with this?

So here's the deal.  Get the hell out of Dodge before we both are forced into a situation we don't want to face.  If you roll out on your own, you could stay comfortably hidden in the folds of his bed for a good 6 months or so.  Only a bloody nose or an accident can get me up on that bunk bed to change those sheets.  If you are ripped from his auditory orifice, you will end up in the trash with other medical waste.  Do we need to even explore that option? 

In addition to the notification that Sawyer may need surgery to have you forcibly removed, I also got the amazing and wonderful news that it looks like Josie may have a tonsillectomy in her future!  Now there is a fun surgery for a kid of a currently single mom with five kids who already feels like she is on the receiving end of all bad karma!  I can't even fathom telling her about it, much less going through with it while Dad is gone. 

Bottom Line- I have no time or energy to spend on a 1 mm rubber donut.  Get the hell out...and take some extra wax with you!

Sincerely,

Sawyer's Tired Mother