A bad-happy-birthday

t was a Very. Bad. Day. It all started with us singing “Happy Birthday” to James, who turned 8 years old today. There were hugs and kisses and smiles all around. Except for Owen. James opened his cards and presents and got to choose a special breakfast of birthday pancakes. Owen didn’t get any presents or cards, and his pancakes weren’t as tasty because he got served second. He locked himself in the bathroom and declared, “Nobody loves me. You all hate me. I am never eating again." 

We caught Owen trying to steal James’ new colored pencils, begging for sheets of paper from his new sketch pad, and lamenting his lack of an Eagles wallet to keep dollar bills in. “I hate this day. This is the worst day ever.”

And it only got worse. Then there were checkups today for both James and Owen. Even though James’ appointment was first, Owen kept up a steady stream of whiny commentary. By the time she was finished with James the doctor turned patiently to Owen and remarked, “Well, we know there’s nothing wrong with his language development.” 

Then we came home and had Chicken Charlie pizza and chocolate birthday cake. And it was SO UNFAIR because James got to choose the first piece and was served the first slice of cake and got to blow the candle out. “I will NOT sing ‘Happy Birthday.' This is the worst day ever and nobody is paying any attention to me.”

James, bless his gentle heart, was endlessly patient with Owen all day. “I love you Owen. It’s just my birthday today.” “No! I hate this day!” Roy and I worked hard to strike a balance of reassuring Owen that he is loved and necessary, while not taking away from hopefully helping James have a special day. This proved exhausting.

James received a special FaceTime call from Grandpa and Grandpa Davis, and then an extra-special call from his best friend Alexa. His face lit up like a Christmas tree when her face appeared on the screen and they eagerly exchanged details of their day. Owen’s head kept appearing in front of James, whining, “Why doesn’t Alexa want to talk to ME?! This day is the worst!” Alexa, to her credit, reassured Owen that she liked him too, but that it was James’ birthday. “Why can’t it be MY birthday? Nobody is paying attention to me!”

After a brief rest time (bliss!) Roy departed for a rehearsal in Buffalo. I invited the boys to join me in some games. James eagerly agreed while Owen declared, “No! I don’t WANT to play any games!” So I started a round of Battleship with James and Owen immediately inserted himself in the middle of it, insisting on assisting with peg placement and guesses. We actually made it through the game without anything being thrown across the room. 

Felix requested that we play “Loo’in’ Lou’ee” next. We enjoyed several half-rounds in which we set up all of the chicken tokens, Felix turned the game on, and then shut it off almost immediately. “I lost my chi’ens! I nee’ to put my chi’ens back!” This was great fun, with giggles all around. At one point Owen got up while we were re-setting the game, but returned in time for the next round.

Shortly after that I thought I heard something in the living room. I paused, and, sure enough, there was an odd shuffling noise. I got up and walked across the downstairs. 

There was an enormous man in my living room. His shoes were off, he was removing his coat, and very much making himself at home. My five year old had let a perfect stranger into our house and neglected to feel any alarm or the need to inform his mother. Oh, there were many thoughts.

“WHO IS THIS?!”

“Owen must have let this dude in here. He KNOWS not to open the door without permission.”

“That is one big guy.”
"We can't be getting robbed. How will I protect the kids?"

“I don’t have a bra on. Of course.”

I did not scream. Mercifully. I assumed the stranger was a meter reader. He greeted me cheerfully, informing me that he was here to pick up some person I had never heard of. I politely pointed him up the street in the direction of the house number he was looking for. I deadbolted the door. And then, Owen’s day got a whole lot more “unfair.”

Roy’s reaction after I filled him in?

“Well, in Owen’s defense, even if that guy had turned out to be a serial killer he was definitely not making a big deal about James’ birthday.”

Oh y’all. It’s been a DAY.

...

P.S. I just put the boys to bed. I asked them each to think of something they were thankful for. Owen happily declared, without batting an eye, "I am thankful it was James' birthday and I am thankful that he loves me."

Dead. 

Thoughts on another rainy day

• We're having split pea soup for supper. I've never made split pea soup before. I'm not entirely sure I've ever consumed split pea soup before. My only association with it is the split pea fog from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. It sounds like rainy day food to me. We're using a recipe from Let's Stay In, which suggests pairing the soup with toasted, buttered raisin bread and cheddar cheese. (?) Apparently it's a Scandinavian thing. I know better than to doubt Ashley, so the raisin bread is out and ready for toasting. It's just weird enough that the kids will probably love it.
• Yesterday was a puzzle day. I did a T-Rex floor puzzle with Felix and it was the most exciting thing ever. He jumped all around the floor with excitement, practicing his new, most favorite word, "maybe." As in, "Mebeeeeee, dis piece go...wight...HERE!" And, no matter if it did or not, he'd jump to a new place and shout, "mebeeeeee, dis piece go...wight...HERE!!!!" Each piece's placement was met with utter joy, "Dere it go! We did it!" I also did the same T-Rex puzzle later in the day with Owen, as well as our 100 piece solar system puzzle. He took great delight in waiting for nighttime to watch it glow in the dark. It was pretty cool. My dad loves doing puzzles and I have fond memories of Christmas vacations with a big 1,500 landscape. It was a cozy way to spend time together off and on throughout the school break.
• I've just started Dave Itzkoff's biography on Robin Williams and it's fascinating. I find Itzkoff's starting perceptions of Williams similar to my own, which makes his analysis and opinions (when he deviates from fact) easy to follow. I'm reminded, as I am every time I read of aspiring artists, of the struggle and absolute devotion to craft necessary to rise above the poverty and rejection. Unfortunately, in Robin's case there was also a lot of cocaine throughout that struggle...it's challenging to read a book that you know will end unsatisfactorily. (It also makes me want to rewatch Hook and Good Will Hunting.)
• James is doing fantastic work with his Saxon math this year. I'm watching him work through a comprehensive review of line segments, thermometer readings, number patterns, word problems, basic geometry, dollars and cents, addition, subtraction, and multiplication. He's fallen in love with math this year, which is a bit surprising considering his natural penchant for words and language. I love it!
• Holiday baking will be here before you know it. Chill your cookie dough to mature the flavors and prevent excessive spreading. If the finished cookies are too puffy for your liking after baking, give them a solid rap or two on a hard surface immediately after removing from oven. You'll get those beautiful cracks on the surface while avoiding a pancake situation.

:)

Thoughts on a rainy day

• Rainy days are perfect when you can stay at home, read books, simmer soup, and drink coffee. Today we had company, doctors appointments, piano lessons, and work meetings. It is a very long, wet day. 
• I've read over 60 books this year and it's not even November yet. I was internally feeling pretty proud of this accomplishment and then the other night Roy mentioned, "Hey, guess what? I'm closing in on reading 150 books this year!" #whatever
• Owen is reading a Clifford book next to me and he looks like he's about to burst into tears. I know of no Clifford story tragic enough to induce such emotion. (I just checked. It was called "Clifford and the Grouchy Neighbors." I suppose an extrovert could find that distressing.)
• I've been put on a running sabbatical by my doctor. I've had mild hip pain since the summer that's progressed into round-the-clock aching. Especially annoying in bed. I'm on week two of three and today I walked on the treadmill and didn't feel my hips pop with every step. Progress! I miss running a lot--I miss the endorphins and excuse to indulge in mindless entertainment and actually feeling WARM.
• Last week we had a ham. I've never bought a real ham before. This was an 8 lb sucker (smallest I could find) and I've eaten enough ham since Friday to last a lifetime. The recipe included a mustard mornay sauce that is divine. The past two mornings we've had thick slices of toasted bakery bread topped with ham, eggs, and mornay. Sick as I am of ham, that is one tasty breakfast. (Did I mention that I've missed running?) 
• Our church, in light of the recent resignation of our pastoral team, has been on FIRE lately with guest speakers. It's like a best-of-Free-Methodism masterclass. I've been refreshed and am even journeying down the path to restoration. (Something I wouldn't have guessed if you had asked me two months ago.) It's been a real treat to plan services knowing that the Word of God will be presented with such wisdom, experience, and humility.
• Simone Biles is probably not human. It's so hard to describe to anyone (and I'm aware that it's probably embarrassing for me to try because next to zero people care) how superior her gymnastics is to any other. You can watch her routines and it's like, "Wow!" But I dare you to sit down and watch a 2 hour gymnastics meet, full of dozens of other elite, world-class athletes, and fit her routines into that context. "Wow!" turns into "... ... ..." There are no words. (And, quite honestly, I get tired hearing the announcers try to put it into words. So watch that two hour meet with the volume off.)

Time to get the babe up so I can pack up the boys and splash our way over to some very wet, cold piano lessons. 

Memories of Grandma

A year ago I was in the midst of making a handful of unexpected journeys down to southern PA to be with my family. I still regret not being able to make it 16 hours sooner to say goodbye to my paternal grandmother before she passed away from cancer. I'm surprised how much I've thought of her this month, without anyone reminding me of her passing anniversary.

I thought of her when I bit into a gloriously ripe pear last week. I lived with Grandma and Grandpa one summer while I was in college. I worked for them at their lawn and garden store that year and learned a lot about horse feed, mulch, and invoices. It wasn't exactly the type of work I loved, but I sure did love being the only grandchild hanging out with Grandma and Grandpa. Their store ownership prevented most opportunities for weekend visits and overnight stays when I was little, so I delighted in having them all to myself. Grandma packed me the most ridiculous lunches each day for work. There would be a meaty sandwich, fresh veggies, a bag of chips or pretzels, a giant-sized Little Debbie's oatmeal creme cookie, a soda, and a pear. The pear was the best part. In my family we always bought the 5 lb bulk bag of apples or pears, so there wasn't a whole lot of choice about individual selection. Grandma hand-picked her fruit from the displays, and the difference was extraordinary. That single bite of pear last week brought back the smell of the store, the stacks of paperwork, the oily, grungy tools in the repair queue, the late-night movies I watched on my laptop in their house at night. It was a very special summer. 

I think of Grandma when I pick up a handful of kale and squeeze it with a pinch of salt. I never, ever ate kale before Grandma. She got me to eat a lot of weird things because we all trusted the magic she made in the kitchen. I remember one particularly eyebrow-raising concoction of canned pears, frozen blueberries, and mayonnaise. It was extraordinary, but I'll never attempt a replication. I watched Grandma massage that bunch of kale, explaining how the squeezing breaks down the toughness and makes it delicious. 

I remember as a tyke thinking I was drowning in a swimming pool after getting in over my head. A strong hand plucked me out of the water and decisively plunked me down on the concrete. I've never felt Grandma move faster than she did that summer day in the pool, and I'm very grateful for her lightning-fast reflexes.

I think of Grandma when I pour milk on cereal, particularly rice krispies and shredded wheat, both of which were staples in her farmhouse kitchen. I think of her when I eat those little soft butter mints, remembering a leisurely afternoon around her table molding mints for an upcoming wedding. Whenever I see a particularly grand sycamore, I remember the one at the end of their driveway, with a perfect handhold just over the first branch that made it climbable. 

I remember trying to climb that sycamore after burning three of the fingers of my right hand attempting to take something out of her oven. I didn't realize there were hot coils at the top of the oven and blistered myself as badly as I ever have.

I think of Grandma when the alto section in my church choir sings something particularly exposed. Music was very important to her--she sang in her choir and they often had sacred or classical music streaming from their Magnavox boombox. Grandma didn't give praise often, so I'll never forget the time she snuck quietly into the church sanctuary in which I was practicing piano. When I finished she said quietly, "that was incredible. Please don't stop." A compliment from Mozart couldn't mean as much.

When our firstborn arrived, Grandma heard his name for the first time. "Oh! A little Jimmy!" (She was informed that there was no way we were going to call him Jimmy.) Three years later, baby Owen Nicholas was dubbed "Nicky." (Again, clarification was required.) When Felix arrived two years ago she was rendered utterly speechless and said, "...but...but what are they going to call him?!"

I remember her visits to us in New York after I was married, always emerging from the Chrysler minivan with little gifts--baked goods, Amish bologna, stickers or metal cars for the boys. Grandma always, always had something to share with you. She was brimming with hospitality and generosity.

I remember pulling into the retirement community last October, knowing that I was too late to say goodbye. After hugs to extended family, I slipped away to her bedroom, wanting to see where she had spent her final hours. Grandpa found me there and we cried together. Then I found out that Grandma hadn't left without one final gift. She had planned, years ahead of time, for cremation. However, she mandated the funeral home be required to hold her body until I arrived, just in case I didn't get there in time. The next day I was able to kiss her peaceful forehead one final time, sharing my love and thanks. 

She was quiet and consistent. She was gracious and generous. She was, quite simply, an extraordinary grandma and I'm missing her very much right now.

Pride and Prejudice

It was a dreamy evening. We drove out to Buffalo holding hands, talking about travel and books and football (the real kind, not the imaginary seasons our sons enacted on an hourly basis). We parked on a side street and walked past old, beautiful houses, occasionally crunching one of autumn's first leaves under our feet.

He dropped me off at the front door, where I found two tickets waiting for me at will call. Two tickets! Is there no greater indicator of the love he has for me than to save me an extra seat just so I wouldn't be squished in between strangers? I gripped the tickets with an inner joy as I made my way to the hall entrance.

I was 5 rows from the front. Normally this wouldn't be a great spot to hear a professional symphony orchestra (father back means a better blend), but this was a Cirque show. In other words, gymnastics and classical music. In other, other words, heaven on earth. I had a perfect view of every split, flip, muscle, and the acrobats literally flew over my head from straps and silks suspended from the rafters.

If I stretched my head to the right I could occasionally get a peek of my handsome husband, tucked behind the basses and cellos, dressed in his tux, playing Spanish and Latin American music on his trumpet. He's a hottie. I was so proud sitting there, watching him do his dreams. Also, if I stretched my head to the left I could rest it on the empty seat next to me. (Did I mention how luxurious this was?)

The performance felt as if it were over much faster than the actual two hours. I sat a bit longer after the crowed had dispersed, waiting for Roy to pack up his horns and say goodnight to his colleagues. By the time he found me the hall was empty. We kissed, he grabbed my hand, and we headed towards the musicians exit. "We need to stop by next week's rehearsal schedule real quick on the way out so I can double-check some times," he said.

We approached the exit, only to have an older gentleman with a stern face glance us up and down, then frown at me and say, "You'll have to go through another door." Obviously, I wasn't dressed as a member of the orchestra, but the hall was empty, the stage cleared, and I was holding hands with my husband. I looked at the usher and responded, "I'm with him..." He put his hands out in front of me to prevent me passing by and pointed to the side door. "You can't go that way. You must go through the side door. You can meet him back there. Please, please. We can't have you going that way."

The doors were literally only fifteen feet apart.

Roy walked incredulously back to me, grasped my hand, and we both went through the "lesser" doors to find the rehearsal schedule.

My embarrassment quickly turned to indignation quickly turned to sheer anger. My ear canals were literally pulsing with fury as we exited the hall. Roy muttered some choice words under his breath about "that old codger" and "completely unnecessary power trips."

That old usher really put a damper on our dreamy date night. I don't know if I was more angry about his self-importance or in his rudeness deflating what had been a perfectly lovely evening of music and movement.

"Unfortunately there are a lot of ushers like that in classical music," Roy said.

"Well, they're not doing anything to encourage patronage," I retorted.

Once my ears stopped pounding and I was able to find a little perspective, three thoughts came to my mind:

1. My church has an usher team that's an awful lot like what I experienced on Saturday night. A team of good ol' boys that's been together for decades and hasn't done an awful lot to foster much more than the impression of a very exclusive club. (No women, children, people of color, or individuals younger than 50 allowed. Preferably have attended the church for at least three decades prior to serving.) This needs to change, immediately.

2. It was, perhaps, my first spoonful of what it must be like to be a racial minority. To be "politely" shown to an alternative door. To define and judge based by outer appearance. To be separated by someone you are traveling with because you look unalike in some manner. To those who have to deal with this on a regular basis, I ask your forgiveness, I pray for change, and I am grateful for your long suffering. It wouldn't take a whole lot of discrimination for my burning for revenge to outweigh my logical longing for peace.

3. If it had been a man with Roy, I bet the usher wouldn't have shown him the other door...

Musings

Hello blog,

I am in a small examining room next to my 4 year old, in the middle of a 4 hour allergy test. We are enduring one final dose of peanut butter on wheat bread. Owen doesn't appear to love the taste of peanut butter, but it appears to agree with him from all health perspectives thus far. No hives, no throwing up (beyond gagging at the taste), no breathing issues.

So the probable outcome is that he will pass his peanut challenge and we'll move peanuts from "not allowed to eat" to "don't make me eat that" category. Yay.

But I'm here for the next two hours with Roy's little Chromebook, and Owen is happily engrossed in Animaniacs, so it seems like a good time to catch up. Here are some rambling thoughts...

1. Last night I cooked an amazing dinner. Like, it was first rate. I don't usually gloat (externally at least), but we decided to recreate the Wooed By Fried Chicken date night, and it was such an insight into how much we've improved in the kitchen. Everything was easier. I wasn't nervous about frying the chicken, I already knew how to pickle vegetables and make flaky biscuit dough and bake a browned-butter pretzel crust. I knew how to make a thick butterscotch sauce and how long to freeze a crust before slathering it in sauce, softened ice cream, and chocolate covered salted pecans. I knew how to time heating hot oil and how to assemble a cooling rack as a drip pan. (I also discovered that I've assembled some better equipment over the past four years.)

It was exciting to survey the table and have such a sense of "I owned that" instead of "is it going to taste OK?" And I enjoyed every single second of preparing it.

Roy and I thought it tasted mighty fine. The boys hated the salad, ate most of the chicken, were divided on the biscuits, and largely inhaled the dessert. James is a picky eater when it comes to sweets--I'll never understand--but Roy and I split his leftovers so I wasn't too offended.

It took us two years to cook our way through Date Night In, but last night reminded me that it's worth doing it all over again now that we've actually tasted it all and refined a bunch of techniques. Maybe pulled pork with apple slaw next week?

2. I want to be a college professor. when I grow up. This is a little omnipresent fire in the back of my heart, stoked through random circumstances, but always banked by little boys and work and life. I have to express gratitude to those who know of the teeny flame back there and let me roast a marshmallow every now and then. I was asked to substitute teach for an evening at Northeastern Seminary a few weeks ago. I was tasked with exploring the relationship between head pastor and worship director ("worship pastor" "worship arts director" "worship leader" "music director" etc etc etc). What ensued was a fascinating discussion of what worship actually means and how defining that one word as a head pastor can inform and direct such a crucial relationship among church leadership. It was so much fun. I felt like we barely scratched the surface, but were opening working our way through some critical information that informs how we worship as a community of faith--which is pretty important!

Who wants to fund my doctoral studies at the Institute of Worship Studies so I can form curriculum at RWC and NES to continue this discussion?!?

3.. Rachel Held Evans died and I'm not OK. Reading Rachel's journey and her insights often causes me to stop breathing. I will sit there, book in hand, in stunned shock at how profound her insights are and how perfectly she has expressed my insecurity and doubt. Eventually I will remember to blink, which restarts my breathing, and I reread the paragraph or sentence repeatedly, as if I don't trust its profundity.

RHE leaves her books and her blog and her writings for us to reread and draw encouragement from. But I think the lasting gift she left me is how well she LOVED. She loved everybody. She loved people who doubted, of course. But she also loved, equally well, those who lived the lives of the blessedly assured. In this season of life I find it extraordinarily difficult to love the evangelical church--mostly because I don't think they love like Jesus very well. But Rachel loved them--even when she didn't agree with them (especially when she didn't). I love listening to her--on podcasts and interviews. Her voice is warm and conveys kindness, gentleness, and a wicked sense of humor. She was somebody I would want to hang out with, even if she hadn't ever published a word.

So RHE has died and I'm not OK. I'm wrestling with the unfairness of a young father raising two little babies on his own. I'm angry with the comments I've read from blessedly assured people that she's burning in hell because she loved gay people. I'm disheartened to remember that there are people, from my own upbringing, who would claim that she was "called home early because she wasn't following the Lord." But then I remember how much she loved, and how much Jesus loved in parallel circumstances, and I am checked.

How can we love better?

Clearly I am in a doctors'-room-induced state of deep contemplation. Need more ice cream pie...

Mission accomplished

3.01 miles. Goal of running the length of a marathon in one week accomplished. In your face Opera Week. 💪🏼

4.3

Four point three

4.41

Four point four one

3.26

Three point two six

4.08

Four point oh eight

4.12

Four point one two

3.92

Three point nine two

Biggest quality of life improvements of the past 12 months

Since it's been almost a full year since we've been regularly in touch, here are a few things I've discovered that have dramatically improved my quality of life. In no particular order:

1. Joining a book club. Last January (2018) I kind of invited myself into a book club. I thought it was, like, an established society. Then I showed up at the first meeting and there were only two people. Barging into their intimate lunches and conversation was certainly not my intent, but they were gracious and invited me to stay anyway. And their monthly accountability, combined with excellent book recommendations, kept me reading last year. I finished 54 books and watched a lot less Netflix.

2. Inheriting a treadmill. Running is something I've maintained pretty consistently over the past four years. However, finding the will power to run outside in Rochester in winter is challenging, even for people who LOVE running. (I don't love it. I just love how I feel after I'm done.) I don't think Roy was that excited when my parents unloaded their monstrosity of a treadmill into our living room. And I'm quite positive he wasn't excited when the two of us lugged it upstairs into our bedroom. But we've both been running this winter. A lot. I can do it when the kids are napping or after their in bed at night. I don't freeze my tail off or have my nose run off my face. And I can make up some of that lost Netflix time.

3. Finding good babysitters who drive. Picture me getting home at 8:30PM after a night of teaching. Picture me walking into a quiet house, paying the babysitter, then waking up three sound asleep little boys, packing them into the van, driving 30 minutes to return the babysitter to her place of origin, unpacking all the boys, and putting them back to bed. Now picture me walking into a quiet house at 8:30PM, paying the babysitter, sending her on her way, and hopping on the treadmill.

4. King Arthur flour. I'm a fairly meticulous baker. (Ask 4 year old Owen, who is learning to bake by weight rather than volume.) I've been consistently frustrated with wet doughs for baking. Soggy, sticky dough is maddening, and adding more flour led to dense, dry results. I gave King Arthur a chance and I'll probably never go back. The hydration difference is astounding to me. I'm using the exact same weight of product and getting a completely more manageable, delicious, finished product. I kind of wish something as basic as flour didn't have to require some sort of extra investment, but in this instance, I'll do it.

5. New glasses frames. I'm as blind as a bat. My lenses are incredibly thick and heavy. I'd been using the same frames since college, so when the right insurance came along to invest in a new pair without breaking the bank, I jumped at the chance. And then the wonderful man at the eye place introduced me to some sort of magic frames that weigh next to nothing, even with my coke bottle lenses. I've had these glasses for probably six months now and there STILL is not a night that I don't put them on and marvel at how comfortable they are.

6. The Paprika app. I may have mentioned this before--I think I've owned it longer than 12 months, but it's been in the past 4 months that I've started consistently using it for meal planning and grocery lists. Our grocery bills have gone down by about 20% in 2019, despite our growing kids, a toddler who can demolish a tub of hummus in a single go, and the grownups' penchant for exotic, experimental flavors.

7. Monthly dinner parties. Inspired by Lindsay Ostrom at pinchofyum.com, I initiated a monthly dinner club for a group of 6 gals at my church. We rotate homes, menus, and contributions. The long nights of fellowship and excellent food have nourished us all mind, body, and soul. My collection of peacock paraphernalia has blossomed as well.

8. A healthy iPhone battery. My iPhone was refurbished when we bought it and the battery did odd things. It didn't like cold weather any more than I do, so it would nosedive in subzero temperatures. I'd go from 80%-5% in two minutes. I became tethered to charging cables, and had to have one with me at all times in order to ensure I'd be able to access my phone. Roy finally stole it from me and took it to the Apple store to replace the offending part. Now I don't need to charge three times a day. One of those things that bugs you but you don't realize how much it's bugging you until it's fixed.

The treadmill has stopped overhead, so Roy must be done. Signing off for now so we can enjoy a little time together before I put on my feather-light glasses and crawl into bed.

Oh, hey there!

Reasons for my first blog post in well over a year...

1. Blogging again has been niggling at the back of my mind for a few months now.

2. Circumstances warranted it (see main content).

3. Roy bought a Chromebook and I wanted to play with his new toy.

I guess I didn't really have a choice.

Backtracking to last Friday...

Doctors appointments with three boys are no joke. They are, perhaps, the single biggest event I have to think through meticulously ahead of time. In addition to the basic necessities (keys, phone, wallet) I also have to make sure I have the right insurance cards, ample activities to survive waiting rooms, a secret bribe in case of needles, and anybody who is being inspected should have probably bathed somewhat recently. (That's the hardest part.)

So, anyway. Owen's annual pediatric immunology appointment was on Friday. His doctor operates out of the biggest hospital downtown. We are fortunate to have him seen by one of the best, but this necessitates making appointments months in advance. We had waited four months for this appointment and I was looking forward to having his allergen levels tested and hoping for improvement again this year. Last year he tested negative for hazelnuts and he and James consumed more celebratory Nutella in 2018 than I should probably publicly admit.

I packed the kids up, with all the necessities, and we were out the door an hour before the appointment started. It usually only takes 15 minutes to get the hospital, but we were going to be dealing with rush hour traffic and a parking garage. I waved forlornly to my barely-sipped cup of coffee on the way to the garage.

But! Miracles! We had zero traffic and found a parking spot without issue. We entered the main lobby at Strong with 40 minutes to spare. I eyed the coffee shop across the expanse and decided we could swing it. We entered the queue.

James and Owen immediately began begging for a snack. I juggled my purse (and Felix) to reach for my wallet when I felt a lurch on my right side. Suddenly there was a trickle of warmth down my arm. I looked at Felix, who looked back at me and then, urgently, baptized us both with his breakfast.

Motherly instincts are never more present than in those split seconds when you have to decide what to do about all the puke. Should I catch it in my hand? Should I drop the kid? (No.) Should I jump out of the way? My lack of caffeine did not help me here. By the time it was over my lovely trench coat was covered. There was puke in my purse and on my pants. It was in my shoes. It was all over Felix, his clothes, his shoes, and his George. It was all over the floor too. It was just all over.

The barista on duty shot us a look of disgust and called cleaning services. I asked, as graciously as I could, for some napkins. "I just called cleaning services so you'll have to wait for them to get here."

I looked back at the barista (hopefully not with too much disgust...) and replied, "Look, I'm dripping in vomit and so is my baby. Where are your napkins?"

A customer came to our aid with napkins. I bagged all of the stuffed animals and articles of clothing not required for basic modesty and surveyed the scene.

We waited four months for this appointment. We were all there. We had to at least check in.

So we went to the sixth floor and checked in. I explained the situation (I don't think they needed much of a verbal on that one) and, bless them, we were able to get some help. I was pointed towards a bathroom and was met there with a little hospital gown for Felix. For not being the patient I was paying for, he looked awfully pathetic and cute. I washed my pants off best as I could and returned to the waiting room. Sometime between lobby and here Owen's jacket had come off. I doubted we'd ever see it again.

We decided to stay for the appointment. It couldn't be more than an hour right? We had come all this way...

To trim what is already a very long story, the boys got to watch about 8 Curious George episodes and Felix threw up again before we were finally done. Sometime during the third hour I promised James and Owen that I would pick up whatever they wanted for lunch. Perhaps they anticipated this bribe because they replied in perfect, seemingly rehearsed, unison, "Chicken Charlie pizza from Salvatores."

"You got it guys. Let's just stay as patient as we can while we wait."

James, looks at Owen, "We have to stay STRONG Owen!"

Owen, looks at James, "No, YOU have to stay strong James!"

We got home with hot, fresh pizza. I did laundry. I had a cup of coffee. Felix didn't throw up again. (Thank buddy for only needing to do that while we were out...) The world slowly righted itself again.

Owen, in case you were wondering, skin-tested negative for both pistachios and PEANUTS this time. We still need official blood work, but we're optimistic that he might be able to have food challenges for both these foods in the near future. Oh, for a world with peanut butter again. Glory be!

I am thankful for the time and new toy to record this experience for posterity. Maybe Roy will let me borrow it again sometime and I can blog twice in one calendar year.

P.S. If you happen to be at Strong Hospital and see a little blue and yellow windbreaker, it belongs to Owen. And if you see a little blue velcro sneaker, size 5.5, it's Felix's. Just the one sneaker. My dignity is lying around there someplace too.