Evomition

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No one ever told me that becoming a mother would, at some point or another, require me to cup my hand in front of my child's mouth in a vain attempt to capture as much vomit as possible and keep their clothes intact.

And they certainly didn't tell me what to do with a handful of vomit once I had it.

But one learns quickly in the school of motherhood. It's a sink or swim, dog-puke-on-dog kind of world.

And, over the past two weeks, there's been lots of puking.

It started on the ill-fated drive home from Iowa and it didn't stop for nearly eleven days. No wait, that's not true...the puking stopped after six days.

Then the explosive diarrhea began.

No hand-cupping there, thank you very much.

But there was lots of hugging and comforting...all done a little too close to "ground zero," if you know what I mean.

Poor Luke had it the worst, I think. Or maybe he just complained the loudest. Either way, it wasn't pretty.

"Mommy, I hurt," became his pathetic mantra.

And there wasn't a thing I could do for him.

Evie was no better, really. My little ball of flaming energy was nothing more than a limp noodle for several days. And that was after she vomited her way across America in our SUV.

I've watched my kids suffer before, but never like this. Both of them slept more than they did as newborns...which would have been a nice break had I not been constantly checking on them to see if they were still alive.

They both went to the doctor...more than once...but all that did was make them even more miserable.

The pediatrician wanted a urine sample to see if Evie had an infection. And since my daughter isn't yet capable of voluntarily peeing in a cup (as far as I know), they had to do a catheter.

The nurse and her two lackeys assistants came in and helped me hold my 20 lb little girl spread-eagle on the table. Evie just laid there and stared at them all. Naturally, they were all taken with her and smiled ear to ear the entire time.

I'm pretty sure my second-born has never had so much attention in her entire sixteen months of existence.

Fortunately, the nurse was proficient and Evie hardly twitched during the entire procedure. Afterwards, we all let go of her and she just kept laying there...all spread out. One of the assistants commented that she'd never seen a baby NOT cry during that procedure.

That's my daughter...freakishly tough.

Of course, if they had any idea what the poor girl put up with from her brother on a daily basis, they might understand her high pain tolerance.

Luke's visit was just as memorable. I took him to the after-hours clinic located in the mall because he was complaining of abdominal pain.

He was also vomiting.

I knew this as I buckled him into the car seat...and yet, in my first display of utter stupidity that evening, I failed to grab a change of clothes.

So of course he threw up on the way in.

I cleaned him off as best as I could, hurriedly carried him into the office, and then pleaded with the receptionist to give me five minutes to buy him a change of clothes at the store next door. She said that would be fine, so we ran over there and grabbed the most decent outfit I could find on the sale rack. Then...being the classy, dignified mother that I am...I ran him back to the clinic and changed his clothes in the (momentarily) empty waiting room.

The outfit was huge on him. The shirt collar hung down over one of his shoulders and the shorts fell to his ankles the moment he let them go.

I considered putting him back into the soiled clothes, but I figured baggy and ill-fitting won out over wet and stinky any day of the week.

We got through the appointment without incident but Luke started to get really hungry.

"Eat, Mommy. Eat, Mommy. Mommy, eat!"

I knew he would probably throw it all up, but what was I supposed to do? The kid was hungry! Surely that was a good sign, right? And he'd been such a champ in the doctor's office. So, we sat in the mall food court and I fed him chicken nuggets and half of a chocolate chip cookie.

Moment of stupidity number two.

I was actually hoping that if he was going to lose it, he'd wait until we made it home.

Yeah....right. Because that's just the kind of lucky thing that normally happens to me.

No, I'm afraid that the chocolate-chip-chicken made an abrupt reappearance.

I instinctively held my hand under his mouth and tried to divert the flow away from his new clothes, but I was only partially successful. I thought for a split second about going back to the store for a third outfit, but I didn't want to face that sales lady again and try to explain why I have my son out in public when he's clearly ill. So, I picked him up and scrambled out to the car as quickly as I could.

A long trench coat might have come in handy then...along with some dark sunglasses. I could have been like the Ghost of Christmas Present and hidden my little sickly child under my skirt.

In retrospect, though, I'm glad that he threw up when he did. I was thinking of taking him on the new carousal after we ate. Potential moment of stupidity number three.

It's almost a shame, though. I think that might have actually topped Evie's 2008 "Vomit Across America" tour.

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Nurture vs.Nature

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There is an age old debate regarding the human condition...

What makes us turn out the way we do? What defines our personalities? Our likes and dislikes? Our sense of humor?

Were we born with these traits? Destined by our DNA to become exactly who we are today?

Or are we born as blank slates, influenced solely by those around us? Nurtured or neglected, loved or reviled....does the environment in which we are raised dictate the people we become?

I don't pretend to know the answer to this...a little bit of both, I suspect. And, of course, the entire scope of the question changes when we consider God's omniscience and His eternal plan.

But I do know one thing...I wouldn't be who I am today without my family.

I recently read a blog written by a social worker. She spoke of children in the foster care system that are literally starting "from scratch." They have no real family, no support system, not even the fond childhood memories that you and I take for granted.

She asked the question...can a person start from scratch? Can a child's life be rebuilt on such a weak foundation?

Which makes me think of Luke and Evie. I think of my love for them, how brightly it burns. I see it in Chris' eyes as well whenever he looks at them. Then there are the grandparents, the great-grandparents, the uncles and aunts, and all the cousins.

A tapestry of love.

Oh, how blessed they truly are.

And that love can be traced back, generation upon generation...crossing over decades and sometime even family lines, in an intricate pattern of grace.

As a thread is chosen and examined, one might see a man on his knees in prayer...tearfully giving his life to Christ and promising to love his children, showing them the way to God's heart.

Another thread might reveal a young boy at church camp. Hearing the message of salvation and feeling the pull of the Holy Spirit, he stands and walks forward in what is to be the first stitch of his very own tapestry.

I was born into a Christian family.

Wrapped tightly in their loving hearts, how could I not see God? How could I deny the Creator of their love?

And how could I not share that love with my own children?

So the tapestry continues.

Oh sure, we each put our own unique patterns in there...some more unique than others. Every quirk and every passion influenced in some way by those before us, we become everything that we were created to be.

And the Great Weaver is pleased.



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The Reckoning

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A little over a week ago, Chris and I put our beautiful children in their car seats, kissed their downy soft heads, tweaked their little button noses...and left them shackled there for 31 hours while we drove to Iowa.

Seven hours into it, we knew we'd made a huge mistake. But, in typical Chandler/Davis fashion, we forged ahead into our own stupidity.

To those of you that called us insane when you heard of our plans, I can only ask why you didn't do more? Why didn't you resort to physical violence? Egging our house? Slashing our tires?

You stood there and said I was crazy for wanting to go on a long road trip with toddlers...and then you went home to your loved ones, laid in your cozy bed that night and foolishly thought that you'd done enough.

Well it wasn't enough!!!

You should have begged, pleaded! Would it have killed you to scream at me a little. Maybe slap my face a couple of times?

Perhaps you could have shown me the scars from the self-inflicted wounds you obtained on your own trips. You could have confessed your death wishes, your hallucinations. You could have described for me the deep, clawing, all-consuming HORROR that it turned out to be.

Perhaps then, after all that, I might have changed my mind.

But no, you called me crazy and left it at that.

How do you sleep at night, you sickos?

And to the one person who told me it was a good idea (you know who you are), all I can say is....start sleeping with one eye open. Because I have two sets of vomit covered pajamas that might "accidentally" end up under your pillow one night.


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Reckless Faith

Now What???

Bullet Point Bonanza

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Ten Things That Luke Doesn't Want:

• "No wanna weed a book."

• "No wanna watch a movie"

• "No wanna go poo-poo on the potty."

• "No wanna pay outside."

• "No wanna go night-night."
  

• "No wanna eat beckfast."
  

• "No wanna bwush da teef."
  

• "No wanna wash da hands."

• "No wanna tiss."

• "No wanna hud."

One Thing That Luke Wants:

• "No wanna cwack..."

(stops and thinks)

• "Want cwackers, Mommy."

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Five Ways Evie Tortures Luke:

• Open mouth kisses

• Sippy-cup larceny

• Holding out desired items and jerking them back at the last possible moment

• Crying loudly when shoved or hit, as to alert parental authorities

• Pulling the toilet seat lid down onto the back of his head while he's trying to do his business.

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Showdown at the O.K. Exam Room

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Evie had another "Well Baby" doctor's visit yesterday. This is when they take a perfectly healthy, happy child and poke, prod and stick them with needles until they're a crying, slobbering mess.

And I can always tell when Evie's appointments are coming up. I don't even need to write them down anymore, it's such a reliable system.

You see, in the week or so before Evie is to see her pediatrician, she goes by the following schedule:

Day 1: Pulls a large, heavy object from the table/bookshelf down....onto her face.

Day 2: Walks into the corner of an open drawer...with her face.

Day 3: Tries running from Mommy and falls into the wall...face first.

Day 4: Falls in the Target parking lot (Mommy wasn't holding her hand tightly enough) and lands hard on the asphalt...on her face.

Day 5: Trips over some curbing in the backyard...and lands on her bare knees (they were feeling neglected.)

Day 6: Walks into the doctor's office looking like she's been in a prize fight...and lost.

I don't know if this is well-known information, but Pediatricians are one of the major reporters of child abuse/neglect in America.

They have CPS on speed dial.

And God bless them for that! What incredible advocates they are for these helpless children. But it does make us non-abusive parents with accident-prone kids just a little bit nervous.

And my daughter's Pediatrician notices everything. It's the part of her neurotic personality that makes me love her so much.

She's a Safety Nazi.

Which makes a "Safety Nut" look like Evel Knievel.

She's gotten me so afraid of choking hazards that I actually cut Evie's Cheerios in half. She makes me want to keep the kids in a rear-facing car seat until they hit puberty. And now I'm so paranoid about sun damage, my children look like Albinos.

But you know what? I love it. I'm a better-safe-than-sorry kind of person. To me, there's nothing more important than keeping my kids safe...even if it makes me look like a freak to some people (I'm sure Tara's on the floor convulsing right now).

I love Dr. Hall.

But she does like to test me.

When Luke was around six months old, she asked me if I had been giving him juice. I said no, of course...the thought hadn't really occurred to me yet.

She nodded in approval and proceeded to inform me of the many evils of "liquid sugar."

I wondered what she would have said if I had responded with a yes...

Since then, she asks me at every visit (with each child), in a completely neutral voice.

"Are you giving her any juice?"

She never makes eye contact when she asks this, probably afraid of giving away the answer with her expression of disdain. Instead, she looks down at the chart and poises her pen a mere centimeter above the paper.

She's waiting for my answer. Waiting for me to say the wrong thing so she can scribble down my parental faults in permanent ink.

"Absolutely not. I hate the stuff."

I blurt it out quickly, hoping she doesn't notice the catch in my voice or the beads of sweat on my forehead.

"Good."

I release a breath and wait for the room to stop spinning. The test has been passed and the next one won't be for another three months. I just hope she tells me when I'm allowed to give the poor kids juice....at this rate, their college graduation seems too soon.

Now, I hope I haven't given you the wrong impression here. My Pediatrician is a kind, intelligent and funny woman. She truly cares about the well-being of my children.

And even though normal people would probably be put off by that kind of pressure, Dr. Hall is not the one that bothers me.

Her assistant is.

I'm sure some of you remember Evie's twelve month visit. The trauma is still fresh in my mind.

This time wasn't any better. Once again, she wanted to poke my daughter in her arms. At first, she acted like they HAD to go there. But when I protested, she said that it would hurt less since Evie was walking now and would be bothered more by a shot in her leg.

I looked at the long needles, then I looked at Evie's scrawny little arms.

"I'd really like it to go in her legs."

"Oh, sure...no problem."

I could tell she was disappointed, though. She was probably looking forward to jabbing a humerus or two, just for kicks.

The leg shots went smoothly, no thanks to her. But the process was drawn out much longer than necessary.

I closed my eyes and kissed Evie's forehead as she tensed in pain. Several moments later, I hear...

"Good job, Sweetie."

I look up thinking it's over.

No such luck.

The woman is sloooowly picking up the second needle. As if letting Evie calm down from the first jab will somehow make the next one less painful.

JUST GET ON WITH IT!!!

The good news is that this will be the last time I have to lay eyes on this incompetent woman. You see, she's very, very pregnant.

Due in June, as I found out during some forced pleasantries.

By the time Evie's due for another visit, this assistant-from-you-know-where will be gone, gone, GONE! And since my doctor is moving to a new office this month, I'm banking on the reasonable assumption that the needle-happy freako will be assigned elsewhere when her maternity leave is up.

I think I'm looking forward to the birth of her baby more than she is.

I'm not normally this nasty...really, I'm not. This woman is probably a perfectly nice human being. We might even be friends under normal circumstances.

But don't ever, ever mess with my baby girl.

I've got a mama bear in me that would make most people cower in fear.



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