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Our family just took a terrific trip to Chicago, both a summer vacation and a distraction for our 8 year old from her gigantic cast and limited summer activities. I could tell you all of the fantastic parts of our trip, but it’s more fun to tell about the parts that my friend and I called “making memories”. Because without these moments it all would have seemed too easy right?

Instructions for Traveling long distance in the Car and Visiting a Big City

Traveling in the Car: Make sure your children have not taken a road trip in at least two years. That is plenty of time for the 6 year old to forget that there are distances further than the local library. “Are we there yet?” will start before you’ve crossed the county line, fifteen minutes into the four hour drive (part one of the two day trip). It helps that you yourself cannot stand riding in the car for hours, knocking your start level of patience down to  a 7.

How to stop at Cracker Barrel: Since you don’t take regular road trips, your children will experience their first trip to Cracker Barrel. Unknown to you, you’ve picked the location with the employee who’s personal agenda for the day will be to follow your children around the store. At first she’s polite and comments on objects your family should buy, twenty minutes later she’s very close and very quiet, eyes narrowed for a better view. The two year old picks up very cute, breakable, animal objects but lucky for you she’s distracted just in time with unwrapping a giant roll of smarties and depositing the large pink disc into her mouth. The security guard/biscuit maker missed this incident as she dealt with other newcomers, so you hurry to the counter to purchase the stolen candy. You get the kids outside finally and just as you settle into those cute rocking chairs, a bus from the juvenile detention center unloads onto the porch. You decide your Cracker Barrel experience is complete and head back on the road.

Arriving at Your Destination: Two days of traveling is finally drawing to a close as you look at the GPS and see 20 short miles remaining. A phone call from your friend reveals tornado sirens and her entire family is in the basement. You look up from your GPS to see a collage of lightning strikes, alive against a horizon that is now the color of imminent death. What can you do but keep driving? You arrive and your child with an arm cast gets inside without getting wet.  Your husband, who carries an amount of luggage equal to a small U Haul, is not so lucky.

Traveling on the Train: You leave the house without enough time to stop by the bank and get money for tickets. Frantically you borrow your children’s souvenir money (which is contained in cute girl scout wrist purses), which your husband holds in his lap until the train attendant comes by for your fare. The train attendant looks at the pretty wrist purses and then at your husband with pity and then with a wink says, “Your children are all under seven right?”. And off to the city you go.

Visting the Field Museum: You’re pretty sure that visiting a large museum with your two year old should be as much fun as going to Disney World with the same age child. You also feel the trip will be a success if you don’t lose any of the six children in your party. You strap your two year old to your back and only let her get down to refuel with snacks from the museum bakery. Four hours later you slide your toddler off your back, count the children, and call the trip a success. You climb into a taxi feeling relieved (your back does, at least) and settle in for the ride which will take three times as long as the cab to the museum, but you don’t know that yet. You enjoy a deep breath.

Traveling on the Train, the return trip: Congratulations, you’ve purchased tickets with your debit card at the end of your last train ride to avoid hocking your children’s souvenirs for travel money on the return trip. However, you’ve left an hour late from The Field Museum, taken a taxi is rush hour traffic and arrived just in time to run (all nine of you) to the train. The train starts moving as soon as you get the last child on, and then you proceed through one car after another (all nine of you) looking for empty seats. The electric doors will try to close on your children as you move into the next car, and the cars will sway frantically as you start to imagine a stunt from Indiana Jones (with all nine of you). “We’re making memories!” you shout at your friend who is 5 children and one car ahead. You walk past all of the weirdos and serious businessmen who look completely uninterested in moving their briefcase for your six year old to sit down. Eventually everyone gets seated. You only have one hour and one poopy diaper left to go.

Time to Go Home:  As a seasoned traveler (the past week has given you a confident sense of road experience) you climb in the van for a smoother trip home. You only have five hours to drive for leg one, and you anticipate the best. At 6:30 you arrive at your hotel to find a party in the parking lot of the hotel, one of the jovial gentleman bears a shirt which causes you to turn your head quickly. The hotel room doesn’t feel clean and you can’t imagine waking up to the hangover party people in the breakfast room and another day of traveling tomorrow.

Finally: You confer with your husband and agree to drive on home. General logic suggests your children will fall asleep and you’ll arrive home near midnight. But you laugh because you know better. All four stay awake until you’re thirty miles from home.

But still, you see the dark silhouettes of the Tennessee hills and you’re glad to be home. And you’re glad for all the memories that traveled with you.

 

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I don’t talk about Mr. Darcy much on this blog.  Writing through the eyes of a mama, I’m usually looking through a pinhole of my perspective.  But I wouldn’t be home to be the mama without his hard work.  I wouldn’t stay sane as a mama without his understanding and patience.  And I would pass out each night without his constant help and ability to laugh when I’d rather get grumpy.  In him, God gave me (and the kids) so much more that I could have dreamed to ask for-as Mr. Darcy and as The Daddy.

But I’ll let the poem do the talking.

 

Daddy Is
a poem written by us

Daddy is a swing set that we climb on and he’s full of fun,

Daddy is a hibernating bear, he sleeps and snores undisturbed,

Daddy is as crazy as the ocean’s waves,

Daddy loves fruit crisp like monkeys love bananas,

Daddy likes mommy as much as he likes crisp (and more),

Daddy likes birds as much as birds like our birdfeeder,

Daddy likes baking as much as squirrels like nuts,

Daddy is a piano, full of clear sounds and tunes,

Daddy is a timeline, full of facts,

Daddy is as fun as the beach,

Daddy is a bald eagle, fast and dangerous, chasing Joshua,

Daddy likes camels like Christopher Columbus liked to travel the seas,

Daddy likes grandma as much as he likes crisp,

Daddy can tickle as much as a fish can swim,

Daddy is a book, smart and full of knowledge,

Daddy is a red-winged blackbird, taking care of his family.

 

Father’s Day, 2011

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It’s the unknown factors that make the waiting period before an event (particularly a dreaded event) so torturous.  The imagination is open wide to all scenarios.  I always hope, as I’m sure you do, that once reality arrives it will be so much better than the hypothetical.

For several years we’ve postponed elective surgery of Jellybean’s hand until, after much thought and prayer, it became clear that we needed to do the surgery.

In the weeks leading up to the event, I couldn’t really plan for post-surgery, because so many of the variables remained unknown.  Would she be in much pain? How would she be able to eat and do daily tasks with her left hand (which has undergone past reconstructive surgeries)? What, if any, summer activities would we be able to participate in? I certainly didn’t linger on how I would take care of her extra needs and the normal needs of her siblings.

Now the unknown has become known, and unfortunately the last five days have fit perfectly into my pre-surgery imagined scenario (the worse case version).

Here is a collage of moments, those I hope to remember about my brave daughter, those that make me want to cry, those that helped us laugh, and few that I’d welcome into the well of lost memories.

The best moment: When the surgeon came out to speak to us and we knew she had come through surgery. Any mom or dad who has placed their child into the hands of a surgeon would understand that moment.

The moment to make us laugh and then cry: Seeing her incredibly huge cast (starting just below her shoulder and extending down her arm and enclosing her entire hand in a bulbous peak). It was an unanticipated problem, hilarious in a “take your breathe away with surprise and horror”. And then less so when they told us that the ridiculous thing was correct.  And heartbreaking as she saw through sleepy eyes something so much more than what she feared.

The moment when causing someone pain in order to get her pain relieved seemed like a reasonable idea to consider: She cried, “I can’t bear it, mommy”. Seven hours home from the hospital and we got in the car to head to the E.R. Two hours later she still cried in pain before anyone gave her medicine. Three doses of morhpine after that before she was finally out of pain.  Anger at a new level.

One of the (many)moments I watched her with awe: At the E.R., the third time they tried for an I.V., after trying twice in the foot, still experiencing the pain from her arm because the medicine she’s yet to get is going to come through the i.v.. She didn’t cry, she breathed in and out deeply, and listened to her music. The second time we checked into the E.R.(five minutes after we were discharged from the E.R. because she was crying in pain by the time we got to the car) and another I.V. was needed. Again no crying, just a lot of breathing (she even started to appreciate that the I.V meant less needles in the long run and that it delivered good medicine).

When I most wanted to give a wake-up call to the nurses: Before surgery, when my daughter who does not like to be treated like a baby, was spoken to like an infant(she’s 8 and half) and offered bubbles as a distraction. “Look how this lights up your finger,” the nurse cooed as she took her vitals. If Jellybean hadn’t been so scared, she would have growled at them.

One of moments when we laughed: “I wish we could take this medicine home with us, Mommy”, she said calmly and peacefully after many rounds of morphine.

When I remembered to be thankful: Five hours into the E.R. visit gone bad, and I remembered my original fear that she wouldn’t even be with us after the surgery, and I thought, “I’ll take this, I’m just glad to be with her, right here.”

The sweet part: Jellybean is my most independent, my least talkative about heart matters, the one who can go days without really seeming to need her mama. With all of the kids tucked away with friends and family, I got to be her constant comforter and she wanted me to be just that. She told me I should be a nurse and she never wanted me to be away for any time. It’s already changed because the rest of the crew is back in the house and I’m sliced into smaller quarter mamas, but I’m so thankful I could comfort her when she needed it.

Another laughing moment: When she said Froggy’s shirt would be her sleeping mask (like in surgery) and she wrapped the no longer pink shirt of her very favorite animal over her nose and proceeded to “breathe in” the smelly comfort only a long time stuffed friend can give.

When Netflix instant play became the ultimate pain medicine: Despite the lack of t.v. and video love we have in our family, I am firmly convinced that the ready appearance of the Backyardigans and the Cosby show with the push of a button saved us further trips back to the E.R.(and gave mama and daddy a few hours of sleep). In the middle of the night, when it’s still an hour and half before she can have more pain medicine, it’s the only thing that can take her focus completely away from her hand. And for now, that is a beautiful thing.

The best laughing moment: when I walked in to find her introducing Froggy to Mr. Cast.

There are many tough things about today, and the next few weeks, and the unknown of how her hand will be when the results of the surgery are revealed when Mr. Cast is removed.  An endless list of moments, some of which are better remembered than lived.

Right now we’re one tired family and all we know is that we have one very brave girl.  Of course, that was the one known before we ever entered the hospital.

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