I haven’t driven off of a bridge yet. Thought you should know. And since I will be unable to post for a few more days, I thought I would give an update on my friend who was scheduled to give birth last week to a baby boy with a host of problems, including a major heart defect.

She delivered him last Wednesday, April 9th. The good news is that he is hanging in there. But it is still a very tense and worrisome game of wait-and-see. The open-heart surgery which was originally planned to take place when he was about a week old was urgently moved up and performed within hours of his birth. In addition to only having three chambers instead of four, his heart was not properly connected to the lungs; therefore, making it impossible for his little body to circulate oxygen. He does have other congenital anomalies, but the heart obviously gets priority.

She is not able to pick him up or feed him as his chest has been kept open to relieve pressure and allow for swelling. Additionally he is hooked up to many machines and she said there must be 20 different tubes coming in and out of his tiny body. He is kept unconscious to aid in healing, and I imagine for pain management. At one point on the very day of his surgery and, therefore, the day he was born, he surprised the nurses by awakening. He began to stir and nearly pulled out the tubes that had been placed in his tiny little nose. I think he must certainly be one strong little guy to go through the trauma of birth, open heart surgery and a plethora of sedatives and other drugs and not only open his eyes, but have the strength to move!

But the doctors have cautioned her not to thank them yet, for he is a very sick baby. She was at the hospital two days ago shortly after they had re-closed his little chest, when he suddenly began losing blood at a rapid rate. She had to stand there, powerless to do anything while helplessly witnessing this distressing and heart wrenching sight. He lost 100 cc’s of blood in a very short time, which has to be a lot for a 7 lb infant. They were able to stabilize him and gave him a transfusion and meds to coagulate his blood. Then, yesterday while we were speaking on the phone, she got another call from the hospital reporting that he was not doing well and had excess air in his chest. They were working on putting yet another tube in his chest to expel the air.

I know it has been extremely difficult for her physically and emotionally. She was released from the hospital Friday, while her newborn will be there for a minimum of several weeks. His problems are so severe that she had to deliver him at a hospital 90 miles from home, so they are not even in their own hometown. She’s been fortunate to be able to stay with her sister, but has been there for several weeks now which is hard for her, as well as her two-year old son. Taking care of him and driving to the hospital to be with her baby every free chance she gets, which is during her toddler’s nap time and late at night, has been grueling.

This brings me to the reason my blogging may suffer considerably over the next few days. I have agreed to take her two-year old for a while, giving her a chance to rest and spend more time at the hospital at her newborn’s side. I know there is a lot in store for me. My emotional state hasn’t been the best lately due to my own personal circumstances, which has dwindled my patience to nothing and my house to be neglected. Our new temporary addition is still in diapers, throws copious amounts of food on the floor when he eats, leaves a trail of destruction everywhere goes, needs constant attention and doesn’t always sleep through the night. In other words, he’s typically terribly two.

What was I thinking?

I remind myself that I was thinking how even at this critical moment in my life, someone I have been friends with for 16 years has it much, much worse. So, I’m bucking up, dusting off my diaper changing skills (uh oh, remember what happened in my last post?), and preparing to change my frame of mind.

This ought to be fun, right?

To the faint of heart, please be advised that this narrative does contain some graphic material.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was a bright and beautiful morn with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeating the air of my sun-drenched kitchen. I was happily hosting our quaint little coffee club of sorts that a couple of friends and I enjoyed at least weekly. It was not long after the other two had arrived, for we had just begun enjoying each other’s company and were barely into our first cups of joe when I caught a faint whiff of an odor that was not a result of something I had brewed. If my suspicions served me correctly, it was likely emanating from my not quite two year old son who was playing nearby. Using my keen sense of smell which is bestowed by motherhood and tantamount to that of a hound’s, I began turning my head while instinctively sniffing in his direction. The results: affirmative.

Rising from the table I assured my companions that they would not have to miss me for long since I was a pro at this diaper changing stuff. After all, he is my third child and this would have been in the ballpark of my ten thousandth diaper to change (seriously, I did the math). Admittedly, you can occasionally be thrown a curve ball with unforeseen circumstances, like the time a few years prior when I was changing my daughter’s diaper. Upon wiping a stubborn glob of poo that seemed to somehow be affixed, a thin, string-like substance emerged. “What the…?” I muttered. Just like a long strand of handkerchiefs being pulled from a magician’s hat, the more I extracted, the longer this never-ending enigma grew. I was on the brink of freaking out when, suddenly, the light bulb in my head went off.

Dental floss.

Yes. My child often enjoyed getting into my cinnamon flavored floss to suck off the spicy sweetness. As a result of this incident, I learned that it’s never too early to teach them not to swallow. This advice will prove helpful again someday–do not allow them chewing gum until you’ve made this clear!

Since that was my most unusual experience with diapers to date, it’s fair to say that most changes are rather routine and uneventful. Eager to get it over with and return to socializing with my guests, I intended to scoop up my toddler, carry him upstairs to the necessary supplies and free his little booty from it’s annoying stench. He, nevertheless, was less anxious to have the situation resolved. Just as I bent over to snatch him up he beelined to the nearest corner and dashed behind a faux ficus. Since he obviously wasn’t going to come out voluntarily, I decided to be one step ahead and use my infinite motherly wisdom to devise a plan. My fool-proof plot was to fake a right which would undoubtedly force him out the left where I would swiftly and oh-so-cunningly apprehend him.

The plan would have come off faultlessly if not for this:

Close-up of Exhibit A

Ah, the infamous corner. Just as I diverted my body toward the right to make my fake, WHAM! With great force, my brow bone unexpectedly collided into the corner of our entertainment center, shown above. If you have ever heard the sound of bone fiercely coming into contact with something equally hard, then I don’t need to further explain the resulting thud. After the moment of impact, I immediately placed my hand over the source of the pain, and with my head bent down, sat silently, frozen in shock. I was so jolted that I did not shout or scream or even utter so much as one profane word, unlike any other time I have suddenly encountered bodily harm. I was conscious, yet oddly speechless.

After what seemed like several minutes, the shock began to wear off and I slowly removed my hand from my head. Before I had brought my hand to where I could see it, streams of blood spilled before my eyes. It was pouring from the cut as well as the reservoir that had pooled into my palm. As I stood up and began making my way to the kitchen, my always calm and rational friend began to panic at the sight–which admittedly, I found a bit disconcerting. As I started explaining what had happened, she told me not to speak since every time my face moved the gash on my brow bone widened.

So much for enjoying a cup of coffee.

The other guest then tended to the now-infamous diaper situation. After managing Brock’s dirty deed she told me, “if you didn’t want to change him, all you had to do was ask!” By the time our coffee club broke for the day Brock had a clean diaper and I had a black eye, liquid stitches, a headache, a gash that would leave a scar, and a medical bill.

Now in addition to my right eye boasting a two-toned iris of blue and brown, it also bears a permanent mark that will forever provide a loving reminder of the joys of having a potty-trained child–and of the occasional pitfalls of motherly-wisdom.

As those who have been reading my blog for a while may have noticed, I am usually quite passionate about my convictions, as well as most things I choose to write about. Today is somewhat different. Due to a great strain on me from a myriad of circumstances, I am temporarily lacking any and all passion. Just as motivation is necessary to be successful in any creative endeavor, writing is a function that can not be forced (not the meritorious sort, anyway).

Right now I feel as if the world is upon my shoulders. I am looking forward to things getting better, for I know in time, they will. However, considering the magnitude of major stresses presently upon me, it is no wonder my usually enthusiastic demeanor is pausing to contemplate, conserve energy, and to prepare for mourning.

In addition to the issues plaguing my marriage which essentially come down to deciding if it something I wish to continue, my friend whom I have mentioned recently expecting a baby boy with a major heart defect, is scheduled to give birth tomorrow. I drove the couple hours to spend the day with her on Friday, knowing it would be my last chance to see her before her life is turned into a whirlwind of hope, worry, uncertainty, and possibly immense grief. She disclosed a few details and other thoughts that she had not mentioned before, as I am sure they are too painful to talk about often.

All things considered, we did have a nice day together and I took the opportunity to appreciate her two-year old son more than I ever had. As I was getting ready to leave for my two-hour drive home, in what turned out to be a very stormy and ominous night, her unborn baby began to stir, pushing so that you could see the bulge protrude from her abdomen. As if to make sure we hadn’t forgotten about him, he moved and pressed outward for everyone to see.

After having time to think even more about her situation during my drive home, I had a very strange and intense dream later that night. I dreamed that the baby was pressing out so far that I began to see the shape of his face through her skin. He continued to protrude further and further, stretching her skin out in front of her. I began to worry he was going to break through, when the next thing I knew I was holding him with one arm. I yelled in disbelief, “Oh my God, he just came out!” but she didn’t believe me at first. I told her, “look! There’s the umbilical cord! He’s in my arm!” I quickly remembered that he will not be able to survive on his own and, panicking, used my other hand to dial 911. I shouted for them to hurry that a baby who can’t survive on his own was just born without warning. Before I knew it, there were people everywhere, coming from all around. We swept his mouth to clear out any excess fluid or debris and it seemed that he was able to breathe fine. I remember thinking how cute he was and the overwhelming feeling of joy and relief that came over me in realizing that he was going to be alright.

Reflecting on the random dreams I have had in the past that have managed to foretell an eminent event, I couldn’t wish more that the happy ending here turns out to be one of them.

Interestingly, I had no idea where this post would go when I began. It appears I found something to write about after all; although I truly fear the details of my next entry.

No, I ain’t foolin’. As if it were Christmas or her birthday or some other occasion known for its gifts and festivities, my nine year old daughter had looked forward to April Fool’s Day since the first week of March. Although somewhat endearing, it is same to assume that she had thus been plotting for at least that long. Fortunately, she was wise enough to leave me out of her silly shenanigans.

I think it turned out that the foolin’ was on her, since she was less than successful in her endeavors. Her main target, assuredly by default, was big sister, Kayli. Either her rationale must have been that she envisioned her father and I to be too smart to fall prey, or none too happy if we did.

After lamenting that Kayli would doubtfully accept an offer of cookies from her on any given day, let alone April Fool’s, she confided the secret ingredient to me. She had ingeniously taken a few Oreos and replaced the white filling with toothpaste. In all actuality, she did a fine good job. They looked like genuine, untampered with food products. Not divulging this to her, but had I been in the market for an Oreo, I totally would have fallen for it.

Running out of possible victims, she knew he was her last resort, but also knew there may be uncomfortable consequences if her prank caused the unwitting party to freak out. “I can’t do it to Brock, can I, because he’s just a little kid?” Considering the just-mentioned little kid detests any kind of minty toothpaste to the point that he causes quite a production of yelling and spitting and then yelling some more, I confirmed it was a no-go. “Dang,” she said, “I ruined these Oreos for nothing!” I reassured her that it wasn’t for nothing. For she could now eat her snack and clean her teeth at the same time.

Later when Kayli returned home, and not knowing anything of the cookie incident, she laughingly told me that Makenna had tried to get her for April Fool’s Day. I asked how she knew, but soon realized we weren’t talking about the same matter. For some reason, Kayli had thought to check her alarm clock the previous night, which usually remains programmed to the same time. Lo and behold, it was set for 5:00 a.m, an hour and half before she gets up. Momentarily puzzled by this, she then recollected that it was the eve of the day her younger sister had been plotting for weeks. It doesn’t take a crime scene investigator to put those pieces together.

I have to admit, for a nine year old she devised some darn good stratagems. And although her success fell short of her ambitions, more importantly her heart was in the right place.

Well, sort of.

Disclaimer: Please forgive me if this narrative falls short of par, for I am excruciatingly tired as a result of getting very little sleep over the past 48 hours. The circumstances leading to my first sleepless night is the cause for the aforementioned quandary.

I am embarrassed to admit it. On one hand it seems silly. On the other it seems pathetic. And yet, if I had a third hand on which to place another perspective, it could be argued that it’s never a bad idea to be prepared. But prepared for what? Whatever did I expect to do with it? I’m not even extremely proficient at slicing cantaloupe. Yet as I have discovered, the anxiety caused by fear can drive us to do inexplicable things. Although we all react differently to the “red flags” perceived by our senses, our reactions which are influenced by previous experience as well as one’s individual personality, are undoubtedly intertwined with our instincts for survival.

Expecting to take my kids on a short but fun retreat for the last couple of days of spring break, I reserved a cabin in the resort campground that is adjacent to an amusement park about 100 miles from our home. And though our little expedition did prove to be fun (at least during the daylight hours), I cut it even shorter than it was intended to be after getting absolutely no sleep the first night and knowing it would be no better the second. It had nothing to do with comfort; it had everything to do with mother bear syndrome and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

One could regard my demeanor as a bit over reactive; admittedly, it is humbling to report. However, considering our cabin, which was no Fort Knox by any stretch of the imagination, was relatively secluded and sitting just on the edge of a vast wooded area, at some point it occurred to me that I had absolutely no way to defend myself should the need arise. After all, anyone seeing us arrive that evening would know that dwelling inside this easily penetrable cabin was a woman with three children. No man.

This would be the reason, among taking several other precautions, for my sliding a considerably large butcher knife under the mattress, and strategically placing it so that I could grab the handle in a jiffy–although beyond that, I couldn’t fathom what I would do with it. How it even came to be there is somewhat perplexing. Feeling uneasy, I had risen from bed several times in order to verify the many noises I was hearing, when suddenly, and without premeditation, I found myself looking in one of the kitchenette drawers. After examining and ruling out the benefit of a pocket knife of sorts, I briefly considered the 9-inch butcher knife before reluctantly putting it into my hand. Not even remotely comfortable with the limited protection it offered, I quickly concluded that, whether or not I could put it to use, I was better off having it with me than with an intruder.

Analyzing some of the underlying psychology contributing to my lack of security, it could be plausible that growing up as a member of Generation X, which was showered with an onslaught of slasher flicks immortalizing the likes of the infamous Jason and Freddie contributed to my imaginative scenarios. But impacting my state of mind more than the ridiculously gory horror films of the eighties, are my personal life experiences that, at times, have threatened my sense of safety and reassurance. All of these elements together—some obviously fictitious, some quite real–multiply in notability when my awareness is heightened beyond it’s usual state.

A secondary factor is that lurking in the subconscious areas of my mind are the true horror stories I have been privy to. Although I used to be guilty of watching a great deal of CourtTV, I have personally known a few victims of senseless homicides, one of them happening when I was in the 2nd grade. Our babysitter who lived about ten minutes away was brutally murdered one night in her own home. Her younger sister was also savagely killed, while their brother was left for dead with severe head injuries inflicted with a baseball bat. Her body was later found in a nearby sewer pipe, the large kind leading to the creek that we kids often played in.

On a personal note, an encounter I have had which undoubtedly lends to my sense of susceptibility is having had my own house broken into a year and a half ago while my husband was out of town. This occurrence justified a fear based on possibility and turned it into a fear based on reality.

Additionally, I have had a couple of strange and alarming encounters while merely performing routine duties at common locations, which have caused me to frequently be looking over my shoulder. After being followed a couple of times and flat-out stalked by one creep, perhaps I should wear a t-shirt when I run my errands that says, “I’m watching you, too, so don’t even think about it.” Perhaps I’ll detail those experiences in a post entitled, “Grocery Store Stalkers: How Not To Shop For Dates.”

But where do you draw the line in being reasonably cautious and being paranoid? Was rigging the towel over the front window to cover the useless blinds unwarranted? Or blocking the doorway with a heavy wooden chair, which although I knew would not slow anybody down, would at least provide for a noisy entrance? Or leaving the light on in the bathroom all night so that from the exterior, the cabin would possibly look less inviting to a prowler? Was it sleeping with a butcher knife under my mattress that crossed the line? For it is definitely not something I thought I would ever do. Maybe the answer isn’t in the preparations I made (including having my cell phone within easy reach), but my level of anxiety.

Upon writing this narrative and with all things considered, I have come to this conclusion: I would certainly rather be caught prepared, in spite of looking foolish, than to be caught unprepared, proving me to be foolish for ignoring my instinctual red-flags. So laugh if you must, for I can appreciate the humor in how ridiculous I must have looked to the predator watching from a distance. On the bright side, I must have looked just crazy enough to keep him at bay.