Random Musings on 10 years

We had an epic long first date.

Fall festival. Dinner.  A movie. Sitting in the swing in front of Cobb dorm for hours.

Your IM screen name was JohnU79.  

But you were a gentleman and didn't ask me out over IM.  

You opted for email. 

I still said yes.

You remember the first time we met differently than how I remember it.  

And that's okay.  I like your version better anyway, so we'll go with that one. 

We were friends first. 

You "tested" me by having me watch Dumb and Dumber to see if I thought it was funny.  

I didn't know it was a test at the time, but now that I do...

Well played, my friend.

I wouldn't have wanted to date me either if I had failed.

We are so similar. 

We love sports, summer, being outdoors.

We agree that McDonald's has the best Coke, that you are the world's best popcorn popper, and that Finn will likely be our most argumentative child.

Remember that time we took those personality tests, and we both resulted heavy in the "lion" category?

There was an asterisk that noted how rare it is to find a married couple that consists of two lion personalities. 

We showed them.

Bazinga. 

We are so different.

I can go shopping for hours and return empty handed, yet perfectly satisfied. 

You see this as a waste of time.

You can go fishing for hours and return empty handed, yet perfectly satisfied.

I see this as ridiculous.

But we both appreciate the need in each other to get out of the house and office to do our own thing once in a while. 

And I love that.  

I think singing loudly and off tune in public is hilarious.

You think it's embarrassing.

You're tall. 

I'm not.

When we went to get our first dog, there were several left in the litter to choose from. 

You wanted the biggest, most rambunctious male of the bunch.

I was partial to the runt who continued to follow us and cry.

You let me choose the runt.

Thank you.

Remember that time, a little after our first year anniversary, when I was taking birth control pills, and they didn't work, and I got pregnant?  

You handled that like a champ. 

Our "Five Year Plan" dwindled before our eyes as quickly as that little pink plus sign appeared.

But you sat me down, and said, "Babe! This is FANTASTIC!"

I'm pretty sure neither of us felt that way at the time.

But there's this thing about you, that when you say things, I believe it hook, line and sinker.

And you were right. 

It was fantastic. It was Jack!  Your mini me.

Sometimes we argue.  

And you are the worst to argue with. 

You're logical. You choose your words wisely. You don't raise your voice. You apologize.

Ugh...

Seriously...10 years and no dramatic door slamming or "I have to take a drive" comments?  

I can count on two fingers the times that I have gone ape on you.  

And I was pregnant both times.

So that kind of means it was half your fault, right?

I enjoy doing life with you. 

You're funny. And fun.  And considerate. 

You didn't mind when I left on a girl's trip a few weeks ago and didn't stock the fridge beforehand.  

Thank you for being easy.

And for grocery shopping while I was gone.

Sometimes people will comment about you being "serious". 

But they haven't seen you lead the nightly Jedi training sessions in our living room. 

Or last night's full on sprint that ended in a forward roll as Finn was giving you Ninja lessons.

Or the fake cockroach you keep leaving in my path.

We have been immeasurably blessed these ten years. 

Blessed in ways that we don't deserve.

We even voiced this to one another the other night as we watched our boys in a rare moment of unity.

God's grace is so evident in our lives.

His grace has been evident in our blessings and hardships.

Pa and Tim's sicknesses and deaths. 

You have held me many times as I've cried wishing I could be close to family.  You knew words were not enough, but you were there.

The night Charlie was born was probably the worst of your life.  

I remember leaving the hospital nursery just after our baby had stopped breathing. 

I could tell in your eyes that you were afraid he would die.  

We held hands and begged that God would protect Charlie.

Watching you hold our babies has been so sweet, but the first time you held Charlie boy might take the cake.

Leaving your parents' house the night before your Dad's official diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. 

I saw through your tears that you were heartbroken but still willing to accept the challenges that could be ahead.

Running the business on your own.  Taking care of your mom.  

You were broken, but still so strong. 

Because the man I love, trusts a faithful God. 

Thank you for continuing to compliment me on my appearance. 

Three pregnancies, three post pregnancies, three fad diets.

All of these can do a number on a girl.

But you still plug along with your "You look great, babe!" comments.

Don't stop. 

I respect you for so many reasons. 

You work so hard for our family, and you are good at what you do. 

You hear both sides of the story before making a judgement call.

Unless I'm involved, then you always choose me.

You totally called that old yankee lady out at the post office for beeping her horn at you for blocking the space that she wanted, even though there were five open spaces closer to the building.  

 You got the point across in a nice, Southern gentlemanly way.  

Sometimes when you get a wild hair and do something spectacularly zany, I take credit and give myself an imaginary pat on the back for bringing out that side of you.

The other day I was heading back over the bridge from the island and caught myself looking into the marsh for tailing redfish.  

What?!?

You've rubbed off on me, too, I guess.

Whenever we go to a couple's shower (which I know you LOVE) and we're asked to fill out one of those little cards with words of marital wisdom, we always write down what Gammy said to us at our rehearsal dinner: 

Marriage is not 50/50.

It's 100/100.

We don't always get it right, but we sure do try.

Thank you in advance for the nice dinner you're taking me to tonight. 

And when the server comes and asks if we saved room for dessert, please lie and say yes.

Because TEN is something to celebrate!

John boy, I love you. I admire you. I respect you. 

And I think you're hot.

How To Survive a Swim Meet

When the doctor held up our firstborn after delivery and announced, "It's a BOY!", I have to say there was a small part of me (the part that wasn't busy fainting, vomiting or cry/laugh/joy-festing) that thought...YES.  Little League, here we come.

John and I both played sports most of our childhood and were hopeful that our children would like to do the same. 

 Soccer. Volleyball. Cheering. Basketball. Baseball. Football. Tennis. Golf.  

Not once "back then" did I think...

SWIM TEAM.

Not because I didn't like it or my husband wasn't a rock star swimmer in the days of yore (because he WAS), but because I had never experienced swim team as a kid.

And I'm one of those fun types that thinks if I didn't experience it, then it probably isn't worth anyone's time.

Thoughts of swim teams only surfaced during Summer Olympic years when the sinewy V shaped swimmers took their marks after doing that strange jiggly muscle thing where their arms swing down and slap their backs and their thigh muscles detach from their legs all freaky like.  

I never saw this coming:

My son.  Covered in Sharpie.  Singing the National Anthem.  Half naked.

Last summer was Jack's first swim season.  It was fun.  It was outside.  It was reward driven with many opportunities to win ribbons and medals.  The season ended with a picnic for goodness sake!

So, clearly, we signed up for year round swimming, completed that, finished our second Summer season a few weeks ago and are heading into the year round season again.

I sense that there's a swimming vacuum that we are very close to being sucked into.  I hear rumors of crazy early swim practices, and I pray that the vacuum spits us out before I find myself chugging Starbucks at 5am while I escort a minivan load of carpooling youths to the nearest (45 min away) meter pool.  Please no.

So before that happens...here is how we manage swim season.  The meets, in particular.

1.  Bring a Sharpie.

They tell you it's for writing your kid's event, heat and lane info on their arm.  This is true.  

But I have found that the Sharpie is most helpful in identifying your child.

Scanning the pool deck for your skinny half naked second grader among forty other skinny half naked second graders is no fun.  Write their name on their back, draw a bullseye, sketch the team logo.  Anything helps.

("Eat my bubbles" is a popular phrase among most swim teams I have found.)

This season I witnessed one poor dad Sharpie a fu manchu on his daughter in a moment of desperation.

2. If you're a cool parent, bring electronics.

If you're us, bring Legos.

Yes, electronics fry your brain and increase your risk of obesity and ADHD, but on the flip side, they are responsible for decreasing the chance of finding your son searching for a misplaced FunDip under the bleachers.

Legos are a fun and wholesome alternative.

Until you step on one.

3.  Give pre event pep talks. 

Not surprisingly, John is the best at this.  He reminds Jack of the things he has been working on with the particular stroke he's about to swim.  He tells him to focus and that we are proud of his best efforts no matter what the time reflects. He comes up with a short mantra (this season was "Long and Strong"). 

John had to work later one evening and missed a meet so I filled this gap for him.  It wasn't until the last event that Jack looked at me and said, "Mom. You have been saying Long and Lean the whole meet.  I don't even know what that means." 

I'll stick to being the Snack Bearer.

Which leads me to....

4.  Bring snacks.  

Lots of snacks. Good for you snacks like Smart Water, apples, oranges, bananas, edamame if you're fancy, peanut butter, Cheezits, Slim Jims and Skittles.

And that is the digression.

  One day you're explaining to your child that you're Day 192 into a real food/no processed food switch over and you're not about to cave now.  

Next thing you know, you look over and they are consuming half a bag of sour skittles and enough Red 40 to rival that of Honey Boo Boo's Go Go Juice.

5.  Get the generations involved.

Gigi and Poppy Johnny saved the day on several occasions this season.  

Helping with Charlie. Getting Jack to his lane when we were helping with Charlie.  Helping Charlie not jump in the pool.  Buying hotdogs for Finn.

6.  Remind your child that this is fun, and ask them if they're having fun.

Here it appears that we failed to do this.

7.  Volunteer.  Your swim team depends on it.

Be a timer. A concession stand server.  A ribbon labeler.  An official if you're evil enough to disqualify a 6 year old girl for rolling over on her backstroke.

But. 

Whatever you do, never volunteer to be a bullpen parent. 

This poor soul has to wrangle a certain age group of swimmers into their lanes for each event.

Everyone starts looking the same.  You're yelling names of kids you don't even know.  You're high on chlorine fumes, and two of the boys can't find their goggles.  

Avoid the bullpen.  Lie. Cheat. Steal. Faint. Puke.  Doesn't matter. Just say no.

8.  Take pictures. 

And label them.

With a Sharpie.

Because pictures of your half naked son from last year and this year look pretty similar.

9.  Misc.

-Invest in a good pair of jammers (the newer biking short looking swim shorts that saved young men swimmers all over the world from having everyone see them in their skivvies.) Don't put them in the dryer or the elastic will wear out and one day your son will pass you at the pool and you'll realize that you are looking straight through to his little hiney.

-A Silicone swim-cap won't save you any dollars, but it will save your ears from whining and crying that a latex swim-cap deserves.

-Stock up on goggles.  They are easily misplaced.

Year round season, here we come!

This or That

Our home phone just rang.

Which means one of two things.

A candidate needs my vote or there is an important message from Beaufort county schools.

Today it was the latter.

And the important message was that tomorrow will not be the last day of school like we thought it was going to be.  Tropical storm Andrea is pushing her way through the area  tomorrow so our last day will now be on Monday.

I was instantly P.O.ed. 

But then I thought about it and realized that it really doesn't matter.

  It matters to the poor teachers who were so eagerly awaiting their summer break.  

It matters to the families who have vacations or camp planned (and who will take them anyway. Even I, Rule Follower McGee, would blow off that last day like it was my job.)

It matters to the families who have to take a day off of work or find help with their kids.

It matters to the kids (and their parents) who dread every minute of every day that they have to spend at school.

But (thankfully) none of these apply to us.

So I guess the long and short of it is that I just got out of sorts because I could.  

And I can't say that it was the first time this week. 

Or today.

So in an effort to survive this summer and mark off a few of the things our summer list that doesn't even exist yet....this mama needs to get her attitude in check.

Instead of...

AHHH!!!  Why does my car look like hobos live in it?

Why can't it be...

It'll take two minutes for the boys to undo this mess. At least it's not the Honey Mustard Spill of 2012. 

A birthday invite with the RSVP instructions inconveniently eaten by the dog?

Or

I'm so happy that people tie balloons to their mailboxes and... Finn gets to make it to his buddy's party this year.  He missed it last year and pouted for weeks. And conveniently reminded me that we missed the party on a regular basis.

Barely eaten food left for mom to clean up that also serves as an open ended invitation to the fruit flies that have recently taken up residence in our home?

Or

At least he ate the fruit and not the leftover Easter candy?

Instead of shuddering when just looking at the word "giblet" in a recipe why not celebrate the fact that I conquered not only reading the word, but actually removing the "giblets" without barfing.

Oh yeah...and the fact that my children had a healthy dinner to eat.

Spaghetti night clean up:

Unbelievably annoying or...

An opportunity to take a photo to tape to his baby book in the space that says something to the effect of "look at me! I was such a messy eater" 

I don't like those moments where my faults rear their ugly heads to the point where they cannot be ignored. Requiring some self reflection and horror of horrors...maybe even a little change.

Quite honestly I'd rather just not know about them.

Erring on the side of annoyed could make this summer really long and miserable. 

But since "summer" won't start until Monday, I guess I have a few days to figure it out. 

(I fell asleep while typing last night and watching What to Expect When You're Expecting- hilarious movie.)

Looks like God has a sense of humor...

It is cloudy. No rain. Might even be sunny. 

Here are my choices:

Idiot meteorologists and school board officials got it all wrong. We could be done with school today!

Or

Beach day?

Happy (almost) end of the school year everyone!  We can do this!

Throw Up Ruins Everything

When I used to work at the pediatric office a little more, people would often ask me if I was fearful of all the scary illnesses and diseases that kids can get. 

And I answered them honestly with a 'no.'

Uncommon and rare diseases are indeed uncommon and rare.

But one thing I do live in absolute fear of is:

THE STOMACH BUG.  The super common, not rare stomach bug.

Because throw up ruins everything.

Sheets. Plans. Fun. Your ability to smell anything and have it not smell like throw up.

We experienced a period of several weeks where throw up seemed to run the show

It was so ridiculous that it had to be recorded for us to remember (and hopefully laugh at) in the years to come.

Interspersed in the story are old pics of the boys from John's phone that he synced after 3 years of not syncing it.  

Because even now...as I am many days removed from any throw up, it still puts me in a foul/scared/I think I might be getting sick again mood.  Old pics of the boys always help.

So here is how throw up (and a few other things) ruined two weeks of our lives...

THURSDAY:  Charlie pukes one hour into our trip to NC to get our new puppy (another blog for another day).  

He is 18 months old.  So he doesn't know how to courtesy puke (in a toilet with a stereo blasting and a can of Lysol in hand to promptly rid the room of any vomit odor remnant.)

Instead, he went all out, full force, exorcist style in his Britax hand-wash only carseat. 

I make the call to turn around and head home.  

Charlie continues to get sick for a few more hours.  

John and older boys head back to NC to get the pup. 

FRIDAY:  New pup, John and older boys return home.  All is well.

Until...

SATURDAY:  We all go to Gigi's house to show off puppy.  

Finn says, "I don't feel so well" and heads to the toilet where he proceeds to open his mouth and yell at the toilet.  

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I don't KNOW! I've never thrown up before." says Finn.

"Ok. Well, do you feel bad?"  

"I don't know."

That was enough for us to load up the car and take along a bucket just. in. case.

Half-way home...

"Oh no!  It's back!!!"

In warp speed we are in a parking lot, Finn is jerked out of a car, and he figures out how to throw up.

SUNDAY:  Finn is doing well.  Charlie is great.  Everyone is happy, happy, happy. 

But we are riding out that fun 24 hour symptom free window where regardless of how sick your kiddo was the day before, they are perfectly fine and healthy and are bouncing off the walls.  

But you're stuck inside while your husband is at work and everyone on Instagram is posting their beach day pics. 

But...

The dog doesn't seem right.  

Yes.  The dog we have had less than 48 hours at this point.  

Not wanting to move.  Or eat.  Or drink.  Or do anything.  

Off to the vet we go.  They think he swallowed something.  X rays confirm that there is "something" in his abdomen that shouldn't be there.  Surgery is recommended.  Surgery is completed.

Nope.  He didn't swallow a stuffed animal.

He had an undescended testicle that wrapped around his intestines.

I can't make this up.

So...he had a premature neutering. He's half the man he used to be.

At least he's not vomiting.

MONDAY:  Dog comes home.  He acts like nothing happened.  No whining, no biting, no lamp shade collar.  Nada.  It's a miracle.  He's a champ.  Kids are at school.  No more 24 hour windows of symptom worry.  Life is good. 

Until...

WEDNESDAY:  I don't feel so well.  No.  This can't happen.  There is no plan B for moms.  You're on deck and you're at the plate. Every day. 

BUT, thankfully...when this all started back Thursday before, I decided that I would conquer the bug by not eating.  This is not anything I recommend necessarily, but it honestly worked for me.  I ate very, very little so that if/when the bug hit, it would be very disappointed with what it had to work with.  And I like to eat.  But when you have been thrown up on by more than one person in a short period of time, you'd be surprised that food isn't all that appealing.

I escaped the misery everyone else suffered and just had a rough night of pain but woke up knowing that I had passed the test!  

FRIDAY:  We start thinking that we have passed enough time that anyone else who might be getting sick would have already done so.

WRONG.

That night, the dog who just had emergency testicle-wrapped-around-his-guts surgery throws up.

Please note that John and I are scheduled to leave on Saturday at 7am for his mom's 60th bday (ADULTS ONLY) weekend in Atlanta.  I had a swat team of babysitters lined up.  Single spaced instructions typed out and ready.  Clothes laid out.  Bags packed. 

We chalk the dog throw up to having eaten some grass.  Yes.  Grass.  That's the ticket!

NO GO.  We wake up to more vomit in his crate on Saturday morning.  

Babysitters cancelled.  Kids mad when they wake up and see ol' mom instead of fun, young, cute babysitters.  There is no way around this.  Our dog is sick.  Again.

And no lie, as John is pulling out of the driveway heading to Atlanta, I'm walking the pup and the lawn sprinklers turn on and soak us.  

It was symbolic.

Our vet is out of town.  We schedule an appointment with another local vet for some x rays.  

I'm told that it's super unlikely for a dog to catch a virus from a human and that they need to rule out if he has swallowed something.  Here we go again. 

At this point, I had to get out of the house.  We went to lunch.  And all of the days of not eating much hit me and I was STARVING.  So, I ate like a starving person.  Huge sub, big drink, chips and probably most of the kids' leftovers, too.

Get to Petsmart where the vet is.  The reality that our brand new dog might have to have yet another expensive surgery begins to settle in.  And for me, my nervous settling takes place in my belly. 

So, as my dog begins to leave his diarrhea trail all over the store, it becomes obvious that my rebound eating frenzy is about to hit the eject button.  

And it does. 

But there's good news!  Doggie is FINE!  No obstruction.  He didn't swallow anything. 

He did get a stomach bug!  Yay, right?  So I pay the vet half of a semester's worth of college tuition circa 1999, and tell them I'm sorry for the mess. 

Instantly I feel better and start craving pancakes.  So the boys and I celebrate some good news with dinner at Cracker Barrel.  I even win the golf tee game without cheating. 

The stars are aligning.  We are on the way to a better day.

Until...

MONDAY:  I get woken up by Jack at 3:30.  Mom.  I threw up!

You have GOT to be kidding me. 

At this point, I have a preferred order of how I like to clean it up.  

Soak. Spray. Wipe. Spray. Wipe. 

Trash can at bedside.  Kiss on the forehead.  Wash hands.  Back to bed.  Go to sleep fast cause it's coming again. 

It comes again.

TUESDAY:  I download Candy Crush, and we play it all day.  Everyone is fine.  But we're in the 24 hour window.  Again.  We are house bound.  I am a lunatic.

WEDNESDAY:  Everyone is at school again.  We are all excited for baseball that night.  We get to be around people and breathe fresh air and get Ring Pops if we behave.  The Red Sox win big!  Jack goes 3 for 3.  Everyone is giddy.  We are leaving the ball park trying to make conversation with people just to see if we remember how after being hermits for so long.  John gives me a look that I usually interpret as, "Can you shut your pie hole already?  Quit talking because I'm HONGRY!" Except this time I misread the signal. This time he was trying to telepathically say to me, 

"I'm about to puke. Bye."

So, off he goes home to take care of business.  His strategically timed business.  What do I mean by that?  I mean he's off on Thursdays.  He got sick on a Wednesday.  How do dads time these things so well?  :)

So, there it is.  Our two weeks of heck in a handbasket. 

14 days.

5 sick people.

1 new dog. 

1 sick dog. Twice.

Roscoe P. Housetrained (Or Not)

There is a time for everything; and a season for every activity under the heavens. 

Ecclesiastes 3:1

From April 2012 to March 2013, the Ussery Jr. household experienced a season of Roscoe.

And before you get weepy on me, please note that the sweet lug you see below has not died.  

He is in his happiest state yet living with his original owner and trainer on a farm in North Carolina.

(Which "happens" to be about 15 minutes from my parents house!)

Here's the story of Roscoe and why he is no longer with us...

Roscoe came to us from family friends.  He was in need of some human interaction.

And if there is something our household is good for, it's human interaction.

We were grieving Scout but were ready to fill the void in our lives that only a pooch can fill. 

And my hair ball vacuuming biceps had atrophied greatly.  

So, we saw Roscoe as a great opportunity. 

But after a couple of months, his old age seemed to catch up with him.

And his hind quarters couldn't hold on to it's contents as well as one would hope.

And what I mean by that is......

he pooped in the house.

A lot.

In amount and frequency.

In his sleep.  In Finn's bed.

And despite diet changes, veterinary consults, frequent walks and sweet talking, the poor guy continued to have trouble with this. 

We considered an electrical fence so he could freely roam and relieve.

But while an electrical fence would keep him in, it would not keep our backyard reptile friend out.

So, we purchased a lot of carpet cleaner and forged on. 

Until one day when this little tyke found a Roscoe treasure in the house and picked it up. 

Ew.  I know.

So, yes.  Kids pick things up.  Dogs lose control.  These are two natural things in and of themselves.

But the two do not always mix well together.  

After several weeks of prepping the kids and putting some feelers out there for a good home for our black beauty, the heavens opened up and we learned that Roscoe's original trainer (Roscoe was a hot shot hunting dog back in his prime) was ready for a companion dog. 

So our season of Roscoe came to a bittersweet end.

I really wasn't excited to blog about Roscoe.  Not because I'm bitter about the stained carpets. Or because Jack might see some pictures of him and cry (which he might and that's okay), but because I do feel like we failed him somehow. 

And because I was excited to have a sweet, lasting relationship with him.  And that was cut short.

(And because the pet adoption/rescue people will look on us with scorn.  Much like the volunteer lady at the local pet rescue farm who heard about our situation and politely (sarcasm) suggested that we might best be suited to get a stuffed animal instead of a real, breathing, poop machine.  Clearly she did not see the episode of "Strange Addictions" where the couple who couldn't have a baby started collecting Cabbage Patch Kid dolls and ended up hosting playdates with their "son" whom they spoke for in baby talk.)

We will revisit dogdom at some point.  

Perhaps when we have invested in some hardwoods.

And maybe when Charlie exits the pick up everything and put it in your mouth age.

Until then...we will visit our ol' boy down at the farm!

We'll just watch where we step:)