No, DON'T Take Off the Mask!

The other day my husband was watching a show that went behind-the-scenes of the movie "Halloween". As an avid horror movie fan, I was appalled. Not only should they never have made such a thing, but I'm pretty disappointed that my husband would even turn it on in my presence.

"Halloween" is probably one of my all-time favorite horror movies. It's a classic. I mean, who knew that a bright white William Shatner and a few notes on a synthesizer could be so terrifying? But it's all over the second you go behind-the-scenes and see the guy behind the mask. He looks like someone's goofy uncle who wears his shorts too tight and loves to tell knock-knock jokes. I'd be more afraid of him cornering me and giving me a noogie than stabbing me in the guts with a kitchen knife. And can you believe that this "real" Michael Myers was afraid to pull the phone cord too tight because he didn't want to hurt the actress? She kept complaining that the cord was too loose around her neck, and to pull tighter, but he refused. Talk about sending the horror factor right down the crapper...

And if THAT weren't bad enough, the couple from Paranormal Activity made an appearance on some awards show the other night. Wait, weren't you two possessed? Did the Demon release your souls long enough for you to accept an award on his behalf? Disappointing. What's next? The puppet from SAW making a cameo on Sesame Street? Jason on Larry King Live?

It's true that it's getting harder and harder to shock audiences these days. Between the violent video games and the political ads on TV it seems like blood and gore is mainstream. So you would think that the people in charge of creating these horror movie masterpieces would be a little bit more careful in divulging their dirty little secrets. While it's interesting to note when the director's cigarette smoke drifts into the frame, it sort of takes away from the edge-of-your-seat, white knuckle terror to know that someone is standing there having a casual smoke as this poor girl is being attacked. John Carpenter, take note.

I've been informed that my husband has also DVR'd "The Making of Nightmare on Elm Street". I suppose next they'll tell me that Freddie Kruger loves puppies and tuna salad sandwiches. Is nothing sacred?

Johnny's New Skateboard

Johnny is rockin' and rollin' on his new skatebo.....OH NO! Johnny! Watch out for that giant mutant donut!

My Ghost Story

Since it is getting to be that time of year, I decided I ought to share a ghost story. Get your Depends on and gather around the campfire kids, because unlike Paranormal Activity, these are actually REAL experiences had by yours truly. And I mean freaky-real. And I'm not lying. Are you on the edge of your seat yet?

One night when my daughter was about 6 months old (which would have been about two years ago, give or take) I was home alone with her and we were in the bathroom. It was late in the evening, just before bedtime, and I was giving her a bath before we called it a night. Suddenly, without warning, a rubber duck hit me in the face - ok, that wasn't a ghost, that was just Lainey. But immediately following the duck assault I was overcome by the smell of men's cologne. I don't mean a whiff, I mean it surrounded me in a cloud similar to one you'd find in a bar on college night. *Important Story Note: My husband does not wear cologne. He has scented deoderant but that's where his affiliation with Old Spice ends.*

Naturally, I was terrified by the sudden odorous onslaught and I immediately slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it, positive that there was a strange man in my house. I sat on the floor shaking, trying to determine what my strategy should be. Of course this particular bathtime found me without my cell phone (which was charging away happily downstairs), and the only other exit was out the 2nd story window. I could go MacGyver and fashion a zipline out of a wet towel and the electrical line that connected to our house. Wait, wet towel and electricity? Not to mention that this would require my daughter to cling to my back koala-bear style. Ok, scratch Plan A.

I could recreate the scene from Panic Room where she opens the door and runs for her phone before they get to her, but I did not have the benefit of 360 degree security cameras to aid me so unless I had a 2x4 and came out swingin' I wouldn't stand much of a chance. So much for Plan B.

I probably sat on the floor of that bathroom for at least an hour, deliberating on what to do. I did finally remove Lainey from the bathtub before she shriveled away into a tiny pink raisin, and with her sitting on my lap I decided to go through every drawer and cabinet in the bathroom just to make sure that the cologne wasn't something my husband had stashed away. This took up another half hour and turned up unsuccessful.

By this point my daughter was so beyond tired that her exhaustion-induced tantrum could have easily taken the place of a fancy security alarm. And I couldn't stay locked in there forever....so with Lainey in one hand and some spray can of cleaning foam in the other (to douse the intruders eyes with) I boldly left the bathroom and found....




.....absolutely nothing. My cats were snoozing comfortably on the sofa, my doors and windows were all intact, not a thing was out of place.

To this very day, I have no idea what exactly happened that night. But the smell of that cologne was so vivid that I would have no problem picking it out of a lineup even now.

I had sort of let that experience fall back into the recesses of my brain - until about two weeks ago, that is. Around 5am I was literally awoken from my sleep by yet another overwhelming smell - but this time, it was of a woman's perfume. *Important Story Note: I do not wear perfume. Not only do I find that most of them give me allergic headaches, but even if I did enjoy them I don't believe that wearing some to bed is proper protocol*. A quick (and slightly disoriented) scan of the room revealed no one. The bedroom door was not even so much as cracked. I could have checked the closet, but considering the obnoxious squeak of the closet door coupled with the fact that opening it would have sent a mountain of baby clothes down on the intruder, I determined it to be a non-issue. Both my husband and my children continued to snooze away happily, oblivious to the strange happenings. I sat in bed and watched the room, in the dark, for a long while before I eventually fell back asleep.

Two eerily different and yet freakishly similar experiences, with no explanation for either of them. I am nearly certain, after replaying both in my head eleventeen thousand times, that they must be spirit-related. Is it someone who used to live here? Is it my grandparents stopping by for a visit? If so, why did they choose a scent to make their presence known? Perhaps I may never know...but at least I can be thankful that they didn't take on demonic voices and throw me across the room.

*Unimportant Yet Spooky Story Note: As I sit here writing this, there is an owl hooting somewhere very close to my bedroom window.*

A Tale of Irony

It's me again, with another all-true bumper sticker tale.

I had just gotten off work and was heading across town to pick up some dinner when up ahead I saw the distinct red and blue flashing lights that signaled that my particular route to the pizza place was about to become a parking lot.

Sure enough, I began to idle when I noticed a small red car in the opposite lane trying to merge in front of the car behind me. The driver looked very aggitated, perhaps due to the terrible hair cut she had no doubt just received, and she must have assumed that no one could see her yellow blinker because she started to flail her arm in the air towards our lane in some type of crude caveman-style sign language. She may have even been grunting. I think she had been waiting to merge for almost one whole minute at this point, so I can understand her impatience. Unfortunately for her, the car behind me did not understand her signals and once our lane did start crawling again, his car remained permanently attached to my bumper. This made the lady in the red car furious, and in my rearview mirror I saw her face contort in what surely wasn't a verse of "Twinkle Twinkle" and then display another piece of sign language that nearly everybody understands...

Once we passed the sirens and were free to use two seperate lanes again, who should I see flying past me but the woman in the red car. As she disappears ahead of me, I notice a big sticker plastered on her foreign plastic bumper:
Probably not that, if I had to guess.

Johnny Meets Shrek

Johnny was so overwhelmed meeting both Shrek AND a real dinosaur in the same day that he fainted. Given the look on Shrek's face, I sure hope they don't eat him while he's unconscious....

Off to the Pumpkin...Graveyard?

It was a disturbingly beautiful day outside today, and since Halloween comes pretty close to surpassing Christmas as my favorite holiday of the year I naturally got all giddy at the thought of hitting the pumpkin patch.

Honestly, I'm not sure why I hold pumpkin picking in such high regard. Not only am I constantly disappointed in the selection, but my standard for the "perfect pumpkin" is set higher than that creepy Halloween fanatic who has a 30 foot black cat on top of their roof. Silly, really, considering that I have little to no actual pumpkin carving talent so having a flawless pumpkin is pretty much irrelevant. Not to mention that our grocery store's pumpkins are just as round, not to mention significantly cheaper, as any I'd find out in a field. Nonetheless, I take on my annual pumpkin quest with all the enthusiasm of a dog who has found a new fire hydrant.

We loaded the kids up and made our trip to Country Corner (even the name of the place made me gush like a keg of warm apple cider). When we arrived, I excitedly pulled out my camera and made a mental checklist as we headed towards the patch. Beautiful sunny day? Check. Adorable little red wagon? Check. Two happy and equally enthusiastic kids? Check. Perfect pumpkin? Er....Houston, we have a problem.

The second we walked into the patch, henceforth known as the pumpkin graveyard, I knew my perfect pumpkin picking was doomed. Everywhere lay casualties of rodents, sun, and in one corner full of oozing green pumpkins - an apparent nuclear holocaust. We weaved through the vines, desperately (ok, I was probably the only desperate one...) trying to find a pumpkin whose guts were still attached and on the inside. Halfway through my husband calls out "You know, we're probably going to have to just get some off of the shelves out front."

"NO!" my inner child screamed, "I don't want a 'grab a pumpkin from the shelf' memory, I want my warm and fuzzy pumpkin picking memory and I am NOT LEAVING HERE WITHOUT IT!" I tried not to let the cloud of panic and disappointment show as my daughter and I went from rotten pumpkin to rotten pumpkin. Apparently, she too already holds a high standard, as each one we came upon she declared "Not this one, this one is dirty!" Honestly, I would settle for dirt so long as it didn't have a giant gaping sinkhole...

And then I saw it. A tiny little thing, perhaps only 6 or 7 inches tall, sitting all alone. I immediately dispatched my daughter to retrieve it, and when I saw her pick it up I breathed a sigh of relief (because in order for her to pick it up it needs to be almost completely free of dirt particles). It was perfect. Small, but perfect. I breathed a sigh of relief.

We headed out of the graveyard, my daughter carrying her tiny pumpkin triumphantly. And yes, we did stop at the pumpkin shelves in order to get an equally perfect large pumpkin for me to mutilate with a knife - but that was ok, because in the end, I got what I wanted. I got my pumpkin picking memory.

(Ironically, my daughter dropped her pumpkin on the ride home - it may have a concussion and some mild bruising, but that won't stop us from covering it in fingerpaint tomorrow.)

Things I'm Too Old to Laugh At (But Do Anyway)

** The doctor who introduced himself as Dr. Gooey. Ok, I'm sure it isn't spelled just like that, but it SOUNDED just like that, which caused me to chuckle internally and miss the first minute or two of what he was saying.

** The signs that say "Slow Children at Play". Would it really cost that much to add a comma in there, folks?

** My daughter using a curse word. I know I should discourage it but darnit, nothing is cuter than the word "hell" coming out of a two-year-old mouth. At least I don't ask her to keep repeating herself like my husband does...

** The anesthesiologist who let out a not-so-dainty fart while trying to lower the bed rail on Owen's crib. She had the decency to say excuse me instead of trying to pretend like one of the machines collapsed, although that almost made it harder not to laugh.

** The 92-year-old woman I saw at Walmart wearing a Hannah Montana shirt. I was a little worried that the sparkles might interfere with her pacemaker somehow.

** The anectdote I heard recently about a woman who was sending off a business email to a bunch of clients. She signed off on the email "Regards", however, lamented the fact that the letter "G" and the letter "T" are a little too close on the keyboard. Honest - I laugh every single time I think of that story.

** The word masticate.

** And this:

Thanks a Lot, Paula Abdul

I turned on my XM station this morning as I was getting myself and the kids ready for the day when a song came on. It was an old Paula Abdul song, "Straight Up" late 80's awesomeness. I listened for a moment and realized that honestly, the girl never really could sing. She can dance, I'll give her that - and I'd be willing to bet that she can down a 40 in under two minutes flat. But sing? Notsomuch. And yet I distinctly remember being such a huge fan back in my grade school days, thinking that maybe if I teased my hair up into a gigantic wave and choreographed a dance near my hall locker, Keanu Reeves would be all mine.

I mentally scolded myself for ever enjoying such generic, talent-free music. I snickered, even, at the thought of the American Idol execs scanning through a list of musicians, finding Paula, and saying "That's IT! We want her!" What, was Bobo the Singing Groundhog busy that day?

After the referee rang the bell on my mental Abdul-bashing, I went about my day. It wasn't too long though before, seemingly out of nowhere, a song became lodged in my head. A song so horrible, so painful, that it makes Paula shine like a gold-encrusted turd.

Mambo Number 5.

I haven't heard this song in years, and let me tell you - those years were pure bliss. Clearly, this is a case of bad musical karma. Three hours later, it's still stuck in my head and I want to get down on my knees and apologize to the powers that be so that my soul might be released from the torture that is Lou Bega.

Paula, if you're reading - I'm sorry. You are still my homegirl. You may be zonked out on prescription medicines but you rock those sequins like nobody's business and besides, we share a birthday...that has to count for something, right? Could you please call off your musical revenge before I have nightmares about Angela, Pamela, Sandra, and Rita?

Dear Time Goblin...

Dear Time Goblin;

I've had a trying week. I know that you delight in the mischevious thieving of my minutes and hours, but I need them back. I woke up at 7 am, and right now it is just past midnight - yet I can assure you that my day did NOT have 17 hours in it. There is just. no. way. Perhaps you sprinkled blackout dust on me sometime midday when you thought I wouldn't notice, or maybe it was you who lured me into taking that "short" trip to Walmart that turned into a time warp. I'm still not done with the laundry I put in two hours ago - or was it three hours? 5? Really, it's starting to freak me out.

I need to vacuum before one of my children ends up on the show "Your Kid Ate What?". I need to go to the grocery store before we are forced to eat Ramen noodles and ketchup. I need to sleep. If you could find it in your cold, shriveling heart to spare me - even for just one day - I would appreciate it.

Sincerely,
An Exasperated Common Goddess

They're Conspiring Against Us

I think our electronics are conspiring against us.

For a few months now we've been dealing with shorts in the overhead lights in our living room. Sometimes they'd work, sometimes they'd blink, sometimes they'd just go on vacation for a few days and leave us fumbling around in the dark. Finally, about a week ago, they lit up for the very last time and after choking on the repair estimate we decided that seeing your way through the living room is overrated. Candles and the sad little table lamp will have to do for the time being. (Note to self: Be more diligent about picking up stray toys and sharp blocks, because those make navigating the room in your bare feet infinitely more difficult).

Upon my departure to torture-land (also known as our hospital visit last week), it was decided that I would take a phone charger with me in case my phone takes it's last breath in the middle of some really important, life-altering conversation. What we didn't consider was that this would leave my husband with no phone charger, essentially rendering our plan pretty much useless. We HAD another charger at one point, but it decided to spontaneously combust a couple months back and we didn't see the need to replace it. Until now.

Then, the morning after we got back home, our laptop's mouse became the victim of an internal demon. The pointer sat, unmoving, in an eery paralysis despite our attempts to wake it up. Suddenly, without warning, it began to shoot across the screen violently. I half expected foam to start oozing out of the keyboard. And just as suddenly, it came to a rest, where it remained until we were forced to resurrect our old USB mouse. Ironically, the same thing happened to our last laptop - the one that has been shunned to the corner due to the reoccuring demonic possession and it's affiliation with Gateway (which may be one in the same).

Yesterday, as we struggled to use our external computer mouse in the presence of two curious and not-so-careful children, my husband noticed that his cell phone must have had a stroke sometime in the night. The buttons down the left side would not work. So if you have a phone number that involves a 1, 4, or 7, you are out of luck. Wait, you'd be out of luck anyway, because the "CALL" button is there, too. Guess we don't need that phone charger after all...

And if that weren't enough, even my daughter's toy cell phone refuses to ring any longer. It must have reached the end of it's (ridiculously short) plastic lifetime. Unfortunately, somewhere along the lines my daughter learned that the way to fix everything is to stick new batteries in it, and despite having watched Daddy do that very thing, she keeps asking. I'm tempted to throw it against the floor and crack it in half so at least she can SEE that it's broken, and not just think that we are too stupid to properly insert a battery.

I'm happy to report though that the television and the toaster are still functioning, so there is no need to panic just yet...

...But At Least I Got Free PopTarts

Last week was pretty much terrible. I'd like to think that there was a silver lining in it somewhere, but the closest thing I could find was the fact that I got a free package of strawberry PopTarts.
Let me start by informing those of you who aren't members of my family (so basically, my other two readers) that my son has been starting up again with some noisy wheezing and apnea spells. This is certainly a far cry from their predictions two months ago when they assured me he would "outgrow this" and that the reflux medication "should make a big difference". Well, he didn't and it didn't. So his ENT doctor decided he should be admitted to the children's hospital so they could do some testing and see what they would come up with. At this point, Owen's team included doctors from: GI, ENT, pulmonology, cardiology, surgery, and speech pathology. That's right, 6 specialists - not including the cycle of residents, on-call pediatricians, and student doctors. You'd think that with that many people working on the mystery, they could come to some sort of reasonable conclusion?

That sort of optimism was my first mistake.

World's Smallest Mohawk

Get Guiness on the phone - I did it! I FINALLY did it! It's taken over 9 months but my son finally had enough hair for me to fashion into the World's Smallest Mohawk.

Chicago: The REAL Story

It's true, Johnny did come with us to Chicago. He was discovered to have stowed away in my husband's pocket about halfway through the Shedd Aquarium. But really, our story starts out quite a bit earlier in the day - around 6:30am.

We managed to wake the kids up and get them dressed in under a half an hour, which is the closest you can actually get to miraculous without actually being biblical. The car ride worried me, because my son is notorious for being a poor sport when it comes to carseat riding. My daughter was easy - we bribed her with a donut and a promise of dolphins. My son? He slept. It was glorious.

We arrived at the aquarium in a shockingly short amount of time, given the traffic situation in Chicago and the surprising lack of construction work we encountered. Uncle Eli was joining us, and upon news of that Lainey's donut sugar rush kicked into high gear and she was - quite literally - spinning in circles in the lobby.

Johnny and the Windy City

Johnny (and the rest of the family) took a little overnight trip to Chicago this week. He was so excited, the smile never left his face! He had to sit through a long car ride first though:


But when we finally arrived, he couldn't believe the city view (though he had to take it all in quickly, before the treacherous winds blew him into Lake Michigan):


We headed inside the aquarium where Johnny met up with a weedy seadragon:


It had been a long day, so we decided to kick back at the hotel for the night:


The next day, we hit the Brookfield Zoo, where Johnny got to see a rhino:


AND an elephant:


Though I think, despite his happy demeanor, he was slightly disappointed that he was not tall enough to ride the carousel:


It was a great trip, one Johnny will not soon forget.

(PS, Lest you think I'm a terrible mom, I DID get some pictures of my children as well. But that is a longer post for a night when I actually have a few ounces of brainpower left.)

Oh, the Guilt...

It was a beautiful late summer day and I was heading outside to paint some window trim. I noticed a large, bright green insect crawling across the fresh black asphalt in the parking lot at work. It looked pretty neat so I walked over to get a closer look and was horrified by what I found. Sure, it was a praying mantis alright - a HEADLESS ONE! The head was on the ground and it's zombie body was walking around in circles. I contemplated stepping on it when my mother interjected "Leave it alone, maybe it still has a chance!" Now, in my own still-attached head, I knew this was impossible - things aren't meant to walk around headless outside of indie horror flicks. Besides being extremely creepy, it sure would make eating and seeing much more difficult. But despite that, I took her advice, hoping that nature would take it's course sooner than later.

Three hours later (!) I walk back to wash off my paint brush and who should I find still doing figure eights in the parking lot? At this point the creep factor had gone off the charts and I was torn. I could squish him, getting praying mantis juice all over my sneakers, and feel guilty about ending the life of such a neat looking creature. Or I could ignore it (somehow) and continue about my day, and feel guilty about extending the poor things' suffering.

Since when had I come to this? Not too many years ago, decisions came fairly easy to me. I didn't get into moral squabbles with myself over insects. If I wanted to do something, I did it. If I wanted to buy something, I bought it. There was no deliberation, there was no back-and-forth, there was no guilt. But ever since I had kids, my guilt-o-meter has gone into the red zone. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it isn't just about me anymore, or that I've become more maternal, or maybe I'm just getting old. But I feel guilty if my kids eat too much, or if they don't eat enough. I feel guilty for buying myself a new shirt, even if the kids have plenty of clothes already. I feel guilty about letting them watch TV. I feel guilty about not giving to charities enough. I feel guilty about throwing away an entire hamburger that may or may not survive a night in our fridge. I feel guilty about eating an oatmeal cookie at 10pm. I feel guilty that I bought a box of oatmeal cookies to begin with. I feel guilty when I see ASPCA commercials come on TV. I feel guilty when my daughter wants to run and play and dance at a morning hour that most human beings should never have to be awake to see. I feel guilty when I spend time to write a blog when that time should be spent with a vacuum and a dust cloth. I feel guilty over bugs.

In the end, I never did make a decision about the praying mantis. I was told that someone kicked him into the alley to let a car mercifully run over his robotic body, but I never saw him again. Which is probably for the better, because if I'd have been the one who crushed him with my tires I might not ever live it down...

Reason I Love Being a Mom #221

Reason I Love Being a Mom #221: Because there is no other place I'd rather be than curled up on the edge of the bed - teetering, in fact - thanks to a snuggly little bed hog that allows me nearly 6 whole inches of sleeping space in our king sized bed.

PS, No, I wasn't trying to suffocate him with green aluminum foil. That's just his giraffe lovey turned inside-out.

I'm Not a Hippie!

I was talking to a woman the other day about my son's amber teething necklace and a random assortment of other small talk when she says, "What are you, some kind of new-age hippie?" She then laughed as if she had just come up with a joke that would blow George Carlin out of the water. I, on the other hand, was not nearly as amused. Me, a hippie? A HIPPIE?!

Sure, I DO use cloth diapers for the sake of the environment and my budget. And yes, I clean with vinegar instead of chemicals and try to use rags and washcloths instead of paper towels whenever possible for the same reasons. And so what if I like to walk around barefoot, even when I'm outside? Most flipflops are just another method of Chinese torture to me. And honestly - who doesn't love a good granola bar once in a while? Perhaps the healing power of stones isn't everyone's cup of tea but I do believe the amber has made a difference with my son, at least on a small scale. And...ok....I DO implement gentle discipline, I wore my kids in wraps and back carriers, I cosleep, and I tend to ignore the CDC vaccination guidelines in favor of my own schedule. And I will freely admit that my favorite color is rainbow, because I believe in giving every color a fair shot, and that my favorite animated movie growing up was "The Last Unicorn". Peace is a pretty awesome thing, and will gladly honk at anyone with a big sign that says so. And, come to think, it sometimes does take me a day or two (or three) to find time to take a full shower....and when I wake up sometimes my hair does resemble a frizzy dreadfro (a cross between an afro and dreadlocks)....

Huh....

Ok, ok, maybe she has a point. Maybe I AM a new-age hippie?

Freecycle Woes

When I first heard about Freecycle, I thought it seemed like a swell idea. I'm a frugal person, so anything with the word "free" attached to it draws me in like a moth to a flame. In fact, in my first week I scored an outdoor climber/slide - and that thing has been colored on, climbed up, jumped on, thrown at, broken, fixed, moved, slid down, rained on, snowed on, puked on, and peed on and it's still standing there in the corner of our yard, ready to take another beating.

Lately, however, I've found Freecycle to be rather sub par. Sure, I understand that things are free and therefore I don't expect them to be in mint condition - but spider infestations? Yellow stains? I'll pass, thanks. And I've already sent emails to two seperate people who have offered expired carseats. One didn't realize and said thank you, the other one shot me a snotty email back that said "That's why it's FREE." Silly me, I guess it's ok to endanger children as long as you don't charge someone to do it...

But to even find those things you have to sift through a hundred "WANTED" ads first...they should rename it Begcycle. For instance, someone recently was asking for a working 42" LCD TV, preferably a wall-mount. Seriously? I know there are some kind and generous people out there, but this almost surpasses Begcycle and goes right to Greedcycle.

On the bright side, no one emails me with an offer to send a certified check if I can hold their item and then arrange a dropoff with their mail-order wife at the airport, or sends me iPhone ads - so at least it has one-up on Craigslist.

From the Mouths of Babes

Here, I have compiled some snippets of actual conversations between my two year old and myself. Personally, I can't understand why anyone would pay to go see stand-up comedy - I have one working for free at my house, practically 24/7. Enjoy!

-- "Mommy, I have toots in my butt."
-- "I'm NOT a kangaroo, I'm a big girl."
-- "What do we do today? Let's catch the stars!"
-- "Does your car want to eat blueberries?"
-- "I don't want to say 'Arr Matey', I'm not a pirate anymore."
-- (I was building blocks with her and built a train, and showed it to her...with the same tone you would use to talk to a really slow person she says...) "That's not a train, mommy, that's some blocks."
-- "Let's go reaaaally FAST! Go high in the sky! And then we'll have lunch, ok?"
-- "I'm watching soccerball in Chinese."
-- "I love ants, and mommy, and Owen Edward, and TAMBOURINES!"
-- "My car likes raisins." (She managed to shove two raisins into a tiny Matchbox car window that took 5 minutes, a tweezer, and steady hands to remove).
-- "Does Owen want to go to the party in my tummy?" (Me - "No, that's silly!") "No mommy he is tasty. Sweet like candy!"
-- "I never get any birthday cake!" (Followed by a full-on pout)
-- "A lion says ROOOAAR! A monkey says hoohoohaha. Mommy says 'hi baby'."
-- "I can't eat my peas. I'm too little."

But one of the best one took place the other night, as I was tucking her in to bed. We had just finished the required two books and one song, and - as usual - I said 'I love you' and 'goodnight', to which she replied, "I wuv you too! Get out of here mommy, I'm tired."

The Idiot's Guide to Owen

I've had a lot of people ask me lately, "So what's wrong with your son?". Because he is such a complex little booger, I decided to type up some cliff notes - The Idiot's Guide to Owen, if you will. I'll have you know that I diagnosed at least three of these things prior to the doctors thanks to my extensive Googling. I'm confident that has earned me some type of honorary doctorate, however their club is pretty exclusive so this will have to serve as my official journal publication.

PATIENT: Owen
BIRTHDATE: 11/27/09

DIAGNOSES (Heart):
Let me start with a example. First, a healthy heart:And then, Owen's heart:Actually, it's not so much as his heart as it is his aorta...which is really a blood vessel that comes off of the heart...ok, scratch that diagram....

1) Vascular Ring - Owen presented with prolonged screaming fits and a tendancy to choke, gasp and gargle while eating. We were told over and over again that he was simply congested, and to run a humidifier. I attributed it to everything from milk intolerance, to disliking the outfit I had picked for him that day (in fact, I literally threw out a red hooded onesie that seemed particularly problematic). Turns out, Old Navy was not at fault - after some pressure on the doctors, a CT scan was ordered which uncovered the REAL culprit. His aorta actually curves the wrong direction (known as a Right Aortic Arch) and has forced some other things, like his trachea and esophagus, to get pushed out of the way. In addition, he was born with an extra blood vessel that was fused together with his aorta, forming a "vascular ring" that was literally squeezing his trachea and esophagus shut. The ring was surgically repaired in Feb 2010 at the tender age of 3 months

What they left alone at the time of that surgery was something called Kommerell's diverticulum which, thanks to the aforementioned ring, is basically large bulge, or balloon, in his aorta that was pressing on his esophagus. I'm guessing that doesn't feel too great and is why he spits out any solid foods as if it were rat poison. This portion of his anatomical discombobulation was surgically repaired on March 28th, 2011.





2) Bicuspid Aortic Valve - This never presented as anything, really, and was only found incidently during another scheduled echo of his heart. Much like the rubber thingys in your garbage disposal, your heart has three leaflets that open and close when blood flows in an out. Owen has only two (well, ok, he HAS three, but two have fused together so really there is one big one and one little one). Also, like the rubber thingys in your drain, stuff can collect on them and cause problems, which leads me to...

3) Aortic Valve Sclerosis - This is the "gunk" that accumulates on heart valves and then calcifies like leftover meatloaf in the back of our refrigerator.  Down the road, gunk build-up may cause his two valves (the big fused one and the little one) to work a little harder than necessary.

4) Heart Murmur - This is a result of the valve mentioned above. It was agreed that this was not significant enough for surgery right now but that they would follow Owen with regular echos to make sure his heart is functioning A.O.K until such time as he needs treatment.

5) VSD (Ventricular Septal Defect) - Otherwise known as a hole in your heart. Owen's VSD is small, and located directly under his aortic valve - which thankfully is a place where it isn't causing much commotion. It will likely never close, but we hope it will never be a cause for concern either.

DIAGNOSES (Other):

1) GERD - GastroesomethingIdon'tfeellikespellingout reflux disease. Technically, he's been diagnosed with this twice. The first time, he was held down while a scope was inserted up his nose and down his throat (SO much fun!) and they concluded that since they saw nothing, he must have reflux. I was still working on my honorary doctorate at this point, and therefore did not make the connection between "we found nothing" and "reflux". However, despite this, he was put on a medication for it - which he promptly threw up - over and over again. He was then put on another medication, which cost us not only an arm and a leg, but fingers and toes too. After no obvious improvement, he was taken off the medicine. Fast forward a few weeks, we held him down as they inserted another scope up his nose and down his throat (which he hated just as much as the first time) except at that point, his esophagus is inflammed, meaning he has silent reflux. Bad news: Silent reflux is worse, because instead of spewing it out he swallows it back down, allowing the acid to burn his throat twice. Good news: Less puke stains on my shirt. Back onto the ridiculously expensive medicine...  UPDATE:  As of Jan 2014, we have taken him off of the reflux medicine as it did not appear to be making any improvement and it is not a medicine you are intended to take for an extended period of time.  Off the medicine he is the same as he is off of it, so I'm not 100% sure I'm on board with this diagnosis still.

2) Laryngomalacia - This was found during that same delightful scope. He was presenting with a high-pitched gaspy noise, similar to one that you would make if you accidently sucked a marble down your windpipe (or at least I'm guessing). Due to the fact that he was a baby and didn 't understand the concept of "Please stop screaming even though we have this tube up your nose and down your throat", they had a hard time getting good pictures, but they did get enough to confirm the existence of this defect of his larynx. Basically, the top of his airway collapses slightly when he takes deep breaths in, causing a squeaking noise. This is compounded by the GERD, since the acid spew he coughs up aggravates his larynx even further. I've been assured that he will likely outgrow both of these things.   
UPDATE:  As of Jan 2014, this defect appears to have resolved itself.  Woot!

3)  Tracheobronchomalacia - Whew, that's a tough one, right?  It is believed that this rare abnormality is because of the vascular ring that compromised the development of his trachea during fetus-hood.  His airway is not as strong as most, so if airway gunk (not to be confused with calcified heart gunk) gets down into his trachea and lungs, it is a struggle for him to clear it out - sort of like using a spoon to bail a sinking boat.

3) Severe Food Aversion and/or Eating Disorder and/or something else - Owen has not ever consumed anything beyond a thin puree consistency. At over 3 years old he still relies heavily on medical formula to meet his nutritional needs. Prior to his second surgery, we assumed that part of his difficulty eating was because of the diverticulum blocking his esophagus. Post-surgery, he actually started taking an interest in real foods like granola bars, mashed potatoes, etc. But suddenly, that stopped, and now we are back to a daily struggle to get him to consume more than a few ounces of purees - let alone table foods like a normal kid his age should be doing. We have made visits to the University of Iowa Children's Hospital, Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago, and the Mayo Clinic, and Owen's case is just so unusual that they have nothing left to offer us except to keep an eye on him and hope that he overcomes these obstacles on his own.   
UPDATE:  I'm happy to say that as of Jan 2014 his eating has drastically improved.  He now eats some solid foods and no longer requires the medical formula we came to know and hate.  It's still an uphill battle most days but his openness to eating a more varied diet is improving daily.

4) PANDAS - This stands for "pediatric autoimmune neurological disorder associated with strep".  Around his 3rd birthday, Owen started showing some autistic characteristics.  He repeated things often and would become violently upset if you didn't repeat them back, he developed some strong OCD tendencies such as lining up toys and visiting the bathroom so many times that we may as well have just set up a tent in there.  He also had a motor tic of eye blinking which started to become so prominent that he did it every 3-4 seconds, all day long.  A visit to the pediatrician regarding these tics incidentally found him to have completely symptom-less strep throat - because, you know, nothing with Owen can be normal and straightforward.  A round of antibiotics and all of his behaviors disappeared.  Confused and intrigued, we visited a specialist who diagnosed him with PANDAS, saying that the strep bacteria actually triggers the bodies own immune system to attack part of the brain which is responsible for - you guessed it - motor and speech behavior.  So basically, his inflamed brain made him do it.

5) Genetics (yet to be determined) - This year, Owen was looked at by a team of geneticists at Mayo Clinic. He has a significant history for having some sort of genetic disorder or mutation, but nothing they could pin down. His basic genetic array test came back free of deletions or duplications, which essentially stunned the genetics team (and let me tell you, that's hard to do!).  So, they sent us away and told us to come back in a few years once more medical advances in genetics had been made so they could reevaluate him.  Yes, really.

So there you have Owen in a nutshell. There are so many people in the world who struggle with disease, deformities, and defects on a daily basis - and while Owen may be a complicated thing on the inside, he's a normal, happy boy otherwise and for that I consider us to be among the lucky. All the doctors, all the hospitals, all the office visits and phone calls haven't changed his smile one bit. Flesh, bone, and steel!