Fit the tab into the buckle and pull low and tight across your hips

I am just coming to terms with last Wednesday. And I had a whole long weekend to recover from it.

It started with the guy who came over to adapt my new grill from propane to natural gas. My awesome electrician's son had planned to come do it (and that's some good eye candy), but an unanticipated rewire of a house in midtown and the crap weather of last week made it impossible for him to come by. The electrician, though, didn't want to leave me in a lurch (imagine that, gardener!) and sent a colleague over.

The colleague, though really really nice, kinda hit me by surprise. First off, he was struck by a motorcycle when he was stranded on the side of the road, which left him half-paralyzed a year ago. So, he's still got a substantial hitch in his giddy-up. Two, he brought his chihuahua with him. I was concerned about his steadiness on my uneven driveway and patio. I would have felt terrible if the motorcycle accident had paralyzed him, but my lawn furniture had finished him off. Second, who brings a chihuahua with to hook up a grill?

Clearly, I had no business playing with natural gas (I really need my eyebrows) but I hadn't planned on supervising the whole modification procedure. Two hours gone.

Then, I head off to school for the 3rd, yes 3rd, Thanksgiving celebration of the week. Yes, Virginia, the Pilgrims ate Froot Loops and DID drink Capri Sun out of foil pouches during the first Thanksgiving. You got a problem with that?

THEN, I had to go to the girlie doctor for my annual TSA-style check up. Which, of course, provoked all the usual questions pertaining to my mortality. Especially: if 40 is the new 30, then why do I need a mammogram now? Do the girls not know they are ten years younger than they were a generation ago? Ugh. Although seeing all the mothers-to-be in the waiting room with their babydaddies always gives me a chuckle. There was this woman sitting with her mom-to-be folder cooing over every prenatal milestone with her man beside her: "AWWW. Look what the baby can do at 18 weeks. AWWWWWWWW at 22 weeks. AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW at 28 weeks."

Meanwhile, I'm playing on my iphone because sitting in the waiting room listening to mellow music and doing the online crossword puzzle is the first calm I've had all day. I'm thinking, "wait 'til you get a load of what they do during week 312, lady! I'll give you a hint: it involves permanent markers, hot wheels, and your new upholstery. Sucker."

I'm all proud of myself as the woman with the mature uterus until the nurse asks me to get up on the scale. What kind of sadism is this doctor practicing? And, why, oh why, on my health history questionnaire is there a box to tick off if I wear my seat belt? SEAT BELTS? This is how we assess my quality of life? Do I smoke? Do I drink? Do I wear a seat belt?! For real? How about the box where I check that I do all three. At once. Or if I eat vegetables occasionally. Or if I eat fried foods at every meal. Nope. Seat belts=how seriously you take your health.

After finally escaping with an ego feeling its age and my girlie parts excessively lubed up, I head for the boys' friends' houses. Very nice friends have picked up my kids from school and taken them home to play. Unfortunately, said friends live on opposite ends of the universe. I stop in at the grocery and head to midtown to Friend #1.

Friend #1 is the most optimistic, good natured soul. EVER. It's just really beyond belief how upbeat and positive she is. TOTALLY unlike me. I just sit back in awe, thinking she should be in a zoo or something. Where's the cynicism? The angry humor? The wry and insulting sarcasm?

I have groceries in my trunk, and I walk into her (immaculate) house and agree to chat. But, time gets away from me. I realize I've imposed for nearly an hour while Friend #2 has S at her house. ACK! I rush out and half-drive, half text Friend #2. (And the doctor thinks a seat belt is important. Hah!)

EXCEPT. I accidentally text Friend #1 the message intended for Friend #2. Fortunately, Friend #1 is (as mentioned earlier) perfect, so I had nothing nasty to say, but was a bit frazzled at the mix-up nonetheless.

Now, I'm driving in holiday traffic, panicked, and trying to retext Friends 1 and 2 to clarify the mistake.

Blessedly, Friend #2, KH is the most laid back mom ever. She has boys and babies and chaos and seems remarkably sober and well adjusted depsite it. She called and offered to keep S overnight. Which is AWESOME, since it would have taken several more hours in that traffic to get to her house anyway. She's laughing at my texting gaffe. Her LOL comes through as actual laughing.

Finally, I got home. E and M and I wolf down our belated dinner and chillax in front of the TV. I refuse to tell M of the texting debacle since he is anti-text anyway. Around 10, KH calls me. S wants to come home.

I get BACK in my car, which I have been in for a substantial part of the day, and head off to pick up S. Who has been keeping KH's household up for hours. I apologize, pick up my kid, and head home.

Finally. It's 10:30 and everyone's asleep. I thought of my new scripts (Hooray! Chemical sanity!) to console me and my girls for their medical trauma. I faded into sleep and dreamed of more awkward texting scenarios, wondering if perhaps wearing a seat belt is really my best option.

This post rated G for Gross

A couple of weeks ago, we had to take S back to the gastroenterologist for his bi-annual check up. And the whole thing is a clustercuss.

For one thing, the pediatrics specialty offices affiliated with the university are located in an old hospital. So, upon walking in, everything seems kind of normal, if labyrinthine, but soon everything gets kinda weird.

The reception desk is the old nurses' station. It's a giant counter. The waiting room is two old hospital rooms combined. And the actual patient rooms are hospital rooms. So, they are relatively huge compared to normal clinic rooms. They all have bathrooms. Plus, they're under-furnished. Big, old, tiled hospital rooms with one little exam table, a series of cubbies with GI information, and a hard wooden chair to wait in. The whole effect is something like Cuckoo's Nest meets The Shining.

Which really starts to mean something when I tell you we wait at this doctor's office forever. Every time. This time it was an hour and 45 minutes. And then we really start to feel like we're Jack Nicholson.

So, the doctor is asking me all these questions about S's eating habits, pooping habits, growth, etc. etc. We go through the same questions every time. Every time, I remind the doctor that with the exception of my mother, my family are tall. I would be tall if not for spinal surgery. M's brother is crazy tall. S's brother is crazy tall. Tall is something we do. Except for S. So, his 12th percentile is really more significant than at first blush, since the rest of us are in the 75 or above.

So, we go over all of this again, and he gives S a cursory physical examination. He palpates some poop. Reminds me to go back to giving S Miralax daily. Urgh.

After a couple of days on the Miralax, I feel bad for poor S. He's gone from Jack Johnson, all Sittin' Waitin' Wishin' to Paul McCartney, a Man on the Run, as it were. And we're supposed to be checking the evidence and keeping mental notes of how it all, um, comes out.

A couple of notes about that: we have issues with the boys forgetting to flush. So, telling S to wait and not flush is counter intuitive to the goals of a sanitary house. Second, I am not a connoisseur of pooh. It all looks like pooh. And I have no burning desire to inspect it. I leave the pooh inspection to labs on walks and techs in labs.

But, hilariously, we have a chart to measure the pooh. And all I can think of is that stupid pooh character from a really dumb Canadian animated show about Terrence and Phillip, or was it South Park? I dunno. Here's the chart, anyway, in case you need/want to check your pooh:

You need to strive for #4, if you're wondering. And, Bristol, wherever you are now: Thank you for your AMAZING contribution to medicine. Without this chart, all would be lost.

Pooh Inspection has worn thin on me, so I have taken to shouting at S when I hear him race off to the potty:

Are you in the potty?

-yes

Are you going poop?

-yes

Is it regular?

-yes

Did it hurt?

And, my son, bless him, even he has a shred of privacy and doesn't shout everything through the rooms of our house for all to hear, screams back:

STOP ASKING ME POOP JEOPARDY QUESTIONS!!

Ooh. Soorry. The correct answer should be phrased as a question.

Das Auto

I heart leasing vehicles. Because that makes today the happiest day for the next 3 years and 36,000 miles:

Julie: Keeping the economy afloat since 1975.

The Physics of Parenting

As far as I understand physics, which is not very far, current theories abound on alternate dimensions, alternate realities, wormholes through mulitidimensional spaces, the possibility that our reality is merely a hologram, and a space/time continuum that can be disrupted with a flux capacitor.

Very intelligent people with very advanced degrees and brains much bigger than mine are probing the universe both vast and miniscule for proof of these ambitious theories. I, however, have found proof.

Yes, it's true. I know that you're thinking, "J, I've seen you try to calculate a tip at lunch. There is no way you have solved the enormous mysteries of the universe."

But, I have seen and heard with my own senses the reality of an alternate universe. For real. And people, that universe is beautiful.

First, let me explain the players in our universal dilemma:

Reality A: That is the reality I know. It's the reality in which my friends here exist, the planar dimension in which children, laundry, discipline, homework, and all other trappings of mortal life exist.

Reality B: This reality has accidentally intruded upon my reality. This is the reality for people without children who live in real cities, have disposable income and free time.

Wormhole: The cell phone, equipped with the flux capacitor, with which I am able to communicate with Reality B.

Holographic Me: HM. The person on the other end of the flux capacitor cell phone. Sounds a lot like my younger, married, blissfully childless sister.

Now, the first blip, if you will, of the space/time continuum between Realities A and B occurred last week. HM contacted me through the Wormhole and asked what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas? That's like 2 Reality A months away! Nobody in Reality A is thinking that far ahead. Reality A people have dug their claws in and are just trying to survive effing Halloween. Clearly, Reality B time accelerates much faster than ours.

The next blip occurred three days after the conversation with HM. A box arrived on my doorstep. Was this UPS man MY UPS man? Was he a Reality A UPS man? Or was he the John Connor of UPS men? Was he a messenger not of material goods, but of space and time itself?!?

Upon opening the box, I found a gorgeous Williams-Sonoma salt-keeper made of hand polished Italian olive wood. This very item was what I told the HM I wanted for Christmas. Holy shit!! HM is sending me my wishes from an alternate dimension.

Yesterday, another box arrived from HM. It was a very appropriate, hip and well-fitting sweater for M. HM had processed my request for clothing for my husband and sent it through the wormhole device through the personage of the intergalactic UPS man? Things were indeed getting seriously cool.

THEN. This conversation. Between me and HM through the Wormhole. all the evidence in the Reality A that another reality clearly exists.

HM: You said your kids needed pj's for Christmaskah. (wow. HM even knows my hybrid holidays)

Reality A Me: Yes. PJ's are things that children on our planet sleep in.

HM: Yes. I am in Target. In the boys' section. I see pj's. I need to know what size your boys are.

RA Me: S is XS. E is M. Thank you!?!

HM: E likes this Bakugan (buh-KU-gun) thing, no?

RA Me: Yes. It is called BAK-u-gan. I don't really understand it, but it appears to be something Earthlings his age are playing with.

HM: Target has these bak-u-GAN pjs here. They seem to be navy with some kind of bomb thingys all over the pants.

RA Me: Oh, yah. He has those. Weird. Those exist in your universe, too? Perhaps they have Phineas and Ferb pjs in his size. His brother already has the Phineas and Ferb ones, but E would probably like them, too.

HM: What are you saying? Fin YAY us and Fur?

RA Me: Sorry, the Wormhole connection must not be clear. Phineas and Ferb. It's a cartoon series.

HM: How would I recognize this Finny and Fur pj?

RA Me: Phineas and Ferb. There's a ninja fighting platypus on the front.

HM: Now you're just messing with me. You can't just put random words in order and make a sentence. You must use proper, sensical words in my universe.

RA Me: No, for real. His name is Agent P. The pants have his nemesis on them. Jewish looking dude in a lab coat? His name is Dufenshmirtz. Wanna hear his theme song?

HM: Seriously. I am looking for pajamas. I do not know what the hell you are talking....oh, shit. Look at that! I found the Ninja platypus. Part mammal, part reptile, entirely effed up.

RA Me: Yes, and my son tells me that the male platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind food. Seriously strange. But I digress.

HM: OK. I have the Finny Furry pjs. Now, what about the other son? They have something here with animated cars that talk and have eyeballs instead of headlights?

RA Me: No. Those aren't cool anymore.

HM: Does S want the Backy gan pjs?

RA Me: No. S hates Bakugan. (Why can HM not learn this word?!?) What else do they have?

HM: It appears as though there are Star Wars characters made out of....Lego pieces?

RA Me: Yes! PERFECT. He loves Lego Star Wars.

HM: There were no Legos in Star Wars. Also, what is this creature that looks like a lizard? What is a Clone Wars?

RA: Yes. We call it cross marketing. Lego has recreated the entire Star Wars Universe in Lego pieces. They sell the kits for bazillions of our monetary units. Also, George Lucas created another episode of the Star Wars saga with animated aliens to expand the time between the young Jedi Anakin's training and his rebirth as Darth Vader. I think the lizard thing you see might be Ahsoka. Is it female?

HM: What the @#(*() are you talking about?

RA Me: Actually, that was way nerdier than I anticipated. Yes, get the Lego-ized animated alien pajamas. That will make son #2 happy.

HM: Great. These are only like $12. Their Christmas shopping is done, too. I'll go over to the Lego store and pick up a couple of those kits.

RA Me: YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE LEGO STORE!?!? S would explode with happiness.

HM: Yes, it's right next door to Banana Republic.

RA Me: YOU HAVE BANANA REPUBLIC?!?! I would explode with happiness.
I love your universe.

HM: I've been shopping for like 3 hours. I'm almost done with my Christmaskah list.

RA Me: But how did you shop with the kids whining and bitching and touching and begging to go home?

HM: Don't have 'em. Don't want 'em. I'm done. I'll drop these things in the mail tomorrow. Bye.

RA Me: (left staring at the Wormhole) Woah. No kids. Banana Republic. Amazing. Christmas shopping all done in peace and quiet? Woah. *Shiver*

It's humbling, people. It's a big universe. And CLEARLY, there is intelligent life out there.