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Dear Body,

I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but you gave me quite a scare this week. I ignored you when you manifested dizziness Tuesday night, but then you got more insistent that you needed attention. Thanks so much for Wednesday morning’s nausea, sweating and shortness of breath — the cherries on the top of the dizziness sundae.

And Brain, you didn’t help. You know just enough about medical issues — thanks, “Trauma: Life in the E.R.” and “Forensic Files” — to be worried.

Screen Shot 2016-06-04 at 11.32.51 AMSee No. 3-5 above. And note also that dizziness is one of the symptoms of a stroke as well.

Yeah. So …

Like any good mom potentially having a heart attack or stroke, I drove my kids to camp then drove myself to the hospital. (It’s what we do. Amirite, moms? We keep our shit together.)

I was pretty sure I was fine, but what if I wasn’t?

The good news is that I got plenty of attention at the hospital. When you list symptoms like mine, folks tend to take notice.

I got a date with an EKG. I also enjoyed a chest X-ray with a CT scan thrown in for kicks. Perhaps the best part of my adventure was stumbling down the hallway wearing a half-open “gown” and carrying a urine sample. Good times!

I knew I was going to be OK, though, when they booted me out of my room and into the hallway to make room for another patient. An hour or so later, the attending physician deemed it appropriate to give me 30 seconds of his time to declare I had vertigo.

Me: Great! So what caused it?
Dr. Personality: We don’t know.
Me: How long will I have it?
Him: It only lasts a couple of hours.
Me: I’ve had it since last night.
Him: Well, it will go away in a little while.
Me: Will it come back?
Him: We don’t know.
Me: Fantastic! I feel completely informed!

(I made up that last line.)

I went home with anti-vertigo and anti-nausea medicine, a fancy plastic and paper bracelet, and a serious of unread texts from friends and coworkers who wanted to know WHAT THE HECK?!

Since this happened, friends have come out of the woodwork to tell me about their experiences with vertigo. And I’ve discovered that stress can trigger or worsen vertigo.

Oh.

Well.

It was Week 10 of a 10-week quarter. I did just finish a 33-page qualitative research paper. So, um, it’s a little understandable, I guess.

Anyway, I’m fine. Fine!

I promise.

But thanks for the reminder, Body, that I need a vacation. Stat!

Love always,
Beth

 

*A Mark Twain misquote. He actually wrote, “The report of my death was an exaggeration.”

 

 

 

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Dear Eddie, Love of My Life,

I read “Toddler barfs in the car, dad freaks, epic text exchange ensues” today and laughed so freakin’ hard.

You know why.

What do you mean you don’t?

Sure you do.

It was July 2005. We were coming back from spending a few days with our friends in Daytona Beach. At six months old, Dominic was already swimming. (People can try to dispute that fact, but we have the video evidence.) Despite the fact that it was a short-ish drive home, we decided to stay overnight at a hotel with a pool to give Dominic more water time.

We found a good prospect off I-95, and I went in to ask about vacancies. (This is during the dark ages, i.e., pre-iPhone days.)

I came out of the hotel with bad news to find you honking and gesturing wildly at the baby. I opened the door to the back seat and looked at Dominic.

“How did he get ahold of chocolate?” I thought.

“Oh God, that’s not chocolate,” was my next thought.

I’m a mom, so I sprang into action.

“You get the car seat,” I barked. “I’ll handle the baby.”

I stripped that poor kid down to the nude on the sidewalk. I grabbed him around the middle and walked around the hotel to find a hose. Yes, a hose. I hosed him down right there in front of the window into happy hour at the hotel. When you have a screaming, naked baby covered in poop, you do not care about civility. Or, apparently, water temperature (sorry, Dominic).*

I’m not sure you knew all the above as you were dealing with a ripe car seat. As I recall, we had to quarantine the car seat cover in a trash bag and let Dominic sit strapped into towels the rest of the way.

It’s the Dad Panic that makes this story and the barf story above funny. Why was the guy’s first order of business post-barf to call his wife? What could she do over the phone? Why did you immediately start honking?

The world may never know.

Anyway, he was OK, we were OK, and now we have a great story to tell.

Love you, even if you did freak out that one time,
Beth

*People reading this: Do not call DFCS. Dominic was then, and is now, totally fine. He was used to roughing it. We didn’t have baby wipe warmers.

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Dear Bathroom-fixated Bureaucrats/Legislators:

The abundance of so-called “bathroom bills” is mystifying to me. Why is this a thing? Am I supposed to carry my birth certificate with me just in case I’m stopped by the Potty Police? Can I not use the men’s room when the women’s room has a line 10 deep? Is there really an epidemic of pedophiles stalking children in bathrooms?

I’m not down with the POV of people and groups such as the Family Research Council on their support of these bills. To me, the FRC’s six “talking points” should never be spoken aloud, much less written. Are you folks listening to yourselves?

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I am NOT worried about pedophiles in the bathroom preying on my kids. Why? Because my kids are old enough to holler at someone who is doing something inappropriate and/or leave the bathroom immediately and tell Eddie, me or another adult in charge. Do other parents not discuss today’s version of stranger danger with their children? If my kids were younger, they would not be in the public bathroom without me or Eddie. So I don’t really understand what the fuss is all about.

I AM worried about a different kind of filthy person: the kind who leaves the bathroom a crime scene. I don’t want to have to wear a hazmat suit to answer nature’s call.

Where is the outrage over pee on the seat and floor?

Where is the disgust over lady products wadded haphazardly in disposal bins?

Where is the fuss over floaters?

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THAT is what bothers me on a daily basis, not the thought of a transgender person needing to use the facilities. I’m not even worried about sexual predators (see reason above). I’m worried about people who don’t wash their hands. Germs kill!

If you must have Privy Patrol, let them cite for infractions such as:

  • Burglary of All the Toilet Paper
  • Assault with a Deadly Scent
  • Leaving the Scene of an Accident

I’ll be writing my congressman.

Yours in Sanitation,
Beth

 

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Dear Readers,

I apologize for my radio silence. I have writer’s block. Well, it’s not a block as much as it is a bad case of self-censorship. I assure you I’m not “wasting time,” George R.R. Martin style.

Until I post a new letter (read: decide to stop worrying about offending someone), here is a fun matching game for you to play.

Match the comment with the person who said it to me. Answers at the bottom.

  1. “Will you make time for my funeral?”
  2. “If you swallow your gum, you can just poop it out.”
  3. “Can we go to Lowe’s? I need some red tape.”
  4. “You’re quiet. Are you upset? Are you mad at me?”
  5. “Something is wrong with you.”

A. My 11-year-old son
B. My 9-year-old son
C. My father
D. My boss
E. My husband

Note: Void where prohibited. Action figures sold separately. Results may vary. Contents under pressure. Consult your physician if fever persists for more than three days or if pain continues for more than five days. All sales final.

See you here soon (I hope),
Beth

Your life sucks without me.

1. C, 2. B, 3. A, 4. D, 5. E

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IMG_2853Dear Maureen,

Only a true friend would give me a taxidermied raccoon arm/paw as a gift. You are a true friend. Even better, it was just a Tuesday — not my birthday, Christmas, or any other gift-giving occasion.

This critter appendage now likely is having more fun in death than its owner had in life. I know my family and I had fun taking photos with it (see gallery below). I even started an Instagram account.

Thank you from the bottom of my taxidermy-loving heart,
Beth

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img_car_fam03Dear Gary and Joy Lundberg,

I read your article, “5 ways adult children hurt their parents without realizing it.” It was a timely read as I visited my aging father over the weekend. Though you make some excellent points, I’d like to respond with points of my own.

Your Point 1: You don’t call them much

You note that adult children should “be sure to include some good news” when they call. They have to because if the children don’t include some good news, there won’t be any at all. Every time I call my father, or Eddie calls his mom, or my coworker Anita calls her father, etc., we hear about exploding spleens, the consistency of colon output, new affronts to personal world view, “that damn doctor,” or “these kids today.”

Adult children understand that parents have less control over their lives and that makes them scared and angry. Children also understand that parents are on many medications that alter their mood. But that behavior also makes visits seem like being held hostage by an angry badger. Would you repeatedly subject yourself to an angry badger? What if the badger was not only angry, but also complained when you didn’t allow yourself to be held hostage?

What’s worse is that children remember what their parents were like when they were growing up. They compare the new, cranky badger parent with the memory of the parent who raised them. Often those seem like two completely different people.

Aging isn’t fun; everyone knows that. Adult children know it too as they also are aging. People can either try to have a positive attitude or they can be angry badgers. Don’t be an angry badger.

Your Point 2: You ask them for money

Your comment, “You’re an adult and capable of providing for yourself and family,” is so true. So true! I know of many adult children who are still sucking off the teat. Their parents should stop allowing it, but parents love to be needed. Saving the day is a hard habit to break.

But what about when children have to take care of their parents plus their teat-sucking brethren? What about the families where there is one responsible adult child and the rest are deadbeats? What about adult children — part of the so-called “sandwich generation” — who  are worrying about paying for their parents’ assisted living plus their children’s college? In about five years, I likely will be touring residence halls for both my father and my son. That sounds delightful.

Your Point 3: You forget their birthdays

I’ve got no issue with that. Everyone should remember birthdays and holidays. And, if you have any relationship at all with your mother or father, then you should call them (at least) on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Even lazy folks can post a Facebook status. That’s where the older people are anyway, right?

Your Point 4: You don’t offer them your help

While it’s true that it is a good idea to offer specific suggestions (“Hey, can I clean out those gutters?”), what happens when parents are offended by offers to help? I know from personal experience that these offers can make parents angry and defensive. You say, “Can I clean your bathroom?” and they hear, “Good lord, Man! What happened in your bathroom? Who exploded? You can’t see that crime scene in there?” Many parents become outraged at offers of help or any suggestions.

Your point 5: You don’t include them in your family events

I agree with you: Children should invite parents to be part of special events. You also offer this advice, “If they invite you and your family over for dinner, accept the invitation and show up.” Shouldn’t the same be said to parents? Aging parents often live in different cities from their offspring. Sometimes parents are not as mobile as their children. But they should still want to be in their children’s and grandchildren’s lives. There’s always Skype.

Parents spend much of their lives yelling at their children to “Get a job!,” “Settle down!” and “Have some kids!” Then when their children get a job, settle down and have some kids, their parents want them to forget all that and spend more time with them. Adult children can’t win. They have responsibilities, are pulled in many different directions, and want to make everyone happy. It’s not possible.

ChastRoz0011398889741Your closing paragraph includes the sentence, “Look at how you are treating your parents and ask yourself if this is the way you want your children to treat you when they’re grown.” OK. There’s also this for adult children: “Look at how your parents are treating you and ask yourself if this is the way you want to treat your children when you are old.”

Even though Eddie tells our sons that he is going to take off his clothes, run around their house, and sit naked on their couch when he is old just like they do to us, we know he is just kidding. (Good God, I HOPE he is just kidding.) I’m learning what I will not do to my children.

A legacy is the memories a person leaves behind. I plan to make sure the good memories outweigh the bad.

Hope you see there’s another side,
Beth

for-all-the-love-you-ve-given-me-i-will-one-day-pay-your-nursing-home-bill-mih

 

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Dear Moms of My Sons’ Friends:

I admit I felt trepidation about meeting you. It was like a blind date, and the person setting it up was Great Aunt Bertie who has the sugars and farts like the Beefareeno horse in “Seinfeld.”

My sons love your sons and want to be with them all the time.

But what if I thought you were pretentious or annoying?

What if I hated you?

What if you hated me?

Following blind dating rules, we agreed to meet in a neutral place: Monkey Joe’s. The skating rink. Bowling.

We shyly introduced ourselves. We talked about neutral topics such as the school our boys attend. You laughed at one of my sarcastic remarks.

I dared to hope there was more where that came from.

We became Facebook friends. The boys and I came over to your house. Or you and your boys came over to mine. The kids had sleepovers. We updated each other via text or photos via Messenger.

We used each other as a touchstone for normalcy: “Yeah? ME TOO!”

Suddenly, we were making plans independent of the boys. They didn’t need to ask to get together because we already were.

During this holiday season when you are doing so much for everyone else, let me take a moment of your time to tell you how much I appreciate you for being you. For being cool. For being my friend too.

Love,
Beth

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Choose benevolence over blame

Dear Fellow Humans,

I know it’s been a rough couple of days for Joshua Powell’s friends and family. I haven’t felt too great myself. I’ve been thinking about Joshua almost every minute. Images flash constantly in my mind: his black mesh backpack, the collar of his green school shirt, that math book, his pale wrists. I feel pain as acutely as if I were part of his family.

WTOC shared a photograph.

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Look at his sweet face. You know he had a great personality. I just can’t bear it that he’s gone.

I also can’t bear all the comments people have been posting on the stories about the accident: allotting blame to the driver, the bus company, the city and — worst of all — his parents.

This has to stop.

When did we become a society so quick to assign blame? Has this always been a standard reaction and I just never noticed?

It was an accident. A tragedy. A horrible mistake. No one did anything out of malice or ill will.

I get it: It’s easier to process if we can find someone at fault. We need a scapegoat. But we should be outraged that it happened, not outraged and finding someone to blame.

Yes, perhaps that area should be marked better for drivers to know that it is a school bus stop. Yes, kids need to look both ways before crossing the street. But I have two kids and I know sometimes they don’t think; they just do.

My boys have done some crazy things. I’m lucky something like this hasn’t happened to them.

What his family needs — what we all need as humans — is love and support. Save the rage and the holier-than-thou attitude.

Anger has not been the top emotion cycling through me for the past two days. Overwhelming sadness takes that spot.

I was a daily news reporter for many years, covering the cop and court beat. I saw many awful things. This beats everything, probably because now I’m a mom. It’s different now.

I feel cut open and raw. I can’t even imagine how his mom feels.

Even now, though, I can tell my mind is trying to pack this memory away — to compartmentalize it with the other painful memories of things that cannot be unseen. I’m reminded of the ending of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

But part of me wants to keep the box open, the wound fresh as a reminder to love, to connect, to support. And this is why I’m writing this post.

We humans must choose compassion over criticism. We are all in this life together. We must do this for Joshua, who is gone too soon.

This is my therapy. This is my call to arms. This is what I will teach my children.

Sorry (not sorry) for being preachy,
Beth

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Life can change in a second

Dear Parents,

Hug your children a little tighter today. There are parents in pain because they lost their son this morning.

I was taking my boys to school and came upon an accident seconds after it happened. Quick assessment of the scene: woman in the street on her phone, bus coming out of a neighborhood on my left, one car in front of me. Around that car, I could see someone’s feet. The way the person was lying there, I knew it was bad. No one had gone to help, even though there were people at the scene.

I parked the car, grabbed a blanket from my trunk, told my boys to stay in the car, and headed over. It was a little boy, not much older than Dominic. He was lying facedown and his shoes had been knocked off. He was wearing shorts on this very cold morning. I covered his legs and body with the blanket.

The woman who hit him was on the phone with 911. She was screaming and crying — begging me to find a pulse. His wrists were cold. I couldn’t find any movement. He was wearing two hoodies, and I tried to get my fingers under them to feel his neck. His neck was warm. I thought maybe I felt a faint pulse. I couldn’t be sure. His left hand had some skin missing but he wasn’t bleeding.

The other people at the scene came over. A neighbor ran up and asked if we knew who he was. None of us did. We didn’t want to turn him over to see his face because we didn’t want to hurt him more. The lady checked the backpack he was wearing and got his name off his school papers. I saw a math book. A green notebook. She said his name: Joshua Powell. She went to find his parents.

I rubbed his cold hand as we waited for the emergency responders. I knew he might already be gone but I asked him to hold on just in case.

The fire truck was the first to arrive. They took over. The police and paramedics were next.

There was nothing else for me to do but go back to the car. My poor boys were in shock. I gave them each a hug and a kiss and told them what I saw. What I knew. What I thought. We cried a little together.

Joshua died before he even got to the hospital. My heart hurts for his family and the lady who hit him. They will never be the same. Neither will I.

Give your children a little extra squeeze for me. Say it’s for Joshua.

Love to you all,
Beth

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Dear West Chatham YMCA,

I’ve been a member since you opened. My family and I have taken advantage of the gym, the classes, Kid Fit, the summer and holiday camps — almost everything you have to offer.

We may never again use the pool, though. (And it is not because of a “Code Brown.”)

Dominic complained this summer about having to attend Y camp because of all the rules, especially in the pool. As he is the child of mine who likes to push boundaries, I ignored him. I assumed he wanted to jump off the top of the slide or play WWE with his brother in the shallow end.

Oh no.

I saw for myself what he meant. Here are some of the rules I discovered in just 30 minutes.

You cannot:

• Run around the pool.
• Walk fast around the pool.
• Go near the pool when they are testing the pH.
• Dive.
• Swim under the lane markers.
• Follow too closely on the slide.
• Go down head-first on the slide.
• Go down backward on the slide.
• Go down sitting on the slide.
• Twist your body while going down the slide.
• Wear goggles while going down the slide.
• Stay too long in the shallow area once you’ve gone down the slide.
• Get out of the pool any way but via the stairs.
• Play in the water under the slide even if there is no one else in the pool.
• Jump into the pool any way but feet first.
• Go anywhere near people who are taking lessons.
• Yell with glee.

Each of these rules was announced by the lifeguard, prefaced by “Hey, Buddy!”

At one point, I actually whipped around and said, “What now?!?”

And this is coming from someone who appreciates rules.

Some of them I can certainly understand (running and diving seem like guaranteed tickets to the ER). Others, not so much.

What you’ve really guaranteed is a no-fun zone, patrolled by 16-year-old dictators hopped up on a little power.

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I realize you have these rules because of fear of litigation. I understand personal responsibility is nearly nonexistent in Amurka.

Allow me, please, to decide what’s safe and not safe for my children (within reason, of course) when I am in the water supervising. I promise I won’t sue. I’ll even sign a waiver.

I’m a member. Don’t you have to at least pretend to care what I think?

Thank you for your consideration of this request.
Beth

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