Monthly Archives: May 2012

I went to Medic Recert today…all…stinkin….day.  We were re-familiarizing ourselves with the “Trauma Patient” and all of their medical/protocol idiosyncracies.

I sat in the back.

I always do. I hate the feeling of eyes on the back of my head.  Some people call it paranoia, I call it heebie-jeebies.  Plus I am always afraid my underwear is showing.

I have issues.  We’ve already discussed that fact.

So, we’re starting the class, My Captain’s oldest and best friend is beginning the lecture, and he introduces himself to a gentleman who none of us recognize.  Apparently this medic is from another county, but needed our class for his own Paramedic recertification, so he joined us.  He looked a little uncomfortable.

Understandably.  Medics are often weird birds.  Except me.  I’m perfectly normal, except on days that end with ‘Y’.

One of the other instructors tried to put this new guy at ease and started to say, “It’s ok, they won’t bite.”  But then she corrected herself and said, “They’ve all had their shots.”

And we wonder why it’s hard for us to make friends.

It was a long day, filled with multi-syllabic words and strange smells.

I’m not sure why there were strange smells, and I’m not entirely sure they weren’t coming from me.

I don’t do well with long days filled with copious amounts of information.  I tend to get a little spacey towards the end.  And, true to Murphy’s law, we had our practical at the end… our Mega Trauma Practical where we are presented with a dummy who has had rather unfortunate things happen to it.  We are asked to treat it as a normal call, and the instructor watches, critiques, and grades while we try to save the poor latex bastards.

In front of our peers.

Remember the part about worrying if my underwear is showing?  Yeah, it’s not a problem during these practicals because I’m so uptight my undies are crunched way up high by then.

Suffice it to say that by the end of the day I was so tired and discomboobulated I didn’t know my Belly Button from my Pubic Symphysis.  Or anyone else’s for that matter.

My Captain promised he would tutor me tonight……

My Varmint and Critter will be at their Dad’s house this weekend, so we had a mini-Mother’s Day this evening.

Varmint made dinner ….she insisted… and cooked home-made Sloppy Joes.  They were, in a word, aMAZing.  I’ve only had Manwhich Sloppy Joes.  Me! The complete foodie!  I’ve never had home-made Sloppy Joes before.  And my 10-year-old Varmint is the one who introduced them to me.  They were so goshdarn good we’ve instated a “Sloppy Joe Night” to be tradition at least once a week.

Look at my munchkin:

She’d chopped up the onions, celery, garlic, added the beef, mustard, ketchup, brown sugar, Worcherchestershiresheriiresre  (I’m not entirely sure on that spelling.), and then threw in pinches of kosher salt like ANY Food Network star would.

I was so proud of her.  And frankly, it was fun to watch!

I don’t know who was more pleased: Me, for receiving, or her, for giving.

Hallmark has got nothin’ on Varmint’s idea of celebrating.  She gave me a very personal gift of food and love.

Ain’t no greeting card that can top that.

I give up.  I can’t fight it any more.

I’m accepting the fact that no matter how hard I try, I can never be cool, calm, and collected.  I must embrace the spaz in me.

Usually I disrupt the peace with inappropriate comments or impromptu bodily expulsions.  But today, I’ve crossed into the area of hysterical mommy emotional outbursts.

You see, Varmint and Critter performed in the Monocacy Elementary School variety show today.  This is Varmint’s last year in elementary school…her last cute-as-hell variety show there, too.  She was in two numbers.  One was dancing with a friend, and the other was a solo song.

It was the song that got me.

She had told me she was singing to something from Miley Cyrus.  Ok.  Whoop-dee-doo.  I can handle Miley Cyrus in small batches. No problem-o.

Boy was I wrong.

She sang a heart wrenching song about butterflies flying away.  My fifth-grader-about-to-graduate-into-middle-school was singing a song about changing and leaving…a bittersweet song about caterpillars turning into butterflies and flying away.

And the floodgates opened.

And the tears gushed forth in unstoppable waves.

My Captain, who had been enjoying the charming elementary performances, was not prepared to have his wife burst into what appeared to be an accurate impression of an Italian grandmother at a funeral.  He put his arm around me and held me awkwardly.

I had not expected this.  He had not expected this.  Neither one of us had tissues.

Varmint sang like a nightingale throughout, ripping my heart into shreds.

Didn’t she know she was singing my worst fear?  That she was blossoming into a butterfly and was on the verge of flying away?

No!  No!  Don’t leave, little butterfly!  No! No!

This is a good thing, My captain reassured me.  You want her to grow independent.  She has to.  You would not want to hold her back.

The hell I wouldn’t!   It’s a big bad world out there!   I have to protect her!

It’s natural for her to grow away and mature.  You’ve done a good job.  Now stand back and trust her.

Are you crazy?  I haven’t poured all my blood, sweat, and tears into the child just so she could leave me!

Yes you did.  That is exactly why you did.  So she would be able to leave when the time comes.

Oh that’s a low blow.  Using my own guilt techniques against me.  That’s just totally low.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the fetal position in the corner, singing ‘Butterfly Fly Away’ over and over and over……

So like I said, I got Cortisone shots in both of my knees and was reborn.  A new woman.  I felt like I could dance a jig. (Note: When a 230 pound woman says she feels like she could dance a jig, back away slowly.)

The doc told me the shots could work a long time, or a short time…only time would tell.  Well, hell, I thought, with answers like that, he could be a meteorologist.

But I was feeling frisky tonight during Varmint’s softball practice.  So much so, in fact, that when the team needed runners while they practiced their fielding, I got in line. (Usually it’s the younger siblings that get that honor, but there were other parents getting in on it tonight, and I was not about to be left out.)

Know this:  I wear crocs all the time.  And tonight was no exception.

So there I am, on Home Plate, waiting for my chance.  Crack goes the ball, off I go lumbering down the line in my super spiffy crocs and my re-born cortisone osteo-arthritic knees.  And baby, I made it!  SAFE!

I would like to be able to say that I was graceful in my 1st base success.  I would like to say that I was the perfect role model for good sportsmanship.  I would like to say I’m a size 6, but none of these things would be remotely true.

I hooted and hollered and taunted: “I’m crippled AND wearing crocs and my old butt is SAFE on 1st!  What do you think of THEM apples, Ladies?!”  And I danced that dangerous 230 pound jig.

They nailed me on 2nd.

But I didn’t care.  I had made it to 1st, dagnabbit!

I’m limping again.  My knees are burning again.  My daughter is probably wishing she had just about anyone else for a mother, again.

But man! It was worth it!

I know, I know, I’m a BONEHEAD.  It’s Pathetic.  Absolutely pathetic.  Clearly I have issues.

Varmint and her friend, Amber, decided to run in the Frederick 5K last weekend.  Evidentely, she’s been bitten by the running bug.

It all started when I asked her if she would accompany me on a St. Patrick’s Day 5K put on by our town’s Biggest Loser Gail Lee.  Varmint came along to make sure I didn’t call a taxicab halfway through.

I barely got through the 5K, but she got hooked.

She ran another 5K with My Captain (The Run Amuck).

And then last weekend she ran another 5K with sweet Amber (The Frederick Runfest).

Amber and Varmint have known each other since 2nd grade.  They have been in many sports together …most currently they are on the same softball team.  Varmint is a pitcher, and Amber is a catcher.  Both of them are naturally athletic, and so it is only fitting that they do these things in tandem.

Varmint shared with me that Amber’s mom is doing a half-marathon this spring.  Then she looked expectantly at me.

“What??” I said.

She blinked innocently and gazed imploringly.

“What??…..Oh…. HELL no.”

I’m lucky to make it to the table for dinner with these knees.  There is no way on God’s green earth I’m going to do a half-marathon.  Or a quarter marathon.  Or an eighth marathon.

A seamstress, a gardener, a cook, a medic, and a mother I may be, a runner I most emphatically am not.   (And let’s be honest, I only did (read: walked) The St. Patty’s day 5K because I was hoping there was green beer at the end of it.)

Sheesh.