My Mom Thought I was Cute. Strangers, Not so Much.

I have been recording all the wonderful shenanigans of my mythological creatures in their respective baby books. I like to leave out the various bits of drama and craziness and only keep a record of the amazing, advanced and perfect things that they have done: walking at 9 months, swimming underwater way too early, jumping off diving boards and usage of vocabulary words far beyond their years. My kids are special, and I won’t let them forget it! I used to believe this was a normal practice; remembering the extraordinary while glossing over the not so fun aspects of growing up. Every parent thinks their kid is the gifted right?

In an attempt to downsize and organize my momma began giving my siblings and I all of our treasures growing up, including our baby books. There’s nothing like diving into your own baby book to see all the fantastic reasons why your momma thought you were the best baby in the whole wide world. My mom didn’t disappoint. Even though most second children get the shaft, she did her best to write down my achievements and dreams. One entry however was less than ideal and a bit sad: “6 months – You are covered from head to toe in eczema.” My fantastically awkward skin adventure began early and cropped up often. Apparently I can’t help the daily scabbiness and puffy redness of my daily life. I was born this way. Yea.

Finally after 30 some odd years, 42 different dermatologists and more steroid treatments than I can remember, I have to try something else. I wish this included soaking in mud from Peru, eating a rare flower from Madagascar or taking a dip in the Dead Sea, however insurance is a tricky business and traveling with children doesn’t always add up to a fantastic voyage. So I have decided to seek the advice of an allergist to calm a portion of my woes in hopes of doing one on one combat with my eczema at some point in the future. Baby steps.

My first foray at the allergist started wonderfully. After handing the receptionist my insurance card she looked at me and asked if I knew my father’s birthdate or social security number. It’s not every day that I am mistaken for a girl in my late teens/early twenties. It was looking like a good day. Thirty scratch tests, 28 reactions and 15 minutes later, I began to wonder if it’s the policy of my allergist to flatter every new comer in the hopes of keeping us calm during this itching nightmare. To make matters worse, just after the scratch tests were applied the nurse promised to be back in twenty to check the results and then slather a “miracle” crème on my back to end the torture. She then placed the bottle of miracle soother BACK ON THE COUNTER, told me to try not to scratch and left the room. Jerk.

The ultimate diagnosis is . . . I am allergic, to quite a bit. The only hope for me is to give up a Saturday in exchange for nine months’ worth of allergy shots. In preparation, I am supposed to pick up an Epi-Pen. That makes me only slightly concerned. I will let you know how it goes . . . if I survive.

No Shame in my Game

Among the millions of other things I haul around in my car to keep the children safe, happy and subdued, I always have the emergency potty at arm’s reach. Young children and bladder control never seems to coincide with easily accessible bathrooms. Perhaps more often the bathrooms that are nearby aren’t suitable for my nonexistent dog let alone my beloved Kraken. Not to mention the disgusting things my Siren can get into while waiting for her brother to finish. Yuck. Sometimes it is best for all involved just to pull over and let him relieve himself in the privacy of our own van. The emergency potty has saved us from quite a few disasters, and when I say us, I’m not kidding.

The drive to Oppa’s farm is quite pleasant, mostly highway followed by a bit of farmland in the middle of nowhere. Pop a movie in for the kids and the drive can be very peaceful. On one particular drive home however, life was much less than enjoyable. We had eaten Mexican for lunch, and I started home hoping the kids would nap along the way. Shortly after leaving small town civilization and just far enough away from the highway, my belly began to gurgle. I kept driving, hoping for the intestinal distress to subside, hoping for a random bathroom in the middle of a cornfield, hoping for anything other than what transpired. After a couple minutes, I knew I could hold it no longer. I pulled off the road, grabbed the emergency potty, sat in between my little cherubs who were not sleeping and honestly looked a bit dumbfounded. What the heck was momma doing on the emergency potty?

I am grateful for quite a few things that day. Number one, I had the emergency potty. That is after all what it is for. Number two, my adult size bum fit on the emergency potty and so too did the contents of my intestines. I don’t even want to imagine the mess if this hadn’t been the case. That would have severely hurt the trade in value. And number three, my children were hopefully too young to remember the day momma decided to poop in the middle seat of the van right under their noses.